COMPULSIONS OF AN IRED ARTIST

COMPULSIONS OF AN IRED ARTIST
by Bob Coar

As for pricing art, size of piece versus hours involved, that whole thought-frame confounds and terrorizes me. A manner of reducing my creations to an economic equation? How do I put a price on my own head?

One problem is that we’re all in love with our own art. Of course everything we do is a masterpiece, or worthy of consideration by virtue of being done within the same period as our last actual masterpiece. Is that still available on EBay? We think every piece we do is special, and it is, in its own way and for what it’s worth? But what’s it worth?

In dollars or Euros, who knows? Look in the ledger book and see if there’s a column for culture. Focus on why any piece we make is special, and who it’s special to, and there is its value. True art brushes against too many intangibles for mere reduction to algebraic formuli . . . M.C. Escher not withstanding . . .

My own art identity has passed attempting to foster an air of half showman/half shaman. After all, ART is the greatest show on Earth. We already get to be players in a nearly eternal arena. No shit! Even the ancient Romans, who had lots of things on their plate all the time, realized: ars longa, vita breve. What more could we ask for?

Recognition.

A polite way of saying personal glory? Grabbing at immortality? Art as Philosopher’s Stone or Holy Grail. The mythology inevitable in the wake of so powerful a – I mean, any- This-

Okay! Let’s take a breather and think this out. What is art? What art thou? Is it a mystic energy, some sort of Akaishic plane of creativity? Is it a reflection on surrounding society? Is it a commodity? A business? All this? I feel probably so.

Now here’s my pitch. How come the Greeks didn’t assign a Muse to visual arts? Painters, no Muse for us! You know who gets a Muse? Musicians! And poets, and dancers, and writers, and comedians, and mathematicians, and mimes . . . mimes, damn it! Us painters are down the list from mimes.

There’s our place. From slapping paint on a cave wall through being bullied by the Inquisition, pawns of radicals and tools of Pharaohs, translators of souls, voice of reason, or simple respite from daily drudgery. Art has been, will be, many things. I feel like a steward, blessed to be working in the Vegas jackpot of industries. I get to be an artist! No poser, the real deal! I’m in, over the hump. What the F%#K more could I possibly ask for?

A grant.

Why? Because I’m special. My work is special. Time to open that peanut can with the springy snakes. Ahhh! (it gets me every time!) Certainly any civilized society should earmark public funds towards preserving and inciting culture. But, with Art so complex and wide-ranging a phenomenon how do those handed the task of accomplishing such feats set about doing so? Experience has taught me that some do so better than others. I’m just going to assume that there are creators and performers more in need of funding than a lone painter. After all, I volunteered for this duty, no one drafted me.

And if I want to paint for those who need culture most and appreciate art passionately because of what makes it special, then I’m not likely to be hanging around many fat wallets. Should I go paint for the rich and be a whore? Is that why my Muse left me? Am I a whore? Look away!

I just had a thought! Did the Pope snatch the tenth sister from Michelangelo to lock her away in a Vatican dungeon as hostage? Thereby forcing Leonardo to become his own Muse? Call my agent!

What then, might I ask for, if not some overwhelming financial rewardation of my cultural services to community and fellow sapiens?

Respect. That’s what I pick. Next time someone’s patting me on the back about how talented I am and how they could never do what I do, I’d like them to remember that’s true when it comes time for them to butt out of what I do. Because they really can’t do it, and I don’t have time to teach them what it took me three decades to learn. I’d rather be given room to maneuver effectively than gushes of false platitudes.

Treat me, any artist, like a professional once we have proven to be so. (An important caveat.) I’m not some child playing with a box of crayons to be talked down to. It’s a hard enough chore simply lasting in a business that allows very few to prosper. We don’t do it just for ourselves. We want to make the world a place with something to kindle the fire of the mind. That takes a bit of concentration. Don’t create static with useless nonsense.

That’s all I want for Christmas.

And, artists, learn to support each other, like a cross-your-heart bra. In fact, I nominate Jane Russell to be the Muse of Visual Arts. All opposed, get lost.