Cartoonist Al Capp once described abstract art as “a product of the untalented sold by the unprincipled to the utterly bewildered.” While Mr. Capp wields an undeserved heavy hand towards artists and those who represent them, I can see myself standing beside the end of that famous quote. Call me a low-brow, backward, ignorant, or “utterly bewildered,” but I possess no lucid understanding of certain art forms.
This creative deficiency began in my formative years when visiting the great museums of New York City. Walking through the echoing halls of the Museum of Modern Art at the age of six, I could overhear adults discussing their interpretation of the various works which adorned the massive walls. Listening intently I looked at the painting before me and thought “Are these people nuts, this “art” is clearly the work of Tommy Sweeney, a runny-nosed classmate of mine who was expelled from Mrs. Bradshaw’s class for fungo-ing a paint bottle with a yard-stick!”
There are aspects of art that I can and do appreciate, in fact, I have two brothers-in-law who are noted artists. Jim, who is married to my sister Eve, is a skilled painter of beautiful stil- lifes. When I admire Jim’s work I know exactly what I am seeing, marveling at the detail and truthfulness of his art. My sister Emily’s husband Robert is a photographer who covers the streets of New York with the passion only a native son can possess. Robert’s amazing images put you right in the heart of Manhattan and even a dumbbell like me can ascertain what is happening. Abstract art is where my confusion sets in.
Locally, there are two examples of contemporary architecture that continue to puzzle this addled mind. The first is the new Taubman Art Museum. Like the rounded edge design of the Guggenheim Museum in New York, The Taubman is a work of art housing other works of art. I get it, a feast for the eyes both the inside out. However, for one who is void of sophistication and an eye for the transcendent (me), the building seems to be more of an oddity that a masterpiece. To me, it is as though the City didn’t want to bruise any feelings and thus decided to buy all of the competing designs hoping to construct a workable edifice out of a potluck stew of blueprints. Riding past the museum each day on my way to work I wondered if the suicide blonde statue which sat isolated on an upper ledge, was the creator of this monument sent to serve her time in solitude for marring our traditional brick laden landscape. When the statue was finally removed from the ledge, I assumed that she had finally jumped.
The second curious example is the bus stop in-front of Patrick Henry High School. Yes, I understand that the structure in question was designed by students, who, at their young age are infinitely more talented than the person writing this diatribe, however, I am baffled by this creation as well. Immediately upon seeing the figure for the first time, I thought of Audrey II the giant man-eating plant from the off-Broadway hit musical “Little Shop of Horrors,” nearly warning an unsuspecting Valley Metro rider that his life might be in danger if the bus stop should begin to feel hungry.
My lovely and graceful mother was a patron of the arts, enjoying opera, ballet, poetry readings and all forms of painting and sculpture. In an effort to expose my father to the beauty in life, she often brought him along on her journeys, and, aside from the occasional impromptu evening nap, Pop’s cherished his explorations into a world far from factory life. Would it be unreasonable to assume that some of this art adoration would be genetically passed on even to an uncultured lout such as me?
If I have offended anyone with this observational piece, simply consider the source, and accept my humble apology. My intent is not to be polarizing, but to understand my surroundings in a more intelligent manner. I love the Roanoke Valley and I am not in the business of casting a critical eye on the area’s sacred cows. By the way, I love the Texas Tavern and consider the Cheesy Western a miracle of culinary ingenuity. I might not know a Picasso from a pizza, but I do know food.
By Jon Kaufman [email protected]
