The Stupid Question of Art

This past weekend I visited both the International Erotic Art Exhibition (also called the DIRTY show) in Detroit and the Museum of Contemporary Art Detroit (MOCAD).  I feel as though I can say, pretty confidently, that the works exhibited at the MOCAD had a lot more artistic merit than the majority of those at the DIRTY, but regardless, both exhibits essentially posed the same question: what is “art”?

Admittedly, I think that is an extremely stupid, overly simplistic question.  There are a million different avenues you can take to answer it and the secret Marxist in me is hesitant to say that only highly educated art historians and critics have the ability to determine “high art” from “low art” (particularly considering they continually get it wrong; case in point: Bouguereau).  When doing research for my art history degree, sometimes I feel as

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though art categorized as “bad” can be the most useful to me, because it tends to be overly reflective of a historical moment or culture and, in critical terms, too obvious.  Too many symbols, too many allegories, etc.

In any case, the DIRTY show is more so asking the question of “What is porn” and where the boundaries lie between art and porn.  About 90% of the works seemed like they were just going for shock value and didn’t seem to have a lot of technique or thought to them.  There were a lot of poorly shot photos of S&M.  Maybe it’s the pretense of labeling these things “Art” that ruins them for me; ironically, I think I could find more artistic value in them if they would just become comfortable with the title of “Porn.”

The MOCAD exhibits were a little more thought provoking.  I love contemporary art and I’m intrigued by the fact that we are still in the process of sorting out its definition.  Many of the works made the same mistake as the DIRTY pieces, wherein they basically become a parody of themselves.  Contemporary art has no shortage of critics and caricatures.  There was one installation in the MOCAD that was simply a banana peel on the ground; the group I was with debated about whether it was an actual piece of art or just a dropped piece of garbage for about 5 minutes.  Maybe the actual “art” being made is just the provocation of the question about what “art” even means.

It Accessory

In light of New York Fashion Week and following Tommy Ton and The Man Repeller on their respective adventures in the highly glamorous and daringly sartorial adventures at Lincoln Center, there are a few women on the University of Michigan campus that possess an eye for the unique and bring creativity to their everyday wardrobes in territory unbeknownst by most women.   While most women crown their heads with long, shiny hair and use it as a safety net for femininity, these women boldly tuck this safety net away, and instead adorn a Hijab in its place.   They use the Hijab as an additional accessory, creating visual interest in an ensemble and embracing the melded culture of their eastern and western make up.

A hijab is the traditional covering for the hair and neck that is worn my Muslim women to guard their modesty.   Traditionally, Islamic women are advised to not display their “beauty,” showcased by their hair, until marriage.

One particular classmate of mine layers her headscarf with feminine black lace, white, and lime green colors. She contrasts this femininity with a tough leather jacket and combat boots, creating an entire ensemble that not only merges cultures, but creates androgynous connotations which ironically is the opposite of what the hijab is meant to do. Another female student was head-to-toe in various floral printed chiffon pieces, creating a flowy, goddess-like outfit. She topped this look with a sequined hijab, generating an air of female empowerment. These women embrace their cultural influences and modernize the way that they are used and seen for the contemporary women.

On a recent episode of Fashion Police, a guilty pleasure television show in E!, Joan rivers and her team comment on Kanye West’s outfit at the Margiela fashion show ad call his head covering “terrorist chic.” A head covering of any kind should not immediately indicate the act of terrorism, or create any kind of generalization about the kind of people who wear head coverings. Even if this is not meant to allude to the use of a Hijab, it is

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statements like these in pop culture that influence the way we view those in our everyday life that may wear culturally traditional garments.   Admittedly, Kanye’s choice of a head garment looks ridiculous.  This, however, should be kept separate from the already sensitive cultural stereotypes that we place.

The integration of cultural differences through fashion is something that should be encouraged.     Fashion is a creative outlet, much like painting and writing, which can be used to express feeling, progression, and individuality.   By incorporating cultural pieces, such as the hijab, it creates fashionably intriguing and challenging suits in addition to bold statements about cultural integration.

