I’m sorry, but did you just say that piece of garbage was ‘ART???”
Take Sidney Nolan, for example. Sorry all you arty farty critique masters out there. His paintings are crap. Seriously. Put any 6 year old in front of a Ned Kelly model and ask them to paint it, and you will get a Sidney Nolan multimillion dollar masterpiece.
This piece of complete twaddle – “First Class Marksman” by Sidney Nolan 1946, sold in 2010 for Au $5.4 Million. OMG. Are you serious? Have a closer look. Look at the trees. Look at the arms and fingers. It reminds me of Wiley Coyote and the friggin’ road runner show. This “prolific and highly experimental” artist pumped out pieces of crap like this and people bought them. Ask yourself why. Talent? Certainly not. Nerve? Yep. This artist, along with SO many others, painted in a style opposite to the accepted norm – the talented, the proficient, the masters. They slapped on paint in a childish way, in a way no one would usually do, and dared the public to say it wasn’t art. And we fell for it.
(Well, YOU fell for it. I didn’t. I think it’s crap.)
So this post is not about Nolan bashing, … OK, it is…but it’s NOT about my own painting or what styles I like. It’s about how ridiculous the art world is and what actually constitutes ART. It’s also about how much cold, hard cash is paid for alleged art works that seem totally disproportionate to the talent, time and effort it took to paint them. I mean, who’s to say how much a piece of art is worth? The artist?? Well THAT seems a conflict of interest. That goes for 3D art too, but I’m going to stick to my own passion here, and talk about painted art.
I’m going to go out on a sketchy ( ha ha) limb and put it out there. Art (to me) is talent, is emotion, is entertainment. Art is rare, unique and amazing. Art is clever and not easily reproduced. REAL art is hard to make. Your cat, Fluffy, doesn’t produce Real Art when she rips a nasty hole in your laundry blinds and then sicks-up on the pieces. (Though I think the National Gallery disagrees) Below right.
The farce that sticks (pardon the pun) out in the collective Australian mind is probably Blue Poles, by Jackson Pollock in 1952. This…um….design….would be the perfect advertisment for sunscreen in my humble opinion, slip, slop and slapped on in aluminium, enamel and glass. (WTH). A bit like a deconstructed sundeck, it didn’t even warrant a name from the artist, who gave it the title “No. 11”, presumably because it was SO good. (Actually he called it 11 because that’s the number he gave to the year 1952. WTH again. Anyone else sensing a fruit loop here?)
He apparently gave it the name “Blue Poles” 2 years later at an exhibition. Clearly he had drunk a few too many watermelon wines and was looking at someone else’s painting. I’ve read on Wikipedia that According to art historian Dennis Phillips, the specific rather than ambiguous title “limits our field of comprehension and does the painting a singular disservice. Because we look for the poles and miss much of the rest, the name is simply too distracting.”
Huh?? Some people have got too much time on their hands.
For me, I just look at a thing. If I like it, and I think it’s clever, if I admire the talent, like the subject, if it makes me think, and the colours are good, if it looks great where it’s been hung… and if I think, wow…I wish I could do that…then to me it’s Good Art.
Blue Poles, to me, looks like someone just emptied the vacuum cleaner with yucky dog hair and bits of fried egg all over the balcony. Eeewwwww. I could do that too, if you gave me a dog, a dozen cackleberries and a Hoover.
Again, sincere apologies to all you fawners and crawlers, but you probably need your heads examined. You seem to think that people…(I’m talking regular, full-quid humans
here, not half wits) want to see walls of labia (yes, you read that right) click here if you want an eye-full, post lobotomy self portraits (OK, jokes, but pretty sure he’s missing half his cranium – here left), and fabulously detailed, meticulously painted planned and, dare I say it, colour co-ordinated canvasses…(Take a look at this beauty by Rothko, 1964, courtesy of the NGA, and Matthew Langley Art Blog here. )
OK, call me old fashioned. But I don’t get it. All sorts of physco-babble is attributed to works such as these, but sometimes….you know..probably ALL THE TIME, a black canvas is just a frickin’ black canvas. Sometimes it’s not “painting a perceptible drama” or ” a lack of emotion” or whatever the hell contemporary critic decided to tag the painting. Sometimes it’s a dare, more likely the artist couldn’t think of anything sensible to paint. I should add here, with respect, that this sad, tragic artist eventually committed suicide. Hello….look at the painting!!!
Well, that’s my bloody rant for the day.
Lotto not happening for you? Go roll your pet rat in some aubergine paint and pig fat and roll him around on some butchers paper. Seriously, knock yourself out! I bet you’ll rake it in!