reveille for a lost army -- waking up

Owning Art is an attempt to embody and represent the attitudes and tastes of a missing generation, those potential patrons of art essentially disenfranchised by a convergence of special interests, academic, commercial, and political, each seeking to reduce the field and limit access. Although motivated by different agendas, convenience found them in cahoots. Owning Art attempts instead to present the cause of average-citizen lovers of art in absentia, in the familiar terms of daily survival. Will they hear, and the short answer is probably not, but gonna preach anyway. 

Culture evolves when a large segment decides to turn their heads all at once, and old paradigms crumple, an organic yet mysterious molt. The observant outsider with some notion of the past might be able to imagine possible next incarnations, recognize movements toward underserved needs, and be able to divine the ascending and descending vortices of public awareness. That’s all we’re saying. Could go several ways from here, a mind-reading inescapable fascism seems plausible, and nuclear annihilation has been in the news again, but wouldn’t it be nice if things got better? Solar power on the roof breeds democratic independence, and a stable economy serving genuine needs, and not artificially manipulated wants, would in time lead to a sense of security among the population, perhaps even to personal realization and autonomy.

Are common folk too dumb to appreciate art? That does seem to be the establishment’s most basic assumption, and they’ll say it any time derisively, but no need, it’s right there in their art. In the most radical, deskilled refuge assemblage, the message comes through, clear and succinct -- if you’re not willing to go along with this absurdist charade, go home. Don’t mind this, really, and not offended. It’s just good advice. Time to look at something else, and it’s around, always has been. 

Gregarious creatives tend to form bands, exchanging witty banter on breaks while fending off the extra attention, but the more introverted types retreat to studios and are never heard of again. Oh, they struggle nights and weekends for a number of years, but slowly the side-gig, the menial entry-level occupation they took to support their studio, begins to define their lives. They go down thinking, ‘if I could just find exposure in some well-lit venue that even appeared to take my work seriously,’ a carrot that never comes closer, ‘maybe someone would like it, take the next step and buy it, so I could purchase more paint, pay the utilities, call myself an artist.’

Somehow, in this golden scenario, ordinary people would come to realize that while solar on the roof provides energy, artwork on the walls lights up the house, making it more livable, renewing the senses and enhancing life’s possibilities. Would they then jet off to high-roller auctions, vying against the planet’s smarmy looters and swindlers for some trademarked monopoly token -- probably not. Instead they’d learn to see the charm in a painting by a family friend, would find a place for the little watercolor bought at a craft fair, and could be expected to understand why original art costs more, and is worth more than copies.