Art Is…

I am not stupid enough to wade into the century’s long debate looking to answer the question, “What is Art?”. Philosophers and critics that have tried to address this are legion. Everyone from Emmanual Kant and Friederich Nietzsche through to post-modernist Jacques Derrida and the great 21^st century sage Homer Simpson (“That’s the great thing about art, everyone can have their opinion about why it sucks”) have tried to capture the essence of art. Why we create it. Why we view it.

Even if I wanted to undertake something so futile, I am the wrong person to do so. My knowledge of art is the proverbial mile wide and inch deep. Like a precocious 9^th grader, I can tell a Van Gogh from a Rembrandt and can probably bloviate as well as the next fellow as to the meaning of Dali’s melting watch. But the rush of concepts flowing above my head anytime I go into an art museum would be strong enough to knock Frida Kahlo over.

For all of that, I wonder why the paintings and sculptures I see are there and others are not. The people who make these choices certainly have criteria, but how much of it is based on reputation? In his novel Ferdydurke, Witold Gombrowicz asks, “[Are] we merely paying official homage…? Mankind…has need of myths; and it picks one out or the other of its numerous creative artists…and lo and behold! It elevates him above his fellows…. [I]f we set about exalting some other creative artist…I am sure we could make a similarly great genius out of him”.  

This question colors my own reaction to a “masterpiece”. Am I in awe of the Mona Lisa because it captures something enigmatic in humanity, or because it is cordoned off in the Louvre? Is Picasso’s Guernica really a powerful statement about the inhumanity of modern warfare, or have I just been conditioned to view it like that?

And yet, I can’t deny my response to certain artists. During a recent visit to the Barnes, I found myself continually being drawn to paintings by Charles Demuth and Jules Pascin. I couldn’t have identified them before that day. Still, it was their paintings that caught and held my attention. Was it just my mood? Was it their skill? I really cannot say.

A similar thing happened at a recent photography exhibit at the Soho Photo Gallery, where my friend Garen DiBartolomeo had a piece displayed. There were about 100 photos, and all were of great quality. Yet some really jumped out at me, while others left me cold. Was my reaction indicative of anything other than my personal preferences? Would it have been different if one of the photos was an Adams?

This is all a long way of getting to a concept I recently encountered in “At the Existentialist Café” by Sarah Bakewell. This book is “Philosophy Lite” (I hope I don’t get sued by Miller), which is my speed. According to Bakewell, Martin Heidegger (both impossible to read and an unrepentant Nazi) joined the long list addressing the nature of art. Per Heidegger, poets and artists let things come out and show themselves, which he termed Unverborgenheit (you gotta love the German language) or unconcealment (not much better in English).

Heidegger went so far as to say that enabling things to unhide themselves is a distinctively human contribution. Being somewhat poetic himself, Heidegger compared human activity, and especially art, to creating a clearing in a forest glade into which a deer can step forward to be seen. “We help things to emerge into the light by being conscious of them … which means we pay respectful attention and allow them to show themselves as they are rather than bending them to our will.” (You can tell that this is a quote from Bakewell, not Heidegger, because it’s comprehensible).

I find this a helpful way to think about the impact of art. Is the artist depicting something in a way that forces me, as viewer, to engage with whatever is represented? The most brilliant, or notorious, example, depending on how you look at it, is Duchamp’s “Fountain”, a urinal, first displayed in 1917. Duchamp did not provide any explanation as to his intent. Many rejected it out of hand as having nothing to do with art, while others developed elaborate theories about the “sculpture’s” meaning. Regardless, in 2004 British art world professionals anointed “Fountain” as the most influential artwork of the 20^th Century.

 Third on the list was Andy Warhol’s “Marilyn Diptych”. It’s hard not to look at Warhol’s silk screens, Brillo boxes and soup cans and wonder whether he was just putting us on, giggling at our naivete. Yet, if you go to see them at the wonderful Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh, it’s impossible not to be struck by the need to re-engage with these recognizable images. Like Duchamp, Warhol leaves the interpretation to the viewer, but allows these familiar icons to emerge in such a way that they cannot be easily dismissed.

Abstract art stretches this concept, often to its breaking point. I like many abstract pieces, but if they are letting something show itself, I generally miss it. Yet, with a little explanation you can usually discover the intent of the artist, or how that intent has been interpreted, and find a deeper connection than more representational art. Still, my guess is that it is this type of art more than any other that Homer was referencing.

The other truth about art is that it is impossible to talk about it without sounding like a pretentious jerk. Reading what I wrote above, I cringe, not because I think it’s silly, but because it seems so snooty. I am not sure why this is. I’ve written plenty of gibberish over the last few years and rarely blanched. Yet, it’s all I can do not to delete this entry.

But I will let it stand for what it is. A reaction to something I read about a topic that I find interesting. Nothing deep. Nothing to change how people view art. But, hopefully, at least something I can use next time I stand before a Modigliani or Basquiat (shoot, there I go again). Really, there is not much more I can ask.