There is nothing like it - the ever-evolving shapes and movements, and colours, and sounds of waves crashing over the sands, bringing in, pushing in an incoming tide, imposing itself further and further up upon the shore; ruffling and rolling the grains of coral sand and shell fragments before it. And all the while the ultramarine and cobalt skies dapppled in clouds and sunlight oversee the transformation of the green-blue watercolours of the mother lode. How privileged I am to sit and sketch and render it all - at least today's version of it.  

Not everything in Venice is  a boat, a canal, water. There are also Venetians, young and old. And some allow themselves, as we do, the luxury of a modern version of sharing and camaraderie. During nearly an hour, the total concentration of these two boys allowed me the privilege of rendering them - almost completing a full sketch  before they moved on. I completed the drawing in Ottawa.

Off the north shore of Bermuda last year, i fell in love with this little gem of a boat, swaying on nary noticeable waves, and gently flying its colours proudly. All that was missing was its paper-hat coiffed captain shouting pirate "ho,ho,hos" and "avasts". The stories boats do tell. . .

Talent acquisition!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What the hell is that???

“As the pressure to identify talent intensifies, companies need to address a more holistic view of every stage of the candidate’s journey, from candidate to applicant to new hire. Hiring is too important to get wrong, so bringing data together to predict where to find top talent, and which individuals will be successful within the organization is critical???????”

Really??? This is how we are obsessively "hiring" people today - as if the world will fall apart if we dare to let one decision go awry? No wonder everyone is becoming anxious and depressed.

Talent is an innate capacity to be enthralled by and to practice at a high level - in a specific subject which baffles many others who are not as "talented" or bedazzled by that activity or interest. Basically, talented people are different from others who are not. And THAT is what makes the a good fit in any organization. They have unique perspectives to offer instead of being just another "same" cog in a boringly irrelevant wheel.

Talent aquisition? Are we not, rather, talking skill acquisition here? Eerily, it doesn't seem so.

The solution in the discovery of who are the the talented individuals among us who are best equipped to fulfill a certain "corporate or group think task" is to drop the purported "accuracies" of modern mindshift determinants. Why? They seem to only pinpoint the bad boy concerns of a "clique mentality", those bordering on a fascist obsession for  sameness, for oneness, for homogeneity - today's requirements for acceptance and OKness - euphemistically describing a person as one who "fits in".

Basically, today we are increasingly destroying the diversities, the differences required to assure progress - and we increasingly do this through a virtual reality pinpointing of who the "right fit" persons are to work within "our" common goal environment - as if all co-workers should be clones of each other in order to be acceptable and, as a result, productive!

(Shades of the 19th century concept of assembly-line worker bee modules and models.)

Such attitudes "fit" right in with our contemporary "management beliefs" that everything must be quantitatively assessed rather than qualitatively measured. No longer is the goal excellence, but rather the impossibility (illusion?) of "perfection". And ironically, we don't seem to take much of a measure as to whom this right  fit profits most.

What we fail to see is that selecting only those who "fit in" encourages a densification of homogeneity which eventually eliminates the very possibility of difference, of problem solving, of creativity, of  progress, of success. Group think based on "purported" scientifically refined workforce data too often ends up creating an illusion of security through a specific think block committee mindset which eventually (in most cases) destroys the collective goals inherent in a specific purpose orientation.

In the end, we are screwing ourselves daily to achieve illusions rather than goals. We’re like obsessive “clean-nuts” needing to make sure we are perfectly sanitary in everything we do in order to be perfectly healthy (which is impossible) and who then only end up being “perfectly ill” because perfection only causes allergies, asthma and other environmentally based diseases born of the illusory perfect "state of being".

In the past 20 years I’ve seen fully functional, incredibly diverse and successful corporations go under because of the  "viral importation" of such a mind set. - this need to render perfectly homogenous (i.e.: the same as "moi")   that which is wondrously diverse. (Remember when everyone needed to have an MBA?) Take a look at some of those companies which put their futures in the hands of a “highly intelligent those” who may have had the brains to get their "papers" but had no wherewithal to implement the knowledge acquired. Like Midas, in the end they destroy everything they touch - for the sake of the sought after gold.

Even very recently, I have been witness to organizations increasingly eliminating everyone who, though highly skilled, functional and successful, are suddenly deemed to not “fit in” based on algorithm determinants of a more holistic (?) (read: pseudo-scientific) approach to "personnel selection".

Result? A swift decline into irrelevance. (Some of these institutions, after only a few months of implementing that “just right hiring process”, have already begun sliding out of view into oblivion.

If it sounds like we are becoming robots. . .  We are.   We obey the latest dictate when in fact to survive and thrive we should disobey more often.  

Just because someone fits in, in a populist sort of “data” formulation way, does not guarantee success of any kind in any area. Humans are much more complicated than that. and the day we poo-poo that truth is the day we become submissive to our own ignorance about the wonders of  being alive and creative and motivated. As in portraiture, to create "the just right face", each part must play its unique role, all the while seamlessly interconnecting which each other part. A cheek is never a nose, is not an ear, is not a chin. Yet, without each difference,  a "successful" face can never be made whole.

Being neither good  nor bad, swift nor slow,
time passes. . .
Simply being what it is. . .  Time.

No matter the qualities attributed to it,
time cares not to be friend or foe,
helpful or hindering;
passing as it does over,
under, around
and through us;
unseeing and unseen.

And this it does,
regardless of any and all efforts to clock it,
worship it, suppress it,
ignore it, use it or abuse it.

It frustrates our need to analyse it,
encompass it,
relegate it, consume it.
Whilst ignoring our neurotic cravings  
to control it, manage it,
equate it, subjugate it.

And though we try to buy,
rent or sell time - to stop it, watch it,
conserve it... all is for naught.

Though we take “time off”
or try to “make good time” or think
we make "good use of time" . . .
All is irrelevant. All is in vain . . . and vain?

For time ignores the existence
of all things, all plans, all beings.
It is its own void. . . and not,
It is its own reality, enamoured of nothing more
than its own virtual existence;
master of its own creation,
evolution and potential,
denial or disappearance.

The “times” we hold dear are not
as they pass unsympathetically,
unceremoniously, unemotionally,
even as our fantasies concoct warm memories of their passing. . .

Moreover, we do not,
though we think we do,
“have” time.
It is not ours to hold,
nor ours to tell.

Time is amoral.
It communicates with no one and,
even as we speak of it,
it shamelessly ignores us.
Neither  acknowledging
our quaking demise
nor giving value
to life’s quivering breaths,
it cares not
whether we are or are not.
Have been or ever will be.

To live
is to pass through time
as it passes through us. . .
To exist is to worry over it
but to never “know” it;
just of it.

