Oh, boy, it’s Christmas morning for Brent Bozell, because somebody dug Andres Serrano out of his damn hole and now Bozell can recall the glory days of being aReal Live Boy Freedom Warrior in the war on self-indulgent attention whore art, ie, That Summer I Totally Illustrated Your Point For You:
The half-dozen contestants, 20-something aspiring artists all, enter the
famous Phillips de Pury art auction house. Mr. de Pury himself ushers
them into the special room where they are presented with a collection of
paintings by Andres Serrano, the man who came to fame in 1989 with the
ghastly painting, sponsored by the National Endowment of the Arts,
depicting a crucifix dunked in a jar of urine. They are hugely
impressed. The final painting they are shown is just that — the
original “Piss Christ.” They are in awe, quietly expressing their
amazement at the talent. And then the door opens and in steps the
master. The students freeze, eyes bright, mouths agape. The curator
announces, “the great, great Serrano!” One girl instinctively bows
The 90s culture wars made me a Democrat, kind of — rather, finished off a process already begun — because I just could not understand why we all had to jump up and down in outrage over a photograph or a sculpture or a painting that was killing exactly nobody, and the spectacle of religious fanatics screaming at me to get mad that my 75 cents went to support this was just the kind of instinctive squick needed to cement my opposition to anything resembling smug busy-body-dom.
Because seriously, what the fuck? Particularly what the fuck when the artist in question is TRYING TO MAKE YOU FREAK OUT like the sheltered bumpkin that you are, and then you freak out right on command? Who gets satisfaction from providing someone who says you’re a dick with irrefutable proof?
I’m not watching this show, because I have enough shows and lately Bravo’s making me tired, butJacob is:
… Serrano gives total approval to this bullshit, bringing in all kinds of
unintended personal references to the homeless, to the objectification
of the artist, to whatever he can think of, in order to give it some
weight. He’s been doing this for what, thirty-five hundred years? It’s
not like he can actually hear himself. He wouldn’t have acareer if not for the tacit agreements about significance in the art world that claimed the ’90s. It’s not that the Emperor has noClothes,
I mean, his images are beautiful, but he’s not wearing any shoes, and
he’s part of a generation of barefoot artist-Emperors who decided shoes
were the point.