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.