How Many Words is a Piece of Art Worth?

If a picture is worth a thousand words, how many is a statue worth?  Or a cathedral or an expertly crafted acqueduct?

While writing about the political messages conveyed by the triumphal statues of Roman emperors the other day, I tried to come up with reasons why someone in 2012 should even care about these crumbling relics from a time long passed.

Why do people create visual art?  Paintings, sculptures, architectural feats of greatness.

I think it is because there are some feelings so deep, some convictions so intense, that no words can adequately convey them.  (Or, in the words of my art history professor, “Constantine needed something BIG to proclaim that he was emperor.  So his triumphal arch is kind of his way of saying, “I won! Ha-ha!  HERE’S my statue!”  Standing at 21 meters high, with a collage of spolia from previous emperors on its facade, the arch is quite imposing.

I win! HEREs my statue!
"I win! HERE's my statue!"

In addition to empowerment afforded by three-dimensional space in art, I also think that the pre-Colombus, flattened globe of words and text is confining.  Bound by the gated contrasts of dark and light, with no in-between.

No pools of color, no jutting shards of spears, and no three-dimensional transcendence.

Sometimes, you just need to experience a great painting to feel and know the comfort that someone, somewhere else has experienced the same feelings as you.  And not only have they experienced these feelings, a gifted artist was able to capture them and immortally frame them in something beautiful.

I think art and art history, is not something to be looked down upon.  Rather than a frivolous and superfluous study of line and color, it is the fibers of humanity, expressed in line, color, and three dimensional spaces that let our souls breathe.  It is the liberation of our thoughts from the confining jail cells of text.

Although Marcus Aurelius could have written more books of ‘Meditations’ and philosophy, even he deemed it fit to immortalize a facet of his personality in three-dimensional marble with a powerful cape and commanding horse that doesn’t exactly come across on crumbly second century papyri.

Hip-Hop Dug Up

In the grand plant of hip-hop lies so many stems that lead to the root of its existence. Take into consideration the art, the poetry, the dance, the culture, the beats, the lifestyle. We hear lines from over-played rappers on the radio testifying the same word of wisdom, sometimes words of irrelevance, but what really originated these rappers are their predecessors. From Notorious B.I.G., Tupac Shakur, Nas, Run DMC, Public Enemy, Warren G, Wu-Tang Clan, Common,  Melle Mel, Salt n Pepa, to so many more my brain could explode. All of these people have left seeds into the art of what we call hip-hop, and are waiting to see the flower flourish.

Many misconceptions come with the understanding of what hip-hop music is, it having no substance being one of the biggest misconceptions, and I would whole-heartedly have to disagree with that. I know of only what I listen to and watch when it comes to the hip-hop world, and what really cements this music into the hearts of so many people I believe is its culture. From Jazz to Blues, hip-hop grew from the lyric-less tunes of the 20’s, 30’s, and 40’s. The soul  and vision that was made from such a simplistic music genre gave many lyricists the drive to paint the picture through words for audiences. Hip-hop reminds me of some of the most powerful and complex poetry that could have ever been spoken aloud. When you hear Kanye West begin a rhyme about college drop-outs and ending it with odes to sunny days and good mornings, it’s understandable that confusion is one of the first feelings you’ve felt. Just like poetry hip-hop music serves a purpose, to illustrate what the writer feels needs to be illustrated however befuddled it may seem.

Hip-hop music rides a beat that poetry has a difficulty in creating. Beat-makers, break-dancers, dj’ers all showcase the flow that hip-hop brings. The intricacy of one note, the power of one sound, the softness of a song’s ending, all are a part of creating some of the greatest art-forms of all time.

What keeps hip-hop growing is its fan-base. Its much-deserved appreciation is because of its reality and understanding that people experience when listening or dancing to it. The lines of hip-hop connect people to a centralized feeling of understanding, translated through that head-nod, or that hand-move, hip-hop has grown within us.

