Real Art

Art is Dead

“What do you see? Do you see an installation? Is that what’s written on your flier? You have the right to call it that, just as you have the right to be wrong. This is my practice. My practice explores reluctance in the process of decision-making. See the object and observe that it is neither the object of objecthood nor the object presently presenting itself as the code art-object. What you see is merely the object of my intentions, but how could you ever possibly comprehend that?”

            The object of intentions in question is a broken broom handle puncturing a sheet of graph paper. The fractured stick punctures the paper, implanting it into the wall. On the bottom right-hand corner of the paper is the word what scratched out, replaced by the word why.

            “These sculptures represent the sensation of nihilation, the phenomenon of non-being felt by those who feel being while being observed by those who cannot distinguish being from non-being. Art represents the void of nihilation by letting the viewer know how it feels to be viewed by those who cannot.”

            This work consists of a series of rocks of various sizes placed atop one another. On the topmost rocks, googly eyes have been attached, and blindfolds have been placed over them.

            The next piece doesn't have the artist to provide commentary on the intentions behind the work. Merely, a nude man of average build and appearance sits on a stool. His eyes are wide open. Those in attendance think perhaps the artist is the object and, like those street performers who paint themselves up in gold or chrome can stay in one position for hours, this artist is attempting the same thing here.

            “How trite,” says one of the observers.

            “I guess they’ll just put anything in here and call it art.”

            Among them, one considers defending the piece, scouring the recesses of her brain to find a suitable comparison, even if it is only faint flattery, but she comes up empty. They stare at it just to say they didn't overlook a single object in the gallery and move on, only to be stopped in their tracks by a ghastly squeal.

            A woman is screaming bloody murder after a security guard has entered to take a look at the piece. The security guard touches the naked man, only for his head to fall off. The body tilts to the side, and the torso falls off next, leaving only the bare legs and bottom still seated on the stool.

Seirbheis Phoilis na h-Alba arrive on the scene— a constable and his sergeant. The body is relatively fresh. It had been placed there during the night, and whoever did it managed the operation without setting off any alarms or leaving any signs of breaking and entering. The perpetrator positioned the body in such a way that it'd remain stable so long as it wasn't moved or touched after being placed in its seated position. The constable and sergeant prove unnecessary in identifying the body, as gallery curator Collin MacFadden recognizes the mutilated corpse right away.

“Oh Jesus, it’s only bloody Graham,” he says.

“Who’s that then?” asks Sergeant MacIntyre.

“If you’ll allow me to speak ill of the dead, he was a right twat, but he was one of the best artists our gallery has ever worked with,” says Collin.

“Would you say then, the deceased being as you described and all, someone may have disliked him enough to kill him?”

“Oh, plenty disliked him enough to kill him. That doesn’t narrow it down much. It could have been anyone,” says Collin.

But it couldn't have been anyone. The Artist was right there, watching the constables waste their time looking for evidence that would never lead them to anything. The Artist wasn't surprised when the media didn't show any of the imagery, but he still reserved the right to be annoyed. People would forget about the installation within a week of the next news cycle. The next piece he'd have to present in such a way it'd be impossible for the public to ignore.

Worse than not showing his work on the telly, the reporters were playing at make-believe and throwing wild guesses around as to the motive. The Artist had no motive beyond enjoying the shape of Graham's neck and head and the desire to push the boundaries of art. With others, the cuts would have required more work and, therefore, been rather time-consuming. Graham's body was as close to perfect as the model the Artist had created in his early sketches. Perhaps the next installation would have to be someone of a higher standing. The piece revolving around Graham, titled "Heads, shoulders, knees, and toes", was never actually meant to be the Artist's first installation; the first installation is something that had been brewing within him for years now, but he knew the effort and time might also mean it'd be his last installation, so he chose Graham to get the art out of his system. At the same time, he pondered on how to approach the actual piece of his ambition. That's just the way things go with art. Whether they be filmmakers, novelists, or what have you, they will inevitably have to put their original ambition on hold while they toy around and experiment with less taxing things first to get their beaks wet.

