Well hello there,
While traveling to Washington DC this past weekend to visit friends, I listened to a podcast about curating one’s individual taste. In it, Kyle Chayka described the ways in which our taste, as a culture, is becoming increasingly homogeneous. We watch the same television and film, eat the same food, and can find the same coffee shop — you know, the local, hipster one with Scandinavian furniture, plants, shiny espresso machines, and ceramic mugs — just about anywhere in the world. The podcast forced me to consider the ways I consume art and how deep I am willing to explore before casting my opinion.
Mostly, we consume newness through data, the more popular, the more press, the more willing we are as an audience to try it. Art platforms are increasingly being designed this way. Netflix’s home page details the most popular television shows and movies in both the US and around the world. On Spotify, metrics for a song on an artist’s page are ranked by popularity, the number of streams written in real-time next to the song title. But why? Why do I, when stumbling upon a new musician, click their most popular song first? Why do I presuppose what others are watching will also be worth my time? When did I create a link between popularity and goodness?
Throughout the weekend, my friends and I visited several art spaces, DC being particularly special for its widespread free art. While walking through galleries and gazing at art across many mediums, I challenged myself to do one simple thing: refuse the small plaque at the piece’s corner which describes the artist, year, and materiality of the piece. A simple challenge, one might think, but one that left me wondering how to even understand what I was seeing.
So much of art is built on who it was created by. Rightfully so, in many respects, but in others, I fear my relationship with art is one wherein the art is secondary to its artist. Why is it that my pulse increases and I give more time to a piece knowing it is a Monet or a Picasso, whereas one created by an artist I have not heard of is not given as much space? Why, again, are popularity and prestige inherently linked to worthiness? Why is it that masterpieces at auction are brought to the stage in complete silence, yet when the gavel hits the wood and the final price is announced, the audience roars in applause? When did we begin to value exclusivity over art?
So I didn’t look. It was not always easy, and in fairness, I sometimes failed – my eyes being trained to find the plaque almost subconsciously. I spent more time with paintings and sketches I would have otherwise walked away from. I let the art dictate my emotions and structure my perspective, not knowing who, how, or when the piece was created. It was hard, it felt unfinished, but in truth, it felt very much like my very first time looking at art.
My eyes followed the thick and meticulously crafted paint strokes over the curves of flower petals and ocean tides. I saw people painted in the foreground and created stories of who they might be. I felt sand beneath my toes and heard the birds chirping on the tree branches as I let the painting’s world consume my own just for a moment. And before walking away, I would glance down at the card. In surprise, I would read a name I had never read before, write it down, and walk away. As I did, I hoped that one day I would take the time to look them up and learn about who they were, what they ate, and how they lived, small steps towards building a taste I can call my own.
My current affections include Joan Didion’s The White Album, Andrew Holleran’s Dancer From The Dance, Anne Carson’s The Autobiography of Red, and Anne Patchett’s Tom Lake. Making new friends at midnight, giggling in the last row at musicals, late afternoon naps, and sunglasses as a headband. “19th Hour” by Griff, “Jericho Beach” by Tommy Lefroy, and Ezra Klein’s New York Times Podcast “How to Discover Your Own Taste.” Whiskey highballs and miso ramen, mushroom chocolate, and unscented hand lotion. Good morning texts, goodnight hugs, my silver studded derbys with baggy jeans, and Ryan Beatty, Ryan Beatty, oh please more Ryan Beatty.
That is all for now.
Until soon,
C
xx
