Let’s talk about art elitism, shall we? I read a post where an art student belittled that a gentleman had passed comment in respect of her art show, it was a most complimentary comment however, he had been marginally off in respect of the painting approach she used. This post scoffed at this gentleman’s ignorance….and fed directly into my challenge with elitism in art. I will be honest it was most disheartening seeing a new generation of artist continue this behaviour.
You know, that moment when you’re in a gallery, squinting at something that looks suspiciously like a square, and someone behind you whispers, “Ah yes, the abstract realism of emotional decay juxtaposed against the canvas of post-industrial ennui. See how they have painted with the delicate tears of a forlorn child”
And there you are thinking: “I see a square. A good square, mind you. Lovely shade of yellow.”
Here’s the thing. Art elitism is like those fancy wine tasters who claim to smell “hint of goat’s cheese marinated in existential dread with an after-note of a teen boys gym sock.” When in reality, it just tastes like wine. Lovely wine. Makes you and your sister giggle. Job done.
I’ve met people who say, “Oh, I just don’t get art,” as if it’s an exclusive club with a secret handshake involving graphite pencils, tortured souls with a standard uniform of a beret and paint splattered overalls (although I type this staring at my paint splattered overall collection! The irony is not lost on me). But art isn’t only for those who know the difference between realism, abstract realism, magical realism, or surrealist-realism-with-a-twist-of-lime.
Art is for everyone. It’s for you if you painted your bathroom in ‘Soothing Sage’ and felt like you were one brushstroke away from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It’s for your nana with her fridge magnets of a lake she has never been to but liked the picture. It’s for the teenager doodling Bart Simpson on their maths homework instead of solving for x. (Frankly, if you ask my dyscalculia x never wanted to be found anyway.)
Art is not just for those who can see “the deeper meaning of the juxtaposed brush strokes evoking the agony of urban dislocation.” Sometimes it’s just a bloody nice painting of a dog. Or a flower. Or a woman with questionable proportions. And that’s fine.
Because art is feeling something. Even if that feeling is “this would look blooming lovely in the downstairs loo.”
If you’ve ever felt small in a gallery, like your brain didn’t come with the right dictionary, know this: art wasn’t invented so people could feel superior. It was most likely invented by someone dipping their finger in something questionable and smearing it on the wall, and realising ‘ooooh that looks like a woolly mammoth!’, and someone else went, ‘Oooh. That’s nice, that is, I’m gonna do the same to my cave wall.’
We are here to make. To scribble. To splash colours. To stick pompoms on paper plates and call them a lion mask. To whittle wood. To stitch felt. To photograph a dog’s bottom because it looks like Jesus (I’ve seen it. Sent the meme to my sister).
So next time someone looks down their nose at your doodles or scoffs at your taste in art, just smile and remember: the world needs people who create without needing an essay to back it up. And if your art makes someone smile, sigh, frown, or say “what the chufty is that?” – congratulations. You’re an artist.
Now go forth, paint, make mess, chase joy. Paint your ducks, dogs and woolly mammoths. Splodge colours, paint yellow squares. Because elitism belongs in dusty old libraries, not in art, which is – and always will be – for everyone. However, please do be selective what you dip your finger in and most definitely wash your hands after!