By far the most comprehensive and nuanced review of Who Says That’s Art? to date is that offered late last year by J. W. Bourne and D. F. Bailey on the Stuckismwales website.[*] Nine single-spaced pages long, it testifies to their close reading of the book, and to their fair-minded reflection on the various points of its argument—for both of which I’m very grateful.

As indicated by the brief excerpt I’ve posted on the reviews page for Who Says That’s Art?, Bourne and Bailey (members of the Stuckist group in Wales) found much to praise in the book—which is truly gratifying. But their agreement was by no means total. And what I especially value (as I wrote to tell them) is that rather than simply reject conclusions they disagree with, they summarized the reasons for my position and then offered their own reasons for disagreement. That is precisely the sort of intelligent debate I had hoped to stimulate.

To continue that debate, therefore, I respond here to some of the main points of contention—in the order in which they appear in the review.

Why Distinguish Between “Fine” and “Decorative” Art?

Like many in today’s artworld, Bourne and Bailey would prefer to merge the categories of “fine” and “decorative” art. In their view, since both categories “have the common ingredient of craft,”

it seems more democratic to say that they are all one. Some of us are uneasy with the Renaissance artists’ insistence that they were superior to the humble craftsman and we are not sure that such ego is appropriate in art. We feel that in Eastern art especially, fine art and decorative/useful art seem to merge into each other so that it is difficult to see where one ends and the other begins.

The issue thus raised is mainly an epistemological (not an aesthetic) one, for it relates to the nature of concept formation. Epistemologically sound categories and concepts are based on the essential characteristics of their most representative examples. As a result, concepts are often more clearly defined than things in reality. But that doesn’t invalidate them. For example, we don’t reject the concepts “blue” and “green” because it is difficult to say whether a particular intermediate shade is “bluish green” or “greenish blue.”

Regardless of what artists at any time have said or thought, the point of distinguishing between “fine” and “decorative” art is not to declare superiority of one over the other but to recognize fundamental differences between the quintessential examples in each category. The problem with defining “art” as anything exhibiting craftsmanship is that it tells us nothing about the significant differences between a Pietà, say, and a well-crafted basket or a beautifully designed candelabrum. (It’s worth noting that the candelabrum design shown here has been attributed to no less a Renaissance master than Michelangelo; see “Even Michelangelo Designed Works of Decorative Art,” What Art Is Online, November 2002.)

As I aimed to show in Who Says That’s Art?, works traditionally referred to as “fine art”—primarily, painting and sculpture (more broadly, all two- and three-dimensional artistic representations)—have played a key role in virtually all known cultures (Eastern as well as Western), serving to embody important values in an emotionally compelling form. That functional distinction is fairly universal, even in cultures that do not express it verbally. And it clearly differs from the primarily practical function of such useful objects as baskets and candelabra.

The growing tendency to ignore that distinction has very real consequences. In my book, I cited the example of a worthless piece of “conceptual art” inspired by such “democratic” thinking. A clumsy installation of chairs by an art history student at my alma mater, it was submitted (and accepted) as her senior-thesis project. As I noted, however, it failed to convey its intended meaning, and it served no practical function. It was totally useless in every respect.

Another Case in Point: The Work of Martin Puryear

A more lamentable example of the unintended consequences of blurring the distinction between “fine” and “decorative” art is the critically acclaimed work of Martin Puryear (b. 1941)—the subject of an exhibition I’ve just seen at the Morgan Library in New York. The centerpiece of the Puryear show was a work entitled Vessel, pictured above.

Considered “one of the most important contemporary American sculptors,” Puryear regards himself as an artist because his work (unlike the traditional “crafts”) has no practical function. But he ignores what the function of “[fine] art” is—namely, the value-charged representation of things of human importance.

Why did Puryear begin to create his meticulously crafted but physically useless and ultimately baffling works of “art”? His biographical trajectory tells the whole story. In his early twenties, he spent two years with the Peace Corps in Sierra Leone. Tellingly, his drawings [more] from that period reveal some genuine artistic talent, applied to capturing the distinctive character of the people and places he encountered there. At the same time, he was fascinated by, and proceeded to learn about, the traditional materials and techniques of local craftspeople.

