Spontaneous Decay

Even in a forgotten outpost such as Albuquerque, one is forced to view public “art” such as this monstrosity in the middle of the road:

I believe some of the problem originates in the image of the artist in the public eye. The image or generalized idea of a profession has a profound impact on reality. People are attracted to their calling based in large part on how they think society will view them. And they act accordingly once they are in that role.

In recent years, I have noticed a distinct shift in the public’s image of the artist. The artist is now seen as a kooky creature, zapping away at the canvas, expressing his inner emotions. These emotions, so goes the contemporary myth, well up from a source of deep inner torment, which is spontaneously translated into one or another medium. (For purposes of comparison: it is the exact opposite of the popular conception of the scientific researcher, dressed in a white lab coat, immersed in his dry, methodical calculations.)

This image, in turn, has become a model for aspiring painters and sculptors. They try to be spontaneous and irreverent in their art. Result: monstrosities in the middle of the road.

A significant shift has occurred over time. Admittedly, many artists had always been nonconformists, bohemians, and unskilled at the social graces. But when it comes to the practice of their art, they were serious technicians, pursuing a clear vision over long periods of time. At the canvas, they were disciplined and rigorous.

Think of the artist glued to his easel for hours on end. Think of the novelist or composer hunched over his desk in the attic, scratching away throughout the night. Think of the photographer, snapping and developing hundreds, even thousands of photos, with the slightest variation of light and composition, just to get that one perfect shot.

This is how art functioned. There was nothing spontaneous about it. Naturally, ideas could spring up suddenly, but their careful cultivation into a finished product was a long, drawn-out affair that could last a lifetime. Art was the product of a rational process, aesthetic discretion, and a merciless attention to detail. It was a painstaking enterprise, no less so than a complex experiment in quantum mechanics.

How can we explain to the aspiring artists of today that none of the great works were ever the product of “spontaneity,” in the sense that they perceive it?