Monday, October 10, 2011

Top 10 Reasons to Buy/Own Art

10. You actually are able to enjoy art. Whoa! Hold it right there Mr. Fake Dickhead! Why are you even reading this? Shouldn’t you be haunting the art galleries? Trying to complete your collection of one-item-for-every-country-in-the-World? Every. You gotta own them all. By catching them. That’s called art evolution. And it’s usually stored in balls.

9. Art is not cheap in the eyes of all them commoners. So by owning pieces of art you appear to have cash. Which makes you loved and popular. Which brings new opportunities to you. Which means more cash. Which is then NOT wasted nonchalantly on art, but rather on life’s simple pleasures. Like panda hunting. That’s called art opportunism.

8. Your nephew is getting married and moving into a new home with his bride and you’re too broke to get him a decent present and too proud to go cheap. Grab a random painting from your wall and sell him the story (uncles are ALWAYS smarter than nephews) about this majestic masterpiece, the last one the mad-genius artist created just before he kicked the bucket. And by bucket you mean drowning in his own vomit after indulging in indecencies which would make the city of Sodom look like a kindergarten at nap-time. That piece is now priceless. And your walls were crowded anyway. That’s called art transferal.
       Art is interesting. Now excuse us while we collectively
                  ignore this gargantuan painting.

7. Buy a piece of art which is obscenely expensive. Get it insured. Sell it. Replace it with a cheap-ass replica (just e-bay “fine original art”). Pay local druggie to burn your house down while you’re out of town. Ka-ching! Rinse and repeat at will, preferably not in the same country. That’s called investing in art. Insurance fraud is such a gauche word duo.

6. You need to keep your stash hidden. Hollow busts, cannabis-woven or LSD-glazed canvases, double frames, you name it. The police are scared of art, and you know it. Wanna lick my Warhol? I meant the one on my wall, not in my boxers. Sicko. You’re so not smoking my Picasso. That’s called art exploitation.

5. Empty walls are creepy. And they make you colorblind and insane. That’s a proven scientific fact. Visit local lunatic asylum if you are of St. Thomas’s descent. Spilled wine on the wall? Go get a hammer. True art is the art of artistically covering your tracks with art. That’s called art tautologism.

Art huggers are everywhere. Beware.

4. Caps and hats hate being folded, crushed or wrinkled. Good thing you bought that statue which was until now used only as a dust magnet. What’s a statue without a hat anyway? Well, a decent umbrella-ella-die-already-ella stand. That’s called art incorporation.

3. If you had an anatomy poster a la J. Jameson or P. Anderson hanging on your wall, you’d be considered as an immature, perverted pig. You shouldn’t give up on enjoying these fine lines and forms. Just put a similar thing on your wall, but this time make sure it’s on canvas and framed. Or buy a big naked statue. No one minds naked statues, as they are reminiscent of the ancient Greek culture. And Greeks never had money for clothes anyway. Now, that porn hanging from your wall is called art. And additionally, canvas has more absorption power than paper. Think about it. That’s called art translation.

2. 90% of people you hang with know nothing about art. Well, isn’t that convenient, you obnoxious, over-pretentious, know-it-all, been-everywhere-seen-everything, impossible-to-defeat-in-a-dick-fencing-contest, beautiful you? Plebeians will respect and fear you for your passion and knowledge of the divine and humbly demand that you grace them occasionally with an advice. That’s called art tutelage.

            Nothing says "artist" more than wielding a blowtorch.

1. By owning art people will make a judgment error of you not being a highlander/hillbilly that you are. You will ironically appear as actually having a soul. And never be confronted with what irony actually is, because a tender-souled specimen like you can’t be bothered with petty definitions. Or multi-syllable words. There’s nothing funny about hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia. That’s called art connoisseurism... uhm... I mean art awesomeness.

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