Do you like art? Do I like art?Do you like art? Do I like art?

After plaguing myself with doubt and insecurity for many years, I've actually become an artist. Hooray!
Of course, I'm not the kind of artist that I once idolized, sure. I haven't made my biggest dream happen, yet. Nonetheless, I spend a good portion of my time producing my ideas into tiny soldiers that move out into the world to do whatever they have to do. I make art and I earn something for it. In simple terms, that's an artist.

But, do I like art? There's a discussion to be had.

This will be a series where I discuss my musings on the art I see in the world, the value of art I hold as an ideal, and the progress I'm making in my own work. It may also become the space for me to vent my discontent with artificial intelligence, who knows?

the catalystthe catalyst

This week will bring the first session of an art class I've enrolled in: a real in-person art class to learn the skill of screen printing. I'm very excited. I haven't taken a formal art class before. I've been educated in literature, but everything else I do is coming from a desire to create and someone else on the internet doing it first.

I thought I might take you along with me as I take on this class. And I'm taking a page out of @TotallyHumanWriter 's book with his Unphiltered series. I'll try filling the void he has left behind with the conclusion of these thoughtful pieces.

the state of artthe state of art

I'm coming into this with some derogatory fuel against the institution of art as it showcased for us in prized exhibitions for public viewing. I went to the art museum last night. I found out that the same organization who outfits the class I'll be taking also holds up the function of the art museum I often pass on the street, and this weekend, the newest show opened. So I thought, hey, why not? It'll be fun to get in the building and maybe I'll even meet someone doing the same class, I don't know, what the hell?

Turns out, this was a profound waste of time, even unsettling. Two things happened at the start which tinted the evening toward ruin. Checking in with the staff at the desk, I tried one single line of pleasantry. The way this man looked at me in response was to remind me that he was not my barista. Okay. We move on. Then I began to take in the artist's work in the short paragraph presented at the entrance, filling in detail on the exhibit, the artist, and who sponsored the prize they won. From the first sentence, I knew I was going to need to neutralize the expression on my face.

I can easily sum up the contents of this exhibit: enlarged coloring book pages, the same tiny photograph 5 times, words on the wall in neon light, playground-like structures of aluminum.

It may not be fair for me to give a critique of this artist, since I was moved to a snap decision about it based off of a few words, so I won't. I'll critique the vibe of the event: it was discomfort. Perhaps because I was alone and didn't know anyone, perhaps because the art was condescending -- oh shoot, I wasn't going to be critical of that. I tried to find one thing I liked about it, any of it, and you know what it was? The stairwell. Someone put googly eyes on a pipe and I thought that's more like it. It was the one hallowed space where I felt I was a person again. Even my brief excursion to the restroom (simply to disappear from the crowd for a moment) was intolerable given the close proximity to the company who moved through it.

I'm not sure I can say what it was exactly. I do a variety of things on my own, this is not out of character for me. Given that, I don't think I can attribute my discomfort to that source. I just think these art people were icky. Genuinely^[1]. I haven't felt so deeply out of place since I was a teenager.

I'll propose a reason for this. I think art at that level, or at that scale, isn't concerned with anything in common with me and what I'm concerned with. I think it is spectacle. I think it is means-to-an-end. Or scratch that, maybe it's actually kayfabe. Maybe it's sophisticated porn. It wears self-obsession like a cologne so expensive you couldn't possibly discern a single whiff of it. The character Ellsworth Toohey who Ayn Rand created in The Fountainhead, this would have been his party, for sure.

So I ask myself, do I even like art?
If it's hung in a museum and it's less than 100 years old, maybe not?
If it isn't asked to engage with people, if it isn't bringing something new to our attention, if it isn't....so what is it?