The Non-meaning of Art

I have no idea how this picture got here.  I thought I had tried everything to no avail......actually the picture was part of a facebook post I wanted to copy here.  Oh well, I can re-iterate what I said there, though the reason I tried to copy it was that I found it so poetic and wonderful.  Now I will have to say the same, or close to the same thing, in a less inspiring way (I'm being sarcastic about my writing style but dislike emoticons on my blog).  Anyway, the crux of the matter is that this painting, no matter how banal, brought back many happy, though bitter-sweet memories.  Before I lived here in Eastport, I used to bring a bunch of students here for painting workshops.  I knew of the town because of Diana, who owns the house behind me here.  When she bought the house I came with her to see it.  I loved the place and had the idea of giving painting workshops here.  Diana was happy to let me use her house as base camp for my students, and so began many years of summer sessions.

The workshops were popular, and over the years grew to the point where I rented two cabins on the water to use.  Still, the memories remain in place, at Diana's.  There were at times as many as twelve of us sleeping in her three-bedroom house.  She kept her own bedroom, but the rest of us made nests where we could, including in the closet (usually my own privilege).  After breakfast each morning we loaded our  painting gear in cars and drove to a location chosen by me earlier.  I set up my easel and demonstrated in front of my rapt audience.  This was accompanied by my hopefully amusing teacherly banter.  Afterwards, everyone staked out a nearby spot and set up to spend the day painting.  I roamed from easel to easel bestowing pearls of painting wisdom and offering technical criticism and advice.  At the end of the afternoon we packed up and went back to the house, where we lined up the new paintings for critique.  Fortified by glasses of wine and snacks, I rambled on about each work.  Then we gathered around Diana's big table and ate dinner.....someone would have cooked something, someone washed dishes.  As the teacher, I did not concern myself with those details.

Later, I began doing workshops in other, fancier locations with mostly different students.  They were never the same.

Anyway, the painting above made me think of those days because I painted the same subject with one of my loyal students (she became a good friend).  Although the painting was nothing special, it represents those days for me.  It was a lousy time of my life (I faxed my divorce papers to my lawyer from the local newspaper office during one of the workshops), but the intensity of my life then spilled over to the experience.  Everything was clear and bright and important.  Art was everything to me and the all-encompassing concentration I put into it was fraught with significance and an intensity I have not otherwise experienced.  That intensity has lost its immediacy, but it hasn't really diminished much. 

I was talking with one of my very limited number of friends the other night about what made art important.  My claim, as it has always has been, was that its importance lies in the fact that is has no meaning outside of itself.  Trying to sell it by applauding its relevance to other aspects of life and education is to me to diminish what ought to be its shining contribution to mankind....its utter meaninglessness.