The Big Middle Finger

Sigh…

I have never been a huge fan of depicting art.  I don’t go to the Art Institute of Chicago and stand in front of a Monet for hours deconstructing colors, shapes, aesthetic, and meaning.  I’m more of a 5-second, first impression kind of girl.  You have those first five seconds to impress, otherwise you fail and it sucks to be you.

Now, this book, or should I say chapters, mocks me with definitions of art.  Well, too bad because it all it Latin to me regardless if I understand what adjectives describe Realism or whatever.

So, here’s my critique on Modernism and Postmodernism.

They’re both a 50-year old man sticking a big, fat middle finger to the world.

You’re telling me that I could make over one millions dollars by buying a piece of square canvas, paint it all the color puke, slap some melancholy title on it and call it art?  You mock me Terry Barrett.

On the flip side, I guess I could take advantage of it and thank all the lazy modern artists out there for creating this category.  You want to throw a pile of colored sticks on top of each other.  I will one-up you and stack some rocks.  Paper can only beat rock (for some reason I’ll never know).

Alright, I know I’m being cynical and there’s more to modernism.  Many pieces of social active work debated controversial topics (feminism, racism) and changed perspective for the better.  Additionally, I do find I am attracted to modern decorations.  The three dimensional spheres made of crazy materials- colored glass, cvc pipes, bark- please the eye.  Color blocking dizzies without making you want to throw up lunch.  However, I don’t look at this wondering what the artist is trying to tell me.  I just feel less effort went into these works and this craft is demoralizing itself into laziness like so many other topics in our country.

Postmodernism seems to revitalize what modernists started.  But, it cheats by putting words into its art to explain the story (like me, and it’s not flattering to compare art with me).  Art should explain itself; it test the viewers to step into the artists eyes and comprehend what the hell is going on.  It evens lets you create your own meaning.  It’s not like the Mona Lisa has a talking bubble coming from her sly smile telling us what’s so intriguing (DaVinci?).  That would help, but alas, art makes us suffer (just like Flash).

I enjoyed reading this book in the sense that I feel more cultured.  I can now say that this is “kitchish” or that shows signs of “disinterestedness.”  I now understand design aesthetic and incorporating styles into my work.  Yet, I don’t think I’ll ever consider myself in artists and ever enjoying staring at art for more that five seconds.