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.

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.”

The stereotype of the starving, struggling artist who lives on the edge of society certainly exists.  I’m sure there are thousands of people living in New York alone who slave away in their loft apartment, throwing sewage at scavenged pieces of steel and shellacking it and calling it “modern art” a la Homer Simpson.

They haven’t eaten in 2 days, they smoke a packa day, they shower once a week whether they need it or not, and they’re socially unable to function.  Inside, they say to themselves, “I am an artiste!  Someday the world will recognize my genius!”

Not if you can’t handle a wine and cheese party and wear a sportcoat they won’t, bucko.

I figured I’d do some actual reporting here, seeing as how my source is the woman who’s stuck sleeping next to me every night.  I told her I was considering putting together a thousand words of blithering about this, and she said, “Well, yeah.  If you can’t present yourself properly, you’re never going to get very far, are you?”  No, sweetheart, I suppose you can’t.

She continued: “It’s a proven fact that if you’re going to make a living as an artist, you have to learn how to present yourself professionally and be respectful of those with money. Especially in the visual arts. You’ll also note that none of our artists are younger than 25.”  In other words, grow up and straighten up.  Quit sniffing all that glue and staying up until 6am wondering whether or not your piece reflects the truth of being a duck in today’s society.

“The dirty artist in his awesome grimy studio does exist but he’s not making money. And he’s not being invited to shows that actually pay. What might happen is his work might get some buzz in the ‘underground.’ But, if that buzz builds to actual exhibits and shows and (gasp) sales, the artist will quickly need to adjust his personality and image if he wants to move up from there.”

Yeah, take that, Mohawk! Listen up, for the woman knows of what she speaks, lip piercing! She goes on: “However, there is always an audience for so-called ‘raw’ art.”

To which I say, “Oh, like GG Allin.” True art has always involved getting crap thrown at you, hasn’t it?

“…and that audience is called ‘Trendy.’”

Oh. So, not like GG Allin. At all.

“Trend artists come and go, but the face of a talented artist today is someone who puts effort into his or her work and lets that speak louder than his/her appearance.  A true artist wants the art to be memorable: not the artist’s clothes and hair.”

I wonder exactly when in the curriculum at the SAIC or at Columbia they sit down and say to those kids, most of whom worship at the altar of Pitchfork and American Apparel (how different!  how unique!  just like all your friends!), “Listen, kids.  I know you like being different and having people look at you funny.  I know you like showing the world just how creative and personally divergant you can be from popular society.  But I have bad news for you.”

“You have to sell your art to popular society.  You dummies.”

At this point, the entire classroom’s attention turns to something shiny out the window, and they all think simultaneously: “Oh, so we’re supposed to sell out.  We’re supposed to suck up to the man and give them what they want.  That’s not what I’m doing with my art!  I’m going to go into performance art and interpretive dance and doing meth and making collages with eggshells from different South American and Australian animals!  And the art world will come to me!”

It won’t, junior.  Somewhere along the line, the semi-creative loins that bred you came to the same conclusion, I bet.  That’s how they got the money to put you into that school and buy you all that stuff at Target to put in your dorm room, and carry it all there in their new Trailblazer.  Hate to break it to you.  But it happens.

They should give this class second semester of Freshman year.  The ones who are going to drop out know it already, so this will just help shove them over the edge.  But the ones who stick around?  They might be thinking it, but they sure-damn need to hear it from someone who knows.  Maybe the wife needs to think about teaching.  Or at least investing in a nearby hair salon for those next couple weeks – if the lesson sticks.