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"The Unfazed Art Spectator" by Brett Busang - What's Theirs (or: What Ain't Mine)
Friday, May 26, 2006
What's Theirs (or: What Ain't Mine)
After I entered the marketplace - albeit in sideways fashion - I began to observe its mechanics - a cautionary tale for anybody who doesn't do his research. I think the classic ironic character is somebody who doesn't grasp the disconnect between practice and principle; one's ideals and the means by which he, the lapsed idealist, operates in the world. In this regard, I could have been Candide himself: open, trusting - and therefore delusional.
I have concluded that art politics play a much greater role than the naif can possibly understand. That purchases - as well as the vetting - or art and artists take place in that region of the unconcious that also wants to drive the most expensive car, pose with the president, and drop the unwieldy names of the rich and famous. There is a paradox here in that both the worthy and unworthy cluster together. That is to say, just because a man happens to be educated in the right place and performs according to expectations doesn't mean he has nothing to say. Conversely, a woman who toils away in obscurity does not necessarily deserve attention because of it - whether she gets it or not. But some do just that and are overlooked. However, those who live by the rules are passed over rarely.
This is to say, that fortune is a thing most easily grasped by the fortunate. We love come-from-beyond stories because they're precisely that. They need to be told because they rarely happen in "real life." I must admit that I was personally sustained, for many years, by the selfsame myth: of some wise old person who, in scorning the usual niceties, shoulders conventional wisdom aside and elevates me to the eminence I deserve. A kindly old fellow with impeccable manners, but a stern and watchful rectitude: a man onto the flaws of the system and the hero-worship that attends success. A man swinging a lantern in search for another man like himself: an honest fellow doing his work as best he can, no matter what the price to himself or his loved ones.
I cringe to admit to such personal grandiosity, but it is true. I had to believe in this miraculous happenstance in the same way that cancer victims have to believe in the scientific researcher who will ultimately save them.
Needless to say, no such person has appeared. I have also, alas, ceased to believe in him (or her.) Though I still watch old Hollywood movies and think it would be a damned nice thing if such a person could exist outside of set or studio.
I began by thinking that the marketplace - for art, in my case - was based upon finding the best possible item and putting it up for sale. A very naive supposition. When a student is given a text, the student takes it all in, without wondering what was left out. I took in art history under the assumption that what was written was all there was. An artist learns his trade, he takes it to the marketplace, where the moneyed and discriminating congregate, and the artist finds an audience that will grow and grow. This happens, of course, but therein lies the fallacy of all convention-bound histories: they deal only with the successes - or very spectacular failures. In art history, the gods are on the side of the strivers who make it. There are no others. The myth of the underappreciated artist is, of course, a stock-in-trade of our cultural mythos, but, in order to qualify, he or she must eventually become known and appreciated. It is a story with a beginning, a long middle, and a Hollywood ending. It doesn't address what actually happens, and is happening, in our culture on a daily basis. And will go on and on until basic truths about how taste and reputations are made begin to enter through the front door.
I've been ranting about the hegemony of certain art-forms over others in my blog lately, but I can hardly claim to be onto something new. How this happens goes to the heart of what happens both in, and outside, of our museums and galleries. How this happens underlines our present star-struck and fame-obsessed culture and offers, in my opinion, another cautionary tale.
I suppose it is impossible to eliminate prejudice - which can be defined, in this context, as an assumption about a person's status or character based upon trifling externals. These trifling externals are magnified into a rigid belief system and are perpetuated in the usual way: by constant exposure and easy ratification. "That so-and-so. He's flatfooted, isn't it?" "Oh, yes. You can see it in everything he does." "Well, I'm not going to have anyone of his type in my house." "Oh, no. You can't have anyone like that. We're godfearing, arch-supporting people!"
"Amen to that!"
And so it goes. I've found that art and artists are dealt with in a similar way. If an artist is accepted, he is acceptable. If you find him in the best homes and choicest collections, you will most likely find him in an ever-increasing spiral of such places. Again, hardly a revolutionary notion.
