MOBA Boston: Is bad art still art?

I recently visited the Museum of Bad Art in Boston—a place that feels like the artistic equivalent of a karaoke bar: bold, unapologetic, and gloriously off-key. In spirit, it echoes the Salon des Refusés, the legendary 1863 exhibition authorized by Napoleon III after public outcry to see the works rejected by the Paris Salon. That landmark moment celebrated artists who defied convention, challenged taste, and helped pave the way for the avant-garde.

The works at the Museum of Bad Art aren’t necessarily revolutionary, but they do share that same outsider spirit—unfiltered, unexpected, and unconcerned with traditional approval. They’re not chasing innovation in the way the 19th-century rebels were, but they offer something just as rare: total creative freedom. No rules, no expectations, and sometimes, no clear explanation. And honestly? That’s part of the charm.

The more time I spent with these curious, chaotic, oddly compelling works, the more one question kept circling in my head: Is bad art still art? As viewers, we’re used to standing solemnly in front of masterworks—analyzing brushstrokes, decoding symbolism, pretending we understand chiaroscuro. But here? I spent just as much time, if not more, staring at these so-called failures. Sometimes because they were surprisingly not-that-bad. Sometimes because they were really bad. And sometimes because they were so bizarrely unexpected that I had to recalibrate my entire understanding of what I was looking at.

The bad art

Let’s talk about one particular piece—one that, at first glance, I genuinely mistook for a reinterpretation of the Baby Jesus.

The composition ticked all the familiar boxes: a soft, glowing light and a centered, seated infant wearing a loincloth—a common detail in early Christian art meant to indicate humility. His posture, too, is familiar: one hand raised in what appears to be a blessing or sacred gesture, the other resting on his torso. The whole representation : the body’s anatomy and the expression—serious, knowing—echoes the “homunculus” style often seen in late medieval and early Renaissance depictions of the Christ child, where baby Jesus is portrayed not as a cherub, but as a small, sagelike adult with oddly developed features, like in the painting above :

But the longer I looked, the more those assumptions began to fall apart. For starters, why was this holy child seated on a green flying carpet? And why did he seem to be midair, levitating against a surreal red backdrop that had more in common with a psychedelic vision than a nativity scene? The gesture, once possibly sacred, now looked slightly confused—as if halfway between casting a spell and hailing a cab. And the face, though expressive, gave off less of a divine aura and more of a “Do you want to see a magic trick?” energy.

Then I looked at the label: Baby Aladdin.

Suddenly, everything—and nothing—made sense.

It’s not often we’re presented with an infant version of a well-known fictional character, especially one whose story usually begins well past toddlerhood. The piece, Baby Aladdin by Julia Vindman, is rich with imagination and ambiguity. It invites the viewer to fill in the gaps, to ask questions—some serious, some more playful. Why is Aladdin a baby here? Why is he naked? What inspired this vision? Is this a whimsical origin story, or something more symbolic?

I think we can unanimously agree that this is bad, but it’s so bad that it’s actually good. Poorly executed from all points of view—starting with the brushstrokes, the quality of the pigments, and the baby itself in its deformity—but despite that, it makes you question the limits of art and elicits a good, candid laugh from the viewer.

But let’s take a moment to appreciate Medusa.

I don’t know if the reader will agree, but I burst into laughter the moment I saw it. The painting was brilliantly titled and described—“Realizing she couldn’t do a thing with her hair…”—and that line alone already sets the tone. The chaotic swirl of dark, twisting lines suggests a head of unruly snakes, and amidst the tangle, we catch glimpses of wide, bewildered eyes and a pair of bright red lips applying lipstick with unapologetic confidence.

There’s something wonderfully bold about this depiction. It leans fully into the absurdity of the myth while also giving Medusa a moment of relatable humanity. Haven’t we all, at some point, stood in front of a mirror, overwhelmed by the mess of it all, and thought, Well… maybe lipstick will help?

The piece may not be technically refined—the lines are wild, the composition teeters on chaotic—but that’s part of its charm. It’s expressive. It’s funny. And it turns a terrifying mythological figure into a kind of anti-heroine for our times: fierce, fabulous, and fighting a losing battle with her own aesthetic.

And my favorite in this collection might just be Byzantine Cats—a painting where two domestic cats unapologetically take center stage, while Jesus Christ himself, in full Byzantine icon glory, sits quietly in the background like an uncredited extra. He’s rendered with all the traditional elements: golden halo, throne, sacred gesture, open scripture… and yet he’s not even mentioned in the title.

