talk it up

In the daubing of oils and the smearings of chalk
or the capture of light, all are naught without talk...
'Tis the wishing of some who exhibit such works
that laymen, in viewing, be made to feel berks.

If you can't talk it up they'll not mount it at all;
it's not just a photo, that's Art on the wall.
If they've fewer layers of meaning than onions have skins
the descriptions are ripped up and flung into bins.

If you like pretty pictures, but don't have the chat
about symbolic this, allegorical that,
if you can't honk along in a pretentious vein
it's unlikely you have a true Art-lover's brain...

***

Such a threatening use of light, isn't it?

Mm? I beg your pardon?

A threatening use of light. Light. Threat. Threatening. Threatening. I saw you were interrogating this piece, or I rather fancy it had captured you, and was intimidating you, imposing its message upon you, yes? A powerful work, to the correct mind, at least. What has it made you think?

Well. I... quite like it, I suppose, er, I certainly found myself looking at it for a few minutes. Looks familar, somehow. Is...

*tchoh* You 'quite like' it? One does not 'quite like' such a piece as this. It either absorbs one, or repels one. One's mind becomes part of the space and moment depicted, or is left unchanged, unenriched, and unquestioning. I fancy I know which describes you. 'Quite' indeed. Perhaps something simpler, if any art may be insulted so. Perhaps instead you could describe your involuntary reaction to sharing your mind, such as it is, with this piece.

Well, I'm not quite finished with the last one, but if you insist. This one here, of the one on the pavement?

Do not be so quick to interpret so simply, sir. What might seem the most obvious translation of this work's representations is unlikely to delve sufficiently deeply into the world it describes to grasp the consequences of the messages it describes, and indeed foretells. Look a little CLOSER, perhaps. Explore it. Let it explore you, rather, I should say.

It is a pavement, though. There's a wall along one side and some parked cars on the other, and a kerb. It's covered in snow, or maybe ice, and was taken in the evening or maybe the morning. It looks familiar. The place, at least, not the exact c...

Your thoughts (and by inference, your mind, and very being) are too mundane, sir. Do not apply the feeble names of the desolate structures of your own ignorantly material existence to the sublime, transcendant expression of the Artist. Expressed here are ideas concurring with your failure to perceive their very nature - this figure, a representation, not a mere physical object, for all its effort and accident, may not escape its limited reality. It cannot penetrate the representation of the surface it is represented as being represented above, the beneath blocked by its impermeability. Similarly it is seemingly no less bound by the representation of the structure to what might be inelegantly labelled as 'to the right'. Perhaps it sought to escape this representation of the significance of the temporary worsening of its inhabitance, what you would call perhaps "snow" bringing the perception of "cold" to a dark, wintry world. This creature is cornered, unable to move, for impermeability on two sides, threat of harmful physical imposition on another, more of the same in two further directions in the depressingly orthogonal paradigm I fancy it is your conceit to pretend we all inhabit and unable to move elsewhere, that is upwards, by the very limits of the supposed 'laws' of the reality the being is represented and being represented as being representing itself to be represented in. You, sir, cannot fly. Nor shall you ever, not even in thought, is one message this work would tell you, were you only able to understand.

It's not immediately obvious that that's what it's saying, I have to admit. Especially not when titled "in this Extension, perhaps (20)". Does every traffic cone lying on the icy pavement represent that?

Meaning is fleeting, and ephemeral, and it is this work which carries the message, not any mere objects and structures inspiring the work. Let us release ourselves, insomuch as I can, from this, and study another, ere my despair at your intellect's refusal to emerge as fully as it may from the thudding pit of your limited consciousness consumes me overmuch. Step hither, philistine, and allow yourself to be studied by this masterous execution.

W...

Arrapabab! Sshh! An absolute minimum of three hundred and fifteen seconds' silence is the absolute minimum specified before loud, barking commentary and discussion may even commence, and that only for a supposedly jocular observation concerning the merit of the work in relation to other Artists' executions during the four-year period leading up to the creation of this piece rather than a full dissection of its merit, or meretriciosity, as applicable. Quell your unseemly ill-thought babble and observe, imbibe, digest, ruminate, absorb and re-absorb excess water from your opinions before attempting to excrete them in your insufferably coarse grammar. I will indicate when you may next speak.

***three hundred and seventy-three seconds later***

Bwahah. Oh dear. Remarkable, really, when you consider what Hopkins and Velasquez achieved that same week.

