MoMA

Courtesy of NYCBlogspot

What has happened to art? Why do we accept Picasso, Van Gogh, and Pollack’s work in galleries and museums? The value and price of art can be incredibly subjective, and walking through the Museum of Modern Art makes that even more apparent. Curators deem whether or not something has artistic value and can potentially resonate with the public. And while it is difficult to define “artistic value,” my waltz through MoMA’s abstract quarters left me disappointed.
When I was in kindergarten, I could have clustered randomized shapes and tracings together to substantiate a childish canvas. Later when I took an art class in high school I was able to define such works with a sophistic purpose. Through some vague pretense the viewer may find meaning in a visual sensation, but I don’t think that alone constitutes artistic value. There were paintings that drew esteem from the simple multitude of their strokes and the depth of their texture, but that is not all that is found in the contours of Pollack’s droplets or corners of Picasso’s cubic distortions; they reveal their creator, whether its their intoxication or their dark and pessimistic take on the world, the works are representations of their artists.
I think that this applies to any art form in general, whether it’s dance, poetry, singing, sculpting, or painting, the work should be able to define the artist.  A lot of the pieces at the museum fit this description. However, there were a few contemporary or controversial pieces that stood out, depicting the artist’s lifestyle and human struggle. George Maciunas’ “One Year” is a breathtaking exception. This is where simplicity, the abstract, and humanity intersect. When I first saw the wall of fever thermometers, Primatene mist, isuprel, imitation rum, cottage cheese, and grand union instant non-fat dry high grade milk I thought I was staring at an archaic supermarket alley. With further observation my eyes caught sight of the adjacent inhalers, and the products project a picture of a fragile man who suffered from allergies or disease. I didn’t need to read the curator’s description on the side to decipher the value derived from the piece.
Other works, such as the paintings of Jackson Pollack combine distortion, splatter, and a violent form of canvas abuse.
It is this sort of authenticity that was seldom found in MoMA’s abstract exhibit. There was a canvas covered with three virtually indistinguishable shades of black, separated only by the subtly contours of the brush strokes. Another work was a vertical one-inch narrow canvas painted with one stroke of red over gray straight down. The names of these so-called artists are not worth recalling, and carry little merit if they fail to evoke the persona of their creator.
The curator should pick works that create a composition within the room that has a collective and coherent meaning. When observing many of the works the viewer has to tediously inspect the bold descriptions beside the work that scavenges for purpose. MoMA has much to offer presenting some works that are both personally provocative