High Art

In college, I was taught that “good” art struck a chord with many people. The more intense the reaction it brought about, the better it was. I was also taught that the more personal, the more specific the creation was, the more universal it would be, and consequently, the more appeal it would have.

Amy Winehouse’s psychotic rant about not wanting to go to rehab appeals to me on an emotional level—not because I have a crippling drug problem; but because I know what it’s like to be frustrated and annoyed with what everyone else wants me to do (Even if it seemed like the best thing for me, I was having none of it.): They tried to make me go to Law School and I said (sing with me now): “No, No, No.”

Certainly, it’s a catchy tune. But the suffering in her voice is what makes it artistic. It’s the pleading, exhausted, pained quality that begs me to listen. When Thom York sings “Everything in its Right Place,” my body fills with tension and I need to straighten up every paper on my desk. It makes me want to move like I’m in a super-fast stop-motion film.

There’s an oil painting I have seen of a veteran leaning against the Vietnam War Memorial; the ghosts of his friends he left behind are reaching out to comfort him in his sorrow. The specificity of emotion gives me goose-bumps every time I see it. I’ve never been to war, I’ve never even known anyone who has died in a war; but my sense of empathy for this man is struck so clearly because I understand his pain. Oil. Some colored oil on a stretched piece of cotton brings tears to my eyes. How can that be? Art. That’s what “good” art is.

What, you may ask, brings up these long buried lessons of art, these enthusiastic dissertations on the practice of crafting something out of seemingly nothing: talent, passion, and materials—making something meaningful out of many meaningless components (whether they be notes on a scale, colors of the rainbow, or merely words, slapped together in the blogosphere)-what could elicit all this emotion?! Lesbos. Of course!

Last week I attended “Pink and Bent,” an art show at the Leslie/Lohman Gallery in Soho—sounds fancy, eh? Truth be told, I have never set foot in an art gallery that my dear friend Cora Lambert has not specifically asked me to attend in support of her art career—so it is merely a result our friendship that I am exposed to this culture. (It should be noted that, in turn, she has seen more gay comedy shows than any other photographer in all of New York City, possibly in the world.) Even with a fancy BFA from NYU, I’m still terribly intimidated by the art scene, and I shuffle through the hoards of ultra-cool hair-cuts and ironic accessories mostly keeping to myself, staring at the walls, trying to see if they make me feel something. We had a mantra back in college that we would repeat when taking in visual arts: What do you see, how does it make you feel? That’s it. You can have hours of fun staring at random objects in the park, or a friend’s apartment, just repeating that mantra, answering those questions. Practice on anything. Many people don’t know what to do with “art.” Uh, look at it? But if you want to have some fun, open yourself up and see if it makes you feel something. No? Did it make you think something? Try talking to someone else. See if it made them think the same thing. The “good” stuff, will (probably) insight the same feelings/thoughts in different people—and, if the artist is “good,” those feelings/thought will be the ones he or she meant for the piece to inspire.

Many of the pieces at “Pink and Bent” made me uncomfortable. I think they were meant to. I saw a photograph of hairy boobs; it made me blush. I had a woman my mother’s age tell me about her vagina sculpture made of chewing gum…I have never been so awkward in my entire life. But when I saw Grace Moon’s paintings inspired by 1950’s lesbian pulp novels, I swooned; bold colors, positive, sexy, modern images of women together inspired me; these paintings made me feel hip for even attending the event. Rebecca Bradley’s photograph of her girlfriend made me wish I was coming home to a beautiful, naked woman with a tattoo on her sacrum. Talk about the personal being universal—this could not have been a more personal, intimate image—and yet I would bet everyone who saw it felt the same way…



I wont ruin the whole show for those of you who want to see it, but I will say that the giant, fuzzy monster on one of the Western facing walls tickled me as much as the angsty, witty calendar on the opposite side.

As someone who’s completely intimidated by the art scene, and at least partially intimidated by large groups of lesbians, I had an interesting time allowing myself to be vulnerable enough to experience the show on opening night, surrounded by hundreds (literally, hundreds) of art-scene lesbians. But I can only take this to mean that the pieces that did strike me, on an emotional, personal, universal level—were very, very “good.”



***pictured: ("Lover" Becca Bradley 2006; "Reflections" Lee Teeter 1988)***