***a further forty-eight seconds later***

Now, my imbecile, today, at least, this work has primarily affected my sociological nodes, not least in the suggestion of the outcast, posing as a sentry posing as an outcast, presenting an aloof countenance in one slice of meaning yet hiding the tears of shame in another, by so everting. Do we see ostracism, or reticence borne of fear, in this reluctance of the rearward to be forward, at a level, or disdain, to be protected, or weakness, at being so corralled? I could go on. What say you?

Oooh. Crisp focus on the subject, I suppose. Well-aligned, or at least not obviously or unpleasantly slanty. Familiar, maybe, like I've seen it before. The colours have been brought out well on the yellow one, though the orange one at the back is perhaps a little oversaturated, wouldn't you say?

I rather fancy what you would have meant to say, had you observed CLOSELY enough, was "observe the mastery with which components occupying smaller apparent areas of the visible frame-view are raised in the observer's sense of their importance with increased visibility is the use of accented hue-dominance manipulation and the suggestion of greater albedo to increase the saccadic capture with the blunt force of blurred depiction versus the intrigue of sharply-rendered but less irresistible dully-coloured fore-frontal core image objects within the piece 'cheek by jowl; the insufferance of peculiarity (44)'", or less elegant words to that effect. "Over" saturation is not an epithet for the viewer, the reader, the absorber, to bestow. Only through close conversation with the work's Creator and through thorough study of all their work may we even begin to consider ourselves ready to even think of acquiring the ability and the knowledge to (should we have the temerity) offer criticism. This is why some are known as critic, and others not. It is a skill, a talent, yet still requires training, and foremore great knowledge, to be enacted, most definitely so should it be wished to be enacted with any worth, or relevance, or import.

I can have an opinion, though. I still like it, but if I'd done it I'd have maybe done something about that oranginess. If I'd noticed it at the time, anyway. Maybe that's what it looked like to the photographer, or how it seemed at the time it was taken.

More opinions, have we? I would be most amused interested to observe the process of Sir attempting to emulate the Artist, even to better the Artist, when you so obviously lack the means to even discuss the matter of the work in civilised form, never mind understand its creation, nor create it. Take this next, simpler offering. Here you should be free from distractions of variant perspective and the unfortunate misperception of the representation of a purely spatial subject-environment. This is titled "great is our suffering; observe our plight, ignore us (46)" and to vainly attempt to set you correctly on the path to proper observance of the work, I bid you to bear the blunt sausage-finger of your attention to the delicate lexical mastery of the description-card, here:

Oh dear. "The Artist chanced upon the miserable scene on which he based this eloquent study late one evening, when the daylight's dignity and strength no longer clarified the grimy environs of the subject volume. Suffering exposure to the lifeless municipal street illumination, the artist ventured deeper into the unpleasant world in which he perceived, beneath the grime, beneath the death-mask shell cast by the mournful sodium glow, concealed in the mundanity of these everyday objects and their neveryday carbuncitude, to this captivating scene beneath, in which the forgotten and discarded are made to speak with dignity. The awkward spacing of the objects describes the disease and unease of modern society's dysfunctional interactions. Their grimy coats express the masks of falseness and pretence the neo-being sees fit to exude in a feeble effort to conceal the indignity of their poor stature. In the uneven wall forming the backdrop to the scene is represented modern life, never smooth, scarred, patched from inexpert repair, crumbling all the while, and of course dirty. Always dirty. The Scotchlite annuli about the figures reflect the pathetic technological baublery with which the foolish organise their own worthless lives, communicate to others their pitiability and voraciously observe the miniscule detail of the pathetic cavortions of society's gilded buffoons.
"The sign, mocking in its neatness, observes the scene, as do we, commanding and regulating the behaviour of the lesser, yet no less affected whilst we remain in their world, for all our superiority." Oh my fucking word. Who writes this pish?

