First: what I mean by Art. I don't mean Music. I don't mean Literature. I don't mean Acting. I don't mean Film or Television, or any non-physical Transmitted Media. Certainly, these and many other things comprise The Arts, but when I talk of Art, I don't mean these things. I mean Painting first and foremost, plus assorted other Plastic Arts including Printmaking, Sculpture, and sometimes Photography and Architecture where there is a focus on applied artistic theory. Art with a capital "A" involves the creation* of an Art Object, be it functional or useless, be it 2-D image or 3-D form.
Design designs, Media publishes, Broadcasting broadcasts, but Art creates.
That's Art. I think most people are with me on this. I think most people have a vague sense that when writers, actors, directors, musicians forever refer to themselves as "artists," they are being pretentious. Whether the term "artist" is technically applicable or not (it is), it's not the best term to use. And not only are they being pretentious - their pretentiousness betrays a deep and troubling lack of confidence in the value of their own field. And consequently, of their work! It can be nothing but a mark of insecurity for a writer to refer to himself an artist. If you were truly a writer, you would never aspire to being called merely "an artist"! A writer knows that to be a Writer is a greater thing than to be some artist.
People only began referring to all creatives - writers, actors, musicians, directors, etc. - individually as "artists" once Art ceased to be of any colossal cultural relevance. There was (essentially) no Art anymore - no Art that mattered. Remember, at the height of Modernism, Art held a position at the pinnacle of prestige and influence within Western culture. Art was considered intellectually and indeed, morally superior to all the other creative fields that comprise the arts. After Art's de facto abdication, the allure of that mystique was still strong. Something had to fill the vacuum, and it's no surprise that all the other creatives tried to crowd onto the vacated throne like so many empty-head conformist 1950's teenagers into a phone booth.
Art's abdication was by no means a willing abdication, but it was in some sense chosen. Art bought into its own press, planned the path of its own demise, and never once seriously looked back. The path of Modernism was an insanely fruitful one, but ultimately (and irrevocably) a dead end. At the dawn of Modernism, Art Theory was given ascendancy over Art. The first aim of Art was no longer to create an object of beauty, inspiration, or contemplation. Art's true (perhaps only) aim was determined to be the advancement of Art Theory. Every Artist a trailblazer! No trail to be trod twice!
Inevitably, such an ethos yielded a relentless narrowing of focus. Theories were conceived, exploited, bled dry of all possible variations, and discarded. No one wanted to be tarred with the epithet derivative. No turning back! No nostalgia except where sufficiently snide. Art's scope diminished and diminished, as avenues for intellectual exploration and formal experimentation were used up and left behind. Art descended: from breaking boundaries, thence to pushing envelopes, finally to inhabiting margins.
Within the world of today's Art, Art is not respected that has not marginalized itself. Art must be accessible to the cognoscenti alone. This is quite sad, when you think about it. Art, gone from setting the tone for global trends, to providing grist for gossip or fodder for capital investment to tiny pockets of far-flung cosmopolitan socialites, would-be intellectuals, and plutocrats of a certain pseudo-sophisticate bent. This redefinition was forced upon Art for Art's own sake, as a necessary measure - but it has been gladly embraced; with relief, embraced! There was no other way to save face, but to change the rules of the game. When cutting-edge Art saw that it could no longer excite, appeal to, or influence the masses, because it had run out of all novel theories except for the frankly stupid ones, Art resorted to the only available cop-out: the people are Philistines. They just don't get Art. It's their own fault, for being so dense and unsophisticated.
It's not, of course. It's Art's own fault. The blame falls square. Art does not matter, because Art chose not to matter. The path ahead was laid out the moment novelty became more important than quality, and the path behind was forever blocked by all of the (admittedly transcendent) masterworks produced, before the flames from all those burning bridges caught up to the avant garde. There was no way to reverse course without repudiating all of Modernism's achievements - the very achievements that had elevated Art to the peak of its prestige and influence in the first place! There is no other historical conception of Art or Art's role that looks likely to attain to that peak, and so we're stuck with what we've got: Art's embarrassingly rich legacy, married to Art's embarrassingly impotent, inconsequential status quo.
It's not really a paradox, it's not really a quandary, it's just kind of stupid and unfortunate. Art is just kind of stupid and unfortunate. Art is an embarrassment, now.
I can't imagine why anyone would want to call himself or herself an Artist. I can only guess that it's an attempt to glom onto that grand legacy. As if the work one is doing today is even remotely comparable to what was accomplished by those bygone giants. As if the work one is doing today is powerful enough to distract from the stink and the taint of what Art is now. Anyone who thinks their work is good enough to pull that off...that's exactly what people mean by pretentious.
