Berger, for his purposes, proffers a modern and Eurocentric view of primitive art and writes from a Marxist perspective. He locates the definitions, explanations and analysis of art primarily in the contexts of class, culture and economics. His emphasis is upon art as something that may be possessed, valued and exchanged. He says little about the subjective nature and satisfactions of the art making process. It’s as if the quality called art only inheres in the object.

Reading this essay got me thinking about my own practice of Art. I hold both a Masters and Bachelors degree in Studio Art from Michigan State University. I am a painter, photographer and communications designer. So I work in the realms of fine art and applied—the sacred and profane.

It also happens that I grew up underprivileged. My great-grandmother raised me and until I was old enough to work, we had only her Social Security check and a welfare allotment with which to meet our needs. Her formal education ended at the ninth grade level. So I did not grow up in a home that exposed me to high Art. Nonetheless, I went on to obtain a university education by means of the G.I. Bill, a benefit of my service as a Marine during the Vietnam War.

As a boy I liked to draw and was good at it. I liked looking at pictures. I loved the varieties of color and texture and the joy I found in pleasing shapes and arrangements. I checked out art books from the local and school libraries and took art classes in junior high and high school. I gained a reputation as being artistic. Becoming an artist seemed natural and right for me.

So when I arrived at the university I too was presented with the model Berger describes—the modern and Eurocentric model of art—the Capitalistic and consumerist model. I then began to understand art in the context of culture and class—as a signifier of status. Likewise I became aware of the artist’ status within our contemporary class structure.

Like most artists, I was and am an observer. I prefer the periphery from which I can analyze, assess, compare and contrast what I see, hear and feel. I knowingly keep a distance to preserve my options. A Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory I once took revealed me as an Intuitive, Thinking, Judging type and I agree. Being an artist demands being an outsider—a step out of sync. It demands the freedom to ask what if? Why not? Says who? It demands the courage and willingness to defy that which is commonly accepted, known and “understood.”

I concur with Berger’s analysis as far as it goes. However, I believe it is limited to understanding Art as an object within the purview of economics and politics.

In this essay, Berger does not address the artist’ subjective experience of art making. He does not examine the reason(s) the individual artist may have for making art. Nor does he consider the artist’ own definition(s) of art.

It is the confused and collapsed definition of Art that is problematic. Art in common parlance is variously used to mean: an object, a quality, an action or a practice. It is like the word love, which in one context may describe the mechanics of the sex act (they made love) and in another, the Greek concept of agape—selfless love.

The ascription of Art, as a quality, to anything is always a political and cultural decision.

Can something made intentionally for purposes of trade and commerce ever be real Art? Can real Art be made by the naïve and untutored person? Can it be made by accident? Can a computer produce it? Or must real Art evidence the freedom of the artist’ hand and mind and the caprice of momentary inspiration?

What makes art Art? And who says? The answer locates the politics. Is it Art only if the artist says it is? Or is it Art only if culturally accepted institutions, like galleries, museums and universities judge it so? Is it enough to be Art because it is skillfully and beautifully made? Or must the work show evidence of deep thought, meaning and imagination by its maker? Must a work of art be unique? Or can it be one of many machine produced and identical multiples? Why or why not?

Berger correctly posits economics and politics as the arbiters of what is culturally and socially accepted as Art—at least in modern Western society. However, the need for artistic expression—the need to make marks and objects, whether utilitarian, symbolic or purely decorative, is innately human and preexists any political ideology or economic system. In fact it is a defining feature of humans that they can make symbolic marks—marks that stand for shared meanings and concepts. This is the basis for written language and thus for the codification and sharing of mathematics, science, history and religion.

To bring this discussion into focus I want to discuss my brother Tim. Tim is five years younger than me. We have the same mother but different fathers. We did not grow up together. Early in his life Tim began having trouble with the law. This led to his incarceration in prison for several years. During that time he began to draw. His drawings betrayed a lack of formal instruction. Size relationships owed more to emotional meanings than observed differences—like those of children’s drawing. Objects were drawn as outlines and filled with color. There was little understanding of renaissance perspective and chiascuro. These were the drawings of a naïve artist. Yet they were expressive works that made manifest his feelings and did so in ways that were visually compelling and provocative. They were art as act, and art as process. They were art as personal expression. But they were not high Art—not the kind of art a museum would seek to acquire. Tim remains undiscovered.

