I went to The Louvre twice in my life to see the art that I had only seen as pictures in books. All classed by period and the artistic fashion of the time that makes us all subservient to it, in terms of said artistic ability and scope.
I remember thinking as a young man when I observed Jacques Louis David's Oath of the Horatii...about the mere scale of such and undertaking. You see the breadth of the gallery it was exhibited in did not allow me to step back far enough. The canvas was enormous. It flooded my senses and confused me. It's huge, this painting and the story behind it confronted me in a scale that I never expected, having only seen it in books. The same happened when I viewed The Raft of The Medusa. There was no queue to see these paintings.
Imagine my surprise when I went to one of the main gallery's to view the Mona Lisa. It was surrounded by tourists. And when I finally beat two Japanese pensioners to death with a roled up copy of my museum guide, I was confronted by a red roped viewpoint and what....an A2 painting. The eyes didn't follow me around, and the brush strokes were faded and cracked, and it was underwhelming.
Sometime's scale matters more than we think, when we consider just how inconsiderate we all are when confronted by it.
Everyone here is a masterpiece to me. Everyone here has something worth viewing, and more important than dat, something worth experiencing, in their works of art.
Whether that be CW literally posting shite, or Flea pretending she can sling three senses or sentences together. It all makes perfect sense in our scale of fings.
