Art lied to me

Art made me think that there was such a thing as beauty for beauty’s sake; beauty get dull. Stare at the same painting for long enough, and the whole “meaning”, “expression”, “passion” discourse all crumble at the face of boredom.

Realist films made me think that walking around a city with no place in particular to go was a lovely chance to meet someone, a time to gaze at the details of architecture and the trees, and the jouissance of being the quintessential flâneur. Actually, the only people who talk to you are annoying Christians or old people with computer problems or idiots, and it’s always either too hot or too cold and there’s nothing that great about cities anyways. It’s just buildings, and even the most gorgeous art-déco buildings, like paintings, grow tiresome to look at.

Fictional films made me think that mystical experiences were awesome and cults, like underground bars, techno-clubs, and sex parties, would be filled with all these interesting characters. They actually just talk about the usual, as do people in underground bars, techno-clubs, and sex parties, and most of the time are pathetic losers you don’t want near you.

Music made me think that I could spend hours and hours just studying and researching pieces, finding out their origins, learning all there was to know about the artists, compiling mountains of connections and explanations. But after a doomed affair with Oriental tangos, I can no longer stand to listen to a single tango. The same process which has happened to all my musical loves. Like paintings and old buildings, the same song heard too much is wearisome.

French poets and American rock stars made me think drugs opened the realms of perception. All they brought was mere illusion of such an opening. Everything is actually still the same. There were no doors to begin with.

When being taught that art is great and one must enjoy it at school, we are all showered with the saying “art is an illusion which tells the truth”. Just because Picasso said it doesn’t mean it’s true. All he did was paint women into blobs with boobs. Is that a truth that gives meaning to life? It’s boring.



  1. Time to find some passion, go back to school or get a job, you will be too busy to be bored and you will yearn for the leisure you now despise.


    1. What you’re saying then: art is not inherently great, but routine life is so terrible that in contrast art seems nice. That’s not a great defence of art.


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