Like art, terrible art

“Avant-garde is French for bullshit” – John Lennon

The ground was dirty and covered in slush, the snow that had settled the night before long forgotten. Corridors bustled with aspiring artists and the air was thick with the scent of anxiousness. The hallways were brimming with art, with framed photographs and paintings adorning the beige walls, a checker floor, and round arches reminiscent of Renaissance architecture. Every step felt like a trip through the past, the artworks allowing passing people to soak up the thoughts and emotions of those who’ve set each stepping stone in the World of art. Khali pushed past students as she made her way towards her last class of that day. History of Art. She wasn’t sure if she liked the class or just detested the idea of having to discuss the artistic process of mostly dead people. However, these wrangles about contradictions are portion of what makes the art community alive and active. They contribute to the art world’s continual progress and discovery by reflecting the range of artists’ ideas and experiences. Key word reflecting. “Vincent van Gogh, one of the greatest and most influential artists in the history of Western art, is known for his iconic works such as ‘Starry Night,’ ‘Irises,’ and ‘Sunflowers’. He has left an indelible mark on the progression of modern art. My question for today is, why was Vincent van Gogh considered a failure?” There was silence for a brief moment. “He was insane”. ‘Nice way to start a conversation,’ Khali thought as she watched the person behind the comment. Collin Jenkins was a great artist who mostly painted Baroque, which likely stemmed from his family’s tradition of doing so for hundreds of years. He was fantastic with a brush but terrible at thinking with his brain rather than his tongue. “Please elaborate Mr. Jenkins”. He adjusted himself “Poor lad gave up on his talent and shot himself. Not to mention that he did it while he was on the verge of success”. Vincent was never a particularly great painter because he couldn’t draw in a photorealistic manner, that’s why he left art school to pursue impressionism. Though he joined the movement in Paris way to late, his works eventually got recognition, but he was already dead. Poor lad indeed. Khali stopped listening as more people started joining in on the discussion. How could some people not understand that he wasn’t insane, he was mentally ill. He was depressed. She understood him maybe even more than she wanted to confess. Art had been a constant companion to Khali though she thought hers was different. It was like art, terrible art. Perhaps he felt the same way and needed a way out. It is madness that separates a painter from a true artist. Her art was struggling and so was she. Even though she was the culprit, the weight of perfection was crushing her. Still, she strived to be better even if it meant that it would cost her own life. Khali wanted the world to know about her work, her paintings that had taken so much of her happiness away. She had to understand that art was more than simply a gallery that would be presented in museums across the world every now and then, but rather a discussion between the artist and others who loved art. She went out of class that day with a single thought in her head. Avant-garde.