The world reacted with sympathetic bemusement to an incident in the news recently, that a museum employee in Germany slyly hung up his own painting in a show featuring works by masters like Picasso and Andy Warhol. To the untrained eye, the image of a family of four walking, their faces roughly painted over in white fit right in with the confounding puzzle of contemporary art — that a lot of what passes off for greatness looks like it could have been drawn by my nine-year-old niece. Respectably and passably mysterious though the said technician-artist’s work was, he was fired, ironically enough, for subverting an exhibition called Glitch: On the Art of Interference.
The museum, dismissing the pitying narrative of a struggling artist desperate for a break propagated by a kinder-than-usual Internet,was forced to respond, amid widespread interest to view the employee’s art: “We did not receive any positive feedback on the addition from visitors to the gallery,” said a spokesperson, firmly.
Alas, market forces have ensured the romantic ideal of the artist as an authentic dreamer, unconcerned with the business side of things, is a relic from the past. Take budding novelists, for instance. YouTube is full of cottagecore-esque videos of aspiring fiction writers detailing the minutiae of their day. Since on film, the act of writing comes across as singularly uninteresting, a running commentary of their random thoughts plays in the background, highlighting their solitary existence, while they shuffle around making tea or talking about famous books. Perhaps, the idea is to evoke nostalgia for the time when searching for originality for originality’s sake, was still considered a worthy aim. Currently, in public perception, the lack of money in writing has relegated it to a self-indulgent hobby, more than a career.
Pertinently, these “shorts” on social media about artistic process reveal that its one’s value within the attention economy that decides success. It’s heartbreaking that instead of working on their craft, writers have to work harder on packaging themselves.
Generational comparisons are tedious because we’re all products of the times we emerged from but it’s worth recalling the ethos of the late 1990s where the term “sellout” (spoken of with withering scorn) was still a thing. It was the worst insult in the world, to be willing to diverge so far from your roots that you became virtually unrecognisable. We may mourn the passing of an era when life was about hanging out, talking and listening to music, or simply learning — not being plugged in and competing 24/7 with everyone about everything.
People didn’t go around talking about themselves, or their accomplishments, incessantly. Now, as any young person will attest, they can’t afford not to blow their own trumpets. In fact, point out a megalomaniac at your own peril because they’re likely to accuse you of being outdated and privileged, and they’d be right. The museum employee recognised that subtleties dried out with digitisation and streaming; we all have to stage our own artistic interventions now.
The writer is director, Hutkay Films
