In Pursuit of Common Sense

In Pursuit of Common Sense

         I visited an art gallery. I appreciate art, in fact I enjoy quality art very much, but I hold no admiration for this atrocity deemed “modern art.” I don’t care how inspired it appears, or how much “it really is art,” it’s abhorrent. It’s less appreciable than the display of a paint store’s accident in aisle four.
         I visited the “modern art” section. It was like graffiti, but for rich folks.
The walls were festooned with square pictures illuminated with small yellow lights. Praises for the artists’ work went without any semblance of sincerity, thereby giving the impression of a cancer clinic: They all know the reality of imminent death, but they talk about the future anyway. In their restricted reality bad art does not exist.
         I admit the vast majority of the pieces revealed some competence; in fact, some demonstrated downright remarkable talent. I respect and admire artists who can paint better than I, and I take pleasure in looking at a painting that is obviously the work of skilled hands. I enjoyed those pieces that were the work of honestly talented artists. Nonetheless, this “modern art” style boasting the I-accidentally-spilled-my-paints look shouldn’t count as art on account of the low skill level required to create such a piece. Accidents happen, and I am all for making the best of those situations, but selling them as art is a little much. Maybe I’m just jealous because I can’t sell my mistakes for money. Whether out of jealousy or pity I perused the exhibits with counterfeit curiosity.
         Although I adamantly avoided conversation with any of the “artistic” individuals, my efforts proved useless. I had a few general comments prepared for just this type of situation, so I rehearsed one to myself as he walked closer. The guy entered my personal bubble, and looked at me. “What do you see?” I wanted to gag. That wasn’t a fair question. I made something up, but I should have been honest. “I see road kill,” I wanted to say. I piled the dirt in the corner. He continued, “I find a story…” Blah, blah, blah. I must admit, I didn’t pay this speaker the consideration of attending to his words. I wanted nothing more than to scream “Reality check!” I withheld my paroxysm of words. My tongue hurt. I didn’t need a lecture on art and its meaning, but sometimes you just don’t get what you pay for. I realized shortly afterwards that I didn’t have a cyanide pill.
         I don’t think it’s always the fact that low quality art gets the attention of a real, skillful piece that bothers me, but the artistic subculture and apparent ignorance that causes problems. From the outside, every subculture appears to be flawed, and it’s probably that perception that necessitates the creation of the subculture in the first place, but the art subculture is truly corrupt. I saw present day hippies basking in postmodern muck. The fellow I spoke with, and thankfully the only person with whom I exchanged pleasantries, wore this generalization like a custom-fit glove.
         I promptly ended the conversation, though not with a handgun as I would have liked. The “artist” left the display area, probably to go smoke outback with the rest of his self-loving, pseudo-artistic types. Their modern artist subculture is like I imagine a Star Trek convention would be, where every person wears a costume, speaks a language, or adopts a personality to such an extreme that you begin to think that they may actually believe themselves to be a character.
         I don’t hate artists; I just don’t respect “artists.” (Note the quotation marks). I genuinely respect a legitimately talented artist who uses their ability to create astounding works of art. It’s the “modern” artists, the ones who create paintings that don’t look like anything, and then act as if they’ve created a work of art. They live like they think an artist would live. I have two bits of news for them: One: A painting supposed to be of something. Representation and meaning is in form as well as interpretation. Bad art does exist. Two: Just because you think that nobody understands you doesn’t mean that you’re an artist.