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 By David Jenneson June 23, 2004 Everyone knows understanding modern art is as easy as comprehending quantum physics, and often less rewarding. At least quantum physicists have the decency not to hang their unknowable works on a wall and expect us to grasp the enormity of their meaning. By contrast modern artists do it all the time. Cubes and sticks and lines. The most confounding ones are those who take everyday items you can buy off the store shelf, stick them together and call that art. The worst offender of all was Andy Warhol, the spindly pale multi-media diva who was shot in New York by a mad woman in 1987. His famous multiple portraits of Marylyn Monroe and John Wayne continue to puzzle millions. Now the Vancouver Art Gallery is a putting on an exhibition entitled: “Prints and Drawings from the Warhol Museums.’ until Sept. 6. Art Gallery Director of Marketing and Communications Diane Robinson says, “it’s a fabulous show and a must see.” In his day Warhol had his circle of admirers all right, but Bob Dylan called him a jerk. So did other more normal celebrities of the day. I admit I was as confused as the rest until one day by accident, in 1965, I discovered the secret of understanding modern art. As such I am probably the least known person who actually physically participated in Andy Warhol’s art. I am here to tell you he was no jerk. A friend and I took a day off work. It was a fine spring morning in 1965. We were going to walk several miles into the city and enjoy a well earned lunch. At the last minute a third unwanted companion invited himself along. Nothing pleased this aggravating twit. He could complain the sky being blue. He carped about things no one cared about and made them seem twice as irrelevant. It was like trying to take a nature walk with a crow cawing on your shoulder. On this beautiful spring day I was grinding my teeth. By the time we’d walked to downtown he was unbearable. All I could hear was his irritating voice mixed in with traffic sounds.. I was desperate and needed silence badly. That’s when we walked into the old Vancouver Art Gallery on Georgia Street. It was beautiful. Most beautiful of all was a big sign that read QUIET. I told my companions that, to appreciate art, I needed to be by myself. We split up. That’s when I walked alone into the Andy Warhol exhibit. The effect was instant. I had just suffered three hours of verbal assault only to walk into a room filled with the same sort of abuse, only now it was visual. Twenty pictures of John Wayne. Forty Campbell’s Soup labels. I’d spent the morning listening to garbage and now here I was looking at it. In a funk, I found myself standing before a stack of Brillo boxes. It was a cylindrical pyramid, like any grocery clerk might do it, and was about seven feet high. I was nonplussed. A few feet way from me stood a young girl, and near her an old man. “This is ridiculous,” said the young girl softly. “I don’t understand it,” muttered the old man. “I’ve never seen such nonsense.” We all looked at each other and sadly shook our heads. Suddenly I realized exactly what the sculpture meant, and exactly what Andy Warhol was saying. Despite our best intentions the world is what it is, and sometimes no matter how much we put in what we get back is less than second rate. When this happens the best defense is not to take it passively, but to act. Do something about it. Make a difference. Best of all I knew exactly what Andy Warhol wanted me to do. I waded into the Brillo boxes. I kicked and flung my arms wide. They exploded everywhere. I’d assumed they still had the steel wool pads inside but clearly they were empty because they really flew. They scattered in a great ragged circle like a bomb blast. Clearly this was kinetic sculpture, art in motion, and I was adding the final master stroke to complete the work, exactly as Warhol had intended. I was as surprised as anyone. I felt great. The young girl and the old man, both wearing smiles of immense pleasure, sped off in opposite directions. Luckily I’m a man of calm in the center of a storm. Although the Brillo boxes had scattered for about twenty feet in all directions I quietly picked my way through the blast radius and serenely continued my viewing of the great man’s work. A few moments later a guard ran in, beheld the scene with horror and ran out. Andy Warhol’s most famous saying is ‘Everyone in the world has fifteen minutes of fame,” but I didn’t want this to be mine. A few more minutes ticked by. All this figuring out modern art had made me hungry. It was time for lunch. As I calmly sailed back out through the lobby I saw my original companion waiting outside. Meanwhile a black uniformed, red faced boss guard was giving our uninvited guest the reaming out of his life. As I passed, I heard the wrongly accused culprit answer back, which earned him an even louder blast. Now that’s what I call art. ------------ About the author: David Jenneson is a writer and noveliest who lives in Vancouver, Canada. You may reach him at his website www.davidjenneson.com email: dmail@telus.net Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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