Life as Art

 
 
 

As I descended the stairs and onto a New York City subway platform, a strange fluttering caught my eye. From a distance it looked like a bird, or more precisely, a bird preening its feathers. As I drew closer I saw a homeless man frantically twisting pieces of newspaper and placing them onto different parts of his body. It became clear that he was creating a garment to keep warm on a bitterly cold November day. Atop his head, a paper crown bobbed erratically each time he added a strip of paper to his sleeve or bodice. I could not believe how extraordinary it was, a wearable sculpture, something comparable to the work of avant-garde fashion designers such as Comme des Garçons or Martin Margiela. I asked permission to take his photo and gave him some money in exchange. He had trouble keeping still which is why the image is blurry. 

Galleries and museums are the places we turn to for art –– four walled, white box receptacles. However, French philosopher Michel Foucault once said, “...in our society, art is related only to objects and not life or individuals. Experts called 'artists' make art. Why can’t everyone’s life become a work of art?” 

I don’t know anything about the man in the photo, but I do know that he is a work of art. And while art institutions have their place, I agree with Foucault. Life can be a work of art, even in the most painful bits.

 

Tolerated Margins of Mess

 

American Beauty, 1975

 
 

Artist Robert Colescott's explorations of racism and misogyny reflect ambiguous relationships between belief and practice, individual and society, and sex and repression. His works illuminate what writer Barbara Babcock calls, "a tolerated margin of mess," which she defines as areas of duality which obliterate conventional societal codes. 

Colescott’s provocative paintings are worlds saturated in satire, where mischief and transgression are not mutually exclusive. By ignoring cultural boundaries he subverts our self-insulating insistence on the need for comfort and safety. With a wink and a smile, he invites us, one canvas at a time, to observe a rogues gallery of contradictions prancing through surreal "Taboos'R'Us" pastiches or bucolic settings–some cloaked as stereotypes, others in Disney dayglo–behaving in ways we'd rather not know about. He portrays exploits which make us extremely uncomfortable. Are women sexually harassed or willing participants? Is the Black man a victim or the aggressor? Are we trapped in history or is history trapped in us? These sideshows are not meant to be understood concretely, but more as something to be seen through, offering something beyond the superficialities of consumerism, structures of the past, or plain old complacency. 

Colescott's art provokes examination of a kind of counter-culture experience, an immensely uncomfortable process of inquiry and of shedding. He invites us to embrace the words of James Baldwin by showing us, "the masks we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within." 

I believe that this kind of examination and the discomfort that results is the gateway to vulnerability, which is the most powerful vehicle for evolution and metamorphosis into a culture where all people are POC (People of Consciousness). From this perspective, we can reclaim our humanity.

Philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre said, "Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you." Herein lies the beauty of Robert Colescott's “tolerated margins of mess.” His images are the antidote necessary to reimagine new, unconventional societies dedicated to the well being of humankind, rooted in broadmindedness, compassion, and wisdom.

What are you willing to let go of?  What do you want to grow into? Whatever life you're in is a channel for change. Polymath Terence McKenna declared, "If the artists cannot find the way, then the way cannot be found." Robert Colescott has shown us the way. It would behoove us to follow.

 
 

Eat Dem Taters, 1975

 

The Forgotten Art of Discourse

 
 
 


In October of 2014, the Metropolitan Opera in New York City staged, The Death of Klinghoffer, a 1991 opera based on the murder of Leon Klinghoffer, a Jewish passenger killed during the hijacking of the cruise ship Achille Lauro in 1985. Sick and confined to a wheelchair, Klinghoffer was shot in the head and thrown overboard by members of the Palestine Liberation Front. The critically acclaimed opera had been staged globally to little controversy. Yet in one of the most culturally sophisticated cities in the world –– the shit hit the fan.

Protesters wanted the opera canceled. According to the New York Times, one protester labeled the baritone a fascist and another called for the set to be burned to the ground. Peter Gelb, the Mets general manager, received death threats. Abraham Foxman, director of the Anti-Defamation League, a prominent Jewish organization, praised the Met and said the opera was not anti-Semitic. He received vitriolic emails, one labeling him a “kapo,” an insult referring to a Jewish inmate who oversaw fellow Jews in concentration camps. Protests occurred opening night. Most of the protesters had not even seen the opera.

The histrionics around the Met affair reminded me of the furor over LEGO Concentration Camp, a 1996 work by Polish artist, Zbigniew Libera. The seven-piece set was exhibited in 2002 by the Jewish Museum of New York City in a show entitled, Mirroring Evil: Nazi Imagery/Recent Art. The exhibition received a great deal of press and was viewed as highly controversial. The LEGO Group, troubled by the controversy, urged Libera to withdraw the work from public view, but eventually backed down. The artist was pressured by Polish officials to decline an invitation to exhibit at the Venice Biennale. "This is censorship all over again," Libera told the Los Angeles Times in 1997. "I created this work to inspire discussion, not to suppress it.”  LEGO Concentration Camp continued to be shown internationally. Some people loved it. Many hated it, screamed bloody hell about it, and nobody died. There was heated debate, just as Libera had intended, and then it was over. 

I believe that LEGO Concentration Camp is an exciting and compelling work. Libera pushed one of the most sacred and taboo subjects, the Holocaust, into a realm that was inconceivable: Toys and play. And some 30 years later, Libera’s radical masterpiece continues to provoke discourse. It now resides in the permanent collection of the Museum of Modern Art, Warsaw, Poland.

 
 
 
 

The purpose of art is not to identify right or wrong. Art turns the tables on despair by lampooning it. The world is a gloriously horrific mess. We can’t change it, but art challenges each and every one of us to change ourselves for the better, in spite of the cultural operating systems promoting apathy, prejudice, and hate.

The drama surrounding the opera and Libera’s art reflects society’s inability to tolerate differing points-of-view and unorthodox ideas. The “agree to disagree” method of civil discourse has perished. Individuals remain silent for fear of offending someone. Cancel culture is rampant, bullies use social media to shame and humiliate people, and censorship has become the norm –– though few seem to notice. 

When a work of art is deemed offensive, it does not mean it lacks value, and I'm not talking about money. Art helps us to make meaning of why we exist. Someone once told me that we must turn toward our fears and lean into discomfort in order to break free. Perhaps then we can create new perspectives and engage in more meaningful dialogues which embrace intolerance and suffering, as well as, acceptance and healing. The only way to find out is to be courageous enough to talk and listen to one another. We need art to help us with our journey along the path of the human condition because it provides a means from which to speak our deepest truths. Art is the doorway to the singular component vital to our very existence—freedom.