“House” Music

Last night I had the distinct pleasure of attending a party with a live band, a Michigan tradition that despite occurring frequently remains a lovely surprise each time it happens. The differences between a DJ and live band are numerous, but they also share a surprising amount of similarities. Both of them can serve as great dance music, despite the obvious assumption that a DJ would be the best option. A live band, when done well, can get the crowd grooving just as much as a great playlist, possibly even more so. Pre-recorded music lacks the intimacy and the personality of a band, and offers little to no opportunity to interact with the artist. However, in order for a band to reach the same level of entertainment, it has to perform the right way. It can be so easy for a band to sound frankly, terrible, if the mics are not operating and the singing sounds more like screaming, not to mention if the music lacks any discernable melody. When done right though, a band can instill a part spirit unlike any DJ. Last night, the local band “Popliteal Fossa” (shown below) did just that.

Comprised of just three musicians, Popliteal Fossa is a rock/folk band that embodies what a good house party band should: they are fun to watch, easy to listen to and most importantly, incorporate an extremely danceable rhythm in each of their songs. This atmosphere is optimal for old-school, non-invasive dancing that, when performed by the right crowd, will make any 2013 house party feel like a 1965 celebration. Having a band is also just a wonderful testament to student talent, and a great opportunity for peers to showcase their passions and work. The same could be said about DJs, however there is much less variation in this area of music. Nowadays, anyone with a laptop can be a DJ, and even pass for someone who is actually spinning two records on a turntable, which makes the degree of skill harder to identify. It is easy to immediately tell if the band has any skill. The question remains, then, if a live band at its best is more fun than a DJ at its best. It’s a tough call to make, because in all honesty there is not a right answer. Each offers a different type of environment; live bands require independent, somewhat more embarrassing dancing, and few opportunities to sing along with the music, while DJs allow the dancing to resemble high school homecomings, but run the risk of having soundtracks similar to high school homecomings. As DJs are far more prevalent, however, this is not really a choice we have to make often. Live bands continue to impress because they come at such rare times, and always offer a refreshing taste to the House Music scene.

Falling Down: The Paradise Edition.

My bones jolt backwards. “I’m lying in the ocean singing your song.” The ground seems wet, too hard for rain, disappeared. “Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah.” My other foot lurches behind the other, legs rigid, now back is against ground. I hear the crunch of my computer—might’ve just been my pride—and the stars and snow shine overhead: dark paradise.

Her foot seems to quiver. Up 7 inches higher than any really intended, her feline tendencies begin to fail her. Tail as tool swishes between her limbs and the ground begins to quake as faces make an “O” and before long she is in ruins. Ankles in angles skin turns green-blue.

The stars still shine, people still pass by. She still sings. Phone case broken and computer maybe dented more. More. Moar. Moore. Clothes not ripped skin not—too—bruised. Someone lent her a hand and she seems to wobble like those newborn deer before they were trapped in appropriated film for kids to laugh at. No one laughs, they lend a hand or a look—sometimes that’s all you need.

Ice sheets the pavement like butter on a cookie sheet—what is Paula Dean doing right now? Remember when she made that donut—sausage patty—egg—sandwich? What if, as she was beginning to put it in her mouth, the sausage fell out? Hit the floor? Would the cameras stop? Would the reel unreel?

Needing things is a bit too strong. Liking things? Wanting things? People? Things seem so temporary, broken by pavement where people are less apt to crack. Crack like the limbs you think Bambi will but then doesn’t. Bruises fade and mine still isn’t gone completely. Its like distant music that always stays distant because no one stops and the earth still moves.

Blue-green like her eyes like the clouds mixed with trees when she resurrects her stance upwards 6 foot 4 inches from where she lay.

A bright hell brought about by time still moving leafs still crunching and people still talking. One foot in front of the other and it won’t ever end.  “You’re no good for me, baby, you’re no good for me.” Cement into dirt into espresso into awake. “Do you think we’ll be in love forever?” My eyes can’t close.