HRMPH! Your IMPUDENCE, sir, would be astounding, were I expecting anything better from you. Sometimes the Artist creates their own textual accompaniament, sometimes alongside the creation of the work, often subsequent, on rare occasion previously. It is the Artist's prerogrative, for they alone truly understand immediately their creations and their meanings, but on occasions, such as this, indeed, it is the honour of a curator to explain. I am such a curator, as my black turtleneck sweater should make plain obvious. We are perhaps more used to the problems the artless often experience when their aspirational perambulations mistakenly thread past a gallerium, such as this. We have heard many nonsensical bleatings from our clients: What is the symbology of this piece? To which artists are these accoutrements referential? What is egg tempera? What is silver gelatin? What is gouache? Is a drypoint like a dry-wipe marker? Such tedium. However, such galling experiences do eventually render our sensitive minds somewhat resistant to such stupidity, enabling us to take the place of the Artist when explaining the expressed tendrils of their luminous minds to the lesser, to the dull. I wrote these explanations, these clarifications, these assistances. I have decoded the Artist's meaning, made flesh the words of their shapeless yet magical thought which rests coiled within their works, visible only to those with minds truly attuned to their skills, and their weavings.

Ah. Well. Can't say I'm massively fond of this sort of stuff. I mean, the writing, not the stuff. The pictures. I like the pictures, as I said.

QUITE liked, sir, I believe was the term. An insult, to the Artist, such faint praise. I would not expect you to understand, nor to know how to apologise.

You see, I've always thought of photography as one of the more accessible arts, within limits. Obviously, not everyone can afford a camera, or at least a particularly fancy one, but to learn to use one is relatively simple, and to use it effectively not much more complicated or difficult. It's certainly simple to take a photograph, mechanically. Getting the right thing in front of the camera is trickier, and some might never become effective at it, at least intentionally or all the time, but the function of the tool can be learnt more effectively than you might learn, say, painting, with a brush, or drawing with a pencil. For instance, I can picture things in my mind, imagine how it might be represented by the marks of paper on pencil, but completely fail when I try to transcribe it. But I can take photographs, quite like these, in fact. I sort of think I know why I'm taking a picture of something, and to be honest it's usually just because I see something that I think would make a good photograph. All this talking-it-up-the-the-nines business seems rather pretentious, especially when it seems to be deliberate in order to make the whole business seem much more impenetrable and arty than it needs to be. It must put people off to come and look at these things when there's all this nonsense written about it, and people like you hanging around intimidating people. Making them think they're missing something, or not getting it. It's spreading, too... you used to have to go into galleries for that sort of thing but it's everywhere now, even on the internet, on photoblogs, in magazines and the walls of coffee shops.

Many do not 'get it', as you indelicately put it. When committed by an Artist, a work is not merely the appearance of a painting, or the print of a photograph. It is the thought behind, the creation, the journey and the conclusions drawn. Not the pretty colours, or the crude outer physical appearance received by the eye before a properly-attuned brain has perceived the intent. And the title. The title signifies, and underlines the existence of a piece. Mere photographs do not deserve them, whilst correctly-wrought exhibits deserve no less.

Well, I certainly don't feel the need to add a silly title to my stuff. It's like telling people what to see, or what they should think. If it's persuasive enough then people believe it, without thinking properly for themselves about what they're looking at. Sometimes some background information is useful, but not when it's, well, made-up stuff, like this. Some of these card things aren't too bad in some galleries or museums, though it's the ones which tell you a bit about the place, or the person, not the ones claiming that there's all this stuff to interpret. Even referring to the artist as "the artist" all the time is a little unnecessary, though only as some people object to it just because it's a term so often abused. It's a term that now carries pretension with it, at times, especially when capitalised.

WELL! You did not disappoint, in disappointing. The door is over there. I don't believe we can help you here, though I could direct you to a suitably unthinking emporium of poster-art and picture-postcards, which may be more your level. Many are untitled, and, god forbid, mass-produced. I shudder to think of it.

The door? Oh yes, the thing labelled 'transient barrier/rotational/anchored/pivoting (internal surface); to move inwards, in action, in use [painted oak/glass/brass/stainless steel, 2004]' set into the wall. I shall leave forthwith, whether it pleases you or not.

Indeed, it WOULD please us. Please begone, before another customer arrives and is repelled from purchasing by your unappreciative deportment and unengaged facial expression.

Forgive me if I don't purchase any work, then, nor any of the mass-produced mere simulacra of the true pieces from your gift shop stand thing. I'd hate to appreciate even one of those in the wrong way, especially at a quid a pop. Good-day.

***

If you like viewing art, but disdain all the guff;
the snotty art-wank-speak embroidery-fluff,
the needless obsession with meanings and codes
or the grammars and rules of homages or goads

If you see what you see and form your own idea
without a curator's stuck-up logorrhoea
There may yet come a day when some art on a wall
is described by no bollocks nor bullshit at all.