Art Is Everywhere

I spent most of today learning a new skill. I was attempting an old skill, but realized that to attempt this particular old skill I'd have to learn a new one in the bargain. And I was so intimidated, I almost didn't try.

See, as you know, I'm heading out early Saturday morning to my dear nephew's State Band Festival. Band geek that I am, I shall be sitting on a hard bleacher, probably in the rain, for about 8 hours watching marching bands. And I'll be happy.

But you see, I wanted to be adorned. All the kids in the band have special band t-shirts. And the parents have other band shirts. And I wanted a band shirt for the day. And hey, I'm as talented as the next schlub, right? I outfitted Sherman and Peabody in their lederhosen, and made them German hats, and even made Mr M his official "F.O.P. - Friends of Pods" t-shirt. So why couldn't I just sit down and damn make myself a band shirt, huh? Huh?

And so today on my afternoon off that's exactly what I did. I stole the header image from the Band's website, cropped it down to the school's image, the "G-Star," and had at it. Only, it was very early on that I realized I was going to have to put some text on my image. I mean, the G-Star alone, well, that was just advertising the school; and anyway, you can buy any number and type of GHS items around town. I wanted to be identified as a band geek.

Since I'd never tried this particular trick, I immediately got online and summoned Mr M. I asked him if one could, if one had the desire, put text on an image. He replied that yes, one could, but it was "a pain in the ass." And he offered to do it for me if I'd send him the image, but I told him I'd soldier a bit, but if I got the urge to start throwing things around the room, I'd send it on over.

I experimented. "Pain in the ass?" Well, a little. I had to do and undo for about an hour, but I finally figured it out enough to get an image I kind of liked. Discreet, tasteful - just like the designated wearer. So I sized, flipped, and printed.

Then I began the old skill, the one I was sure I knew so well, so well that I didn't bother reading the instructions that came with the transfer paper, and well, guess what. It didn't work. But the gods must have been smiling upon me, dear readers, because even though it didn't work, it didn't mess up my shirt, either. Which was a good thing, because I only had the one. So I decided to take a rest, watch a little Marcello, and try later after reading the instructions.

Good thing, too. Completely different instructions from the last time I did this. I wasn't supposed to flip the image, and, well, everything was different. Amazing what actually reading the instructions can do for a person. Anyway, after a reprint, recut, and retry, everything came out just fine.

The fruits of my labor are above.

So, it's not art. Or is it? Mr M and I were watching a thing on PBS last night, it was about immigrants, and they interviewed two artists. And that, of course, led to a discussion.

Mr M has very distinct opinions about art, as do I, and they don't always coincide. He says there should be no art galleries; that it separates what is considered "valid" art from what is considered "not valid." Or something like that. I asked him, then, where should the great works of art be displayed? "On the street," he replied, and though something in me liked that reply, I don't envision walking down Spruce Street here in town and happening upon a Van Gogh.

We agreed, however, that artists are amazingly self-absorbed people, and didn't quite make it to the subject of, "Well, what is art, anyway, dammit?" I almost opened that subject up because one of the displays in an above-mentioned artist's show was a toilet door with a man behind it, singing. Now, I have a little trouble appreciating that as art, call me simple, many have. But it got me thinking.

Are my doodles art? Is my silly watercolor portrait of Sherman art? My homemade Barbies? Mr M's Captain Asshole doll? My shirt?

I don't know, but all way the home from Mr M's last night I got to thinking about this little snippet of my trip to Cleveland back during the winter.

I've never told this story before, because it borders on the embarrassing, but I'll impart it upon you now. When we went to the Cleveland Museum of Art, Mr M and I, I was having a ball going through all the rooms and checking out the great works of art through history. The museum has an amazingly vast and enjoyable variety of stuff, and you could probably walk around all day without getting bored.

We finally made our way into the modern art section, and I was enjoying that tremendously, because it's what I like most. I saw some Warhols, Klees, a Chagall or two, a Kandinsky.... But about fifty feet after you entered the huge hall there, and over to the left, there in the middle of the room was a bucket, with a rag in it, and a bright yellow "Caution - Wet Floor" stand. I looked at it, looked away, and looked again. Hmm. Was this a piece in the museum, or was this a bucket with a rag in it and a sign telling me to watch my step?

I discreetly scanned the walls for a plaque. "Wet Floor - Artist Unknown." I never found one.

But to this day, I still don't know if it was some piece of modern art or some piece of unfinished business by the cleaning crew.

Ahh, what the hell. Let's call it art anyway. After all, according to Mr M, if it was in the museum, it was valid.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Well, Mr M has changed jobs again. This time he'll be working in Gaithersburg, MD. He swears he's doing the "there during the week, here on weekends" thing like when he worked in Richmond a couple of years ago. I hope it works that way and is not too long a drive to make every weekend. In any case, I'm without a visit and free coffee on Band nights. That bastard's gonna make me have to buy my own coffee for the trip home!