Last night I went over to hang out with Elise. She made vegetable omelets with loads of mushrooms and spinach, and I took a handful of pictures with my film and digital EOS bodies. It wasn’t quite the photo shoot that I had hoped for, since I’m itching to press the shutter button a few hundred times in a row. While I was there she made good on a promise of a present: she produced a photo magnet with printing and modge podge and everything while I was there. I said a million nice things about Sarah.
I feel awfully pretentious when I talk about art, but part of my goal in thinking and talking about it is to figure out the parts that are not stupid.
Here is my general theory of art:
“Things that are art communicate something.”
That’s kind of vague, I suppose, but fairly unassailable. It gives me a handle to approach things:
“What does this work say?”
Not very ground breaking, but easy to apply to everything from snapshots to Noah’s finger paints.
“This is a picture of my brother’s car,” Noah might say, holding up his painting. He wouldn’t say that to me, because I am his brother, so he would just tell me that it was my car, but, uh, you can figure all of that out. Noah loves me and thinks that my car is pretty cool. You can tell that by his work and associated performance.
Whoa. That, right there, was the most horrible example of over analysis ever. Kind of creepy, when you get right down to it, but I have to be able to talk the talk if I’m going to visit with Sarah’s peers. Donald and Chandler usually double over in fits of breathless laughter at my poop jokes, but occasionally I should probably talk in a deep and serious voice.
(imagine my deep and serious voice here)
“I see that this piece explores the boundaries of quality as it posits a question to the audience: ‘how lazy can I really be and still call it work?’ This wholesale thievery of images makes us ask ourselves how art can hang in galleries and yet appear in Target advertisements aimed at college students — does modern design just boil down to fucky palettes chosen at random from color theory books and a spray of hokey retro clip art? Kudos! Kudos for indicting “found art” wholesale by producing a clear example of the worst of it,” I might orate.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, man? That’s not fucking cool,” they’d reply, the cold Pabst Blue Ribbon in their hand nearly dented by their white knuckled fist.
“Ain’t no thing,” I’d say. “Can I buy this for my breakfast nook?”
Secretly, I love the new wave of design out there. My real gripe is that it doesn’t feature nearly enough robots.
Or ninjas!!!!!!!!!!! ! ! !Hjkgdsghaewtvb17t hfakej
I should go to bed.