Marcel Winatschek

Art Makes Me Angry

Art Makes Me Angry

I’m standing in front of a wall. It’s big, bright, and largely empty. Two framed pictures are hanging on it. I’m trying to look at them as concentrated as possible, but that doesn’t change the fact that just a few stick figures were drawn on the white canvases. They are staring back at me. A sun in the corner, some grass on the ground. Everything’s black and white. The gallery owner is sitting on a wooden chair, quite bored, typing apathetic on her iPad. Connoisseurs, patrons, and buyers are buzzing around me. I want to scream. Art makes me angry.

People are lingering in front of the installations. They are talking about what they see there. Discuss, praise, and criticize. What the artist was thinking with choosing this color. With this material, with this angle. While some nude guy is jerking off on a flickering television screen behind me, I’m staring at a picture with stick figures. It costs around 2,000 dollars. Would it be worth it to me if I ripped it off the wall right now and beat up the gallery owner with it until someone can give me an answer to the only question I have right now: What?

Then I feel like a New York Post reading Fox News viewer who votes for something with xenophobia on Tuesdays and would prefer to rip the balls off child molesters, but at night, when his wrinkled wife is asleep, masturbates to photos of his underage niece. Anyone who doesn’t appreciate art turns into a junk food eating, lettuce discarding redneck with a Windows PC at home. It’s all artificial. They’d rather watch soccer than go to a museum, prefer sugar to vegetables, beer to wine, cunts to muses. Too stupid for art, too conventional for beauty.

I love the art world. I really do. The large-format magazines, the old books, the breathy red wine, the intellectual chatter, the absurd prices, and the girls armed with burlap bags roaming galleries alone on Sundays, positively brimming with impetuous introversion and buzzing sexuality of a cute student living somewhere in an old apartment in the middle of Kreuzberg who you can fuck only after talking to her for hours while sipping on whiskey on a Saturday night. It’s just the art itself I don’t get. But that’s the main point of being here, isn’t it?

The inhabitants living in this parallel universe are better dressed than most Fashion Week attendees. The big and bright buildings that were once train stations, workshops, or factories and now serve as a parallel universe to a world torn apart by war, hate, and poverty, are simply beautiful. Even if 99 out of 100 things I see make me angry, they still flood my thoughts, energize me, bring back memories, joy, and a whole lot of hate. Why, I ask myself then. How, I ask. Where, I ask. And particularly: What on earth are you trying to tell me?