A few people have asked me what the below picture, featured in my post about the objective quality of art, was:
It’s My Bed, a conceptual ‘work’ by Tracey Emin. The content of My Bed is the artist’s unmade bed replete with sheets stained by bodily discharges and littered with used prophylactics, underwear stained by menstrual bleeding and empty booze bottles.
It was naturally exhibited at the Tate and shortlisted for the Turner Prize, which seems rather unworthy for a prize named for the man who painted this:
While My Bed was on exhibit at the Tate, two half-naked Chinamen ran into the gallery, climbed on to the bed and started jumping up and down and then proceeded to have a pillow fight. The other visitors to the gallery, unaware that his was not a part of the exhibit, applauded the performance. As the Guardian noted “[it] was, as acts of desecration go, not quite in the same league as the Goths’ sacking of Rome.”
I am not a connoisseur. Nevertheless, the whole debased affair does illustrate, rather obviously, that Western Civilisation is at a low ebb.