Jon Gets All Artsy-Fartsy

I'm taking Aesthetics. You all knew that. My first assignment was to explain the nature of art. I had a bit of fun and thought you'd all like to see it. So, enjoy.


------



I don’t believe you’ve never heard of Art, Sue. You’ve been surrounded by it your entire life. You may not have recognized it as art, but it was there and you lived it. I’m sure at this point you are questioning my sanity, or at least my reasoning skills. It’s kind of hard to believe that art is a universal object that encompasses the tedious to the grandiose, but it’s very much the truth. I’m not asking you to immediately swallow all that I’m telling you. I’d rather you not. It’s quite a large piece to swallow and we wouldn’t want you choking. I would be quite lonely and you would be very much dead. And, worse of all, you would have died without a clear understanding of the nature of art. In my opinion, that’s quite the tragedy. Keep in mind though, that the version of art I present is not what is considered the true definition of art. I doubt that there is a true definition of art. My definition is only one of many, but it happens to be the one I prefer.

You might be wondering why there is not a set definition of art. That’s a good thing to wonder. Sometimes I wonder that myself. Art would be so much easier, I think, if everyone agreed on the nature of art. It would also be a bit duller, but people seem happy to accept standardized definitions of other abstract terms as well. Blue seems to be blue anywhere, although shades of blue or words for the wavelength that we describe as blue may vary. But, I suppose that blue, being very much an objective and static entity, is easier to peg down. There’s no debate on the nature of blue because it’s quite apparent. Blue, no matter where you go, is always a wavelength, 475 nanometers long, that makes the sky a very pretty colour when the sun is shining unhindered. Art, on the other hand, does not have the luxury of such exact specifications. See, art is what is known as a subjective creation.

A subjective creation is any creation that confers power of appreciation to individual preference. In other words, art is hard to pin down because people like different things. If we were to stop at that definition, and if people were happy with it, things would be all right in the world. People are notoriously picky about their definitions, and are extremely protective of their chosen loves. To simplify something so complex like I did would be considered sacrilege. At times, you know, I’m inclined to agree. Merely saying that art is a creation people like is not enough. I like my blue jeans, that’s for sure, but I do not consider them art, even though they are especially well made and have been tailored to bring out the best in my bum. Even though my jeans were a creation, and I like them, I cannot consider them art. Some people may think that my bum in these jeans is a work of art, but that is stretching the word beyond its proper definition. The context of art remains suspended over the sight of my bum in jeans; however, it is not the denotative definition of the word. Again, we are at a passé.

Some people may tell you that the sheer difficulty of creating a clear denotative definition of art means that art, clearly, can never be clearly explained. The concept of art is forever doomed to wander the world, in search of an angry fix, or at least like some kind of figurative Jack O’Lantern. Personally, I think it is hell for a word to not have a clear denotative definition. Words exist to confer meaning. Without meaning, the word is useless. Of course, art has many connotative definitions attached to it, and its use confers many images, such as my bum in these jeans, but the connotative definitions are nothing more than sandbags in a balloon-less hot-air balloon carriage. We need to get the word up in the air, so to speak, but not entirely up in the air.

The people who believe that art cannot be defined are rather well meaning. They’re closer to what I think is the right definition than they think, but for some reason, refuse to see past the subjective nature of art. Oh, sure, art is all beautiful and wonderful, and everyone’s creation is filled with meaning and expression, but the selective nature and limited understanding of people supposedly deny art its pedestal. This is the crux of the subjective argument. People who do not understand art cannot hope to create or define it. And, because of the subjective nature of art, we are free to define anything as art and be content with our status as artist. This is all good and well, until someone uses a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts to smear their naked bodies in chocolate and lollygag in front of congress to protest the shitty nature of government. The person, while being arrested, may protest that their art is being censured. They may actually have a point, but it is questionable whether their motives were to express art, or a personal political message. It is also obvious that many people will not believe that our chocolate-covered friend was engaged in artistic license. Here is where those who firmly believe in the subjective nature of art will make their case. The artist in question claimed that his/her performances and chocolate work was art. The nature of the performance, the extent of the chocolate bodywork, and artist’s own feelings, bestow the performance the bombastic title of art. People who are disinclined to see chocolate-covered nakedness in front of congress would beg to differ. Again, we are stuck in the quandary of whether or not art can truly have a concrete meaning. This will not do at all. The word, art, cannot be abandoned to the whims of random definition.

