For the record.

[i_am_oedible]

I cannot stand talking and listening to other people about art, their idea of art, or what art means to them. It causes me to sweat, my stomach to turn, and loss of voluntary control of my facial muscles. Thus, I often end up looking at people strangely, my face etched in confusion laced with disgust, when they talk for what seem like ceaseless minutes about something that is supposedly relevant to whatever our original topic was.

Endlessly they spill psychobabble from their lips and I, in turn, watch the way their mouths move without hearing their words.

Watch the self-righteous, the know it alls, the ones who delight in technical terms and name drop as subtly as tossing a grapefruit into a shallow puddle. Throwing around words like acculturation and radial balance, waiting to see if the rest of us call their bluffs.

Watch the nervous ones who want to make it seem like they know what they're talking about, like their opinions are right and matter, who have something to prove. Their rising inflections, turning valid statements into hesitant questions, expecting to be shot down and proven that they are Wrong About Art.

They are Artists. They are In the Know. They Understand. They have Been There. They can Identify. They Get It.

There are Artists and then there is Everyone Else.