Art For Our Sake...

When you look at a painting, what do you see? Well, I reckon it’s entirely up to you to decide. Art without words is possibly the truest expression of human emotion – and that’s coming from a writer! You see, I’ve always believed that writing is often the most unsatisfactory of arts: even with limitless words at our disposal, we are still incapable of actually saying what anything intangible actually is: we can only describe it, and the best do so by skilfully encouraging the reader to draw upon their own experiences of what it is we are attempting to define by using colourful metaphors; bold similes; and the maintenance of an emotive atmosphere that, itself, is intended to push the reader’s mind in the direction we need for our writing to hold any weight with them.

But with a single brushstroke, an artist can call forth those emotions that take writers years to explain – often fruitlessly. Painting transcends the need for verbal explanation, and the same is true of all visual art. It makes you feel, rather than telling you what you should be feeling. It strikes straight to the heart of art’s purpose: to reconcile the unknown with existence. Writing can be unfathomably beautiful when done well if it succeeds in drawing together the many layers of human emotion. But it is hard for writers to say anything new. I think that is why you rarely hear of writers being lauded as innovative; the nature of their art condemns even their magnum opus to be an intricate reworking of everything that has gone before. In visual art, however, it seems the potential for doing something wholly revolutionary is greater. Because there are fewer conventions – and by conventions, I mean things as simple as conjunctions – to which the visual artist must adhere, possibilities are vast. It is possible to use a colour that has never been used before in a way that has never been practised. Regardless of its supporting cast, the word ‘the’ is still the same each and every time it is used. And furthermore, words don’t really exist. Language is merely a platform for thought, which is primarily visual. For these reasons, the art hanging on the walls of the world’s most revered galleries can say more about death, love and life using a few square feet of canvas, than Shakespeare could with all the papyrus of Egypt.
As much as I believe the above to be true, it does pose a problem for the art world. If you write a book, it is pretty hard to scam someone into thinking its good because it’s all there in black and white. Sure, plenty of awful books have been published, but even the tritest book likely has some shred of merit, or at least marketability to warrant its printing. Visual art, however, has no one to answer to but the individual viewing it. Not needing to be published, per se, means it can rise from obscurity and wing its way to a glossy-paged photo book on someone’s coffee table much faster than a crappy book can be produced. It needs no editing; no redrafting; no real financial backing. Once it exists it is there for us to see.

The modern art movement was necessary. The notion of what it meant to be creative and artistic needed to break-away from the stuffy and tired ideals of pure painting in order for us to gain perspective on talent and also to reaffirm the purpose of art at all. Over the last thirty or so years, boundaries have been quickly traversed. The first steps were tentative and original; then came the complete farce of shitting in a bed; now clarity may return. Art had to go right to the edge to save itself from becoming obsolete. But now we’ve seen Campbell’s soup tins magnified and mass-produced on canvas; now we know the names of at least a hundred of the men Tracey Emin has slept with; now that we are all painfully aware that a shark can be preserved in formaldehyde and that Lego men holding basketballs can indeed be photographed (thanks Damien), we can stop pretending that having a week-long lie in makes you the next Cezanne.

But as easy as some of the most famous works of modern art may be to produce, and now matter how many people obstreperously proclaim that they could have done the same, the simple fact remains: they didn’t. Hirst did. Emin did. Warhol gave birth to a generation of pop artists whose influence is still widely felt and respected. The demystification of art was overdue, but now we’ve got the message it is time for a modern renaissance. Little can match the sheer emotional power of Picasso’s Guernica (especially when viewed in person). The raw, human element leaps from the canvas and demands you identify with the image of destruction that I’m sure affects each person who views it differently. And therein lay art’s beauty and purpose: its ability to affect on a truly personal level. No words exist to skew your judgement; no guidelines to massage your interpretation: pure, unadulterated connection with the visual expression of the inexplicable.

There’s no art to enjoying art: you decide the meaning. Now how does that make you feel?


Pick up THE HARE newspaper at Night and Day; Bar Centro; or Tiger Lounge in Manchester town centre, or the Oakwood in Glossop.

E-mail theharenewspaper@hotmail.co.uk with questions, comments or contributory pieces.