The Mona Lisa is really beyond art at this point. It’s kind of turned into a monster, or rather, turned the common viewer of art into a monster. You can’t even see the Mona Lisa anymore because it’s behind so much glass, and you can’t even take a picture of it because they’ve put some sort of anti-picture technology in the glass… that is to say if you can even get a decent view of it and manage to hold the camera still amongst all the elbows that are bumping into your elbows. There is a huge crowd around the Mona Lisa fighting their way to look at her that she has to be put behind bars in order to be kept safe. That isn’t art. She can’t even be seen anymore. How is that art? Or at least, now she isn’t even being used for her intended purpose, or being seen in the same way the artist imagined. Other painting in the Louvre you can just go up to and even touch if no one is looking, but the Mona Lisa is trapped; with an armed guard even! Now she’s a freak show–some sort of sick performance piece. People don’t want to take the time to appreciate her anymore, they just want to get a glimpse of her just to say they have.
There was some group that showed up in my facebook newsfeed called “I’m not creepy, I just have a really good memory.” Thinking about it for a minute, how can you say you’re not creepy? I know on occasion I have pointed out details to people from years in the past, and people find it kind of creepy that I can remember such randomly specific details. To me it’s not creepy, but to others it might be. But one thing I can’t do is tell that person that it’s not creepy; then I’d just be asking them to lie to themselves. I can’t tell someone that reciting 100 digits of pi makes me smart, I can’t tell someone that my jokes are funny, and I can’t tell someone that giving them flowers is romantic. You do what you do, but you can’t tell other people what you do; it’s up to them to see it, and it’s up to you to show them.
Remember when we would pick berries, and when everyone stood on the hill to watch the airshow we’d sell them for 25 cents a cup?
Yeah. Remember the dog barking at us from the deck because he wanted to pick berries with us too, but he fell through the slats and landed on his face?
I remember he fell, but I don’t remember seeing it. Do you remember what we spent our earnings on?
We weren’t allowed to keep the money; we had to put it in the piggy bank. Do you remember when I took it and hid it?
Do you remember when I smashed it open and took everything?
No, but I remember getting punished for it. Do you remember how much was in there?
Not a clue.