- Fine Art
We were in a gallery in Lahaina on Maui. The gallery had an interesting cross section of work – lithographs and etchings from Chagall, Rembrandt, Dali, Picasso, even Albrecht Drurer (etchings not lithos!). Amongst these pieces was a smattering of work by other artists who I have never heard of. Paintings of elephants, polar bears, Hawaiian sunsets, modern impasto kind of figurative works. Gallery stuff.
In one room – where the walls were painted charcoal instead of cream and above these large paintings of faces – messy sloppy things looking like they were done with tempera and fingers – Anthony Hopkins’ name was emblazoned in silver.
A salesperson was exclaiming to the couple that seemed interested in the art, “Anthony Hopkins has moved out of the realm of ‘celebrity artist’ and into a whole new category of artist. Purchasing one of his pieces is like purchasing a piece from Dali in his own lifetime – while he was alive and making art!” The salesperson was so EXCITED about this – comparing Anthony Hopkins the actor-turned-artist to Dali. Or was he just in on the joke…
This is what the masses – this hapless couple who don’t know a Drurer etching from one by Rembrandt – are sold as ART. They look around for something they can afford – something to take home with them. They want to buy some ART. So they ask the salesperson. The salesperson convinces them of the INVESTMENT potential. This is something truly of value. The couple doesn’t know why they feel uncomfortable. They don’t get why they feel empty inside. Perhaps that’s what art is supposed to make you feel…
This is what people are fed to buy mediocre art. It’s a money game – this con game – and it made me once again think, “God, I hate art.”
Don’t get me wrong, in the same gallery there were some lovely pieces from modern creators – sculptors, painters, etc – but Anthony Hopkins and the pedestal upon which he’d been placed… Now you might like this piece. That’s totally ok! However, when the selling point is the name of the creator and not the creation itself, then the work loses any semblance of real meaning and turns into commodity, just more stuff to pass between each other.
Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps his work really does stand there next to Dali. Perhaps someday I will have to eat my words. With some fava beans. And a nice chianti.
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