Modernist and Postmodernist Con-Aritsts

[Michael Stuart Kelly]

This article is plagiarized from:

Rick Bayan writing here on The Cynic's Sanctuary

Roger,

Thank you very much. I am going to give your link once again for emphasis, then the article with the plagiarized parts above the original text.

Art for Slackers by Rick Bayan published in The Cynic's Sanctuary in January 2002.

In this plagiary, the order of the original text was rearranged at times, in addition to changing a few words or expanding a sentence. The order followed here is the order given in Pross's article. All text that is not plagiarized from Mr. Bayan is given in italics. The full deleted article is given below.

If you are agreeable, I would be grateful if you contacted Mr. Bayan and provide him a link. I will try, too.

Once again, OL offers its deepest apologies to Rick Bayan.

Michael

Title: Modernist and Postmodernists con-artists

Well, who said you needed talent to be an artist nowadays?

Sure, many years ago one actually needed a modicum of talent to succeed as an artist. You labored long and hard devoutly and served your apprenticeship at the side of a master, perfecting your technique. You reached into your soul so you could create something that communicated your comprehension of the world. It might have taken you half a lifetime to learn how to paint a masterly portrait or even to paint a landscape that conveyed beauty and perspective.

But today, the art world serves as a haven for the non-talented—the con-artist.

In our time you can display dirt from a landscape glued to a board and give it some ambiguously flippant title like "Dead dirt #3" and wait for the ovation. You’ll be written up in the art magazines, celebrated by gallery owners and lionized by all the cognoscenti who claim to know when the emperor is wearing flashy new clothes. And you won’t need to buy yourself a paintbrush and palette. And don't worry about having no talent. Yes, sir.

Take young British con-artist Martin Creed, for example. Martin Creed garnered acclaim not long ago for exhibiting a rutted piece of paper in a box. He’s won the Turner Prize for “displaying” an empty room with the lighting fixtures rigged to go on and off every five seconds or so. He dubbed this masterpiece "Work #227: the lights going on and off." Brilliant! The judges praised Creed’s winning entry for its "strength, rigor, wit and sensitivity to the site." Creed has said that he likes his empty room because "it’s a really big work with nothing being there." Like the French philosopher Sartre, the man thinks that “nothing is something.” Isn’t that something?

A few centuries ago you actually needed a modicum of talent to succeed as an artist. You labored long and hard, serving your apprenticeship at the side of a master, fumbling with your own insufficiencies, perfecting your technique, reaching into the deepest pockets of your soul so you could create something for the public (and even posterity) to admire. It might have taken you half a lifetime to learn how to paint a masterly portrait or even a credible bowl of oranges.

But that was then. In our time you can display an ACTUAL bowl of oranges, give it some obscurely ironic and faintly provocative title like "Dead Fruit Messiah #3" and wait for the applause. You’ll be written up in the art magazines, feted by gallery owners and lionized by all the usual cognoscenti who claim to know when the emperor is wearing spiffy new clothes. And you’ll have done it without ever needing to buy yourself a paintbrush and palette.

Take young British artist Martin Creed, for example. . . . Martin Creed is what you might call a maximum minimalist. He won attention not long ago for exhibiting a crumpled piece of paper in a box. Now he’s won the prestigious Turner Prize, awarded to British artists under the age of fifty, for displaying what is essentially an empty room with the lighting fixtures rigged to go on and off every five seconds or so. He dubbed his masterpiece "Work #227: the lights going on and off."

The judges praised Creed’s winning entry for its "strength, rigor, wit and sensitivity to the site." A curator at the Tate Museum explained Creed’s creed: "He wants to make art where he is doing as little as possible that is consistent with doing something." Creed, who accepted his award from Madonna on British prime-time TV, has said that he likes his empty room because "it’s a really big work with nothing being there."

All right. So the man believes that nothing is something.

And let’s not forget the wayward Tracey Emin, who caused a stink by displaying her dirty sheets and panties. That is, the stink emanated from her panties, not from the art world. And be prepared to be astounded by Chris Offili and his dung-smeared Virgin, Damien Hirst and his rotting cow head. What's next? A dung-smeared rotting virgin cow head?

(The British seem to have cornered the market on outrageous art lately, with Chris Offili and his dung-smeared Virgin, Damien Hirst and his rotting cow head, and that naughty Tracey Emin, who caused a row by displaying her dirty sheets and panties. The fact that I know all their names tells me that these artists are succeeding much too well.)

What can be said about all of this? Art-consumers have become the emperor of Hans Christian Andersen’s famous tale: the avant-garde and modernists are the tailor. Of course, only the most refined souls can appreciate these gauzy garments. Therein is the lure of such highly touted non-art, especially for upper-bourgeois patrons who want to be seen wearing the best.

