A few weeks ago I happened upon a conversation (via facebook) about the work of the recently departed American artist, Thomas Kincaid. He apparently died from ‘natural causes’ at the ripe old age of 54. (What kind of ‘natural causes’ takes out a healthy bloke at 54? I’d like to  avoid them! He hadn’t been ill; it wasn’t suicide; he wasn’t an alcoholic or druggieI mean, what the hey? But, I digress.)

For those who are unaware of his work, Mr Kincaid did the sort of painting that probably belonged on Hallmark cards in their “Victorian” portfolio. It is sentimental, often sugary sweet and hopelessly romantic. Almost every painting includes some type of building or street light pulsing warm, golden light into a dark or snow-laden world. (The light was very important to Kincaid.) Every autumn leaf glows with rich jewel colours of cocoa bean chocolate, log-fire russet and hit-you-in-the-face amber. Snowy fields are traversed by couples in horse-drawn sleighs. Creeks gurgle and burble under stone bridges that lead to gingerbread cottages. (For those at risk, please stop and take some insulin.)

In the aforementioned conversation one of the participants said, “The artist in me celebrates the end of a tide of endless kitsch”. (Of course, if it came to an end then technically it wasn’t “endless” but I restrained myself from pointing that out.) She went on to say that enjoying Kincaid’s work was similar to ‘eating McDonalds’, whereas “the feeling that art appreciation gives you is the feeling of eating prime Beijing Roast Duck…Once you’ve had that, you won’t go back.” I guess she doesn’t like Mr Kincaid’s art and, clearly, anyone who does like his work is a burger-eating, kitsch-collecting ignoramus who wouldn’t know real art if it smacked them in the face (in a similar fashion to the amber autumn leaves).

Now, I happen to enjoy a good burger as much as a plate of spicy plum duck. I have an eclectic taste in music. I even (rarely) enjoy the occasional rap song if it’s got a singable chorus and isn’t about killing the mo-fo cops. I read autobiographies, crime, reference books,  fantasy, historical fiction, theology, sci-fi, thrillers, horror, comedy and anything else that has a story or topic that draws me in and keeps me engaged. I love some of the work of the great artists – eg; Rembrandt, Vermeer, Van Gogh, Picasso – and some of it, I don’t. Picasso’s Guernica is brilliant. His weird, side-on, melting-nose lady leaves me cold. Some modern abstracts are intriguing – eg; Pollock’s Blue Poles – and some of it is vomit on canvas.

A number of years ago, while visiting Texas, the Old Boy and I happened upon a little gallery holding an exhibition of Kincaid’s artwork. A lot of it left me unmoved, apart from reminding me of some so-so-ho-hum wool tapestry kits that are often found in the craft section at K-Mart. But there were a couple of paintings that resonated with something deep within my soul: that longing for a place where truth, hope, love, peace, warmth and home still existed unsullied by the darkness in the world. The light pouring out of the little house in the woods said, “Come home. All is well.”

What is art? When is it great? Is it just technique or is it that indefinable something that stirs a visceral, emotional reaction on the behalf of the viewer/listener/consumer? For me, true art must connect with someone other than the artist. Mr Kincaid wasn’t in the same league as the ‘greats’, but in that little gallery south of Austin, Texas,  for a fleeting moment, I had a glimpse into his heart. If he was the McDonalds of the art world, then so be it. A constant diet of Beijing Roast Duck, would make anyone long for the occasional McCafe coffee and fries.