What Does It Mean?

What Does It Mean?
Ashley Brown


Consider once again the age-old question which has plagued for centuries art theorists, art critics, artists themselves, and even the chance college student enrolled in an Art Theory course: What is art? Countless theorists have devised countless explanations of what makes a doodle or sculpture a piece of art, and not one of those theories has been adopted by the art world as a universal truth about their trade.

I kept this fact in mind while browsing the WSU Art Museum’s Master of Fine Arts Theses. Each of the five artists on display approached art from a different viewpoint. Walther’s carefully crafted video clip was choppy, well-made, and rather confusing. Price’s Hindu tree caught the eye almost immediately upon entering the museum. McGeachy’s digital drawings were appealing yet vague. McCleary’s installation was creative and quite simply baffling. But the works which caught and held my attention the longest were those of Brad Dinsmore.

“The General Dance” series (2009) on display at the museum included two ceramic figures. A bright orange cat, one paw outstretched, the other offering the viewer a vase with a single flower, rested atop a white platform. The “Cat Bringing You Flowers” was not particularly well-made, nor did it seem to offer a deep meaning, until the viewer peered at the second ceramic figure on the ground behind the cat. “Nervous Rabbit” clutched the platform, half-hiding behind it, hiding an array of colorful flowers behind its back. Alone, either statue could mean any number of things. Together, they called to my mind an image of young love—the bold, brave cat confidently proffering a single flower while the quiet, shy rabbit hangs back in the shadows, afraid to offer his beautiful bouquet.

The cat and the rabbit both look like something a first-time sculptor could put together and paint; neither required a high level of skill from the artist. However, this may have been precisely Dinsmore’s intention—meaning over beauty, as Hickey might put it. What the viewer interprets the artwork to mean may in fact be more important to Dinsmore than how well the art was put together or how much time and skill it took him to create each statue.

Each artwork in Dinsmore’s “Epistemological Pursuits” series (2009) seems to combine skill and meaning. “Problems of Knowing” (2009) depicts a pair of well-drawn hands with a few squiggly lines. The contrast between the aesthetically pleasing hands and the crayon lines, in addition to the rather deep name Dinsmore gave it, give the viewer something to mull over and find their own meaning for. Problems of knowing what?, I asked myself. Problems of knowing what in the world the artist intended for me to take away from this piece.

“Tools for Unlocking the Abstract” (2009) is hands down the art work that I found the most interesting and compelling out of all the Master of Fine Arts Thesis works. In this piece, a skillfully sketched head peers down through some squiggles, colorful dots, and a bit of graph paper toward a skillfully sketched hand. As per my interpretation, this work played nicely off of Hickey’s dilemma in The Invisible Dragon. Is meaning more important than beauty in the art world? Abstract work sometimes sacrifices aesthetic appeal in order to achieve a higher meaning. Hickey postulated that perhaps that is the wrong approach to art. Dinsmore seems to suggest a similar idea in “Tools for Unlocking the Abstract”—his piece combines beauty, in the skillfully drawn head and hand, and meaning, in the abstract lines, circles, and graph paper.

Art is a complicated concept, as I’ve learned throughout the course of this semester. It can be beautiful, it can be ugly, it can be meaningful, and it can make absolutely no sense at all. Yet, somehow, it is still art. Hickey asked whether meaning was more important than beauty; Dinsmore answered that it is possible to have both. What is art? The Master of Fine Arts Theses held no answer to this question—or rather, each artists portrayed their own answer. Each artist, with their random installations and confusing portraits, seemed to imply that the most important part of what defines art as art is the viewer’s quest for one simple answer: What does it mean?

With great responsibility comes great power (and lengthy speculations).

Well, I think I'll take a stab at Spiderman. However, having never read the comic books or anything original, this is based off of the acting skills of Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst.

Foucault thought that the purest form of art came from questioning social norms. The "best" knowledge is the kind that results from asking new, innovative questions that maybe no one else has asked before.

