Once there was a queen who visited a village known for three kinds of art. And she went in order to choose one to lend her support.
First, the queen was taken to a studio which was also a toy store where an old man made the most incredibly inventive toys. His craft was unparalleled and his toys intricate and full of tricks. He also made silly toys and stupid toys for whoever played with such things. None of the toys elicited from the Queen more than slight amusement for there was nothing in it but craft. This was fine but not interesting enough to be deemed art in her mind because the toy maker had nothing meaningful to say about his work.
So the Queen went to the second studio. And it was a barn. And in the barn there were mounds of dung. And the artist explained many things about the mounds that he called natural sculptures in the barn that he called his studio and gallery all the same. The queen watched others, a sampling of some common folk from the village, as they stared at the poop. And never had she heard someone speak so artfully about such common waste. He said weird things like all excrement has been excreted before so best not to utilize anything else but that which already was and never will be anymore except as fertilizer for the mental terrain. It was plain to see that the others didn’t get what he was talking about at all, partially because of the smell of his work was so strong.
The queen visited the third studio. It was small and meager and in the back of a hotel where the artist also had to work. She was dressed in plain clothes and painted miracles of vision and wonder and talked to the queen and the others about the nature of seeing and showed them another way of looking that felt enriching to them. As the queen left through the hotel, she saw her paintings everywhere with people blabbing and stuffing their faces while paying not a lick of attention to the amazing work hanging right over their heads.
The queen went back to her castle and mulled it over. The toymaker was great but it was mere craft and not art. And clearly the painter made the best work of all and really opened her eyes to how the artistic process can be an investigation. It was magic.
But she chose the dung maker or poop proliferator or whatever it twas that he called himself simply because anything could be said about his work and the common folk who cherish what little wealth comes their way could never develop such a taste for his style of caca. It was clearly the most elite of all because of the power it let her keep.
And the winner gave his speech at the ceremony where he said that kids play with caca, and artists are kids, so artists need to only concern themselves with the emptiness of the most fundamental movements. The audience looked at him in utter confusion but they saw the queen nod with approval, so they applauded the new standard of what could be called the art of the kingdom.