School of Saatchi

Art. It’s a world of unrelenting wankshafts isn’t it? Artists and art-critics and scholars all sit around cooing and screwing up their faces at various paintings, objects and installations and make ordinary people like me and you feel like complete plebs for ‘not getting it’.

However, the real truth of the matter is that you, dear reader, are too smart to like art. That’s because art is for idiots. It’s an exercise in allowing moronic minds the chance to run amok with ideas that bear no meaning at all… like chattering apes screaming at a tyre on a rope.

Like most apes, I quite like tyres on ropes… by which I mean, I quite like the idea of going to a gallery, because it makes me feel cultured and better than the rest of the animal kingdom. However, when you actually get into these buildings ‘full of ideas’ and presented with things that ‘challenge your perception of the world’, you find that the reality of it all is more like a bunch of humans stood awkwardly in silence and wondering if they should buy something from the gift shop to mark the occasion when they went in a building and stood near an idea.

The elephant in the room, in every gallery the world over, is that we humans have evolved into beings that build towering monuments to bullshit.

The biggest prank ever played on mankind is the idea of art. Art is nothing. Art is, effectively, someone telling you they’ve had sex with the horizon and they want you to pay child support. One man who has made a fine living from this ridiculous thinking is Charles Saatchi.

And last night, we saw him not-appearing on School of Saatchi (BBC Two), which is The Apprentice for vendors of shit.

We were marched through a series of people, all doing equally worthless things, with a bunch of critics and artists and the like, who for no good reason at all, decided that some were bad and some were good.

As this show focuses on ‘contemporary art’, it means that anyone who can do a nice painting is pretty much dismissed. Someone who hangs a whistle from a handrail of a disabled toilet however provides intrigue and prompts our yabbering artfolk into discussion on Marcel Duchamp… a man who was actually brave enough to blow the whistle on art by installing a urinal into a gallery, which brilliantly, people used to take massive pisses in.

Now, this may seem like a rant against modern art… but far from it. This is a rant about all art. As much as the Venus De Milo is an iconic clump of stone, it is, effectively, a useless image of someone having just come out of the shower with no arms which doesn’t challenge my space or view on the world. And yes, I know she had arms once.

Anyway, back to the show. The contestants (because that’s what they are… they’re not artists) all roll around in their ideas and moan about the fact that they’re continually asked why the things they are doing constitutes art. They grumble and point out that one featured judge is Tracey Emin who tarted around with a mucky bed and a tent with words on.

The trick they all missed was that, whilst Emin’s bed and tent were rubbish, they really should’ve been pointing at her weird face and summarising that the weirdest collection of angles and space is in fact her incredibly odd skull. Strip away her skin and you’ll be left with something that looks like a broken fist. When she dies, I hope they stick that in a gallery.

So, what have I learned about art from School of Saatchi? Well, nothing. That’s because art never teaches you anything at all. It’s just there, like a glistening turd on a street corner. No wonder Charles Saatchi doesn’t want to appear on camera. He knows damn well what the score is. You shouldn’t ask what art is, but rather, what colour it is… and art is green…

…like baby shit and money.

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