In one of the most significant lines in the first Spiderman movie, Peter Parker's uncle-type-guy says to him, "With great responsibility comes great power." He brushed off this advice at the time, but I'm sure you all know the twist of fate that led Parker to reconsider his uncle-type-guy's advice. There was some deviousness, and a lot of guilt, and some deep thinking. What emerged from this episode was a changed Spiderman, and a re-evaluation of the order of things.

I mean, really, Spiderman was an anomaly, a complete accident. No one else, to Parker's knowledge, had ever been in such a situation or dealt with the issues he had to deal with. What little past knowledge he could glean from, say, reading comic books, was no particular to his situation and thus could only be so helpful. What's a photographer to do? He had to question the order of things as he knew it, and get some real answers on how to live his own life.

Maybe this is stretching what Foucault actually said too far, but if I wanted to write an inspiring essay about this topic, I might say something about how really, any coming-of-age story is a Foucaultian work of art. You have what your parents tell you is right and what your parents tell you that you should do. Then you have what you want to do and be, which is based partially on what your friends are doing and being. Your own life and your own truth is not any of these things which are previously known to you, because you're a unique person and you have to forge your own path. So what can you do? Question the order of things in your life. That's the only way you can really live your own life, instead of just conforming to what everyone else is telling you.

Whoo Spiderman.

He won't say, "it's either/or, baby."

It is true that there are few great women artists on par with Picasso or even Pollock. And it's true that women are underrepresented in the art world. It's also true that it would be incorrect to "dumb down" the art world, so to speak, in order to label more women as great artists.

This isn't because women don't have skill, or because gender determines art in any way. Simply put, it's because of blocked opportunities. How many men had access to the entire reserves of the art world? A whole freaking lot. How many women had this same access? Hardly any. So it's unsurprising that we all know so many male artists and so few female artists--given a larger sample size to draw from, geniuses will emerge. With a small population, this is not so likely. I think that if men and women had ALWAYS had the same access to the same resources, we would see AS MANY great and well-known female artists as male artists.

Plus, the whole patriarchal social structure thing. That plays a role, too, in how much exposure female artists could actually have back in the day.

The Heidi Chronicles was interesting to me because Heidi has so little character. She just kind of watches and feels unhappy. You know? She rarely shows any real personality that hasn't been assigned to her by the preconceptions of Scoop, Peter, or even Fran. And in the play, the actress who played Heidi made her very awkward. When I pictured the high school dance scene, I thought of it more as Peter and Heidi bonding immediately after a short awkward period. But in the play, the whole thing was awkward. Same with when she met Scoop--I imagined her as a little more forceful and angry, a little less quiet and vulnerable. But I suppose that must just be my own preconceptions about what a feminist should be like.

Exorbitant sums of money.

What do I think of Pollock? I think he's interesting. I don't like some of his paintings, but some of them I really do like. The one on the cover of the fractals article, for example, has a very nice color scheme. I might hang something like that on my wall. Maybe.

But I most definitely would not pay millions of dollars for it. The more I hear about the exorbitant prices that art works go for in the world, the more puzzled I am. Maybe it's just because I'm a poor college student working to finance my education so I can get a good job, but if I had 140 million dollars to throw around on something, I would donate it to the Humane Society or create a bunch of college scholarships or something. I wouldn't spend such a huge sum of money on one single little painting. Ridiculous.

As for Pollock himself, I thought it was hilarious in the video when the forgery artist guy said that you'd have to be drunk before you could create something that looks like a Jackson Pollock.

The fractals article talked about how Pollock's paintings mimic the natural world. Pollock himself said that he was one with nature. Well, in essence then, Pollock is imitating nature. Plato would hate Pollock's paintings, because they are thrice removed from the truth. Aristotle, on the other hand, would think they were great because they mimic nature.

Uninformed ramblings.

It could be solely because I missed both of these presentations and their discussions (PAC 10 tournament for the win), but I don't think Nietzsche and Tolstoy are talking about the same thing at all.

Nietzsche discusses the two tendencies of order (Apollo) and disorder (Dionysus). He talks about how the introduction of chaos into order (the collapse of the principium individuationis) both terrifies and delights man, and how art can only really result from the clash between these two tendencies. However, Nietzsche seems to refer to these tendencies as being contained within each individual man--they are individual experiences.

