art: is it for everybody?
By Taylor Stefanko
I grew up surrounded by art. My pap was a commercial artist and my grandmother was excellent at sewing, baking, and gardening. It seems as if each of their children and grandchildren have been granted an artistic ability or at least some creative intent.
Each Tuesday during summer break, my four cousins, my brother, and I would gather at my grandparents’ house for a new project to work on. We created all sorts of projects from wind chimes to Indian headdresses to sculptures of clay and more. While we crafted with my pap, my gram taught us other hobbies, like sewing, baking and knitting.
The summers I spent at my grandparents’ house were some of the best summers of my life. Not only did we get to create things ourselves, but their house was also covered in my pap’s artwork. Throughout my life, I have compared many works of art to the things that my pap has made. Art today is becoming much more strange than the art I grew up with. Because of the creativity and beauty I was exposed to as a child, it has been hard for me to appreciate some of the works I have seen through the years that seem unimaginative and odd to me.
One of my favorite pieces that my pap made was a large silkscreen print titled, “Garden of Eden.” It was an abstract print of Eve’s hand reaching up to pick the forbidden fruit, while the serpent watched. I have never felt a strong connection to religious matters, so the biblical content was not what I was truly interested in.
What I loved so much about this print was that it was just absolutely amazing to me how much detail was put into it. The patterns in the tree and on the serpent were so beautiful. I loved the distribution of color as well. While the tree and the snake in the foreground were colored, the background remained grey. I actually made it a point to go into my grandparents’ room once every so often if only for a couple seconds just to take a look at the print.
I will never forget my favorite spot in the world, my pap’s workshop. My grandparents lived in a large two-story house that was on a spacious plot of land. Farther back near the woods was a workshop that my pap had built. It was a large, rustic building consisting of two floors and a balcony. On the first floor, he kept most of his machines, tools, wood, and more. It resembled a high school woodshop class, but slightly more dark and cluttered. To the back left there was a small room where my pap stored screws, hinges, and other building materials. Toward the back right, there was a door to the balcony and a dangerously steep ladder that led to the second floor.
The second floor was by far my favorite part of the shop. There were enough musical instruments for an elementary school music class. The instruments included a tuba, a flute, several sets of maracas, a marimba, a clarinet, a xylophone, and more. The room also held a collection of at least 40 pipes sitting in a large bowl; a barber chair; a sarcophagus that my pap had made for a school play (which was actually used in a recent episode of the show, “Treehouse Masters,” called “Temple of Adventure”); bookshelves stocked with hundreds of books on various topics, such as sculpting, drawing, design, Indian heritage, and more; thousands of other knickknacks stored in large glass display cases and sitting on shelves, or just placed wherever on the floor. There was everything from McDonalds toys to seashells found on the beach; and the list goes on. My record collection grew with each "Hungarian Gypsy" record that I acquired when we cleaned the shop out. My pap was basically an artistic hoarder. Not in a bad sense. He just collected items that he saw use for in future projects.
Toward the back corner of the main room of the second floor was an area where two drawing tables were set up facing away from one another. In front of one of the drawing tables was a small antique fireplace that was surrounded by things such as statues of rabbits, animal bones, and dried gourds.
The second floor also included a small separate room that overlooked the front of the shop where you could sit on a bench and look out the window. In addition to that, there was a small closet that looked as if it was intended to become a bathroom. Long windows covered most of the walls of the second floor, allowing light to enter. Though it seemed a bit hectic with all of the knickknacks, it offered a brighter and more pleasant working space than the first floor did.
As organized of a person as I am, it is strange that I loved a place that was the exact opposite. This is the one exception for which a mess didn’t bother me. My pap’s shop was where a crucial part of my childhood took place. It’s the place where I came to love and appreciate art, all while bonding with my family. While the summers with my grandparents have come to an end, my love for art has not.
Last fall, a group of friends and I went to the Pittsburgh Gallery Crawl. At first, this seemed to be something that matched my interests perfectly. I was shocked to find that I did not enjoy that night’s events quite as much as I had hoped. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a fun time with my friends; the problem was that I didn’t understand any of the art I saw that evening.
One of the pieces that I saw that night was a 3D-animated video by Kurt Hentschläger titled, “Hive.” Basically, it was a swirling mass of people-like figures that moved around on the screen for five minutes on repeat. In the background was a low humming sound. At first, it gave an eerie feeling. But not long after that, I realized that I was at an art exhibit staring at a video of a ball of people moving around a screen and that was just odd to me. If I had to estimate the amount of time such a piece would have taken to put together, the answer would seem to amount to no longer than the length of the video itself.
Once we were done at this exhibit, we walked to our next destination. My hopes for something that I could actually appreciate heightened when my friend Alex said that her art professor said that the next exhibit was “very cool.”
