Degas Fucked

Discussing the deterioration of 'Art', we talked about spray-painted skirts and the inevitable tragedy of the artist that has been exposed to too much- she cannot paint lilly pads without constantly being reminded of that existing complex of canvas and T-shirts that display Monet, he can't spatter paint on a canvas without thinking about Pollock, can't take a shit on a canvas without thinking about Ofili.

It is a concept that lacks a contemporary and succint phrase to describe it. A concept that is difficult to conceptualize since art has always historically evolved off of other ideas and technology. Talent borrows, genius robs, goes the old saying.

It's the condition I hope we all find ourselves in some day: when the consumers of this suburban swamp lay down their credit cards and take up brushes or pencils whatever to create- create goddamnit!- only to be confronted with two entirely new and unexpected challenges: creating something that's original, and creating something that doesn't suck. Most people have discovered that it doesn't matter, of course, in that a lucrative enough trade can be designed in sticking to the formula ( how many action movies involve a kidnapped damsel in distress and a final showdown between the hero and Numero-uno Bad Guy, who can always put up more of a fight than the cannon fodder the protagonist spent the last hour-and-a-half mowing down by the dozens, the fact that they can't act occluded by the ubiquitous presence of sunglasses or masks?) or, with the right title and marketing, be profitable without any sense of craft whatever (The Devil wears Prada, a bestseller?). But the stubborn few, who insist on originality, strive for accessibility and work to render some societal aspect into a way that creates a new outlook on the issue, get mad props from me. They exist in the millions, and of those millions thousands are good enough to accomplish the kind of art that we're talking about here, and of those thousands only a few hundred will have the drive, perseverance, dedication, and luck to make it.

But, as we were discussing last night over a nickel's worth, no matter what kind of artist you were you'd inevitably find yourself confronted with the reality that you were doing something that had already been done before. A thought which could be as debilitating and deadly to the creative process as Writer's Block or sitcom Television.

High Note said: "Any artist that wants to paint ballerinas is going to be thinking about all the hundreds of paintings that Degas did, for example. Everybody that sees this new artist's paintings instantly compares it to Degas' works."

"All they want to do is make Art but they find themselves in a bind," I agreed.

"Yep," she said, "they're fucked."

"Yeah," I replied," Degas Fucked." As soon as it was said the room got quiet as we realized the enormity of what we had just stumbled upon. The kind of obscenely useful concept neatly compartmentalized into too words. It's sweeping the nation right now so get in on it while you can.

Use it in conversation when discussing the latest reality show on TV, write it into your next review of that postmodern, all-male cast production of Romeo & Juliet you saw, mention it when the next big European D. J. comes to your town's hottest night club to spin tracks for a night.

Every new James Bond that gets stacked up against Sean Connery is Degas Fucked. Every quantum physicist attempting to solve the sub-atomic riddles posed by Einstein is Degas Fucked.

Everybody trying to achieve recognition for genius above and beyond their predecessors before them is fucked... Degas Fucked!