And through all of this,
Time will always be
that most famous of accused:  
the source of our ineptitude,
our fears of solitude, our griefs and angst
and paranoias.

Yet, how can we blame time
when we fail to see it
for what it has always been
and forever will be...
nothing more than the figuration
of conceptually timing
the gradual disintegration
of our every atom
as it, in turn, effaces itself,
diminishes itself, negates itself
from the very essence of its passage,
and ours . . .

Time is but a figment of our imaginings. . .
an enigma which never pretends to be
nor has it ever promoted itself to be
anything more than what it is :
timeless.


Bernard Poulin - (1966 - edited 1982)

Within the 52 years of painting professionally, there were 46 of those where Bermuda played a major role in my achievements. I created 268 artworks of Bermuda and its people. 118 were portraits the rest were of the land and sky and waters surrounding the islands. Still is a place of wonder.

​To thank Bermuda for its never-ending welcome throughout these years, on July 14 of 2019 I donated 4 paintings to the Masterworks Museum of Bermuda Art.  

Soup Can Ethics

By the mid 60s, Andy Warhol was a fixture; “the” brand; the symbol for “self-commodification”. Thus, to the game of contemporary visual art creation & distribution, his persona (the painter, sculptor & conceiver of ideas) summarily elevated itself to the status of "artist = art". A strategist, Warhol considered this the right defensive move for the times. With an increased demand for all to be free and equal (à la Allen Ginsberg) Andy sought to maintain (protect?) his “place” in the grand scheme of things evolving. Though a calculated move, this final morph from Pawn to Knight to King was nonetheless dangerous. But then. . . he was Andy Warhol.     
        
Rather take that step, in his own mind, than accept the humbling reality that was increasingly being touted by a rising rabble of “average folks” - i.e. : those within a flower power context  who now considered artwork-making “groovy”, and artists?. . well, just “anybody” who did such stuff - i.e. : those who “played with” and did fun things called “art”. Odd assertion this. . . At the same time that the “doing of art” was being brought down to an “anyone can do it” level,  “being seen to be an artist” (having royalty status) was becoming a generalized “craving-to- be”.

The Who’s Who In The Game (Chances Are. . . )

Though pundits now discourse the influence of  Warhol on Banksy and Hirst, in the grand scheme of things, that seems rather irrelevant. More important is : how does his enigmatic personality and legacy relate to we contemporary drawers and painters - we, who are not of the chosen few?

On the bright side, we can always dream of the day our work gets a pass - is seen to have something important to say. But then, what are the chances? In a world of multi-million (billion?) artworks produced daily, our “masterpieces” are more likely to be considered pretty good at best and at worst, just “pretty”. In Warhol’s case such rejections, meaningless as populist logistics generally are,  were not an option. In lieu, he threw it all in our faces. And, being smarter than most, his timing was perfect and he won the toss.  

Dreams Are Made Of. . . Uhm?

But how is it that Warhol would ever be related to us and we to him? Well, Warhol seemed to have forecast western society’s eventual adoption of a pervasive Kardashian-superficiality - i.e. : a trumpeting of an “anything is possible if you wish it to be so” mantra. Nonetheless, the 60s failed to carry forward the equal and opposite consideration that the uniqueness of mastery, of genius, of daring-do would remain, as always rare and elusive. In essence, the Warhols, Caravaggios, Benvenuto Cellinis, Fra Filippo Lippis, Gauguins, Daumiers and Fischls of this world (despite their bluster and delinquencies) were and still are stand-outs - different somehow; not of the rabble. They were and are more than many of us can aspire to be - not because they were at times nice, at times abominable, but rather because their work was and is so damned good. In essence, to aspire to is fine. But the achieving of illusions, of getting a star on the walk of fame, is more often than not a realistic aspiration only if we’ve been dead for a bit. And even then. . . The odds are still better in Vegas.
 
Though The Times They Are A Changin’. . .  

As much as the 60s art world was immersed in creative bravado - in a reawakening of the power of stimulation and propaganda, contradictory feelings nonetheless filled the air. If changes were to fully occur, alternate realities had to first respect the laws of change. New ways of doing things had to allow the past to say its goodbyes, if goodbyes needed saying. In essence, to emerge intact, any new and improved “ballsy” era (read: Pop) had to both take root in something solid (if it was to survive at all) and, at the same time, deal with an emerging populism that demanded “its own elevated place” on a global scale. 

Basically, what we had in those years was a melding of 3 world views : the classic “old”, a usual irreverent “new” and an unexpected ever more brash perspective which had (and still has) a “who gives a f**k!, I can do that too!” disposition. And with the 70s well on its way, Warhol knew what was going on and what would inevitably be. And because he was a keen observer, his name, personality and visions came to survive that of the many who sat at his side and even of she who shot him. Yet. . . Does the new always survive and even crush the old, the classic, the established perspective?

Old Remains New If It’s Still Around To Irk The New

The classic perception that artwork is nothing if art does not emerge from it has always been (and continues to be) a threat to a contemporary society’s ever “newer” visual aspirations and neo-meanderings - be they as superficial and crazy as they seem to be, actually are. . . or aren't.

During  Warhol’s reign, the world's masses were being baited, lured-in like innocent fish to a Disneyland effect : i.e. : the beginnings of a never ending entertainment = happiness shtick. If side-shows were what got and still get eyeballs, side-shows it would be and, for that matter, remain even more Machiavellian to this day.

With the rules of the game bent and on the verge of snapping, everyone began to slowly sit up straighter through the late 20th century;  hoping that in the end they too would be considered a find, a prodigy, a genius, a wunderkind - above the rest of the proverbial fray - at least in their own minds. But then, as ten year old musician Ariel Lanyi wisely stated a number of years ago : “. . .  a prodigy is basically someone who can play fast (impress?). . . not more than that. . .  (one who does not) understand music.” (the art of it all?).

That is not to say that “fast (brash?) side-show” entertainment was then or is now a sure thing recipe or even a bad one in any era. Some daring, if not “ôser” performers made it in the past and some still do. And by sheer numbers, in our time, bets have to be on the flamboyant fare of the great unwashed and not on the offerings of the select few actual “genii”. When it comes to “arousing”, titillation of the “masses” counts for more. The elite are about import, the masses about impact. As an emotive collective, it seems we are more into the latter. When push comes to shove, at least in every second generation or so, what is popular holds more sway than what deserves recognized achievement or respect.

Everyone’s an artist and everything is art

In essence, Warhol’s assessment remains correct. The rising tide, the rising no-voice class has been, uhm. . . rising for some time. Though the me, myself and I generation was evolving slowly, by the 1990s it had already begun showing its true colours - as muddied as they were.