Just as there are those who believe that art cannot be truly defined, there are those who believe in excessive restraints on what is constituted as art. For them, there is a clear demarcation between vaunted art, and, if you’ll pardon me, crap. These extremists are harsh and haughty people. They wander the halls of crafts fairs and museums like blighted banshees, howling their disdain for anything that does not fall within their strict parameters of art. They may look at one painting and say that this is not art because it lacks cohesion, and they may look at another and say that this is not art because we could very well do it ourselves. They would laugh at mobiles hanging from the ceiling and call them flimsy pieces of glass and metal suspended on string. For them, much of the modern art of the 20th century is nothing more than the deranged scribbles of a generation of amateurs.

It would be easy to simply dismiss the thoughts of the excessively critical as nothing more than the shrill screeches of the pompous, but it’s also easy to see why they’ve chosen their particular definition of art. Art of the past tended to be glamorous. They were complicated, colourful renditions of people, places, and things. Early artists experimented with colour, lights, perspective, shapes, people, and did so while making paintings that were clearly art, to most audiences. But, Artists belie consistency, so the nature of art changed as time progressed. Eventually, art became simple, perhaps too simple for some. Rather than making grand experiments, or what some would call high art, artists created lines, shapes, textures, and used colours to express more than what some would think a colour could express. So, art went from incredible renditions of people, to a simple yellow dot in the middle of the paper. Can you imagine wandering a museum full of grand scenes, and then suddenly finding yourself in a room, where all the paintings look as if a child had flung paint on the wall one evening? We can sympathize with those who believe art shouldn’t be such simplicity, but that doesn’t mean we have to agree with them. No word pertaining to subjective experiences should be burdened with heavy demarcations.

So, you see, art is neither what anyone wants it to be, nor is it something that not everything can be. I know it’s kind of confusing, but that’s the nature of art. I tell you though; that I do believe there is something material to art. A famous artist once said that art is man’s pleasure in labour. Of all the definitions of art that I’ve heard, it is one I’m most inclined to believe. It encompasses everything that ought to be art, from high art, to modern art, and everything in between. It includes the kiddie drawings on the refrigerator, to the pottery made by students in some adult education class. It includes the high art we discussed, and the modern art we discussed, even the painting with the sole yellow dot. The nice thing about art being pleasure in labor, is that it includes everything that may not be considered art. The artist who coined the definition wasn’t a standard canvas and paint artist. He made furniture for those who wanted something that wasn’t quite mass-produced. He also made wallpaper, and book covers. So, furniture can be art, and so can buildings, machinery, music, writing, and even photographs, provided that their creator takes pleasure in their creation.

I’m not arrogant enough to think that the definition of art that I’ve chosen is the only one available. Sure, there are others, but I feel that mine is the one most likely to be accurate. It allows me to appreciate creations that some may otherwise neglect. And, sometimes, I feel there is a spiritual aspect to my particular definition. I watch sunsets and think that someone had particularly loved creating sunsets.

Remember you told me that you had never before heard of art and was surprised at my expression? Now you see why I don’t believe you’ve never been around art? You’ve been creating it your whole life. Any time you took particular pleasure at making something, you were making art. Your art may have been art to only yourself, but it was art nevertheless. That, Sue, is the true spirit of art.


------


Let me know what y'all think.

A collection of nothing

A complacent Jon does not make for interesting writing. It's probably a good thing that nothing recent has riled me up. I was already on pace to acquire my first ulcer before the age of thirty. I guess now that I'm grooving the mellow, I will have to meet an early, painful death in other ways, such as a motorcycle accident, or drinking myself into a flaming stupor. There will be, for sure, other news days that drive me into a relatively interesting tizzy, but for now, I'm relaxing, all max-in (shootin' sum b-ball outside da skool).

