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Here is some cut material. I planned to make it the last section but what I had down was too good.

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HEREISSOMEPROPAGANDA

So, like, I’ll be real quick. Otherwise I’ll rant about this forever.

I failed my art history class in college. TWICE. Couldn’t be bothered to learn about dates and schools and movements and shit. The first time I flunked it, I figured “oh, well, maybe I should just study harder!” The second time I flunked it, I realized the course was killing my love for weird art. Like, holy shit. I don’t need to know what other people thought and felt about art to know what I think and feel about art. They were getting in my way!

My school had a small museum. There was a painting by Robert Motherwell. I don’t remember which one anymore. I recognized the name and decided to pay attention to it because I’ve been reading the textbook talking about Robert Motherwell, about how he was influential in this way and that way. The book had picked him specifically as a case study for… something. I don’t remember.

The reason I don’t remember anything I read about Robert Motherwell is because I saw his shit. Nothing outside the painting mattered at that moment. For that moment, the world was only the motions of black paint upon blank canvas, the dynamism apparent in huge splashes, the stillness embodied by empty spaces, the sheer size of the painting. For that burning minute, it was just me and the painting on the wall.

Nobody else was there to teach me the history of the painting.

Nobody else was there to teach me about the place Robert Motherwell had in art history.

Nobody else was there to teach me about what it meant.

I was looking at that painting and I had my own ideas, and I knew from the depths of my heart that my own ideas were not wrong. They were truer than anything and nobody could invalidate them, because I experienced them.

I fucking love that black square on the blank canvas thing. I hope to see it with my own eyes one day after reading and hearing about it for decades. I want to have my own ideas and emotions about it, like some spiritual fuck-you.

That’s why I love this modern art bullshit. Nobody knows what the fuck is going on, so I get to have my own ideas. There is no sense to it. That’s why it makes sense. I get to decide the whole thing.

Maybe it’s some ego trip or something. I don’t know. I fucking love modern art.