The problem with seeing a popular exhibit on its near-to-last day is that you’ll be engulfed in waves of human flesh while you’re trying to feed your spiritual side.  You inch along, craning past the rows of humanity, trying to catch a glimpse of the artistry on display.  And every once in a while you do.  But for the most part, you have to find the art where you can--which, generally, means right in front of you.

Formalism—Some dweeb is wearing a suit and tie.

Futurism - A bored husband keeps checking his watch and willing the hands to move faster.

Expressionism—Some old lady keeps scrunching up her face while she peers up at the paintings.

Cubism—Some blockhead is talking on his cell phone.

Then there’s the neck that’s right in front of you, which appears to be blotchy from overexposure to the sun; this individual has clearly begun her “red movement.” And now she’s gone, replaced by the broad shoulders of a man who is starting his own, hitherto unnamed school of art, which apparently centers around large quantities of dandruff.

On the positive side, when the surrounding text describes the primary artist as a “colourist,” this makes sounding smart much easier.  The jargon of art criticism usually gives me a headache, but who can screw up the use of a term like “colourist”?  You swing your hand at a large painting, and expound to your friend:

“Now, you’ll note the use of blue in this painting.  And why do you think there is such a use of color?”

“Because Marc Chagall was a ‘colourist.’”

“Exactly!  Now, note this painting over here.  Why the heavy use of green?”

“Because he was a greenist.”

“Don’t be flip.”