If you've golfed with me you're probably starting to object, but read on. I've rarely strung together enough good shots to have a really low score. I'll follow a birdie with a triple bogie. When you take close to one hundred shots, you're bound to have a few good ones. Strangers I've played with have made the mistake of complimenting my swing before I strike the ball. This is their mistake, as the percentages say that the real thing will not live up to the beauty of my practice swing. But I've hit amazing shots. Three hundred yard drives with a slight, yet planned draw to set up a short chip for birdie. Most of the times I try to replicate this beauty it turns into a snap-hook into a hazard. Such is the fate of the twice-yearly golfer. But the one or two beauties are enough to keep my clubs off the lake bottom. Enough to make me, in some cruel self-punishment, believe that there lies within me some speck of talent, and return for another three-digit day.
Art Galleries are similar. Whenever I go, I inevitably find a few pieces I like. Some would lead you to believe that art galleries are full of great work, but I say that most galleries are like my golf game. There are usually a few real winners sprinkled throughout a slew of slices and worm-burners. The best part of the Guggenheim in Bilbao was the building. I was bored inside. Too many dreary Russian portraits. I like Hopper, Miro, Picasso, Dali, Chagall, and van Gogh's olive trees. I can't tell you what I like about any of them. It doesn't matter. There are usually just enough to keep me coming back.
So my golf game is like art--because a lot of art sucks, too.
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