Le Monde des Faux Artistes

I've recently returned from an aborted sojourn into the pretentious world of "art for the sake of art." My reasons, I admit, were largely self-serving and my intentions were wholly lascivious. Looking beyond my bookshelf for entertainment, I wondered whether the outside world had something to offer. As luck would have it, my former French instructor had had the good fortune of having three of her photographs (I still cringe at the thought of photography praised as "art") included in the opening of "3-Way," a Central West End gallery, named, so it seems, for the local's favorite pastime. Despite being located in the veritable asshole of the community -- which, one would think, would be quite a popular destination among its residents -- I decided to throw caution to the wind, and pay a visit to le monde des faux artistes.

From the moment I turned left onto Euclid, I immediately regretted my decision; and not for the reasons that those just looking to be offended might think. No, my rapidly escalating rage had nothing to do with the sights and sounds of frolicsome couples prancing down the sidewalk or having to artfully dodge car doors being flung open by oblivious socialites (actually, that does piss me off enormously); it was the totality of being immersed in a community whose seeming raison d'etre is pretentious escapism.

To be fair, this phenomena is in no way unique to the Central West End; a community which, itself, seems to be a microcosm of contemporary society--if only with a bit more flair. In the grand scheme of things, what is the difference between parking one’s ass on the couch, popping open a Coors, and watching a football game, and parading it around to art galleries, sipping Crystale, and trying to impress as many people as is humanly possible? I suppose the second example of hedonism at least provides some semblance of exercise -- a much needed activity for those in either category -- but it far surpasses the first in its appeal to solipsism. I have nothing but contempt for both extremes of such profound self-indulgence, but the second seems to me to be far more deserving of criticism. For it proceeds from what it regards as an irrefutable position: “the beauty and meaning of our indulgence is only appreciable to those capable of finding its beauty and meaning for themselves.” (This, incidentally, is the circular logic upon which all of Impressionism is based. Attack it as a ridiculous attempt at creativity, and you are dismissed as a philistine; praise it as a brilliant effort of originality, and you are praised as a patrician.) For those of us with the intellectual courage to call a spade a spade and a charlatan a charlatan, little difficulty is expended in dismissing such pathetic attempts at self-aggrandizement as entirely unworthy of one’s time.

With that in mind, I promptly turned my back on a culture which had turned its own to reason. How magnificent it might have been to be received by le monde des faux artistes! We could have tried to impress one another by seeing who could offer the more profound commentary on a picture of the French countryside or an epileptic’s depiction of a starry night. But alas, reason and dignity compelled me to pull an illegal U-turn, and high tail it out of the black hole of pretentiousness. As appealing as its allure might sound to some, I remain unwilling to debase myself quite that far, even if it means forgoing the self-bestowed gratification which “art for the sake of art” is uniquely capable of providing.

Sincerely,

Philistine