I once walked into a Paul McCarthy exhibit in the Tate Modern in London. He was wearing a wig, lingerie and spraying condiments all over a bed and rubbing them on himself and masturbating with them. It was projected onto all four walls of darkened room, and I stood in the center of that room bellowing a laugh that I imagine echoed through all 3 floors of the Tate. I was politely asked to leave.
I was not surprised to see Mr. McCarthy’s work featured in this book, because if anything deserves the title of “Why is That Art?” it’s anything Paul McCarthy has made.
Postmodernism feels forced to me, almost like a resurgence of Dada. Formalism, however, seems more self-aware and states happily that art is more for installation and aesthetic pleasure than for deeper meaning. It sits better than McCarthy rubbing mayonnaise on his junk as a statement against American consumerism.
Here’s the thing about art: I don’t really care. But realism and expressionism at least have the form of art. They at least try. And formalism doesn’t seem to care. But postmodernism is the trust-fund hippie of the art world. Has every good example of what art should be ahead of it, and wastes all of it’s potential on chocolate syrup masturbation.