Life is currently spend in pursuit of new and fascinating, yet non-mainstream bands. I have currently, as of the last two days, been stuck in some kind of British rut. The British rut has allowed me melodious music such as Snow Patrol, and Keane, although the occasional American guitar grunt of Killer, Pinback, and most recently, the Stills, have given me some hardcore grounding. Believe me, my musical tastes have not been unmanned. They have simply fled to a higher plane and are perching up there, looking disdainfully perplexed at the greater mainstreamed tastes. While I'm extolling the greats of bands that you probably have never heard of (oh, aren't I the hipster?), I should probably throw in a passing mention of M. Ward. He's one of those musicians that I occasionally throw myself into foaming passions over, but eventually forget, only to re-discover after weeks of aural abuse. He's kinda low-key, and low-fi, like every other skinny boy with soppy hair and a guitar who likes to cry and write complicated lyrics. But, unlike every other skinny boy with soppy hair who likes to cry, M. Ward spins some serious tunes. I'm currently listening to a favorite by the name of Psalm, which probably could've been one of the cover melodies for King David's poetry. It's a simple melody (aren't all the bests?) which starts slow, then slowly climbs the scales and dips when needed, much like a good kiss. In fact, Psalm is a damned fine kiss; one of those slow, soft ones, which trace down your throat and gently down your chest. You had better believe there's some intense throbbing in the pants once he gets done with his five-string self-masturbatory session. Geez, fuck the bells, Angels get their wings on this song.

So, yeah, I dig M. Ward. It's funny how I came to be introduced to him. Oh, yes. It's time for another long-assed Jon story.

On the northwest side of D.C., between 18th street and Connecticut is an area known as Adams Morgan. It's also known as my favorite D.C. stomping grounds. D.C.'s status as a relatively small city with huge international presence, and an extremely stratified economic and cultural population has made for some interesting clashes that manifest in the form of isolated neighborhoods. Really, the idea of isolated neighborhoods in large cities is nothing new. Each major city has some form of ethnic and cultural colonies. But, these colonies, in cities such as Chicago, New York, San Francisco, and the like, often appear in the form of a Calder mobile. Each city possesses a major downtown hub (the loop, times square), with several spoke colonies branching off. There are neutral grounds between each neighborhood, and each neighborhood exists as an isolated entity. In D.C., however, the relative size of the city, compounded by its ethnic and cultural mix, creates interesting city schematics. Rather than the usual Calder design, the "neighborhoods" of D.C. can be represented by a shotgun blast at close range. So, yeah, walking through D.C. can be a rather trippy experience, provided you don't get your fool ass killed meandering through certain areas of the Northeast or Southeast.

Adams Morgan, as mentioned earlier, is a rather small cross-sectional of the Northwest side. It is a wonderful clash of cultures that manifests in import shops, art shops, jazz holes, blues caverns, trade shops, head shops, smoke stands, news stands, motorcycle gatherings, pizza places, chicken places, diners, and every sort of ethnic restaurant available. Messob (an sumptuous ethiopian dish) restaurants compete with sangria joints, curry palaces, sushi chefs, burrito barrios, hot dog stands, snail sauteers, Creole sauciers, and other less mentionable eats ($100 an hour, bay-bee?). Street musicians play under natty streetlights while the sweat-soaked run from club to club. The innocent are left in the gutters, while the cabs attempt to squish feet and errant rats. Short, Hispanic men wander from shop to shop, attempting to sell roses, because, come on, ese, pretty girl (or pretty boy) be needin' some pretty, too.

On any given weekend, you could find me alone, or with a friend or two, sauntering through the crowds, soaking up the atmosphere and attempting to catch a few strains of melody from the Madam's Organ bar next to the clean and homosexual-ridden 24 hour diner. It was living concentrated and imploded. I once told Miz Expresso that going to Adams Morgan was like having street music mainlined into a collapsing vein. Now that I think about it, that description isn't too far off from the truth.

