that's mrs. mediocrity to you

tries her hand

at abstract

art.

::

This is a story of art vs. artist, forgiveness vs. accountability.

I don’t usually talk about things like this here, but I am so angry that I have to get it off my chest. I have to rant. And I’m interested to see what you have to say about it.

Yesterday I received a letter from the local art gallery, the big, institutional, owned by a large university art gallery. I received the letter because I am a member. This is the gallery that hosts the biggest/best art festival of the year, in which I participate.

The letter was sent as an explanation for the fact that the gallery is installing the work of Tom Otterness in its latest large project, an outdoor sculpture park. The letter was not sent as an apology, only as an explanation for their decision.

But now, in case you have no idea who Tom Otterness is or why they need to send such a letter, let me stop right here and explain.

He is, according to the letter, “one of the notable sculptors of public art in America and abroad.” He is “internationally renowned.” He is “an artist who is probably the most responsive to community of any artist in America.”

He is also a dog murderer.

Before he was all of those other things, back when he was 25, Tom Otterness made a plan and went to an animal shelter, adopted a dog, tied it to a fence so there was no chance of escape, shot it, and then filmed it as it died. He called this an art film.

I’ll just let that sink in for a moment.

… … …

This all came out a few years back, after he was already famous and celebrated and “renowned” for his cutesy, whimsical work. Which in my opinion, is the most twisted thing of all.

When it came out, and people started to protest the very large sums of public money he was being paid for his art, this is the apology he offered:

“Thirty years ago when I was 25 years old, I made a film in which I shot a dog. It was an indefensible act that I am deeply sorry for. Many of us have experienced profound emotional turmoil and despair. Few have made the mistake I made. I hope people can find it in their hearts to forgive me — Tom Otterness.”

And I should add that as far as I can find out, he has made no attempt to do anything beyond that to show the sincerity of his regret. Many people have stated that the least he could or should do is donate a large portion of the huge commissions he makes to animal shelters. It wouldn’t in any way erase what he did, but at the very least he could put his money where his mouth is.

The letter I received goes on to state that the gallery feels it would be unfair to hold this act (which is described almost as the prank of a foolish youth) against him after a lifetime of (what they consider to be) important work.

I don’t think it is fair to call an act like that a “mistake.” It was quite intentional.

I am angry. Appalled. Disheartened.

… … …

I recently (before this happened) had a conversation with my son about art vs. artist, we were actually talking about Hemingway, and how so many people don’t really like who he was as a person, and whether or not that affects the way they do or do not appreciate his art. And whether or not that should or should not be the case.

Does an artist’s work stand separate from who he is and what he does as a person? In general, it’s a tough question to answer. In the case of Tom Otterness, for me, it turns his work into a sham.

I don’t see sweet and whimsical, fun, family-oriented art. I see a dog, who must have been inwardly jumping for joy to know that he had been rescued from a shelter, being led to a fence and tied in place to prepare for what can only be called an execution. A worse death than the one he had been rescued from.

I cannot reconcile this image with the cutesy work I see. The bloodstains taint my vision.

… … …

And then we get to the part about forgiveness, which raises the question of what should or should not be, can or cannot be, forgiven. I don’t have the answer for that one.

Does one heinous act make you a horrible person forever?

Is it possible to atone for such an act?

Who gets to decide?

For that part of this story, ultimately I can only live with the questions.

… … …

But I can draw the line about whether or not I think his work should continued to be installed in public parks and places aimed mainly at children.

That just feels evil to me.

… … …

… … …

… … …

Note: after reading some of your thoughtful comments I wanted to add here that as far as I am concerned, my forgiveness of him matters not. My thinking out loud on this is aimed more to the question of whether or not society as a whole should forgive him, or others like him. And beyond that, even if we do forgive them, should we continue to reward them in the form of large amounts of money? Where do we draw the line? Food for thought…

This is the place I keep coming back to.

The first time was over 20 years ago, I drove to the Adirondacks alone with my notebooks and a weekend’s worth of soup and the vintage men’s overcoat that I practically lived in at the time. I rented the tiniest cabin available, and I only left once to drive up through the mountains, listening to Cowboy Junkies and Tom Petty and Bob Dylan as I went. I drove for hours and saw sights I have never forgotten.

