A renowned art critic, known for his incredibly sharp wit and even sharper tongue, was touring a new, avant-garde gallery. He stopped in front of a particularly abstract painting that seemed to be nothing but a large, smeared canvas of various shades of gray.
“Hmm,” he mused aloud, stroking his chin. “Tell me, gallery owner, what exactly is this supposed to be? Is it a commentary on the bleakness of modern existence? A minimalist exploration of urban decay?”
The gallery owner, a trendy young woman with a meticulously styled bob, smiled patiently. “Ah, Mr. Finch, an excellent observation! It’s titled ‘Morning Fog on the Thames.’ The artist aimed to capture the ephemeral beauty and mystery of London’s early hours.”
The critic leaned in closer, squinting. “And is the artist perhaps… partially sighted? Because all I see is a canvas that looks like it’s been used to wipe up a very sad, very diluted cup of coffee.”
The owner chuckled softly. “On the contrary, Mr. Finch, the artist is celebrated for his incredible attention to detail. This piece took him months to perfect.”
“Months?” the critic scoffed, stepping back. “For this? I’ve seen more artistic merit in a pigeon’s droppings! Honestly, it’s so indistinct, so utterly lacking in form, one could almost believe it was painted by a toddler using only their nose!”
The owner’s smile didn’t waver. “Well, Mr. Finch, that’s rather close to the truth. You see, it was actually painted by an elephant. We had to use an extra-large canvas.”