Takashi Murakami will haunt the dreams of an entire generation of overeducated children.

Last weekend at the Brooklyn Museum’s Murakami exhibit, I was stunned by the number of people who brought their very small children to an art exhibit that featured statues of projectile robotic vaginas and ejaculate lassos. Delighted, but stunned. While the majority of the crowd of parents bringing toddlers to the acid nightmares of Mickey Mouse eating their society was just ignorant and didn’t even make it as far as the second floor of the exhibit, I was most interested in the families who were actively trying to explain the works to their kids. A handful of hipper than thou parents would stand their three year old in front of a floating DOB painting vomiting feces into the mouths of ground parasites, and try to explain why it wasn’t scary. I fully admit that I would be that asshole. This is why I don’t have children. However, the highlight for me was seeing that same family’s infant girl, wide-eyed and amazed by the paintings, soaking it all in without any hint of fear. Clearly, she is one of us. Her brother, on the other hand, is a pussy. I guarantee she will spend a large portion of her early childhood spinning and hanging upside down.
Oh yeah, and the art – zowie.