Art, Craft, and Critics

“Critics spend their occupational hours scrubbing the polish off that which causes the spine to tingle, while spending their leisure time frantically polishing that which is already yellowed by too many applications of cheap wax.” - Michael (Crazy Mike) Scrivner

During a recent debate over a bit of poetry, a dear friend and professional poet made a statement about the difference between craft and art, which I will paraphrase here:

This is the kind of work I classify as folk-type, artless, sincere...of heart not art. It doesn’t have breathtaking imagery, metaphor that opens new doors of perception, language that sings in harmony...none of the elements that characterize original poetry, poetry of power. It’s like the difference between craft and art. I notice immediately if the craftsperson doesn’t have corners neat, seams straight, edges smooth, colors harmonious, etc. With art (regardless of genre) I react primarily to the emotional impact of the piece, and only secondarily to the craft elements. If the artist has sent me a powerful message, and I realize she/he has broken (or bent) the rules of craft, I am even more impressed with her/his artistry. I use the same criteria in looking at writing: if it informs me efficiently, it is evidence of good craft; if it moves me in a unique way, it is art.

My response to these opinions was as follows:

I find it a little elitist to place any sincere, creative effort in a class lower than art, or at least to insinuate that it has less overall value. Being a craftsman myself (in wood, words and other media), I have always been angered by those who criticize anyone’s effort at artistic expression, whether that expression be accomplished with a hammer, a brush, a pencil, a loom, or plant dye on rock faces. Perhaps the best spoof of critical hypocrisy can be found in the movie LA Story, when Steve Martin is describing the emotional impact of a large painting, pointing out all the artistic nuances the artist has incorporated. When the camera finally turns to the picture, it is essentially blank. That satirical skit depicts the way I think of art critics in general, no matter what genre they are criticizing. They become so enamored with their own scholarship and purported depth of knowledge, they cannot help but fill up page after page with interpretations based on their own opinions rather than any kind of prima-facie evidence or factual knowledge.

As for craft being a mode of informing the observer efficiently, and only art being able to move one in a unique way, I also disagree. In fact, it really depends upon the observer or user (Art is in the eye of the beholder). I have been moved in unique ways many times by observing the intricate perfection of the woodwork in a classical guitar, the curve of a piece of handmade furniture, or the perfectly efficient design of a tool, all of which would only be considered examples of fine craftsmanship. On the other hand, I would not hang the Mona Lisa in my house on a bet, nor would I pay more than flea-market prices for a Faberge Egg.

The critics’ answer to this, of course, is that I have not experienced enough, or studied enough, or taken enough art appreciation classes to understand and appreciate fine art. Pardon me, but that’s a load of horseshit. It is only those whose confidence in their own opinions is so weak, who must justify them with long lists of academic accomplishments and/or claimed expertise. To me, critics serve a purpose only if one learns their likes and dislikes and makes a value judgment based on comparing those likes and dislikes to their own. When it comes to being the standard-bearers of true artistic value, they are about as useless as male nipples.

Another question arises in the debate over what is and what is not art: is there art in nature? After all, we scientific types tend to think of nature and evolution as being a set of scientific happenstances; the result of fundamental laws and chance at work. In which case, Mother Nature would be seen as a craftsperson. On the other hand, some of the most beautiful painting, writing, sculpture, etc., comes from trying to faithfully copy or depict the beauty found in nature. And if there is no art in the original, there is little hope of art magically appearing in a copy. In that case, only a few of the abstractionists could be considered real artists.

So what is art and what is craft? Is there some magical artistic line a craftsperson may eventually cross, even though they have never attempted to do anything but perfect their craft? Or is that territory forbidden to those who refuse to study and learn the opinions of critics and the history of true art. Is there ‘accidental’ art? Can a craftsperson occasionally cross over that line without knowing it, simply by chance? Perhaps a backwoods mechanic with a third-grade education and a blowtorch could unknowingly create a piece of metal sculpture that would rival in its ability to move the soul the works of Michelangelo or Van Gogh or DaVinci. I guess that would depend on the soul, but would it ever be recognized as anything more than craftsmanship or ‘folk art?’ All the while ‘real’ artists are shooting paint-filled balloons with guns, swinging on ropes to spread random colors on huge canvases, or painting depictions of Campbell’s Soup cans.

