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  • Writer's pictureJay Murray

A Cautionary Tale

I suppose it's inevitable, really, only a matter of time, and I have none but myself to blame. It stands to reason that, when you pretend to enjoy, appreciate, or even understand "art" in order to woo that special someone, you will eventually find yourself in an art museum. Unlike a real museum, there's nary a fossil to be found - only rooms among rooms among floors among floors of just that: art. Some of the art might be real, meaning that it depicts persons, places or things - nouns, if you will, fashioned at varying levels of ability. But a good deal more of it might be seemingly random amalgams of color and texture and technique and tuition and, gulp, ideas. What's more, you will probably try to find a polite and sensible way to bow out of the ordeal altogether by claiming that your feigned sprained ankle precludes you from being able to effectively operate the clutch, at which point that special someone will offer to drive, and your inexplicably enthusiastic friends will wholeheartedly agree. Well, at least there will be benches and a snack bar.

But be warned: after what seems like three or four weeks shy of an eternity trapped here, you will finally be asked to vacate the premises, albeit politely, by the gift shop marm, but not before you overpay for a t-shirt. Then, on your return to the air bnb through pounding rain and snow on a moonless night, you will likely happen upon a large wild canid with no sign of a collar. At this point, it is entirely possible that your special someone and friends will decide to allow the probable coywolf into your car while you sit silently, emasculated by terror. And just maybe, as three quarters of your party elect to return this behemoth to its pack, that special someone backs into a pickup truck replete with not one, not two, but three gun racks. Chances are this will never happen, but just try to be honest about your feelings. Virtually no one gets art, anyway.

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