RUDIMENTS, pt. 702
(just the real and the definite)
One thing I always noticed about
'Art' was the factor of 'randomness.
It seemed a fair barometer of what
sort of quality I was viewing, most
especially, obviously, when it came
to abstract paintings. There's fairly
well nothing worse that a rank
amateur doing an abstract painting;
talk about kids or monkeys slinging
color. Community paint groups,
sidewalk art sales, and all the
rest really made me swoon. Vases
and flowers and seascapes are
one thing. They can be excused
as pleasant decoration. But an
abstract painting, attempted by
an 'abstracted' amateur, bears no
reference to anything painterly.
I never knew how that idea got
started anyway. It seems to me,
mostly, that first you must slowly
progress through the breakdown
of regular, orderly art - at least
for the idea of 'abstract' to have
some sense, if not aesthetic
attraction with theory behind it.
One doesn't see much of that
anymore anyway; abstract art
does seem to have fallen away.
-
That's sort of curious, in light of
the way it arose, developed, and
matured (and then faded). There
was a time, in those immediate
post-Depression and then post-War
years, when Abstract-Expressionism
and all the New York School art
was referred to as 'Existential'; in
outlook, and in approach. I suppose
it was - there for sure wasn't
anything trite or fluffy about it.
A few suicides, deaths and many
breakdowns later it had amassed
enough personnel and accumulated
work so as to be referred to as a
unit. Fixed and steady. Mostly a
male domain, but not totally -
actually I always almost preferred
the women of the group. They
were really cool; strong and
disdainful too. Once upon a
time you could gauge and define
things by it all. Certainly it wasn't
much connected to suburbia.
-
There were one or two TV shows
about Art and the instructional
approaches to painting. Mostly
frothy stuff that ignored any
torment or internal crusading.
'Art' wasn't supposed to be about
that - leave that heart-rending
and really killer stuff to those
collectively drunk, drugged and
insatiable Art-Hounds. About
the same time, the big craze was
'paint by numbers' - totally horrid
stuff, hardly even to be relegated
to 'painting' or art.' I never knew
what was up with that genre, but
it was always, and plainly, both
irritating to me and unsatisfying
too. The premise or the crux of
it seemed to be that any planar
section of color or shading was
able to be broken up into segments
which then became 'planes; of
their own, in color. There would
be two or three, say, contiguous
planes of varied browns and tans,
put together in such a way as to
represent the variations of a tree
trunk, or shadows. The same went
pretty much for any other color
or tone. It looked easy, I guess,
and most often resemble stained
glass in effect - same thing happens,
if you look at one. The back lines
of the 'drawing' as well, act in much
the same manner as the leading of
the stained glass window. Basically
it all came down to color chips.
Perhaps that was the 1950's in
summation : Hula Hoops, color
chips, car fins, pink flamingo lawn
ornaments (and if you could get
away with it, a black guy on the
lawn as a lamp-jockey).
Who knew?
-
When we moved into Inman Avenue,
we never had any art on the walls.
Only later, ten years or more, my
father bought this almost 3-foot by
2-feet, maybe, really dumb-looking
bucolic, country, barn scene. It
was always out of place, made no
sense, fit no other decor, and just
hung there in a shameful silence
for years. I'd occasionally see the
same piece, or others really close
to it, in both others' houses and in
stores - home furnishings and
furniture departments. Large size,
smaller size, whatever. Sometimes
they even had ripply surfaces to
simulate canvas. It was really
bizarre, tasteless and bad. If you
can't have the country, you can
fake possessing it, I guess. But,
can't have the country, you can
fake possessing it, I guess. But,
it was represented. 'Art' wasn't
anything people went on about or
discussed. Their backyard pools
and barbecues, and the occasional
'guy' thing of rebuilding cars and
maintenance items took precedence.
Art was something false, on the den
wall, where you sat while watching
Ed Sullivan, or - in my grandmother's
case, Sophie Tucker.
-
I've mentioned before, in earlier
chapters, about the painting by my
uncle that last also graced the wall
of the rear room - Superman, going
over, in the sky, the scene of Niagara
Falls, well-done, in the foreground,
with infant me in his arms. The first
time I saw that pip of a picture, I was
already about 8. They hung it as a
lark (I hope) - but talk about an
existential crisis...that scene freaked
me. Not that I much cared or even
dwelt upon it. I was willing to
leave Nietzsche to others.
-
What got me about the world,
from 116 Inman, was the 'anti' ness
of everything : Peace was never
about 'peace,' yet no one ever said
that - school, church, or home.
It was, apparently, quite the opposite.
Peace always ended up being about
War - or something fought to uphold
the peace, or bring it. That was sure
confusing. Paradoxical. Everything
seemed the opposite. Where I lived,
I was told it was nice and playful,
pleasant and bucolic. 'Nature' in
play - yet, everything that could
possibly be done to destroy 'Nature'
was, in ever way, undertaken - woods
and meadows torn down, bug-spray
and defoliants and toxins, roadways,
tar, pebbles, and rank water. The
town was going nuts? All the kid
schoolbooks we were learning to
read from, weirdly enough, were
all of children on farms, and about
chickens and farmers, tractors and
cows. The illustrations were all
drawing of country scenes (Dad!),
silos, barns, again. The children
shown were happy; frolicking.
I never saw really anything that
resembled my walks to and from
school. Unreality was paving
this airway. Art, certainly, was
only represented by un-art, or
anti-art. Nothing unpleasant, or
nothing untoward. The movie
ladies running around always
had seemingly pointy breasts, but
any ladies I ever saw, proclaimed
as 'Art' even, were draped and
loosely clothed in some oddball
Greco-Roman format of complete
neutrality. (Actually, the closest
I ever sensed to the everyday
movie ladies were those weird
black-rubber pointed stoppers on
some of the car bumpers). Art?
-
Maybe things had just gotten too
strange, even so strange as to no
longer be translatable. Avenel sort
of resembled - to me - the
'time-out' penalty box on some
sports scene. Just off from the
action, at rest, away from things,
while you wait out your bad time.
Everything was to be redefined,
and they were busy doing it. Every
category of thing - activity, thought,
game, and the rest, was getting
reworked. The abstract had become
too scary; so everything had to be
rebuilt, re-formulated, and put back
into some plainer and more tedious
form; one that fit the molds of logic
and reach. Everything needed
something to grasp., and there
was to be no more fuzzy logic,
just the real, and the definite.
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