The Whitechapel Art Gallery has got a faultless reputation for putting on consistently pretentious exhibitions come rain or shine. Check out this masterwork featuring string. A penetrating insight into the concept of time, linear distortion and the invisible cortex of social ties and customs that bind us in the social weave. Then again, it could just be balls of string.

 

 

Is it just me or has the art world lost all sense of its fun and imagination?

Nowadays, there seems to be an endless parade of po-faced charlatans who dismiss any criticism of their work as the opinion of the uneducated and unwashed, despite it being recycled pretentious crap.

In the same way that you find cockroaches in the dark recesses behind fridges and cupboards, so you will find these intellectual pygmies teeming in the world of performance and conceptual art.

Some conceptual art is so out there that you can’t help but admire the balls of it, such as Carl Andre’s VIII (that’s the pile of bricks, you philistines) or German uber conceptulist Josef Beuys and his reindeer ski sleds.

Alternatively, you have clever self publicists like Tracey Emin – more power to her – with her shag-fest epics involving dirty beds and tents bearing the hallmarks of Girl Guide gone bad.

Yes, yes I can hear her arse snuffling acolytes say: “You don’t get it darling. It’s a post modern take on erotic dis-fuctionality among the working classes of Margate.”

Yes, of course it is.

It’s also a vacuous piece of navel gazing in a game where anything goes as long as you can bolt an idea to it and have all the artistic sensibility of a chimp.

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