I don’t think I’m alone in this.  There have been plenty of times that I have stopped to ponder a rendering of hillsides, fruit bowls, splotches, collections of junk or other gathering of objects, shapes or squiggles and wondered if what I’m seeing is art or naught.  This happens to me far more often at summertime community sideshows, popularly known as “art and craft” or “art and wine” festivals, than it does at some tony gallery or stately museum.  I admit that I must be a snob, because most of what I see hung along suburban streets are works of clever craft designed to earn an income for their creators. 

Mt. Diablo Boulevard in Lafayette doesn’t look anything like MOMA, but I’ll bet if I prostrated myself in the street and stared closely at the naked pavement, I’d have seen something similar hanging in the MOMA galleries.  And I’d prefer that to what I see at suburban art festivals! I think people are confused about art. Consider the doting parent who espies a Pollock and declares that his or her young child could do as well.  Of course, that’s not true, unless the child is precocious or, perhaps, like the poor abstract artist who, hearing such declarations about his work, is driven to a level of annoyance only abated by a Pollock-like expression of that perturbance on a canvas. 

But then, art, like human thought, isn’t always going to make sense.   I will admit that some efforts I’ve seen at these things are pretty well done.  And I’m sure of that, because I don’t tipple, like many who attend them do.  I think it must be the presence of wine that helps promote the idea that this stuff is art.  Anyway, I sometimes admire the technique that goes into creating a well-rendered seascape full of bristling foam and azure sky with perhaps a seagull or two hung aloft.  Occasionally the creators of these efforts capture what seem to be the right light, color and perspective.  Too often, not, though.  I’m weary of seascapes, landscapes, fruitscapes and the other scapes that look like an art class  reproduction of a Dutch master.  You’ve seen them.  Could my kids reproduce those?  Of course not.  They’re so annoyed by this stuff that they’re creating Pollock knock-offs.   

I think these festivals are more accurately labeled “craft and wine” festivals.  In my experience, I’ve seen much craft displayed at them.  Cleverly woven hammocks made from hemp beckon me to rest, while explosively vivid tie-dyed shirts remind me of the Grateful Dead and Berkeley street vendors…or maybe that was the hemp hammock.  I like cleverly constructed birdhouses and the deep, soothing melodious gong of wind chimes.  And there’s a lot I’m leaving out.  But you know what I’m talking about. 

The art and craft label would make an event ambiguous enough that one wouldn’t  need to wrestle with the question of whether the merchandise is art or merely craft.  It could be either. I only raise the subject of suburban street festivals, because I think they demonstrate that art is puzzling and not easily defined, and these events are the ground zero of the dilemma…not to mention a great canvas upon which to splash some discussion.   Hey, art is a subjective thing, right?  It’s in the mind of the beholder! 

You can try to tell someone what art is, but you’d be wasting your time.  What’s the old saying about revealing truth?  Once you tell it, it becomes a lie.  In my humble opinion, sincere, artistic effort is the expression of truth and beauty.  A couple of pretty big concepts, to be sure, and a darn hard thing to do, because people want to keep giving meaning to it that doesn’t necessarily get to the core of what an artist intended.  Meaning, dwells within the mind of the beholder, and the mind imposes its own sense of meaning on things, like on tea leaves or the shapes of clouds.  The rendering of places, objects, and the like serves to promote technique, but it doesn’t provoke exploration, analysis, thought!  The mind doesn’t have to work very hard to understand or appreciate images of real things that are presented to appear real or just pretty close to real.  It’s like watching television instead of reading a book.  A good book, that is. 

Art truly and effectively presented disturbs, cajoles, seduces, engages, angers, confuses, and educes feelings that are a truthful reaction to the artist’s ideas and emotions expressed in his work. There’s nothing passive about art.  It demands to be reacted to but not necessarily understood.  I don’t think truly artistic efforts want to be understood.  I think they just want to be. But art is a mirror, figuratively speaking, and we see ourselves in it.  I’m not Andy Warhol’s soup can, but I may be reminded by it that I’m hungry and that it’s not as good as real, homemade soup!  I’m also convinced by it that art is sometimes commercial.  That it is a fraud.   

Art expresses an artist’s reaction to the environment, culture, society; an exploration of the universe. And it’s necessarily ambiguous.  What was Lichtenstein exploring, when he painted “Drowning Girl”?  Life is comic?  Life is tragic?  Life is tragic and comic, or it’s neither?  Maybe he just likes comic book art?  And why does this drowning girl think about “Brad” in her last moment?  Why does she reject the idea that he might save her?  Isn’t a brad something that attaches one thing to another?  Like a staple.  Like a cartoon character to life, a woman to a man, to an idea, to reality.  Heck, who knows what the artist might have intended, and it isn’t important, anyway.  What is important is the meaning my feeble mind imposes on the thing, regardless of anything else.  You know, I haven’t seen a Lichtenstein knock-off at an art and wine festival yet.   

Okay, so there’s ambiguity in the apprehension of artistic work.  That’s a good thing, actually.  Where there’s no ambiguity, at best, there is only technique to admire and the veracity of representation or imitation.  I don’t think people who shop for art at festivals want ambiguity.  They want art whose content and colors suit their home décor.  You want provocation?  Consider the stain the family pet left on the carpet in the living room!  Now, imagine that your pet actually intended to perform the act in order to evoke a reaction.  In the paws of an artist, that’s mixed media, and, if the stain suggests the profile of Lincoln, that’s art, and you’ve got a gold mine in that pet!   

Or consider Ryman and Rauschenberg and their white paintings.  That’s right.  Canvases painted white.  Some might say there’s nothing there.  Others might say there is much. We don’t know what the artists intended.  The works are ambiguous, and maybe that’s what we’re supposed to understand.  If these artists thought of the universe as an ambiguous place, void of any meaning, but given meaning by sentient beings, which are compelled to give names, definitions, meaning and purposes to things, then I think they both pretty much got to the truth, and all they needed was canvas, brushes and some white paint.  It becomes an amazing mirror that isn’t a mirror, but yet reflects, for example, my idea of truth in a beautiful fashion. 

But I’m getting pretty far afield of the art and wine festival thing. What I’m saying is, let’s keep the term “art” exclusive to those efforts that provoke deep understanding and a realization of truth.  Let’s call the other stuff what it is, skillful craft rendered expertly with superior technique to create something decorative or useful.  Let’s not be dishonest about it; let’s not perpetrate fraud—there’s enough of that already.    And let’s not kid ourselves when we’re on the streets this summer.  That glass of wine you just sampled?  It’s not “a work of art”, as I’ve heard some exclaim.  It’s just a glass of really good wine. 

Here’s my idea for an “art and wine festival.”  We can’t bring the fine arts to the streets.  The art is too valuable, and it won’t do well in the mid-day heat or early morning dampness.  Let’s bring the wine, crafts and hemp hammocks into the art gallery.  And let’s bring the food, too.  Wouldn’t it be great to drool over a Rothko, while you’re also drooling over a plate of ribs?  Of course we’d want music, too and enough porta-potties to handle the crowd.  You know, that sounds pretty good, but maybe that’s not the best way to consider art.  I think I prefer a quiet, well-lit room with a place to sit, where I can be surrounded by beauty.   

But look for me on Mt. Diablo Boulevard this September.  Sure, I’ll take in the crafts and such, but as for any art appreciation, I’ll find a quiet bit of curb to sit on, where I can listen to the music and contemplate the cracks in the pavement.  I’ll look for meaning there.  And maybe this year I’ll have a glass of wine.