By 1995 our collective cravings had us “‘acting like” (whatever that means), if not actually being, artists (as romantic and supercilious both that wanting and acting-like are). And, erratic as that “becoming” has been and still is in this 21st century, it continues to be powerful enough to edge many "real" creatives out of what suddenly every Tom, Dick and Harriet increasingly want for themselves : i.e. : to be seen. . . to be seen to be unique, to be known (popular) and to be loved as more than just ordinary folk who spend their whole lives being nobodies, in an increasingly nobody world.

Creativity, or so it seems, has today become more about therapy than creative élan. Where the therapeutic process of creativity was once related to a “self bettering”, and artistic creativity about  skill set acquisition of a new and wondrous language, today creativity is a melded and moulded commodity. it is more about emoting - about how we feel in our never ending bursts of sads and happies.

And in that, what about Hirst and Banksy? Who cares! The visual arts are a lot less about influence these days than they are about “I, Me and moi”.

Are we "Art" or is art "us"?

Andrew Warhola knew enough about “old art” theory to bank on his notion that the viewers of his artworks were in actual fact (and without their even knowing) the subjects of them. Yes, his marketing  genius skills were noteworthy. But first and foremost, his work was a stalwart reflection of his times and of the future. We the people were reflected in the faces of his iconic actors, actresses, politicians and other subjects "in high places”. And we still are.

For all intents and purposes, his artworks were the first “cell phone selfie reflections”. We looked at them, into them and ironically wished ourselves pictured. And as Warhol snapped those “pictures”, Marilyn, Mao, et al got us wondering, smiling, cavorting and posing.

And so, back then, there began to evolve a clearer and yet still ignored picture of how the masses - how "we" were all formulating a  contentious stand of status against “every man collapsing”. In that, we have found (and keep finding) every man (ourselves) in an envious grudge match - one in which we incessantly reach out to grab for ourselves even a minuscule morsel of the crumbling status that is "status".

Up the down stair case

So. . . Was this then, and is this now, a down-slide time or an equalizing of the spoils time? That all depends on which side of the fence we sat on in the past and sit on today. For those who, from time immemorial, have classified themselves as “nothing more thans” - i.e. : as simply labourers, working folk, “ordinaries” - this latest century has been offering up a seemingly encouraging light at the end of the tunnel. But then. . . Is it really a beacon? Or is it more a siren’s touch-screen luring? . . . Are we sending out messages of what we want or is it the advertising in our world of never-ending consumption which is gradually consuming us?

Populist, day-gone-by amenities, like “Thank god it’s Friday” & “Freedom 55", have evolved into newer and better acquisitions of cars, nose, cheek and lip jobs, hair-transplants, save ourselves from disaster insurance contracts, funky jello hairdos, yet another tatoo and other “superficial positives”. For some time now, as a collective, all of these have been making us “feel good”. But have any of them or do any of these marketed compensatory ploys add up to even just one full blown joy?

The fifties brought us TV. Today? Not good enough. We want multiple giant screens in our homes, that  we watch less and less of, and ironically take along miniaturized copies to incessantly stare at while walking into telephone polls . 1963 gave us touch tone phones, 1973 walk and talk units, The mid nineties heard the first word spoken over an eventually identified as “internet thing”. And since, much continues to be seasonally introduced - like new cars, as if inventions have to wait their turn to be launched as the next “new and improved” something or other.

And, as time passes, our new and improveds also quickly become “not good enoughs”. We wanted more in the 60s, 70s, 80s . . . And as Warhol mused on. . . We want more now of what is not easily attainable, if at all possible. Cause what we end up having "the most of" today are increasingly unmet instant gratification needs. And the more we crave deeply, the quicker our fantasies fade into the discouraging illusions that they are. 

Though not all of us are made to be seers, masters or power mongers. . . all of us, it seems, wish to be seen to be more.  From the lure of the television-like print close-ups  Warhol created in the 60s, we’ve come to misguidedly embrace, to be fascinated more by the illusion sold than the reality of a falsehood depicted. Excellence in communication was/is, once again, trumped (no pun intended) by the medium being the snake oil message that it is. Warhol knew that. If he were with us, he would know it still.  

Openness & Transparency Vibes

But with advertising, promotion and marketing, have we not become more open? Have we not? Have we? What are we? . . . with our right clothes, right cars, right accessories and right doses of Zoloft or Paxil? Are we OK? Better? Getting there? Will the right “new and improved” cell phone be the next aphrodisiac to our never-ending wantings? Never mind the inner joy thing. That’s just too hard to recapture from childhood. And anyway, what’s available? What’s actually up for grabs? Bring on the next Google, Amazon and YouTube promo!!!

It’s as if we've reached a manufacturer’s dream pinnacle of nirvana; a never to be matched orgasm of discovery as our every fiber aches to find that lost "better being” that is us - that ever sought selfie self - with not even a hint of an “other” disturbing our quiescent descent into the bliss of uniqueness. Ah, to be left alone - not in our usual anxiety borne loneliness - but rather in the safe solitude of a connected disconnectedness such as we have found via the Facebook, Instagram and Chatbot personas we have created.  

From The 20th To The 21st

Can it be that what Warhol sought was a discovery of the self; which he then projected onto the images of others rather than onto those of himself?  In his quest to be seen to be, did he ever become the erudite elitist; the bearer of the ennobled title of "artist” - an identity which he seemingly had to have? Was Warhol in search of that “brand” we so intensely crave to be identified with today - rather than have it identified to us? Was AW, for all intents and purposes, following our dream of being hot-branded? Is the search for self-branding one of our own design lest we appear to "fail" when we are scorched by everyone else’s hot iron stamp?  Or is it a desire to be seen to be as big as every other previous master - without all the trouble of working at it?

Yes! . . with time, "I’m an artist too" has come to supersede the ubiquitous “I am an artist”.

Now, that may be easy in the arts and craft world where adult coloring books now contain “art-101" exercises. But claiming a status equal to that of a Sigmar Polke, Corot, John Singer Sargent, Hokusai, Barnett Newman or Pollock remains a rather extended if not narcissistic stretch. And so, is this where we now stake our claim - on an identity, on a brand, in our “selves” rather than in the independent powers which lie within our creations?

We should be careful. . . Getting away with arrogance now demands a better proposed game plan than was historically implemented in the Pop era. Did we ever truly say our goodbyes to the “past” - or are we just “hangin on” to its guarantee of authenticity. . . just in case? Our dithering is more than obvious.  And the today context in which we find ourselves is no better than in the past. The modern world, in its quest to be equal and free, has failed to bring on the goods. Or. . . have we become the failing factor in our quest to "be"?

Is it the environment which has failed to give its masses a recognition of their innate wondrousness as individuals and as a collective? Has it failed us in the offering up of truth? Has it instead  promoted  myths to which we now so ardently adhere? Has it failed us by encouraging a virtual rather than an actual self-worth; failed us by allowing the superficialities of consumerism and commercially promoted self-esteem campaigns to define who we should be rather than the best we can strive to "do"? Is it all about us being excited and happy, about being great because we think we are? Or is it about us at all?  

