Lovers of awful art rejoice
By Sheryl-Lee Kerr
ATTENTION
all multi-thumbed creators of lopsided pottery and those
who buy
paint-by-numbers and still manage to color the whites of
people’s eyes
blue. Your ship has now come in. You are duds no more.
Rejoice in
your ham-fisted artisanship. Reclaim your bad velvet art.
Dig out
your poker-playing dogs and macaroni masterpieces. Revel in
your
stumpy-legged naked nymphs with the 11 fingers (although not in
front of
the neighbors).
I am here
to report that there now exists the art gallery for us
all.
Yep, in Dedham, Massachusetts, they have come up with the Museum
of Bad Art. Or MOBA, for short.
This fine
institution is, say news reports, dedicated to presenting
“art too
bad to be ignored’’. And it’s a hit.
It
apparently draws large crowds who come purely to ogle - in the
same way
people gather transfixed at traffic accidents or watch with
fascination
the daily wonder that is Jeff Kennett’s hair.
Among the
Museum of Bad Art’s prime examples of artisanship are My
Darling’s
Chestnut Mare, a delightful watercolor yet to encounter
the
bothersome realities of perspective, but which more than makes up
for it in ...
er, well it doesn’t actually redeem itself at all. But
it does
feature a giant woman with tiny hands standing beside a horse
the size
of a dog. So it can’t be all bad. Or rather it must be. And
that’s the
point.
Says the
note next to the painting: “The piece hung for more than
20 years
in the artist’s home, a testament to the adhesive quality of
Scotch
tape.’’
Mmmm.
(Insert knowing superior nod.) Scotch tape. Magnificent.
Reported
in the Chicago Tribune, a serious newspaper which dutifully
sent its intrepid
critic over to earnestly inspect the awful
offerings,
also on display was something called In Her Boudoir - a
portrait
of a “slightly cross-eyed young woman in a scanty
nightgown
that was created by her boyfriend using the contents of her make-up
bag’’. I
won’t ask why he was in the make-up bag in the first place.
And I
don’t even want to imagine what she said when she went to use
her lippy
next but I’m betting this became his first and last
artistic
offering.
But all in
all, King of Kings sounds more like my sort of
neuroticism
when it comes to art a la crap.
Quoth the
museum’s label beside this fine addition: “The crown on
the
canine’s head and the wings sprouting from between its shoulder
blades,
even as it straddles the woman’s breast and upper arm in a
gravity-defying
pose, speak volumes on the domination of subjects by
their
pets.’’
Ah, the
creativity. The depth. The daring. Well, it sure beats the
artistic
offering I dutifully created myself this morning - a muesli
bar serenely
mounted on a background of burnt toast. I call it
Breakfast
1998. (It is now missing in action, curiously enough.)
Hmm. I
think what impresses me most about this museum is that people
will come
in droves to witness such crimes against art.
It means
there is hope for us all yet. I know this for a fact
because
Scott Wilson, the museum’s curator, has told the Chicago Tribune
that he
rejects nine out of 10 pieces because they’re not bad enough.
“It has to
be spectacularly bad. We have very high, low standards,’’
explains
Mr Wilson, also a Boston antiques dealer.
“We
donated the money we raised to the Salvation Army. They’re our
favorite
charity since we get so much of our art from them.’’
I guess
beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.
Well,
lovers of fine motel art, I can’t sit around chatting all day;
I have
Lunch 1998 to fashion - and I’m feeling saucy.
(c) Sheryl-Lee Kerr & The Advertiser, 14 July 1998.