All Kenny wants to do is grab a nosh, but some twats decided to put up a bloody tarp in the middle of Buchanan Street, forcing all foot traffic to traverse around the tarp in a tight corridor. On a good day, walking through Buchanan Street was like crossing a minefield, but now it's as if the mines are magnetized and directly seeking each other out. If he ever found the villain who set up the damn tarp…

Kenny was unable to fully enjoy his nosh, still thinking about the bastard who blocked the footpath with his tarp. He was mostly over it after getting pissed with his mates. He loves stumbling home at night after getting pissed. Especially when the air is cool, and he can hear the voices of people enjoying the nightlife. Despite occasional blacking out, he knows he'll always make it home. All he has to do is go straight except at the bloody tarp. Instinctually, he moves to the right to avoid the tarp, but the tarp is gone. He's ready to move on with his life, but he looks up.

            “Bloody hell, am I at fucking Epcot Center?” he rubs his eyes.

            Some dork has set up one of those whatchamacallits? An animatronic?  It's some guy suspended by strings like a goofy marionette, but rather than just dangle over the pavement; his body pulls apart and then contracts, reassembling. It's like an accordion but made from a puppet man. The body pulls apart layer by layer, skin coming off to reveal muscle, flesh, and bones coming apart to reveal organs, and then being put back together. Bloody hell, it's bloody disgusting. Did they really have to add all the organs and innards to this muppet? And what's that smell? People start screaming. Also, isn't that, blimey, who is that, it's only bloody—

“Collin MacFadden,” says Sergeant MacIntyre, looking at the suspended body expanding to reveal the innards and contracting to become whole again.

            “Who’s that then?” says Constable Thewlis.

            "Get a grip, boy; we only talked to him, not a fortnight past. The bloody curator."

            “Right,” says Thewlis. “Fuck me, think it’s the same bloke?”

            “Hell of a coincidence if it wasn’t. One thing’s for certain, this one will definitely give the wanker the publicity he’s been after.”

The Artist is coming home from an installation. It was in some loft above a pretentious coffee shop. It was one of those exhibits where none of the art displayed on the wall was the actual art. Rather, snippets, frames, or what have you were posted on the wall with brief descriptions and a QR code. To access the true vision of the artist, you scan the QR code, and it shows you the animation in motion. Drivel. Perhaps it's a commentary on how art is becoming commodified and how QR codes are an invasive species changing every aspect of our daily lives, or maybe it really was just drivel.

            The Artist stops at Greggs for a Steak Bake. The cashier has an appealing Adam's apple, though his arm hair is coarse and off-putting. A commotion on the street calls his attention away from his Steak Bake. This happens to several others as they leave their food on the counter and rush outside to see what all the fuss is about.

            Not five metres from where the Artist went public two weeks ago, there is a new art installation. It is simple—the word hello, all in lowercase letters. The long vertical part of the h is comprised of a nude man standing erect, while the curved part of the h is another nude man bent over, touching his toes. That in and of itself isn't so remarkable; what's remarkable is it looks like the two men's bodies have been fused together; there is no indication of where one body begins and the other ends. There are also no apparent incisions or imperfections. Absolutely seamless. The rest of the word is spelled out with nude men, their bodies connected. The craftsmanship is impeccable. Why hello? Was this person talking to the Artist?

The news accredited the piece to the Artist, which greatly upset him. Not because he saw himself as better than the piece; he did not. In fact, he believed himself to be its biggest admirer. But the last thing he wants to do is take credit for another artist's work. Whoever these geniuses were that concluded he had created this message clearly didn't understand the craftsmanship behind it. The Artist considers this: did this other artist intend for this to happen? Are they hoping to see how he reacts? Is it an invitation? A challenge? Yes, that's it, a challenge and an invitation—no more play time.

MacIntyre wakes up every morning with a start, just wondering what horrible grotesquery will be presented to him. He expected to see this kind of thing down there in London or Manchester but not in the civilized north. His appetite for his wife's cooking has diminished of late. Even tomatoes are starting to make him squeamish. Since the hello installation, foot patrols on pedestrian streets have doubled and a constable keeps constant watch at each intersection. Overnight security in museums and shopping centres was doubled, too.

            When MacIntyre arrives on the scene at George Square, he thinks he has sufficiently mentally prepared himself. He hadn't. The newest piece is a rose, nearly perfectly shaped, if not for the fact that each red rose pedal was composed of a skinned torso. The rose stood at about five metres tall, with the stem made of spines stacked on top of one another with intestines wrapped around them. At the base of the stem was the phrase hello to you too written out in bones.

            His suspicions that there is more than one artist at play are met with dismissal by his department. The idea of two wackos running around doing the same thing is too ludicrous for them to entertain. But the idea of one man having enough time and resources to not only commit the murders but carry out the installations without getting caught is what's ludicrous to MacIntyre.

