Post art

POST-ART
OCT 29 2013

-Recently at the opening for the Metropolitan Meuseum of Art's Opera house, something ugly was revealed. Something broken. Something which must be addressed.

Amid the hatred and open institutional violence against LGBTQ people in Russia, there was a push for the Met to dedicate the opening to the victims. Pretty simple right? Opera and musical theater have long had a link to the LGBTQ community, and American mainstream culture had shown that it, overall, supports at least gay marriage, and those who attend the Met would most likely be pro-LGBTQ rights. It might've caused some controversy but that's because the issue was so real.

The refused. A statement was released saying that, "as an artistic institution, the Met is not an engine for social progress."

The Met is not going to attempt to help people, and the reason was, apparently, because it was an artistic institution.

With this statement, the Met ripped the bandage off of art's festering wound and showed us all the current state art is in.

Far from being injured, art has in fact gone through expensive plastic surgery to remove it of all "flaws."

Looking into Art's mouth we find it defanged. Its once powerful jaws and yellow, grotesque, crooked teeth replaced with pearly white dentures crafted from the finest ivory of poached elephants.

Looking at Art's hands we find it declawed. Its once razor-sharp, over-long nails filed down to a smooth comforting dullness glossed and buffed to a lovely non-texture.

And finally, looking at Art's gonads we find it neutered. Its once wet, dripping, virile and odorous genitalia swapped for smooth hard plastic not unlike a Barbie doll.

How long has Art been like this? I ask it, and I wait but there's no reply. Just when I think it's about to say something I hear a cry. A cleanly coiffed white man in a black sweater (I think he stole it off of Warhol's corpse) quickly runs up, crouches down and shoved his entire arm all the way up Art's asshole.

Before I can say anything else Art's eyes open. My eyes start to water. I didn't know it was this bad.

"Art," I say, choking back tears. "How long have you been like this?" Art's eyes, which I had heard long ago to be piercing daggers into your very soul, were now very clearly expensive glass. They did not seem to register me as I implored them, but it's clean mouth opened.
"I AM ART THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE!" Said a booming voice, "I AM YOUR SAVIOR!"
It was Art's voice thankfully, but I realized, for the first time, that it wasn't coming from Art's mouth. Rather, the sound was coming from behind Art, where I saw another man. This time in a policemans uniform. In his leather gloved hand was a megaphone, and his sunglasses reflected my own look of terror back at me.

"Art," I am now openly weeping. "Please tell me it isn't true! I loved you! You were my hero!" There's a pause and for a second I think I see Art's eyeballs register me. This time when Art's mouth opens, the voice is much closer.

"Hey don't worry," said Art. "I'm here for you, you're safe." I saw a smile that reminded me of better times.

"I'm glad to hear that," I say, genuinely relieved. But then I see the man again. The one with his entire arm thrust up Art's ass, and I just can't be comforted."But who is that?" I say as I point to him.

"Shh, shh, he's no one," but Art's voice came from HIS MOUTH! And the booming voice returns!

"PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE MAN BENEATH ME, SILENCE YOURSELF!" Shocked, I turn and flee as I notice more policemen appearing, they appear Russian.
"STOP! I SPEAK FOR YOU! DO NOT ABANDON YOUR SAVIOR!"

But I'm already gone.