On returning to the states, Puryear obtained an MFA in “sculpture” at the Yale University School of Art. In the course of his studies there, he was exposed to (and unfortunately influenced by) the contemporary American “art” then in vogue—namely, Minimalism [more]. Thereafter, his work combined the abstract—and therefore meaningless—tendencies of Minimalism with traditional “craft.” Only in the conceptually promiscuous contemporary artworld could his work qualify as “[fine] art”—the context in which it is presented and discussed. (For more about this confusion, see “Perversely Purposeless” in Notes & Comments, Aristos, June 2008, about another Puryear exhibition.)

Puryear applies himself with great seriousness and dedication to his work. But he has been led down a lamentable dead-end by the muddled premises prevailing in the contemporary artworld. However “interesting” or “intriguing” his pieces may appear to the viewer, they remain frustratingly enigmatic, and thus flout the point of “fine art.” According to the curators of the Morgan show, Vessel “resembles a drawing in space.” But a drawing of what? In their view, it “evokes at once a beached bottle or ship and a head.” What sense can be made of that?

On “Imagery”

Surprisingly, Bourne and Bailey took issue with my use of the term “imagery” for both two- and three-dimensional work. They argued that sculpture, in particular,

is not essentially imagery; it is form. A blind person can experience sculpture by touch, with no image involved. And for sighted people a single sculptural form is equivalent to an infinite number of images. Even a two-dimensional painting may be thought of as consisting of forms rather than an image and the image thought of as an effect of the painting rather than the painting itself.

Contrary to that argument, the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (5th ed., 2011) includes the following definitions of image:

• a representation of the form of a person or object, such as a painting or photograph
• a likeness, or semblance—such as a “sculptured likeness”
• a mental picture of something.

Perhaps British usage differs from American on this point.

In any case, I agree that images consist of forms. But what is crucial for art is whether those forms cohere into an intelligible whole—that is, whether they constitute an image, a likeness of something. And that would hold even with respect to a blind person. Unless one could construct a coherent mental image corresponding to the work of sculpture experienced through touch, the experience would be as meaningless as an “abstract” (nonobjective) painting is for a sighted person.

“It’s Good Having [Hirst] Around”

On this point, I cannot agree with Bourne and Bailey. Quite magnanimously they maintain that the “antics of Postmodernist artists” such as Damien Hirst and other Young British Artists “add colour and debate to the art scene” and encourage traditional artists, who paint pictures, “to question what they [themselves] are doing.” In their view, moreover, the only way to discover the proper boundaries of art is for would-be artists “to produce novel creations . . . to see if they work as art.”

As I see it, artists since time immemorial have produced “novel creations,” within tacit boundaries demarcating the essential nature of art. Countless works of value were produced in diverse cultures within those limits. In marked contrast, during the past century a completely open-ended concept of presumably artistic novelty has come to prevail. I would argue that it has led to total chaos in the artworld, with little or nothing of value being created, and a concomitant breakdown in the very concept of art. In the process, the worst pseudo art has gained ascendancy, at the expense of genuine art. It is the artworld equivalent of Gresham’s law in the monetary sphere. Bad art (more precisely, pseudo art) has been driving out good.

Bourne and Bailey note that some Stuckists are enthusiastic about Modernist styles such as Expressionism and Cubism. Expressionism is surely a legitimate style, with pre-Modern precursors. I consider the pursuit of Cubism misguided, however, because it deliberately subverts normal perception and therefore impedes understanding (see “‘Puzzling Out’ Cubism,” in Notes & Comments, Aristos, March 2015).

Is Photography a “Fine Art”?

Here I come to what is probably Bourne and Bailey’s principal reservation about my book—my view that photography is a “craft,” rather than “art.” Against my claim that a photograph (unlike a drawing or painting) is a largely mechanical product, they argue that successful photographs are “the endpoint of some fairly complex creative decisions” regarding such matters as composition, focal point, depth of field, and lighting.

