There was a time I quite liked modern art. I actively sought it out.
Many a weekend was wasted interpreting the uninterpretable, hours spent looking for meaning in the meaningless.
With the Guardian’s ‘what’s on’ guide as my bible, I considered myself cultured. A patron of the most pretentious ‘art spaces’ Manchester had to offer. A devoted disciple of the deluded.
Then I had kids.
You see, a funny thing happened when I became a parent. Through sleep deprived, cynically depressed eyes came a clarity of vision that cut right through the densest of bullsh#t. I no longer have time for it. I see things for what they are. The murkiness that is modern art doesn’t stand a chance.
A couple of weeks ago Janet and I found ourselves in an art exhibition.… Read the full post