            On his way home, he encounters the ever-troublesome Mr. Waggstaff. A nice enough fellow but dreadfully dull, and if you don't force yourself away, he'll talk you to death and continue long after you're already in the grave.

            "Evening, Mr. Waggstaff," he says, passing by.

            “Evening Sergeant, how are ye?” asks the old man.

            “Just fine, Mr. Waggstaff. Heading home to the missus, she’s getting tea ready.”

            "I hate to trouble ye, Sergeant, I do, but if you can lend your ear for just a minute."

            “What is it then?”

            “I can’t find me Douggie anywhere.”

            “What’s happened then?”

            "Nothing, far as I can tell."

            “Unusual indeed,” says MacIntyre.

            Douggie is the old man’s Bull Terrier, nearly as old as Waggstaff himself, uglier than sin, but a loyal pup. The two are never seen separated.

            “I’ll keep an eye out for your dog, don’t you worry,” says MacIntyre.

            “Bless you, Sergeant, bless you.”

Mrs. MacIntyre is preparing pudding while Mr. MacIntyre flips through the telly. It’s hard to avoid news about all the art going around. He turns the telly off and notices just how quiet it is.

            “What’s wrong with Sampson?” he asks.

            "Nothing's wrong with him; I fed him," she responds from the kitchen.

            "I'm sure you did, love; that's not what I asked. What I mean is, since when is the mutt this quiet?"

"Tonight's guests are two of the foremost art critics not just here in Scotland but in the UK. On my left is Jonathan January, writer for The Guardian, and on my right is Rollo Grande, writer for Vice and podcaster. In the past you two have had strikingly different views on what is and isn't art. Has that changed with the rise in what some are calling Body-horror Art from the artist dubbed The Horror of Glasgow?"

            “I think it’s high time we stopped pretending this Glaswegian enfant terrible was an artist or that what they are producing is art. It’s not art, it’s anti-art, it’s the dark matter of art,” says January.

            “Says the man who admittedly hasn’t looked at a single one of the Horror of Glasgow’s works,” responds Grande.

            "There's nothing to admit. Admit suggests some guilt or shame or secrecy. I freely and proudly give my statement on the matter. Tell me you think Lowry is the epitome of high art without telling me Lowry is the epitome of high art."

"Leave it to Jan over there to make a scathing critique dull. He's as obtuse as the art he claims to tear down as trite. One doesn't have to think art is good for it to be considered good art. We're critics, you know, not philosophers; it's our job to decide what is good and what isn't, not to wax philosophically on the trappings of meaning. You'd think that twenty-five years working for the Guardian you'd have learned some simple definitions by now."

            “I forgot that Vice only exists to promote rubbish like The Horror of Glasgow. You’re the same lot who thought dressing like Neon and Morbius was the epitome of cool and hip back when that film came out,” says January.

            "First off, it's Neo and Morpheus. Secondly, anyone who's anyone would have read our think piece on why The Matrix isn’t only dated but wasn’t even good when it first came out.”

            "Gentlemen," interjects Desmond, the host. But I must interrupt. We have word that commuters on the M8, at almost exactly the midpoint between Glasgow and Edinburgh, have discovered a new piece. I am warning viewers in advance to shut off your televisions if you are easily disturbed."

There is a commotion on the side of the motorway. Cars are backed up as far as the eye can see, but rather than incessant honking and shouting, the scene has an eerie quietness. Everyone is looking in the same direction. The camera crew makes its way through the crowd to get a view of what's grabbed everyone's attention.

            In a flat clearing, perhaps one hundred metres from the road is a sight that isn't quite comprehensible with one glance alone. If looked at with zero scrutiny, an observer would likely assume they were looking at a simple windmill. A windmill ten metres in height and rotating slowly with the breeze. But it isn't the sight that is striking, but the sound it produces. Each time the windmill completes a full rotation, it produces the sound of hundreds of hounds howling in fright. It is the most distressing collection of dog howls anyone has ever heard, but it only lasts a second, cutting through the air like a sharp blade. When it returns on the next rotation, it's just as piercing and spine-tingling. The windmill itself is composed of the bodies of several hundred canines. Just like the sign that said hello made out of human bodies, the bindings between dogs are so seamless it looks like the windmill is made of one solid object with no break in between the several hundred individual canines.

