Being an artist in contemporary culture is far more a giving up than a celebration of anything. The first thing you usually give up is called a life. You can't afford one.
This is not the world of showing up at the opera, the ballet, the museum, and the theatre. How gala. Art is hard work, sweat, usually a spiritual vacuum, and a financial train wreck. It is completely divorced from the red carpet the First Lady will walk on.
What would be truly amazing and unique (no one is hopeful this could happen) is if the First Lady could see beyond the sparkle of the social scene's dog and pony show. What would be truly amazing would be to have an arts advocate for artists instead of art administrators with publicists and the number of the white house and Charlie Rose on their publicist's rolodex.
Beyond the impossibility of that, what would be revolutionary would be to actually have a National Endowment for the Arts that had a focus on the people who make the arts versus a political focus on keeping culture clean and arts administrators with MFAs endowed.
Culture isn't clean. It's gritty. It's made by human beings who often have no choice in the matter. It's trouble. It's controversial. It asks questions to which answers might be nuanced if they exist at all. It is the job of the artist to ask questions. To challenge. There is none of this in the social scene that art is showcased in today.
What would be shocking would be to have a First Lady who had the gravitas to refuse to be more than frosting on the celebration's cake walk. I wouldn't hold my breath.
I'm too busy to hold my breath. I can't afford to care where Michelle Obama comes or goes or arrives in a pumpkin carriage to Lincoln Center's pearly gates. I can't afford the frosting or the cake. I'm too busy kissing the *** of gatekeepers. Most of whom live and work in New York. I'm too busy pretending to teach art when, in fact, what I'm really teaching is the art of survival. We don't have a red carpet to roll out. We don't have Charlie Rose's ear. We don't have a band to play Hail to the Chief as he walks into a room. We don't have a publicist or want one.
If we had a pumpkin, we would eat it.
We struggle for supplies. We make do. We go without. We are thrown out of galleries on our ear. We take the bus. We do not drink champagne. You will never know who we are, and you will never find any of our names next to the First Lady's name published in a social scene report pretending to be news.
We are constantly ripped off by the middle men, the agents, the vampires, the editors, the publishers, the publicists, the assistants in galleries that hate art and loathe artists, the administrators, the journalists who write about money (not art), the galleries themselves, the committees that raise billions to buy bigger and better space for the museums that house the breathtakingly successful, the names, cream of the crop, the boards of directors, the machine, the academics who run from art toward a real paycheck as fast as their little legs can take them. This is the world of pretense, not art.
These people can't make art, and they don't make art. They make a mockery of art. To see another First Lady on their arm is nothing new. Jackie was on their arm. Lady Bird was on their arm. Pat was on their arm. Rosalynn was on their arm. Nancy was on their arm. Barbara was on their arm. Hiliary was on their arm. Laura was on their arm. It's the same arm and the same stiff paradigm. These people have as much to do with art as Jesse Helms had to do with insight or self-expression. This is the status quo of the flashbulbs. Smiles. Gowns. Limos. Status. Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching. Ho hum. Gigantic scissors to cut an equally gargantuan facade.
This is not the world of showing up at the opera, the ballet, the museum, and the theatre. How gala. Art is hard work, sweat, usually a spiritual vacuum, and a financial train wreck. It is completely divorced from the red carpet the First Lady will walk on.
What would be truly amazing and unique (no one is hopeful this could happen) is if the First Lady could see beyond the sparkle of the social scene's dog and pony show. What would be truly amazing would be to have an arts advocate for artists instead of art administrators with publicists and the number of the white house and Charlie Rose on their publicist's rolodex.
Beyond the impossibility of that, what would be revolutionary would be to actually have a National Endowment for the Arts that had a focus on the people who make the arts versus a political focus on keeping culture clean and arts administrators with MFAs endowed.
Culture isn't clean. It's gritty. It's made by human beings who often have no choice in the matter. It's trouble. It's controversial. It asks questions to which answers might be nuanced if they exist at all. It is the job of the artist to ask questions. To challenge. There is none of this in the social scene that art is showcased in today.
What would be shocking would be to have a First Lady who had the gravitas to refuse to be more than frosting on the celebration's cake walk. I wouldn't hold my breath.
I'm too busy to hold my breath. I can't afford to care where Michelle Obama comes or goes or arrives in a pumpkin carriage to Lincoln Center's pearly gates. I can't afford the frosting or the cake. I'm too busy kissing the *** of gatekeepers. Most of whom live and work in New York. I'm too busy pretending to teach art when, in fact, what I'm really teaching is the art of survival. We don't have a red carpet to roll out. We don't have Charlie Rose's ear. We don't have a band to play Hail to the Chief as he walks into a room. We don't have a publicist or want one.
If we had a pumpkin, we would eat it.
We struggle for supplies. We make do. We go without. We are thrown out of galleries on our ear. We take the bus. We do not drink champagne. You will never know who we are, and you will never find any of our names next to the First Lady's name published in a social scene report pretending to be news.
We are constantly ripped off by the middle men, the agents, the vampires, the editors, the publishers, the publicists, the assistants in galleries that hate art and loathe artists, the administrators, the journalists who write about money (not art), the galleries themselves, the committees that raise billions to buy bigger and better space for the museums that house the breathtakingly successful, the names, cream of the crop, the boards of directors, the machine, the academics who run from art toward a real paycheck as fast as their little legs can take them. This is the world of pretense, not art.
These people can't make art, and they don't make art. They make a mockery of art. To see another First Lady on their arm is nothing new. Jackie was on their arm. Lady Bird was on their arm. Pat was on their arm. Rosalynn was on their arm. Nancy was on their arm. Barbara was on their arm. Hiliary was on their arm. Laura was on their arm. It's the same arm and the same stiff paradigm. These people have as much to do with art as Jesse Helms had to do with insight or self-expression. This is the status quo of the flashbulbs. Smiles. Gowns. Limos. Status. Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching. Ho hum. Gigantic scissors to cut an equally gargantuan facade.
For many, this is art. But here's the kicker, why it's all worthwhile (the less-bitter pov)
An artist is an artist, not because he has training or technique or gallery shows or magnificent performance venues. He/she is an artist because he/she has something to say that can be said no other way, something that resonates with the participant/viewer.
Authentic art means something profound, something internal, something besides dollars to the beholder and the creator. That is what makes it art.
This is, however, the 21st century and it takes appeal to get public interest, the kind of interest that translates into authentic arts programs in public schools, in non-profit organizations that serve at-risk and underprivileged kids.
If Michelle Obama's magic can generate that kind of interest, more power to her.
I hope she does.
If she doesn't, I will still be an artist, teaching what I know to the kids I work with every day.
And so will you.
Authentic art means something profound, something internal, something besides dollars to the beholder and the creator. That is what makes it art.
This is, however, the 21st century and it takes appeal to get public interest, the kind of interest that translates into authentic arts programs in public schools, in non-profit organizations that serve at-risk and underprivileged kids.
If Michelle Obama's magic can generate that kind of interest, more power to her.
I hope she does.
If she doesn't, I will still be an artist, teaching what I know to the kids I work with every day.
And so will you.
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