Page 3 from: November 2012
V I E W P O I N T
Manfred Beck
Editor
Art is stupid. Art has no point. Paintings are really worthless. The ‘value’ of a painting is
assigned by some person who has enough clout in
the art world so that others will listen and obey. If
I were to create something magnificent, no-one
would care or ascribe it monetary value. If someone
else, however, that has the backing of these same
people creates a piece of garbage, it is priceless
because enough of the right people have fallen over
backwards for it.
Also, there is no practical application for art. I sup-
pose we could break down a painting and burn the
wood of the frame. But what about music? We could
chop up the instruments and send them for recy-
cling, I guess. But as for the actual melody and har-
mony, there is no practical purpose for them. It is
mindless noise, droning on and on and on.
You cannot provide a compelling argument against
this simple fact: art is stupid. Art could vanish from
the world and life would continue. Art does not
keep buildings erect. Art does not keep people alive.
It does not plant seeds or harvest grain or raise
livestock. Art does not bring healing to the infirm.
Art didn’t create the parameters within which a
society operates. Art is not responsible for dictating
simple universal rules like respect for human life.
Art is stupid. But how I love it!
Some weeks ago, I felt that sudden but regular urge
to feed my artistic senses, I headed to our local Muse-
um of Modern Art. There were several exhibits with
names such as ‘An epic exploration of disagreement
and incompetence’ and ‘The souls of the warthog are
in jeopardy in ways not common to other men’. Read-
ing these titles, I already began to have doubts about
whether my hunger for culture was about to go
unsatisfied – but I persisted in my quest. After about
an hour, my brain was becoming overloaded with
sculptures, videos, painting-music performances in
recycled plastics, and New Age collages. In addition,
my stomach confirmed that I had skipped breakfast
earlier in the day and that he urgently needed filling.
I took a catalogue from a stand and headed for the
restaurant. I ordered spaghetti a la putanesca, some
garlic bread and a half bottle of wine to wash it all
down. I sat alone at a clean white table and, while
I was eating, read the catalogue’s review of the
exhibits and the artists.
One of those artists, a young woman named Yaku-
zama Klitorima, explained her art as follows: ‘My
work explores the relationship between Jungian
body archetypes, urban spaces and multi-media
experiences. With influences as diverse as Wittgen-
stein and Roy Lichtenstein, new combinations are
synthesised from both opaque and transparent nar-
ratives. Ever since I was a teenager, I have been fas-
cinated by the endless oscillation of the mind. What
starts out as contemplation soon becomes manip-
ulated into a dialectic of lust, leaving only a sense
of unreality and the chance of a new beginning. As
momentary replicas become frozen through dili-
gent and academic practice, the viewer is left with
a glimpse of the possibilities of our existence and
with a statement of the corners of our future.’
At this point, my brain rejected all attempts to digest
the indigestible and my stomach was beginning to
react in sympathy. I felt an
urgent need for fresh air,
leaving my half-finished
lunch on the table as
I rushed outside.
After a few moments and
a cigar, I felt better and went back to the restaurant.
To my amazement, there was a crowd of school kids
swarming around my table, which was now cordoned
off with a rope. As I attempted to retrieve the rest of
my spaghetti, bread and wine, I was told in no uncer-
tain terms by a warden that touching was strictly not
allowed. He ushered me into a side room where the
curator of the museum thanked me for this superb
and challenging post-modern masterpiece. Obvi-
ously, my discarded lunch had become the latest star
exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art.
It was Andy
Warhol who once
said that an artist
produces things
that people don’t
need to have. He
also promised me
my 15 minutes of
fame, which duly
arrived on a
recent visit to my
local Museum of
Modern Art…
Food for thought
‘My brain rejected all attempts
to digest the indigestible.’
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