|
I used to have a litmus test for art: If I see an object in a gallery or museum, and imagine that I had just found it in my attic, would I still know it was art? I'd love to discover an old urinal, covered in dust, and alert the media to the discovery of a lost DaDa masterpiece. But in reality, all I have in my attic is junk, and a neo-constructionist heating and cooling system.
The realist lovers say that modern art isn't art. The modernists say that realism isn't. No one can agree, and please notice that Mr. Gopnik is quick to say what isn't art, but shrinks from saying what is.
My sophomore sculpture teacher claimed that there is no art. It died years ago. Now, he says, there's only geometry. I'm not sure about the geometry, but lets all agree that art died years ago. Lets just paint our pictures, enjoy ourselves, maybe even sell a few, and forget about whether it fits into the inscrutable, elusive pigeon hole that used to be called art.
This weekend I watched a documentary about Teri Horton, a retired lady truck driver who bought a big ugly painting as a gag gift for her friend. Her friend couldn't get it through the door of her trailer, so she was stuck with it. She had picked it up for five dollars in a thrift shop, only to be told later that it was an original Jackson Pollock. This happened several years ago, and she still thinks it's ugly, though she's holding out for big bucks, knowing there are people willing to pay. The previous owner didn't know it was art, nor did the shop keeper, nor the buyer, nor her friend. Even renowned critics dismissed it as junk until forensic tests proved it was authentic.
Remember the toddler who won the major art competition? Honestly, no one knows anything anymore. Just paint your pictures, and maybe other people will like them.
|