thedrifter
07-21-06, 12:05 AM
But Is It Art?
Written by Burt Prelutsky
Friday, July 21, 2006
In olden times, art was art, and other things weren’t. In the beginning, artists, who were the guys either too frightened or too lazy to go hunting or gathering, passed the time painting the walls of their caves. When the artist’s wife would tell him to go out and kill a mastodon for dinner, he’d throw his beret to the ground, and holler, “Philistine! Can’t you see I’m working?”
Then, one day, some smart cookie, realizing there might be money to be made if artists could come up with a way for other people to cover the cracks in their own walls, came up with the notion of canvas. That worked out very well, indeed. It not only provided these guys with a livelihood and eventually got them out of those drafty caves, but it provided them with a semi-legitimate excuse for asking strange women to take off their clothes.
But almost before you knew it, all sorts of people were going around claiming to be artists. Knit a shawl and you were an artist. Hang a mobile and you were an artist. Glue together a collage, take a class in macramé, nail two boards together and give it a title, and, voila, you were an artist.
The few remaining people who didn’t claim to be artists, themselves, went into business as critics, somehow managing to pass off crankiness as expertise. I guarantee if you announced that your particular art consisted of pasting chicken bones to bricks, by the end of the week ten guys would have set up shop as chicken bone critics, the New Yorker would be profiling you, and the NEA would be sending you an enormous grant.
What’s put me in this cynical frame of mind is a story that’s just come out of Orange County. In the past, this was an area south of Los Angeles best known for having a baseball team called, if you can believe it, the Anaheim Angels of Los Angeles. As if that’s not embarrassing enough, now it’s also the site of the Coin-Op Gallery.
It seems that a group of disgruntled artists has simply gotten fed up with people looking at their art for free. “This is artists poking back,” announced Sarah Greer. “You want to see my art? Give me a quarter.”
At first blush, the price seems reasonable enough. However, when you hear that the work on display includes a hollow TV with a sculpture where you might expect to see Jay Leno, a ballerina with a feminist message, and a screen on which President Bush delivers a one-minute speech, the quarter begins to seem a tad pricey. For me, the real deal breaker is that you have to fork over a quarter for each and every one of the exhibits.
At least artist Catherine Blanksby gives you something tangible for your twenty-five cents. Her objet d’art is a gumball machine filled with what she calls Flirt Kits. These are plastic bubbles that contain a breath mint for you, a flower for her, and pickup lines in five different languages.
The kits, according to Ms. Blanksby, play into her philosophy of fusing theater and art. “It’s thart,” she insists, “and I’m a thartist.”
And who are any of us to argue with her?
The real problem, of course, is that when her parents brag about Cathy, their friends are wondering why on earth the Blanksbys have suddenly started lisping.
Ellie
Written by Burt Prelutsky
Friday, July 21, 2006
In olden times, art was art, and other things weren’t. In the beginning, artists, who were the guys either too frightened or too lazy to go hunting or gathering, passed the time painting the walls of their caves. When the artist’s wife would tell him to go out and kill a mastodon for dinner, he’d throw his beret to the ground, and holler, “Philistine! Can’t you see I’m working?”
Then, one day, some smart cookie, realizing there might be money to be made if artists could come up with a way for other people to cover the cracks in their own walls, came up with the notion of canvas. That worked out very well, indeed. It not only provided these guys with a livelihood and eventually got them out of those drafty caves, but it provided them with a semi-legitimate excuse for asking strange women to take off their clothes.
But almost before you knew it, all sorts of people were going around claiming to be artists. Knit a shawl and you were an artist. Hang a mobile and you were an artist. Glue together a collage, take a class in macramé, nail two boards together and give it a title, and, voila, you were an artist.
The few remaining people who didn’t claim to be artists, themselves, went into business as critics, somehow managing to pass off crankiness as expertise. I guarantee if you announced that your particular art consisted of pasting chicken bones to bricks, by the end of the week ten guys would have set up shop as chicken bone critics, the New Yorker would be profiling you, and the NEA would be sending you an enormous grant.
What’s put me in this cynical frame of mind is a story that’s just come out of Orange County. In the past, this was an area south of Los Angeles best known for having a baseball team called, if you can believe it, the Anaheim Angels of Los Angeles. As if that’s not embarrassing enough, now it’s also the site of the Coin-Op Gallery.
It seems that a group of disgruntled artists has simply gotten fed up with people looking at their art for free. “This is artists poking back,” announced Sarah Greer. “You want to see my art? Give me a quarter.”
At first blush, the price seems reasonable enough. However, when you hear that the work on display includes a hollow TV with a sculpture where you might expect to see Jay Leno, a ballerina with a feminist message, and a screen on which President Bush delivers a one-minute speech, the quarter begins to seem a tad pricey. For me, the real deal breaker is that you have to fork over a quarter for each and every one of the exhibits.
At least artist Catherine Blanksby gives you something tangible for your twenty-five cents. Her objet d’art is a gumball machine filled with what she calls Flirt Kits. These are plastic bubbles that contain a breath mint for you, a flower for her, and pickup lines in five different languages.
The kits, according to Ms. Blanksby, play into her philosophy of fusing theater and art. “It’s thart,” she insists, “and I’m a thartist.”
And who are any of us to argue with her?
The real problem, of course, is that when her parents brag about Cathy, their friends are wondering why on earth the Blanksbys have suddenly started lisping.
Ellie