What is the best art?
Once upon a time, before moving to Chicago, I prepared myself to use the public transportation system. Studying the Transit Authority map, one stop on the Blue Line caught my eye: California. Logically, I knew it was probably a standard El stop. But I couldn’t help but picture it as a special place, an enchanting oasis from the freezing concrete city. Maybe there were palm trees?
There were not palm trees. It had been absurd to ever imagine otherwise, but from then on, every time I passed through the profoundly average California stop, the experience was disillusioning. The human imagination is impressive, but often our innate creativity and self-awareness destroys our ability to be content like other animals. Apparently that’s what art is about.
Imho, art itself is often as disappointing and empty as the California stop. But is there any that’s good? Is there any that’s the best?
Poetry
For a long time, I felt I needed to be prepared in case I was forced to name my favorite poet. The scenario I imagined was something between bantering with a well-read James Bond type on a date and being held up at gunpoint. I decided on Pablo Neruda. He’s the Diptyque candle of poets—tastefully romantic, high-end-feeling yet commercially accessible.
A Neruda quote appears in Taylor Swift’s All Too Well video, which makes perfect sense.
I was only aware of Neruda’s existence because during one of my many mortifying ‘rough patches,’ my friend’s mother mailed me a newspaper clipping of an Ann Landers column about teen suicide. Ann quoted a Neruda poem: “You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.”
‘Shock art’ is all topped by this Ann Landers column.
This struck me as the sentiment of a parent who knows you’re just having a tantrum and you’ll get over it eventually. Spring’s coming no matter what, so in the meantime, buck up and don’t ruin everyone’s vacation. I was angry with both Neruda and my friend’s mother for months. When I finally mentioned it to her, in a non-confrontational way, of course, she didn’t know what I was talking about. It turned out that she’d meant for me to see the Garfield comic on the other side of the clipping.
Anyway, I like this Edith Wharton poem: “My little old dog—A heart-beat at my feet.” 😌This Gwendolyn Brooks poem is also fun, and satisfying to whisper to yourself (but would be embarrassing to read out loud).
However, most poetry is innately frustrating. Hinting around, gesturing at a topic…all art is semi-oblique, but poets use words, not paint; they’re already so close. Just spit it out bb!
🚨Alert: Celebrity Sighting🚨 My mother once took me to a production starring our shy teenage neighbor Josh Hartnett. He did great!
Theater
My first brush with the fine arts was in grade school, attending plays at the Children’s Theatre Company. Theater is an art form that’s been around since the 5th century, and it’s certainly showing its age. Luckily, there’s TV.
🚨Alert: Celebrity Sighting🚨 My mother once took me to a production starring our shy teenage neighbor Josh Hartnett. He did great!
Although if you count professional sports, reality TV has been around since well before the nineties. In both pro sports and a reality show, the players or cast are put into a lightly-rigged framework designed to produce conflict, false stakes are injected, the action is endlessly dissected by fans, and eventually, through sheer collective belief, the stakes (usually lots of money) become real.
Television
I love TV! There’s no threat of nonconsensual audience participation, and we’re one step removed from the awkward ‘acting’ process—especially when it comes to reality TV. Reality TV is simultaneously sick and a safe haven, and I’m blessed to have been a teenager during its thrilling rise in the zeitgeist. I particularly liked The Swan, an inhumane 2004 show that provided women with extreme plastic surgery makeovers before forcing them to compete against each other in a beauty pageant. The setup was something that a serial killer who liked to toy with his victims might have orchestrated.
Although if you count professional sports, reality TV has been around since well before the nineties. In both pro sports and a reality show, the players or cast are put into a lightly-rigged framework designed to produce conflict, false stakes are injected, the action is endlessly dissected by fans, and eventually, through sheer collective belief, the stakes (usually lots of money) become real.
Tom’s official bio, grasping for personality in the same way his art does, notes that he filmed his recreational boxing matches “as part of his punk art, and he has won prizes for his Tai Chi.” Using the term “punk art” is criminal and almost as bad as shooting a dog, a project his bio neglects to mention. (Don’t worry, the link doesn’t show the dog execution.)
Public Art
Public art is lite art that any peasant can encounter in the wild, and so the topics tend to be broadly, generically relatable. Public art is more like a picture of art, and is often infuriating. A celebrated example is the twee Tom Otterness installation consisting of cartoony sculptures whimsically living it up in one of the most stressful subway stations in the world. One figure claims a coveted spot on a bench, which is an asshole move. The installation’s “Isn’t this all just magical / only in New York / lighten up” vibe provokes me whenever I’m suffering quietly through a transfer.
Long story short, public art appeals to a vision of shared humanity that I don’t believe in.
Outsider Art
Outsider art is art made by people who are referred to as ‘outsiders,’ which is condescending. I like a lot of outsider art, but the name ruins it. It feels gross to look at something from the perspective of a self-appointed insider—a David Brooksian figure who would write to Metropolitan Diary marveling that their cab driver can read or that someone who steals might be hungry. There’s no need to grade this art on a separate curve.
Tom’s official bio, grasping for personality in the same way his art does, notes that he filmed his recreational boxing matches “as part of his punk art, and he has won prizes for his Tai Chi.” Using the term “punk art” is criminal and almost as bad as shooting a dog, a project his bio neglects to mention. (Don’t worry, the link doesn’t show the dog execution.)
