Gimme That Old Time Religion...

By Amanda Manitach

Art won’t save you. Or maybe it will—if it comes in the shape and size of a life raft or airbag or something.

I was sitting on a panel the other day along with a bunch of local luminaries to discuss DIY spaces in Seattle and how we can diversify audience accessibility to the arts. The discussion turned down a single track: how museums can make art accessible to the underprivileged and those without access to art education. The panel moderator/museum professional began, "I want everyone to answer the question, Who are museums not for?"

My skin started to crawl as the language of this spirited conversation turned increasingly evangelical. How can we convince people that they need art? How can we get ahold of children while they're still young? Art can save! was the energy exuded throughout the room.

I grew up in church. My dad is still the pastor of a small, evangelical congregation in Texas. "Evangelical" means it was a main objective of the church to tell people about Jesus and proselytize, convert them, make them agree to see things our way. To this end, it was paramount to get people through the doors and into church pews.

On the evangelical tip, the art conversation turned to full-blown testimonies about how art saved the lives of the curators, arts professionals and enthusiasts present. The resounding message was that we need to get people to museums otherwise art can’t save them.

But what does it save them from? The ghetto? The soup line? Suicide? Normalcy? Having kids in the 'burbs? A job in tech? A life bereft of artful contemplation and expression?

Art doesn’t save anyone. Art can be a platform.  Art can be community. Art can be therapy, agitprop, a James Franco selfie, a backdrop to your avant garde yoga sesh, the premise of your very long hiking trip. Art is the ultimate plastic thing. Art is the ultimate ideological slut. But art is not going to climb up on a cross and die for your sins. Art will not feed the hungry or clean contaminated drinking water.  

When I was interviewing documentary filmmakers in Seattle a few weeks ago, one thing every filmmaker inevitably addressed is the problem of distribution. Some saw it as an Achilles' heel and ethical gray area for many independent, issues-based documentary filmmakers who dump years of their lives and tens of thousands of dollars into manufacturing messages for social change that are subsequently never seen. The intention is noble, but if activism really lies at the heart of a project, wouldn't resources be better spent elsewhere? At the panel discussion, skeptics brought up cost-benefit analysis. Cost-benefit analysis of an art project that also doubles as an impetus for social reform is often skipped.

I experienced a similarly willful blind eye when working with missionaries and humanitarian organizations. Back in the day when I was a globetrotting evangelist, middle-class white folks would routinely raise three or four thousand dollars to fly to developing countries to teach locals how to construct, say, a basic water filtration device from cement and gravel. These filters would ostensibly contribute to the collective health of the village, even if locals didn’t understand the basic principles of cleanliness. It was a feel-good leisure sport for people whose water at home flowed through the slender necks of Kohler faucets.

I wonder if the art world risks dipping too deep into such humanitarian fantasies. Are its salvation narratives justified? 

When an artist submits a proposal for funding or a grant, there’s usually an opportunity for the artist to explain how the project will provide some sort of benefit or service to the community. The desire for art to serve a greater social or educational cause (or at least present the appearance that it does) pervades, partly because taxpayer-funded organizations that disperse money to artists must continually justify their existence by proving that money is going to something greater than no-strings-attached art. Because God forbid cultural production exist for its own sake or as an exploration of pure, human creativity and curiosity.

Relational aesthetics (or social practice) has emerged in recent decades as one way to inject ivory tower-bound art practice with a sense of relevance. It does so specifically with a framework of good old-fashioned conversation, shared meals, walks, etc. This line of thinking, which shoehorns the ritual and economy of everyday interactions into highfalutin practice, isn’t much different from the museum professional appropriating salvation narratives to imbue her institution with meaning. Such slopes are slippery. 

Last week I was with an artist who blurted, “Social practice is abuse.” He wasn’t being ironic. “Social practice, bottom line, is using people as your dummies. It’s an artist exploiting free labor to express his or her ideas.” The artist had just returned from Portland, where Portland State University offers an MFA in Art and Social Practice and practitioners of relational aesthetics abound.

“Relational aesthetic practice is only accessible to people who can speak the language. It’s preaching to the choir,” he went on. This artist is not white and grew up picture-perfectly underprivileged, but his critique of contemporary art practice and the politics of race is nuanced and threaded through with art-world dialect. He is successful because he knows how to preach to the choir in his own way.

"The middle class doesn't need art,” he said. “Art comes from privilege. Art costs so much to make: That is also a privilege. The people in high-ranking positions in institutions are privileged, no matter their background or race. Without exception they have multiple degrees from prestigious schools and they perpetuate that cycle of privilege, despite their intentions.” 

I wouldn't go so far as to wipe art from the middle class, but his comment transported me to the panel of perplexed art professionals. I wonder at what point art stops helping people and just uses them—and if we can even tell the difference anymore. Of course, as with all things, it's complicated. Maybe the only way to conclude is to invite members of the audience to step forward and give their testimony.

http://www.cityartsonline.com/articles/gimme-old-time-religion