Peasants. They wouldn't understand. Or perhaps couldn't. Yes. I like that. Their brains too small to grasp the magnitude of this installation.
My art has always... eluded those without intellect.
For example, to the untrained eye and mind, my first installation looked like a series of bricks, forming a wall. If you didn't notice the mortar, it looked just like that. A wall. "Oh, hey, is this the wall guy?" That's how the peons remembered me. The wall guy.
My next installation wasn't much better. Televisions playing to televisions, broadcasting video of televisions. This was before Facebook, even. Don't tell me that you can't wrap your mind around the concept. It was simple enough. But still, the peasants didn't understand. "What's with all the TVs?" TVs. TVs from the wall guy.
And this installation. This one, they won't understand either. To the peasants, it will be just a series of random objects. Just a bloodied floor, an unfortunate art critic, and and ice pick lodged in his head.
Peasants. They just don't understand real art.
Ha! Good ending! What artist hasn't wanted to construct a piece like that using a critical critic?
good ending
Duke Kimball has been a slimy car salesman, a reluctant poet, a post-collegiate barista, a Hawaiian shirt enthusiast, a mediocre scholar, a religious zealot, and a wearer of hats. He lives in Lansing, MI with his brilliant and amazing wife Michelle.