Wednesday, August 10, 2005

The Art of Politics

While it can be hot in Paris during the summer, and the Metro a sticky experience, it is nothing like New York, Philadelphia or that reclaimed swamp, Washington, D.C. I can only think that the air conditioning at Andrew's house had broken down when he called me on Saturday morning at the sensible hour of 8.30 a.m., Paris time.

'Am I a Philistine?' he asked when I answered.

'I wouldn't have said so,' I replied. 'Has someone accused you of not being able to find Germany on the map?'

'We've just got back from a party at an art gallery,' Andrew said. 'It was a charity opening for one of Sabine's causes. Very nice, black tie, plenty of food and drink. But the ART. . . .'

'Oh, no one goes to those things for the ART,' I said, pouring another coffee.

'No?' he sounded hopeful. 'Then, I'm not alone?'

'Let me guess: you were set upon as a Neanderthal politician who couldn't possibly understand what was being said by these clever young and expensive artists.'

'So you don't understand what's going on, either,' he asked with the dawning joy of one who has just discovered another suffering from the same obscure disease.

'No,' I said. 'I understand perfectly what's going on.'

'Then it's not just rubbish?' he asked, fearing the answer.

'No, it's rubbish,' I said. 'Don't worry about that; but it's also an elaborate game.'

'What are the rules?' Andrew asked.

'Ah, now there's the problem,' I said. 'There aren't any.'

'Then how - ?'

'The first thing to understand is that a lot of art schools and university art departments stopped teaching drawing and the basic disciplines more than a decade ago. You can tell the work of someone who is a draughtsman from one who isn't instantly.'

'Yes, I think I can manage that,' Andrew said, but still sounding uncertain.

'The trouble is that the schools didn't replace teaching drawing with anything else,' I continued. 'Where as at the great academies and schools, students used to be able to go into the "life studio" nearly any time of the day and find a model there an a dozen or so people just drawing, they don't do that now."

'Go on,' Andrew said.

'Well, today's art is supposed to be about "making a statement" but the people making these statements not only are unable to draw or paint, but their minds haven't received a decent academic education either. This doesn't apply to all of them, of course. Even David Hockney recently bemoaned the fact that too many artists could draw anymore, and that is the cornerstone of art.'

'So a lot of the rubbish I look at IS just rubbish?'

'Absolutely. However, being able to tell the difference between merde and something good isn't always straight-forward, but as one who understands issues and arguments, you shouldn't have a problem.'

'Hmm,' Andrew said, thoughtfully.

'What does Sabine say?' I asked, knowing that his Paris-born wife, and my sometime sister-in-law, would have an opinion.

'Oh, she tells me that I'm an educated man and that I should trust my considered judgement,' Andrew replied.

'And so you should. And so should everyone else. Otherwise, we're headed for the Dark Ages Part II.'


'Is there any way of being reasonable certain that something's good?' Andrew asked.

'You said it yourself: is the draughtsmanship good? If so, that's your clue to spend a bit more time with it and see what it has to say. On the other hand, if something looks like giant dog poo cast in bronze, then the chances are, that's what it is, and any incontinent bitch can make that statement. Who wants to spend time contemplating dogshit?'

'Please! There's a good chance my line is tapped,' Andrew protested.

'Then I shouldn't ask about the shipment?'

'Definitely not.'

This was a routine we had to keep the security services amused. While one of the most steady and reliable senators, Andrew Trumbull had a streak of mischief where intruding authority was concerned.

'So I comment on things that are well made, and ignore all that is rubbish.'

'Exactly.'

'And if someone says I just don't understand?'

'Ask them to explain it,' I replied. 'If they can't, or what they say sounds stupid, just laugh and say, "Well in that case, it should be called The Emperor's New Clothes." Mind you, the shallowness of some artists is such that they wouldn't even undertand that.'

Andrew considered this.

'Okay,' he began hestiatingly. 'But one final thing: how long do I have to put up with bronze bullshit in my living room?'

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