II've decided to devote an entire year to exploring the art world, particularly here in St. Louis. Being an artist myself, and coming from another continent, it seemed about time to find out what everyone is doing, what they're talking about, and what the hell is going on.
I'm there to learn. Although, apparently, I also have opinions.
My first adventure was an opening at Square One Gallery.
For the occasion, a beautiful black jumpsuit, a slightly nervous disposition, and a serious, intelligent expression. The last one seemed particularly important.
The gallery was immaculate. White walls, perfect lighting, beautifully arranged paintings, and an atmosphere of considerable sophistication.
Two artists were exhibiting. Jeremy Booth presented bold, colorful scenes of the American West: cowboys, horses, dramatic landscapes, all reduced to clean shapes and striking contrasts. Beautifully executed, although suspiciously reminiscent of vector graphics. Was there something new here, or simply a very accomplished version of something familiar?
Perhaps that was unfair. Perhaps it was jealousy. Both possibilities were irritating.
Catie Cook's paintings offered a different world: Southern elegance, enormous bows, theatrical curtains, Dalmatians, and dead ducks draped against luxurious fabrics. Beautiful, strange, occasionally unsettling. What's not to like about Dalmatians and dead ducks?
Meanwhile, the gallery was filling with beautifully dressed people. Dramatic boots, interesting coats, carefully assembled outfits. Everyone appeared perfectly suited to the occasion, almost as though the visitors had been selected to complement the exhibition.
Looking at the gallery's photographs afterward only reinforced the impression. A cowboy painting between two fashionably dressed women looked suspiciously like a luxury clothing advertisement.
Was the painting the subject, or merely an accessory?
The photograph was rather good, which made the whole thing even more annoying.
Two photographers enthusiastically documented the evening. One photographed a family from every conceivable angle before discovering a man with a service dog. The poor man received so much photographic attention that he broke into a sweat. Apparently, simply attending an exhibition without becoming part of its promotional material was not an option.
Socializing wasn't going particularly well either. Nervousness had reduced my ambitions of meeting interesting people to a single encounter in a narrow hallway. A man made a joke about a bottleneck. The joke went completely over my head. He looked puzzled.
A promising beginning to a sophisticated cultural life.
Eventually, the artists began speaking.
Catie Cook appeared confident and outspoken; Jeremy Booth seemed sweet and perhaps a little uncomfortable with the attention.
There was plenty of discussion about artistic vision, identity, process, courage, and authenticity. Everything sounded thoughtful, polished, and professionally assembled.
And somehow terribly flat.
Where was the excitement? The uncertainty? The occasional embarrassing confession? All that talk about courage, yet nothing particularly daring seemed to happen.
The audience nodded appreciatively. An impressive collective understanding of contemporary art appeared to be taking place.
Or perhaps everyone was as confused as the woman in the black jumpsuit, who nodded and applauded along with the rest.
What struck me most was how everything seemed to belong to the same aesthetic universe. The paintings, the clothes, the photographs, the language, even the audience. Everything beautifully coordinated, as though the entire evening had been art-directed.
When everything is so carefully arranged, where does anything unexpected get a chance to happen?
Perhaps Square One was simply very good at what it does, and what it does wasn't quite what I was looking for.
That doesn't make either of us wrong.
Sometimes a beautiful cowboy is simply a beautiful cowboy.
Still, something felt missing. Perhaps I had expected an ordinary gallery opening to deliver some profound revelation.
Or perhaps it was plain old jealousy, dressed up as artistic criticism.
After an hour, enough culture had been absorbed for one evening.
Back home, while changing out of the beautiful black jumpsuit, one final discovery brought the entire experience into perspective.
The zipper down the back had been open all evening.
