Concept? Metaphor? Conceit? Nope: Congame. Metaphony. Deceit.
Even before I read Tom Wolfe's brilliant deconstruction of the muddled morons making "modern" art, The Painted Word, I was among those wondering what the *&^% is that goo filling the heads of modern "artists" and their psychofantic apologists. Now, all the speculation can end--the Antartists have admitted what we've long suspected. From Britain, (no comfort in distance; the group-think delusions are unfortunately epidemic far beyond that green and pleasant land--indeed Duchamp "installed" it originally in New York in 1917), spokespersons for the Western Art World (make no mistake, it is a different planet) have generously, for the edification of us Earthbound rubes unable to discern art for ourselves, offered up their notion of the single most important oeuvre of the 20th Century, (oooo, verve!) and in the doing have at last shown their true colors for all the world to see: piss-stain yellow and shit-streak brown, on a white pennant of surrender (Loom of the Fruits) utterly fitting for the aesthetic cowards and scat-pimps they are:
And so... [drumroll...] Here it is! The "overwhelming" poll-winner (don't lose your dinner!), the most influential work of "art" from the whole of the 20th Century, according to British Art Snobs. No not Guernica, you silly; not one of the breathtaking abstract expressionisms of Pollack, de Kooning, or Rosenquist; not the kinetic brilliance of Calder nor the frozen expressionism of Moore; not even Warhol's torpid recolorings, nor infact any thing any artist made, but rather, a joke one thought up while relieving himself. Dadart. Deadart. Literally artsy fartsy. It really must be seen to be believed:
Did you laugh? I wish I could...Thru my tears I can see the joke was explicit, Duchamp signed it "R. Mutt". Created during the darkest part of WWI, am I the only one to see him saying, literally, "Art is our dog." The jokes are both on any slavish uncritical fool what would put it on a museum wall or pay money for such an insult, and showing he understood he the artist could make them drink his piss and like it. Its orientation from normal is 180 degrees in one axis, and 90 another, highlighting the uselessness of such "contributions" to the world and its miseries as well as the judgment of art critics: it is literally upside down and backward. Brilliant satire, best practical joke ever, disguised as art. I'm sure old Marcel is audibly roaring from his tomb today at this, his ultimate triumph.
What is this world coming to when aesthetes delude themselves that "Great Art" is whatever piece of trash, offal, or literal waste receptacle the "artist" asserts it is; when our schools no longer teach spelling--much less critical thinking--or punish miscreants, or reward the accomplished; and when otherwise decent, intelligent people condemn the liberation of 50 million fellow humans from psychotic terrorist brutality, megamurder, and religious despotism, as "warcrime"?
Clearly, the answer is: through the looking glass, straight into the crapper.
So Duchamp's detritus may finally be put to a useful purpose after all (aside from reinstalling it in the Paris men's room he stole it from) as the perfect metaphor for the inversion of reality, the fealty to theory over experience, the intellectual and moral sewer which aesthetics, education, and Liberal humanitarian ethics have become in our time. Good going, postmodern socialist scum! Good-bye, cruel world...