Art should speak for itself. That's what I
think anyway. As an art novice I have been lead to believe I was
inept. I was unable to look at art and start
waxing lyrical about it, having it consume my consciousness as a result of
bearing witness to its powers. I didn’t comprehend
the diminutive descriptions that galleries post next to their collection pieces
explaining what the art is or what the artist is representing, communicating
and embodying. How is it those 7
paintings in a row, all white except for a small black dot in the centre of each,
can get the label of ‘art’? We have all
had similar experiences when visiting galleries, or seeing the unveiling of a
public sculpture or simply flicking through a magazine. We have all at some stage gawked “that’s art?”
A recent visit to the Dunedin Art Gallery did
change my life however. Not because I
saw a piece of art that captivated me and spoke to me. There wasn’t a piece that epitomised my own conviction
that a struggle between colours can mean a struggle between the sexes, or that
smooth curves embody the changes in life stages experienced by the artist. Blah, blah, blah, No. The visit to Dunedin Art Gallery made me
defiantly decide that I cannot be in a minority as someone who fails to understand
the intricacies and intimacies of art. I
must be one of millions who are missing the fictitious ‘art’ gene. There is no rational explanation for why many
of the pieces were even held in the gallery.
They all had descriptions, but even they struggled to make meaning to me. Some even read like excuses, justifying why a
wall of bright coloured oversized sequins with a fan blowing air on them is in
an art gallery and not a circus tent or a child’s birthday party. So, a sense of relief came over me as I left
the building. This ‘art’ did have a massive
impact on me after all but I am sure it was not the way as the artist intended. I will tell you about it next post……
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