Next to the Heaven and Hell Bar, by Tom-Toms, was one of my favorite music shops. It was a typical D.C. music store; mostly local tunes with a bunch of used cds stashed near the mangy posters in the back. I believe the name of the place was DC CD. I know. Real original. But, I loved it anyway because it reminded me of the used CD stores I used to frequent in Chicago (nothing beats Chicago for music, other than...no. nothing beats Chicago).

One evening, a few hours before midnight and the general orgy that pervades the streets of 18th on any given weekend night (Thurs-Sun), Rosencratz and I were perusing the CDs. I was looking for another Coltrane CD, having recently melted one my first (Bluetrain... Ba dada duh DAAAAH). For some odd reason, DC CD didn't have Giant Steps, which sent me into an inner hissy fit. I angrily flipped through used CDs, looking for nothing in particular, and hoping that something decent would come on the overhead piping. Rosencratz was doing the Rosencratz shuffle, which pretty much consists of floating bored, from one random location to another. I guess during one of these bored floats he hit an epiphany, because he suddenly and uncharacteristically bolted to the listening station and cranked (these dials go to 11!).

I noticed this out of the corner of my eye and gamboled (in the wabes, no less!) my way to his corner. He was in some kind of orgiastic stupor. I tapped his knee. There was no response. I kicked his knee. He kicked me back. That, was a good sign. He was still alive. I went over to the next station and plugged in the Hives. The Hives were a bunch of Swedish noise. Good some times. Not at this particular time. A few minutes of guitar rock found Rosencratz tapping me on my shoulder. He indicated that I should ditch whatever shit I was listening to, and give his music a whirl. I did, and immediately my ears went into pleasurable convulsions. My eyes glazed over. My jaw went slack. I probably looked as if Nicole Kidman had burst into the store, sat me down, yanked my pants down, and went to work.

So, yeah. That was my first experience with M. Ward. To this day, I'm not exactly sure how Rosencratz knew about the guy. He wasn't exactly well known, and besides fronting for the more popular Bright Eyes, he didn't get around. It doesn't matter, though. M. Ward was majestic and yes, I'm shilling for him.

----


For those of you wondering about the beautiful song mentioned in this edition of Jon-can't-find-anything-to-write-about-so-he-gibbers-about-music, the incredible and immediately recognizable opening notes of Blue Train can be found in Cameron Crowe's Singles, which is another very cool movie about the early 90s, specifically the early 90's Seattle music scene. Groovy, baby.

Yes. I am a dork, especially when I'm bored and writing about something I enjoy.

-----


For those about to rock, we salute you!

Set me free little snow, all ya gotta do is set me free little snow

The Kinks, ladies and gentlemen. That's whom I'm talking about. When you're snow bound and there isn't anything else to do other than wander around the apartment, scratching various appendages in hope that tactile stimulation will somehow cure what ails, then the Kinks are there for you. Also, Robert Cray is there, and Blonde Redhead, although occasionally Peter, Paul, and Mary pipe in with their delectable folk. For some reason, I have been compelled to download Velvet Revolver, and Pinback blasts my computer with wonderful sounds. Really, I need to find more folk musicians to satisfy my cravings for simple melodies on acoustic guitars. I would get jazz songs, but jazz is best served in album form, and the pieces scattered across the Internet are simply not enough to satisfy. In other words, I'm whittling away this Sunday listening to various music. I should be reading. More specifically, I should be flipping through my Aesthetics books in search of a thirty page senior thesis. But, I don't wanna right now. So, music, and this belated, much abused, much ignored blog.

