Doesn't merit artistic exploitation - it only merits scientific and medical exploration. ;)

It caught my eye and it held my attention briefly. If it had had been on the wall at a gallery I may have been in awe. Art , IMO, is way deeper than a visual perception. It is when one expresses feelings from their inner self. It intrigues. I can't help but wonder what the " artist" was thinking when he transfered the thoughts from his head to the floor. Obviously it was something he felt the need to share. I didn't share it but it did raise questions and points of interest in my mind as well as most of us. We felt it worthy of conversation and opinionated input as well as ....the big word..... CRITICISM.
Could it be that any statement that provokes criticism COULD be art?
Too much grey area in art to actually define it. I guess if you catch the wave you ride it enjoyably and if you don't, you just stand on the beach and look.
And anyway, "Crazy" people can be HIGHLY ARTISTIC. I am not highly learned in this area but I'm sure those who are would be at least in partial agreement .
It is very sad that he starved to death. Seems like SOMEONE would have given a f@#k. Sometimes the world is a cruel environment.

I was showing this off at work tonight and realized what had been bothering me about this all along ...

It should have been written in crayon.

Or carved in flesh. :greenface

Art is whatever you say it is, for you. and for me, it is whatever I say it is. it doesn't matter what the artist intended most of the time. It matters that something speaks to you or draws you to it. and BTW, somtimes what makes it "important art" is a new approach based on what had been done previously (i'm talking history). and if a guy wants to explore color or giant running fences and the critics or general public rave about it for whatever reason, you don't have to look if you don't want to. don't limit your understanding of something based on your first impression. if you don't like it find out why someone else does. -Art Teacher

Carla was on her break from the
Graveyard shift at the mayonnaise factory
She sat at a teetering picnic table,
There was a toxic orange moon
And it was slightly cold
Carla took out her knife and began etching
Random words into the table's surface
Then, she thought of her co-worker Jack
Carla liked to think of Jack
As a luscious apparatus
He was meaty but graceful
His flesh seemed folded onto his body
Like a suit made of meat
Carla started to think of Jack as a
Luscious apparatus in a meat suit
Thinking this gave Carla a dreamy smile
Her mouth was small to begin with
But dreaming made it even smaller
That's just how some people are,
Their mouths get smaller with dreams
Carla's small mouth was dreaming
As her knife began carving a poem into the table
I like hot voids, smooth pants, lazy beds in the rain
I like tongue petals, lather, a blistering sun
But what I like best is the worship
Of a luscious apparatus

When Carla was done carving
She went back to her work station
And scooped shiny white goop into jars
That's just how some people are,
Their mouths get smaller with dreaming

The next day Jack took his own 1am lunch break
At the same picnic table
He noticed the poem carved into the wood
Although he didn't know who had written it,
He coincidentally thought
'Luscious Apparatus' aptly described him
So he took out his own knife and wrote
'Luscious apparatus was here'

After a few days both Jack and Carla
Happened to sit at the picnic table
At the same time
They both started to look
At the things carved in the table
Then they looked at each other
They knew who each other was
Carla's mouth got small and dreamy,
Jack's eyes got round and hot
When they got done
With the graveyard shift
They went back to Jack's apartment
And had sex
Wordless sex, slow sex,
Fast sex, talking sex
Sex like animals have,
Sex like boys have, sex like girls have
Sex upside down, sex inside out
Sex with grins, sex with tears
Sex, sex, sex
Then she noticed the knife by the side of Jack's bed
Jack picked the knife up And Carla knew at once
That Jack's wounds were from carving himself
Jack was trying to carve poems into himself
And now he wanted to carve some in her
This was where she drew the line
She'd have any kind of sex but not with a knife
When Carla refused to let Jack carve her up,
Jack felt cheated and misled
He felt that by carving a poem in the table
Carla had been begging to be carved upon
Carla didn't see it that way at all
She got up and started putting on her clothes
Jack went nuts, he was coming at her with a knife
Carla was scared, Carla was shaking and sweating
Then, because she was small and could move fast
She ducked and Jack tripped and fell
And impaled himself in the arm with his own knife
He howled and howled and Carla got the hell out of there fast

Carla didn't think of Jack as a luscious apparatus after that

written by Maggie Estep

Welcome to the Cellar, ferfanerd. :) Don't worry about Sycamore....he's mostly harmless.
Art is a pretty broad topic but being a non-sophisticated sort, when I see something that's been presented as art, I know imediately if it appeals to me.
I hear people say, "It'll grow on you" but I've found that not the case. Sometimes a piece that I immediately dislike will, in time, become tolerable. But that said, I will never like it.

Notice that Bruce had to put a disclaimer on there...mostly. :)