But Moscoso Said…

The conversation about what is and isn’t fine art has always been somewhat tiring for me. At one point, admittedly, I was engrossed in the belief that I would one day be a part of some higher artistic collective – a part of a contemporary group that would later be remembered as an important historic tradition. It is hard to pinpoint as to why I ever had such ambitions in the first place. The dream appeared as mysteriously as it disappeared.

This subject came into my conscious once again quite recently. I am currently enrolled in a class about the self-taught artist. Given that I had never taken a class in fine art since high school, I believed that I would fall under the category of self-taught. Of course, upon wrestling with the term, I quickly understood that it was meaningless. Unless some artist was trained via data input – utilized like a robot and offered no leniency of self-expression, only commanded to reproduce what is taught in a calculated manner – it is hard to imagine anyone who is devoid of self-teaching. Even the blind interact with the visual world in their own way.

So mid-semester, I am drawing something for an assignment, and someone tells me that my drawings looked similar to the “style” of Joan Miró. I’d never heard of the artist before. So I Googled him and discovered that my drawing did have vague similarities. However, what was interesting was that I recognized a lot of Miró’s paintings (granted they are incredibly famous so my recognition is by no means a testament of anything). I must have, internalized that type of art at some point in my life, only to have it resurface at this point in my life. Given my ignorance, I can’t tell you the exact psychology behind this. But it is undoubtedly fascinating how subconscious influences seem to be directing my art far more than conscious ones. Perhaps it’s due to my focus in English rather than fine art – I never was asked to consciously critique my own style, analyzing where every bit of influence came from.

But suddenly, fine art doesn’t seem like fine art anymore. Lately, I’ve been reading an interview with Victor Moscoso, an artist involved with Zap Comix and responsible for a plethora of psychedelic concert posters. Near the beginning of the interview, Gary Groth (interviewer) was asking Moscoso about the difference between commercial art and fine art. Moscoso gave an incredibly simple answer, “Did you get the job first, or did you do the painting first?” Under this definition, as Moscoso points out, Michelangelo’s painting at the Sistine Chapel is a work of commercial art – a painting that the famed artist was commissioned to produce and one that acts as a commercial for the narratives of the Bible. Then what about the myth of fine art being “good” and commercial art being “bad.” Well, I’m sure we don’t need Moscoso to act as prophet on this debate, for it’s obvious that art, whether it is hanging at the MOMA or hidden in some half-finished notepad stuck in a drawer of some office building that recently saw half it’s employees let go, always has the potential to be shit or beautiful. Perhaps even both?

I am trying not to end this blog post with some cheesy statement on how it’s important to just do what you love and not be concerned with the workings of the fine art tradition and the art world. Which is both true and utterly bullshit, for even the most hardcore self-indulgent bohemian needs to eat. Apartments filled with aspiring artists have open doors during critic visiting hours.

Sometimes, the answer doesn’t quite feel like an answer at all. I must imagine that has something to do with me asking the wrong question. But it truly is insane how juvenile this topic feels while still remaining so annoyingly relevant.

Perhaps it’s best that I just stop thinking about it.