The Impressionists, they started it –
The deliberate eschewing of the details of the waterlilies,
Slapping on the sunflowers, slacking and half-arsing it,
The barmaid blurred by beer-goggles, shorn of intimates and frillies.
The Modernists just loved the concept,
Loved the new permissiveness to never bother with the hard parts,
Far too busy writing manifestos, or just overslept,
To ever stoop to spend the years to learn the graft behind the arts.
Ah, I guess they have their fans, these Abstract-ists of vapour –
And not just money-launderers or the Commie-fighting CIA –
Some might look alright in advertising, or as wallpaper,
When tossed-off in an afternoon of dribbles, nudes, and squelching clay.
But then, the public never get to choose who shall be fruitful,
For we must take whichever trends the critics shall annoint.
It’s just…I want my art as something rare and something beautiful,
And not a random find, or shocking ugly, just to make a point.