FRIDAY SERMON! I am not

FRIDAY SERMON!

I am not sure what sort of an indulgence is granted for reading this through, but let's hope it is a big one!

Well, it is that time again.

I had mentioned to several of you that I was going to rant about technology, particularly in light of the experience that I had with making a CD this week. But that will have to wait. It is a good topic, but one that needs more time, as plenty has been said on it, and to really explore new and interesting facets of it, I will need to do a little homework.

Instead I think I am going to take some shots at a sacred cow. Hopefully we will be having sacred cow burger on Sunday (which makes me think of the fairly recent stink of the Hindoos complaining that the fries at McDonalds had trace amounts of beef flavoring in them. One earnest young fellow, who was suing, said with a straight face, "I was horrified. It was like eating my mother!" I might have my disagreements with my mother, but that is beyond the pale. A cow! Also, what sort of twisted jerk goes to a hamburger joint if he thinks eating beef is akin to eating Mom? Oh, it is OK that this place serves Roast Mommy sandwiches, but I will stick with the French fries. And I thought Western moral relativists were bad).

Some of you have heard me rant on this one before. Some of you have ranted on it even more vociferously than I have. The sacred cow that I am going to attack with a heavy, blunt instrument is the notion that children's art should be publicly displayed. Now, I am the proud father of a genius abstract expressionist. Her control of the ballpoint pen is amazing, especially when it is on paper and not on her face, my passport, the walls, etc. She has a grasp of composition and line that is, well, breathtaking. Furthermore, like her father, she works with both her left and right hand, rapidly switching the pen around to fit into tight spaces and make that line MOVE. Recently she has done brilliant work with tempera on paper, sort of Motherwellian, with a hint of Franz Kline.

But, for now, the proper venue for her output is the refrigerator. I would maybe have her do work in a more durable medium, but then it would go on a shelf...at Nonna's house (grandparents, you see, seem to have even greater limits for tolerating this stuff, I mean, appreciating high quality). It is the perfect audience. Her family loves to see the progress she has made, thinks that every scrawl she makes is a portent of greatness to come, and expects her to take up the brush and join her father's atelier. That is the level of criticism that is appropriate for an artist of her age: "Brilliant! Amália, you are the greatest artist since Diebenkorn! Wow. This one goes right on the refrigerator!" Maybe at the age of 10 she will figure out that if Babbo did, indeed, purchase a Diebenkorn, it would not go on the refrigerator, but at that age, she will hopefully understand (unlike her Babbo who used to semi-regularly send drawings to SFMOMA when he was that age).

However, art which is publicly displayed must be subjected to stronger criticism. This stronger criticism is just not appropriate to give a 10 year old: "well, considering the poor level of draftsmanship, it is amazing that little Throckmorton was able to get his message across at all. Of course with a message as heavy-handed and simplistic as 'don't hit your playmate with the Tonka truck or he will bite you' that should not be too surprising. As for a sense of color, will someone see this kid tested for colorblindness? And composition? Is this kid drunk? This crap is not worthy of lining a birdcage."

Now, I have no problem with the occasional show of children's art in the side gallery of a museum, as long as it is clearly labeled as such, and I can stay away. And, in fairness to our museums, this is usually how it is done (although with current trends in museum administration, it won't be long before this stuff is integrated into the permanent collection: well, we have a Picasso, a Matisse, and a little Throckmorton, which is really a fine piece, look at the shocking colors and the deliberate sense of disbalance, a veritable simulacra of society's implicit racism).

Where schoolchildren's art is most often forced on the public is in public artworks. Long the refuge of simple-minded idealists, public art is now full of the most banal pieces imaginable. Not only is children's art smiled upon, but it is further hampered by the "democratic" urge to have pieces that are roughly the same in quality. So we get thousands of tile mosaics in which each tile is a hand print of a child, somehow decorated so that the child can express himself. The result is that the untalented kid's and the talented kid's pieces are virtually indistinguishable, thus defeating an important reason for displaying children's art: allowing the parents to see how far the child has come in his artistic career.

Now, since it is children's art, it is shielded from criticism. Like I said, no one but a real meanie is going to come out and say, "this is crap." By being shielded from criticism, the work is thus rendered irrelevant to the conversation of ideas, thus taking it out of the realm of art, as art is understood in the West. If we are slightly paranoid, we would also point out that by creating a public work that is protected from criticism, we are taking the first step towards totalitarianism. I would make this point, except that it is pretty much common knowledge that it will be illegal to criticize the regime under the Keilholtz dictatorship, so it would be hypocritical of me.

So here we have an effort that is pedestrian, ugly, does not fulfill the criteria for children's art, is not even art in the sense that it is understood in the West, and is an early symptom of totalitarianism. If we look at some of the parent-teacher imposed politics that make their way into this garbage, it gets even scarier.

Now, if I were really going to rant, I would start attacking all of the hideous sculptures made from melted down handguns, but then we wouldn't get out of here until late, and I bet you are anxious for the music to start (it is Cajun today).

Next week I will talk about children singing on records. Names will be named (including some who I otherwise respect and admire). It could get ugly. Bring earplugs.

Now, could you please pass the calamari?

Posted by erik at March 28, 2003 2:12 PM | TrackBack