Funny thing,

on my way out of the library this afternoon, I grabbed a copy of [one young] Teddy Wayne's prize-winning first novel Kapitoil.  And it's been a fun, easy read so far; with, of all things--and right there in the first chapter--a disquisition on the random variables of the "paintings" of Jackson Pollock: which are systemized  and preserved from mere barbarous randomness (in our young author's mind), not by any quality, virtue or character of their own, but by autobiographical statements of the artist's intention; which our young author reads and finds adequately indicative of real (i.e., artistic) order among apparent chaos.  Such statements (or defiant declarations) by the now long defunct artist as "I don't use the accident--'cause I deny the accident."  Precious silly stuff, we may say, but it enables our young author to enjoy--nay, to find meaning--in Jackson Pollock's "paintings."  O tempora, o mores!  Poor, earnest, sweet, fatuous, play-pretend, rôle-playing Millennials!  It would never occur to these callow, shallow, too-candid children that "art," that you have to be argued by the "artist" into an appreciation of, is, by definition, fraudulence and imposture.