Tolstoy's theory of art revolves around shared emotion. He says that art can only result from the infection of one man's emotion to another man.

These two ideas are not the same at all. Nietzsche is talking about something which is felt at an individual level, though the feelings are similar across all mankind. Tolstoy, on the other hand, is talking about something which is transmitted from one person to another. I suppose that in regards specifically to art, both theories discuss the transmission of the feelings from one person to another. But then again, every theory of art discusses this transmission, so to say that the two theories are similar in that regard is to say that every theory of art is similar. At any rate, these two theories discuss different ideas--Nietzsche is talking about internal emotions which are aroused in each man individually, with no mention of the intent of the artist, whereas Tolstoy says that if a man makes a piece of art from his own emotion, it will be transmitted to another man by the force of that emotion. The transmission of feeling evoked by art is completely different.

Are black-rimmed glasses really "arty"?

Stereotypes are kind of tricky things, aren't they? It's all well and good to be righteously outraged about them, but on the other hand, they really do speak volumes. It's interesting that in Faking It, the "experts" who attempted to convert Paul into a "real artist" placed high importance on his appearance. They gave him a haircut, bought him a new wardrobe, and even went so far as to get him some "arty" glasses.

Someone brought up in class that this importance on appearance probably had a great deal to do with Paul's own image of himself. They were almost playing on his own stereotype of an artist, in order to make him feel even more isolated and different from his usual house-painting self. I think this is a really good point, but I also think that these changes had practical implications for Paul's ability to squeak past the art critics. I think that Paul looking the part of a hip, up-and-coming artist (with short hair, black-rimmed glasses, and tight T-shirts) is less likely to arouse suspicion than Paul looking the part of a middle-aged house painter (big sturdy coat, long shaggy hair). I could see these art critics accepting him as an artist no questions asked in the former scenario, but I can see them being a little more suspicious of him in the latter.

I think Paul will be able to fool the experts. After all, just because he is new at this professional artist business doesn't mean he is a fake. His works are genuinely his, and he seems to be awfully proud of them. The only thing that he is really faking is the history of an artist. He "has a small vocabulary," as someone in the film stated. He doesn't know much about art in general, and he might have a hard time faking that in the presence of art critics.

I think as long as they don't ask him about art history questions, or contemporary artists, or basically anything that we've learned about in Art Theory so far, he will be able to fool the critics.

Superiority--in other words, stop being pretentious and get over yourself.

I think that art has almost always been for the upper class. A mark, something which distinguishes the upper class from everyone else. They have their opera, they have their mansions, they have their art. So what Kinkade is doing--that is, creating art for the middle class--must be shocking. An equalizer? No way! Got to find something wrong with his art in order to maintain the superiority of the upper class.

I know that Kinkade really does have a few spins of the same scenery and that's really all he draws. Lighthouses, cottages, and gardens. It's the same thing. But why does that matter? Lichtenstein just drew cartoon images over and over again, but he's hailed as an artistic genius. Why the difference between Lichtenstein and Kinkade?

Art as commercialism? I don't know. I don't see how it's that much of a problem. Especially in America, right? Everything is a business here.

Running on Nothing

On the fourth of February, 2009, I learned many new facts about the world. I found out how many U.S. citizens were incarcerated in 2005, I saw that 38,000 shipping containers are sent through U.S. ports every twelve hours, and I discovered exactly why Chris Jordan’s “Running the Numbers” exhibit left my artistic cravings so unsatisfied.

Jordan’s pieces fall into three categories. “Skull with Cigarette, 2008,” depicts the upper portion of a skeleton smoking a lit cigarette; the picture is composed of 200,000 miniscule cigarette packs of varying shades. In this category, a lot of small items make up a larger picture. In “Prison Uniforms, 2007,” 2.3 million folded uniforms are stacked one on top of the other. All the uniforms are almost exactly the same, and when viewed from afar, the work looks like just six brown panels of wood. This category contains works in which a lot of small items are put together without forming a larger picture. The third category, works which include no statistics, contains only the two portraits of loading docks included at the front of the exhibit.

