My son really wants to go back to the Met this weekend.  If I know my son, it is because of all of the pictures and sculptures of naked women.  I thought about that last night as I was attending an art gallery benefit and auction.

I don’t get art.  But I did see a picture of a nude, so, thanks to my son, I knew it was worth seeing and, well, art.  But most of the stuff I didn’t get. A mixed media work was a paint-on-your-wall with hooks from which dried tea bags were hung.  I couldn’t get past what the art would do to my skim-coated walls.

The auctioneer was a poet, so the auction was led in verse.  The artists were young and funky cool (also funky as in smelly).  One artist wore a crazy snow hat and jeans.

People said things like “[the artist] innovated a new figurative realism and invigorated it against abstractionism”.

I bought something anyway because I liked it, not because I understood it.