I knew I wanted to tell you to shut the fuck up from the moment your voice echoed off the gallery walls. The cacophony of noise you and your family made was only sweetened by the idiocy of mind your words betrayed, and I felt my heart flutter when you stepped near enough for me to hear more than a snippet through the din. I thought that the tapestries depicting the violence of colonialism on Indigenous bodies and the land were vivid and unmistakable in their directness. But only a flaccid young man like yourself could put forth such a breathtakingly vapid critique of the work: “I don’t know what it means, but it’s very evocative.”
Oh, stranger, are you fucking stupid? Or do you just not know how to read the artist’s statement, the description of the pieces on the walls, or glean the most basic of interpretations from the art itself? I’m so sorry you found expressions of rage and grief to be “unfortunate.” That must have been so uncomfortable for you. Much easier than actually engaging with the themes of the work, of course; who would dare make your mind, seated at its pinnacle of privilege, ever do such a thing?
There’s so much I wish I could have communicated to you, hapless coward, but something tells me I would have been thrown out before getting through to you. You taught me so much about the amount of noise and the inanity of content capable of being produced by such a small group of people in such a short amount of time; I can only hope that one day you’re able to see what a fucking dumbass you are.
Do you need to get something off your chest? Submit an I, Anonymous, and maybe
we’ll illustrate it! Send your unsigned rant, love letter, confession, or accusation to
ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and
the guilty.