The Parable of the Unsellable Art

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, why must the glitches in Obamacare be the only focus the press can have on Obamacare?”

Josh spoke thus:

A critic was opining on an artist’s exhibit at a gallery.

“This one,” the critic said to the artist, “This little pink one.  This one will never sell.  Nobody will ever want a little pink one like that.  In fact none of this will sell.  That one there?  The big blue one?  It’s too big.  It’s too blue.  And the wavy green one?  It makes me dizzy.  No one wants to be dizzy.”

The critic moved from work to work.  Whatever the work was, it was unsellable in the critic’s eyes.

“This wooden thing,” the critic said, “Who wants a wooden thing?  What are we, in colonial times?  Why not make a totem pole?  Or a fence?  That’s all this wooden one is good for: a fence post.  It’s a fence post.  And not a very good fence post.  And it’s a very expensive fence post.  No one would buy the world’s best fence post at that price, and that’s not the world’s best fence post.”

The critic pointed at a canvas.

“You call that painting?” the critic asked, “I wouldn’t put that on my wall.  I wouldn’t put it behind my wall.  I wouldn’t put it outside my wall.  Whatever wall it’s on, behind or outside of would be ruined by a painting like that.  Who makes a painting like that?”

The critic waved an arm to signify the entirety of the gallery.

“There is nothing, I repeat nothing, that will sell here,” the critic said, “No one’s taste is poor enough for them to buy one article.  Starting with this pink thing.”

The critic held up the pink object.

While the critic was lifting the pink object, the owner of the gallery was approaching the artist.  The owner of the gallery whispered in the artist’s ear and pointed at the big blue work the critic had insulted.

“It just sold,” the artist said to the critic.

A short time later, the owner of the gallery approached again.  The green waves had sold.  Not long after, the wooden fence post had sold, followed by the large painting that the critic wouldn’t have hung on, behind or outside of the critic’s wall.  In time, every object the artist had offered was sold.

“And this!” the critic said, holding up the pink object, “It hasn’t sold!  Did I tell you it wouldn’t sell, or did I tell you it wouldn’t sell!  I told you it wouldn’t sell, and it didn’t sell.  It’s trash, I tell you trash!”

“It is trash,” the artist said, “It’s the shoebox I used to carry my lunch.