There was a time in human history when art meant beautiful painting, beautiful sculptures, beautiful architecture or jewelry design.
Art gave us the
Roof of the Sistine Chapel – with Creation of Adam – by Michaelangelo,
Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper,
and the Vitruvian Man,
Rembrandt’s the Night Watch (a personal favorite mainly because of its use by Sir Terry Pratchett in his eponymous book ……
“Don’t put your trust in revolutions. They always come round again. That’s why they’re called revolutions. People die, and nothing changes.”……..
“Two types of people laugh at the law: those that break it and those that make it.”……..
“You’d like Freedom, Truth, and Justice, wouldn’t you, Comrade Sergeant?’ said Reg encouragingly.
‘I’d like a hard-boiled egg,’ said Vimes, shaking the match out.
There was some nervous laughter, but Reg looked offended.
‘In the circumstances, Sergeant, I think we should set our sights a little higher–‘
‘Well, yes, we could,’ said Vimes, coming down the steps. He glanced at the sheets of papers in front of Reg. The man cared. He really did. And he was serious. He really was. ‘But…well, Reg, tomorrow the sun will come up again, and I’m pretty sure that whatever happens we won’t have found Freedom, and there won’t be a whole lot of Justice, and I’m damn sure we won’t have found Truth. But it’s just possible that I might get a hard-boiled egg.”
Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night
Edvard Munch’s The Scream
Vermeer’s Girl with A Pearl Earring
Monet’s Water Lillies
Grant Wood’s American Gothic
Rene Magrittees’ The Son of Man
And the best of them, this one by CM Coolidge
Then there are the sculptures.
Just from the western world (I can’t talk about Indian sculptures because they are mostly of Hindu gods and goddesses and, as such, as per my liberal intellectual friends a clear effort to saffronise art), we have
Rodin’s Thinking Man,
Alezandros of Antioch’s Venus di Milo
There are hundreds of such great paintings and sculptures around the world – all gems of human endeavor.
And then there is this rubbish.
That’s Poppy Jackson, naked and perched on a gable.
The artsy fartsy liberal intellectuals of this age would like to tell us that this is somehow art, that this means something.
The intellectuals of the age will tell you that “….it was unassumingly beautiful and quietly moving to behold……One of the interesting things about Site is the way that Jackson seems to become as one with the building, part of its very architecture, as if her body is an extension of the brickwork. Only when she moves to descend from her precarious eerie does she seem vulnerable, subject to human fallibility. While she sits on the gable for an hour or more at a time, with legs astride and her body vivid against the skyline, she seems to be staking a claim to the air itself. She is a formidable figure, not to be messed with, gazing across the contemporary city as if protecting it. Perhaps from itself.
Jackson’s piece, sited on the roof of the university settlement founded in the late 19th century to help bring relief to the East End poor, and within a stone’s throw of the gleaming towers of Aldgate, including the new Royal Bank of Scotland’s London headquarters, is definitely art. It’s beautiful, disturbing and disruptive and like so much in Spill, it offers a counter-narrative to the stories we hear every day and the stories we tell ourselves.”
This is not art, this is garbage.
Just calling something art does not make it art.
Art is supposed to be beautiful, it has to be meaningful, it has to transcend the prosaic, the mundane….and in the case of the Dogs Playing Poker, it has to fill the heart with joy.
Just imagine, a man going naked and sitting atop a building.
He will be branded a pervert, arrested and put into a mental institution.
But because this is a white woman who belongs to the inner circle of the artsy fartsies, this is somehow not an arrestable offense but, instead, is art.
Because white man says so, and of course white man knows best