In this disturbing cri de Weltanschauung by the ever insightful Unknown, the staid, Doric classicism of the superego topples as it becomes impossible to find purchase on the vomitings of the id.  (We will ignore, perhaps conveniently, the fact that the Doric order was in fact not fluted.)

Is the pencil of the better self—or that “the better self of the pencil”?—trying to absorb, to suck up, to ungurgitate as it were, the barbaric yawp of the puzzle-piece-shaped puddle of words and symbols?  Or is it in fact its source?

Are we to regard the red cross as a Red Cross, or a plus sign?  Should we seek medical attention here, or merely add money to our hearts?  What are we to make of the fact that the same symbol is used in chemistry to indicate the dextrorotatory rotation of polarized light?  Is this outpouring of FEELING in fact a represenation of polarization, of money/love, of health/wealth, of the silent power of symbols/white hot verbiage?  Clockwisedly rotated?

Whatever the nature of the transaction, whether expulsory or absorbent, it is clearly painful.  As the spiky thought balloon pierces the faded heart, it stands in sharp relief to the cool blue horizontals of the lower part of the field.  And almost as an afterthought, there remains the evidence of the Eternal Cat, mute, mystic, and culpable.

In our never-ending quest to answer the question, “What is Art?”, we cannot overlook the contributions of the Museum of Bad Art (surely founded by fellow Lichtenbergians-in-spirit).

Please head over and waste an hour or so looking at the extremely bad art housed in the virtual wings of this highly respected institution, and then, as an assignment, enter the MOBA Official Guest Interpretator contest.

Or if you like, interpretate one of the other works on display.  No, you may not use this work.