If “art” didn’t serve double duty as a superlative term of praise (i.e.: “See that ass? That’s art, brah.” “Brain surgery is an art.” “The Art of Loving”), I wonder if we wouldn’t have a far easier time defining and identifying it.
My favorite explanation of art was delivered to me in grad school, by a guy named Michael who not only was a hard-drinking photographer, but also was the most pretentious guy in Oregon. (Look it up, doubter.)
He said a work of art must:
Be the material creation of a human being (no concepts, no natural occurrences),
Be deliberate and purposive, and
Be able to be experienced by other(s).
What I liked about this way of defining art was that it neither demanded nor implied aesthetic judgment, (that much) cultural relevance, or craftsman elitism. What I disliked about this way of defining art was that it neither demanded nor implied aesthetic superiority, (that much) cultural relevance, or craftsman elitism.
There I was, nearing the conclusion of my second degree in fine arts, and by my new favorite definition, I could stick my finger down my throat and puke, and the result landing on Michael’s Doc Martens would have been art. It was enough to make the finger unnecessary.