In reality, the garments are a charade, a swindle, a hoax, a fleece, a rip-off, a great big nothing (in case you didn't know) invested by critics and gallery owners who are in cahoots with con-artists themselves. No need for a rational definition of art when you have the institutional definition: anything can be art. All right, we get it.

Anything displayed in a gallery can be art. And if everything is art...then nothing is art. Wow, very profound, this existential conundrum shit. "Now let’s see if you can paint a decent nude, dude." If the avant-garde fraternity really wanted to shock us, they’d paint a pair of tits that look like mountains in a landscape.

The art-consumer crowd has become the emperor of Hans Christian Andersen’s famous tale; the avant-garde minimalists and shockmeisters are the tailor. Of course, only the most refined and discerning souls can appreciate these gossamer garments, and therein lies the lure of such highly touted non-art -- especially for upper-bourgeois patrons who want to be seen wearing the best. The problem is that the garments are a sham, a hoax, a great NOTHING invested by critics and gallery owners (not to mention the artists themselves) with layers of bogus meaning. I want to cry out in exasperation to these precious tricksters, "All right, we get it... anything you display in a gallery setting becomes art. And if everything is art, then nothing is art. Very profound, this existential conundrum. Now let’s see if you can paint a decent landscape." If the avant-garde fraternity really wanted to shock us, they’d paint that landscape.

At least “mountain tits” wouldn’t outrage our senses as did the photographs of art-world provocateur Andres Serrano has done. Serrano is best known, of course, for his "Piss Christ," a photo of a crucifix submerged in the artist’s urine. But even this pales in comparison to a San Francisco art student who fulfilled one of his course requirements by blindfolding and gagging a volunteer, having sex with him, defecating, then finally giving and receiving an enema as the big…er…climax. All of this on an open stage in the company of other class members and two professors. When the distressed volunteer later protested the torment, the young "artist" resentfully hissed, "I’m appalled that you can’t do certain things in art school." He explained that his work was "an exploration of the the Hegelian dialectic" Yes, of course it was. How simple-minded of us to have missed the point!

All right. So the man believes that nothing is something. At least he isn’t assaulting our senses with photographs of his own sexual climaxes, as the notorious art-world provocateur Andres Serrano has done. (Serrano is best known for his "Piss Christ," a photo of a crucifix submerged in the artist’s urine.) And their offenses seem trivial next to those of a San Francisco art student who, according to an article by Karl Zinsmeister in The American Enterprise, "recently satisfied one of his course requirements by blindfolding and gagging a volunteer, having sex with him, defecating, then giving and receiving an enema, all on an open-air stage in the company of other class members, two professors, and passersby." When the traumatized volunteer later complained about his public ordeal, the young "artist" indignantly hissed, "I’m just shocked and appalled that you can’t do certain things in art school." He explained that his work was "an exploration of the notion of the master-slave dialectic in Hegel." Of course it was. How obtuse of us to have missed the point.

Behold the genius of a work called 'Bowel Expression'. The con-artist takes a certain type of tablets orally that causes his liquidized excrement to turn different colors. He shits on a blank canvas before spectators thusly amalgamating performance and visual art! The show was made possible by government funding. No shit!

In another case, a group of Animal rights activists’ protested the gallery charging ‘species racism’ by not allowing animals the right to creatively express themselves. In the attempt to placate the protesters, a dog was sprayed down in distilled paint shaking it off against a nearby canvas. The canvas sold for 19,000.00. Life can be ruff!

When I asked various con-artists what their paintings were about, (as I am wont to do when I’m in a state of shocked wonder) they without exception responded the same: dumbfounded looks, vague half sentences, stammering. Finally after a few grunts they were able to articulate “you just need to feel it to understand.” I would ask different con-artists the same question at different shows and watch them all fall into a spasmodic fit, looking at one another for the answer. They uttered in succession “you have to feel it to understand it.” Why not? It’s the thing to do.

Ever since that scalawag Marcel Duchamp showcased a urinal as a work of art back around World War I, the prevailing monarchs of the art world -- the critics, the professors, the intellectuals, the pliable patrons -- have been ecstatic and befuddled.

The spitball-artists have been at it since that rascal Marcel Duchamp put a urinal on display as a work of art back around World War I. And the prevailing potentates of the art world -- the critics, the professors, the impressionable patrons -- have been mysteriously, suspiciously ecstatic.

The carnival con-artists have given us empty canvases and now empty rooms. They have presented us with examples of excrement (all of it meticulously catalogued no less) and rotting carcasses full of slithering maggots.

