"I Meant to Do That."

The keen observer will notice the form of the Fugu Blowfish hiding in this piece.

In Part 1 of this discussion I expressed some opinions about an artist's obligation NOT to offer an apology for his/her work. In Part 2, I'd like to suggest several reasons that some find it tempting to do so.

The first reason is that many artists want to control the discussion about their work. They believe that their conscious "intentions" should bracket the discussion about its "meaning." "No," they might say, "I never intended to make those connections. I did not mean it in that way, and the critic is wrong in his assessment. Here's what I was trying to do . . . " The problem here is that only the result can be held up to scrutiny, and an explanation by the artist of his/her intention is only special pleading. You may have intended to create a film that explores the intricacies of human nature, but what you did create is trite and vulgar. Or, maybe you intended only to put blocks of color on canvas, but what you did is affect a drastic shift in the way people perceive abstract painting.

Is this a good idea?

In brief, the artist does not and can not control the way his/her work is perceived by an audience, by a critic, or by history itself. It's fantastic for the artist to be a part of the discussion, but he must approach it with humility and the acknowledgment that many valid readings of his work exist. He must always be open to learning about his own work from its many viewers.

The second reason I think artists or artisans stand on their intentions is that they're not sufficiently competent in their discipline, or they're simply unwilling to admit that they've made something mediocre. This is what I call the "oh-I-meant-to-do-that" syndrome. Symptoms include describing anything lumpy or lacking purpose as "organic." The patient may also apply the moniker "Danish" to anything he can't quite get symmetrical. It's understandable, and we all do it to some extent, but it is a far better thing to acknowledge imperfections in one's work than to try and justify them as "intentional." In the end, it matters not at all if you "meant to do that." It matters only what is done. Was it successful?

The final reason artists choose to interpret their own work is that they don't trust their audience to recognize its inherent brilliance. "Do you see the way I've matched this line up with that line? Did you notice notice the way the bowl slopes in conjunction with the shank? Can you detect all the subtleties I've managed with this piece?" While this may be the most "helpful" form of interpretation for some who can't always "see,"--and I don't necessarily dispute that--it can also be crude and even disrespectful. Yes, you are more likely to generate greater interest in a piece if you bill it as "profound," but that's simply a form of self-aggrandizement. If you genuinely create something that's profound, chances are you'll not need to "explain" it to your audience. They'll "get it," and they'll appreciate being trusted to get it.

This pipe is astonishingly comfortable in the hand, especially the right hand.

I realize some might consider this discussion a bit overwrought for something as simple as a pipe. That is, I admit, a fair criticism. After all, it's just a block of wood with two holes in it. It's also a functional object--something we've not even touched on--and is irrelevant if it can't perform the task for which it was created. What I'd like to do, though, is table that discussion, taking it as a given that the pipes under discussion are well engineered, crafted from excellent materials, and will deliver a very satisfactory smoke. Granting that, we're left with a discussion of aesthetic merit which I would like to argue breaks down into two basic questions: Is it "pretty," and is it "successful?"

Wow . . . that's weird.

These are both difficult questions to answer, but I think broad consensus might be reached more readily on the former than the latter. After all, "pretty" things are often quite safe. They are usually inoffensive and are rarely challenging. Generally speaking, they have a broad appeal and cater to an established and popular aesthetic. For most artists, 90+% of the work will fall into this category--or it least that is the goal. I would liken such work to a well composed landscape painting. People like them, the work puts little strain on the artist, and they pay the bills.

An interesting angle.

The remaining 10% of the work, however, falls into a different category. Such work seeks to explore and to push boundaries, not to end up as wall decor. It requires more both from the creator and the observer since it rarely draws upon, or appeals to an established aesthetic tradition within the medium. In other words, it may be unfavorably received, or even reviled. Such a piece may, in the fullness of time, be judged to represent a new form of beauty . . . or it may be plain ugly, but this is largely beside the point. One hopes only that such a piece is successful. By that I mean that it moves the conversation forward, keeps it going, helps to splinter a monolithic aesthetic, or spawns refinement of an idea. In the end, such pieces become just another part of the artist's larger body of work, and it is by this body of work that an artist is judged.

The following piece is one I found exceptionally challenging, and still do. It may be "pretty," though I don't find it to be. It may be "ugly," which, I suppose, is still okay by me. My real hope, though, is that it was successful. It's been called "hideous," a "bad acid trip," a "paradigm shift," and an "epiphany." I call it Haptic Yako-Gai. I hope you enjoy and will participate in the discussion.