As a general rule, I am hideously embarrassed to be around my mother and modern art, at the same time.

She is, mostly, decidedly unimpressed by it, and faced with an installation of bread loaves baked to varying levels of brownness, representing the different classifications of cloud, will express an audible, "hmmmfph". Pie tins scattered on the floor, filled with varying types of detritus, will result in, "right, hmmmn," as she stalks up the stairs to find something else to ridicule. 

For the record, I thought the bread was interesting, though I'll agree that the pie tins did look more like the left behind traces of a bogan football crowd.

I'm not a fan of modern art. Most times, while I cringe inwardly at my mother's overly loud comments, I stay silent and try not to draw attention to myself whilst staring thoughtfully at sculptures made from paintbrush bristles and human saliva.

And while I'm sure that Jackson Pollack really is a visionary, I just think.. there are limits, right?
On my way to the station at night, I walk past a gallery. On opening nights it is filled with skinny men in three piece suits with ironic moustaches, and women with angular hair cuts, all convinced that they are extremely fabulous.

But seriously...

Please. Hrrmmmmph.