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

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.

It was another Thursday, this one an unseasonably warm and beautiful March day, but Tony West hadn’t noticed. He was preoccupied when he arrived at the Supreme Bean.

His friend, Carmina Sfumato had already claimed a table for them near the center of the seating area. After hugs, Carmina said she would treat. She went to the counter and asked the barista for two Maximo Caramel Supremes and two walnut and chocolate biscotti. As she waited for the order she looked back at Tony who was now staring out the window. He seemed somehow out-of-sorts. When she returned to the table Tony, without a preamble, said, “Depression and art are two sides of the same coin—in fact, just thinking about art is depressing. Don’t you agree?”

“What brings this on Tony? Carmina asked. “Are you depressed? What is it?

“Well it’s..it’s … oh come on Carmina, don’t tell me you never get depressed. You must have some doubts about your work. There must be times you ask yourself why stretch another canvas? What’s the point? You’re an artist and artists are never satisfied. I know I am not. To be satisfied is to settle. It’s to accept less than the best and that is mediocrity. Every artist I know wants to do better—wants their art to be appreciated—wants an audience—wants acceptance and approval. But deep, deep down inside most of them believe they are unworthy—I do. I doubt that my photographs have real meaning.” He said.

He went on, “It’s depressing yet I know I’m right Carmina? You know it too—at least I think you do. We’re artists. We make art because something seems missing in our lives—in our world—and we hope that by making art we can fill that void. It’s as if there is not enough beauty in the world and we try to add some. But if this is true then art is little more than a palliative.”

Carmina took time to digest what Tony had just said and then replied, “Well this conversation is certainly depressing. But really Tony, I don’t dwell on all this stuff, I just paint. It makes me happy. I find joy in color, form, texture and line. It satisfies me. And besides what’s the point of analyzing everything? Why stir things up and make yourself miserable? Sometimes you find meaning in the doing.’’

“But, Carmina, how can you justify doing something that has no practical utility and may be meaningless? I mean, what is the point of art? What’s it for? Who needs another painting, or photograph when the world is already overflowing with art—much of it unseen, unwanted and forgotten in flat files, basements, attics and garages.

Carmina felt concerned and irritated. Tony was acting petulant and self-pitying. He might also be clinically depressed, she thought. And while she didn’t want to further hurt her friend, who was already suffering, she felt she must defend what gave her life its meaning—making art and being an artist.

“Tony, you have every right to your opinions, but you do not speak for me. Making art and being an artist are meaningful to me because I choose it to be so. It’s just that simple. There is no ministry of meaning which decides what must be meaningful for us—there is no website from which you can order a purpose for your life. No Tony, you and only you can decide what is meaningful for you. After that the hardest part is living your life with integrity—being faithful to that which you have decided is meaningful.” Said Carmina.

Her words pierced the fog of Tony’s existential depression and he felt genuine relief. For the first time that afternoon he surveyed the rest of the room. The evidence suggested that several patrons had left in haste during the exchange he’d had with Carmina. Perhaps, he thought, they had not wanted to witness what seemed to be his imminent breakdown. Those who remained and were within earshot, he could see, were silent and deep in thought. No doubt they were questioning what gave their lives meaning.

Tony and Carmina agreed to meet again, next Thursday. This time it will be his turn to treat.

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009

“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 

White Sands, acrylic on panel © Michael Maurer Smith 2009

Whether it is a patina born of weather and age or the result of intentional scarring, scumbling, scratching, and dragging by the painter’s brush, etcher’s scribe or limner’s silver rod, all we ever see, with our unassisted eyes, is the surface. It is the gift and curse that reveals itself fully only to those prepared to receive and perceive it.

The surface of the artwork may offer the physical residue of its maker’s feeling. The best ones do. Yet the viewer will never know how much of what he or she sees is the direct expression of the artist’ passion and how much is artifice and deceit—filler and technique.

Paintings, drawing, sculpture, and to a lesser extent photographs, all come into being by human intent and making. They are made knowingly and with a purpose, which imbues them with history and meaning, therefore art is to be seen and read—interpreted in dialog between the viewer and artist, even when the artist is not present.

Art is human skill and imagination made manifest. A sunset may be beautiful but it is not art. Human hands do not make it. It may be enjoyed and shared, but an actual sunset cannot be created, collected and given as a gift from one human being to another or to all.

However, the representation of a sunset may be realized as an art object that can be packaged, shared, reproduced, collected, bought, sold and appreciated. Of course it cannot deliver the experiential joy and suffering of art making nor can it deliver the pleasures of aesthetic contemplation and appreciation to those who lack imagination and receptiveness. Said differently the art experience remains perceptual and individual and the mere possession of the art object means little if its possessor lacks the imagination and knowledge to appreciate what that object may represent.

The surface is never the truth it represents. It may announce meaning or meanings but cannot make them—that is the responsibility of the artist and the viewer. The surface is the invitation to dialog and inquiry and never the end of discussion. Beauty and truth are indeed in the eyes and mind of the beholder.  

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009