There is the old saying that “life imitates art.” For the most part, I tend to agree with this idiom of my ancestors. While Dali’s work may not literally convey the hullabaloo of modern society, the semblance of meaning is there. We are living in surreal times, ladies and gentlemen; clocks may not be melting, but minds certainly are spinning to a technological rhythm that carries a cyborg beat.
But– and this is a rather rabid pet peeve of mine– Hollywood seems to have neglected to update its version of the “artist” in its writers’ enchiridion.
While watching the HBO show Rescue Me on my new lover, Netflix, there came into the plot weave a photographer. She was beautiful, stunning, kind, passionate…and everything stereotypical of the avant-garde artist. She drums out lingo such as “your profile gives off such aura of modernism,” “you’re so organic,” “to not capture you on print would be tragc,” “you’d make a wonderful subject for my studio” and so on. Now, I am only one person, one artist (who specializes in photography and painting) but I don’t talk like that. Ever. I don’t approach humans and convey some scripted Woody Allen tripe that sounds like I have a can of caviar lodged in an orifice of my nether regions.
This notion from the entertainment community has me pissing vinegar and foaming at the mouth. Not only has it managed to implant some arrogant, egotistical, and fabricated ideal of artists into the audience; it never bothered to ask for my permission to construct my traits for mass production. I feel as though I, being an artist, should have been consulted on the matter. A simple questionnaire would have sufficed. Something along the lines of “When you’re booking a model for a shoot, what terminology do you use?” or “When you attend an art opening, do you consult a vocabulary handbook before mingling with the art elite?” All right, the latter I would answer with a big heaping of “Who the hell is considered ”art elite?'” and torn the questionnaire to bits, thrown them in the consultants lap, and said cheers.
There is no need to keep fueling this idea that artists talk like pompous morons, constantly have a glass of chardoney in their hand, wear attire straight out of Zoolander, never mingle with anyone who doesn’t understand what post-modernism is, or who the heck Damien Hirst is! Furthermore, not all artists are hipsters who walk around with vintage SLR’s strapped to their abdomens, sport Chuck’s and wear long-toques and dirty tight jeans. No, I don’t own horn rimmed glasses; no, I do not own a pair of wing tip shoes or Tom’s. I curse like a sailor, my clothes are permanently stained with paint of coffee, everyone is either “dude” or “man” to me (yes, even my mother) and I am far too illiterate to conjure up such jargon as “your profile exhibits such aura, it reflects such an organic presence…”. NO ONE TALKS LIKE THAT UNLESS THEY WANT TO GET INTO YOUR TIGHT EMO PANTS!
Hollywood, stop portraying us artists in such a bad light. Actually, I don’t care. Do what you want. I’m an anti-artist anyways, so, I really have no right to chime in on this issue now that I think of it…nevermind.