It’s been established that cavemen drew on the walls of their domiciles. The subject of these etchings would be a major mastodon kill; using spears and slingshots, to establish bragging rights, about who brought home the ancient elephant bacon.
That’s how it all began. All of the old Masters; except the cigar making Dutch, were suffering in a freezing attic in Paris. It was the Baroque period, (that’s a term describing how the French prepared their baby back ribs) and struggling artists were a dime a dozen. Theo Van Gogh, the dentist, had a brother Vinnie, who was under exclusive contract with Sherwin-Williams for their oil-based products. He was a major dauber, and it showed in his work; but Theo was pissed because he was picking up the tab. Vinnie had this; gallon here, gallon there; what’s the big deal attitude.
Another guy, Rubens by name, was into paintin’ women; chubby nekid women! Word on the street, was that Paul had a deal with Oui magazine, for the centerfold; and they wanted the women lookin’ healthy; if you catch my drift. The magazine centerfold concept never caught on, so Paul’s agent recommended going straight to video.
After Munch painted “The Scream”, no one touched a brush or easel for the next 50 years. That was a spooky picture! Some of the painters said, “I’ve had enough of real; let’s do some surreal.” A couple of the local guys, René and Sal, who used to hang around the Deli, started cranking out some really weird art. Limp watches, elephants, Derby hats; you name it, they painted it. Their inspiration had been derived from the mushrooms that they smoked on a daily basis.
Toulouse-Lautrec was a poster child. Degas hung around the ballet studios trying to satisfy his leotard fixation. Manet and Monet, who had been separated at birth by one vowel, switched from oil paint to the new DuPont Latex. Faster cleanup!
Pablo Pickassoh studied the dice after a bad throw, and determined this little cube, would create a new genre in the art world. His jaw dropping masterpiece, “Naked lady going down the up escalator”, shocked the art critics: (both of them.)
In America, modern art was emerging big-time at the Guggenheim. A lot of the paintings, with just two colors equally filling the canvas, reminded viewers of flags from Third World countries. The name plate beneath the paintings contained one-word, “untitled.” (Good choice.)
Batman had the Riddler. Art devotees had the Dribbler, a.k.a. Jackson Pollock. Little drops of paint (the giggles are starting), all over a very large white canvas. (Heh, heh, sorry, I can’t help myself.) Art critics everywhere (the same two guys), were lavish in their praise of the Dots of Pollock.
Has art become Campbell’s soup cans, and paint brush drippings? Who said Jackson and Warhol were artists, and why do so many people believe that? I want names, and I want them now!!
America’s greatest artist, Norman Rockwell, had the misfortune to be labeled as an illustrator. Make no mistake; this man was an artist, in every sense of the word. His subject matter was the American people; expressed in everyday life, with masterful brush strokes that captured the emotion of the human experience.
Try this experiment. Display four Rockwell’s, beside a Pollock, and a couple of Warhol’s. Ask a dozen people, picked at random, which paintings they understand. Those who do not choose Rockwell should be deported. Kapeesh?