'Will you show me some Matthew Barney?'
'No. You have nothing but scorn in your heart for Matthew Barney. You won't get it and you'll make fun of him.'
'I won't, I promise. I'll give up my scornful ways and have an open mind.'
'Well, okay. So long as you have an open mind.'

...

'Why is that man eating that sheep?'
'I don't know.'
'Is he a giant?'
'Yes, he's a giant.'
'Oh. What's that rock thing peeking between his legs?'
'I don't know.'
'Does that rock thing represent Matthew Barney's cock?'
'I don't know.'
'Oh. Well, what about that thing?'
'I don't know. I don't think so.'
'What about that stern Madonna-like woman with the thing on her nose?'
'Eugh. I don't know.'

...

'Why is that man biting that pole?'
'I don't know.'
'Hee.'
'What?'
'Pole.'

...

'So you're saying that thing doesn't represent Matthew Barney's cock?'
'Yes.'
'Well, what about that thing?'
'I don't know.'
'And that thing?'
'I don't think so.'
'Is that cheetah lady, like, a metaphor for a vagina dentata or something?'
'Sigh.'

I'd actually quite like to see more of Matthew Barney's inexplicable work, if only so I can ask a series of maddening and inane questions throughout. It should be said that at least two knowledgeable art-types have slammed my ill informed dislike of Bjork's Yoko recently, so perhaps I should bite my tongue. But, still. Glass leg lady? Clambering about the Guggenheim as though you're playing some kind of elaborate game of 'the floor is made of lava'? Creepy Rockettes? I don't know, I really don't know.