To be deceived by art
 Is where the pleasure lies
 As Oscar Wilde said
 When the finished work dries
  
 Art unexplained
 Awaits reference in time
 For art to have context
 Someone must find
 An intrinsic meaning
 An enchantment or spell
 A hard fact or history 
 That explains it well
  
 So ethereal
 This imaginative bent
 Where art creates product
 But may not pay rent
  
 The elusive success
 Of an artist such as me
 Depends on the work
 And conveying what we see 
  
 To be reminded of something
 That may not be there
 Is the way we see art
 Reminiscent or bared
  
 The artist displays 
 What the artist portrays
 The observers creates
 What the observer says
  
 And the feeling is surreal
 This fraught disconnect
 Must artists defer 
 To the critics subject
  
 Is it in artist’s deceit
 Where the pleasure lies
 Taking the work 
 and working it wise
  
 Psychological or literal
 The interpretation applied
 Is anything worthy
 In a meaning belied
  
 With all the definition in 
 Every artists hand
 The lines of description
 Are at critics command
  
 The intensity of design
 Or depicting a glance
 For artist and critic
 It’s the art of chance
  
 Is ugly ugly
 Or is it brave and true
 Is beauty beauty
 Or a sop to me and you
  
 Only the artist knows
 Where the artist goes
 But as deception grows
 Across art shows
 The artist bows
 To the stories faux
 As the critics row
 And the sponsors crow
 And the buyers coo
 Gallery owners woo
 speculators too
 Attempt to choose
 The number 1 pick
 That makes art slick
 To turn a buck
 Art by the truck
 Instead of art refined
 As in the artist‘s mind
 But only the artist knows
 Where the artist goes