We stood in line for entirely too long in a room that was filled with the judging eyes of drunken hipsters until finally it was our turn to enter the room. Inside were four large screens where another video, “Model 5,” played. This video, which was made by the same artist as “Hive,” as well as Ulf Langheinrich, featured Japanese performing artist Akemi Takeya. It was a six-minute video that was supposed to give the viewer a sense of schizophrenia.
What I saw was six minutes of a woman shaking her head, breathing deeply, and screaming. I listened to the conversations around the room, most of which were people trying to convince their friends that they understood the piece to appear artsy. Others, who had more sense, looked at one another and just said, “Well, this is annoying.”
My friends and I did not wind up staying for the entire presentation of “Model 5.” Though we had had enough of it after the first minute, we lasted at least another three before making our exit. What amazed me was how some people were so fascinated by the exhibits that they saw. The exhibits weren’t even close to what I would even consider to be interesting. I have seen art projects hanging in elementary school hallways that were more remarkable than what I saw that evening.
The Pittsburgh Gallery Crawl was not the first time that I have come across weird artwork. Surely most people have heard of the infamous painting, “The Holy Virgin Mary,” by artist Chris Ofili. The painting uses elephant dung and photos of female genitalia to depict the Virgin Mary. Where this idea came from is beyond me – and that’s not just because I have no desire to paint with elephant poop. I just don’t see the reward in offending others.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that such a painting would be an outrage to those of many different religions. Sure, Ofili probably got his moment of fame when his painting became better known for its content, but was it really worth it? Was it truly worth sitting down and painting an obviously distasteful portrait with poop and then sprinkling on photos of the female anatomy for good measure? I don't need to point out the obvious, but it was not worth his time.
I feel that the art movement has taken an odd turn, and this, for me, is unsettling. The art that I know and love resides in the memories that I have about my grandparents’ house and in the days when I just sit around painting or drawing for hours on end. Art is a beautiful thing. There is a fine line between expressing yourself and offending others. Believe it or not, there is also a difference between abstract art and art that you call abstract because you have no other words for what it might be.
I still hold out hope that art will return to a more beautiful presentation. I follow artists whose work I can appreciate. One of these artists will forever be my grandfather. He is an excellent example of what an artist is, and I will never forget how lucky I am to have had him as a teacher through my early years of life.
Read more about Taylor Stefanko on her personal blog.
I grew up surrounded by art. My pap was a commercial artist and my grandmother was excellent at sewing, baking, and gardening. It seems as if each of their children and grandchildren have been granted an artistic ability or at least some creative intent.
Each Tuesday during summer break, my four cousins, my brother, and I would gather at my grandparents’ house for a new project to work on. We created all sorts of projects from wind chimes to Indian headdresses to sculptures of clay and more. While we crafted with my pap, my gram taught us other hobbies, like sewing, baking and knitting.
The summers I spent at my grandparents’ house were some of the best summers of my life. Not only did we get to create things ourselves, but their house was also covered in my pap’s artwork. Throughout my life, I have compared many works of art to the things that my pap has made. Art today is becoming much more strange than the art I grew up with. Because of the creativity and beauty I was exposed to as a child, it has been hard for me to appreciate some of the works I have seen through the years that seem unimaginative and odd to me.
One of my favorite pieces that my pap made was a large silkscreen print titled, “Garden of Eden.” It was an abstract print of Eve’s hand reaching up to pick the forbidden fruit, while the serpent watched. I have never felt a strong connection to religious matters, so the biblical content was not what I was truly interested in.
What I loved so much about this print was that it was just absolutely amazing to me how much detail was put into it. The patterns in the tree and on the serpent were so beautiful. I loved the distribution of color as well. While the tree and the snake in the foreground were colored, the background remained grey. I actually made it a point to go into my grandparents’ room once every so often if only for a couple seconds just to take a look at the print.
I will never forget my favorite spot in the world, my pap’s workshop. My grandparents lived in a large two-story house that was on a spacious plot of land. Farther back near the woods was a workshop that my pap had built. It was a large, rustic building consisting of two floors and a balcony. On the first floor, he kept most of his machines, tools, wood, and more. It resembled a high school woodshop class, but slightly more dark and cluttered. To the back left there was a small room where my pap stored screws, hinges, and other building materials. Toward the back right, there was a door to the balcony and a dangerously steep ladder that led to the second floor.
