Artsy Fartsy

Artist unknown (unfortunately).

“Art is of the people, by the people, but not for the people” – Me.

Yes. I just quoted myself. I am taking a swipe at someone with that, but nobody will know just who. I am also grinning snidely right now, even though I know that this person will not even feel the breeze.

The person who I am taking a swipe at exists amongst a group that I have labelled Art Elitists. This is no coincidence. While I trust you can comprehend just what an art elitist is, I feel the need to expound on what makes them eye roll worthy.

In a nutshell, art elitists believe that they are at the pinnacle of society; they are culturally and intellectually superior to the rest of us. They have small gatherings where they sip on wine and discuss art and literature and pat each other on the back for their innate cleverness. In fact, when I told another elitist acquaintance (a well known artist, I might add, but mum’s the word) that I enjoy visiting exhibitions every now and then, he asked me in his usual perverted breathy manner, whether or not I didn’t enjoy being in the company of a more sophisticated calibre of individual. What he thought was a rhetorical question that should only be met with the affirmative, was met with a raised eyebrow and incredulity. I also wanted to smack him. He was staring at my breasts the entire time with what I can only assume was an air of erudition.

A conglomeration of art elitists offers the opportunity to lament society’s negligence of the arts. This grievance, of course offers the opportunity of solidarity in ostentatious disdain for the rudimentary country bumpkin who prefers to spend his or her days struggling to put food on the table rather than forge an artistic masterpiece. The contempt for the ingenuous commoner is typically coupled with events and exhibitions that are poorly publicized in seeming deliberation to maintain their exclusivity. I look to a current event circulating amongst that group of individuals with a capacity of four hundred social network invites (or so it would appear). Compare that with a wine (the other kind) and jam event at Zen and wonder at the numerical disparity. In their defence, why should anyone want to invite us plebeians when we probably don’t have the funds to dish out on these priceless gems in the first place?

Note: we never see newspaper advertisements of these exhibitions, but we certainly get to see who attended in the paper a few days later, don’t we?

At the same time, I get it. I really do. And you know what? Maybe elitists are really more acute than the rest of us.

Hey, if I could create a work of art that addresses the concerns, complications and/or consequences that arise from the decolonisation of our nation and call it “Original Copy: a Teardrop” by randomly splashing and smearing paint all over a canvas and slapping a hefty price tag on it, I would! The subsequent media write ups, museum displays and eminence won’t be too shabby either.

Note to self: invest in paints and canvas tomorrow. I’m going to be famous (kind of).

So, I decide in the end to paint something more picturesque. My subject matter of course will be fishing boats, coconut trees, beaches and sunset, dancing women, sexy women of colour, fat women of colour with cows and other rural scenes depicted using earthy browns, greens and blues that so accurately represent the masses, the people of the soil. After decades of independence, our elitists continue to revere the reproductions of our artistic predecessors in our contemporaries. I will then announce the relationship of identity, space and time that I explored, my influences and my imaginative teenage aspirations, all manner of watered down bullshit that makes elitists and tourists alike, squeal with delight, all of this with my trusty wine glass in hand, mind you. None of what I represent, however, will confer any ideas of our current political, social or economic status, because that’s not what we learn in our history and cultural classes. Stuart Brown could only be so apt to refer to the “sleazy tourist art” in Piarco that we want to sell (out).  I am willing to concede that maybe because after all these years, nothing in this country has really changed, politically, socially, or economically, so maybe all that will ever be produced in this postcolonial society is clichéd ‘Caribbean’ art. “Original Copy: a Teardrop” remains an appropriate title.

Unless the more common, more experimental forms of art were to break loose from their mediocre creators and become trendy and hip, the fate of working-class art that mirrors their society is fated to be washed away, or painted over on city walls or forgotten in the homes of others. Graffiti (I mean er... the mural) is one such form of art that is all the rage, but several years ago, it was considered to be the nefarious opus of street urchins who had nothing better to do than defile public spaces with their unskilled eye for ugliness. In the same way graffi- I mean, murals, ascended from its baser associations, comic book art does not seem likely to. Their art is strictly commercial, available to the masses (Oh horror!) and has nothing to arouse the elite intellect.  Comic book art is concomitant with tacky humour; it is the habitat of superheroes and villains; the niche of pubescent boys ogling busty, spandex adorning two-dimensional women and worse yet, you can sample them in your daily newspaper.

I mean, who are comic book aficionados trying to fool anyway? Comic books do not examine social issues, they do not discuss culture, nor do they tackle politics. They are simply bi-products of men who never grew up and harbour fantasies of supremacy. Aren’t they?

But, you know what’s even lower than comic book art? Digital art! Oh yeah! The stuff that’s printed on our toilet paper wrappers could never be considered art, unless you smoke a lot of weed and are Andy Warhol. Digital art is just too commercial. Added to that, it’s just too easy! It is merely a poor replica of traditional art, which requires far more patience and technique. All a graphic designer (not a digital artist, pfft!) has to do is click on some buttons and voilà! They’ve created a toilet paper commercial.

