Modern Art and the Critics (short story)

A half dozen art critics stood around a naked white canvas perched at an angle below the empty wall space where one would have expected it to hang. They closely examined the piece, some squatting and some taking a knee to get a closer look. It was the opening day of a hot new artist’s exhibit featuring a variety of works in multiple media from oil paintings, to papier mâché sculptures, to collages rendered from a multitude of objects and some smaller pieces that appeared to have been made by particularly sadistic children dipping salamanders, frogs and worms in paint until nearly drowned and then setting them loose on a blank canvas to regale the world with the colorful renderings of their final death throes. This particular painting, however, had attracted the crowd of experts not only for its starkness, but also by its placement, as they hotly debated its meaning.

“It is obviously social commentary on the desperate isolation each human being faces in life,” claimed critic number one in a voice dripping with self-assured gravity intermixed with an obviously fake English accent.

“Yes,” said the second critic. “But it is much more than just that. Take a close look at the placement of the paint—off center, near the lower-right corner or the canvas, a single irregular dot.And take a closer look at it under even the low magnification of my loupe. It is not a dot of black paint. Despite its diminutive size, the artist has managed to imbue it with at least four different colors that I can detect—a remarkable achievement in itself. Can’t you feel the metaphorical oppressive weight of the cosmos on that dot representing our collective humanity? The skewed display of the canvas at an angle, weighing down on the subject makes that patently clear.” This voice from a woman in an incredibly tight red dress that seemed painted on her, spoken through blood-red lips enhanced via collagen injections to a perpetual pout.

“No, no, NO. You are missing the point. Look carefully at the subject—the irregular dot in its asymmetric, three-dimensional rendering is nothing but a cancer cell. This is not a comment on isolation or oppression, but rather a statement about humanity’s cancerous existence on the face of the earth. Notice how the canvas rests unhung from its prepared place of honor on the wall—it represents the decline and inevitable fall of our world because of humanity’s destructive impact—climate change, over-population, strip mining, deforestation of our rain forests, unchallenged industrialization, automobiles, all contributing to the ultimate destruction of our world. Can’t you all see that? It is as plain as can be,” opined critic number three, a diminutive man dressed in a manner reminiscent of Woodstock with long, greasy, uncombed hair and the smell of too-long unwashed jeans emanating from his squatting form in a voice like nails on a chalkboard rising to a nearly inaudible crescendo in keeping with his righteous agitation.

“Oh, for the sake of unholy Beelzebub,” cut in the fourth critic in a booming voice. “It is none of those things. You’re all completely missing the point. The painting represents nothing more than the creative process at work. The canvas has not yet been placed on an easel, let alone on the gallery wall. The dot simply represents the inspiration of the artist before she even begins to touch brush or pallet to canvas. It is merely the germinating seed of creativity, the pregnant kernel of truth that will give birth to an as yet unrealized masterpiece. It is the idea of the painting, the very metaphorical soul and quintessence of the creative process,” opined critic number four.

“I think you’re all over-thinking it, though some of you are not far from the mark. It is just a metaphor for existentialist despair. There is no meaning beyond the irregular dot that is our existence in an endless universe that could not give a fig about us. Yes, there is isolation, and the oppressive weight of our short, painful and utterly pointless existence in a blank, sterile, uncaring corner of the multiverse,” said critic number five, a beautiful woman in a husky voice and body that could convince a rock it had wings and was born to fly as she took another sip of the cheap champagne from her plastic fluted glass.

“We could stand here and argue about this all night,” chimed in the last of the six critics, a portly man in a rumpled shirt and faded jeans wearing a corduroy jacket with leather patches on each elbow that screamed college professor. “The important thing is not the message itself, elusive though it may be. It is the power of true art to move us and to motivate us to draw our own conclusions, equivocal though they may be. The message is whatever we decide it is; It is we who imbue the work with meaning, expand its horizons, and enrich it beyond the artist’s own vision, making it metaphorically fill the blank canvas with the power of our own imaginations. Such is the unrivaled power of true art—that it sparks the creative spirit in each of us, inflaming our imagination and filling our otherwise empty existence with meaning.” Having added what he thought to be the conclusive and only rational analysis of the piece in his expert opinion, he drained his own bubbly and left the group to marvel at his own unique critical mind and unassailable analysis as he went to fetch a refill, wondering if anyone had any decent pot.

Each critic having shared her/his opinion on this rather enticing work of art, they moved on, mentally replaying their analysis so that they may share it through the pages of their respective magazines, newspapers and art appreciation classes the next day. As a group, they followed their noses until they stood at a unique sculpture in a corner of the room some 50 feet away. It was made from a collection of 12 human tongues pilfered from medical schools in four states and stitched together around a diminutive stainless steel ladder with the label atop simply reading “Babel.”

As soon as the critics moved on, two maintenance workers ambled towards the non-painting that had engendered such passionate discussion and analysis, with one reluctantly handing over a $50 bill to the other.

“I thought they’d never stop yammering,” said the man retrieving his winning bet. “I knew they’d buy it, but never expected the endless stream of horseshit they spouted.” He said laughing. “I never thought a spec of fly shit would cause such a stir.”

“So, what was actually hanging on the now missing place on the wall before you put that there?”

“Nothing. The artist was supposed to deliver a dozen new pieces of art but apparently could not crank the last one out in time. So I was told to hang a blank canvas to represent the artist’s creative process at work.”

“How did the fly get in here? Don’t we have some protection against that kind of stuff in the gallery?”

“Oh sure, sure. But it was attracted by the rotting tongues on the sculpture the critical geniuses are now examining and took a dump on the blank canvas. I took it down to replace it with a clean, blank canvas when I thought, why not screw around with their minds a little. And the rest is history. The fly eventually bought it in one of the hidden bug zappers, but not before giving birth to my own creative idea. Maybe the last blowhard was right after all.” He said, chuckling softly as his friend, now $50 poorer, glared at him, unamused.