Abstract art’s a tricky one. People who don’t get it discount it on account of it looking like something they could’ve done one afternoon whilst watching Bold & the Beautiful. Everyone who does “get it” seems to do so in order to appear superior to all those that don’t. Kind of like claiming to understand a language that all the “basics” haven’t managed or cared to learn.
I think that’s crap.
I’ve always been a huge fan of abstract art, more so as I get older. Twentieth century greats like Cy Twombly, Willam de Kooning, Franz Kline and Mark Rothko, have always hit me right in the feels.
And the idea that only those that “speak it’s language” can really derive any pleasure and satisfaction out of it seems ludicrous to me. I’ve always thought that abstract art is the easiest to respond to as a viewer, because it doesn’t require you to make any rational or logical deductions. You don’t have to “see a sunset” or “spot the ocean”. You can respond viscerally. With feelings and emotional reactions that are completely unencumbered by subject matter or content. They’re raw. And I think they’re more reflective of both the artist and the audience than a figurative portrait could ever be.
I’ve been feeling messy. But in sort of a soft, pink, fairy floss kinda way. The air has been thick and sweet, like treacle, and for the first time I’ve started to find lightness in the unbearable weight of being. I picked up my paint brush and started a study for a large scale abstract piece (see feature image).
And whether you get it, or not, is really of no consequence. To quote the great Freddie Mercury, “…I say what any decent poet would say if you dared ask him to analyse his work: if you see it, darling, then it’s there.”