I used to be really into modern art—especially the 1960s—when I was in high school. Teenagers tend to distance themselves from their own culture or from whatever’s popular, I guess so they can feel “iconic.” Honestly, I was just being avant-garde for the sake of avant-garde: hanging up a Marilyn Monroe print in my bedroom, thinking it was cool that none of my friends got it (not that I fully did, either, as I later realized).
Back then, visiting a modern art museum was at the top of 17-year-old Ariana’s bucket list. It’s funny how just a few years later, at 22, I walked right past The Broad in L.A. without even planning to go inside. But when I did, the art struck me as ridiculously expressive—almost shockingly explicit, maybe even disturbing. Ninety percent of the gallery was basically a jarring experience, but I guess that’s exactly what those artists aimed for.
Psycho Spaghetti Western #5 by Jim Shaw—an unfiltered take on American consumer culture. It’s
One piece that really impacted me was “Psycho Spaghetti Western.” It felt like a direct punch to the gut—wildly chaotic but also strangely reflective of our culture’s consumerism and confusion. It was both fascinating and unsettling, which I suppose is the point.
A lot of modern art from the 1960s onward—especially stuff influenced by abstract expressionism—directly attacks American consumer culture. Everything has two sides. Take California, for example: it’s all big—big sunshine, loud cheers, huge food portions, intense flavors, and bold, flamboyant opinions. But in its reflection, there’s a kind of twisted, lost sense of self, caught up in endless searching for a so-called unique identity.
It’s all fun and games until a massive 10-by-5-meter painting shoves those problems in your face in one of L.A.’s splashiest galleries. Suddenly, that massive painting makes everything feel hollow—guess that’s the modern art punch line.