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Summary:
In 1975, after having put radical chic and '60s counterculture to the satirical torch, Tom Wolfe turned his attention to the contemporary art world. The patron saint (and resident imp) of New Journalism couldn't have asked for a better subject. Here was a hotbed of pretension, nitwit theorizing, social climbing, and money, money, money--all Wolfe had to do was sharpen his tools and get to work. He did! Much of The Painted Word is a superb burlesque on that modern mating ritual whereby artists get to despise their middle-class audience and accommodate it at the same time. The painter, Wolfe writes, "had to dedicate himself to the quirky god Avant-Garde. He had to keep one devout eye peeled for the new edge on the blade of the wedge of the head on the latest pick thrust of the newest exploratory probe of this fall's avant-garde Breakthrough of the Century.... At the same time he had to keep his other eye cocked to see if anyone in le monde was watching."
The other bone Wolfe has to pick is with the proliferation of art theory, particularly the sort purveyed by postwar colossi like Harold Rosenberg, Clement Greenberg, and Leo Steinberg. Decades after the heyday of abstract expressionism, these guys make pretty easy targets. What could be more absurd, after all, than endless Jesuitical disputes about the flatness of the picture plane? So most of them get a highly comical spanking from the author. It's worth pointing out, of course, that Wolfe paints with a broad (as it were) brush. If he's skewering the entire army of artistic pretenders in a single go, there's no room to admit that Jasper Johns or Willem DeKooning might actually have some talent. But as he would no doubt admit, The Painted Word isn't about the history of art. It's about the history of taste and middlebrow acquisition--and nobody has chronicled these two topics as hilariously or accurately as Tom Wolfe. --James Marcus
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An uneducated critic
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This is an unpersuasive essay about the failure of modern art and about how we are all caught up in the falsity and ugliness of modern art. In my opinion, I think Wolfe is writing without much knowledge of modern art. He sounds like an uneducated critic in this book.
Wolfe Punctures a Few More Balloons
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Tom Wolfe, that most trenchant of all observers of contemporary American society, turns his gaze to the world of painting and drawing during the first seventy-five years or so of the twentieth century in this book, published in 1975.
Just about anybody with eyes has, I think, wondered by what criterion a good deal of the painting during this period can be considered art. Few of us, however, have Wolfe's command of language to explain the complete vapidity of the work produced during the period that he covers, nor the ability, nearly unique to Wolfe, of allowing artists, critics, and theorists' own words to expose that vapidity.
This is indeed a refreshing work, and written with Wolfe's usual mastery.
If your interest is writing or art, you'll enjoy The Painted Word by Tom Wolf. If you like both, then this irreverent, little book will make you laugh, nod in agreement, or cry out in protest. You definitely won't be bored. This is Wolf at the top of his game and you'll find yourself constantly reading passages aloud to anyone within earshot.
First published in 1975, Wolf decomposes modern art movements in a way that is both enlightening and entertaining. His clever style provides the reader with an inside look at the art world and illuminates the follies of our cultural elite. Even if you have only a cursory understanding of modern art, Wolf's insightfulness will prompt numerous "oh yeah, now I get it" moments.
The Painted Word will make your next visit to an art museum more discerning and a heck of a lot more fun. The Shut Mouth Society The Shopkeeper
"The Painted Word" by Tom Wolfe
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A Review of Tom Wolfe's "The Painted Word"
Tom Wolfe's rhetoric is at times overpowering but like beautifully complicated music (Bach?) it is a symphony for both the brain and the heart. Wolfe is saying that as art loses its goal to communicate it becomes lousy art, if art at all. He implies that "art for art's sake" is a false concept, and I agree with him. He attacks pretentiousness in both artist and art lover and correctly labels it a game.
Wolfe's title is a word play in two respects. (1) The modernists invent their genres and make them more important that the art itself. (2) Art must have a subject, just as a sentence must have a subject.
The phrase "Art for art's sake" can be used in an adjectival way meaning devotion, obsession, degree of love for the activity of art, and that's fine with me. But there must be more to art than excited devotees. Otherwise, every fanatic, let alone every hard working man who loves his job, would be a creator of art in some form or another. And the crudeness of our world, albeit with beauty scattered about here and there, tells us that is not the case. Of course, beauty and tenderness can exist and not be art. For art does not become art simply because someone says it is.
Much modern art is good and beautiful and meaningful in its dealings with color and form. And a painting might indeed deal solely with color and form, and not with reality. For they are legitimate subjects. On the other hand, an artist's desire to bamboozle is not enough. I love some modern art, and some not, the same as with the other genres. So when is modern art a thing I can accept? When it communicates a subject, even form and color alone; and when it is honest and makes no claims that are not there.
There is a difference between paint-artists and writers in how they perceive their own art juxtaposed others, and how they assign value. Most writers move about, back and forth, and are influenced by all forms, all styles, all of history, and they are capable of learning from the past. They might read Proust one day and Joyce the next, Emily Dickinson and then Virginia Woolf, Goethe and then Vonnegut, Rushdie and then Shakespeare. Take a look at James Joyce's great novel "Ulysses." It depends on the Greek myths, a vastly different kind of writing than his own, but without Homer Joyce's novel would be less than we have now. At the very least, it would be a different novel with a different message.
