Last night, as part of my ongoing effort to At Least Understand, If Not Appreciate And Enjoy, Modern Art, I found myself doing something I never imagined I'd ever do. Something I sneered at others for doing. Something I've laughed heartily at when encountered as scenarios on TV, or in books and movies. Namely, I found myself gathered around an entirely white painting with other members of the PWA, listening intently and respectfully as our guide explained its artistic significance. Well, relatively respectfully, considering the circumstances. I'm only human, you know.

The painting in question was by Nyman, and it was, as stated, entirely white. Nyman, according to our intrepid guide, declaimed that it wasn't what you paint, but how you paint it.

But then again, he would, wouldn't he?

Next to Nyman's white masterpiece was a series of reddish-brown stone floor tiles, laid out on the almost indistinguishable stone floor of the palazzo. They were surrounded by a rectangle of black non-skid tape, and watched over by their very own guard. Mustn't step on the Art, you know. Our guide skipped the significance of that one: perhaps she didn't see it.

All this, and we hadn't even gotten to the vinyl toilet yet. Sorry, the "soft toilet", which looked extremely flabby as it appears to have a slow leak. Actually, I believe it's supposed to look that way, although I didn't understand why, as the rest of that artist's oeuvre were fairly accurate representations. I identified with the piece entitled "Giant Fag Ends" more than the toilet or the inflatable french fries with ketchup. In American, the piece would be titled Giant Cigarette Butts. Incidentally, if an American artist were to do a piece called Giant Fag Ends, you'd better believe I'd be first in line to have a look. For artistic and cultural reasons, you understand. Cheap pun, but all that Art has warped my brain.

Actually, What I Learned About Pop Art (of the representational and ready-made type, anyway) is that it's OK if you don't understand what it's supposed to mean, because it doesn't mean anything. They weren't going in for symbolism. The thing is what it is, no more and no less. Thus, Andy Warhol's cardboard apple-juice carton (manufactured, I think, by Motts or their packing company) is nothing more than a cardboard box that used to contain bottles of apple juice on a stubby white podium. Although substantially more valuable.

I wish I was the one to come up with that idea.

This type of non-symbolism is opposed to the four hoovers sitting on florescent tubes, the whole encased in a perspex box. That represented the puritism of the American people. I actually "got" that one, although I'm not sure about his premise.

In general, I didn't care for the sculptures (except for some of the earlier ones) or the "installation" type thingies. Yes, they're quite odd, and rather interesting to look at, but is it art?" Generally, I say no, although that's probably due to the limitations of my feeble bourgeois mind. There is one piece that that sticks out, called "Head Under Water" or something very similar. It consisted of an egg-shaped piece of silly putty or something submerged in a mason jar of water.

A small projector shone lights onto the ovoid, making a little face that grimaced and twitched. There was sound, too-- quiet grunts and moans. I don't think it was meant to mean anything except "Look what I can do! Ain't it cool?", unless it was a nihilistic comment on the angst and futility of life. In which case it failed, because it was quite possibly the most hilarious thing I've seen in the last five years. And it wasn't just me, it was everyone there, including the po-faced twit complete with beret and goatee. Maybe it was just a commentary on the importance of fiber in a well-balanced daily diet.

There was no cubism or futurism or fauvism in this one, which was a shame because I like all those. Way outside the scope of the show, which was called New York Renaissance, and was a collection of post- WWII artists from the Whitney in NYC. (And it was amazingly crowded, which I suppose shouldn't surprise me, but did.) Not much of the type of abstract paintings I like, either. Mostly it was "abstract expressionism" or minimalism. I have very minimal feelings for minimalism-- not much to like or hate, basically. Not wild about the abstract expressionism, for the most part, although there are exceptions. Rothko is a genius, to name the most notable. Still don't care for Jackson Pollack's large drippy pieces, although I now understand what he was trying to do. I do like quite a bit of his other work though, as well as that of Lee Krasner

Jaspar Johns is another genius, but I knew that already. I like Rauschenberg as well. Some pop art I like, some not. Generally, I prefer the stuff reminiscent of the surreal or dada schools. Still not impressed by Lichtenstein. Warhol, when he actually painted something, was OK. There was a self-portrait by him that was amazing. And you've gotta admire the apple juice box from the balls-and-business acumen standpoint.

Hopper is fantastic, and I also like many of the more contemporary artists following in his wake. Hopper, by the way, was a very introverted man, very shy. According to his wife, he hardly ever spoke. "That would be handy," said the Brit.

I was surprised at how much I liked the truly contemporary stuff, by which I mean paintings done in the last 15 years or so. There's not a unifying style or ism, everyone does their own thing referencing whatever style turns them on. Some were kind of cubic, some abstract, some realist, whatever strikes your fancy. I like that.

And that white painting? I kind of liked that, too.

Just don't tell anyone.