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This kind of attitude is one that's spawned the inane, banal works of art you might see in the tate modern. A pig sliced in half, an unmade bed, and the classic heap of scrapmetal or rubbish. It's one giant parody of itself, punctuated by moronic 'art students' who mill about hmming and striking various thoughtful, studious poses, all while polluting the environment with the sound of the verbal diarrhoea that is the hopeless reading between the lines and seeing something that isn't actually there. Years ago we locked people like that up in padded cells (or just cells) and threw away the key. Now they're free to roam streets (and galleries) and are available in fourteen shades of gucci, and 9 different pungent unwashed fragrances.
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As wierd as it feels to say this to Dino; Amen brother!
I remember I had a huge fight with someone here on the forums a few years back about whether art is the highest truth and is, in essence perfect and uncriticisable. Bullshit, I say!