Thomas Kinkade Sucks

Recently, I spent the weekend at a cabin in New Hampshire. There was an oil painting on one of the cabin walls. It sucked. It sucked so bad that I can only suspect that the artist signed only his first name for that reason.

It got me thinking about Thomas Kinkade and how bad his art sucks. I decided to write a blog about it. I googled “Thomas Kinkade sucks” and found out that I was not alone. In fact, there are many people who dislike him so much that they’ve created websites and message forums to discuss how bad he sucks.

Here are a few of my favorites:

When he paints one of his monstrosities filled with little lit-up cottages, cobblestone paths, lighthouses, spilling gardens, country churches, and other nausea-producing crap, does he step back and think: "Wow. I am Matisse's peer!" or does he think: "Here's another steaming pile that the dumb Parade-magazine reading masses will buy ... Bwa ha ha!"

Here's Thomas drunk with his friends: "My shit's sold at Avon parties man. You know how many people go to those things? I got work in half the homes in America. How many homes does Picasso hang in? I rest my case." He has to think this way or else he will be crushed by his own crapitude.

It sucks a lot. It could suck a basketball through a garden hose; it could suck-start a B-52 in Fairbanks in January. Its suckingness is comparable to that of Precious Moments figurines. But then, what do I know about Art?

Like all great art, that piece is inspired, and brings up feelings in myself I never knew I had. Feelings like, like, I want to throw myself in front of a tarring machine on the freeway, or like, I wish I had never been born, or, like Oedipus, I want to gouge out my own eyes.