Ben's Biggest Asset

Art nowadays – gallery stuff – is all, yes all, horrible. In the process of exploring the form and, shudder, society in general, artists have succeeded in stuffing their heads so far up their arses that they could do it again. Thanks to them, we now have to ask questions such as "when is art art?" and "when is it just a blank piece of paper?".

As a whitey growing up in the suburbs, I was much persecuted by the niggers, the wogs, the jews, the abos, the chinks and the curries (Stephen was particularly volatile). In such dire circumstances the only thing I could turn to was art. Picasso etc. But when they died off I was left with Warhole and his cronies – and none too happy about it. Yes, everyone wants their fifteen minutes of fame, but why did he have to get it? Anyway, he signalled the beginning of the end for gallery art – or at least someone did. And here we are.

Apparently the guy who so deftly hit upon the idea of canning his shit (calling it names etc.) did it as an experiment to see if anyone would buy it – not to mention using it to 'expose' the art world. All right, fine. But surely there are ways of doing that that don't involve squatting over cans. If you ask me (and honestly I don't know why you would) that's just an excuse.

And now we get to the infamous blank canvas. When first premiered in that gullible gallery, I couldn't help thinking that it was nothing new. Art shops for one have been doing it for years; it's just that none of them thought of putting it in a gallery. I wouldn't be surprised if Mr Blank Canvas bought his masterpiece from one of them and merely slapped a sticker on it. And yet they don't see any of the profits. Before I go, I'd like to point out that I ingeniously and unintentionally managed to start every paragraph with A.