To Be Or Not To Be. . .

I am sure if he were around today, Warhol the spirit guide would ask himself this very Shakespearean question. In essence, is “being” our thing? Or, is “doing” (working), the one essential in the creation of the state of being, which is crucial?

In "our" art world, is it the creator being artist or is it the created spirit within an artwork being art which cries out for validity? Is it realistic to assume that the mystery that is “Art” exists only because we think art is what we think is "art"? And, despite a lack of capacity to communicate, to speak to the mysteries we think we have created. . . is it nonetheless "art"? Or is it simply a figment of our imaginations that paintings, sculptures and other expressions of excellence exude mystery? Who’s to say?

But then, there's the rub. This very question questions  never wanting to be considered possibilities, such as : Do we create art when we create artwork? Or is “art” a mysterious independent by-product of that physical rendition called a drawing or a painting? And if so, is art always there lying dormant in whatever we produce? Is it always ready to pounce, to emerge simply because we say it is there to emerge? And is that what makes it “more than"?

And what if it fails to emerge? And worse! What if there’s nothing there to emerge. . . ? Does that make us no longer “artists”, as we so vociferously proclaim we are? Does it downgrade us to a student level, to an amateur grade of neurotic oddity; an apprentice aspiring to an illusory “Académie” - to a wanna-be-in-waiting - craving “the” higher Hollywoodian calling we all seem to so desperately aspire to?

Or should we simply “do a Warhol” and  proclaim from on high that everything we make is art and subsequently everyone who creates is an artist? We could. . .  But then. . . Are we anywhere near to being Andy Warhol?

I am, therefore I am. But Am I really? And if I “am”, what am I?

From the onset of the 20th and 21st centuries, fascination for the truly unique and for the mysteries of an emergent enigma has faded - has even been supplanted by a greater gravitas-envy for the “position,  status and recognition” afforded a creator of imagery, rather than for his/her process or end product.  Warhol knew that. Flower power connotations and left wing radicalism face-offs aside, the increasing “now wants and needs" of contemporary generations (as he predicted through his work) continue to assail us.

And with that, what we have is a sad mid 21st century problem where the “screams” emitted are more Munchian then ever - more than even Warhol or any honest 60s “hippie” could have conveyed with actual feeling. That this predicament has become ever more than the mystery that  Mona Lisa has ever been is evidenced by the dichotomous craving for selfie heights; for reflections of the  wonders of “moi” which so often remind us that, emotionally, we now are more akin to being victims of ever increasing pressures than we are heroic hopefuls.

And yes, that victimhood we concomitantly embrace with “wishing”does not bode well with the equal and opposite wanting to be seen as “more than” - the “whatever” we now desperately crave as a birthright. There is an historic phrase - an expression in French Québec which remains to this day a reminder that the past is often nothing more than the first day of the present. “Né pour un petit pain”  - “born for the smallest loaf of bread” - i.e. : born (to be) less”. Though it may reflect on past feelings of subservience, its existence in our mind’s eye highlights the effects such feelings continue to inflict upon the social DNA structures which incessantly haunt us. When we reach out, are we asking for too much? In other words, will our contemporary choice of a victimhood status always be in conflict with our wanting of more for ourselves? Guilt and lust are two opposites which never stop spitting on each other; vying as they do for supremacy over our lives.

We are probably the only era which would have enticed Andy Warhol to re-become Andrew Warhola - to look at himself and to us for inspiration rather than to movie stars and to the socialite “elite”.  I would wager he would have found all of us more fascinating than the celluloid crowd. Ours is a titillating anxious lot. We are serious worriers. Our dramas are real, not made-up. We fear (made to?) aplenty. We are more depressed than any other peoples at any other period in history - even when compared to times of all out war. We nurture depression as a kindred spirit and seemingly encourage the very thought of ending it all. We more easily submit to musing on how ever much time we have left - possibly based on however long our Zoloft, Paxil, Prozac or Lexapro prescriptions will last. And so, as a people of a numbed era, should we return to cell phones and iPad screen soothers to reflect upon the more palatable virtual realities defining our existence? Or should we ponder the relativity of our concomitant creative élans gone mad?

That being said, are selfies the images Warhol would throw in our faces today? AW would have a field day if he were around. . .  Even though he was used to being a star and having “stars” as subjects, he nonetheless represented the reality that is us - the absurdity and/or superficiality of “their” reality in the 60s, so much like ours today; where we embrace the superciliousness of "our truths" rather than the truth.

Through his magical screen print “figurines” with overdone lipstick, and theatrical faces, Andy spoke of them in a pliable plastic way - without emotion. What would he do with the lot of us today? Could he do anything?  Would he feel anything? Would he fit in or be frightened off by the danger within our times which seems ever more ominous than that ever felt during the peace movement vs mid cold war travails of his era?

Safe? Secure? Fugget-about-it!!!

Warhol, had he stayed around, would have had to deal with our “agitated contemporariness”. He would have had to deal with the environment of it, the ambiance of a normalized OCD uncertainty where  an eerie ambiguity allows us, on one hand, the “freedom” to choose anything we wish to choose. . . and on the other, the distress; the fear that we will not choose well. Melodramatic or what!? 

Our times demand we react to either one extreme or another. And to feel whole, we tend to react to both at the same time. - be it of the right or of the left. In our quest to trust, we find ourselves needing to believe so deeply we can’t but adhere to specifically promoted illusions, while abandoning our own capacity to decipher what is or is not real, good, bad, correct or false.

Basically, we are become “sectual” - of a cult. In our desperate cry to exist, we more often than not wade safely in the shallows rather than dive into our ideological wanderings and wonderings. We constantly return to the only surety we think we know - the self - the “moi” - that vessel which, before the mirror, is always both horribly incredible and incredibly horrible in its capacity to decipher what is.  Ours has become a "victims R us" world.
 
The Compensatory Art Of Our Times

And so we paint puppy dogs and flowers and abstracted sentiments. We struggle to emulate, to copy, to make our scribbling real - to be the same as what we hope we are “correctly” looking at and taking in - as if that is what matters and has always mattered to “artists” since the beginning of time. I can only think of one contemporary film script which comes closest to such “fatefully bizarre realism” : (The Ballad of Buster Scruggs - by the Coen Brothers). That we are lost in our losings and even in our findings is an understatement of weird Warholian proportions - within which I am sure Warhol would have thrived. Or would he have?. . .

