Doing Dumb Stuff?

Stills from video “I will not make any more boring art”, in which Baldessari writes that phrase repetetively

 “John Baldessari, the 79-year-old conceptualist, has spent more than four decades making laconic, ironic conceptual art-about-art, both good and bad. His style is familiar and recognizable, wry and dry: It usually incorporates a photo or grid of pictures, often black-and-white and grainy, with the vibe of a seventies issue of Artforum; text of some kind; a found object placed casually; a video or maybe a newspaper clipping or some other element taken from popular culture. The approach is hugely influential, setting the precedent for interesting artists like Cindy Sherman and David Salle. In a sense, Baldessari imagined a large circular room with a hundred entrances and exits. Thousands of artists could go through, and did. After a visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s retrospective, you’ll see that Baldessari’s children have overrun Chelsea.

And that’s the problem. Even a former student like Salle admits that “at least three generations of artists” doing “dumb stuff … is largely John’s fault.” Baldessari’s interesting niche bewitched too many people, creating a hackneyed academy of smarty-pants work that addresses the same issues in the same ways, over and over, just the way Baldessari and others of his generation did 40 years ago.”

 -Great article on John Baldessari (ostensibly inspired by the new exhibition at the Met) by Jerry Saltz
True?
Tips for Artists Who Want to Sell, John Baldessari

That time of year

Wind from the Sea, Andrew Wyeth
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth from the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
–That time of year thou mayst in me behold, William Shakespeare

Turkey Pond, Andrew Wyeth
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.
 

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick…

 
-Sailing to Byzantium, William Butler Yeats