| Registered User
Join Date: Dec 2001
Posts: 11,964
| George on Art
“I think this is probably my best piece yet.”
“Yes. It was rather fortunate that I am close friends with Sam. Otherwise it might not have been included in …” she trailed off.
Alexander stood in front of his painting, red wine in one hand, lover in the other.
“Otherwise, what?”
“Otherwise, uh, otherwise it wouldn’t have been brought to his attention.”
“Oh yes, That would be a shame. It’s certainly a wonderful piece.”
“Oh yes, everyone we know agrees with you on that.”
They turned back to the painting, seemingly entranced by the cacophony of colours on the canvas.
George moved closer to the pair and looked at the painting for a moment, made a special effort to read the name on the small plaque beside it, then turned to Alexander.
“Terrible to see all these self-absorbed types around here, isn’t it?”
“Oh?”
“Yes, standing in front of their own work, in love with what they’ve made. “It’s so good, even I adore it!” they seem to say. The name’s George, by the way.”
George thrust his hand out, which Alexander grudgingly accepted.
“Alexander.”
“Excellent to meet you.” George beamed, “Aah, and I know your friend here, friend of Sam’s, aren't you?” he added in a condescending tone, refusing to let her have her place on the social ladder.
“Yes.” she said, through a terse smile. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Too much pretension for my liking in some quarters,” he replied, looking at Alexander. He turned his gaze back to the lover, “but some nice work nonetheless. I particularly liked Ox in a Morning-room, Late Autumn. It rather tickled me.”
“That? Ahem,” barely suppressing a laugh, “that, I'm afraid isn't very good.”
“Oh no? I rather liked it.”
“We think it's terrible; not nearly good enough to be here. Sam let it in, but only just. Nobody likes that piece.” she replied in a firm tone, watching him carefully for any signs of rebellion against her authority.
“It’s delightful.” George explained, "It's funny. And I like it. I was always under the impression that art is about what one likes, not what others like.”
He turned back towards Alexander's painting.
“This, for example, does nothing for me. It’s just a load of colours on a canvas. What does it mean?”
“It’s an abstract piece.”
“Yes, but that hardly excuses it.”
“It’s very well received by the art community.” she replied darkly, giving George a chance to back down while he could.
“And that's probably why I’m not a member. Though if they accept things like this, I shall certainly consider taking up painting. Looks like something I tried to draw when I was five. Though I seem to recall more detail in my version.”
“The artist of this piece is actually very talented.”
“Really? It looks like he just threw paint about a bit. I wonder what happened to that old painting I did years ago. I wonder if it’d be worth anything now.”
Alexander, who had stopped paying attention by now, suddenly realised he was being talked about and jumped to his own defence.
“This is an excellent piece!”
“Oh really? What do you like, in particular?” queried George.
“Well, it’s good.”
“We've gathered you think that.”
“Yes. So it’s good.”
“But why?”
“What?”
“Why is it good? You can’t just say something is good, or bad or dreadful or wonderful, you have to have a reason for it.”
“It has many colours in it; it attracts the eye.”
“So does a parrot, but that doesn’t mean I would nail one to my wall.”
Alexander began to look flustered. It was all handshakes and awed faces until now.
“So what is wrong with it?” said Alexander, hitting upon a way to deflect attention from the fact that he was trying to defend his own piece.
“Well, ask yourself this; if you picked up a trumpet and started blowing into it, randomly pressing the valves, would that make you a trumpet-player?”
“No.”
“Well, the person who made this, ahem, piece, seems to think that if they picked up some brushes, dipped them in paint and moved them about a canvas, then they’d be an artist.”
“But it says so much.”
“What does it say?”
“It’s … it’s about beauty, and love and … and … truth and uh … how we, as humans perceive reality through powerful colours and …” he trailed off.
“Where does it say that? The notes on the back?”
The lover had heard enough, and leapt to Alexander’s defence.
“I’ll have you know that not only am I very highly regarded in the art world for my knowledge and expertise, I also personally know the artist who made this!”
“Excellent! Then you can explain to him why it’s really rather poor.” beamed George, “I’m afraid I must leave you now, I see the person who painted that ox picture and I would very much like it on my wall. Goodbye.”
Alexander never did have it explained to him why he wasn’t very good at art. His next painting, “Idiot in a Gallery”, was considered to be one of his best, but not for the reasons he wished.
Last edited by Potatojunkie; 16th March 2006 at 1:58pm.
|
