“BORING” – the honest self-portrait of our times. A scream in capital letters, so tired it almost becomes fascinating again. The “BO” droops down like the last bits of motivation on a Monday morning — or like the ego of an art critic who thinks he’s uncovered the meaning. The canvas pretends to be neutral, pale, almost clean — but those flashes of neon? Tiny, desperate screams for attention. An aesthetic burnout, frozen in the moment right before someone says, “So minimalist.” BORING isn’t a word. It’s a condition. A diagnosis. It’s art that refuses to entertain — and that’s exactly why it hits. Because in a world that never shuts up, boredom might just be the last form of rebellion.
