A modern art exhibit in a museum is like a strip club for nerds. The only difference is that they come with their spouse. They come in and spend hours masturbating their brains in front of horrible scabs. Next to it, the drawings that my daughter brings back from the nursery school are Rembrandt or Rubens.
I wonder what goes through their heads. Are they just trying to sound smart, if not really smart? They say to themselves: “If it is in a museum, it must be beautiful and if intelligent people think so, it must be true. Who am I to contradict them?” No critical spirit, these idiots. I see them spend hours in front of each of these horrors, as if they force themselves to find it beautiful, seeking the aesthetic of genius behind the scribbles. As Pascal said, pretend to appreciate and soon you will like.
Unless it really excites them. They ogle these so-called paintings like a pervert in front of a playboy. Cultural obsessed. The mind swings between hope and misunderstanding. The incomprehension faced with such a blatant lack of talent and the improbable hope of succeeding in recognizing the genius of the artist. Intellectual masturbation. After a few minutes of this faster and faster back and forth, they reach the peak of their visit in an impressive explosion of gray matter. A brain orgasm. The epitome of happiness. Just for this experience, it was worth paying the entrance fee.
Then they can go home, dazed by endorphin and serotonin, but convinced they have gained some intelligence.
