An Artist Statement on Artist Statements

Something that has always bothered me in the art world is the tendency for creators to release an "Artist Statement" to go along with their work. This is often an overblown paragraph or two of obscure references, aesthetic contrivances, and egotistical massaging to make the work appear more artistically profound, and to give it meaning. I've found that these statements usually bear no resemblance to the actual work, and seem interchangeable with other artists' statements.

These self-indulgent explanations of one's art can be seen on the site, Artist a Day. Though I visit the site often, and am inspired by many featured artists' works, I've observed that the more abstract the piece, the more obtuse and irrelevant the explanation of the artist's motivations for the work. I'm hesitant to point out any particular artist, but I have had a long-standing belief that art should stand on its own merits, without the viewer being influenced by the artist's stated intentions.

During my time in college (in the mid-1970s), I learned early on that mere act of titling one's work can influence the viewer's perception of it, and that phenomenon really intrigued me. I preferred that people would judge my paintings and sculptures on  aesthetic and creative merit alone. My work was usually quite abstract,  so I opted to name my artistic output in a more-benign manner, by assigning descriptive names like Spray Paint #4, or Wood and Steel #3 (more for my own organizational needs that anything else), as well as that favorite - and ironic - standby, Untitled.

One of my painting professors (who will remain anonymous here) was always really really bothered by my "boring" titles. To my mind there was nothing unusual about taking this approach to the naming of one's work, as it was a well-established norm in the world of modern art. But, since I was a pretentious young PITA in college - thriving on challenging my professors' perceptions as much as they challenged mine - I conducted an experiment to confirm my theory, that the title alone has a significant influence on the interpretation of a piece of art. As part of a class assignment (which was centered on the Cubists), I created a very-abstract watercolor painting of my living room, which came out looking nothing like that room - or anything else. The piece consisted of colored angular shapes that revealed only a vague hint of the original rough sketch of the room upon which it was based. I even turned the painting upside down to further obscure its origins. It wasn't a masterpiece, but I was focussed more on what to name it for my little experiment and less on the actual piece's artistic value.

(Note to self: Please post of photo of that painting as soon as you dig it up!)

I was listening to the stereo as I was working on the painting, and contemplating what to call this new piece. A new song that I liked, Dance on a Volcano, by the progressive rock band Genesis, came on the radio. (Yes, believe it or not, rock radio stations in the 1970s actually played a huge variety of album tracks!) Right then and there, I decided to use that song as the name of my piece, hoping that my professor wasn't a Genesis fan or that anyone else in the class would pick up on the reference to a fairly-obscure album track.

I happily brought my finished painting to school. In most of my art classes, we would have peer review sessions in order to evaluate and comment on each other's work. As I placed my painting on the easel, I proudly announced the title of my work. A long and passionate discussion commenced about how the power of volcanos, the shaking and loudness of nature's fury, the rhythm and movement of dance, and the fragmented dynamism were effectively conveyed to the viewer. At the end of this animated analysis, my professor asked me, "Ken, why did you name your painting Dance on a Volcano?" I calmly answered, "It was the name of a song that was playing on the radio. That'a all." Nobody said anything else. The professor broke the long silence with "Okay, who's next?" He never bothered me about my titles again. I look back at this incident and realize what a cocky young bastard I was. But, in truth, my professors all liked me anyway; I guess they thought I had talent or something.

Getting back to the issue I have with the dreaded Artist Statement, I'd like to take back what I wrote earlier about not calling out any particular artist for writing about his "vision." Korean artist Duck-Bong Kang creates large figures out of lengths of painted PVC pipe, carefully arranged so that the subjects look like they are blurred by motion. Here's a sampling of his work:

It's an interesting technique, visually exciting and and a well-exectuted idea. However, I just can't make the connection between it looks like and what he says about his work:

My work addresses communication and relationships, which are perhaps two of the most important terms to explore if one is to reveal our fundamental nature. Whether they want it or not, people need to engage with others in a social relationship they live and they communicate within this social space. In my work, the void a full, yet empty form reflects the emptiness of modern people within contemporary society. Whilst searching for existential values within social relationship, people these days tend to hide themselves, as their superficial relationships with one another become more complicated. When we care too much about how we are seen through other people's eyes rather than focusing on who we really are, we start to feel a sense of selfbetrayal. The existential void may lead us to cry out, with the weight of depression caused by this inauthenticity. No matter how hard you try to fill the existential void, you continue to feel worse because of the never-ending sense of emptiness. In reality we can't hold on without constantly trying to fill the hole inside — we manage to survive by hiding ourselves, like taxidermied likenesses.