The Present Is nothing more than the offspring of its past and the parent of its future. And the more shallow the times passed, the shallower our upcoming seconds and hours and years become.
Andy Warhol was well aware of the increasing vapidity and fragility of his time. He grew within the environment of that era as the King of it all - knowing full well what his work was saying and about whom. He knew even more that he was not Hans Christian Andersen forging a tale of overbearing royalty.  In fact, his tale reminds us that we all seem to crave to be that self-same royalty - “emperors, each displaying our very own unclothedness". . .  

Warhol’s work identified and expressed who we were as a collective within a specific time frame. He did not pretend his work was otherwise. His statements were clear, highlighting as they did, how evermore vulnerable “we were becoming” to manipulation, to vapidity, to flag waving allegiances, to the pointing of a finger at an "other", lest we one day become that "other". In essence, his recognition of the branded "nothing" we have come to embrace is the prequel to an ever increasing acceptance of evaporating freedoms. But then, what Warhol did was what an artist does. He or she speaks to the truth of matters “that are” - whether recognized or not - and of the consequences that will emerge from that ever constant becoming.

As an a artist, Andy showed us who we were and yet “we did not know of what he spoke”. We simply saw his “artsy activities” as simple elements of yet another “art movement” in which self-deprecation was nothing more than a new and improved "entertainment" which was yet again nothing more than the side-show freakism we now seek through reality-TV  finger-pointing - and that, in order to feel better about ourselves.

Warhol's time was ever more than even he could fathom at the time. It was a forecasting of things to come - a harbinger of the same yet different vapidities and fragilities increased ten-fold in order to meet the ever-exaggerated needs of our “new and improved”, advertised, promoted and sought after "well beingness". In the analysis of that which was Warhol, what he has become is much more than the sum of his works.  

Today, our cry is to be recognized as more than our efforts merit, to be seen to be  more and, through instant gratification, to achieve the nirvana of a “superficial happiness” no human can actually afford to want or be able to deal with.

And so, from being mesmerized by John Singer Sargent watercolours and the sculpted wonders of Michelangelo, to the enigmas of Hopper, Hokusai, Riopelle and Wyeth, we have grown (?) to venerate a soup can from which can only emerge the art form of our present needs: the emptiness, the vacuum, the space in which we seem to hide our marinating anxious spirits. Dare we open the Pandorra's Box that holds them close?

Warhol’s genius was his mind, not his output.

Putting it all in historic perspective is not a put down of the artworks created by Andy Warhol and his collective of “Factory” adherents. Warhol  knew that artworks, when great, are the deepest “reflection” of an era - not of its creator (as insipid as those reflections may on the surface appear to be). Artists have always done their job well when they knew what their jobs were. But then, as we don't really know what an artist is today, can we know what our role is? As with all Masters before him, Warhol didn’t play at being guru or leader. He did what masters have done since the beginning of time. He presented his observations, stepped back and let us read into them. . .  Or not.  

In the end, all which has been written here boils down to "nothing exists in a vacuum" - not even an idea or a perception - and this goes for everyone, including A.W. This was true in the mid to late 60s, and in the ember ashes of it all in the Warhol 70s, as it remains true to this day. The artists of a time simply meet our collective and individual need to constantly re-introduce ourselves to ourselves - if we would only look deeper. And if Warhol were alive today, he would be striving to create the ever more intense complexity of the mirror-reflections we know as selfies - the very selfies we have become; that we have been transmogrified into being. In fact, he would have found a way to represent our actual “becoming” within the addictive electro-luminescence into which we now “normally” stare and click for hours on end. This because why? To rediscover the who or what that we have become, and that we are continuously becoming? The who, we have lost and daily, desperately search for?  

But then, would even Warhol know of the level of symbolic superciliousness required to represent the listlessness of these times, the consumerist inducement of joyless happiness, the increasing  anorexic disappearance of the self, the feelings of “feeling less than” simultaneously coupled with an equal and opposite growing narcissistic search for greatness? Probably. . . Andrew Warhola “was” Andy Warhol. . .

To Summarize. . .

As THE Pop King, Warhol  understood crowd-pleasing, mob elation and the serious consideration of that which is “popular” - as in : "suited to ordinary people" (this, from English references dating back to the 1570s).  And in our populist era, popular tends to define itself as : therefore legitimate, therefore professional, therefore authentic - therefore marketable, therefore sellable - rather than the actual *artifice that it so often is.

Seinfeld once warned us about “nothing” wishing itself be “something”. The comedic reference was funny then, but is it still? Possibly it’s now too real to be funny. As there are always icons to represent who humans are during the various phases in their evolution, there must also be a recognition that we eventually “are” the icon, the rising Barbie - and, in turn, the sinking Botticelli Venus. 

With lowered expectations and feelings of “less-than” often come a much more easily acquired aggrandizement, a self-reverence and the arrogance of an acquired taste for ignorance. Warhol profited from these growing needs within an environment of less - especially of freedom. He was a predictor of who we would become because of what will have happened to us - and because of what we will have allowed to happen to us.

Andrew Warhola, Andy Warhol, marketed his wares as reflections of us - his fawning admirers. And in so doing, he impertinently and astutely wielded the hot iron which “branded” us then and continues to brand us now. . . “his cattle” to this day; whilst he, the elegant creative cowboy atop a bonny steed, "has rid off" into the proverbial sunset.

Cheers,

Bernard
   
*artifice : (see “Reclaiming Art In The Age Of Artifice” - J.F. Martel - Evolver Editions, North Atlantic Books)

Esoterism aside, I thank Rob Frazer (psychoanalytic psychotherapist) for presenting for comment an admittedly convoluted segment of an article re narcissism. Despite the focus on esoterism and "convolutability", narcissism is nonetheless a topic  "du jour". To respond, I have reverted back to my home base blog since LinkedIn does not allow me enough space to "get into" a topic. My thoughts tend to stretch as elastics do. . .

I'm a professional, if not an obsessive observer. For more than a decade, a specialist in the realm of mental health. For the past 50 years a "painter".  Over time, my social environment observations have led me to conclude that narcissism is not only on the rise, its very presence in our contemporary societies has become a significant marker, if not a trigger, to the instabilities at the root of our collective psychological discomforts. On one end of the mental health spectrum narcissism highlights more than the uncertainty we feel reacting to it or, for that matter, “being it(?)”. In essence, narcissism has become a much too common  "trait" eating away at the structure of collectivities.

Our incessant contemporary cravings for recognition; increasing whining to have our desperate cries for attention sated, our need for the "special that we are" recognized say more about our cell phone toting and clicking selves than we care to admit.

That being said. . . we are a population which continuously selfies our image into a Pandora's Box of  digitized mirror forms - thereby both imprisoning those images and ourselves. Why? Are we desperately trying to see "moi" as more (at least virtually) than the lesser somethings we (actually?) seem to feel we are?

