I have known many artists, poets, musicians and coreographers in my time, and as they fall into two categories, those that get off their arse and do it, and those that sit around drinking beer or wine other people have paid for, and talk about it, the title of a blog I saw today resonated in my mind. Here’s a taster and a link:
There are two types of people in the art world: artists and boring fuckers.
The boring fuckers have it in for us. They’re the ones who gleefully academicised art because they knew that real artists hate writing: essays, self-crits, artist’s statements, creative rationales, dissertations, speeches, press releases, blogs and begging letters.
In the UK, in the 70s, the perfectly serviceable Dip AD was dumped in favour of a Bachelor of Arts.
Why?
In 1972, it was discovered that those who had failed their Dip AD had the highest average in O level results, and those who obtained a third in their Dip AD had achieved the highest A level results when at school. In other words, academics didn’t fare well in the practical Dip AD framework.
Consequently, later on, the boring fuckers decided to make the entry requirements and curriculum even more academic when they introduced BA, MA, MFA and PhD degrees to art. Naturally, all the little history swots rubbed their hands at the prospect of getting higher grades than their more practical, or should we say, more talented artist contemporaries. The age of the art historian and curator was dawning.
The sad thing is how many truly talented artists were discarded along the way. In order to “address the problem”, the boring fuckers introduced measures to help those “afflicted” dyslexic artists with the loan of special computers and staff support. How very kind and how very condescending. They’re not made to feel valued, or special, as many dyslexics are, but inferior. The poor dears can’t write.
Who the fuck cares?!
They’re fucking artists, not academics, or writers!
Georgia O’Keeffe said, “I found I could say things with colour and shapes that I couldn’t say any other way — things I had no words for.”
Even the arch-intellectual, Jean Cocteau said, and he wasn’t being pejorative, “An artist cannot talk about his art any more than a plant can discuss horticulture.”
And yet artists are expected to explain, or justify their work at every stage. Why should they? No professional psychiatrist would expect even their most intelligent and self-aware clients to analyse themselves. How many writes, poets or musicians do so?
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