There’s that Monty Python’s Life of Brian scene.
The crowd listening to the Sermon on the Mount.
“Blessed are the meek…”
“What was that?”
“Blessed are the cheesemakers?”
The message gets diluted. Misheard. Softened.
By the time it reaches the back, it’s something else entirely.
That’s what most art feels like now.
Somewhere between the first mark and the final piece, it gets cleaned up.
Made agreeable. Safe.
And safe art doesn’t say anything.
It asks for permission.
I’m not interested in that.
Art, at its best, is unapologetic. It doesn’t check if you’re comfortable.
It doesn’t try to be liked.
It risks being misunderstood. Even rejected.
Especially rejected.
Because if no one pushes back, if no one questions it or feels anything strong enough to react, then what exactly is it doing?
We’ve confused “good” with “acceptable.”
But acceptable art is just decoration. It fills space.
It doesn’t challenge it.
The work should divide opinion.
Not for the sake of shock, but because it’s honest enough to take a position.
It should feel like it could fall apart.
Like it might have gone too far.
That’s where the edge is.
That’s where something real happens.
I’m not trying to make something everyone understands.
Or even something everyone likes.
I’m trying to make something that holds its ground.
Because if it’s not a little uncomfortable or if it doesn’t risk being wrong…
What the fuck are we doing?