Disclaimer: This article is based on actual news from the real world – honestly! However, it has been sprinkled with a healthy dose of satire.
Kunstpalast in Düsseldorf, Germany, has discovered a new way to engage audiences: tours given by a man who hates them. The museum’s twice-monthly “Grumpy Guide” tour sells out minutes after listing, suggesting that what the public wants from culture is culture yelling back at them. For €7, you receive access to five centuries of culture and one man’s carefully cultivated weaponized disappointment.
Three museum visitors hiding from the Grumpy Guide. (Kippelboy/Wikimedia)
The guide is Joseph Langelinck, a ponytailed scourge with a wooden-club energy. He requires visitors to identify mythic heroes, list the Herculean labors in order, and project from the diaphragm like they’re auditioning for amphitheater duty. Fans describe the experience as “educational” and “exactly like school, if school power-walked.”
Langelinck does not insult individuals; he insults humanity in bulk, which is a target-rich environment if there ever was one. The performance artist behind Langelinck, Carl Brandi, says the contempt is directed at an “inferred ignorance,” the most German kind of ignorance, where you’re wrong in a way you didn’t even know yet. “I try to make them feel as ignorant as possible,” said Brandi, acknowledging that most of the time this doesn’t require much effort, as the groups often come “pre-ignorant,” especially the American ones.
Museum director Felix Krämer points to the “rude waiter” movement, restaurants that weaponize service as a flavor, as his inspiration. It isn’t new to Europe, considering the entire country of France raised rudeness to a national pastime starting in the late 18th century. In Germany along the Rhine, the Köbesse bartenders have been heckling the thirsty since forever. Germans call it “wit,” but have a nine-syllable word for it. The rest of us call it “sir, your finger is in my sternum,” a line guaranteed to make certain Luddites giggle because they think your sternum is located in your butt. Hehe. Butt.
One exhibit in particular displays wall text that tells visitors to connect “high art” with “low objects,” then treats a souvenir-looking bauble like a thesis project. Langelinck regards this with the pained dignity of a man forced to explain why a plague painting does not pair with early motion studies like a wine flight.
Langelinck says he’s related to Elector Johann Wilhelm von der Pfalz, arguably the deepest-cut flex you’ll hear all year, possibly all decade. His rage blooms from wounded family pride: if great-great-whoever gathered these treasures, why are we pairing Rubens with a Volkswagen like it’s a two-art garage? “The Palatinate didn’t conquer Europe so we could valet the Old Masters!” screamed Langelinck to the comprehension of absolutely no one.
Good ol' great Great Great Great Great Great Grandpa Wilhelm. (Jan Frans van Douven/Wikimedia)
By the belltower installation, Langelinnk rings bells that structurally are not bells, declaring the museum a gallery of chairs, opinions, and algorithm-bait. The bell rings anyway, which is how art works sometimes.
Visitors emerge chastened, delighted, and unusually cardio-fit. The museum says the tour is sold out until next year; a committee will convene to define the term “pleasant,” then assign it to other departments for further study. Negative reinforcement appears to increase engagement, per the well-known “Please clap” effect. Langelinck denies enjoying this. He denies the possibility of enjoying anything.
This story is based on fully factual news, but if we got it wrong, blame these guys, we’re just here to make it funny.