Don't go back. Go forward. Not to advance Art - for the sake of your work.
Be a painter. Be a sculptor.
Be a writer.
Be an actor.
Don't be an Artist.
Design designs, Media publishes, Broadcasting broadcasts, but Art creates.
That's Art. I think most people are with me on this. I think most people have a vague sense that when writers, actors, directors, musicians forever refer to themselves as "artists," they are being pretentious. Whether the term "artist" is technically applicable or not (it is), it's not the best term to use. And not only are they being pretentious - their pretentiousness betrays a deep and troubling lack of confidence in the value of their own field. And consequently, of their work! It can be nothing but a mark of insecurity for a writer to refer to himself an artist. If you were truly a writer, you would never aspire to being called merely "an artist"! A writer knows that to be a Writer is a greater thing than to be some artist.
People only began referring to all creatives - writers, actors, musicians, directors, etc. - individually as "artists" once Art ceased to be of any colossal cultural relevance. There was (essentially) no Art anymore - no Art that mattered. Remember, at the height of Modernism, Art held a position at the pinnacle of prestige and influence within Western culture. Art was considered intellectually and indeed, morally superior to all the other creative fields that comprise the arts. After Art's de facto abdication, the allure of that mystique was still strong. Something had to fill the vacuum, and it's no surprise that all the other creatives tried to crowd onto the vacated throne like so many empty-head conformist 1950's teenagers into a phone booth.
Art's abdication was by no means a willing abdication, but it was in some sense chosen. Art bought into its own press, planned the path of its own demise, and never once seriously looked back. The path of Modernism was an insanely fruitful one, but ultimately (and irrevocably) a dead end. At the dawn of Modernism, Art Theory was given ascendancy over Art. The first aim of Art was no longer to create an object of beauty, inspiration, or contemplation. Art's true (perhaps only) aim was determined to be the advancement of Art Theory. Every Artist a trailblazer! No trail to be trod twice!
Inevitably, such an ethos yielded a relentless narrowing of focus. Theories were conceived, exploited, bled dry of all possible variations, and discarded. No one wanted to be tarred with the epithet derivative. No turning back! No nostalgia except where sufficiently snide. Art's scope diminished and diminished, as avenues for intellectual exploration and formal experimentation were used up and left behind. Art descended: from breaking boundaries, thence to pushing envelopes, finally to inhabiting margins.
Within the world of today's Art, Art is not respected that has not marginalized itself. Art must be accessible to the cognoscenti alone. This is quite sad, when you think about it. Art, gone from setting the tone for global trends, to providing grist for gossip or fodder for capital investment to tiny pockets of far-flung cosmopolitan socialites, would-be intellectuals, and plutocrats of a certain pseudo-sophisticate bent. This redefinition was forced upon Art for Art's own sake, as a necessary measure - but it has been gladly embraced; with relief, embraced! There was no other way to save face, but to change the rules of the game. When cutting-edge Art saw that it could no longer excite, appeal to, or influence the masses, because it had run out of all novel theories except for the frankly stupid ones, Art resorted to the only available cop-out: the people are Philistines. They just don't get Art. It's their own fault, for being so dense and unsophisticated.
It's not, of course. It's Art's own fault. The blame falls square. Art does not matter, because Art chose not to matter. The path ahead was laid out the moment novelty became more important than quality, and the path behind was forever blocked by all of the (admittedly transcendent) masterworks produced, before the flames from all those burning bridges caught up to the avant garde. There was no way to reverse course without repudiating all of Modernism's achievements - the very achievements that had elevated Art to the peak of its prestige and influence in the first place! There is no other historical conception of Art or Art's role that looks likely to attain to that peak, and so we're stuck with what we've got: Art's embarrassingly rich legacy, married to Art's embarrassingly impotent, inconsequential status quo.
It's not really a paradox, it's not really a quandary, it's just kind of stupid and unfortunate. Art is just kind of stupid and unfortunate. Art is an embarrassment, now.
I can't imagine why anyone would want to call himself or herself an Artist. I can only guess that it's an attempt to glom onto that grand legacy. As if the work one is doing today is even remotely comparable to what was accomplished by those bygone giants. As if the work one is doing today is powerful enough to distract from the stink and the taint of what Art is now. Anyone who thinks their work is good enough to pull that off...that's exactly what people mean by pretentious.
Don't go back. Go forward. Not to advance Art - for the sake of your work.
Be a painter. Be a sculptor.
Be a writer.
Be an actor.
Don't be an Artist.
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