It’s like bumping into a movie star on the street and asking them to take a photo of you—with your friend. Jesus is there, undeniably present, but completely overshadowed by the black-and-white cat’s commanding gaze and the serene nap of its calico companion. The focus is entirely on the cats, their playful tranquility, their divine indifference.

Is Christ behind them in an icon, as tradition might suggest? Or is he part of the same space, silently blessing the scene like a benevolent roommate? We don’t know—and that’s part of the genius. The result is a visual paradox that feels both reverent and ridiculous. And honestly, it works. Somehow, it all comes together in a moment of delightful absurdity.

The "my eyes are bleeding art"

This might be the most terrifying painting I’ve ever seen. It looks like The Exorcist—but on a hangover, wandering through a surrealist countryside. If there were an award for the worst painting in the entire museum, this one would be a strong contender. No question.

It’s got that slightly possessed, dream-gone-wrong vibe—like a bad acid trip meets elementary school art class. The oversized, ghostly hand—clutching at nothing—the oddly serene blue sky, and that hypnotically twisted tree that looks like it’s made of striped worms... it’s all a visual fever dream. And let’s not forget the palette: neon blues, haunted reds, a touch of fungal green. Every choice here screams “I did this from a place of feeling, not planning.”

And then there’s the composition. It reads like a diptych, but clearly isn’t. The right side could almost be from a totally different painting. It’s like two alternate realities fused together at the edge of a breakdown. The result? A masterpiece of the abominable.

Thankfully, the accompanying text lightens the mood, spinning a poetic backstory about unreachable dreams and symbolic color palettes. It gives just enough structure to stop us from running screaming into the gift shop.

The "not bad at all"

Let’s start with this surreal anatomical fantasy: Twins in Utero. While the museum cheekily notes that the biology is “inaccurate,” I’d argue that this work steps confidently into the realm of speculative womb-science. Two skeletal twins curl within a soft, fleshy ring, surrounded by a buffet of ominous blobs that reportedly symbolize “birth, fertility, and death.” (So… the whole existential snack plate.)

The overall effect is haunting, but in a way that feels intentional—almost ritualistic. Despite being painted with oil and chicken bones (yes, actual chicken bones), it manages to avoid cliché horror. Instead, it evokes something primal and symbolic, as if you’ve wandered into a biology textbook from another dimension. It’s not beautiful, exactly—but it’s fascinating. And honestly? That’s enough.

Another one—Mommy Issues—could’ve easily felt gimmicky with its chopped, floating mother figure and glitchy composition. But instead, it reads like a portrait seen through the lens of memory: fragmented, distorted, and soaked in unresolved feelings. The vertical misalignment makes it look like someone tried to digitize family trauma with early Photoshop tools and gave up halfway through.

I love that the museum’s description compares it to a broken television—it really does feel like emotional static. The missing head, the skewed perspective, the longing in the subject’s pose... you’re left asking what exactly happened here, and why. No explanation is given, and none is really needed. The title says it all. Whatever was going on, it was personal—and probably better processed through paint than anywhere else.

What’s even more surprising is that both of these works—Twins in Utero and Mommy Issues—were created by the same artist: Michael Gershberg. I didn’t realize this at the time of my visit; the paintings are displayed in different parts of the museum, and their styles are so distinct that they didn’t register as connected. It was only while writing this article that I noticed the shared signature—and with it, the deeper thread between them.

One is surreal and anatomical, the other fragmented and psychological. One leans toward symbolism and decay, the other toward personal dissonance. And yet, both sit quietly in a space labeled bad art.

This small discovery feels emblematic of the whole experience. It shows how thin and slippery the boundaries of “bad” really are. Is it style? Execution? Intent? Or just context? And if the same artist can occupy multiple points on that spectrum, maybe the category itself is less about quality and more about perspective.

These aren’t just funny or strange works. They’re unexpectedly complex. They make you laugh—and then, if you're paying attention, they make you wonder. And maybe that’s where the best kind of art lives anyway: in the pause between confusion and meaning.

Final Thoughts: Art, Accuracy, and the Glorious Mess in Between

Is it accurate? Certainly not. But who said art had to be? Remember all those revolutions deconstructing rules?

We tend to take art very seriously—sometimes too seriously. But what is art, if not emotion? If not the raw, imperfect expression of our inner lives? If a work of art manages to stir something within you—even confusion, laughter, or discomfort—then it has already done what art is meant to do. It is art simply because it has been experienced as such. Nothing can take that power away.

Surrounded by strange brushstrokes, impossible proportions, unexpected themes, and bold creative risks, we’re left asking the question one more time:

Is this art?

To be art or not to be… bad art has already answered.