Art in America

Three Flags, 1958, by Jasper Jonhs

Originally published at Wrong Speak Publishing

Among a flurry of rabid debate—social, economic, political—the threads of American sanity are being pulled apart. So, too, is culture. America struggles with what story to tell itself—what story to tell others about itself. This is seen through the lens of many institutions, and no less through the arts.

Art. A short word that is quite divisive—it draws up images of elitism all on its own. Many see art as something simply made for the rich, by the rich, and happens only in Los Angeles or New York. 

There has long been a rivalry between the working class and those who can afford art.  It’s baseball games and hot dogs, versus museums and martinis. Within the American lexicon, the phrase modern art is something to sneer at, to mock—it is a bit of saving face, the idea here is that art is not made for you, is pretentious, and so must be met with a nose in the air—the same pretentiousness that is often ascribed to the art itself. This is ironic, the culture split—the philistines became just as pretentious as the art they despise.

But the friction that exists between the working class and whoever produces or consumes art (in this case, fine art) is long entrenched in the American psyche: art is for artsy-fartsies, and “I won’t have the wool pulled over my eyes by so-called “art”".  Fair enough—the art world has developed its own lexicon, a mixture of academic jargon and elitist wordsmithing that leaves anyone without an MFA feeling spoken over, not spoken to. 

People are intimidated by the arts like one is intimidated by reading law—the language is obscured, designed for only a select few to interpret. In another ironic twist, the artist-as-craftsmen has much more in common with the working class—they both pride themselves on working with their hands, both must have passion for their work, both may never become rich or famous, and success may come late if it ever comes at all. There need not be this rivalry, after all, the working class and the majority of artists share a similar fate—to toil in obscurity while barely scraping by.

But we shouldn’t scoff at the artists or the stories they tell—abstract art is easy to ridicule, but is quite difficult to master and could only have thrived within the gusto of the American spirit. It is not hard to find those who laugh at the idea of paintings, poetry, etc. But those same people may have endlessly praised The Sopranos, the films of Scorsese, and Tarantino. Art, that is. You see, many do appreciate acceptable forms of art, but also throw so much of it away without understanding its necessity.

And this comes back to the stories we tell ourselves—these stories, whatever their plot, are deeply important. We need art, in all its forms, to tell us about ourselves, to tell us about one another. We need art for entertainment—to relieve ourselves from our burdensome modern existence. We seek out comedy not simply to laugh, but to hear the truth. We need the beauty of cinematography to help us recognize the visual beauty of our surroundings. We need poetry to help us remember that we, too, can be poets if we choose. That we have hearts that break, bodies that love, eyes that have seen images that enlighten, mystify, and scar. 

We may not feel we need these things on a daily basis. We may not feel any connection to a poem, a song, or a painting, but life is unavoidable. When a tragedy occurs and leaves us shattered, it is often some form of art that provides counsel. It is the spark of human connection that provides us with a comfort that only another human can muster. AI cannot comprehend the loss of a child or parent. You can shatter AI with a hammer, and of course, it won’t feel a thing. 

Americans are living through precarious times. We all know the state of our lowly existence at the moment. And while some of the things that are bothersome are indeed from the very real, concrete concerns about finances, rising prices of food, access to needed resources—other, more ethereal concerns are just as important. How we relate to one another romantically (online dating has shattered face-to-face interactions), how we relate physically (online pornography has devastated expectations and intimacy), and national politics, coupled with a corporatized news cycle has pitted truth against profit and narratives. 

The shared future is in jeopardy—the existential crisis we face is too great to bear, to think about it all at once, and you cannot see a way out. The future feels bleak. And again, this is a story we tell ourselves. The future, as always, has not happened yet. What shapes it are the stories we tell and while we might not feel the art all around us those stories are inside every one of us, inside every building’s architecture, every stroke of paint, every line of poetry, every dialogue of every film.

Many times, the word art is never too far away from the word expensive. Almost every conversation surrounding art degrades into a conversation about money. The one thing we do know about art is that some of it sells for quite a bit. Films cost a lot to produce, and art is in constant need of funding, public and private. It is not that we can’t afford it, we cannot afford its absence. 

America is more than a country; it is also a spirit of a kind. It is a spirit that says one can live, create, and mythologize into being any life one chooses. Willem de Kooning, the great Dutch painter and personal hero of mine (his biography practically kept me warm at night) went to America in the bottom of coal-powered cargo vessel and after decades of struggle, dominated the arts with his paintings. 

Robert Zimmerman left Minnesota young, skipped college, changed his name to Bob Dylan and quickly entered that name into the great American songbook. The artist Jackson Pollock stunned New York with his paintings, combining the spirit of the individual with the rhythm of jazz, producing pictures that looked how many people felt. This spirit I describe can be seen in the works of Thoreau, Henry Miller, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, The Golden Gate Bridge and the hot trumpet of Miles Davis, the voices of James Brown and Willie Nelson. 

These artists, among countless others, have shaped our worldview, allowed us to grieve with dignity, have provided a torch to show us a path out of the darkness. They have shown how to rebel, to fight, to love and dream. The artists in America are one the nation’s greatest exports—when you treat your art with disdain, you do so at your very own demise. 

Those who consider themselves patriotic ought to not sneer at the artistic geniuses America has fostered. If you look around, there are way less of them than there used to be. And when there are none, you will know it was culture all along that needed protection. In another case of irony, it is the dreamers who can awaken us from our slumber.

JSV

2024

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