An exaggeration, even if grotesque, might be characterization, and might be art. James Joyce was aware of that.
On the other hand, more than a few paint artists are bitter in their historical perceptions, hating the art outside their own genre. The Impressionists (whom I especially love) had a vigorous abhorrence for what came before them, and the abstractionists hate everything and everybody but themselves, even denying that their art has to have a subject. "Flatness" is not a subject, it is a technique. A question - why can't I pour paint onto a canvas drip by drip, like Jackson Pollock, and make art out of it? What skill, artistic or otherwise, is involved in that? And what would my spills and splashes communicate?
And then there is the world of hanger-oners and art critics who speak and write in an insane insiders' language, pretentious wanna-be-nabobs living in intellectual temples, wobbly dirty white towers, who feel compelled to tell us what to think, what to love, what to read, what to look at, what to marvel at. And if we disagree they tell us we are bourgeoisie philistines, poor brain and heart limited creatures, incapable.
Tom Wolfe has written a wonderful and humorous look at the sometimes ridiculous world of modern art. Agree with him or not, you will be entertained.
Like Tom Wolfe, I am bemused and irritated by the art reviews in The New York Times. A review of rusted pipes and broken fixtures on display at an art show pushed me over the edge. So I wrote a review of my own and sent it to them. They completely ignored me as I knew they would. My review was of my cat's litter box. Here it is -
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A Review of Menace in Simple Things
My love of art and my disdain for the many tortured reviews of art that I stumble across more often than is good for my mental health has led me to write a review of my own. The subject of my analysis is - to say the least - as profound as elephant dung on a Madonna, twisted plumbing, rusting scrap metal, empty white canvasses, or a crucifix inserted into a jar of human urine, objects that are taken quite seriously on the daily art pages of our great American newspapers and in their Sunday supplements. But please, do not take my subject too seriously, for my cat does enough of that for all of us.
A few days ago I happened upon my cat just as he was leaving his litter box after taking a poop. A friend was with me and as he observed my interest in the affair he asked, "You act as though you know what this is all about. I don't get it." Sensing a crisis I suggested that a search through Britannica or The New York Times Arts and Leisure Section might be helpful.
"I can do that." he said, and abruptly left me to my musings. It seemed threatening that I found myself alone with my cat's poop.
The poop seemed to be arranged in a stripped-down manner that made it appear to be on a lighted stage that integrated its various themes into an art form - if you will - that has its roots in Minimalism, and that merged the entire piece into a distinct theatricality. It seemed to have its sources in childhood, a numinous presence having the effect of a domestic twilight zone. Ordinary chunky things were combined in weird ways.
The result was a spooky, dead narrative, perhaps even an autobiographical content. Domesticity - poisoned, entrapped disrupted - was its main theme. And no artist better captured a sense of Foucault's romance with oppression than my cat. At the same time, there was room in the poop for humor, however sardonic, and a strain of poetry that would become more evident with time.
All these morphological riffs loosened up the obtuse, adamant solidity of the poop and suggested a wealth of associations - baptism, slaking thirst, warming, cooling, healing, and of precious things gone down the drain and lost.
It is important to understand the metaphorical dimensions of my cat's poop. But it is not always easy to do that. As time goes on, and the cultural climate that produced this poop moves backward, a new and grand brew of pessimism and nostalgia delivers a shock. But can it be - will it be - a heavy-handed emphasis on a more flexible medium?
Perhaps baby poop next time.
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I think I'll go to Macy's and buy me a white suit.
Joseph A. Psarto 440-835-5179 jpsarto@juno.com
Wolfe knocks the art establishment (not the art)
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A classmate lent me The Painted Word by Tom Wolfe, published in 1975, and boy, if you ever want some actually intelligent criticism and questioning of the establishment of modern art, this is it!
The beauty of this book is that Wolfe doesn't usually attack the art - though occasionally he does accuse artists of allowing themselves to be too influenced by popular theory - he really attacks the establishment.
And he does so in a hilarious way. For instance, Wolfe starts out explaining the "mating ritual" between the bohemian artists, "boho", and high society that can financially back and establish the artist, the "monde". He talks about how to be successful, an artist must first be an honest boho, live amongst the other bohemians and adopt true anti-bourgeois values. This is called the "boho dance". But once an artist has attracted the monde with his dance, he must "doubletrack", which means learn to gleefully hobnob with the elite and enjoy his success, despite being a hypocrite.
And this mating metaphor is just the beginning. This book oozes sarcasm of the best and most vicious sort. Just check out this passage, about how pop art, according to the theorists, was supposed to be about "flatness", rather than how the subject matter related to real life:
"In short... the culturati were secretly enjoying the realism! -plain old bourgeois mass-culture high-school goober-squeezing whitehead-hunting can-I-pop-it-for-you-Billy realism! They looked at a Roy Lichtenstein blowup of a love-comic panel showing a young blond couple with their lips parted in the moment before a profound, tongue-probing, post-teen, American soul kiss, plus the legend `We rose up slowly...as if we didn't belong to the outside world any longer...like swimmers in a shadowy dream...who didn't need to breath...' and--the hell with the sign systems--they just loved the dopey campy picture of these two vapid blond sex buds having their love-comic romance bigger than life, six feet by eight feet, in fact, up on the walls in an art gallery."
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