A Few Musings on Modern Art - Updated

First, of all, let us begin with the image that sparked this whole meditative journey. (From Art Knowledge News.)

I looked at that "art" and couldn't stop this image from flashing through my mind.

Which one takes skill and imagination and passion and creative talent?

Not to mention probably blood, sweat, and tears?

That's a no brainer.

It has haunted me ever since I saw it which may have been a week ago or so. That's quite a long time for me to be annoyed about a piece of art, believe me.

I don't dislike all modern art. There is probably 5-10% that I feel has the artist's true creative talent and inspiration involved. For instance, I enjoy quite a bit of Owen's art.

However, most modern art is, I fear, completely self indulgent and displays just how little the artist has studied his or her craft. It is impossible to regularly read Art Knowledge News daily as I do and not be practically forced into this conclusion when seeing all the examples of ancient and modern art that they show as galleries and museums publicize art shows.

Which led to mental applause when reading last night from Maya Angelou's brilliant Hallelujah! The Welcome Table.

[...]

We had become fairly friendly by the time we were asked to come downstairs to dinner.

We sat at a beautiful table festooned with personal nosegays at each plate.

The first course was an onion tart. I had never tasted anything better. I chewed slowly, registering each flavor. The shortness of the crust backed up the sweetness of caramelized onions. Voices intruded into my reverie.

"Maya, yes, Maya, what do you think of contemporary composers?"

"Yes. Like John Cage?"

I said, "Well, for me the emperor has no clothes. I think he is an impostor."

Each artist, and even Sonia, began to shout at me. "You can't call John Cage an impostor."

I remembered fifteen years earlier being an impoverished dancer. I saved every penny of my money so that I could attend a John Cage concert. I sat happily in the cheapest seat waiting for the artist so many people held as one of the important figures of twentieth-century art.

John Cage and a stagehand appeared carrying a record player. They plugged it into a socket and left the stage.

As the audience waited, there was a click and after a few seconds there was another click. then another click. And another click.

I looked at the program and it read something like "Traffic Light at the Corner of Sixty-fifth and Park Avenue."

I left the theater hurriedly, pushing myself past people who were rapt in ecstasy over the sound of a traffic light clicking.

On the street, I was spitting mad. I had given up too many slices of pizza and ice-cream cones and subway rides to be so insulted.

I repeated at Sonia's table, "Yes, I think he is a charlatan and a poseur."

The company looked at me with disgust.

"Obviously conversation with you will be impossible."

"Anyone ignorant enough to call Cage a poseur is too ignorant for social exchange."

"Where did you find her, Sonia?"

Sonia came out of the kitchen carrying a tray that held a beautiful roast pork and baked apples. I stood up.

"Thank you, Sonia. I realize I have to be in Bangkok in half an hour."

She followed me upstairs and to her front door.

"Maya, they really like you. They think of you as an equal or they wouldn't have talked that way."

"I will never be their equal and they will never be mind."

I walked down her front stairs and into the London night.

[...]

It seems that the only intelligent art Ms. Angelou discovered that evening was in the onion tart.

The emperor has no clothes is also the conclusion that Melanie Bettinelli came to when reading an article about a large public art display that attracted virtually no attention. She writes eloquently and intelligently about modern art and bad art and I see that we agree on many aspects of it. Be sure also to read the comments where an extended and well-informed conversation about art takes place.

Of course, the fact that the display was ignored is by no means simply because the art may have been bad. Recently, the brilliant violinist Joshua Bell played in the Metro as a busker during morning commute time and also was ignored. This raises a different question as to whether we are so over-saturated with input from our modern world that we can no longer recognize beauty. Or even open our eyes to take it in. Hannah often comments that she sees 90% more wildlife flourishing on her college campus than her friends who tell her that all they have to look at is some mockingbirds and squirrels. However, she has opened her eyes and ears where they have not simply because she loves wildlife and is starved for any animal companionship while away from home.

I really do not have a specific conclusion here. As I said, these are musings. I just thought I'd share them ...

UPDATES
Also for further consideration, are two articles written lately.

Tim points out this post from The Lion and the Cardinal which I had read but then forgotten. Short and pithy, just the way I like 'em. Here's a bit:

The question What is art? begs a definition where none is needed; an education in art theory is not necessary for a man to know the difference between art and non-art - merely the sense that God gave a caveman. And like the question What is truth?, no man interested in defending the revelation of the Christian religion, or the worth of everything informed by it through the ages, would ever need to ask it.

I linked to this post last week in which gartenfische at Die Die in Diem discusses where authentic art comes from. Here's a bit to tantalize you into going to read it all:

When our art arises from our true selves communing with God, it is decidedly uninsipid—distinctly not sentimental—meaning real. Why wouldn’t God want us to fully participate in our human reality and to express the truth of that? O’Connor wrote: “I mortally and strongly defend the right of the artist to select a negative aspect of the world to portray and as the world gets more materialistic [this, written in 1956] there will be more such to select from.” In a poem published in 1992, Levertov asked, “Where is the Giver to whom my gratitude/rose? In this emptiness/there seems no Presence.” Doubt and questions are endemic to the religious journey. I don’t believe God is offended at the expression of our frustrations and struggles, at honesty (or I’m in trouble).

This one by Jen at "Et tu?" has been linked to widely and, in fact, was referenced by Melanie Bettinelli. I include it here to further call it to attention if you didn't follow all of Melanie's links (or even my link to Melanie). Here's the oft-quoted bit but do go read it all:

Art is the secret handshake of the children of God, the inside joke among those with souls. The spark that is ignited within us when we are touched by a work of art is a spark of recognition: the artist has brought us a souvenir from our homeland beyond the material world, the place that none of us should know about, but all of us do. To connect with a piece of art is to connect with the artist as a fellow traveler, to realize that you are both walking the same rocky road, and that he is homesick too. And it matters because true art, art that seeks a connection of souls, makes it harder to devalue and dehumanize one another. It reminds us what it means to be human.