Visited Tate Britain today, first gallery I've set foot in since COVID.
Having not smoked enough weed beforehand, I was underwhelmed. The problem is when I'm not stoned enough my senses are subject to my tedious analytic mind/ego.
Only a select few managed to pierce my indifference - Gainsborough, Turner, Constable, Samuel Palmer. Is this because I know they're the big boys? Or is it because they attain a level of painting that can excite and overwhelm the senses of even the only mildly stoned gallery patron? I can't tell.
I was even paradoxically excited to find myself so unmoved by most of it because I thought oh now I don't like art anymore I can stop fooling myself into thinking that all these galleries make London worth living in.