2004-12-29

 
I have not presented any new ideas in quite some time, namely because I have been preoccupied with my graduate studies. Woefully, I have had enough time only to read the required scientific literature for my coursework, and have done very little personal development beyond my new enthusiasm for tea and pressure-cooked beans. Nevertheless, I am currently in the doldrums between tumultuous semesters and tonight I intend to briefly document a bourgeois thought that arose while shamefully drinking port in front of a fireplace, debating with my cohabitant about the meaning of art.

Art: banality has no beauty.

While sitting at the toilet, I surveyed the only source of input: the utilitarian paint on the wall. The paint had been unevenly applied, creating haphazard splotches where the brush changed directions. One such splotch resembles a flamingo. Is this art? Can one fathomably purport that coincidentally representative banalities are art? (That is, do ordinary objects represent "art"?) Much of 20th Century art provokes the attempt to define art. (These artists have also busted open art's vestibule -- an act which perhaps is without succession, and thus in the future it will be quite challenging to break new ground, lest we forget that true art comes from style and vision, while concept is subordinate). This brings to mind Duchamp's infamous toilet, Magritte's puzzling pipe, Pollack's erratic canvasses. Could I go around taking pictures of anything I wanted and consequently say it is art? I would like to point out that the value of this sort of work is not the presentation of art but rather the philosophical tradition of coercing a beholder to think, to ask theirself questions to formulate their own opinions. Is the toilet art? I think it's a cheap shot and only has philosophical and historical value as art. But can the real artists now "get on with the show"?

I am in support of the demolition of the walls on art. No critic is ever justified to pass judgement on a piece of art (nor any human to put forth any idea) without giving the quintessential disclaimer of subjectivity, rubbing away all assertions of fact or universality. If the artist felt compelled to make something, it is art. It matters not if multitudes deem it of poor quality. It is the inertia to create that is ever-important; it is this channeling of emotional energy into a manifestation that is vivid to me. Call this beauty. Art is either the creation or recognition of beauty. Often times, the beauty is cloaked by a premise: the beauty in a cathartic film is not the morbid deaths and loss portrayed but rather the feat that catharsis can be spawned by such a presentation. The same can be said for vulgar art, which masterfully designs a vehicle to repel.

The splotch of paint on my bathroom wall is not art. But it becomes art when I take a picture of it. I will have selected that splotch in contrast to other splotches, thus found something worthwhile to observe in it. Alternatively, I could tread on nihilism and rather take pictures of all the splotches that are amorphous and could never resemble anything. But it is the cryptic artists I abhor that would mix the two categories, hiding representation among meaninglessness in a secrecy that only commentary can elucidate. So, art is latent in everything, but it is only beauty until we present it as part of a message.
posted by MM 4:36 AM