For whatever reason, Eva, Ernie, Theo, and myself have uploaded to an online art gallery, and are currently staring at this:
Other art aficionados (including that bleach-blond naked babe with the #SheenLife tote bag—there’s always at least one Naker, isn’t there?) murmur in hushed tones, nodding at this, pointing at that.
“What’s this supposed to be again?” I ask.
“Abstract minimalism,” Theo replies.
“I just see a gray square with a black notch at the top.”
Ernie snorts, adjusts his bath towel. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“What do you see, leviathan?”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
I stare at the square again, but it doesn’t make anymore sense now than it did five minutes ago. Eva had seemed excited when she’d invited us to join her on the server for the exhibition, but I guess I just don’t get art. From the looks on their faces, Theo and Ernie don’t get it either.
The adults standing nearby seem to get it, though:
“The square is neither black nor white, but somewhere in between. It’s a lack of extremes, a compromise. Balance.”
“What does the notch represent?”
“Social commentary. The notch represents oppression, marginalization—black minority struggling to keep from being diluted by a vast sea of gray.”
“How are you seeing that?”
“How are you not seeing that?”
“No, no. The square itself is extraneous. It’s the act of observing the square, that’s the actual art. The plain white backdrop of the server is the canvas. We’re the living scene painted in flesh and bone. Take these Sikuist children, for example. They provide a dialog between strict lines, modern rigidity—the square, if you will—and the wild, the untamed, the organic. The black and white boy with the toy dagger symbolizes a transference between opposing ideals.”
Ernie turns to Eva and scowls. “Is this what art appreciation is all about? People standing around staring at a gray square and making shit up?”
“Art is subjective,” Eva replies with a shrug.
“You don’t know what the square means either, do you?”
“Not a clue.”
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