by Donald Margulies
JONATHAN WAXMAN, forty, is a painter, a rising star in the art world getting his first career retrospective in a London gallery. Here he speaks with GRETE, a German interviewer.
Scene
The art gallery in London where Jonathan’s paintings are being exhibited.
Time
The present.
JONATHAN
The little old lady who paints flowers and pussycats at the YMCA—and dazzles her friends, I’m sure—I mean, does that little old lady make good art? I mean, why not? Her cat looks just like that. I’m not putting her down; I think it’s great she’s got a hobby. But is what she does good art? See, most people . . . I remember, years ago, the big van Gogh show at the Met? In New York? The place was packed. Like Yankee Stadium. Buses emptied out from all over; Jersey, Westchester. All kinds of people. The masses. Average middle-class people. Like they were coming into the city for a matinee and lunch at Mama Leone’s. Only this was Art. Art with a capital A had come to the shopping mall generation and Vincent was the chosen icon. Now, I have nothing against van Gogh. Better him than people lining up to see the kids with the big eyes. But as I braved that exhibit—and it was rough going, believe me—I couldn’t help but think of Kirk Douglas. Kirk Douglas should have gotten a cut of the house. See, there’s Hollywood packaging of the artist that gets me. The packaging of the mystique. Poor, tragic Vincent: he cuts off his ear ’cause he was so misunderstood but still he painted all these pretty pictures. So ten bodies deep they lined up in front of the paintings. More out of solidarity for Vincent (or Kirk) than out of any kind of love or passion for “good art.” Hell, some art lovers were in such a hurry to get to the postcards and prints and souvenir placemats, they strode past the paintings and skipped the show entirely! Who can blame them? You couldn’t experience the paintings anyway, not like that. You couldn’t see anything. The art was just a backdrop for the real show that was happening. In the gift shop!
I mean, what is this thing called art? Why have people historically drunk themselves to death over the creation of it, or been thrown in jail, or whatever? I mean, how does it serve the masses? Can it serve the—I ask myself these questions all the time. Every painting I do is another attempt to come up with some answers. The people who crowded the Met to look at sunflowers, I mean, why did they? ’Cause they thought they should. ’Cause they thought they were somehow enriching their lives. Why? ’Cause the media told them so!