Page 123

Rafique of The Liberal War Journal (and The Stubborn Facts) has tagged me for yet another book meme. He's too likable for me to say no, and at least this one is easy.

Here are the rules:
1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.

There is a full bookcase to the right of the computer (yikes!) but to my great relief there are several books strewn across the surface of the low table to the left and the closest one comes in several inches closer than the bookshelf. It is one of my all-time favourites, My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok.

She sounded frightened. I wondered why she was frightened. She hadn't drawn the Rebbe's face in a Chumash.

This is a magnificent novel about a young ultra-orthodox Jewish boy who is consumed by his gift. From the time he can hold a stubby crayon in his fat little fist, he cannot stop himself from drawing, painting, documenting his life. And it ultimately leads him to paint a crucifixion, although it is not Jesus, but his mother who hangs on the cross formed by the intersection of the living room window panes. Potok explores with his customary compassion and sensitivity the relationships between father and son, mother and son, art and religion, belief and doubt. I don't know if the book is still in print, but if you can get your hands on a copy, do so. And cherish it.

Now that I am "it", I need to tag five others. Mwahaha.

Janna at Something She Wrote, of course (revenge is sweet)
Jared at Total Depravity (despite the name, a blog of great charm)
Greg at Sippican Cottage, essayist extraordinaire
Edward Willett at the misspelled (no I won't give it up, Ed!) Hassenpfeffer
and
Annie at The Superfast Reader

Technorati tags: Memes, Chaim Potok, My Name is Asher Lev

The banning of super skinny models

Steve Janke, Angry in the Great White North has a great post up about the ban of super-thin models at a recent fashion show in Spain. Unfortunately, his site has faulty software for accepting comments and they often don't get through. I lost patience with trying, but I would still like to comment, so here is my response to Steve.

I would prefer the fashion industry to do its own policing, but seeing as it is one of the most corrupt, women-abusive industries around, I wouldn't hold my breath. Maybe you're right and governments should be stepping in. One of the legitimate functions of government after all is the protection of its citizens, both from external threats and internal abuse.

For all your lack of interest in the fashion world - which I share, woman or no - you've done a good job of hitting a few nails on the head. Yes, the designers do prefer women that look like teen-age boys, because that is what corresponds to their own preferences and because of the practical considerations you mentioned. They have, for the most part, never shown the slightest interest in designing for real women. Fashion design is about being an artist, with all its attendant baggage of ego and self-indulgence, not about meeting any reasonable needs.

Have you ever seen the reports about the fashion agencies assuring parents that their teen-age daughters would be properly chaperoned while working in Milan and other European centres, while those self-same chaperones were introducing the girls to drugs and literally pimping them out as high-price call girls? This has been the subject of more than one exposé, but seeing as I saw them on TV some time ago, I can't link to them here.

The industry stinks to high heaven.

I, Locutor

If an artist creates a work of art, and nobody understands it, is it art?

Or, put another way, is communication an essential part of what it means to be art? Far too often, it seems to me that works of modern art are like the proverbial tree in the forest, falling with nobody to hear. Am I being unreasonable here, or should it not be the goal of an artist to communicate, to engage the viewer in some kind of a dialogue? What point is there in shouting into the forest, where there are no ears to hear? Or shouting into a crowd in a language nobody understands? It may make you feel good to express yourself, but is your self-indulgence really deserving of the name "art"?

Here is a piece of modern art that does succeed in communicating. It horrified me when I first saw it. It still does. But that is an entirely appropriate response, seeing as this painting is Salvador Dali's Premonitions of Civil War. Not exactly something I'd want to hang in my living room, but there's no denying that he has effectively captured the agony of a country ripping itself to pieces.

But what was I to make of a piece of art (?) I saw some time ago at the National Gallery - a simple red circle hung on the wall? It had companions further on down the wall, equally simple geometric figures in single colours. I have no clue what they were supposed to say to me. There might have been a message, but it was cryptic to the point of being inscrutable. My only consolation was that the circle and its friends had been donated to the Gallery by the artist and not paid for out of taxpayers' money. My question to the artist (whose name I've forgotten) would be, "What's the point?"

In a conversation about art at Ambivablog some time ago, Annie included a link which sent me to the site of a young Japanese artist, Kana Tanaka, who spoke of her attitude toward art.

In the US I have been taught to attempt to break the ‘set,’ historically accepted concept of "art", and to create something new by believing and following self-motivations and inspirations. What is most important is to develop "artistic confidence." I found this inspiring passage in the book, RAW CREATION -- Outsider Art, that encouraged me to create something without thinking too much about the audience, and to follow my own desire and inspiration.

Talk about art in a vacuum! She might just as well be blogging...

In all seriousness, I think she has expressed very clearly the essence of the problem: art as a self-indulgent expression, with indifference or even active contempt of the audience. It does not seem to me to be an ideal to aspire to.

The title of this post is deliberately cryptic, in the spirit of some modern art. I was about to change it, figuring nobody would understand my draft title, but then I thought, "How perfect! Exactly what I'm talking about!" So I left my self-indulgence in place. If you "get" it, let me know.

The Emperor has no clothes...

[Update] For the poor souls who come to this blog wondering what on earth the expression "the Emperor has no clothes" means, it comes from Hans Christian Andersen's story, "The Emperor's New Suit." You can read it here. It has always struck me as being a particularly apt metaphor for how the art establishment puffs artists of highly questionable worth. Well, questionable in my opinion anyway, for which they have little or no respect, I am sure.

But seeing as you're here, why don't you have a look around? Check the Topics list in the sidebar and see if anything piques your interest.

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...and is writhing in his own blood on the art gallery floor.

Canada's artsy-fartsy version of a shock jock, Istvan Kantor, is at it again. And is succeeding at getting himself banned from yet another art gallery, this time the Art Gallery of Ontario.

What amazes me in all this, is that curators and critics, who spend their entire professional careers dealing with art in all its forms, seem completely helpless in coming up with a definition of art that excludes any form of expression whatsoever. All they can do is sniff in derision because his performance was "so '60's" and ban him because his actions affected the rights of another artist, the late Andy Warhol, whose exhibition was the staging grounds of Kantor's latest shenanigans.

OK, so they're banning a living "artist" because he's infringing on the rights of a dead one. Hmmm. Wonder how that would fly in court. Politically and artistically correct people do have to twist themselves into the weirdest pretzels to justify the simplest acts, which to their credit, they took promptly.

Is it really so hard to say, "Our definition of art does not include pointless, narcissistic vandalism." Apparently, yes, it is. But I am still left wondering, what is the purpose of a word whose definition is so vast it ceases to have any functional meaning?

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NOTE: The only online source for this story from the mainstream media is available only to Ottawa Citizen subscribers. The blog post linked to in the title provides few details.

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Technorati tags: Istvan Kantor, Art, Hans Christian Andersen