(no subject)
One of my friends recently stated she 'just wanted to move in with a bunch of artists in flat in LA', and I had to stop myself from saying something derogatory, such has, "Well, then who'd pay the rent?"
Because I've been to Boston lately, and I read Amanda Palmer's and Neil Gaiman's on a weekly basis, I've been thinking a lot about the definition of art.
Palmer's the kind of musician blogger that loves to state she's making art. She often ends blog posts declaring she going to make art (!) in a defiant sort of way, thumbing her nose at society. I like Palmer's music, and I've been listening to all my old Dresden Doll CDs since their reunion tour. But I'd hesitate to call it art. Hell, even if I was making money selling music, or comics, paintings, or whatever, I'd hesitate to my own stuff art. I feel that's a very audacious way to view oneself, like some one else has to declare your work art in order for it to really be art.
I understand a lot of people view art as self expression, but what stops Palmer's music from being 'great' to me, is that her lyrics are always totally about herself, her own problems, adventures, and thoughts. It's personal, which does give it an extra intense punch, but also makes it superficial. If she were ever to turn away from that, and some how transcend her own self involvement, I might consider her music art. For me, an artist takes personal views and experiences and translates them for an audience so they can feel the artist's point of view. The artist inflicts their emotions on others through artistic expression, making their personal point of view momentarily universal. Or something.
Does stripping down to your bra and stockings on stage with 'LOVE' printed across your chest in sharpie count and singing about a Coin Operated Boy count as art? Or a gimmick? Does confessing your own personal woes in rhyme make it a decent poem?
Art shouldn't be about you, it should be about everybody else.
And although I enjoy Palmer's music, I'm really just tired of her lyrics bitching about how screwed up she is when she has this amazing life cavorting about the world with one of my favorite writers as her fiancee.
Perhaps I'm just very bitter, and really want to move into an artist's loft in LA :)
Because I've been to Boston lately, and I read Amanda Palmer's and Neil Gaiman's on a weekly basis, I've been thinking a lot about the definition of art.
Palmer's the kind of musician blogger that loves to state she's making art. She often ends blog posts declaring she going to make art (!) in a defiant sort of way, thumbing her nose at society. I like Palmer's music, and I've been listening to all my old Dresden Doll CDs since their reunion tour. But I'd hesitate to call it art. Hell, even if I was making money selling music, or comics, paintings, or whatever, I'd hesitate to my own stuff art. I feel that's a very audacious way to view oneself, like some one else has to declare your work art in order for it to really be art.
I understand a lot of people view art as self expression, but what stops Palmer's music from being 'great' to me, is that her lyrics are always totally about herself, her own problems, adventures, and thoughts. It's personal, which does give it an extra intense punch, but also makes it superficial. If she were ever to turn away from that, and some how transcend her own self involvement, I might consider her music art. For me, an artist takes personal views and experiences and translates them for an audience so they can feel the artist's point of view. The artist inflicts their emotions on others through artistic expression, making their personal point of view momentarily universal. Or something.
Does stripping down to your bra and stockings on stage with 'LOVE' printed across your chest in sharpie count and singing about a Coin Operated Boy count as art? Or a gimmick? Does confessing your own personal woes in rhyme make it a decent poem?
Art shouldn't be about you, it should be about everybody else.
And although I enjoy Palmer's music, I'm really just tired of her lyrics bitching about how screwed up she is when she has this amazing life cavorting about the world with one of my favorite writers as her fiancee.
Perhaps I'm just very bitter, and really want to move into an artist's loft in LA :)