The second floor was by far my favorite part of the shop. There were enough musical instruments for an elementary school music class. The instruments included a tuba, a flute, several sets of maracas, a marimba, a clarinet, a xylophone, and more. The room also held a collection of at least 40 pipes sitting in a large bowl; a barber chair; a sarcophagus that my pap had made for a school play (which was actually used in a recent episode of the show, “Treehouse Masters,” called “Temple of Adventure”); bookshelves stocked with hundreds of books on various topics, such as sculpting, drawing, design, Indian heritage, and more; thousands of other knickknacks stored in large glass display cases and sitting on shelves, or just placed wherever on the floor. There was everything from McDonalds toys to seashells found on the beach; and the list goes on. My record collection grew with each "Hungarian Gypsy" record that I acquired when we cleaned the shop out. My pap was basically an artistic hoarder. Not in a bad sense. He just collected items that he saw use for in future projects.
Toward the back corner of the main room of the second floor was an area where two drawing tables were set up facing away from one another. In front of one of the drawing tables was a small antique fireplace that was surrounded by things such as statues of rabbits, animal bones, and dried gourds.
The second floor also included a small separate room that overlooked the front of the shop where you could sit on a bench and look out the window. In addition to that, there was a small closet that looked as if it was intended to become a bathroom. Long windows covered most of the walls of the second floor, allowing light to enter. Though it seemed a bit hectic with all of the knickknacks, it offered a brighter and more pleasant working space than the first floor did.
As organized of a person as I am, it is strange that I loved a place that was the exact opposite. This is the one exception for which a mess didn’t bother me. My pap’s shop was where a crucial part of my childhood took place. It’s the place where I came to love and appreciate art, all while bonding with my family. While the summers with my grandparents have come to an end, my love for art has not.
Last fall, a group of friends and I went to the Pittsburgh Gallery Crawl. At first, this seemed to be something that matched my interests perfectly. I was shocked to find that I did not enjoy that night’s events quite as much as I had hoped. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a fun time with my friends; the problem was that I didn’t understand any of the art I saw that evening.
One of the pieces that I saw that night was a 3D-animated video by Kurt Hentschläger titled, “Hive.” Basically, it was a swirling mass of people-like figures that moved around on the screen for five minutes on repeat. In the background was a low humming sound. At first, it gave an eerie feeling. But not long after that, I realized that I was at an art exhibit staring at a video of a ball of people moving around a screen and that was just odd to me. If I had to estimate the amount of time such a piece would have taken to put together, the answer would seem to amount to no longer than the length of the video itself.
Once we were done at this exhibit, we walked to our next destination. My hopes for something that I could actually appreciate heightened when my friend Alex said that her art professor said that the next exhibit was “very cool.”
We stood in line for entirely too long in a room that was filled with the judging eyes of drunken hipsters until finally it was our turn to enter the room. Inside were four large screens where another video, “Model 5,” played. This video, which was made by the same artist as “Hive,” as well as Ulf Langheinrich, featured Japanese performing artist Akemi Takeya. It was a six-minute video that was supposed to give the viewer a sense of schizophrenia.
What I saw was six minutes of a woman shaking her head, breathing deeply, and screaming. I listened to the conversations around the room, most of which were people trying to convince their friends that they understood the piece to appear artsy. Others, who had more sense, looked at one another and just said, “Well, this is annoying.”
My friends and I did not wind up staying for the entire presentation of “Model 5.” Though we had had enough of it after the first minute, we lasted at least another three before making our exit. What amazed me was how some people were so fascinated by the exhibits that they saw. The exhibits weren’t even close to what I would even consider to be interesting. I have seen art projects hanging in elementary school hallways that were more remarkable than what I saw that evening.
The Pittsburgh Gallery Crawl was not the first time that I have come across weird artwork. Surely most people have heard of the infamous painting, “The Holy Virgin Mary,” by artist Chris Ofili. The painting uses elephant dung and photos of female genitalia to depict the Virgin Mary. Where this idea came from is beyond me – and that’s not just because I have no desire to paint with elephant poop. I just don’t see the reward in offending others.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that such a painting would be an outrage to those of many different religions. Sure, Ofili probably got his moment of fame when his painting became better known for its content, but was it really worth it? Was it truly worth sitting down and painting an obviously distasteful portrait with poop and then sprinkling on photos of the female anatomy for good measure? I don't need to point out the obvious, but it was not worth his time.
I feel that the art movement has taken an odd turn, and this, for me, is unsettling. The art that I know and love resides in the memories that I have about my grandparents’ house and in the days when I just sit around painting or drawing for hours on end. Art is a beautiful thing. There is a fine line between expressing yourself and offending others. Believe it or not, there is also a difference between abstract art and art that you call abstract because you have no other words for what it might be.
I still hold out hope that art will return to a more beautiful presentation. I follow artists whose work I can appreciate. One of these artists will forever be my grandfather. He is an excellent example of what an artist is, and I will never forget how lucky I am to have had him as a teacher through my early years of life.
Read more about Taylor Stefanko on her personal blog.