I headed to the Corcoran Gallery of Art today during the late morning and early afternoon. The trip underscored two key elements of my taste in art. They are as follows:
a) I'm tired of people using 11 September 2001 as a springboard for found art. It was a big deal at the time, it's over, and I could easily go another lifetime before having to see this dedication or that dedication to it. It seems like these days any momentous event, no matter what it is gets over-analyzed, parsed, deconstructed, and picked apart to death, rendering us all by the end exhausted with the very idea of it.
Here's the skinny of the exhibit---A female artist had lived next door to the World Trade Center and when towers collapsed, the resulting force blew out her windows, in the process thrusting a collection of discarded papers from offices into her living room. She glued each of them to a large strand of linen which reached from one end of the exhibition room to the other. That was it. I found myself somewhat interested, but much more fascinated by portraits and paintings.
b) I think minimalism is great, until, of course, it isn't. In literature, being deliberately sparse is much more palatable, but as I approach the beginning of the modern era, I find my attention and enthusiasm lessening. With landscapes, in particular, I much prefer the 17th and 18th century varieties to the modern ones, which look so faceless and wholly unremarkable that one wonders why they're not being sold for display to grace the walls of homes instead of housed in a gallery.