THE FOLLOWING IS A TOTALLY SUBJECTIVE ART REVIEW FROM AN UNPROFESSIONAL ART CRITIC ON THE VERGE OF A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN, CURRENTLY SEEN ON THE STYLE CON:
The first thing you notice is the screaming. I’m separating the adhesive from the back of myMoMA PS1 sticker while pretending to read the description for Mike Kelley’s 200-plus oeuvre when I remember something my friend told me about the exhibition last week. Something about how he didn’t know how the docents could stand being in each room for more than 20 minutes at a time. “Screaming,” he said. “So much screaming.”
The recollection comes about twenty minutes and ten dollars too late. Because right now I’m standing alone in the foyer of the museum, a month’s worth of nagging anxiety threatening to push me over the climatic edge of total mental deterioration. I look down the hallway towardsmonitors displaying cartoons of breathing, heaving, shaking glass bottles, each accompanied with its own horrible human exhalation. Screams, moans, the unsettling noises of which we are all capable.