Being somewhat of an art neophyte when it comes to physical artistic products- both sculptures and paintings generally confound me in their simplicity- I felt somewhat vulnerable in the Museum of Modern Art this weekend. Surrounded by camera yielding tourists and genuine art junkies in unequal numbers, I felt like a fraud as I stared absently at pieces which, in my seemingly ignorant opinion, did not qualify as artful in both the most common sense of the word or even in a more forgiving Warholian sense. I strove to find something inspirational in what I saw before me. Other people seemed to be conjuring up the first chapter of their third novel as they sat staring at blank canvases and old shoes- I, like Danto’s child who saw sticks as sticks, had nothing.
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