We live in a time which is conflicted both within us and without and neither the twain shall meet. Regardless, that cult of moi is nigh on this embattled ground where a concomitant revitalized fascism feeds (encourages?) our fears and insecurities in order to rule rather than lead the anxious mobs that we are increasingly becoming.

In 1976 I discovered that the west was not well when participants returning from the Vietnam War were handed over the responsibility for that far off turmoil - this to assuage the guilt of those (at home) who, in fact, had led us into the fray in the first place. We collectively (in solidarity with our "authorities"?) chose to spit on the returnees even before they had set one foot back on their unwelcoming home soil. This is not to say that this feral event and its consequences are at the root of our present times being f. . ed up. I’m just saying that this is when I discovered (for myself) that there was something “there” to be looked at and even scanned more closely - both as a person of conscience and a painter wondering about the world. At 31 years old I began worrying about what was happening to “us” all. At 74 I am still wondering and worrying and analyzing and incessantly observing and knowing that I wasn’t wrong then and am not wrong now. And so I record.

Birth of a male narcissist is simply one of the many artworks which have been created during the years I have been involved in this process of "analysis". I know it will one day be interesting to exhibit my cohort of "direct" reflections which speak to a never-ending “wonderings about”.

Born in the year the Second World War ended seems to have fashioned my focus on our western society’s penchant to delude and denude itself of any consequence for which it should rightly accept responsibility - but never seems to. Such is the fate of a world which pretends itself great when in fact it is waning in both favour and ecological and societal mental health. But then, I digress. My apologies Mr. Frazer.

Below, I present a 2007 reflection entitled: "Birth Of A Male Narcissist" - Oil - 30" x 36" - 2007.

Time

Neither swift nor slow, good nor bad, time passes. . .
It is, was and always will be. . . time.
No matter the qualities attributed to it,
time is neither friend nor foe, helpful nor hindering
And as it passes over, under, around and through us;
unseeing and unseen.

Time’s goal is to pass... and it does,
regardless of any and all efforts
to clock it, worship it, suppress it, ignore it, use it or abuse it.
Oh but how we try to analyze time,
encompass it, relegate it, consume it.
Yet, for all our efforts, time ignores our neurotic cravings
to control it, manage it, equate it, subjugate it.

Though we try to buy time, rent it, sell it,
stop it, watch it, conserve it... all is for nought.
Though we take “time off” or believe we “make time”
or think we make "good use of time" . . .
All is irrelevant. All is in vain,
for time ignores the existence of all things, all plans, all beings.

Time does not tell. It never has and never will.
Time is amoral. It communicates with no one and,
even as we speak of it, time shamelessly ignores us.
Neither acknowledging our quaking demise
or giving value to life’s quivering breaths.

The “times” we hold dear pass unsympathetically,
unceremoniously, unemotionally,
even as our fantasies concoct warm memories of their passing. . .
We do not, in the end, “have” time. It is not ours to hold.

To live is to pass through it as it passes through us. . .
And to exist at all is to worry over it.
But time. . . cares not whether we do or not; are or are not.

Time is its own void, its own universe, its own reason for being,
the creator of its own potential, denial or disappearance,
the master of its own eventual recreation. . . or not.

And as it is what it is, time will always be that most famous of accused;
blamed as the source of our ineptitude, our fears of solitude,
our griefs and angst and paranoias.
Yet, how can we put down time when we fail to see it
for what it has always been and forever will be...
timeless?

(late 60s thought)

Victimhood obsession

In the 21st century, we cannot get enough of heroic victimhood. It seems to enhance the sharing we do on Facebook with our stranger-friends. - a meting out which, at times, appears to be more tantalizing than our daily fare of anniversaries and accomplishments. But If social media is our new forum for the sharing of pain and sadness, among pics of kitties and kids, we are nonetheless selective : a bit of our own mental health issues and a lot of that of others. And the victims we most love to hate and hate to love appear to be those we consider "above" our station - i.e. : those who tend to be seen to be "more" than we are.

A reflection of this evident "obsession du jour", is the infatuated romanticizing of the mental health of “creatives”.  How is it that the lives of movie stars, painters and writers so fascinate us? Is it part of our contemporary love-hate relationship with the “elitist” cohort - those who shine - and, in so doing, make us feel small because they are, (in our minds, at least), so much bigger - which triggers either extreme left or right "idées fixes" in their regard?

A prime example of our disproportionate interest in the lives and foibles of the notorious are the numerous headline grabbing online discussions, readings, videos and now recent movies on Van Gogh. In their quest to illuminate, they all show a tendency to mainly focus on his "disturbances" - what with his ear slicing flirtations and  his "surely", "must have been", "possibly and probably was" suicide. Add to this a rusty gun's been found and displayed in a museum as "most probably" THE gun. . . And we now know his purported bar-maid girl-friend's name and the "kid's" name who "may or may not" have shot him in the field where he was painting.

That being said. . . Is there a hint in the wind that we consumer's have had our fill with Vincent? Is it all getting a bit stale? After so many years regaling in his popularity, are we tiring of him? Seems so. . .  Public reactions to the latest offerings are slim. Maybe, as with Doritos regular, we're bored and need a new and improved spicy brand. . . 

In essence, we now know more of nothing about Vincent Van Gogh than we did before we got all hot and bothered with his mental health issues eons ago. Had we remained entranced with his artworks rather than his sliced ear, possibly we would have learned of compassion and empathy rather than sympathizing and identifying. Possibly we would have discovered the wondrousness of his soothing colours and the calming effects of his landscape compositions and the inspiring pathos of feelings he displayed in his human subjects. Possibly we could have integrated within our own souls the strengths inherent in  Vincent Van Gogh's actual "beingness" : achievement despite the pain. Possibly we would have learned more of the heroic combatant that he was than so much innuendo about the submissive sufferer that he purportedly was.

But then, maybe we prefer our illusions, our romantic notions to the truth. Focusing on what was known to be and are real : his genius in paint and story-telling - would only lead us to shockingly surmise that he might have been saner than we are - more prone to fighting his demons than submitting to them. What Vincent did best was paint. And through his paintings he told the truth both about himself and of the world. But then, such considerations are not entertainment fodder. And so we've preferred eviscerating most of him, And now, with so very little left to stab at, we move on, it seems.

So, where to now?

Instant gratification times demand instant gratification variations. . . On the heels of our increasingly lessening interest in Van Gogh, conveniently rises yet another (even greater?) bad boy. His name is Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio - and to his multi-million new friends that we all will be soon, he's simply called : Caravaggio. His artwork is super powerful and was considered shocking in its time. It's even spotlit in its precocious presentation of reality. The drama within is blatantly in our face and the compositions and subjects earthy and even crass to those habituated to the saccharin holiness and purity of the late 16th and early 17th centuries.

