A long time ago, in a galaxy across the Atlantic Ocean, “Monty Python’s Flying Circus†came up with a hilarious sketch commonly referred to as “Why Michelangelo didn’t paint the Last Supper.â€
The pope summons Michelangelo and tells him he’s not happy with his painting of one of the Bible’s most important moments, to which Michelangelo replies, “Oh dear, it took me hours.†(It took the real Michelangelo four years to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and three years to sculpt his statue of David.)
As the bit progresses, the audience learns that Michelangelo’s effort at a depiction of the Last Supper includes 28 disciples (because he wanted to convey “a real mother of a blowoutâ€), a kangaroo, a conjurer, a mariachi band and three Christs. Michelangelo says this last artistic choice “works†because “the fat one balances the two skinny ones.â€
Enraged, the pope chases the artist off, then, in a fourth-wall break, says to the audience, “I may not know much about art, but I know what I like.â€
That last line always grabs me because, when it comes to art — referring, in this case, specifically to paintings — I am a total simpleton.
I could talk to you all day about music or comedy or, well, any number of things that I feel like I understand on both a visceral and deeper level. But art is not one of those topics. I might possess a basic grasp of what makes art that is considered great ... well ... great. But, for whatever reason, I’m just as content (or maybe even more so) to stare at a landscape someone has done and could probably replicate a million times than, say, something by Jackson Pollock or van Gogh.
Let me be clear: I am claiming this as a deficiency on my part (and one that was illuminated for me through self-realization a long time ago).
I worked a few odd jobs before getting on at a newspaper after college and, one day, that involved delivering a box full of display supplies to a local art gallery. The guy I was working with, who happened to be a very talented artist, was shooting the breeze with one of the employees after we finished up, so I roamed around looking at some of the paintings. I found myself fixated on what I thought was a lovely depiction of a stone cottage surrounded by green grass, trees, a creek and a stone bridge in a box full of prints for sale.
I didn’t realize the gallery director had walked up behind me, so I was a bit startled when I heard her say, “I hate Thomas Kinkade.â€
She phrased it in an almost conspiratorial undertone, implying an understanding between us along the lines of, “I have to sell this crap because people buy it, but you and I know it’s not real art.â€
Now, this was in the late 1990s, and I had never heard of Thomas Kinkade, even though he’d been around for a while and was reaching the height of his popularity. So, I just kind of vocalized an “Uh-huh,†or maybe something even less eloquent, while thinking “I kind of like it. Is that bad?â€
My mind didn’t change because of that remark, but there was more than a bit of truth to what I thought the owner was implying. And I considered it more as I began to see Kinkade works everywhere. It was one of those experiences where you notice something for the first time and realize it had been in your peripheral vision for years. Then, all of a sudden, it’s like you’re surrounded by it.
Kinkade did art for the masses that invoked comfort in a lot of people. Whether that’s what someone considers art is debatable, but it’s not a crime.
However, it turns out that he also swindled a lot of people. Kinkade set up a sort of assembly line process to get his prints out there. He sold some of these mass-produced prints as “originals†through sketchy technicalities (having other artists flesh out or highlight very basic paintings from Kinkade) while marketing his work to consumers as a wise investment. It wasn’t long before his prints were hawked on television shopping networks, licensed for products with outlets like Hallmark and even offered in retail stores that only sold his stuff.
He also got into Christian markets for what seem like cynical reasons, which is a bit slimy.
Kinkade was in it for the money, and I can understand why that didn’t go over well with other artists or people who know art.
But I was easily captured by his work, so I can see why there was (and still is) such a market for it. And I’m not trying to say someone is an idiot if they look at a Kinkade painting and like what they see or if they buy one. Again, mass appeal was the whole point of his enterprise. He saw a demographic and he nailed it. But he was also a bit exploitative and more than a tad dishonest, among other things.
I guess what I’m really trying to say is we all have our blind spots. We know what we like, and there’s a sense of security in that, but there’s also a lack of risk and a diminished chance of learning something new. No one is an expert on everything, and other people might know things you don’t, which is worth considering from time to time, no matter the subject.
