Things that concern me - 3

Again on a grumpy old man vibe, I have to add this to the pile.


Although I don't think this one is dependent on age neccesarily.


It's always annoyed me.


Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the new art movement, and in particular, The Turner Prize.



This year's winner - (and bear in mind this is worth 25 grand to the recipient of The Turner Prize) - is a German born - London based artist, who won the prize because since 1998 she's only used canvasses measuring precisely 48cm by 38cm.



That, ironically, is one of the more deserving winners of recent years, because at least she features the concept of art somewhere for the judge's consideration.



You know art, right?



It was the subject you took in school where you drew, or painted, or sculpted.



At no point do I remember Mr Kinghorn offering a critique on the way we switched the classroom lights on and off.



I can't begin to tell you how disappointed we were when our proposal of stuffing the cows in the neighbouring fields was rejected out of hand.



And on the one occasion I slept in for art, and not actually through it, Mr Kinghorn wouldn't allow me to submit my un-made bed as homework.



This I considered absolutely astonishing given the fact it was hailed a work of miraculous standing when Tracey Emmin did it.



Maybe the indentations of where my hospital corners had been were too uniform in nature. That must be it.



I'm not the most artistic in the world. That I readily admit. In fact, most days there are stages where I find it hard enough to draw breath, never mind anything else.My understanding of art is clearly limited. I always thought art should be something that resembles the subject of your work.



But I was wrong.



Silly me.



Either that, or I now feel particularly bad for the unfortunate woman with the triangular head.



Here's my theory.



I think there's a small group of people, all of whom claim to be at the forefront of the art world. However, secretly they're a select category of wind up merchants who're having the biggest laugh of their lives.



The idea is that each year, they have to try and outdo the previous one by coming up with something even more outlandish in the name of 'art'.



So it goes from light switching on and off ...to un-made bed....to milk-soaked shredded wheat....to dish-washer tablet.



If you're in on it, you have to keep going, chancing your arm, until someone, anyone, has the audacity to finally turn round and say "Hang on. You're having a laugh. This can't be art. It's just newspapers in a recycling bin"



At which point everyone in the group will collapse in guffaws of raucous laughter having finally been rumbled, and enjoying every second of the journey.



The problem is, no-one does have the audacity to turn round and question the 'art'.



We all just assume we must be morons - that we don't get it.



And they keep on making 25 grand a time.



If you can't beat them, join them I say. Next week I'm going to go to the pub, get royally wellied and then pee as high up the lavvie wall as possible.



I'm then going to proclaim it as a new genre of art. I'll get fined every time I do it of course, but hopefully my rise to fame will be meteoric enough to ensure I make a small profit at the very least.



Perhaps 36 pence change from my £25,000.



That's it.



The future of art.



Who are you to say different?



Drunkenly peeing up a toilet wall.



Now if I can just come up with a name for the type of artist I can be known as......