We definitely could learn to hate to love Caravaggio for sure!  . . Why? Because this new attraction on the titillation horizon has secrets and behaviours not in keeping with a painter of spiritual symbolism and religiosity. His is a mercurial connection with the world. He's perfect as a Van Gogh romantic hero replacement. He seems to have been more strong willed, more deliberate in his actions.  His life teamed with sin and suffering. He was a self-serving aggressive figure - a subject for both reviling and admiration. And so, as a new and improved obsession, he fits the mold to a T.

New side-show freaks must always provide an increased tension, an exponential component to them in order to fill the space left vacant by a former fixation.

Caravaggio is known to have been a murderous hot head, was he not? Yet, he painted oh so sensually! Did he also kill sensually? Did one provoke the other? Did he paint to arouse or was his work his own arousal mechanism? Ooooh! Titillating! . . .

Tell us more! No, no, no! Not about his paintings!!! (We've seen one, we've seen them all!) What of his "tendencies"!

Let's make him (at least for now) our latest victim of "maybes", "possiblys", "could bes" and mythical circumstances and propensities. Why not? He's just another dead man from far off times and places to denigrate for our discussing pleasure?. . . Oh my! He had a really rough childhood too!!!!!!. That is such a fun beginning!!! And so it is as articles begin appearing in "art mags" and online blogs :

More savage than Caravaggio: the woman who took revenge in oil - Jonathan Jones - 05- 10-16 - The Guardian
Caravaggio's ‘assassin’ finally revealed four centuries after his mysterious death at 38
Published time: 20 Sep, 2018 - RT
Renaissance Master Caravaggio Didn't Die of Syphilis, but of Sepsis - By Laura Geggel - September 28, 2018 - Live Science

Sometimes our fascinations say more about us than about those at whom we point a finger. And so, I repeat,  Caravaggio, is fast becoming "our novelty du jour". Oddly, with imaginations easily gone wild as our world is wont to do, it's a wonder most of us are not the renowned anointed "artists" and these poor schmucks we dig into the recalcitrant nobodies.

That being said. . . Caravaggio, so it is recorded, was brought to trial more than 11 times (mostly for silly stuff). But then who cares. He actually got arrested!!!! We like that. John Ruskin, the art critic - sounding like one of us, sneered at  Caravaggio's "vulgarity, dullness, and impiety".  He stabbed at him with impunity only 200 or so years after Caravaggio's death. How daring! How sad he was without the wide-afield capacities of Facebook! Fast forward into the 21st century. . . :

"Not a month goes by without a sensational discovery about Caravaggio appearing in yet another headline." (The Art Tribune -  Didier Rykner, 2010)

And so the story "grows".

A field of intrigue, discredit and envy

In the arts, it is the "fate" of those who dare be "in it" to be celebrated in the beginning of one century, and not a decade after, be castigated. Limited "lovability" in the visual arts is par for the course. Ironically, this more often than not occurs as a result of the unpredictability of our ever "newer and improved"  populist hate-love contentions and not because of the quality of an artist's work. But then, amateurs investigating "this one's" propensity to blow up, that one's gender-bending, that other's inversions or his/her anti-social behaviour doesn't help matters in the area of objective "historic" considerations.

Ironically, it's not the paradox of the likes of Caravaggio which should intrigue us but rather the miracle of the enigmas and mesmerizing compositions in the artworks  presented by him and the likes of him. But then, again, who cares about artworks after discovering the juicy bits?

The value of disassociation - the creator is not the artwork

When “visiting” a painter, I personally need to comfortably disassociate myself form his/her creator persona. I want the man/woman to step away - to let me read the book before me in peace, to scan the painting, to feel the sculpture without interference. I want the work to be “served up” on a silver platter- alone in all its want-to-be lusciousness and glory. That is a viewer's role -  to receive artwork and to be mesmerized by it, or not.

But for that to be, artwork must be “mature” - ripe, ready for the tasting. Professionals are aware of this. They know that beyond the last brush stroke they have nothing else to say - though they may want to. But at that point in the game,  the only role a creator has is to be the silent servant, the "bowing to a viewer and 2 step back” presenter of artwork to be scrutinized for its ultimate gift of "art" - if art be within at all. In the end, it is always up to the completed work to start the conversation by simply standing before the critical eye of an observer - where silence and nothing more emanating from a product presented is an assured death knell. 

The fading of notoriety

Why would I even need to consider the creator of an artwork when I am scanning for the  mystery hopefully to be found within a newly created artwork? Hell. If I want superficial thrills; if I need gawk at the artist more than I need look at his/her work, I should take a tour of homes in Hollywood and get my envious voyeur kicks there amidst a busload of "likes" (no pun intended).

Basically, an  artist's role (if one is lucky enough to reach such a status in a contemporary arena filled mainly with visual art technicians) is grandiose but fleeting.  Success is not in the doing (except for the practitioner). For the rest of us, it's in the "fact" of all of that creative élan - the "product" of it. And for an ever more limited fewer, the essence within it which calls out to us - the art emerging from that product which seeks to speak, to reach out, to touch and move us.

But then, that discovery is after the fact of conceptualization and process. Beyond that, notoriety stands (maybe) shines (possibly) and fades (always). And those in the field know it. Their role, despite it all, is simply  to create, nothing more. And if history and social media are kind, those makers of artworks may "eventually" be recalled from their imposed purgatory and, just maybe, remembered as the wondrous enigma magicians of timeless time that they should always have been considered to be from day one.  

But what about me, the all important viewer?

As a viewer and appreciator of artwork it isn't in my purview to tell others what they should do, could do, might do, possibly can do sitting before an artwork's possibilities. I can only say what I do.

As an amateur (in the classical sense of the word), I want to see the paint and texture and composition and design and the whole structure of the piece. I want to discover the composition through its blending of elements. In the end, the artwork must be open to telling me the story it has been created to tell - be it representational, abstract or non-representational. I want the painting to speak and the creator of it to shut up. In that position of “exigeance” I may rediscover the author - or not. Therein lies the possibility of knowing the essence of the creative soul of the artist; the cells making up his/her genius. But I don’t want to see those cells physically, mentally or emotionally human in my mind’s eye. They must be part of the mystery of the creation I am taking in, or they are not. I want to see the mastery, the miracle, the enigma in/of the work, not the foibles which cause populist inflections such as : “How in hell can this type of crazy guy do this type of wondrous work?”