Yet they acknowledge that a photograph, “[e]ven with the most professional of pre shot camera setting decisions,” often fails “to capture the magic of the scene which so enthralled us, the early golden light of morning through a light mist for example.” They further note: “This ‘expectation’ gap then becomes the subject of further extended creative decision making through post processing or ‘Photoshopping.’” Such processing is something other than “pure photography,” however, which was primarily what I was discussing.

In any case, I am prepared to accept Bourne and Bailey’s suggestion that photography “be considered at least a ‘kissing cousin’ of art.” Provided we agree that “kissing cousins” are not identical (or even fraternal) twins.

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*Note: For readers unfamiliar with the term, “Stuckism” is an international art movement founded in 1999 to promote figurative painting as opposed to “conceptual art.” Its members aim to produce art with “spiritual value”—regardless of style, subject matter, or medium.

Dear Jerry,

Let me begin by thanking you for reviewing my book in the December issue of Arts & Activities, a magazine widely read by K–12 art teachers.

Since nothing is worse for an author than being ignored, I’m grateful for your calling attention, however critical, to Who Says That’s Art?. All the more grateful in view of the serious health problems you’ve been dealing with—not least, failing eyesight.

My thanks, too, for saying: “This is a book that deserves reading even though we may disagree with some of its conclusions.”

Given the authority and respect you’ve long enjoyed in the field of art education, however, I fear that the objections you raise in the review will disincline many teachers from bothering to read for themselves what I wrote—which is often quite different from what you suggested.

Most notably, you object that I start “with a definition of art that would preclude photography, electronic media, and most conceptual forms” and that I set about “to elevate forms that have moved [me]”—to the total exclusion of “contemporary art.”

That depends on what is meant by “contemporary art”—which is, of course, the crux of my book’s thesis.

What I in fact start with is a definition of traditional forms of “fine art”—primarily, representational painting and sculpture. Hence there is nothing “deceptively commonsensical” (as you claim) about my view that “all works of art are made with special skill and care” or that “the emotionally meaningful forms of visual art consist of two- or three-dimensional representations of actual or imagined persons, places, objects, or events.”

What I then set out to do is to analyze fundamental respects in which the various new media (including photography)—which now eclipse painting and sculpture in the realm of “contemporary art”—differ from, and are in most instances inferior to, those time-honored forms.

Thus I by no means engage merely in “outright rejection of what is ‘new’”—as you imply. To the contrary, I offer extensive evidence and reasoned arguments for my rejection of the new forms purported to be “art,” forms that have been invented over the past hundred years. Included in my evidence are statements by the inventors themselves, expressly declaring that what they were creating differed essentially from traditional fine art, and even that it therefore merited a new name. In view of such origins, it is ironic that those new forms now dominate the realm of contemporary “art.”

One of the most troubling aspects of your review is your claim that I ignore “the art of our own times.” Quite the contrary is true. Throughout the book I cite countless works from the early twentieth century to the present—albeit arguing that many of them do not qualify as art by any objective standard.

Most tellingly, the list of works you cite from among the baker’s dozen I praise in a chapter entitled “The Pleasures and Rewards of Art—Real Art, That Is” (spanning millennia of art history) is misleadingly incomplete. Oddly, you omit the 9/11 Memorial (September 11th) by Meredith Bergmann (b. 1955)—which I characterize as “a work of truly conceptual art.” Unlike postmodernist pieces of bogus “conceptual art,” it does what genuine art has always done. It embodies an idea in directly perceptible and emotionally moving form that does not require an artist’s statement or expert commentary to be understood. Can it be that you omitted it because it is in an essentially traditional, classically inspired style and therefore does not qualify as “contemporary art” in your view? If so, you are merely embracing the current artworld consensus, which my book is devoted to challenging.

In contrast with my traditionalist view, you argue: “New media and technologies have brought about new forms that have enlarged and enriched the nature of art experience.” I’d love to know which works in these “new media” have truly enriched your experience.

Based on numerous conversations and written exchanges we’ve had over the years, we’ve long recognized that we approach the crucial question of what qualifies as “contemporary art” from totally different perspectives. Yours I’d characterize as the view now dominant in the artworld—i.e., that anything created by a purported artist merits consideration as art. Mine is that unless we formulate some objective criteria for what constitutes “art,” we have no sound basis for deciding who qualifies as an “artist.”

