I always colored within the lines as a child, and my Play-Doh creations were so abstract at times I should have cut my left ear off and been committed by the age of 5.
But I've never really been an artist.
The closest I came to a creating a masterpiece was a mountain scene I sketched once on a Magna Doodle, and the only "blue period" I had was when the 90210 crew graduated from high school.
Still, I'd like to think I know what art is — or at least, what isn't.
Example: Van Gogh's "Starry Night" — art. The schizophrenic scribbling of Ruby, the ex-Phoenix Zoo elephant — not art.
One of Gustav Klimt's colorful, naked bodies painted into a passionate embrace — art. A so-called "abstract" painting of a red square — yeah, not so much.
But that's just me. There will never be, and never should be, a universal standard of art. It should be as interpretable as female beauty and Kevin Spacey's sexuality.
If we did have to follow rules about how to determine what art is, someone would inevitably have to make those rules. And if the government became at all responsible for this task, we would all be staring at paintings of longhorns, execution chairs and Saddam Hussein bulls-eyes by now. But I digress.
Despite my distaste for Southwestern pastel paintings, abstract works I could have done in my fetal years and anything involving bodily functions, we have to look at the intended message of the piece in order to evaluate our own personal affinity for it.
If a statue of the Virgin Mary covered in dog feces is supposed to represent the tainting of religion — OK, I'll give you a few points for symbolism. If you're a freak who likes to see women covered in animal crap — well, you're a freak.
Then again, shouldn't some pieces specifically meant to enrage the public be considered art if they incite thought or emotion? Or is art selfish and inherent only to what the artist wants to convey?
Argh! No wonder most artists end up in the loony bin. And no wonder I never turned into an artist. I have a pathetic attraction to starving artists, and I fell into a trance every time Bob Ross painted his "happy little trees" on PBS, but that's the closest I've come.
But again, I'd like to think that I'm a decent barometer of effective art — except when it comes to graffiti art. The subject of this week's centerpiece, graffiti has my opinion of art on a constant teeter-totter of criticism and praise.
One of our writers, Steve Ganczaruk, followed around a couple of local graffiti artists who've made names for themselves through their tagging and wall-sized murals. [See "War Paint"]
They say they're simply artists who express themselves through spray paint. They deny any gang or criminal affiliation. Merely wanting to be heard, their motto seems to be, "Spray it, don't say it."
At the same time, Ganczaruk went graffiti busting with a Phoenix clean-up crew, intent on destroying what it says are blemishes to the city and violations of the criminal code.
So, who should have more leverage in this situation? Is graffiti really art, and if so, does that make it OK to force it in people's faces by defacing a wall?
I can't say that I admire — or have taken the time to admire — works of art done with spray paint cans. They seemed juvenile and amateur, especially when most graffiti I see is simply scattered on freeway overpasses or scribbled recklessly on a cargo car of a dilapidated train.
But, as you will discover, the real graffiti artists don't fit into this category of unsightly scrawl. Instead, they spend hours on "pieces" — short for their own kind of masterpiece. Even the graffiti version of "SPM" on our cover took more than an hour to create, but the artist was more than willing to show off his stuff and stretch his spray painting skills.
There are a few murals in downtown Phoenix that remain untouched by the Graffiti Busters' buffers, and I have to wonder if it's because they recognize the true artistic value in some of these creations. Maybe not, but I don't think it's a stretch to say that these murals add character to a lifeless city void of much culture.
The graffiti artists might not be hosting extravagant wine-and-cheese galas for their prestigious works of art, but that doesn't mean their talents should go unseen.
But what do I know? I could paint a killer watercolor sunset as a kid, and several of my pieces were on display at the prestige galleria that was our refrigerator door, but that's the closest I'll ever come to being an artist. For now, I'll leave it to the graffiti guys.
Reach the editor at ashlea.deahl@asu.edu.
