The Cost of Value
The true worth of art lies within in its humanity, not its prestige.
There are two versions of the dreaded phrase, “my kid could paint that!” The first is the battle cry of the cynical, reluctant art goer. Usually when looking at abstract and/or contemporary work, there is a notion that art is “easy,” because a child is prone to splatter, colour, and non-photorealism. To this person, the only difference between Jackson Pollack and a four year-old, is artistic pretentiousness. The second use of the phrase is worse; doting parents who obsess over their children so much that they believe their child can make art that’s worth as much as a Pollack. Thing is, they’re not completely wrong. Anyone can make art. The problem is, be it parents to their kids, sarcastic viewers to a painting, or the art industry’s gatekeepers to its neophytes, art is no longer art when it becomes a currency.
I have been an artist, in some form or another, since I was eleven years old. My parents, frightened by ambitions to be a cartoonist, did what all good immigrants do — they made my passions more professional. I’m grateful for the years of painting apprenticeship that taught me skills, but I had no interest in still-lifes, colour theory, or even touching watercolour and oil paint when I began. I wanted to tell stories with orcs, Zulu warriors, Manta Rays, and, of…
