“Why should I explain it? It’s art and if it’s any good it doesn’t need explanation. I’m a painter. My pictures speak for themselves. Words can’t explain the ineffable.” Said Carmina, her voice replete with protest and doubt.

On this day Anthony (Tony) West, a photographer, and his friend Carmina Sfumato, a painter, sat in the northeast corner of the Supreme Bean and at a respectable remove from the other regulars. This was good, not because the two were dangerous but because their discussions could be intense, even erudite. To the other habitués of the coffee shop—a mix of lobbyists, legislators, law students, and state workers—it could be disturbing to overhear two people passionately discuss something besides office politics, case law, who was sleeping with whom, and how best to get in other peoples pockets.

Tony and Carmina were discussing an essay Tony recently read in a fine little book, Why People Photograph, by Robert Adams. In that essay, titled Writing, Adam’s wrote, “ART is by nature self-explanatory. We call it art precisely because of its sufficiency. Its vivid detail and overall cohesion give it a clarity not ordinarily apparent in the rest of life.”

Tony had encountered this sentiment many times before. It was common within the arts community and many artists said they felt insulted when asked to explain their work. So Tony asked Carmina, “Do you feel insulted when you are asked to explain your paintings? “Sometimes,” she answered. He then asked her, “Do you believe your paintings can be fully understood without discussion? And is it possible for an individual to appreciate a piece of art and not hear the words of history, comparison, theory, and taste being spoken in his or her own mind?”

Carmina ran her fingers through the patch of carmine colored hair that was her signature, as she pondered the last two questions. She asked herself, “What do I believe? If I have to explain my art is it a failure? Can my art really be understood without explanation? Is it art just because I say so? And just who and what is an artist? Who decides? If I call myself an artist and no one else agrees, am I really an artist or deluded?

Her introspection was interrupted when Tony asked, “do you know the work of the photographer Walker Evans? “Yes,” she replied. Tony continued, “then you may know that Evans said, ‘Whether he is an artist or not, the photographer is a joyous sensualist, for the simple reason that the eye traffics in feelings, not in thoughts.’ Of course he also said, ‘Fine photography is literature, and it should be.’”

“In my opinion,” said Tony, “fine photography and painting are both literature, because they point beyond their surface and invite feeling, dialogue and thought. Good art is about the eye and the mind, the senses and the intellect. So Adams is right to say that a worthy work of visual art will present itself as clear and sufficient, but I would add, only to the thoughtful, informed, perceptive and capable viewer.”

Carmina, nodded in the affirmative. Then she and Tony turned to look at the remaining patrons. Most of them looked back with the gaze of spectators at a zoo. Being artists Tony and Carmina knew that look well. They turned and gave each other a knowing smile and promised to meet again next Thursday. It had been a satisfying talk. 

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009