The pieces Jordan selected to include in this exhibit are just inconsistent enough to seem unplanned. He made a larger visual representation with the cigarette packs, as he did with the Denali Denial stickers (2006) and the Ben Franklin one-hundred dollar bills (2007), but he did not create a larger image with the prison uniforms or the shipping containers (2007). There does not seem to be a noticeable difference in message between these works—each category contains statistics regarding consumerism, with no distinct variation between groups. Yet, some form a larger picture and others do not; this suggests inconsistency on the artist’s behalf.

The works in the third category, portraits not composed of smaller images, seemed almost thrown in the exhibit on a whim—they fit into the consumerism theme, but stylistically they do not jive. All in all, the exhibit does not seem particularly well-planned. Jordan gives the impression of simply finding a statistic and making a picture to go with it. This detracts from the artistic quality of the work by making it seem altogether too crafted; rather than creating an artwork for the sake of creating an artwork, Jordan is mass-producing portrayals of American consumerism with only sporadic artistic inspiration, in much the same irrelevant and wasteful way which he attempts to criticize.

Though Jordan’s artwork is very creative, imaginative, and original, I find it less than up to par artistically speaking. He took the idea of turning dull statistics into interesting art and ran with it, with generally pleasing results. However, without the adjacent plaque listing off a shocking fact about jet trails or plastic cups, the picture itself is often less-than-engaging. If Jordan presented “Shipping Containers, 2007,” without the statistic to guide the viewer, it would just be a lot of small, colorful squares. As mentioned above, “Prison Uniforms, 2007,” looks more like six panels of wood than a representation of incarceration. Without the surprising statistic and its inherent message of consumerism, some of the pieces themselves aren’t all that fantastic.

“Running the Numbers” is a fascinating and visually appealing exhibit, but the art aspect really only kicks in when one views the pieces at a conceptual level (i.e. applying the statistic to the picture) than at a visual level (seeing a piece of art without an explanatory statistic). This hints at less-than-consistent artistry on Jordan’s part, and while it makes for an interesting and thought-provoking exhibit, his works are a little too contrived for my tastes.

If I were a crayon, I'd be dark green.

Disclaimer: I've heard from all over the place that Kant is a very difficult philosopher to understand. Therefore, not being a student of philosophy myself, my best shot will probably completely miss his point. Hey, it's all good.

On page 104, Kant makes the argument that although "pleasant" must be followed by "to me," the word "beautiful" does not need such a qualification. I'm not sure if I agree with that--for this to be true, then people have to make a distinction between those two words. I would be just as likely to say that I consider dark green to be a beautiful color as I am to say that dark green is pleasant, and in neither case do I mean that everyone else must think dark green is the best color ever.

So Kant's statement that judging objects according to concepts loses all representation of beauty is an iffy one, in my opinion. I think what Kant is saying is something like an opposition to Plato. Instead of every physical manifestation being removed from the original and imperfect, and works of art being removed over again, Kant might be saying that judging a physical object on the basis of some concept of what it should be defeats the purpose of beauty altogether. This is interesting when taken in the context of how Kant defines "beautiful;" universal appreciation loses representation, but personal appreciation does not? Interesting.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

Has anyone ever read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance? Man, that book is intense. When the author isn't rambling for three pages about all the teeny tiny parts that make up a motorcycle, he's spending three more pages talking about really heavy, complicated philosophies while ignoring his son Chris. It's a long, often boring book, and I wouldn't recommend it unless you are really extremely interested in both philosophy and motorcycles.

However, there are some really fascinating points that the author makes in the novel. The one I want to talk about relates to Hume quite nicely.

(Here come spoilers, watch out.)

The big premise of the novel is this concept of Quality. Quality is the binding force between subjectivity and objectivity--it transcends those two dimensions. Basically, Qualtiy with a capital Q is the inherent quality with a lower case q which every object has. It precedes subjectivity and objectivity--it is just there. Quality is where objectivity and subjectivity originate. (Pretty heavy, huh?) It's hard to summarize without sounding ridiculous--the book itself is actually really detailed and convincing in this whole argument of Quality. I hope that explanation made some kind of sense.

