Random Musings

Before I start roasting the imbecilic pretension of the so called avant-garde artists, let me try defining what exactly constitutes Art. We can define Art as an artifact that can elicit pleasure in the beholder when he perceives it purely via audio/visual medium. Now, I am sure that a lot of people are going to pounce on me and decry this particular definition as inadequate–even absurd–, since, even traditionally, many genuine artworks weren’t about pleasure. So my first step would be explain this apparent exceptions to my definition. For instance, a good tragic drama is art, and yet, the emotional response from the viewer is a feeling of loss. To understand this apparent contradiction, we have to understand that, whether an art evokes pleasure or pain, people genuinely find it appealing. As in, a woman might shed tears at a corny melodrama, but we can be sure that she is surely going to continue watching it. So ultimately, the quality we are seeking about art is the ‘appeal’. Whether it manages to engender pain or pleasure, it ultimately results in a feeling that makes a person want to experience it again.

This problem clarifies itself when we factor in our evolutionary past. What is happening is this: the superficial negative emotion–in this particular case, the feeling of loss owing to the tragedy in the drama–is ultimately creating a visceral feeling of pleasure. And the reason for this is that in our evolutionary past, it would have been beneficial for someone to expose themselves to negative emotions, and since it is adaptive, it naturally leads to a deep sense of pleasure. Let me clarify some more. Feeling deeply about the tale of woe–even tales that directly do not concern us–would be beneficial, since humans primarily learn via negative emotions, and thus knowing about and then empathizing with the tragic story of another person would help us in the future to avoid a similar situation. This is primarily why dramas are more effective the more closer to reality they are. Evolution’s way of making someone do an activity is by making it pleasurable. Thus undergoing emotional pain–via watching the melodrama–will lead to a sense of fulfillment at another level.

We now have a very clear and universal definition of art: Art is anything that creates pleasure in the perceiver via audio/visual medium. The _seeming_ exceptions are solely owing to our masochistic traits. And masochistic traits evolved because volitionally subjecting ourselves to negative emotions would actually benefit the person. So to classify something as art, it must ultimately result in pleasure–whether direct or indirect, superficial or visceral–in the audience.

Now armed with our scientific definition, let us approach an avant-garde art website called as artcritical.com and see if they can be considered art in any manner; whether they even remotely resemble something that we can with good conscience categorize as art. We analyze the verbiage spewed by the self-professed art critics, whose ultimate aim is to profit from the idiocy of the vacuous rich by peddling junk to them.

http://artcritical.com/DavidCohen/SUN-2007/0802.htm

Cohen writes:

“The title of the sprawling group show at David Zwirner through August 10, “A point in space is a place for an argument,” is derived from Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosphicus, and is about as open to interpretation as that often cryptic thinker’s pronouncements. The very act of quoting Wittgenstein, in fact, identifies the unnamed curators of this show with a heady set of aspirations that characterized the artistic vanguard of the 1960s and ’70s.”

The first thing that catches our attention is that the title isn’t original; instead, it is plagiarized from Wittgenstein, one of the well known abstruse philosophers of 20th century. Cohen, in his perverse way, finds this lack of originality as not only praiseworthy, but as a genuine measure of uniqueness. Is that the kind of intellectual world that Cohen lives in? A world where the audience is supposed to tremble in anticipation and ‘aspiration’ at a mere mention of phrase stolen from a philosophical work? It would actually seem Cohen has unwittingly given the entire game away in the first sentence itself. His confession of his awe of a phrase, merely because of it was culled from Wittgenstein, should itself have made him laughable.

Even stranger is his characterization of Wittgenstein as ‘cryptic’. How can any information be called ‘cryptic’. Inability to understand a piece of information can only have two causes: Either you are too stupid, or the speaker is not making any sense. Cohen’s attempt to characterize Wittgenstein as ‘cryptic’ not only points to his inability to understand the philosopher’s work, but also his tendency to classify anything beyond his comprehension as inherently profound.

Then he rambles on, goes on to analyze each individual pieces of art. And then another thing strikes us. Many of the so called art works are Untitled, or have obvious titles–like a broken chair being called ‘chair’. This itself should warn us of the less than noble intentions of the so called artist. If a pedestrian object is supposed to be a symbol for something much more profound, isn’t it the artist’s duty to at least find a clever name for it? Not only are we thrust with a piece of scrap of uninspiring shape and color, we are supposed to find the entire meaning in it ourselves. But of course, that’s how the economics of art works. Coming up with a name for a heap of scrap would only limit the critics ability to interpret into something profound, and naturally most of the art is going to remain untitled.

http://www.artcritical.com/blurbs/JSMcMillian.htm

This is another travesty that’s a gross violation of all decency laws in existence. If the broken chair wasn’t enough, they have added a commentary that’s not only pretentious but genuinely grating on the nerves. I am one of the few people who actually enjoys pointlessly pretentious prose, and yet, the entire article makes me want to bludgeon the writer with something sharp. His style has no cadence, no rhythm. It is like a kid has gotten himself a thesaurus, and strung together random phrases in a pathetic attempt to sound intelligent.

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