I will give you this, that if you've found this, that art to you isn't some accurately rendered portrait of a duck, panda-bear or wolf. That you've set the bar a little bit higher and have some appreciation of both the history and role of art...
That said, there's no accounting for taste. Still, I'll try and sum up my own tastes and expectations below...
The role of the artist is to open us up to new experiences, thoughts, feelings, realizations and understandings. These things are not done from the center, they are done from the outskirts, from the margins...you cannot see or describe the shape of the world if you live at the center, from the center you see the world spreads out limitless and without end, rather you must live and travel upon it's edges...
...the artist, they delineate and describe the shape of our world, our expectations, of emotion, of love, of thought, they open up to us the doors to worlds we are too fearful and inadequate to explore ourselves firsthand...
...there is the myth of the self-destructive artist, Orpheus, any one of a number of popular singers, Van-Gogh, ... the myth survives, because what do we expect of them? That they travel further than us, experience more than us, that they feel, love, understand, intuit more than us, and that they somehow bring us back and translate some portion of their understanding, so that we may, vicariously, live through that minute remainder of their experience, the bored suburban housewife who never has been camping, a picture of a wolf upon her wall, the articulate university graduate, never been kissed, Klimt's "The Kiss", the pedant, never outdoors a single night his entire life, "Starry Starry Night", the voyeur, Egon Schiele...from a person's taste in art we may somewhere discern where their life is lacking, what speaks to them...
...For those who would live, they need nothing, they need only to create, for the rest there is the artist, that shared and subdivided, infinitely replicated portion of life that is dulled the moment it is shared and discovered, perhaps only music stands up to the endless replication and division of art, everything else wears thin...but if you were wondering why art doesn't grow in the suburbs, why, it's the same reason that love doesn't, life doesn't, intelligence doesn't, art demands a richer soil, and the comfortably numb will never weep for joy or sadness to fertilize it...