Karl Klockars

A few weeks ago, I was at a benefit for my wife’s organization, a group of people who put up art in public places.  One might call it a Chicago Public Art Group.  While I was there, I was drinking wine and eating sushi rolls with a number of well dressed, very well mannered, polite, friendly people.

"Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?" No, really, can you?

It wasn’t until later that I learned how many of them were actually the artists that had created much of the works around us up for bid in the silent auction.  There were photographers, sculptors, printmakers, muralists, woodcrafters, painters, and a jazz trio.  I don’t think the jazz trio were part of the public art, unless they live at an underpass on Lakeshore Drive, playing “Swing The Mood” 365 days a year.  Could be – times are tough for jazz players these days.

Now, I work just a couple doors away from one of the dormitories for one of the biggest art schools in the city.  Every “artist” I see has a face full of piercings, hair three colors deep, and if their pants aren’t shredded “artfully” then they’re either plaid or made for the gender that they’re not being this week.

They all seem to be fine with spending a few dozen grand every year for tuition to this place, but I wonder if they’re getting one vital lesson hammered into your head:

“Want to have a career in art?  Cut your goddamn hair, kid.” (more…)