After reading Mary Abbe's review of the current Walker exhibit, I have scratched it from my Outings calendar.
The Walker has never held much interest for me, as mundane stuff, paintings of nothing and piles of trash in the world are, in my opinion, not art just because they are in a museum. Still, I felt I should at least visit the new Walker and see for myself. Thank you, Mary Abbe, for saving me from a terrible mistake. Ms. Abbe described the exhibit as encompassing "a bizarre obsession with excrement, which [is equated] with clay and all things made of clay." Now really! Who in the world with common sense and decent taste wants to see "vulgarly obvious" clay castings of piles of shit?
I particularly love these sentences in the review: "As Schaffner explains in the truly strange, and not at all recommended, exhibition catalog, 'Psychoanalysts may find much to read into all of the sculptural pieces of s--- and fecal matter that dot this exhibition.'"
"No." continues the reviewer, "Psychoanalysts and ordinary people alike will conclude that the curators have unresolved issues that would be better sorted out in therapy than in a museum gallery." I would suggest that these folks would do well to get a job picking up dog poop. They'd surely get their fill of the subject quickly, and decent folk would be spared exposure to their unresolved issues.
Oh how glad I am for this review, saving me $10 and a very likely, very short visit to a museum whose present exhibit, it appears, is not art. Sounds like an art exhibit being pawned off in much the same way as were the emperor's new clothes. In this case the child would point and yell, "Mommy, look at all the poop!" Saying it is art does not make it art!