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Outsider Art

I had a discussion about outsider art with a friend recently. The term is a difficult one to define these days, because it’s evolved into something more and less than it was meant to be when it was coined by art critic Roger Cardinal in 1972. I thought then, and still do, that it was an English translation of art brut (“raw art” or “rough art”). Frenchman Jean Dubuffet used that phrase to describe work created outside official culture focusing on art by asylum inmates.  I remember my early impression that the adjective modified the artist rather than the work. Those who produced the art were usually institutionalized and considered psychotic and thus outside society’s mainstream. My impression of outsider art today is that the work is outside the conventional artistic product and/or the artist has not been trained in the accepted tenets of the craft; or perhaps chooses not to practice them. All of that expands the meaning rather than changing or weakening it in any way; I should add, ‘I think’. Clearly this is the opinion of one untrained and extremely unrefined art critic; me.

As I sat thinking over my impression of outsider art long after the discussion with my friend was over, I could feel a stealthy resistance growing. That meant there had probably been some other connotation attached to the idiom, perhaps in a symbiotic relationship, for as long as I’d been aware of the term. I don’t believe anyone who communicates feelings by way of art can truly be outside of anything. Writing, painting, singing or making music, involving oneself in any form of personal expression through any medium, surely categorizes both the work and the practitioner as being inside the human condition.  The longing to communicate makes us part of the living universe.  Since we’re all of the same stardust, surely that means we’re all inside the same life in the cosmos.

Creating a term like Outsider Art is a semantic or symbolic necessity for the understanding of some, but not others. In an irony of linguistics, it’s funny to think of needing to create a parameter for acceptance when the term itself is about communicating outside the accepted parameters. It reminds me of a recent opinion piece in the NY Times on April 23, 2012 in their online magazine for writing called ‘Draft’. It was titled Talking With Your Fingers, by John McWhorter, and it described the way email and texting have created a necessary evolution for communication just as the written word did thousands of years ago. Neither the formality of a carefully constructed sentence nor the informality of a text message is any ‘better’ than the other. They’re both different and crucial to our human development. They speak to me of time and intention. One is raw, instinctive and fast.  The other is carefully wrought and honed over a lengthy period.

And there we are, right back where we started with the conundrum of outsider art. Neither the classical, painstaking version nor the brutal, instinctive adaptation is any more or less valid than the other. Both tell us what the artist wanted to say. What could be more important than that? Unless it’s listening; on the inside.

by Sidney S. Stark

 

 

 

 

 

The Art of Life- Part 2

See last post for Part 1, or Sidney Says for brief synopsis-

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about” she said. “I don’t need it at all. I got the yen out of my blood a long time ago.”

“Did you?” he asked, making it sound more like a taunt than a question.

The man got more annoying with every minute. She looked forward to the after dinner debriefing with her husband when she’d tell him about her ordeal. Why had she been the one they’d seated next to the aging artist and why had he focused his ridicule on her? Who was he really and where had he come from in the first place? Her husband would have some answers.

**********

“Too bad the rain didn’t hold off long enough for us to finish our coffee outside” her husband said, turning the intermittent switch on the car’s windshield wipers to high. Sheets of dark water poured down the glass while the wipers thrashed desperately to keep up. She leaned her forehead against the passenger side window and saw nothing but opaque phantoms floating in the steam rising from the hot summer pavement. A fluorescent glow from the dashboard lit her husband’s handsome, angular face.

“Couldn’t come soon enough for me,” she muttered.

“Cheery, aren’t we?” He sounded testy. Maybe he’d enjoyed being ignored by his dinner partners about as much as she’d appreciated her companion’s singular focus. He inched the car out of the restaurant parking space, checking side and rearview mirrors repeatedly as the visibility shut down to zero.

“They sat me next to that strange man who wouldn’t let me alone. He was relentless,” she moaned to secure sympathy; her husband offered none.

“He’s a really famous American artist. You’re just not used to creative people” he said, concentrating on pulling out onto the main street leading away from the restaurant.

“Don’t be ridiculous” she snapped back, surprised by her own anger. “I’m a creative person myself, so I appreciate artists.”

“Then what was annoying about him?” he asked. “You shouldn’t be so judgmental. He’s very successful. That probably made you feel inferior.”

“You don’t understand” she hissed to the wet window. “He was the one being judgmental without right or cause. He’s creepy. He made me very uncomfortable.” Her husband glanced over at her talking into the window. His look said she might be speaking a dead language.

Continue reading ‘The Art of Life- Part 2’ »

The Art of Life- a short story, part 1

“Never let a dream get away. What have you always wanted to do but never gotten around to?”

She watched him watching her react. Everything about the man annoyed her, from his long gray pony tail to his bare feet in Gucci loafers. The aging artist’s hippy veneer was inappropriate for someone his age and obvious station in life. His attempt at studied squalor didn’t fool her a bit. He was the type who pontificates from a penthouse in Barcelona; an aging guru in love with his own voice. What gave him the right to preach at her when she could hardly remember his name? Obviously his manners suffered from the same bad taste as his facade.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said; his voice suggesting that was exactly what he intended. “But is there nothing you’ve left undone? Nothing you want to do before your time is up?”

“No” she said, trying to fill the silence so she could keep him away. “No, I don’t think so. I’m a happy, fulfilled person.” She took a breath and let it out again to punctuate her statement and convince him she was relaxed. She hoped that would be the end of it. He sat still, one hand in his lap and the other resting on the table faintly stroking the stem of his wine glass. He looked at her as if he could hear an unspoken conversation.

“I didn’t mean to upset you either,” she said, too loud; “although I suspect you don’t believe in satisfaction and have some kind of vested interest in disturbing the peace.”

“Not at all,” he sidestepped with a small smile. “I’m always looking for balance and equilibrium, in art as in life. So there’s no other way you’ve ever wanted to live, say…when you were eighteen…that never happened because things got in the way?”

Continue reading ‘The Art of Life- a short story, part 1’ »