Last summer I spent some early morning time learning about Twitter, the ins and outs. The dos and don’ts, ignoring many don’ts, and often losing my Twitter privileges. I guess I was a spammer, but a creative one for sure. Each tweet was personal, original, and relevant to the person I was addressing. What a marvel! Tweeting to someone’s pocket or purse a half a world away. A painter bird shut in his cage able to advertise his thoughts directly to people in positions of semi or super power, provided I paid my phone bill on time. A potential classless revolution. Even the dirt farmer would get his rightful jab in to any power he thought kept him dirt farming. I advertised daily thoughts and criticisms to gallerists and editors mostly, their careers having direct impact on my image and philosophy farming. If three people read the link on my tweet, that was three “important” people who would never waste a second on me before the trend of Twitter became fashionable. Their vanity was my success. Tweeting an editor of The Atlantic while she boarded a plane to paradise… She could ignore the link, but it may bring a minor head inflation from a V.I.P. “Hmm… What’s this? Ah, it’s that creepy painter guy again!”
Actually, I never harassed anyone. I just sent the equivalent 140 characters of creative query that I would have sent to their offices, provided I could afford 100 stamps a day. They sure weren’t answering my e-mails. So I thought, “Reach them via their codependency. The smartphone!”
So I did. Below is my answer to a question Agora Art Gallery (via MoMAtalks) asked tweeters last summer.
Answer to Agora Gallery’s Twitter Question “Is Art Urgent?”
When viewing the work of an artist I seek the biography of the man/woman expressed in hard copies. I mark the energy of the joy or angst living in each piece. If there isn’t any, there isn’t art. Easy marker. With that said, allow me to cite a piece of yesterday that I hope will help answer this important question.
Early in the day I shared with my wife a break time video (via e-mail) of Tom Jones and Janis Joplin back in 1969 singing and dancing “Raise your hand”. I wrote to her that this is what gurgles through my veins most days.
(Skip corporate commercial)
Did you see it? Got up and danced, yes? Made you feel almost ashamed to live in a land that has warped the meaning of joy and dance (which is often art) into Beyoncé, a phony by-product of Proctor and Gamble, Coca Cola, or AT&T smartphone toothpaste glued to your face. Watch her here at the 2013 Super Duper Bowl. (Leave the commercial on. See if you can tell where it ends and Beyoncé begins).
Not ever, even in a very weak moment, say solitary confinement in a boy’s prison or bearded island castaway, would I be interested in the choreographed faux-dance of Beyoncé. It is without real desire. I think it hasn’t loved since it was a little girl. It says “Me” like a blazing sun, but not a star. More like a thermonuclear detonation. All in all, I think Beyoncé hates art, and has sent her husband into gallery show rooms to rap about it.
Her dance is not an “outward expression of an inward harmony of the soul.” It is, to me, a kind of death of individuality and its right to expression. Poor Beyoncé. She is just a tool, as were Tom and Janis in their day to a degree. The difference is in their humanity. That unlikely 60’s couple each got to dance like any nerd in the lunch line and feel good about it. Real good. Today the corporations steer us to do the impossible and copy the world’s champions, which sets up stone walls to our dance as expressive creatures. Then this negativity gets revealed in our every day lives: Paint a picture? Not if you can’t out dance both van Gogh in color and Wyeth in boredom. Chisel marble? Are your balls square? There has been only one superstar worthy of that! The world’s champions, (a Kurt Vonnegut idea), existed in 1969 too. Yet from watching the “Raise Your Hand” video (I was 2 years old at the time thinking about becoming a painter), it is so obvious to me that the door was open for humanity (at least for those existing in a healthy economy) to virtually explode with creativity per capita.
Art’s urgent task is to reopen that door. It must go back a generation to Tom and Janis, further back to the Mohawk and Santee Sioux; I say shine light on the first clan even, to notice how Glub the Firestarter turned a rock into a Mastodon with his smoldering magic stick. Hurrah! Let’s party!
And Glub’s brothers and sisters gesticulate the ancient human dance while drinking spit beer late into the night.
Beyoncé, Jeff Koons and Rita the corporate-sponsored conceptual artist who uses her feet to throw rocks at spider monkeys, are invaders in our once deeply expressive village. ABC and PBS are working overtime this week getting us to authenticate their celebrity. This will sell more Crest, more Toyota Corollas, and less and less of the truth that each and every one of us is deeply expressive if we dare to dig that deep. The entertainers can be amazing and excite us to our own expressive joys, which is art manifest. I got up and raised my hand with Tom Jones, but I didn’t want to be like him. I writhed and wrinkled and spilled my spit fermented beer on the hide carpet. I woke up and painted a saber-toothed tiger stalking a Super Bowl celebrity into the forest.
Art must coax art out of the box that money and power have stuffed it into. Museum is art history. Instrumental in preserving art’s stories. However, no joy comes from paced, clockwise observation at a respectable five foot distance, whether that be an afternoon at the Louvre or your local, struggling art association. And celebrity is anything but celebratory. Lady Gaga is Cindy Sherman. Mick Jagger is Jasper Johns. Millionaire super jocks with dead style choreographed. I think their art is as much fun to be around as burning plastic. It is urgent that we support the expression of our neighbors Donna, who paints us the real news, (what the fourth estate has abandoned for advertising deals), and Fred, the marble sculptor sweating out angst in the oppressive July heat. His fellow suburbanites doze the live long day long in the cool of the swimming pool.
“Hey, crank up the music!”
Yawn. Just another Beyoncé tune.