Salonnieres in New York?


Oh, how antiquated! Those intellectuals gathered around a book, in this 1728 painting Reading from Moliere by Jean Francois de Troy, are so period in their gowns and ‘avant garde’ literary tastes. It’s charming to witness the interchange of ideas between cultured people, even in oils, and the history of the Parisian salon is even more charming.

Salons were free and easy gatherings where social status was less important than conversation and intellect. Dominated by the women that hosted them, salons were a chance for cultured women to meet men as their equals. In some fashion, salons have been hosted in urban centers such as Paris, London, and Rome since the 1600s and produced no end on stimulating conversation and interesting ideas. Charming, but hardly in touch with this modern age of speed and technology, where people need never meet in person, no?

In fact, no. This afternoon I am attending, of all things, a salon hosted by the lovely Helene Forbes devoted to the discussion of the arts. Who comes? Artists, writers, enthusiasts and all sorts who like discussing recent exhibitions, galleries, gossip and a general love of the arts.

What a delightful afternoon! I’ll have to channel Gertrude Stein, whose brilliant conversation attracted the Cubist and experimental artist and writers, among them Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse, Juan Gris, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Ernest Hemingway to her salon, which was probably the last one of note in Paris. Here’s to a New York revival of the salon tradition.

Dreams and Realities

As you all know, I’ve done some pre-auction shopping ala Yves Saint Laurent to furnish the new pad. I’ve chosen some key pieces to center the rooms around. And yet, after a weekend of moving (and not even posting), what do I have?

Voila!

Boxes. Lots of unattractive, non-Warhol-esque boxes. To add injury to visual insult, they are full of things I probably should have thrown out. Instead, I lugged them to yet another place, where they will continue to uselessly fill boxes and drawers. The detritus of life becomes so emotionally significant that it’s difficult to throw it away.

Unpacking it all is a mess in progress, but that’s another story.

“Beauty and the Best” and a Boyfriend

“Artists should be separated from people who do creative things” was my boyfriend’s response to my description of Theodore Dalrymple’s article in The New English Review, mentioned previously here.

By that, he meant that saying a chef was an artiste was hyperbolic, only meaning he cooked very well. He also meant that more conceptual and non-traditional works of contemporary art, such as rings of circles in duct tape or performances where a person sits on a box for days or even Pippilotti Rist’s video and sound installation in the atrium at MoMA, are cool, are visual, and are creative but that they are not art.

Dalrymple’s trenchant article has stayed in my mind, but all my conclusions from it seem to be drawing lines in the sand, much as my boyfriend’s statement does. “This is Art; this is not.” As if there were a right and wrong, and a good and bad when it comes to art.

But in fact, isn’t there? Art requires a set of aesthetic values to be judged by, if we are to make judgments at all. Life and art, or at least my life and art, are more than a series of perceptions. They have meaning to me, and they do because I assign to all things value. This is no formal declaration of organizing principles either for myself or of culture in general. But as my life has meaning, and art has meaning to me, and I think some organizing principle guides my perceptions of art.

Dalrymple’s article feels true to my experiences. He considers popular contemporary art to be shallow and created by egoists who are too afraid to create something beautiful, not to mention lacking the technical means and knowledge of an artistic heritage to do so. Think of Jeff Koons, who he mentions, or Damian Hirst or Murakami. To strive for beauty seems too earnest, almost gauche today.

So perhaps my boyfriend and Dalrymple are saying similar things. One feels it is not art, the other that it is bad art. Perhaps I agree. My amusement and interest with much of contemporary art is just that; and those feelings are different than a reaction to something beautiful. People who look can find beauty and an expression of the human condition in a falling leaf or the texture of a wall. A beautiful work of art makes those qualities apparent to those who weren’t looking.