-----

I got another tattoo the other day. I'm not quite sure what I think of it just yet. Some tattoos have to fester for a few days before I decide that I adore it. When I received the tattoo on my right wrist, the lines were incredible, but I wasn't sure what to think of the watch fob face. It just stared at me bleakly and when I lifted my arms, I could see time mocking me. I don't like time, but the fob face meant a lot to me. Now, I find myself staring at it in class, hoping that the lack of time will some how speed time up. In other words, I've come to adore that right tattoo, and its watch fob face clasp. The tattoo on my left, though, has a lot of competition. Had I gotten the left one first, I would have adored it, however, the right wrist tattoo is so magnificent. It's like the children in that the youngest can never leave the shadow of the eldest. So, I've been scrutinizing the left tattoo more than it deserves. Sure, it's a little lopsided. Normally that wouldn't bother me, but the angle of indent is such that I stare at it and mentally wish that it would some how re-align itself. Given time, this angle will be character and I will adore it, but right now I glare at it and threaten it with various abuses. Also, the shading over the letter is simply not long enough. That can be easily fixed, but in the mean time I simmer and wish I told the tattoo artist to draw the lines longer. Perhaps it will be best this way. The meshing of mixed length lines will have a pleasing effect. But, I wish to one day have a full sleeve, and many bars of shading on my left, so the lack of line length may help it gel with the other shade effects. But, we shall see. In the mean time, I do like my tattoo's sun clasp. I can't wait to add shimmer effects to it, to get rid of the sunny-side up egg look it has now.

In any case, the addition of a new tattoo has creates some interesting shower situations. Some of you may know that last December, I had the utter delight of cutting off the fingerprint of my right pinky finger. Because of damage extent, and the depth of the cut, it is still healing. Parts of the skin have yet to mesh, for lack of a better word, and I need to keep it relatively dry to compel the damned meshing to take place. So, for the last two months, I have been bathing myself with my left hand. This isn't too bad. It's mostly a pain in the ass, because I am right handed (although there was a short time in my youth when I considered myself ambidextrous. It took some self-convincing that the ability to shoot left while playing hockey and the ability to jerk off with both hands did not make one ambidextrous, but rather it made one interesting), but I've told myself that this exercise in left-handedness is increasing my left-hand dexterity. But, now that I have a tattoo on my left wrist, I cannot let it suffer direct water blasts. In other words, I have a right hand, which cannot get wet, and a left wrist, which cannot get wet. This does make for an interesting wash. Anyone who showers with me within the next two weeks has the joy of seeing the Jon-shower dance. It basically consists of me trying to get every part of my body wet and soaped without getting my right hand wet, and without suffering the left wrist to direct water hits. My roommates eagerly await the shriek and thump that will come with my sudden and painful fall.

-------

I am suffering the effect of too much time on my hands. This is not a good thing as I require a lot of activities to keep myself going. Given time, I will sit and become a collective puddle of Jon-flesh. This is not appealing to me, or to the girls who wish to experience Jon-flesh. Jon-flesh is much more exciting in its natural, hard and collective state. Also, given too much free time, other activities are bound to suffer, such as this blog. When I don’t have much time, it's easier for me to sit down and give myself time limits to write. Ah, so I have class from this to that, and a small break. I will use this break to eat and write in the blog. Now that I have maybe one or two classes a day, and no job on top of it, I find myself sitting on the computer, reading comics, listening to music, perusing news sites, and buggering myself to motorcycle columns and pictures.

I could get a job, but I need the flexibility that this spring offers. I plan on visiting a lot of friends, having a lot of friends visit me, and going on quite a few road trips. I'm leaving the Midwest, possibly for good, and I want to imbibe as much of it as possible. The last job I had, shitty as it was, was extremely flexible and I loved it for that. Most retail jobs, however, are not quite as flexible. I wouldn't mind another bartending job, but I have contacted a former teacher about letting me work in her husband's flower shop. I worked in a nursery for a few years and I enjoy working with plants. I wouldn't mind helping them out, especially now that spring flower season is bearing down. First come pansies, and then geraniums, impatiens, and summer flowers. Good times. Good times.

Maybe I oughta write a book, or something. Rosencratz has mentioned that he's in the process of writing one. I'm not going to let him show me up, again. Hell, my life has been interesting enough in the last few years to supply me with enough stories to write quite the novel. Perhaps I should start it, just to show myself that I can remain focused enou...ooh, shiny.