When I say I will remember my papa. For him, the only respectable art were the classics. I was skeptical and conservative and everything that was not Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, Goethe, Rembrandt, Velázquez and three equivalent to four seemed suspicious, Beretta, unnecessary. It was surprising that out of that list he liked some exotic, like Faulkner and Roa Bastos. And in the end, both living in Buenos Aires had accepted, albeit with reservations, Eduardo Falu, Mercedes Sosa and Fernando Fader, who seemed the maximum tolerable modernism. The Beatles and rock music took him out of the boxes. I was friends with artists remodeling and occasionally made the attempt to teach new things. I could not believe that she liked and believed that I could turn to their training sides German original square. He, as I wanted, accepted and provided grumbling that after we went to a pizza at Guerrin nail or a goulash to ABC. But from the corner began to look with suspicion and are packaged in the door of the air sample offended. At last came ostentatious gestures of repudiation, looked around, sniffed at a painting or an installation and as if the artist said he spoke too loudly: Ma, go to laburar!
Then, before the fugazzetta and glass of moscato got deep into abstruse theories about what is and is not art that I was not able to refute. Firstly because it was impossible to reason with him, and secondly because it gave me a good laugh listening to angry criticism. All his arguments carried the same point: the type I had no talent, no ideas or technical and had nothing to do with art, took advantage of the riding public snobbery these despicable objects to pass as an artist, but was actually a vivillos he had found a good Tongo to have fun without laburar.
The Truth Truth, every time I pass I see incommensurable fuck samples that are only explained by the immense boredom, excessive time off and look self-referential, hatched boxes with thousands of monotonous, drab diagrams drawn on the page a notebook and displayed as if the germ of a new art movement, painted fabrics in a horrible way for a self which believes it has nothing to learn anyone, and although I was not because I'm more civilized note that my papa, I curse the arrogance of those dunces secret for some reason call themselves artists and say a thousand times for me in front of each object Ma, go to laburar! and then I'll morfar a portion of a Muzza fugazzetta and a good glass of Moscato ice cream, which barely got up in silence in memory of my papa.
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