Sam Biddle, who wrote a Gizmodo post about this artist's work, summed up my own feelings very nicely:

I'm not entirely sure what a blurry guy on a bicycle reveals about our absorption by social networks and the terrors of modernity, but you can at least file this work under "looks cool."

Yes, indeed. "It looks cool."

I love that statement because it's one I used quite often back then to explain why I came up with a particular piece... "I just thought it looked cool." In college, I experimented with technique a lot, and would freely mix incompatible media (literally oil and water sometimes) just to see what would happen. That was my primary motivation. Many of these experiments failed; some of those damn things never ever dried. But for me, the pieces that succeeded were the ones that I thought looked cool, and didn't look like one big messy mistake. Seeing the randomness of the results - those happy accidents - would surprise, delight, and encourage the developing fine artist inside me to further develop techniques I could call my own. My best work made me happy simply because I liked what I'd created, other people liked it, and it looked cool.

I wish more artists would be more honest about the true motivation for their work. Instead of all the verbose nonsense they proudly wave in front of their art, wouldn't it be refreshing to have an artist admit their true motivation? Perhaps:

• I had a lot of that color paint left over and wanted to use it.
• I can't get dates, but at least I can hire nude models.
• I like to make money, so I create pretty things that regular people will buy.
• I'm really a disturbed person and doing this keeps me sane. (Okay, I'll let this one slide!)

All kidding aside, this is among the most persistent of the many pet peeves I have. Artists that make us sound like elitist  douches aren't helping the public's perception of artists or the Arts (with a capital A) one bit. In an age where arts funding is always threatened, can't we all just drop all the lofty pretense and let the work stand on its own?

I'll tell one more relevant tale of my artistic life in college. During my junior year, I noticed a poster outside our school's gallery announcing an upcoming show featuring "lesbian feminist art." I thought, "Well, that's interesting... what the hell is lesbian feminist art, and how is it different from any other art?" Later that week, I attended the show's opening and, for the life of me, I couldn't perceive how this art was any different from regular art. Some pieces were brilliant; some were crap. There were no overt clues in the paintings and sculptures that would have led me to conclude that the artists were all lesbian feminists.

I want to strongly note that I didn't have any bias then - or now - against the sexual preferences or politics of anyone else. I was in art school; there were a lot of variations among us. We were all a pretty accepting and inclusive group, and probably way ahead of the curve at that time. I had both straight and gay friends, and as far as I could tell, their art was just their art. Of course, our art is influenced by our upbringing, attitudes and feelings, but the fact that this group of women had chosen to label their show in such a specific way, and that somehow their art was a direct reflection of their lifestyle, really got under my skin. If the art was obviously centered on that particular view by showing (as a bad and obvious example) two woman kissing, I would have at least been more accepting of the appropriateness of the show's label. But there was nothing controversial or confrontational about any of the art. To me it was just another student art show, but since those in attendance were ooohing and aaahing all about the work's relevance to the cause, surely I was missing something.

I attempted to discuss my confusion with the creators of the show, but these fellow artists couldn't answer why this lesbian feminist art was different enough to warrant a special gallery show. What had happened to arts for art's sake? Frustrated after talking with these artists, I decided that I would make a statement of my own. Even if just to ruffle a few feathers, I always liked to make people question their assumptions... and think. I had my own upcoming solo show to prepare for, and I had an idea. I decided to print up some very special posters to advertise my event. The posters boldly announced that the art show would feature the works of "Ken Palmer, Male Heterosexual Artist."

Let me tell you, the backlash began within days of those posters going up, and continued through the opening. There were two reactions to the show. The first was that people were misinterpreting my work based solely on the title of the show. People were talking about it... a lot. I'd never been aware of the phallic imagery so deeply hidden in my work! I could have predicted a reaction such as that one, because of all of the previous fun I'd had experimenting with placing misleading titles on my work. 

The second reaction, however, came as a complete surprise. Apparently it's okay to have a lesbian feminist art show, but if you declare yourself a male heterosexual, then you're a sexist pig. I hadn't expected that reaction at all, and was unprepared for the nasty comments I received. "How could you be so insensitive?!!" It bothered me more that I was being personally attacked for just being what I am (a male heterosexual artist... with a sense of humor, apparently lost on some) and that I had to defend myself from the total misinterpretation of my intentions. Some people just can't take a joke. Lesson learned; I would never made any male heterosexual art ever again!

I guess I also should have prepared an Artist Statement first.

(Addendum: After doing a little bit of searching on the subject, is this a good place to start?)