Don’t get me wrong though. I love art; just like Nolan’s Gotham believes in Harvey Dent, I believe in the power of art. I will go so far as to suggest that the relevance of art parallels that of medicine or engineering, because if the latter allows us to physically prosper, then art allows us to grow spiritually and psychologically – it balances our egos with our conscience (not to be completely mistaken with Freud’s, id, ego and super-ego).  I also enjoy wine.

At the same time, I have no inclination towards fashioning a hierarchy of art due to style, or genre or form. There is such a thing as good art and bad art, but to turn up an elitist nose at something that is different, and more importantly accessible, only puts a limitation on what art could be.

So while sipping on that wine, art elitist, try to remember that your appreciation of art of the people that excludes the people doesn’t make you one of the people. It makes you an artsy fartsy douchebag.

A real woman should do what she likes.

Almost everybody who knows me knows that I am a feminist. Yet not a lot of people know what a feminist actually is. The average person envisions a feminist as a female Sasquatch likely to obliterate anything that looks like it owns a penis walking by. People are also likely to assume that these women are the products of neglectful and abusive fathers; that they were dumped by some man and have since then turned to other women to satisfy their needs or that they are so ugly all they have got left in the world is to hate on the men who will never love them.

Anyway, I don’t imagine myself to be any of the above (though I refuse to negate or confirm my hideousness). I own a razor, I love my father and my relationship status is none of your business.

While calling myself a feminist, I mean that I believe in equal rights for all, regardless of gender or sexual orientation. The feminist mentioned in the former is associated with radical feminism (but even then it is never a good idea to stereotype). Radical feminists are much more popular because quite frankly nobody is interested in learning about us peaceful hippies; they’re more interested in the crazed knife wielding Lorena Bobbitts in the news. Everybody loves a good horror story after all.

Even though I am not as angry as a radical feminist, there are things that do in fact make me angry.

Easily I point to this Internet meme floating around in cyberspace.

The photo portrays a woman standing in the kitchen bereft of any attire save for a white thong undergarment while holding some sort of indiscernible kitchen utensil. The words that hover to the side of the photo so as to not obstruct the view of the lady’s bounteous boomcie read: “A real woman never lets her man leave the house hungry or horny.”

As the photo floats around, being propagated and affirmed, I cannot help but feel the message conveyed in the image particularly disturbing (and I am not talking about her bare ta-tas being exposed to the stove’s fire).

The meme lucidly asserts that in order for a woman to be ‘real’ she must cook a meal for her man while simultaneously providing for his raging libido. Okay, that statement might be as amplified as her buttocks - she may not have to do it at the same time… but still. She has to submit to her man’s needs at the risk of being deemed fake, or not good enough.

Now the obvious arguments are, “What if she is sick? Does she have to cook for him then? Does she have to spread her legs open then?”

Those are relevant questions, but I have more questions.

Can’t the man cook for himself? If he can’t cook, shouldn’t he get off his lazy ass and learn to do it himself?

Shouldn’t he try to satisfy her too and not just try to get his? After all, women could just turn the aphorism around and say that he is not a real man because of it.

Why should the woman have to cook if she just doesn’t feel like it? What if she just wants to lie in bed and relax?  Seriously, if he is hungry and she wants to relax, he should get up and make something to eat himself.

Why should she have to accommodate him sexually, if quite frankly, she is not in the mood? If her man is horny, and she doesn’t feel up to it, just spend fifteen more minutes in the shower; I am certain she won’t mind.

What if she can’t cook? What if she hates cooking? Surprise, surprise – not every female is adept in the kitchen, and not every female likes cooking, though we do like eating. Wait. How did I get in that last statement?

Shouldn’t she have a choice in the matter? It is after all, her body and her mind.

The issue in question here, is the idea that in order for a woman to be considered worthy, she must serve. A ‘real’ woman must please her man. It has nothing in that meme that suggests that she is serving herself, other than pandering to the desire to be ‘real’. And that is absurd. Why should a woman have to oblige someone else to feel a sense of self? She should take care of herself to get that feeling.

The other scary part of this photo, are the comments from women in accordance with the archaic concept of female subjugation. Women once again, betray themselves. Women so desperate to get a man and to keep him, that they are willing to subject themselves to his every whim, to betray that sense of sisterhood and community that is so often sold to us in popular culture.

Well, here’s an idea. A real man would not be afraid to be with a real woman who does not pander to his every need, but finds balance between his needs and desires, as well as her own. That type of man is the one to aspire to be with when he unabashedly posts his well-balanced thoughts on how women should treat him, and how he should treat them.

Never settle.

So, while I post these opinions, I am fully aware of the snide comments that will arise from cynics and sexists alike. Well, here’s my predetermined rebuttal to all of you. Your quips about kitchens and sandwiches are neither funny, nor are they clever. You can try to convince yourself, but we both know you were not original enough to come up with your own sexist joke, but had to ride on the coattails (or mammoth fur?) of some other cave dweller’s joke.