After his release from prison Tim stopped drawing and began making carvings and constructions out of wood and scrap. He fashions detailed sailing ships, stagecoaches and windmills using humble tools. He does this without regard for efficiency or profit. He places no value on his work hour. He has no business plan or portfolio and his continuing personal and emotional problems make a professional approach to his art making and craft practically impossible. Yet he continues to make his art, probably because it is the one meaningful thing in his life. It affirms his being and gives him a sense of purpose and accomplishment—something that is uniquely his.

Tim and his art © Michael Maurer Smith 2009

Tim’s artistic expression is genuine. At the same time it is derivative. He tries to copy things he’s seen but his mental demons, lack of formal training and proper tools conspire to deny him the skill and discipline necessary to make convincing replicas at a marketable and profitable rate. Instead his pieces are improvisations, born without the pretense of theory and historical justification. They are akin to a journal compulsively kept, markers of a passage. But are they Art? I think they are. He doesn’t.

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009

“Prosperity derives from exploitation.” William Wordsworth

 “Habit rules the unreflecting herd.”  William Wordsworth

It was lunchtime at the Supreme Bean and Carmina had arrived early. From a table near the front window she watched the promenade of office workers on the other side of the glass. Tagged like dogs, their laminated photo ID’s dangling from their belts and necks, they all seemed so purposeful as if they were going somewhere important, even if it was only back to their cubes.

The spectacle amused and saddened her. She wondered how many dreams they had forgotten, misplaced or denied? What gave their live’s meaning? She couldn’t understand why so many people willingly endured 9 to 5 employment in exchange for a hollow promise of job security? There was no such thing as job security—she knew that from her own experiences as a process server, freight handler for FedEx and the18 months she had spent with Merry Maid home cleaning services. Work should mean something—be an expression of who and what you really are, she thought.

Carmina was an artist. Art was her calling and something she accepted with grace and gratitude. Each morning she arose excited by what she might discover in her work that day—eager to create. Of course, she had bad days. From time-to-time she had to teach workshops or take on commissions to get by. But in the main painting was her love and it provided a living. It was her gift to the world.

“How’s my favorite painter today? Tony asked.

“Fine,” Carmina replied, still gazing out the window.

Tony didn’t think so. “Carmina, something is bothering you. What is it?” he asked.

 “You know me Tony. I try not to judge people. But some days I wonder. I mean you and me, we’re artists, we make things. We believe in self-expression and creativity. We believe in being who and what we really are. But out there I see so many folks choosing, or forced, to be a thing, an identity—something other people will recognize and approve. At work they wear their ID tags, suits and ‘office casual’ and during off hours they wear their lifestyle—some pastiche of symbols and dress intended to say ‘this is really me,’” she said.

Bare Pixie © Michael Maurer Smith 2008

“That seems a depressing, even a condescending view,” said Tony. “However, your mention of tattoos brings up something I’ve observed. It seems like everyone these days either has or is getting a tattoo—you got grandmas with little pixies on their shoulders, young women with flowery designs strategically positioned above their derrieres, and athletes festooned with so many markings they look more like parolees than pros. Of course some of them are both. And now that Michael Jackson has died I suppose millions of people will be getting Thriller tats. I’m amazed that so many people are willing to pay to be the canvas for someone else’s art!”

Tony noticed that Curran Rule had arrived and was heading to the table. “Well, well, look who’s here! I’ll bet you’ll have something to add to our little discussion,” Tony said.

“I hope life’s being good to y’all. So what’s the topic d’jour? Curran asked.

“Branding,” said Tony. “Carmina and I have been speculating about the tagged nine-to-fivers parading around out there and the popularity of tattoos—we’ve been talking about how people identify themselves.”

“Ah,” said Curran. “Branding—the cornerstone of American life—the old image and identity thing—my bread and butter.”

