A few weeks back, I was invited to go to an art exhibit of a
Chinese artist named Gao Lin An. I didn’t know what to expect. Most art,
regardless of culture, is over my head. I went with my friend Clover who was my
personal interpreter.
First, we signed the guest book. Can you guess which
signature is mine?
This guy got to sign in the old school way.
After we got a free bag of stuff, we were
invited to nibble on strange hors d’oeuvres.
I didn’t know what to expect from a Chinese Art Exhibit. Would there be panda bears painted on black
velvet? Still lives of dragon fruit and lychee nuts? The Chinese equivalent of Mona Lisa’s smile?
No.
It was the one thing that—er uh, make that two—that all men ponder
about.
Boobs.
And more boobs.
And butts.
Gao Lin An survived China’s cultural revolution, even though
some of his work did not. A ripped corner from one of his works was framed,
being his only work from those years that remained. I didn’t notice it.
I’m pretty sure most of the male visitors didn’t either.