The term “punk art” is almost as bad as shooting a dog The term “punk art” is almost as bad as shooting a dog
Performance & Conceptual Art
There are the standbys like Marina Abramović and, if we’re honest, David Blaine, but I’m more into Erwin Wurm’s One Minute Sculptures, an ongoing project in which Wurm provides a participant with written instructions on how to interact with some random objects, therefore becoming, for a brief moment in time, a sculpture—ie, lie on your back, lift your legs straight up towards the ceiling, and balance two teacups on the soles of your feet.
I’m a fan, although it feels kinda like a babysitting time-killer. Like, is it DEEP enough to be the best art? For instance, something that captures these complex feelings, the way fragrances attempt to bottle abstract entire essences, would be ideal:
Being assigned the simple but alarming duty of zipping up my ancient grandfather’s fly after he used the bathroom.
Going into an elementary school to vote.
- The shock of glimpsing my boyfriend from afar at dusk and thinking he was snuggled up making out with somebody—but, in a Halloween twist, he was merely carrying a pumpkin on his shoulder.
Shortly after my Children’s Theatre phase ended, I went on a field trip to the Walker Art Center, where I was baffled by a sculpture that starred a head of lettuce. The lettuce was wedged clumsily between a small block of granite and granite pillar—maybe just look at a picture. It’s hard to describe, but basically it looked dumb.
Giovanni Anselmo’s “Senza titolo (Untitled)” (1968), also known as “Struttura che mangia” (“Eating Sculpture”).
Then the docent explained that if left alone, the lettuce would wilt, shrink, and die, and the sculpture would fall apart. It needed to be fed fresh lettuce every couple days. I started thinking about my shriveling old grandfather and my neglected guinea pig and was overcome as I processed mortality for the first time.
For twenty-five years, I’ve thought about this piece of art probably once a week. This may be because that’s how often I go to the grocery store, but still. That’s powerful!
Art in Context
But…I don’t know if I would have connected with the lettuce (lol) without the docent’s explanation. And if it needs external context to be appreciated, is it successful art? I’m not asking for more iterations on the Virgin Mary, but it’s annoying to try to get into a random blob or whatever with zero backstory. The lettuce’s obvious competition is any entry in the YouTube timelapse compilation genre by someone who took a mirror selfie every day for ten years. Those need no interpretation, especially with their corny soundtrack cues. But the brave lil lettuce art is less narcissistic (it shines a light on a humble vegetable, not a self-obsessed aging bro), and the subtlety allows the viewer to feel smart, which is a kindness on the part of the artist. The sculpture is a salad (almost literally) while the viral video is a green juice (alluring, but ultimately empty, trendy, and saccharine).
People are so desperate for something to do in museums that this Jasper Johns flag passes as an interactive exhibit. (It’s at best mildly entertaining, on par with a Magic Eye in a waiting room, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And since it’s an American flag it gets extra art credit.)
In Japanese culture, omotenashi is a wholehearted spirit of service. Museums could take a cue from this. I’m frantic to sit down and rest the moment I enter the building, scouring the area for a bench like a shipwrecked sailor in search of an island. Ironically, I first learned about omotenashi in a museum exhibit that recreated a Japanese living room circa the 13th century. It was torture to look at all the available seating just beyond the velvet rope guarding the exhibit.
A museum setting itself seems like important context, but anyone who’s ever typed up a paper (or written a column 😉) can tell you: even the flimsiest ideas seem legitimate when formatted with 1.5 inch margins and double spacing. The same goes for art in a museum. The frames are false signifiers of prestige. Museums have let in plenty of clunkers, just like the White House. And both the White House and art museums often feel somehow simultaneously dramatic and boring, which is crazy. Art museums are shrines to death, business-hours haunted houses—all art is made by someone who is aware that they will one day die. That’s interesting, so why are museums so bland? I dread a museum visit no matter how hard they’re trying—Carsten Höller slides are fun, but they don’t hold up against real competition (Six Flags). And I really feel that looking at art is a sitting activity. Museums and money seem to make art worse, but as previously stated, I struggle to support public art. (Do I even LIKE art???? Hmm.)
People are so desperate for something to do in museums that this Jasper Johns flag passes as an interactive exhibit. (It’s at best mildly entertaining, on par with a Magic Eye in a waiting room, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And since it’s an American flag it gets extra art credit.)
In Japanese culture, omotenashi is a wholehearted spirit of service. Museums could take a cue from this. I’m frantic to sit down and rest the moment I enter the building, scouring the area for a bench like a shipwrecked sailor in search of an island. Ironically, I first learned about omotenashi in a museum exhibit that recreated a Japanese living room circa the 13th century. It was torture to look at all the available seating just beyond the velvet rope guarding the exhibit.
Arte Povera, the Italian movement from which our previously mentioned lettuce friend originated, was a reaction against the excess of the consumerist American art scene. It was more about the ‘artistic gesture’ and less about the art object itself, which is nice.
If we can’t trust museums OR public art, what’s the best art?
Arte Povera, the Italian movement from which our previously mentioned lettuce friend originated, was a reaction against the excess of the consumerist American art scene. It was more about the ‘artistic gesture’ and less about the art object itself, which is nice.
The Best
I’m charmed by the lettuce sculpture, but I have to be fair: it’s merely a cute iteration on the classic optical illusion that depicts both an old woman and a young girl. The old woman and young girl neatly encapsulate what every piece of art is trying to get at: death. ☠️ I love a downer, and this is our winner. It’s stood the test of time, it’s accessible outside of museum hell, and it’s a revealing personality test—who do you see? Take a look!
