To see something as art requires something the eye cannot descry—an atmosphere of artistic theory, a knowledge of the history of art: an artworld.
Art is the kind of thing that depends for its existence upon theories: without theories of art, black paint is just black paint.
It’s been same years since art began. Thousands even. Time flies by so fast. One day you have those awsome cave-wall paintings, next day someone writes about Ulysses who’s lost in Dublin. Also, every now and then there is someone talking about the end of art, claiming that nothing new is possible and that all our creative possibilties are exhausted. Supposedly all is said and done we can go home. Right? Only, there are a few artists lingering on, lonely and jobless. Sitting hopelessly for our viewing instead of their art.
#Marina Abramovic: The Artist Is Present
read on ->
The set of unhappy families would, I suppose, be an example of what Wittgenstein calls a family, since each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way, this not evidently preventing them from each being called an unhappy family. And happy families, being all alike, perhaps compose a class that is closed under
necessary and sufficient conditions.
Malevich perhaps invented monochrome painting, but would have been astonished to be told that his Black Square was not about anything.