Art is barren today, long with dawdling densities tomorrow, and when the future arrives, the twisty intricacies are nothing new; they are century-old patterns recalled.
Julie Adaka…I mean Adaku, has a sculpted looking face; one where, you, the art connoisseur, the interpreter of convoluted aesthetics, couldn’t tell if the countenance about her airbrushed aspects were borne out of years of domestic brawls with whomever she once lived with.
You, the quintessential Hound Dog, call them as you see them. Fearlessly, that is. As a critic who makes a living pitching fast balls, you are suddenly thrust into the realm you know nothing about; to determine if the four-hundred-pound woman on canvas, this Julie, with other improbable exquisites, could beat out Leonardo Da Vinci’s interpretation of gorgeousness, the Mona Lisa and her fake smile, on the nuanced properties of sprightliness on any given day.
Your mind is already telling you that you are up that proverbial crap creek without a paddle. But, you must do this to earn your keep; you must deflect mean stares directed at you, people watching your countenance and daring you to deride their definition of daintiness…even as she has enough dew-laps, wattle and bite to make the king of the beasts jealous.
The last time you called on the aficionados in the realm of true art to help you determine the factual aspects of profound works of fine, delicate paintings, they never included Julie’s patch work of impolite surrealism on canvas. Well because they didn’t think it was artistic enough…because the brushstrokes, and the general application of symmetry, whose other names are Cadence and Enthusiasm…the rhythm and the breathing features one would expect to visualize inside the embroidery of lines and shadows are all missing. Hence, they claim; it isn’t a work of art.
The three women and four men believed, or rather they saw and interpreted the fatty wrinkled face mainly of adipose tissues as non-art. Her rather large frame, her folding sequences of blubber could, in no way, be representative of that hallowed tapestry of form and the procedure that drives art proper. And you had forgotten that these were the same so-called contributors in the revered dominion, who saw Vincent van Gogh’s sixty-million-dollar ‘Wheatfield with Crows’, forsaken on the roadside, and walked on by. And here they are, demanding that you scrap the ‘Fat Dame’ the face of candor…in a junkyard where other misunderstood works of art are buried.
The things people do…in the name of art…moving or still. You may want to ask; who died to make a renowned art critic King or Queen? Is there a school where one pools a bucket full of the ACJ (Art Critic Juice) he or she would use to smear, castigate or rein in, in blissful arguments, to determine the fate of any work? How does one become one? How does one become a bona fide badass in an opinionated, yes blinkered invective or lavishing dissertation to resurrect or bury one? I couldn’t tell you.
Here’s what I know; you behold art as you behold beauty. Art is barren today, long with dawdling densities tomorrow, and when the future arrives, the twisty intricacies are nothing new; they are century-old patterns recalled. If the Auteur is of youthful airs, the resultant consternation about the piece could be entirely forceful…strong-willed. The aging artist has the hands of effervescence, as in deliberateness and slowness. It is from these senior masters that you behold art’s fervent preservative strokes and her ardent mockery in colored tones. And the use of subterfuge to tell tales of fluency becomes its language of choice. Art is a voluptuous feeder…it feeds on all objects; even feeds on itself, with the propensity to devour, in larger quotients, all other forms of imitation. It is her fluidity that amazes, that tantalizes and makes one flail enough to see doubly…to appreciate or disparage. Hello?
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