books = art

A close-up photo of a fountain pen nib partway through writing on lined paper with black ink..

I just read a post on That Subscription Site Full of Fash (not linking to it, see under Full of Fash), where the writer argued that writing isn’t art because we sell it like a commodity.

I’m sorry, what?

Books (e-books & print) are reproductions of a larger piece of art. Saying books aren’t art is like saying a lithographic print isn’t art. Just because it can be replicated and sold in small, affordable versions doesn’t lessen its artistry. The original art – the carved plate – will never be seen by the public, just like a manuscript will never be seen by the public.

The art of a book is in its totality, from the first draft to the cover design to the font choice. Art isn’t special and should not be treated like some far away thing that only clever people do while us plebian slobs consume it. Art is everywhere, everyone can be an artist, and getting over the Big-A art concept is important to undo this idea of virtuous consumption that comes with it, this idea that calling it Big-A Art elevates it above our mortal plane. I would argue that selling things at a price only wealthy people can afford is a moral failure. You’re catering to the literal worst people on earth. Anyone who can drop a million bucks on a single piece of art? Must be nice, now fund a library or go away.

Sorrynotsorry but if you sell it, it’s a commodity. Big, expensive art that exists as a singular piece is still a fucking commodity. You expect money for it. You didn’t do it for fun or for your mom but to sell. It’s art but it’s still a commodity.

I am an artist.

This is not up for debate.

Thank you for your attention.

Clever Soup

Alphabet pasta letters in a spoon spell out "SOS"

A holodeck and a human actor: a best-case scenario for AI filmmaking. Human actors reacting in human ways to whatever scenario the filmmaker invents, which is not much different from what goes on now.

The thing is, you can’t fake human, and maybe it’s not worth trying.  Everything else in filmmaking—sets, props, locations, eldritch horrors—can be represented artistically and therefore generated with digital imaging.  It’s the people you can’t fake.

Consider: we pay people to do nothing but be good at emoting.  Certain people emote i.e. act more skillfully than others, and we make them millionaires and give them gold statues and big parties and all our attention.  One individual, idiosyncratic human with their asymmetrical face and personality quirks and gut biome, singular among all other humans currently alive, can win the hearts of millions.  You’re telling me a calculator (which is what a computer is, writ large) is going to be able to fake that any time soon?

AI research has over the years taken up billions of dollars, and we’re still nowhere near faking people.  Maybe it can’t be done.  A computer as intricately modeled as the human brain might need to be either the size of a mountain or be an actual biological brain, grown in situ.

We are clever soup.  But we are like nothing else.  We’re cheap to make, easy to teach, endlessly inventive.  Why bother trying to mechanically replicate what’s already so abundant?

No flash photography

Banksy is one of the greatest living artists.   Because we don’t know if anything he’s ever told us is true. 

Even when he says he’s telling the truth.  Particularly when he says he is, as in his film Exit Through the Gift Shop.  Tracing Banksy’s often reluctant involvement in the abrupt rise and fall of another street artist, the film is either a shocking record of true life, or a sublime fake.

We don’t know.

That’s the art. 

Not the spray paint, not the ruined theme parks, but the very inscrutability of the artist’s existence. The art is in the fact that we will carve out of our very walls a rock he is said to have touched and hang the rock on an art gallery wall then charge other people money to view it.  The art is the news story about the painting which shredded itself the moment it was sold. 

He is invisible, criminal, liminal.  We might never see his face.  That is his art, and our psychology is his canvas. 

photos by Lewis Roberts / Robin Wersich / Cole Patrick on Unsplash / treatment by The Fixer

The chipped stone wall of an insurance firm’s downtown office, the alley which never sees sun, the corner of the underground parking garage where a drift of dead leaves has gathered: this is the mental state of so many of us.  Waiting for the unknown to express itself upon us. 

A vivid red balloon, a bunch of flowers, a rat with a felt-tipped pen scrawling a name, any name.

Making something from nothing. 

Making us into art.