I believe it is precisely because of the elitists and critics that many people abandon their quests to become artists. I, for example, long ago resigned myself to being a simple craftsman, with little hope of ever becoming a true ‘artist’ in my writing, woodworking, or drawing. After all, what I do is so dependent on craft, there is no realistic hope of my ever achieving what the critics would describe as ‘art.’ It is fortunate, for me, that I don’t do what I do in order to impress the critics; I do it because I have to—because something deep inside me requires it.

It is, I suppose, an inbred trait of the human animal, to criticize, to look down on others and their work. Else how could we ever feel superior, feed our enormous egos? Just as God needs the Devil to justify his/her existence, so do we need our inferiors to make us feel important.

I am reminded here of a conversation I once had with an anthropologist friend. When I asked her what was the most interesting society she had ever studied, her answer was immediate: American society. I could not really argue with this, though I did bring up some points, like the clicking tongues of the Aborigines, or the architectural marvels of the Incas, the Greeks and the Egyptians. I next asked what she believed was the most intelligent species on Earth. Again, the answer was immediate. It needed no thought or reflection, and was completely unequivocal: the human species.

The point I am trying to make here goes back to the critics, the academic evaluators, those who consider themselves and their opinions so infallible as to leave no room for discussion. Those for whom research is only an opportunity to prove their points, not a quest for truth.

How, I asked my friend, could she be so sure that intelligence of a higher degree did not exist somewhere else on the planet? If it did, she responded, we would have heard from it; we would have seen its works. Our superiority was evident in the way we had ‘conquered’ nature, turned it to our use, employed science to provide us with all manner of sustenance and pleasure. If there was a higher intelligence, where was it? Why do we not know about it? Why does it not rule the world?

I was, to put it mildly, flabbergasted that someone so intelligent, so learned, could be such a fundamental elitist. Perhaps it is my extensive reading of science fiction that allows me to step outside the ‘box’ of human experience and imagine a species intelligent enough not to need all those demonstrative material things; not to need to prove anything to us or to any other entity. Or perhaps there is a species that long ago established an equilibrium with nature, after eons of fighting it only to lose again and again. A species that has evolved, both accidentally and purposely, both physically and mentally, into a form so compatible with nature and so understanding of the negative consequences of assuming superiority, that it would no more make its accomplishments known to us than it would commit racial suicide. Indeed, a species that did not even consider itself superior, but only wanted to continue reaping the rewards of eons of trial and error, of learned adjustment combined with natural evolution.

I then asked my friend if she had considered that only a tiny fraction of the inhabitable volume of Earth was ours to see. That of the planet’s two basic environments (water and air) ours was by far the smallest. I asked her if she realized that the age of the Earth was such that numerous entire species, societies, even world-dominant life forms, could have come and gone without leaving so much as a trace of their “achievements,” and that the descendants of those entities may have learned something along the way about how to enjoy life and carry on longer than their poor, stupid predecessors. She scoffed at this idea and continued to cling to her opinion that visible or documentable works were the only criteria by which we should judge species superiority.

I wanted to go on, to carry the argument to its logical end, but I saw there was no chance; that she (meaning the human race) was it! No ifs ands or buts about it. So I took the rest of my argument home with me, not wanting to cause a more vehement confrontation.

The fact is, I could be entirely wrong and she entirely right, but that’s not the point. The point is, her egotistical presumption of species superiority belies any claim to truth, simply because the truth cannot be found through bias, but only through a clear evaluation of the facts as they are understood. Even at that, truth is more akin to approached infinity than to an evaluation of facts at any given point in time.

Still, allowing that my conjecture may carry some degree of truth, I would say that one integral part of the success of the society of dolphins and whales might be that they long ago gave up on their egos, killed off all their critics, and learned that there really is no difference between craft and art.

(Needlepoint by my mother, the artist, Nina Belle Boling)