“You know, we designers make a distinction between image and the identity. Identity is all that stuff you can control, like colors, composition, typography and logos—like tattoos, jewelry and clothes. But image, well that’s everything the company or person does. It’s behavior. Brand is the whole package. It’s the identity and the image together. The fact is, today, everyone is a brand. I don’t know if that’s good or bad but it’s true. We’re all brands now—or a mix of brands and we all sorta fake it to make it. Am I not right?”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Carmina. “But I wish you weren’t. I suppose we have little choice. I suppose we must play many of the roles that are expected of us and we must identify ourselves as members of the right herds if we want to be recognized, loved and validated or even left alone.”

 “Sad but true. And I think that’s why most people get tattoos, so they can be identifed with specific herds—so they can always have with them a marker of their own existence—a reminder of who and what they imagine themselves to be, or want to be and who and what they want other people to think they are—their personal brand. And sometimes its an epitaph they wear while still living, a commemoration of who or what they once were,” said Tony.

 “What’s truly sad,” said Carmina, “is that most of this branding isn’t the artistic creation of the person wearing it. It’s someone else’s interpretation and expression, an embodiment of someone else’s values and thought.

For the next few minutes no one said anything. Curran, Carmina and Tony sat watching as more office workers walked by. Finally Tony spoke, “see you two next week?” Carmina and Curran nodded in the affirmative.

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009

A second story wall in Florence (Oltrarno), Italy

Carmina and Tony Discuss Captions

To caption, or not to caption: that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler to suffer the outrageous comments of ignorant viewers,
Or to arm them against a sea of error and prejudice,

And by gently explaining lead them to greater knowledge and joy?

“Oh what to do—what to do?” Tony exclaimed.

“For starters stick with photography,” Carmina replied.

“Seriously Carmina, it’s a real problem. You know my work. It looks straightforward—like what it is. But there’s always more going on in those pictures—symbolism, cultural references and irony—stuff like that. So I think maybe I should provide folks with cues—clues, some kind of caption or label, something to explain my intentions in making the picture. But then I think, no, it’s visual art, it shouldn’t need words,” said Tony.

He continued, “Say I do a photo of a guy standing alone under a street light at a bus stop; what is this photo really about? Is it an existential statement? Maybe. Is it a commentary on this particular man? Perhaps. Is it just a study of light and shadow? It could be any or all of these things, none or more. So what am I obligated to make known about the photograph? Whatever I write in a caption or label will influence how the viewer interprets the picture. Yet if I say too little, or nothing, the viewer may be grossly mislead. So where’s the balance? What ought I tell? What must I tell?”  

“Yeah Tony, it’s a conundrum and one I wrestle with too. I need to name my paintings to make them final—give them an individual identity. Naming them actually helps me understand what they mean, might mean or could. Yet I know once I name a painting it opens up certain ways of thinking about it and closes others. Even harder than names, is the whole ‘artist’s statement’ thing. That’s really fraught with issues,” Carmina replied.

“I hear you Carmina. But with photographs the problem is verisimilitude. Photographs always look real. They are the record of something that existed, even if it was no more than a momentary shadow. However, a painting is the result of countless decisions and physical movements made by the artist in response to his or her inner experience. It is a cumulative thing built minute-by-minute, hour-by-hour and sometimes with interruptions of days, weeks or even years, but photos are made instantly and they appear like flattened slices of reality. So the photographer often must supply facts not readily apparent in the image. For example, a picture might appear to show a police officer’s hand about to slap a protestor’s face when he is really sweeping away a wasp.”

“So you are saying that photographs are more dependent upon words than are paintings. Am I right?” asked Carmina.

“Yes. And I am also saying that the viewer often needs more information than shows in the photograph in order to understand and appreciate it. Photographs depend upon shared concepts and cultural references. If the viewer doesn’t know what they are looking at they won’t see it—they will only see shapes and forms but they won’t know if those shapes are the Eiffel tower or a beehive. And photographs cannot show thought—only the results of thought. So if it is essential to know what the photographer or subject was thinking, a label, caption or even an entire book may be necessary,” Tony replied.

“Well next week I want to talk about writing an artist’ statement. I’ll bet you have lots of thoughts about that. So then, same time here at the Bean next week?” Carmina asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Tony.

