We have a man with us today, a common man, just like you and I; but, today he made a fatal mistake: he entered a Modern Art Gallery.
I didn’t know how he committed that howler, till he told me just now. It seems that his mind had plunged into the great depths of depression. I should not make fun out the follies and failures of my subjects but this incident was something a little too special to keep it from sharing it with y’all.
A storm was brewing, so the layman sought refuge under a grey canopy. Some five minutes later he was caught off guard as few uninvited droplets embraced his cheeks like a pin on a cushion. Betrayed by the shed, he decided to move and that is when he noticed a glimmer at the corner of his eyes. He rolled them eyeballs to look at a sign in subtle blinking neon: “Musée des Beaux Arts”.
He looked in awe, not at the sign, but trying to imagine the possible pronunciations of the foreign script which seemed like English. And then the unthinkable happened; to the incredible incomprehension of the old gods and new, he, the ordinary man decided to step foot inside the hallowed grounds of the modern art museum.
The security guard looked at him with a solemn brow and cheeks pale to the very lips as if to say: “What on the seven continents are you doing here?”
But he ignored all the possible omens and with a denim reminding his passersby about what he had last night, a shirt too tight and a misspelt Starbucks cup, he entered the infamous place.
He felt like the only sane person in an asylum as the glances from all possible directions were shot at him as if he was a platter of delicious meat waiting to be fed to hungry lions.
With trembling limbs and a wearing, a shawl of naivety he proceeded in his business but the tragedy was that he didn’t know what it was.
The strangest of objects surrounded him and it was supposed to be art for it had classy Italian names.
From empty frames, 3-D burgers to random stones behind glass panels everything was supposed to be a piece of modern art.
Moving on from every piece to another, it seemed to the innocent man that his life was flashing before his eyes and questioning every decision that he has ever made.
With every piece of art came a connoisseur, upon whom the gods had bestowed the duty to evaluate true art whose knowledge they get from the back covers of the reputed books. They are obviously rich, otherwise, how can you appreciate art? Have customary long and unkempt beards, resembling the forlorn lovers of Shakespeare and wear the trousers which surely were an heirloom. The half moon Dumbledor-ish glasses certainly add to their expertise. The long flowing ethnic top wear with gibberish decor fits right into place.
One such species was explaining a rather curious piece of art: a pair of glasses which were lying on a stand just beside the washroom. Our man edged closer to his heart on his hands and listened with intent at the random throws of a little Derrida here and a little Foucault there.
Then, the unthinkable happened, an old man stepped out of the washroom and was taken aback by the humdrum near the glasses, then he lowered his hat, wore ‘his’ glasses and left at once.
The world stopped rotating, everyone’s hearts skipped a beat, no one looked at one another, they all ran in other directions and started to sob. The common man stood still, his nouveau knowledge about the -“isms” and its appreciations went for a toss, he ran outside and screamed and kept running till he reached here.
-A CYNICAL GOBBLEDYGOOKER
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