Success breeds success and that's all there is to that. What is pernicious about it, however, is the assumption that if a certain thing is in a certain place, it's worthwhile. It is a kind of smoke-and-mirrors system applied to high culture. If you actually frequent such places, you can hear all sorts of ridiculous conversations about who has what and how much x paid for y and, by the way, did you get down to the shore this summer? (A stupid question: of course he did!) If there is any talk about the meaning of such an object, I rarely hear it. Nor do I hear much about how it might stack up to other objects in other homes. (Homeless objects rarely come up.
What in hell are they anyway?) I have tried to strike up conversations about the nature of seeing; good art as opposed to bad; art that's available, but underappreciated in such places and have gotten the look I always get. It says: "You're an interesting fellow, but why on earth should we care about that?"
Point well taken. Such people have their quarry already. And if it is good quarry and approved of by everybody else in the circle, why on earth do we need to talk about anything else?
Again, point well taken. But there is a real problem here. Those who are privileged enough to choose their reality don't have to think about anything that might otherwise trouble them. But my mind seems to be nothing but trouble. It breeds questions about class; intrinsic value; good character and bad - and all sorts of other stuff the people who seem to be in control rarely wish to address.
Over the years, I've made inroads into this culture myself. I've had to. Poor people don't buy paintings. But I've made it only so far. The big collectors go after the Big Quarry and I'm not that.
I've had to move within the bottom tier of the big money, where I manage to scratch out a living among people who can gaze upon fifty of my choicest paintings and choose a small one - or, as things generally turn out, nothing at all. It is possible that the small one strikes this person's fancy. I tend to think that I'm not considered important enough for someone so much more important than I am to spring for something substantial. I could be wrong, but I know something about the other stuff my economy-minded collector already has. If she wanted to, she could buy all fifty of the paintings I've chosen to wave at her (and her husband) in good temper - but almost always in vain.
It is good mental conditioning to realize that the world operates in this way, but accepting it should not be an option. Subversions should be attempted at all times. When I have a show, I consider it not only an opportunity for banter, but as a platform for my ideas. Because I'm temporarily elevated to a somewhat higher status, I can use my transient powers to educate. I try to do this in an unobtrusive way, provided I drink sparingly, but what I most wish to do is shake these people and tell them, oh, what I could do with your money. The collection I could assemble with my knowledge, experience, and disregard for its social significance. There was a gambler, I'd say, named Canfield who got rich off of his Manhattan casinos. He started collecting art and, while he had to do business with the swells, his friends were the artists. Now that's real subversion. Care to try it?
Another paradox has always struck me: how timid the rich are! They have what Bogart called "fuck-you money" out the wazoo and yet they march in lock-step socially and intellecutally (f that's not an
oxymoron.) If you look at the world's major collections, they're pretty much in the copycat mold. If there is any independent thought, it's been rigorously edited and roundly discouraged. These collections are, however, about money as well. There is a gambling element to them. Bet on this horse and he'll take you to the finish line and beyond - I promise! Hearing this sort of talk, the rich collector goes to Sotheby's and gets his Picassos or his Impressionists and ignores the rest.
Is greed an exponential thing? Can it be nurtured like any other delicate organism? Or is this kind of speculation just another aspect of social cowardice?
Are these collectors already thinking - after the first flush of acquisitive pleasure - of the Big Donation, which will perpetuate their name?
I can't know. All I can do is speculate - and perhaps dream of a time when art will become a communally significant exercise and not objectified by the wealthy and opportunisitic. Now art simply provides an perfect shell-game for the socially conscious speculator - and there will always be such people as long as there are other people he or she can exploit.
But: with my last shred of idealism clutched in my hand, I wish for a time when people who want something can at least be honest about why they want it. That would represent, for me, a real stride - a milestone in human honesty, a tremendous breakthrough for all of us. For now, however, I have to content myself with the occasional sale and, of course, whatever species of ire, indignation, wonderment and hope compels me to sit around and write when I should perhaps be out promoting myself. After all, a living isn't made by itself, my friend.
Author: Brett Busang | 0 Comments
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