When I first saw the photo of Nancy Graves' "Pilot" ("Nancy Graves: Civilized Exotic at Work," by William Wilson, Sept. 13), I laughed so hard I spit out my Pop Tart.
Is this forest of camel-leg bones supposed to be art? (And what an appropriate title, "Pilot"! Succinct, yet not distinct. Would not a better one be "The Forest Femoral"?)
Is this art? Or does it serve only to inspire bourgeoise wise-cracks like, "There are only three types of art: Nouveau, Deco and Linkletter."
Ahh, remember that sugar-cube Space Shuttle exhibit? Now that was art. And what critic is not still heralding the 1982 showing of Francois Pissoir's impressionistic masterpiece, "Bathroom Fixtures of the Renaissance, Redux"? My own heart flutters at the sight of porcelain. Now that was art.
Please, let's cure the art field of charlatans before the next exhibit at the Museum of Art is a chastity belt collection made from beer can pop-off tabs (effective, yes, but is it art?).