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 druggie… I 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.
Art is about appreciation, not technical mastery. Even Rembrandt has some pieces I personally do not think of as artistic, so I would say beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder here.
I freely confess to being an avid Stephen King reader. Not because his topics excite me (far from it!), but simply because he is, to me, and incredible story teller. I even used to have a children’s book he wrote, which was still spellbinding, even though it was nothing horrific. His writing as Richard Bachman still resonates with me as great story, even though those earlier works are definitely not horror. Does that make me a McChicken-eating equivalent in the world of reading?
Michael, there’s no shame in being a Stephen King fan. Not only is he a master story teller, he’s also a great craftsman. Not all his work is “horror”, in fact I dare say more of it isn’t, than is. He loves to explore the nature of good and evil and, let’s face it, evil can be pretty horrific. I often refer to his book “On Writing”, which is part autobiography and part a treatise on the craft of creative writing.
Thanks, Wendy, for these thoughts. I know what you’re talking about. I even have a book of Thomas Kinkade’s paintings on my bookshelf. My husband, who’s a 3rd year music student at Adelaide Uni, has found similar feelings about the work of sax player Kenny G among his lecturers and tutors. And I often come across people who flatly declare they never read Christian fiction because they deem it idealistic and lightweight, which I guess makes Thomas Kinkades and Kenny Gs out of many people who choose to write it.
I’m with you on this one. A few weeks ago, I got to go out to a few different restaurants and cafes with family and friends and I thought my McDonalds breakfast for my son’s birthday was up there with the lot for enjoyment. That, for me, was art.
(And about Thomas Kinkade’s death, yeah, what the…?)
When Kenny G plays sax, it’s liquid gold! I think there is a certain species of snobbery that lurks around the halls of academia. It might be fuelled by a fear of not being considered “scholarly”; of being called “lightweight”. Unfortunately the arts in general suffer from those labels all the way through the education system; although I think it’s slowly improving. You only have to watch the auditions for the talent shows on TV. So many times we hear a contestant say that school was tough for them because they preferred music to sport or study, and they were teased or bullied for being different! Viva la difference!
There is a book just arrive in our library by Dennis Dutton that I’m hoping to borrow first. It is titled The Art Instinct. I heard Dutton on the radio talking about the fact that appreciation of art may be hardwired in people because of their past. He reports studies of paintings that show the main scene that people all over the world appreciate is a savannah like landscape with a pond of water and some animals.
There are certainly underlying aspects of art which we can discover. The presence of golden mean proportions in all sorts of places, for example.
That sounds like an interesting book, Ken. I shall have to look out for it. Thanks for the tip.
Wendy, you have touched on one of my hobby-horses with this blog. Art critics and art scholars do annoy me from time to time. They seem to think that they are on a higher intellectial plane than the “plebs”. There is a favourite line I use when talking to some of these art snobs, “I see an existental hurdy-gurd, and interesting rhythmic devices which seem to couterpoint the surealism of the underlying metaphor, leaving us with a profound sense of mankind’s struggle for freedom of expression.”. I usually get a few blank stares followed by rapid blinking after that.
Seriously though, to me art is definitely in the eyes, ears and soul of the beholder. I am another person that has very ecclectic tastes in art, and in music especially. There have been more than a few occasions when people have seen my record colletion and just scratched their heads. It is our differences in tastes, opinions and attitudes that make us part of who we are.
I knew I liked you, Adrian! Very well said. I’d love to use your “line” some day but I doubt I could remember it. My father used to have similar fun at wine tastings. 🙂
Hear, hear! I love your “line” and if I had any hope of remembering it I’d be tempted to use it, too. My father used to have fun in a similar fashion at wine tastings.
Stupid computer told me the first comment wasn’t accepted, so I had another go and blow me down they’re both up there! I’ve got no idea how to get rid of ’em so you’re doubly blessed. 🙂