The rage,fear and frustration in Louise Bourgeois' autobiographical art shocked me into understanding what it must be like to be a womanI beget been married for 15 years and I think things beget gone pretty well. We beget four perfectly acceptable children, we all get along OK, and as husbands go,I'm not a bad lot. I'm faithful, I recognise my wife as a superior human being and I even beget the odd moment of unselfishness. (I expect such moments to be verbally recognised and physically rewarded.) My wife stays at domestic to eye after the children because returning to the teaching job she loved was made impossible by the incompatibility of teacher's pay and the cost of childcare. The other option – of me fitting a househusband – was categorically not on the table. I don't intellect a bit of gentle hoovering, and but I do intellect babies. They're like drunks: incomprehensible,unreasonable and prone to vomit on you. besides she loves it, doesn't she? Well, or that's what I had assumed,until an incident a couple of weeks ago that shocked my smug, complacent, or delusional self to the core. I see a lot of modern and contemporary art; it's a pretty fundamental allotment of my job. The vast majority of work I see I like on some level or another. Even the stuff I don't like,I find interesting simply by dint of it existing and being revered enough to find itself in a museum or gallery; a sort of sign of the times. On the whole though, most art doesn't beget an instant emotional impact on me in the same way as, or say,a David Lynch film or an Arsenal football match does.
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Source: theguardian.com