HOW TO BE A JERK AND HATE ART TO THE POINT THAT YOU HATE YOURSELF FOR FEELING LIKE AN ART SNOB

I'm not sure how to approach this topic correctly, but I have to try. Walking home from work the other day I passed a storefront on South Street that has been a temporary art gallery/space-thing for the past six months. There are a few of these storefronts currently being rented out month-to-month along South Street and each one is disappointing. This particular art space, on that particular night, appeared to be hosting a gallery opening or closing or whatever, and was packed with art fans pretending to "know art" as they sipped on the fuel of "art knowing"; wine. The crowd consisted of 60-somethings with multi-colored berets, fat hippies (and skinny ones too!...?), and the young eclectic with his guitar slung on his back who at any moment could provide the venue with some tunes if he were to get enough of that free "fuel". The art was literally junk sculpture. Now, for whatever reason, the artistic community that I dislike the most is exactly that; a community. This, no doubt, was one of those venues where the same group of artists show their stuff each month, and the same neighborhood art-likers (mostly friends, and people who have a growing collection of one specific artists work because '..it really speaks to me..') come to support them. Great. Good for them, I guess. Now, I don't know what other form of art exposure I would prefer, but I know that my mind was made up for me in the 5  seconds it took for me to pass by the window of this place where art went to die. My mind immediately reverberated, "EW! NO! EWWW!" and I thought myself better than those people as I directly thought my art to be better than their art. My art that I keep locked up inside my house. My art consisting of a total of maybe 15 respectable finished pieces, created over the course of too many years. Of course I'm not better than those people, but I'm also not playing any charades. I simply do not make art to be sold or praised or even seen for that matter. This isn't a metaphor for anything, it is the truth. My output is low, my creative frustration is high, and my integrity remains strong. I make art because I am compelled to do it. There are projects that are started and completed and they exist entirely in my head. Sometimes this occurs if I don't have the time or resources to physically bring the idea into being, but mostly my brain is a more proper venue for some pieces that couldn't or shouldn't be appreciated by the public no matter how intimate my relationship might be with them.
...to be continued...