There’s an article in the paper today, here in bourbon country, about the burgeoning speculation in bottles of whiskey. There’s a picture of the proud collector of fifty four bottles of the same whiskey, a different label for each of the playing cards in a standard deck, plus both jokers. Somehow this sounds so familiar. Here are people paying fabulous amounts for whiskey they never intend to drink. The magic is in the bottle it comes in and not in the contents. We are now all required to assume this bottle contains an ambrosia so transcendent that if we ever to taste a drop we would immediately try to punch a best friend, abuse a spouse, and pass out contentedly for a three day coma but it could be just coke and vodka for all anyone will ever know.
Spirits are a product I’m not fond of but the parallel works for art because the medium has so little to do with the message. There’s a peculiar mechanism that takes hold when wealth becomes too staggering, and it’s happened in other cultures at other times as well. Rich folks wind up competing to piss away the most money, and without further discussion it’s blatantly unhealthy. The Northwest territories tried to pass a law against the ‘potlatch’, the celebratory burning of furs and breaking of canoes as a form of hospitality among well-to-do native peoples, but it was more likely hard times that finally made them see the light.
There’s nothing wrong with art, itself, but someone’s going to have to crack the lid, break the seal, pour a drink. Better yet let’s open up the bar. Some folks prefer coffee, juice -- there’d be more customers don’t you see? In fact, maybe we should lose the investment pitch altogether, collecting art like vintage cars and porcelain roosters. A better conversation whould be about owning art, living with art, and support for living artists from around here, wherever here happens to be. What’s in the bottle would suddenly be more important than the bottle, and what’s so wrong with that?
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