Sometimes have to laugh, at myself first of all. I think I’m Ahab, in a dinky little boat after a gigantic whale, the entire art establishment post WWII. I’ll die first, but I’ll beckon even in death lashed to the harpoons lodged in its back, my friend Starbucks having had a large part to play. Getting the whale to notice me is the first challenge, but I think if I keep launching my little missives I might hit a tender spot and get a response, get others to notice, finally through subtle argument convince the whale to expire on its own, or at least leave the water.
Big art has merged with exhibitionism, not around here of course, but the most progressive among us do want to be like them, the millionaires in magazines. Taking down pants in front of the Mona Lisa, such as that, the trick being to latch onto someone else's famous work of art, in some prominent place, and cause a fuss. Cut it finer if you want, up to you. The reverence for celebrity art, which I seem to lack, results from the enormous bucks involved, but I have immunity, apparently, and think about the art instead. What would I need to say to convince you the only difference between a Damian Hirst ‘spin painting’ and the post card size you squirt yourself on a little turntable at the county fair are size, and a whole lot of money? You could see this for yourself, if you wanted, but these days such a fact doesn’t seem all that important.
No one knows what is important -- provoking the press, amusing the ultra-jaded, hits on the internet? Art, once a flowing river, has fanned out into swampy delta, no channel more than in inch deep meandering without direction. ‘Contemporary’ is an advanced sensibility no doubt, like the ripest cheese, but not everyone gets past the aroma, or, let me emphasize, cares to. There, I harpoon for the heart, another near miss but I keep trying. The whale suffers indigestion quite independently of me, and will roll over in another generation or two, anyway. Maybe sooner.
“you don’t have to call a glass dirty, you just have to put a clean glass up next to it,” as Rev Farrakhan used to say, and it’s happening now. Independent artists are gaining reputations, not at national fairs, in vanity operations far away, but around here by association and word of mouth, along with a greater opportunity to exhibit their work. Tangible art that can be taken home to become part of a living environment is coming out of studios newly rented all directions, like a wave passing through. The big fish will leave the room because with each passing day the broader community expresses an appetite for a token of life’s joy and pain more substantial than ‘monday night football,’ on and on. That’s art on the wall seen everyday, and art made by a friend, or someone met, or an artist followed through a career in your hometown does it better.
Big art has merged with exhibitionism, not around here of course, but the most progressive among us do want to be like them, the millionaires in magazines. Taking down pants in front of the Mona Lisa, such as that, the trick being to latch onto someone else's famous work of art, in some prominent place, and cause a fuss. Cut it finer if you want, up to you. The reverence for celebrity art, which I seem to lack, results from the enormous bucks involved, but I have immunity, apparently, and think about the art instead. What would I need to say to convince you the only difference between a Damian Hirst ‘spin painting’ and the post card size you squirt yourself on a little turntable at the county fair are size, and a whole lot of money? You could see this for yourself, if you wanted, but these days such a fact doesn’t seem all that important.
No one knows what is important -- provoking the press, amusing the ultra-jaded, hits on the internet? Art, once a flowing river, has fanned out into swampy delta, no channel more than in inch deep meandering without direction. ‘Contemporary’ is an advanced sensibility no doubt, like the ripest cheese, but not everyone gets past the aroma, or, let me emphasize, cares to. There, I harpoon for the heart, another near miss but I keep trying. The whale suffers indigestion quite independently of me, and will roll over in another generation or two, anyway. Maybe sooner.
“you don’t have to call a glass dirty, you just have to put a clean glass up next to it,” as Rev Farrakhan used to say, and it’s happening now. Independent artists are gaining reputations, not at national fairs, in vanity operations far away, but around here by association and word of mouth, along with a greater opportunity to exhibit their work. Tangible art that can be taken home to become part of a living environment is coming out of studios newly rented all directions, like a wave passing through. The big fish will leave the room because with each passing day the broader community expresses an appetite for a token of life’s joy and pain more substantial than ‘monday night football,’ on and on. That’s art on the wall seen everyday, and art made by a friend, or someone met, or an artist followed through a career in your hometown does it better.
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