He pondered. Is this Art? Is this liberal expression? Or just some bastard that got lucky? It was then, Graham realized, he was getting old. The young adventurous, open minded artist that once challenged the world, was now a narrow minded middle aged man stuck in his ways, standing in the middle of the White Cube like a fish on dry land.
He felt angry. He clenched his wine glass and gulped a mouthful. The Cheap red wine burned the back of his throat as he witnessed what art was becoming. This wasn't art. It was public display of filth. It seemed like sex, violence and drugs was the back bone of todays culture.
Strolling between the four walls of the gallery was like a tour of Bedlam hospital. A sad reflection of a crumbling country, that was once known for greatness.
The Cube was crawling with clerks. He finished his wine, but kept the glass in his hand. It was much more comfortable than standing in the middle of the room empty handed. He stared coldly at the contraptions placed in front of him, with disgust. Never had he imagined that such clumsy and crude items could be adored in such a way. He nodded his head slowly and forced a strained expression, so that the others could acknowledge his false appreciation. He shuffled forward past clusters of suits, only to meet others. He felt that he was expected to contribute to conversation, but he had nothing to say. Their conversation was noise to him.Sadness washed over the old man, as he realized he was redundant in this modern world. He was insignificant. It was as if he spent all his life searching, perfecting his craft, only to find that no one cared. No one seemed to appreciate the fine, delicate stroke of a brush on canvas anymore. Of course Van Gough, Rembrandt and Monet were hailed as pioneers. But to be a classic painter in modern society was hopeless.
He looked around. The cheap wine was slowly creeping up his body.
He'd had enough.
Graham stepped out into the autumn chill. The attack of fresh air made him feel a little looser than he'd anticipated. The walk would do him good.
He reached his Ford Mondeo and sat there. He felt different. What is art if not to experience? Yes, the works at the Cube were different, slightly more unconventional than what he tended to lean towards. But were these monstrosities the offspring of his own generation's creativity? After all, we all live in the hope that our children will learn from our mistakes. In the hope that one day, we will have a race worthy of existance. Is that what he witnessed during the stroll through Bedlam?
The lights of the Albion winked at him, like a prostitute on the street corner.
She is crumbling, he thought to himself. Has our time been? Have we lived beyond our hour of power? Has our mighty empire grown to such extent that she now slowly sinks into the river under the weight?
But is Art a cause or a result for this downfall in society? Surely artists haven't changed. They're messengers, documenting history through expression. Clarity struck him on his bald forehead.
Graham understood. He hated the objects that he had just witnessed. In fact he hated everything about the exhibition. But he understood.
He turned the key, turned on the radio and slowly pulled out onto the road.
"Boy sixteen, stabbed over cigarette row."
Graham sighed as his car carefully, crept home.