In that context, it is worth noting that at least two contemporary artists have found considerable merit in Who Says That’s Art?, judging its conclusions to be supported by “rigorous argument” as well as “passionate conviction,” and urging that “all who are interested to find the truth about art should study it and engage with its arguments.”

Also worth mentioning is the favorable assessment of the book offered by other art educators—see Reviews and What Readers Say.

Let me close by echoing your view that what is needed is indeed “healthy dialogue and debate.” That debate should not preclude considering that the ideas and practices now prevailing in the artworld—and increasingly adopted by professors of art education and K–12 teachers—are hopelessly muddled and due for revision.

Warm regards, as ever,

Michelle

There’s so much about today’s artworld that art critic Joan Altabe and I agree on (see her three Aristos Awards—search for “Joan Altabe”) that I’m more than a little astonished by the objections she raises to Who Says That’s Art? in a brief review published online on August 18, which I only recently learned of.

After noting that it’s “gutsy” of me to attempt to “corral art’s baggy borders,” and that the book is both “well-researched” and “well-written,” Altabe proceeds to dispute what she sees as its many “debatable observations and conclusions.” The unfortunate truth is that those “debatable” points stem mainly from her own misreadings and mistaken inferences.

To begin with, Altabe disputes my purported claim that “If art can be about anything, then it is nothing.” To which she responds:

Art about anything can be nothing, yes. But it can also be about everything. Putting art in a lock box marked “something” hems it in, makes it smaller and keeps it from resonating with the widest range of human experience.

What I actually wrote, however, was not “If art can be about anything, then it is nothing” (emphasis added) but rather “If art can be anything, then it is nothing.” Altabe’s misquoted version pertains to the range of content or meaning in art works (about which I, in fact, take a very broad view). My statement instead has to do with the sort of entities that qualify as works of art. That is a vastly different point, and one with which Altabe ought to be more in sympathy, given her own view that “Conceptual art is a crock” (i.e., not art), for example—a viewpoint I share and offer solid reasons for.

Altabe also finds my “high opinion” of eighteenth-century aesthetic philosophy and “low opinion” of modern art “too sweeping for words.” She thereby implies that I neither express any reservations regarding eighteenth-century ideas about art nor say anything good about “modern art.” In fact, I offer a critical reassessment of both.

In a section entitled “Which Eighteenth-Century Ideas about ‘Fine Art’ Are Worth Keeping?,” for example, I indicate flaws as well as insights, and also point out ways in which that influential century’s ideas have been misrepresented by subsequent thinkers.

As for “modern art,” I’m not sure how Altabe defines the term. Mainstreams of Modern Art, by the estimable art historian and critic John Canaday, applies it as far back as Jacques Louis David (1748–1825) and Francisco Goya (1746–1828)—the latter of whom I do cite, favorably. But even if one takes the term in the more limited sense of late-nineteenth-century work that departed from academic strictures, my pantheon includes quite a few “modern artists”—from van Gogh and Gauguin to Seurat and Kamisaka Sekka.

Altabe further complains:

While [Kamhi] acknowledges that the root of fine art began in antiquity, she leaps straight to the 18th century, bounding over the very century that would have clued her into modern art—the Baroque era of the 17th century.

The balance of Altabe’s brief review (nearly half of the total) is devoted to a vigorous defense of Baroque art, as if I had devalued such work—a mistaken inference she apparently drew from my emphasis on eighteenth-century art theory, which she failed to distinguish from my views on actual works of art. She then comes to the crux of her argument:

Baroque painting showed struggling, earthy figures in turbulent settings. It revealed a world in flux and off balance, a world that was searching and questioning.

Sound familiar? It should. Artists in our time are also searching and questioning.

Nothing I wrote suggests that I would reject work by genuine artists in any time who were “searching and questioning,” however. On the contrary, I express intense admiration for the French Baroque painter Nicolas Poussin’s deeply probing masterpiece Landscape with the Ashes of Phocion, for example—not to mention my respectful reference to such works as Goya’s Third of May (see image above) and Picasso’s Guernica.

Yet Altabe concludes that I “skewer all modernism.” Her claim is not only mistaken. It is baffling.