Uta Barth? The Queen of OOF?
If I live to be a hundred years old, I'll never understand two things: jazz and art. Some jazz sounds like a bunch of non-musicians found instruments and try to play them. And some art seems like so much junk to me, yet art critics drool over it. There's the kind that looks like some kids flung paint at a wall, and the kind where some dude paints two squares. And then there's Uta Barth, whose work looks to like examples of bad photography, yet people go ga-ga over her stuff.
So I find a nearly dead flower, stick it in a vase, set it on my kitchen counter near the window, and take an OOF picture of it. Right? Sounds simple enough.