My university education prior to military service centered around philosophy, and when I returned with priorities rearranged, I instead sought the independence of studio life, and committed to a visual mode of expression. Philosophy is a verbal discipline which relies on logic, and substantiates its claims through reasoned argument. Philosophers may not agree, but they can carry on a conversation because rules apply, and their words have meaning. Writing about art is an impersonation of scholarly discourse, sounds like but isn’t, mostly just name dropping and convoluted references to more famous and favored artists, borrowed big words, a lot of artful puff and bluff, unreadable.
Art history has canonized the moment visual art broke free from depicting the visual world we share, stepping off into total abstraction just about a hundred years ago, calling it a great liberation and the birth of modern art. The philosopher, and maybe the social psychologist, might interpret this monumental breakthrough in slightly different terms, psychic alienation comes to mind. Maybe it’s time to take the early abstractionists at face value, deKooning, Pollack, and all their alcohol-reeking compatriots, blind drunk, waking up in filthy alleys and staggering home to drip and smear their anguish, their disappointment, their futile impotent rage, and that’s supposed to be at the least pleasant to look at? Taking their art seriously would be to risk suicides in museum parking lots, but scholars call their work ecstatic and celebratory -- how would that even be possible?
The painter, once they’ve acquired a rudimentary command of their medium, chooses what to paint, and that’s a first level of expression, a first hint of insight. Beginners usually don’t confront reality directly, but instead tend to copy types of paintings they’ve seen before, bucolic landscapes and snowy peaks, maybe portraits of celebrities never met, an art that’s secondhand to begin with. As a painter gets better, elements of their personality emerge and can be seen and identified in their work. This is called ‘authenticity’ and is neither conscious or contrived, and by this time the artist is probably presenting the actual world in unconventional ways, constructing an image that perpetually registers as a surprise to anyone’s casual glance. Now that’s a painting.
My philosophy side doesn’t care about big art’s shameless media shills, finds contemporary art humorlessly self-involved, and when placed in big museums an awful waste of real estate, but mostly I just don’t care, period. My artist side knows there are little artists’ enclaves all around in which artists are making each other better, competing and learning and trying new things. Egos are held in check by a general consensus on fair pricing, and in a few studios conventional visual limits are being pulled and stretched. Before too long these cells will merge, and you’ll find yourself living in a community aware of and concerned with art, and maybe you’ll join in. Don’t read about art, buy something and take it home.
Art history has canonized the moment visual art broke free from depicting the visual world we share, stepping off into total abstraction just about a hundred years ago, calling it a great liberation and the birth of modern art. The philosopher, and maybe the social psychologist, might interpret this monumental breakthrough in slightly different terms, psychic alienation comes to mind. Maybe it’s time to take the early abstractionists at face value, deKooning, Pollack, and all their alcohol-reeking compatriots, blind drunk, waking up in filthy alleys and staggering home to drip and smear their anguish, their disappointment, their futile impotent rage, and that’s supposed to be at the least pleasant to look at? Taking their art seriously would be to risk suicides in museum parking lots, but scholars call their work ecstatic and celebratory -- how would that even be possible?
The painter, once they’ve acquired a rudimentary command of their medium, chooses what to paint, and that’s a first level of expression, a first hint of insight. Beginners usually don’t confront reality directly, but instead tend to copy types of paintings they’ve seen before, bucolic landscapes and snowy peaks, maybe portraits of celebrities never met, an art that’s secondhand to begin with. As a painter gets better, elements of their personality emerge and can be seen and identified in their work. This is called ‘authenticity’ and is neither conscious or contrived, and by this time the artist is probably presenting the actual world in unconventional ways, constructing an image that perpetually registers as a surprise to anyone’s casual glance. Now that’s a painting.
My philosophy side doesn’t care about big art’s shameless media shills, finds contemporary art humorlessly self-involved, and when placed in big museums an awful waste of real estate, but mostly I just don’t care, period. My artist side knows there are little artists’ enclaves all around in which artists are making each other better, competing and learning and trying new things. Egos are held in check by a general consensus on fair pricing, and in a few studios conventional visual limits are being pulled and stretched. Before too long these cells will merge, and you’ll find yourself living in a community aware of and concerned with art, and maybe you’ll join in. Don’t read about art, buy something and take it home.
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