In essence, we don’t have to like or to understand the personality or persona of a painter in order to be mesmerized or to be awed by their work. It's a bit like acting. The best acting is done by those who in the process of presenting their character - disappear. They become the character who obliterates the act of acting - since, at this point, the character's exponential presence  annuls the presence of the artist. . . THAT is acting, that is painting, that is sculpting and dance and writing and singing. All we should want to see in artwork before us is the statement made, a presentation of itself in all of its blatant nude, glorious, sensual, aggressive and/or gentle powers. Creating is the art of a process which elevates a virtual reality to reality. Creating is a concept come to life as a mystery, an enigma. Art therefore is felt. It is sensual, not logical. It is tactile, appealing to the gut. As artwork is the product - the vessel, Art is the contained mystery to be revealed from within.

Speak, or forever. . . .

That it SPEAK is what I want form artwork - to tell me that it is worthy of bearing the “art” which (if it is there) will emerge to mesmerize me. Yet, for this to be, we must accept that Art is an extreme rarity - no matter that we call everything art today. Art, as a consequence of excellence and enigma, is the greatest symbol of man's capacity to shine and, as such, it is therefore above and beyond the person creating the work from which it may emerge and the "made container" in which it can be found.

For example, The most recent adaptation of Madama Butterfly was recently presented at the Teatro La Fenice in Venice. Expecting nothing special (it being a contemporary version of the original), the discovery of it was stunning, astonishing, overwhelming. What a wondrous production! Did I want to  know who designed the set, the costumes and the adapted story line? Yes!  Did I want to dissect their personas? No! I got what I wanted: the awe-inspiring nature of the beast - the artwork become art. If tears are any matter of proof, they flowed freely.

In essence, I have never stood before artwork wanting it to be less than it is - i.e. : yet another of the billions of “artworks” out there - efforts striving so intensely to be more than simply paint and canvas, stone, wood, dance, music or sketch. In the end, some make it. Some don’t. But by that time of discovery or non-discovery, the artist (if he or she is so) is already back in the studio creating yet another "stab" at a statement - because an artist never tries to outshine the vessel from which art may emerge or the art that eventually does. And an artist never assumes, never presumes that everything he or she "makes" is art.

But what of the wondrousness of the heart and soul and mental angst and emotional status in being an artist?

For all intents and purposes (and I am repeating myself) I don’t give a sweet damn what the mental health issues were/are of a painter - or what their perceived flaws purportedly are - or posthumously are deemed to have been. Artworks - as they relate to the visual arts universal mandate of sharing - are created despite pain and suffering and not because of it - Their purposeful possibilities lie in the "to be shared with the world" universal mandate we impose upon ourselves in that realm.

Side bar

(Note: This does not preclude the value of art therapy wherein individuals create artworks for their own personal needs - where they are speaking to themselves therapeutically and not to the world. This is a highly legitimate and valued healing practice. But even art therapy is not always limited to a sole purpose - wherein the message conveyed may not only be a healing consideration for the "self". When artwork reaches beyond the self in a display of universal therapeutic messaging, it is no longer only therapeutic - it takes on a perspective which reaches beyond the pain and suffering expressed in a single soul and renders itself open to the understanding of that ache as universal. In essence, some art therapy expressions, due to the talented intervention of their creator, are of value not only to the individual but to the world. Prime examples of personal angst of universal consequence works are those of Munch and Egon Schiele - among others.)

Insinuations vs analysis

But to link an "insinuated flaw" or mental health issue as muse or catalyst to genius is ludicrous. There is a sober difference between the perception that someone is "a mentally unhealthy artist" and an artist who happens to suffer from mental health issues. The former predetermines the artwork created is dependent on the issues themselves and the latter despite those issues.

Reading Dr. Judith Schlesinger's well documented book: "The Insanity Hoax" is to become seriously informed and less emotional and reaction-laden on this misleading assumption of "mad artistry". Dr. Schlesinger's latest presentation at a symposium of experts at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam (2016) was so well received that the final determination re Van Gogh's mental heath was certainly in part based on her research. The finding? : Van Gogh was NOT crazy! Despite emotional cries to the heavens by some who need him to be so, experts at a 2016 symposium at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam determined otherwise. A good read summary is available at this address :

http://www.creativitypost.com/arts/no_van_gogh_was_not_crazy

Demon speculations and determinations

In Venice, my wife and I spent 4 and a half hours visiting with Tintoretto, Bosch and Veronese masterpieces. We so enjoyed our visit, we forgot about ourselves, about time, about the purported personalities of the creators and only focused on the creative genius before us, which - when not interfered with via our own thoughts on the artist, was most evident and not in need of redefining, explaining or revisioning. Why? Because the evidence of what was there before us was enough to open the door to whatever it was of the artist that either of us needed to know. The rest, if pretending to be of any concern, related more to an errant need to pry than to any truth or fact.

What needs be universal is that creators "make" despite and not because of their supposed blemishes. And if this be so. . . What, then, becomes the purpose of our arousals at discussing someone else's demons?

If a logical sociological and/or psychological premise is that all of us are, in one form or another, flawed" what is the purpose of populist speculation on an individual's "pointed at zits"  other than to "bring those individuals back "down" to "our level" of feeling lesser?

When someone offers up the best they can be today and that best seems to be over and above any best possible anywhere else at that time - this is enough to know about a creator and even of the world. If we knew what it was to be an artist we would know that the maker never competes with his/her creation for attention. Only a fool would do that.

Artwork becomes art when the artist takes 2 steps back to allow the creation to speak on its own - to independently do what it was created to do : reach out and touch and move and take viewers  in. There is no more “knowing” than that required when it comes to a creator of artworks. If we need more, we are either historians on the take for a story or voyeurs in need of a populist fix. Only we can determine the facts of that statement.

Generalized narcissism in need of a fix

Contemporary narcissism has fixated us on Van Gogh’s mental health - not Van Gogh the man and even less the phenomenal incredibleness of his artwork - from which so much ART has emerged - and this from the soul of one individual. No. . . From awe-inspiring creator of wondrously bright and engaging images, he has become for our century nothing more than "a thing", a side-show subject bandied about in an era of nothingness wishing itself to be something - and finding no other solution than to belittle in order to rise up from the muck we so often wallow in. 

And because he became a fixation, we lost "him" and his genius in the process - as we will eventually lose Caravaggio.  When we begin to see artworks  as nothing more than results of expressed turmoil - rather than a powerful stance against the demons that assailed their creator, we are the ones who fail in our status as human beings. Fixating on Vincent the depressive became a lucrative industry which turned this brave man (admittedly with issues) into a side-show freak. Ours will be remembered as the time which ripped from him his essence - the genius of it - the genius of him. And this for the simple purpose of meeting the needs of our own obsessions and the reality TV drama we believe to be "the very truth" of our own lives?

In summary, I can only ask myself 2 questions: Is our interest in artists of the ilk of Van Gogh and Caravaggio simply a craving to have those who succeed served up on an altar of sacrifice - for their daring to be great? Or/And. . . Is our incessant scrutiny of their mental health a reflection of the denials we hold up before our own mirrors?