I've sort of intuited the existence of this pathology for a while already, partly from self-analysis and external observations. What I don't get is why we're so markedly adverse to "modern art" if this is what it inspires. Take Gottfried Benn's expressionist poetry, for instance, or Symbolist and Decadent forerunners, highly reliant on the symbolic dualism of decay/unhygenic and the sterile/pristine.
Here's a translation of one of Benn's poems:
Appendectomy
Everything white and sterile and gleaming.
Under a sheet a moan and a stir.
Abdomen painted. Scapels are gleaming.
"We are ready when you are, Sir."
The first incision. Like cutting of bread.
"Clips!" A gusher of crimson red.
Deeper. The muscles flaming and fresh,
a garland of roses the vibrant flesh.
Is this pus that started to spurt?
Have the intestines perhaps been hurt?
"Doctor, if you stand in the light,
how can I keep that omentum in sight?
Anesthetist, I cannot work,
the guy is making his belly jerk."
Through the silence of mist and gore
the clatter of scissors dropped to the floor.
The patient nurse, with watchful eye,
keeps sterile tampons in supply.
"I can't see a thing in all this rot!"
"Off with the mask! Bloods starting to clot."
"For heaven's sake! Hey, mister, please,
a little more pressure upon the knees!"
Everthing tangled. Finally found.
"Cautery, nurse!" A hissing sound.
Boy, I should say you were fortunate.
The thing was about to perforate.
"See this green spot? Three hours, I guess,
and the mesentery would have been a mess."
"Suture! Bandage! Jolly good show."
Everything closed. They wash up and go.
Raging, rattling her bony sword,
Death sneaks off to the cancer ward.