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In his time, Oscar-Claude
Monet pulled and pushed at least a hundred, maybe more, men and
women with him as he blazed impressionism across canvas after canvas.
Most of these artists are unknown to us, their ticks and bumps and
quirks long lost save to the historians huddled amongst musty
books, peering through cracked paint.
Towards the end of his life, Monet doubted the appropriateness of the
term impressionism if applied to the works of his contemporaries.
He even questioned the existence of the Impressionist movement, a
movement hailed as the greatest step taken in the Modern Art world.
Today, as we stand before a painting from the movement, we sigh "ahhhh,
impressionism!" We know the style, we know the texture and
colors, the broad gestures of faintest mist. We no more doubt the
existence of impressionism than we doubt our own, standing there.
We do not need to know the artist nor the madness nor lack of funds nor heavenly
genius. The home life, the dress, the lack of love mean little as we
look across a landscape dream. "Ahhh", we sigh, "The
Impressionist!" |
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And so, we think, will become
the same of Outsider Art.
So easy to describe now as the color of madness, the vision of the infirmed
and backwoods, the garish orange of an evening cloud, Outsider Art
evolves continually as it scrapes its way through paint and wood and
canvas.
Pre-occupied now with the artists lives and ticks and
quirks, we think in time the art will overtake its human definition and
become its own, creating from nothing its own sighs and little steps
back. Until then, we offer this simple, effective and open definition...
Outsider Art...Art From Outside The Art World.
Thanks.
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