The part of my thesis statement with which I have struggled most is a section discussing Beauty as Subversion. It was introduced by a conversation where a student said "I don't want to make art that's all ugly and subversive," and the professor interrupted to say "Actually I believe true beauty can be incredibly subversive." (I cited it more accurately in my paper, but you get the idea).
I went on at great length addressing consciousness and the ways memories are formed. In particular, I was interested in the aspects of differentiation and categorization, which are the ways in which the mind makes sense of experiences. When the brain has made the association of a range of wavelengths of light with "red," then it becomes able to see similar colors in that range and understand them as shades of red. At a more complex level, emotional and intellectual processes happen in very much the same fashion: we differentiate sensations based on what we've experienced before and categorize them within the realm of that which we already understand.
When speaking of "expanding one's mind," I think a lot of people talk a mean game but don't really do it. This is to say, they may read more books or see more films or take in a lot of art, but if they continue to respond to it all in the same way, they're not really expanding their range of response, so much as reinforcing their current set beliefs and behaviors. Therefore, it is important to meet experiences on their own terms, to try to understand and relate to them by their inherent systems or inner character, just as we try to relate to people on the basis of their individual personalities. As with people, however, it becomes easy (and arguably essential) to typify, and again we come up with the categories, labels, and generalizations which guide us through the world.
Personally I've found myself often mentally mumbling "mmm process-oriented splashy abstraction, lyrical, color is a bit weak..." as I trudge past an enormous Clyfford Still painting that really deserves more consideration. It's easy and natural to do, and I think this is part of why art doesn't always dramatically impact everyone who sees it. The notion that training is required to appreciate art is probably, in fact, more than a little insulting to some people, and I can understand that too. I try not to take it personally when paintings don't affect me these days, but I used to get violently angry and immensely frustrated over it. Now, I think of it as a problem of my own limitations, and occasionally (rarely) I think it might still be the painting's fault.
In my thesis, I tried to outline the mechanism by which consciousness could be subverted, basically catching the mind at a point before it is able to recognize and call upon its verbal categories, thereby removing the ability to differentiate characteristically. Art which speaks to the part of the mind that responds impulsively, intuitively, and instinctively, would probably need to avoid immediate subject recognition, as well as cues that involve anything tangible. As many overly self-righteous abstract painters would probably agree, there is little more insulting than people treating abstraction as a Rorschach or naming the things they see in it, yet this is often the first response people have, as their minds try to force shapes into known forms. I do it too, all the time, and that's why I know how limiting it can be. I don't think art is meant to be entirely esoteric and remote... but as soon as we've given something a name or an adjective, we cease to get at its real character because we are limiting it with language.
For abstract art to really "work" in the method I tried to describe, it would communicate in elemental, philosophical terms. I said it would operate in the space where language failed yet consciousness persisted, presenting a unique vocabulary which explores the world outside of declaration. It would be a form of non- or pre-verbal consciousness that people could understand without being able to explain why.
In this way, it would provide a universal language, a means by which people could see into the subjectivities of others and communicate in heretofore undifferentiated systems of thought. The lack of categorization provides infinite possibility for that which can be known and understood, and by allowing for wholly novel experiences, could change the very ways in which we think and feel. Essentially, if it is possible to truly shift consciousness, to alter the very fabric of one's being with a dramatic and powerful aesthetic experience that calls into question all of one's previous moments of being, then art will have tapped into the most powerful form of subversion yet discovered.
Here I have to stop myself before I continue to spout off the entirety of the rest of that thesis (which I still have not completed to my satisfaction) because I keep coming up with a crucial kink in the chain.
I'll first explain it by way of quotation, from Waiting for Godot (p 39 in my edition*, toward the beginning of Act II):
Vladimir: Say you are, even if it's not true.
Estragon: What am I to say?
Vladimir: Say, I am happy.
Estragon: I am happy.
Vladimir: So am I.
Estragon: So am I.
Vladimir: We are happy.
Estragon: We are happy. (Silence.) What do we do now, now that we are happy?
So let's say this whole subversive aspect of abstract art actually works, and that art has the power to completely alter the ways we think and feel (which I believe it does). Given.
Now, what do we do with that... and why?
Here is where I'm stuck, as I'm not sure. Any attempt I make by way of explanation keeps coming out as moralizing, proselytizing, judging, rationalizing, or perhaps worst of all, merely entertaining. I don't have a platform of beliefs or a reason why someone should enjoy my paintings. If I'm being really fair to them, I wouldn't expect a lot of people to like them because it's meant to be a more personal response, something visceral and innate.
Not everyone digs that, and that's okay. Asking for a universal response to art is like asking for homogeneous sexual appetites... and how dull would that be? The variety of desire is what drives the eroticism of art and charges it with passion. To find that art which speaks directly to one's passions is an electric feeling incomparable to other daily experiences.
But I can't even identify a "type" or even a vague realm in which I'd like to categorize. I can't really say what my art is "about" or "deals with" or "speaks to" because I have been specifically avoiding concrete subjectivity. I know it is possible to write about the lack of something or the absence of an idea, but it is quite strange to produce a physical material object which denies both its materiality and its evocation.
It is in many ways like a beautiful woman saying "Don't look at my body, and don't listen to my words, just love me for who I am." If she's refusing to give you either formal or substantive elements to appreciate, you've got little to go on, unless you believe in auras that could simply be sensed in her presence (more on that another time).
I struggle so much with what I want my paintings to "say" because they're not supposed to be talking. They are supposed to exist, the way that trees and plants and water do, and in that existence, they provide visual experiences which (hopefully) are new or in some way interesting, in the process changing the vocabulary we use to address the world.
If it is simply a question of grammar and expanded vocabulary, well why change it at all? What is it subverting, beyond the introduction of a new term? And still, again, why?
All I've got right now is that it makes me and other people happy. We feel intense joy and pleasure through novel experiences, and art provides a great variety of unique feelings and sensations.
Right. So... what do we do now, now that we are happy?
* Beckett, Samuel. Waiting for Godot. New York: Grove Press, 1954.
We had a nice barbecue, making insane quantities of steak, bacon and cheese stuffed burgers, cheddar wurst, and asparagus. As the boys played with lighter fluid, we also had strawberry cheesecake Klondike bars (wow).
When we got back to the apartment, Eric relaxed his recent no-air-con policy, deferring to the panting cats, and installed the beloved 10,000 BTU bestower of cool comfort. A chorus of angels sang out, and lo, I once again wear pants in the house. It is a miracle.
