Went to a slide lecture covering an exhibit at the Speed Museum in Louisville, Southern Accent: Seeking the American South in Contemporary Art, about the state of art down south. Found out it’s more of a literary form, all about racial oppression, gender realignment, rancid nostalgia and sulky recrimination, and that’s just fine, as it should be, what art’s about these days. This is art with message, or maybe message with art on the side, just a garnish, a cryptic footnote on the menu.
These are puzzles, follow along, fill in the blanks, add up the score. Sorry to say, only art historians give a damn about sneaky clues, left-handed references, derived influences. They train as cross-association detectives, snipe hunting for the shady innuendo, trolling for the pithy juxtaposition, black feet dangle from a sugar plum tree, such as that. Why are the photos, obliquely suggesting significant moments, always out of focus, is it my glasses? Why does all this edgy provocation seem so dreamily second hand, so harmless, so hermetic? Why would some of these mean artists insist on calling their stuff simply ‘untitled,’ leaving us adrift to make up something on our own, so inconsiderate?
I’m sitting there wondering who pays for all this, and, frankly, why. Are these artists trust-fund babies or do they teach, are they receiving support from institutions, grants and stipends and intercollegiate play-dates, how do they live? Just curious. Granted, earning a living directly from art, even the aspiration, is base and commercial, high grounds for excommunication straight away. For the ‘collector’ I suppose this is hot stuff, so up to the minute and raw, but for people more eyeball fond of visual art, who might want to own some and see it everyday forever, this exhibit is a challenge.
The state-run culinary school has been reduced to teaching ‘mudpie 101,‘ a faux cuisine of off-hand gestures, puns and grainy history from a morally superior position. Oh we don’t eat the stuff, we turn it in for grants and recognition, having our tickets punched and meshing with our peers. We go for grub at the yellow arches and so does the faculty. Well, good for you. You have this art thing down. So Speed, look to thy parking lots and see how many art thirsty citizens take up space there. Contemporary art is the recurring resident in non-profit galleries all around the town down here, and during the week they’re peaceful quiet places swell for contemplation of this season’s secret knowing, all rude and deskilled.
These are puzzles, follow along, fill in the blanks, add up the score. Sorry to say, only art historians give a damn about sneaky clues, left-handed references, derived influences. They train as cross-association detectives, snipe hunting for the shady innuendo, trolling for the pithy juxtaposition, black feet dangle from a sugar plum tree, such as that. Why are the photos, obliquely suggesting significant moments, always out of focus, is it my glasses? Why does all this edgy provocation seem so dreamily second hand, so harmless, so hermetic? Why would some of these mean artists insist on calling their stuff simply ‘untitled,’ leaving us adrift to make up something on our own, so inconsiderate?
I’m sitting there wondering who pays for all this, and, frankly, why. Are these artists trust-fund babies or do they teach, are they receiving support from institutions, grants and stipends and intercollegiate play-dates, how do they live? Just curious. Granted, earning a living directly from art, even the aspiration, is base and commercial, high grounds for excommunication straight away. For the ‘collector’ I suppose this is hot stuff, so up to the minute and raw, but for people more eyeball fond of visual art, who might want to own some and see it everyday forever, this exhibit is a challenge.
The state-run culinary school has been reduced to teaching ‘mudpie 101,‘ a faux cuisine of off-hand gestures, puns and grainy history from a morally superior position. Oh we don’t eat the stuff, we turn it in for grants and recognition, having our tickets punched and meshing with our peers. We go for grub at the yellow arches and so does the faculty. Well, good for you. You have this art thing down. So Speed, look to thy parking lots and see how many art thirsty citizens take up space there. Contemporary art is the recurring resident in non-profit galleries all around the town down here, and during the week they’re peaceful quiet places swell for contemplation of this season’s secret knowing, all rude and deskilled.
No comments:
Post a Comment