I normally don’t post anything that isn’t safe for work, indeed, that wouldn’t cause (much) embarrassment were it even (somehow) read by my own mother. I don’t think the following would offend either, not greatly anyway, but who knows? Those with irritable sensibilities may wish to turn back now.
On the weekends, I typically find myself participating to some degree in some shopping expedition or other. Usually, these trips are to secondhand shop after secondhand shop, in search of carelessly discarded and heretofore overlooked treasure.
Of course, most of these items aren’t treasure, and have, in fact, been very deliberately discarded. Take, for instance, the… thing… that I encountered this afternoon.
They say that when approaching the work of art, one’s observations tell more about the observer than the observed.
What the what?
I have no idea what this is supposed to be. I know what it looks like. Seriously. Those textures. That milky glaze. Those proudly phallic shapes. I am at once repulsed and stimulated.
Who but the artist can say what the meaning behind this piece was? I’m certainly at a loss.
I can imagine, however, that this was some sort of practice piece made of leftover ceramics. The equivalent of a sketchbook doodle. It was fired as a test, then chucked into a box (with some degree of disappointment), and was eventually hauled away with the rest of the clutter.
And then it was briefly beheld by someone who saw nothing but penises.