The rest of the weekend I spent at a table in front of the wood stove, writing poetry and eating soup and perhaps, for a while, pretending that I actually was the writer I had always imagined myself to be. I was quite young, already a mother, already on my way to the end of my first marriage. In many ways, I was lost.

But I found myself here, several hundred miles away from home, up in these hills, found a place to leave my heart, nestled in the crook of an old pine tree, a place where it would always be whole and safe. A place where these mountains would always be watching over its beating claim to life.

I’m not sure why I became so attached to this place, why I had such a strong feeling that I belonged. But I did. And it’s that feeling that keeps me coming back. It’s that view and that lake and that call of loon in the earliest morning hours. And those stars at night that shine brighter and longer and seem close enough that you could reach right out and pluck the one you want to wish on from the sky.

Years later, my husband and I came here on our first anniversary, and throughout the years, we brought our children here many times. Now that they are all grown, it is becoming a tradition for us all to make it here for a few days once a year.

There are plenty of other lakes in these mountains, plenty of higher mountains in this park, plenty of sights that are yet to be seen. But this is the place I keep coming back to.

Always, I find my heart again, covered in leaves and bits of moss.

Still beating out its beautiful song.

Here, in this place.

A good deal of the time, I am all over the place, at least inside my head. There is a ticker-tape list of things to be done always circling through my mind. As soon as one thing gets checked off, another takes its place. And then another, and then three more.

Most of the time, that’s where I keep it all, right up there in my head where I can see it, even when I close my eyes.

Some days, though, it all starts to spin out of control, going so fast that I can no longer read the words. Vowels and consonants start to fly out at me in bits and pieces, I will catch a phrase or two if I’m lucky, but for the most part, life is a blur.

I keep going because I must, but I am just feeling my way along, arms stretched out before me, fingers searching. I have lost my insight.

Lost the voice that tells me to take a break and sit in my garden. Or the one that says, “Just breathe.” Or the one that whispers bits of wisdom in my ear.

Sometimes, life is like that. Oh, I wish it were not, but the simple truth of it is that no one ever said it would always be easy. We get spoiled by our own assumptions. We see other people who look like they have it so much better than we do. So much easier.

But if we are paying attention, and sometimes, even if we are not, we will stumble across something that will make us understand that through it all, there is life. That most precious of gifts. The cycles that drag us down can also be the light that lifts us up. Life is always going on.

Leaves sprout, flowers blossom, seeds form and then scatter.

But when that happens, new life begins to grow.

Maybe being scattered isn’t so bad, after all.

::

more wrong than scary

more stupid than wrong

more sad than stupid.

::

has hovered
for days now
shrouding my vision
with arbitrary
thought.

gravity pulls
on the ribbon
of existence,
unties the bow
that makes it
pretty.

i can open
everything
that holds
me

but instead
i leave that box
sitting
on a shelf
in the corner

dust-coated
to prove
i have not
been there.

::

::

::

this post is part of dVerse poets OpenLinkNight join us!

{august break no. 28}

::

we all

have to come in

for a landing.

::

::

not all

empty spaces

are meant

to be

filled.

::

::

that moment

just before you stop

looking forward

and turn

to see

where you

have been

::

::

mostly the self-imposed ones, the ones that keep your feet sunk ankle deep in the mud of doubt, the ones that don’t leave any footprints, so no one else can follow.

or the ones that leave you standing alone in a field full of possibilities with no map, no compass, no food, no water.

they are crafty, these limits, they know how to get their own way, how to trick you into believing the sweet nothings they whisper in your ear, candy-coated barely audible murmurs that later become exactly what they are:

nothing.

they like to build boxes up around you of wood and of steel, then marry you to your fear and give you pretty wrapped packages filled with nothing but questions. always, the questions.

i’ve been living the questions for so long that i’ve forgotten why
i need to know the answers.

this is not despair, it’s a realization. i prefer that to despair, which feeds on itself like a morbid cannibal. there is never too much, there is always enough. no limits, there.

i choose instead to understand my limits, but not to accept them.
i refuse to open the package with the tag that says you cannot, or the one that says you will fall, or even the one that says perhaps.

i kick them all into the corner and watch as they mingle with themselves, a bit of dust, and notes from a girl who once believed those phrases of fear.

there is, however, one package left on the table, with a tag that says tomorrow.

but i’m not going to open that one, either.

at least not until it gets here.