Hume describes early in his essay that one philosophy of taste considers sentiment and judgement to be two separate and irreconcilable factors. Every sentiment is correct--and any judgement of the value of sentiments is inherently flawed. This is really similar to what a lot of people, including myself, think about art theory--it's too subjective. Hume's entire paper just made me think of this notion of Quality. Subjectivity is a tricky business, because you can't have subjectivity without having objectivity also. It's like the dichotomy between good and evil--you have to have a comparison for the two ideas to be valid. In Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Quality was the underlying factor upon which the entire universe is founded. Quality is taste. Art may depend on people's tastes and it may be subjective, but in order for this to be true there has to be such a thing as "taste"--and that is what Quality is. If any given thing did not have its own quality, how could anyone ever judge it at all?

What's the point?

I admit: I’m rather skeptical about the art world. Some art works appeal to me, others don’t. I don’t like to spend time analyzing this—I don’t care why I like a work of art and somebody else doesn’t. I just do, and they just don’t.

Because of this, I find any kind of art theory to be a strange and generally inapplicable concept. How can you really put a theory to something so subjective? Making a theory to why people like art and what makes art good just seems like such a strange thing to do—theories are scientifically based, and one major principle of science is that it must be objective. By no means is the interpretation of art objective. It doesn’t work very well, in my opinion.

Andy Warhol’s Brillo Boxes are interesting to me because of this. Danto writes a whole book on them, trying to figure out how they could possibly be art. He came up with a theory that accounted for them, and generally seems to have spent a lot of time thinking about them.

How silly. Maybe it’s just because I’ve never really immersed myself in the art world, but I just can’t get over the fact that people try so hard to logically explain art. What’s the point? Art is a matter of opinion. Why spend so much time trying to define it? I don’t see why it matters anyway—art fluctuates with time anyway, so a theory which might seem accurate of today’s art won’t be able to account for the art produced ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred years from now. Who knows what people in the year 2109 will hanging up in their homes.

However, having said all of this, I mean none of it disrespectfully. Personally, I don’t see how art theory is a valid pursuit. That doesn’t mean it isn’t one. I’m sure there are plenty of people who think that psychology is a load of crap and a waste of time, but that doesn’t mean it is. I love psychology and don’t love art theory. That’s just my opinion, and if other people have different opinions, that’s more than okay by me. Just to clarify.

So, in summary, I don’t understand art theory. But I guess that’s a good thing, because now I’m taking this class and all. Maybe everything will become clear to me by the end of the semester.

Conniff: The Natural History of Art.

Are genetics a puppet master to art? I don’t know. I did really like the article though. I think there were a lot of good points, and a lot of things I hadn’t thought of before. I don’t know if I really buy the argument that our aesthetic preferences are ingrained into us through art… I, for one, tend to like forest scenery as much as Savanna-esque scenery. But I think the author of the article would argue that forests were historically a danger to primates and early humans, so I must like them because I want to be prepared for danger. Following this argument, couldn’t I say that the real reasons we are predisposed to Savanna landscapes is not because they remind us of our early homes, but because we are afraid of them? Looking at the pictures of Africa scenery throughout the article, I feel more dread than safety. The Savanna makes me think of lions and hyenas, and the fact that the whole thing is an open plane. I would prefer more dense landscapes if I were an early human, because they’d provide more cover. The open plain of the Savanna really makes me more nervous than comforted.

Someone in class brought up the point that if our DNA really does predispose us toward certain types of art, then why do we go through artistic phases? Styles like abstract art don’t really jive with this theory.

The portion of the article about eye patterns, however, is really interesting. I knew about eye patterns on butterfly wings, I hadn’t really connected scales or leopard fur to eyes, but I had never even considered wood patterns. One wall of the living room in my apartment is covered with these eye patterns, and it is pretty creepy now that I’ve connected the dots on the subject. I don’t think I’ll ever look at trees the same way again.

-->Ashley<--