Imagine for a moment if you will, that you are a passionate art student. Your entire being centres on creating one spectacular work of art that will define your career and indeed your whole existence. You spend years refining your technique, studying the masters of the ages, experimenting with colours and mediums and searching deep within your soul for the tiniest spark of inspiration.

*SPARK!* You have been inspired.

 
Now, providing that you haven’t died from malnutrition from living up to the starving artist stereotype, overdosed on drugs, been infested by colonies of bacteria from not washing your hair or clothes for ten years, choked on your own self importance or died of boredom from listening to one too many existential debates, you are ready to embark on your journey to fame and fortune.

It is the time for careful preparation; you plan your stunning masterpiece, select your canvas, lay out your brushes and paints and then it is time. You pick up your brush and years of intense study and a lifetime of passion comes to life.

As you paint, you think about the greats.

Boticelli:

Rembrandt:

Michelangelo:

And then…

There is you:

I am no artist. I am no critic. But this painting is, for lack of a better word, fucking atrocious. How in the world does it deserve 25K and a 3 month stint in a Parisian art school? This looks like something my 2 year old cousin would finger paint at kindergarten. The crap that my old flatmate and I painted when we trashed some furniture, drank a few bottles of passion pop and decided to use what was once a desk as a canvas had more artistic merit than this.

The artist describes her style; "I am highly influenced by colour, the experience of creating line and the effect of random mark making." I am of the firm belief that this is artist talk (making stupid statements in fancy language that you pull out of your arse trying to make yourself sound like some kind of intellectual deep thinker) for “basically no thought went into this at all and I’m a no talent poseur”.

People need to stop paying money for this crap, because by these standards, even a blind dog could be classified as an artist. It’s a wonder we aren’t all trying to dig out the shit we made in preschool and trying to flog it off on ebay as some kind of contemporary art genius.

I have a rabid dislike of pompous jerks who call themselves artists when in fact they do nothing more than plop a few colours around in random patterns and then make wanky statements about the meaning behind it; “life is all about random chance, this painting signifies my own internal struggle trying to overcome the cards that fate has dealt me”.

Oh and 90% of them don’t wash their hair, they smell bad and spend too much time smoking pot and debating political science to realise their head is up their arse and everyone is wishing painful and ironic death upon them.