I Spent The Weekend At A Pretentious Art Show

Are you guys big art people? Me neither. I retired from art in 4th grade once we were no longer allowed to paint with our fingers. Still, I consider myself a pretty cultured, cosmopolitan individual. I play the piano, enjoy theatre, watch documentaries, read books, stand up to meet a woman, sit down to meet a handicapped person, sniff wine, engage in foreplay, understand cheese, think about donating to charity, tie my own bowties, and subtly nod to other handsome white guys in the street as if to say “this is good, huh?”

I woke up hungover on Sunday morning and texted my friend to see if he wanted to grab some food. He told me that he and his girlfriend, along with a number of her smoking hot friends, were going to an art show at a place called the Armory. Apparently it’s the premier art fair in New York each year and it’s held in these massive warehouses on piers overlooking the Hudson river. Was I up for it? Sure, I thought, I’ll check out the hot chicks while they check out the art. What a perfect way to surreptitiously study the female form without them knowing, like wearing mirrored sunglasses on a nude beach.

We arrived at the scene and everyone was dressed to the nines: women wore beautiful dresses and heels while their male counterparts sported funky arts-scene outfits. I saw one guy in a leather vest, open, with nothing underneath, but he might have been one of the exhibits. A team of snooty bartenders poured flutes of champagne while the “concession stand” handed out $20 slices of avocado toast. I ordered a couple drinks for our group and when the bill came to $81 for 3 glasses, I ignored the suggested 25% gratuity button (a $20 tip) and instead scrunched up two 1-dollar bills and dropped them in the bucket, with my hand below the rim like a tomahawk dunk. The staff thanked me for tipping in cash; I walked away quickly. I can’t wait for Liz to flip out at me once she reads this. Those art show bartenders must be so sore and tired from pouring champagne!

Our group began our lazy stroll through the various galleries. Everything was super modern–too modern for my tastes. I had entertained the possibility of buying something if I found a piece I loved, but I struggled to find my footing among mirror installations, broken pieces of wood, and canvasses that looked like the artist had spilled his paint bucket during a seizure. At the end of a long hallway of bullshit, a gallery overseer approached me to ask if I had any questions. I was studying a small, red “painting” that was so basic that I thought the artist was trolling me.

She laughed because I’m hilarious. I asked her how much it was, and she pulled out an iPad with a bunch of stats and facts about the piece before whispering $75,000. $75K, you say? What a shame. I was willing to buy it when I thought it was 5 bucks, given that I could make this exact same painting in 20 seconds with a bloody nose and a good sneeze. Don’t mind if I don’t! The one good takeaway from the exchange was that she told me the 3 questions to ask other gallery overseers to make it seem like I was in the know. They are:

1) What is the provenance of the piece?

2) Has it been shown in a museum?

3) What’s the best price you can give me?

If you’re wondering what provenance means, it refers to the documentation that confirms the art’s authenticity. Armed with my battery of esoteric art questions, I clasped my hands behind my back, lifted my chin to expose my nostrils, and wandered over to the next gallery. There, I spotted a Picasso drawing. You know, Pablo? Huge deal in the art world. I summoned a young man in a suit and sneakers and stared down my nose as I asked, “what is the providence of the piece?”

“Do you mean the provenance?”

When you’re bargaining down the price of a Picasso, you can’t give an inch. I’d made a massive mistake with the whole provenance-providence gaff, but I couldn’t let him know.

“No, you unrefined stable boy. The providence.”

“I’m sorry sir. I don’t know what that means.”

“Hmph. I’m not surprised, you product of incest. Has the piece ever passed through the city of Providence, Rhode Island?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Good. The fumes from the Providence textile factories are known to corrode the oil of the paint.”

“This is a drawing, sir. Done with a pencil.”

“SILENCE, EUNUCH!”

By now, a crowd was staring at us, wondering how I knew that he did not have testicles. I decided to skip the museum question and cut right to the chase.

“What’s your best price?”

The bespectacled bitch pulled out his iPad (they all had iPads) and found the listing.

“$700,000″ he said, not without contempt.

“I wouldn’t pay less than a million.”

“That’s… your call.”

“Clearly, I would not even wipe my post-taco fanny with a six-figure Picasso. Goodbye.”

I marched away, wishing I’d worn a cape. I was quickly learning that the art was out of my price range. I decided to stop looking from the perspective of a buyer and instead start looking from the perspective of a Barstool blogger. Here’s what I found:

A gold statue of a pancake ass. I don’t know what sort of moron thought it was worth commemorating one of the dumpier asses I’ve seen, but here we have it. A perfectly mediocre, old-person ass, immortalized in gold. On the wall to the left, you’ll see a framed kilo of cocaine. Perhaps that brick was brought into the country inside that ass, so the cartel decided to honor the man with a shrine? Don’t hate it.

Here we have a stone face that looks like it fell off a large statue. Nothing too strange except for the ham and cheese sandwich across the eyes. Yes, that is actually part of the art. Hand up, I tried to take a bite and someone yelled at me. Interpret this as you will.

This was actually one of my favorite exhibits. It’s some sort of black culture collage. Unfortunately, the children are not included, but they absolutely made the piece come to life. I have no idea why Shia Labeouf was included on the end. Seems like a strange choice, but artists need to take risks.

The wheel of doom. So called because if you watch it for more than 5 minutes expecting something to happen, you will die of boredom. Not sure why they had to hire 2 inmates to rotate the wheel, but maybe they blew their entire budget on the IKEA armchairs. Truly mystifying.

My favorite piece and it’s not even close. Nothing to see here. Literally. Is it a snowy landscape or the inside of a sperm? Who knows, it’s up to you! And this blank canvas can be yours for $50,000!

We all have bad dick days. I just don’t think I’d ever name a restaurant after the condition. I’m assuming this is a restaurant sign but I’m probably dead wrong. I stopped asking questions after the whole Providence-provenance fiasco.

Is it an Indian chief in a headdress, or Peter North marking his territory? Totally up to you. This one might not be for sale.

In the end, I didn’t buy anything because it all looked the same after 5 minutes. The real attraction was the people. There were so many insufferable dipshits pretending they understood what they were looking at. You should have heard some of the conversations about “forward-thinking lines” and “balanced metaphor” and “is that ham sandwich up for grabs?” If you want to waste a day confusing yourself at this art show, you’ll have to wait until next year because Sunday was the last day. Until then, you can buy better art at your local community college for a fraction of the price. Just make sure to keep it away from the destructive pollution of Providence.