Before we begin…
What is the purpose of art?
What is art’s purpose?
What’s art supposed to do?!
Let’s start with what we know is art.
We know shit-talking is an art.
It pushes the speaker and the listener.
It’s a hustle.
It requires self-awareness and the awareness of the other.
An artful shit-talker has to be observant
Has to know how far something can be taken
Some people are built for shit-talking.
This implies that some people are also built for art.
Whatever that means.
Scene I: Walking into a room and seeing an abstract painting
Clyfford Still, PH-585 (1952-)
“I do not like that one,” he says while gesturing to a large canvas of dark blue with a streak of yellow on the left side.
“Why?” I really do want to know more, but I know my question is shaded in judgment. I can’t help it.
“The colors and the textures make me feel anxious. If that was in my home there is no way that I would be able to relax.”
“Is art’s purpose to make you relax?” I ask. Curiosity is dying and judgment is taking a preparatory stretch as it wakes up now.
“Fair.”
Hmmm. Weak response. He doesn’t have much fight in him.
Which makes me want to fight even though that impulse wasn’t there minutes ago.
We wander on.
Reminder:
We’re talking about art’s purpose here.
We know shit-talking is an art.
It pushes the speaker and the listener.
It’s a hustle.
It requires self-awareness and the awareness of the other.
An artful shit-talker has to be observant
Has to know how far something can be taken.
Some people are built for shit-talking and others art.
Scene II: Entering a Surrealist exhibit at the SFMoMa
“I don’t like any of these,” he says spinning on his heels, heading to the next room.
“Wait. What? Why?”
To understand the other’s preferences is an art of listening, but to be able to articulate one’s preferences is an art of understanding one’s self: a characteristic of a great shit-talker.
“There is just too much happening.”
I push back.
“Really? I think it’s interesting when a lot is happening. Surrealism is way more interesting than that abstract and linear shit we’ve been looking at.”
I look dead forward but can feel his look in my periphery. He looks alarmed but doesn’t say anything.
I’m annoyed at how polite and boring he is, so I continue:
“Every one of those abstract painters have ‘influenced by Jackson Pollack’ in their artist’s statement which I feel is to say that they just want to try to do what Pollack does. ‘Imitation is the best form of flattery’ blah blah blah, it’s just either so sloppy or mimicry to me. And what can one really say about a Pollack painting unless there is some psychoanalysis happening? I don’t want to have to do homework to understand something…The Surrealists, though. Anyone can talk about the Surrealists' works because everything is a puzzle. What’s real? What’s fake? What fits? What doesn’t? How do we know? What details are familiar? What seems dream-like? What’s conveyed through the blending of two things that are never, ever featured together in real life? The discomfort of the blending can also unsettle something in you, the viewer, and the way you think of the world and its patterns. Those patterns are way more interesting to think about and question. Unlike the Sol LeWitt stuff. You’re supposed to be moved by a pattern? And the LeWitt stuff is executed and reproduced with instructions. That can’t be art. I mean, YAWN.” I throw my head back with a half eye-roll and a half smile on my face, implying that I’m maybe half-joking? It goes without saying, but we all know that a joke is the truth even though we’ll often tell someone, “I was just joking,” as if to say we didn’t mean it when the joke doesn’t land right. We try to manipulate time and backtrack with our words since we can’t go back to the time before we said the joke so we attempt to make up for it in our present.I make one more remark while he spins on his heels again and prepares to leave the room: “I always just want the artist to put some stank on it.”
Sol LeWitt, Wall Drawing 1: Drawing Series II 18 (A & B), October 1968 · SFMOMA
Reminder:
We’re talking about art.
Shit-talking is an art.
And a great shit-talker, often seen as dismissive or rude, is also tender because they pay attention to what works and what doesn’t.
Scene III: An intermission in the Quiet Room
And this guy says he’s introverted, but I think that’s code for being soft, and I don’t mean soft as in feminine, but soft as in squishy, no edge, nothing to bump up against.
Also, he just commented that the museum is too loud and he should have brought earplugs.
The museum is too loud.
I jokingly ask if he needs to sit in the Quiet Room, and he, in fact, says yes, he does.
“The colors and textures are just causing me anxiety,” he says while he touches his stomach.
We walk to the Quiet Room and sit down. I take out my phone to check the SC vs. Iowa game because I hope that SC is talking their shit the best way they know how: with their game.
“Wow, you really like basketball, don’t you?” he questions. And I can now hear his judgment now being mirrored back to me.
“Yeah, I do.” I look up from my phone and make direct eye contact holding back the urge to say that I’d rather be watching this game than in a museum’s Quiet Room.
“Caitlin Clark is killing it right now.”
“Yeah, but I like and admire what Dawn Staley has done with that program and her team. I love how she’s all about taking care of business, while it is so clear that her players love her and she loves her players. You can hear it in her voice and in the playfulness she brings to her coaching.” I’m looking at my phone, but I can feel his eyes on me. He has no clue what to say in response.
So, I fill the silence, “Hey, I’m going back to look at that Marshall Brown exhibit. Want to meet me there?”
“I’ll walk with you.”
It is silent as we walk through the museum that is “too loud” mostly because I’m worried that this guy didn’t spend enough time in the Quiet Room and I don’t know what this exhibit might do to him.
“Are you interested in Detroit?” he asks.
“More the idea of it in this exhibit than the actual place.”
Long pause with no follow-up question
I continue: “I get what it’s like to be from somewhere and everyone expects you to hate it, but it made you who you are, so you can’t really commit to hating it because then that’s like hating yourself a little bit.”
There is another long pause and then he fills it.
“Yeah, but Detroit is like Cleveland. It sucks.”
He laughs like he said something clever.
I take a deep breath (which is done to cover up my urge to roll my eyes). What a weak attempt to talk some shit. But, what can I expect from someone who implies that art’s job is to make us comfortable, unstirred?
A final reminder:
Yes, shit-talking is an art, but that also means that
Art is supposed to talk its shit, too, right?
Push you, check you, laugh at you, lunge at you playfully and make you flinch, and nudge you as if to say, “I see you, and you ain’t shit.”
There’s that Rilke poem about a torso where he feels the urge to change his life after seeing it. And I wouldn’t do all that over a torso, but
Isn’t that art talking its shit?
So we have to keep talking shit in all forms
Otherwise, what’s the point?!
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