The critics must feel important in their role as interpreters. Think of the power they feel they must hold: they alone have the power to bestow meaning upon the meaningless. [They also have the power to bestow no meaning on the meaningless and call this “meaningful"]. If a gallery were to display an open can of tuna as part of an exhibition, you can be sure that some solemn scholar would extol it as a “decisive work in the sovereignty of cylinder and space, altering forever the constraint of the formal relationship of the container and the contained." I can see critics gush with glee and praise the artist’s “sociopolitical awareness of tuna as proletarian nourishment”. Hmmm, I wonder how the critic would respond if he discovered that the can was left there by mistake during lunch hour.

My theory is that empty, ugly or indecipherable art makes the critics feel indispensable in their role as interpreters. No wonder they rhapsodize: they alone have the power confer meaning upon the meaningless. If a gallery were to display an open can of Spam as part of an exhibition, you can be sure that some earnest scholar would extol it as "a seminal work in the redefinition of visual and olfactory space, altering forever the parameters of the senses with regard to the formal relationship of the container and the contained." The critic would delight in the textural contrast of organic meat product with inorganic tin, would praise the artist’s sociopolitical awareness of Spam as proletarian nourishment, would quiver with delight at the ironic kitschiness of the concept. I wonder how the critic would respond if someone pointed out that the can was left there by a careless guard during his lunch hour.

What boggles the mind is that collectors are actually buying this stuff. Someone actually paid $29,500 for a dead ladybug in a styrofoam cup, ingeniously titled "Untitled." Hey, if I’m going to lay down my kid’s college fund for this, can you give the work a fucking title?

It would be easy to write off these sorry examples of cultural sputum as the brainchildren of half-demented and overhyped performance artists. What boggles the mind is that collectors are actually BUYING it. Someone paid $29,500 for a dead ladybug in a styrofoam cup, ingeniously titled "Untitled." (If I’m going to pay $29,500 for a work of art, the artist had better damn well take the time to come up with a title.)

Actually, maybe it’s advisable to take up a career in art. Instead of selling your old cassettes for chump change, just stack them up in a trendy gallery and give them a sexy title like "Archaic #19." You’ll probably reap enough to fill your entire apartment with DVDs and CDs.

Think of the possibilities: instead of selling your old video cassettes for pennies on the dollar at a garage sale, just stack them up in a fashionable gallery and give them a sexy title like "Obsolete Media #19." You’ll probably reap enough to fill your entire apartment with DVDs…

Hey, a dead ladybug in a styrofoam cup qualifies as a work of art only because somebody had the audaciousness to place it in a gallery. Thank God for the magic subjectivity of concepts and definitions and the “institutional definition” of art. Take it out of the gallery setting, strip it of its distinguishing title ("Untitled"), and it’s just a dead insect in a cup. These days, you don't need talent to create art. You need artistry.

A dead ladybug in a styrofoam cup qualifies as a work of art only because somebody had the audacity to place it in a gallery. Take it out of the gallery setting, strip it of its distinctive title ("Untitled"), and it’s just a dead insect in a cup. If you inadvertently tossed it into the fireplace during a party, you could recreate the piece yourself within forty-five seconds -- assuming you had a dead ladybug handy. Real art generally can’t be recreated by just anyone -- even by the original artist. On the other hand, anyone can replicate a crumpled piece of paper, a soiled bed, an empty room. You need more than a concept to create art; you need artistry.

[Jonathan]

All text that is not plagiarized from Mr. Bayan is given in italics...

When I asked various con-artists what their paintings were about, (as I am wont to do when I’m in a state of shocked wonder) they without exception responded the same: dumbfounded looks, vague half sentences, stammering. Finally after a few grunts they were able to articulate “you just need to feel it to understand.” I would ask different con-artists the same question at different shows and watch them all fall into a spasmodic fit, looking at one another for the answer. They uttered in succession “you have to feel it to understand it.” Why not? It’s the thing to do.

This one's really odd - someone's rant about The Fountainhead became Victor's rant above about postmodernist con artists:

From http://www.ruthlessreviews.com/reviews.cfm...mp;rvw_screen=3

What is the mystery all about? When you asked someone for a short little synopsis of the Fountainhead, they without exception respond the same, dumbfounded looks, vague half sentences, stammering, and finally after gasps for air and grunts they are able to articulate "you just have to read it to understand". Tested it out and it became my own little party joke. I'd ask about 6 people at time, rapid fire style, and watch them all fall into a spasmodic fit, looking at one another for the answer. Their bodies controlled by semi-elliptic jolts, they would in succession utter the same "you have to read it to understand."

J

(Note from MSK: Thank you, Jonathan. Duly edited.)

[Michael Stuart Kelly]

Jonathan,

Thank you very much.

Could you see if you can find out who from Ruthless Reviews wrote that? I will try, also.

I will link this your post the deleted article part.

OL extends its deepest apologies to the person at Ruthless Reviews who wrote the original text.

Michael