            When investigators reach the scene, they can't ascertain what is making the dead canines howl in unison. Some gadget must have been inserted somewhere inside the mass of bodies that produces the sound, but without cutting the whole thing down, any guess is a needle in a haystack.

            Among the victims are old man Waggstaff's Bull Terrier and Sergeant MacIntyre's beloved mutt. Public opinion starts to shift. Initially, online discourse regarding the Artist (most still thought there to be only one) was entirely possible. People saw it as the first real innovation in art in nearly a century. That all changed once the victims were dogs. Jonathan January, however, watches the footage and states: "Now that's interesting."

The Artist paces the length of his flat, back and forth, zig-zagging, sitting down, only to get up and start the process all over again.

            “This guy is cheating,” he takes a sip of tea. It has no taste.

            He sits down on the couch and flips on the telly. His mind refuses to give him a moment’s rest.

            "On the one hand, I want to respect the guy, but is it that his art is more extraordinary than mine or simply that he has neat tools and technology that allow him to achieve his art? Are those mutually exclusive thoughts? I could do that if I had the technology and all those neat little toys. Oh….what to do? I think I love him. I love that he's better than me, but I'm afraid that if I don't keep working, I'll never see another one of his pieces again. But if I exert myself on something I know will never be as good as anything he produces, I'll go in with low motivation from the outset. Damn it."

For the next several months, everything was quiet. Dogs were kept indoors. Art exhibits closed worldwide. People generally just become far less loquacious. It was so palpable you could feel it in the air. This worked to the Artist's advantage. Rather than rush into it, he spent months planning his next piece. Additional motivation came from the TV segment in which January and Grande compared him to Lowry. That's why the next piece he unveils to the world is an exact replica of Lowry's "The Cripples" using real dead bodies of crippled people and several dead dogs. This work attracted the Artist in particular because he could connect it back to his rival's previous windmill piece with the dogs. The Artist set the diseased cripples in the same position they are in Lowry's painting and placed them outside an abandoned factory in Manchester. Unloading them from the truck didn't take all that long. He had the help of three homeless men to whom he promised thirty quid each. After they helped set up the bodies, he killed them and used them to complete the picture.

            Pleased with his work, the Artist hopes his counterpart responds in kind and uses the opportunity to recreate a famous work in his own fashion—your move.

What the Artist never could have predicted is that his counterpart would be ready with his counterattack in a matter of hours. The piece was discovered by Canadian hikers out in the Cairngorms a few minutes before sunset. It was a moment when what they beheld was so extraordinary they took it for a lie.

            As the Artist predicted and hoped for, the piece was indeed a recreation, this time a replica of the work by Polish artist Zdzslaw Beksinski. As the Polish artist was apt to do, many of his famous works were titled "Untitled". This specific "Untitled" features a haunting, scared/scary humanoid face of greenish/gray pigmentation, skeletal and awful to behold, eyes black holes, with skeletal humanoid insectoid arachnoid hybrid bodies either pouring out of its gaping mouth or climbing into it. It's horrific imagery when viewed in an art gallery or online. In the background are bombed-out buildings, recalling the imagery of Dresden after the firebombing—a truly disgusting specimen. Yet here, in the Scottish Highlands, stood its remake. A remake that stands at 300 metres high, taller than both the world's tallest tree and the Great Pyramid. Its base was twice as wide as that of the Great Pyramid. What those Canadian hikers could not possibly have known when looking at the human bodies used to create this piece was that the Artist (#2) took ten percent of The United Kingdom's population, ten percent of Russia's, ten percent of Japan's, and ten percent of Nigeria's population. 55467000 deceased souls used to make this piece of art. How these countries and those numbers were chosen, nobody will ever know. The piece stood for a long time before anyone dared touch it and attempted to take it apart. For many, it became a religious pilgrimage to visit it and behold the most outstanding work of art ever undertaken on planet Earth.

            On a quiet Sunday morning, only two men stand there, strangers to each other and respecting each other's desire for silence. One of them is the Artist, who long abandoned his pursuit of art and threw out all his equipment. That part of his life was definitively over. The other man is former Sergeant MacIntyre, who quit his job and took to heavy drinking. Nothing made sense to either of them anymore. It was like being born again in a new world where the laws of physics were different, and they had to relearn each and every aspect of life they had previously learned. They stand for hours, nearly shoulder to shoulder with one another, but never opening their mouths. They both think the same thought: Who the hell was I chasing?