down with artspeak! (or, don’t let yourself go)

Arturo Soto

There are probably more than 10,000 articles about how unwise and un-blog-attractive it is to apologize for not posting frequently enough to your blog. (“Don’t keep hamsters if you can’t remember to feed them”?) It is the blog version of saying, “I’ve really let myself go.” Supposing that I have, it seems that I should never openly admit it.

Cruising a discussion forum the other day, I stumbled onto a debate about the gender biases inherent in the phrase “let yourself go.” Apparently the implications of this insult are much worse when leveled at women than men (read: objectification, body image issues and other similarly nasty words). Well, I think, this is why you should never openly admit it.

And then, “inelegantly and without my consent,” as Miranda July puts it, a blur of artist statements flashed before my eyes. Actually, just one, but it’s a doozy. Arturo Soto’s Blind Views is about “the blinding normalcy of the present,” not to mention the “specificity of the photographic trace.” Perhaps a fitting irony: the text is literally unreadable, at least on my screen. Whoa! I think. He’s really let himself go!

We don’t need anyone to really point out the cellulite and the cottage cheese and all the grisly details of how someone has visibly let themselves go. It’s pretty clear when we see it, as much as I hate to admit it. And despite all our attempts to pinpoint the exact fine line between well-versed theoretical gymnastics and nonsensical artspeak, we don’t need anyone to point out artspeak. Don’t you know it when you read it? There’s a warning bell indicating something gone awry that’s apparent from first glance, before any deeper analysis even happens.

Arturo Soto

The problem isn’t necessarily the use of jargon. Maybe it is very necessary to speak as Barthes did in certain contexts. The problem also isn’t the absence of meaning. I do in fact have a good sense of what Soto means, because his work is good and his other statements clear and concise. But the thing is, I can’t be sure. That’s what’s missing. A certain flavor of certainty. It’s not a problem with the sentiments behind the word – rather, it’s the failure of those words to communicate with any sort of assured clarity. He has let himself go because this is sloppy communication, this is talking around something rather than speaking to it.

Would the statement be different if the words “race,” “class,” “advertisements,” “small town” were included? These are the things I believe he is referring to, but I can’t really say one way or the other. What I hear is, “these photos have cultural significance.” But all photos do. Color in this one for us! Or, alternatively, leave the obvious unstated.

(If you must know, I have stolen this example from Utata. Sorry Arturo, nothing personal. I really do like your work and, in fact, your other statements. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the right place at the right time?)

~

Stowe understood how influential narrative could be, and with ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ she achieved what endless speeches in the halls of Congress, political tracts, harangues, and newspaper articles failed to do: she made the reality of slavery palpable to the American public. As one Southern commentator noted, “Thousands will peruse an interesting story, and thus gradually imbibe the author’s views, that would not read ten lines of a mere argumentative volume on the same theme.” (“The Persuader“)

Visual art is old as anything, older than writing. Unless you see pictorial art as a stand-in for writing before we invented the word. In which case, my suspicion is that there is less of a dividing line between art and documentation, fiction and non-fiction, than we make it out to be.

Art is either a recognizable rendering of the flower in the field, recorded for our primal sensory pleasure or to evoke significant memories, or it is an explanation of the significance of such an object to our personal experience. When you can no longer recognize the flower at all (or at least when it ceases to be the primary subject), the effect of art enters a more gut-reaction, subliminal level on which user-oriented design or perhaps consumer-herding works. At that point, you may need the explanation, an explicit explanation.

For those more versed in the canon of a particular form, it may be easy to stay in the realm of social context relevant to personal experience, but for the unenlightened, a guiding hand is needed. Kittens, babies and sunsets are popular for a reason. We have collectively encountered kittens, babies and sunsets for a very long time. We have extensive experience with kittens, babies and sunsets, and our brains know precisely what to do with them. Modern art is a different story. As much as I’d like to claim it, we have not had experience with Stephen Shore (nor light bulbs, for that matter) since the beginning of time, though that may very well be a characteristic of the best of all possible worlds.

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Sean Dreilinger‘s random baby vs Stephen Shore‘s light bulbs. Winner is…?

This is my explanation of why modern art annoys some people. “My kid could paint that” actually unpacks into: “My kid has no understanding of adult human life and therefore he paints meaningless abstractions / photographs random street corners that bear no relation to my life as an adult human.” Which is another way of saying, “I don’t understand what I, as an adult human, am supposed to take away from this. What does this have to do with my life? What do I learn from this?”

A lot of the murk of bad statements could be precipitated out with an infusion of teacherliness. If we (I!) wrote statements with a nod to the layman, we find a larger audience. It’s not about the lowest common denominator, it is simply acknowledging the fact that more people have had exposure to babies than to Stephen Shore. If you must stand in the inner circle, with Shore and Co., then do it, but do it clearly, without haziness (not to be confused with ambiguity). There is no shame in phrasing things in a way that everyone can understand.

In fact, if can you explain Stephen Shore in a way that babies can understand, I’m pretty sure you’re a genius. Or that at least there’s a teacher’s chair out there eagerly anticipating your sweet ass.