Brownie Bullet and Nikkormat FTN © Michael Maurer Smith 2009

And in the beginning there was, for me at least, the Kodak Brownie Bullet. As simple as could be, it took black and white roll film and allowed no adjustment for aperture, shutter speed or focus. It was truly a point-and-shoot. For a kid in the 1950s, it was perfect. 

Later as a Marine, stationed in Okinawa in 1972, I bought my first “real” camera. The Nikkormat FTN. This baby was built like a rock (heavy as one too), and a close examination of the photograph will show a significant dent on the prism housing just above the letter “t” in the Nikkormat name. That came from the camera being dropped on a cement sidewalk. There was no effect on the camera’s functions. In fact it is still fully functional after 37 years! Morever, its 50mm f1.4 lens is, in my opinion, the sharpest Nikon lens I have ever owned.

I can only hope my current Nikon Digital SLRs will last half as long as this gem.

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009

Main Street Estate Shop © Michael Maurer Smith 2009

Carmina and Tony Talk Time and Photography:

“We are the time police, arresting speeders—that’s what we photographers are. We try to apprehend those, this and that in their acts of escaping. And much of what catch we do not realize until much later, if ever. We are collectors, conservators and curators of experience. We are teachers and shapers of our culture,” said Tony

“Oh my god, he’s on a roll today,” thought Carmina. “So Tony, what brings this on?” she asked.

“I’m in a philosophical mood, I guess. I got up around 4:00 a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. Something was eating at me. I don’t know what. Anyway, I pulled my copy of Distinctly American: The Photography of Wright Morris from my bookcase, along with Time Pieces—a wonderful collection of Morris’ essays, and I spent the next couple of hours looking and reading and it all got me thinking. Thinking about stuff like, what is the essence of photography? What purpose does it serve? What makes it meaningful and worthwhile? You know, light stuff, no pun intended, he said.”

Tony continued, “I love that Morris was both a writer and a photographer—and that he could see and reveal so much in the humble and mundane—in the residue and remnants of time’s passage. He photographed Nebraska in its flatness and seeming emptiness and yet filled those pictures with meaning—universal and specific. His photographs are often without people but show their effects upon simple objects and the landscape—like the worn pump handle or the lone grain elevator poised against the Kansas’ horizon like a supplicant’s hands in prayer, pointing toward heaven—the presumed guarantor of the bountiful harvest. For me Morris’s work epitomizes the essence of photography.”

“And that essence is what?” asked Carmina.

“The awareness of mortality. It is the realization of our human desire to stop time long enough to absorb and contemplate what’s passing and passed. That is what makes the act of photography so poignant. It is all about the passage of time—extracting and preserving a moment from that flow. It is about the celebration of what was but is no more. The photograph is always memento mori. When it is of a person it is a visual epitaph or will become one. No matter if it is a formal portrait, well lit and composed, or a casual snapshot—it is a record of the past—reference material for the stories of memory, and a resource for the imagination,” Tony replied.

“That’s pretty heavy. But it strikes me that a photograph is more about the present than the past. It’s about how we interpret it. I mean a photograph is only the record of light reflected off a subject’s surface. It reveals nothing about what went on before or after the picture was taken, or what was happening outside the frame. And if the photo is of a person, it reveals nothing of what they were thinking or feeling. It is just a piece of paper with an image on it. Samantha, my 3-year-old niece and I may look at the same photograph together. I will recognize it is of the Taj Mahal. She will not. I will know the Taj Mahal is in India. She will have no concept of India, continents or how far away India is. In effect I will ‘read’ the picture but Samantha will simply see it,” Carmina said.

“What you say is true. However Morris, better than most photographers, knew the respective strengths of the word and photograph and he used each to their best advantage. Like Walker Evans, He thought of photography as a kind of literature—something to be seen and ‘read,’ something to be appreciated aesthetically and intellectually—something to be interpreted formally and contextually.

“Ok. I got it. So, we meet here at the Bean next week, same time?” Carmina asked.

“You bet. Wouldn’t miss it.” Said Tony.

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009