|
Thumbing through a recent issue of Highlights or Fisherman's Quarterly (I forget which), I stumbled upon an article about an artist. Guy does installation pieces, with a twist. He'll show up at an art gallery "wearing" the hats of both a carpenter and an architect, schlepping all the tools and materials necessary to re-create an exact or near-exact likeness of his three bedroom loft in New York City. And I know what you're thinking: "New York City?!" Anyway, he constructs the above project with the gallery owner's full approval. His exhibit, the article says, looks just like his home. Then he lets visitors, or art aficionados, just be there, they become part of the exhibit. And he cooks for them. It's like he's at home and they're his visitors. "He has house guests and he cooks them a meal and serves it to them. And it's art. The article describes him as quite the gracious host, too. Real cordial and everything. Boom!" --John Madden. So I'm trying to incorporate what he's doing into what I think "art" is or could be or whatever. I'm trying to keep an open mind about this. But even more so. I hope to improve upon his artistry. And I could use your help. What I'd like to do is pop over, have you or your spouse rustle me up some grub, nothing fancy, a porterhouse steak, maybe some foie gras, I'm not particular, and I'll invite some patrons of the arts along, they can observe, they can "appreciate" the art I've brought to your crib, and we'll drink some of your wine. Sound groovy? I'm kidding. The article goes on to talk about how this artist receives invitations to collaborate with other artists, artists who ask him to bring along his wok and stir fry some Thai. For everybody. And he gets all pissy about it. Like they don't understand him. Like they don't understand the magnanimousness of what he's bringing to the art world. My reaction? On the one hand, holy Emperor's new clothes, Batman. But on the other hand... is the tough part. To be sure, it's easy as pie to just know this "artist" is wholly devoid of talent, a fraud, a person who's had it handed to him his whole life, etc. etc. But it's very difficult to envision how he might be on to something. It's like he's all "Go as minimalist as you possibly can--then take away one more thing."
Years ago I went to a small art studio in Taos and there was dot dot dot. Right. There was nothing there. Usually, this studio featured paintings, sculptures, whathaveyou. But this one show was nothing. The foyer was empty and the main showroom was dark. Barren. No, not quite. There was a small light at the rear, way back there near the glowing red emergency exit sign and a seldom-used door. My date and I made the long walk to the small, nondescript lamp. It illuminated a plain, black box. On it, a tiny sign said, "Open me." After a moment of nervous chuckling, we finally decided I should open the box. I did. Inside was a knife with another sign that said, "Kill yourself." We immediately exited, scoffing and pooh poohing the exhibit as if it were a total waste of time, a total lack of... But. That was a loooong time ago. And I still remember that show. Not for how unacceptably and irresponsibly flippant it was about such a serious topic. Oh no. Quite the contrary. It took me perhaps five years to put it all together, but I finally concluded it was a great work of art. I still think so. Why? For one, it guides our hand when we take a stab at fathoming the Furies or demons racing through Kathy Love Ormsby's mind during the 10,000 meters final at the NCAA Championships in 1986. Ms Ormsby set the collegiate record earlier that year, but--finding herself in fourth place with eight laps to go--quit the race, hopped a fence, found a bridge, and jumped. She lived, but--to this day--she's still paralyzed from the waist down. She had been receiving their "message" it would seem. They were telling her: "If you're not number one, if you're not the quarterback or Miss Universe, if you're not an astronaut or the first female Bill Gates, well, then you might as well cash in your chips." Ya gotta struggle struggle struggle, trudge your butt all the way down to the far side of the gallery, persevere in spite of all the bold obvious clues telling you you're wasting your time, that there's nothing here and nothing there, nothing of any consequence anyway, and that this visit has been for naught. You go to all that effort, you jump through all their proscribed hoops, but since someone else is better, here are your parting gifts. I couldn't disagree more. Competition is one thing, and it has its place. But competition is not the only thing. Blah blah blah. Anyway, how does this relate to Thai guy? Am still putting this one together. I have some ideas and I love it that they're fleeting... and not really worth relating. I just think it's funny that he blows a gasket when other artists ask him to cook.
...it's like there's a bee in his bonnet and he's all "Well, I never!!"... |