Nazi Art Critics Bury
Several years ago they began excavations over in Berlin Germany. There they found a stash of decadent art that the Nazi Art Critics had buried. Personally, after studying the prime samples furnished by the press, I have come to believe it was the janitor that done it. I can see him now, holding his nose with one hand and with the other sweeping it out with the trash into a hole in the ground nobody was using. There were lots of holes in the ground back then, if the Allies weren't punching holes in the ground, the Nazis were digging holes to blame on the allies.
I don't see what the Nazis had to worry about in any event; anybody else in their right mind would have buried it too, sooner or later.
For reasons best known to themselves, a loose confederation of art dealers rushed into a fit of misdirected public service and put up an exhibition of that "banned" art that seems to have been attended only by a few cub reporters although a stream of bewildered spectators have reportedly marched by it; they were even captured on camera, screwing up their faces in vain attempts to reason out this unfathomable call to fuss over "art" from the mud hole.
|The way I see it, just because the Big Bad Nazis condemned these "works of art" somebody has declared them to be valuable. Look at it from the other side of the fountain and you'll see what I mean -- This stuff was so bad it couldn't even fool the tastes of a Nazi janitor.
But art isn't art just because some starving artist died penniless; nor is it art just because some "expert" has declared it to be good -- or bad. "Expert Opinions come and go, rise and fall with the furious fickles of fate because just being right twice is the only criteria for being an "authority" in most fields of art.
The only real test of art comes from hanging it in your own kitchen; if it evokes a feeling that helps you roll out better biscuits then yep, it's art. More importantly, it is YOUR kind of art!
If your biscuits come out perfect then the proof is irrefutable; you have Art with a capital "A" and if you won't fight to see it doesn't get buried there isn't a decent fiber of art appreciation in you.
So far, your common ordinary man in the street is not impressed enough with these flights of decadent fancy to risk hanging them in the kitchen; they have this gut reaction that overrules "AUTHORITY" opinions reverberating in that narrow enclave of art dealers that is substantiated only by the academic world that is temperamentally consumed with the urge to argue for years over the meaning of an old warped hazelnut, while the common man with biscuits to cook instinctively knows that just because it's old doesn't mean it's gold.
Running from a need to work on more important matters, I sneak in a few seconds to reconfirm something Wallace Sayre once observed: "in any dispute the intensity of feeling is inversely proportional to the value of the stakes at issue."
In other words, when Pharaoh has been suitably embalmed and tucked away, let his toenail clippings be left in their safe hole in the ground to rot in peace.