Michael Pauker’s Bad Santa series is a searing indictment of one of America’s most sacred cultural customs.
Or it is a laugh-out-loud spoof of our Aesthetic Expectations.
Or it is Modernist critique of Post-Modernism, whereby the viewer is led down the garden path towards Detached Irony, only to be forced instead to embrace Expressive Mystery.
Or it is Unapologetic Kitsch, a nostalgic trip along memory lane, a symptom of longing for simpler times, for the good old days.
Or it is a Formalist plea for the primacy of drawing.
Or it is an artifact of the artist’s Existential Duel with the Unknown.
Or it is a confession of the inadequacy of images to convey anything other than that which they convey, thereby exploring notions of the Poverty of Imagination.
Or it is a Post-Marxist cri de coeur aimed at the excesses of End-State Capitalism, an Emperor’s New Clothes satire on the production of luxury goods.
Or it is a Muckracking Exposé on the Exploitation of Children and/or Seasonal Workers.
Or it is all of those things. Or perhaps it is none of those things. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, and sometimes Bad Santa is just Bad Santa. To be enjoyed for your own warped reasons. Buy one today.