Over the weekend, I discovered fifty years after Picasso’s death, The Brooklyn Museum is having well-known comedian and Picasso loather, Hannah Gadsby curate a show on the artist. “Pablo-matic” is the kind of thing you say in a darkened tavern to a well-meaning friend sitting across the table when the music is too loud and they can hear you. Also, it’s the name of this exhibition, a clever departure from genuine cleverness.
But this isn’t about Picasso. It’s about thinking more broadly and ecumenically about how we navigate the world. I’d like to see Franklin BBQ in Austin hand over the month of May to a fictional vegan chef by the curious name of Johannes Grassman. Buses should be driven by children who can barely see over the steering column. I haven’t even mentioned the blind yet, but they deserve their shot in the driver’s seat. The New York Philharmonic ought to be conducted by a local mafia don, not some Julliard-educated prodigy. In other words, anyone who talks with their hands can conduct with them, too.
The New York Times editorial page should be written by people who can’t write for people who can’t read. We need professors of history who have amnesia. Those who can’t remember the past, don’t have to teach it. I want cricketeers on the roster of the New York Yankees. I want Martin Scorsese’s next film to be directed by a random teen influencer. Bed should be designed by authenticated vampires because only those who sleep hanging like bats can be objective.
Fair is fair. Sometimes though, fair is also stupid.
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