"Painting, the epitome of kitsch amateurism"

There is a daily cultural magazine on Arte TV called "28 minutes" here in France and each day, a panel of intellectuals, cultural "heavy-weights", and others of the ilk discuss a particular topic du jour.  Today, the panel discussed the tired idea of the 15 minutes of fame as "prophetized" by Warhol . . .

The last short presentation of the program was about the paintings done by celebrities.  I was almost certain at that point that it would be about the current show at the LA MoCA of James Franco's work, but instead, another view of painting veered into view.  The host of the show chimed in right at the beginning to say that "of course, they [the celebrities] paint figuratively" and the journalist who was presenting the segment  responded, "yes, of course they are Sunday painters, and I say this without scorn"(said, of course, with disdain despite it all) and followed the rest of the short presentation with examples of celebrity paintings -- a series of  of kitschy landscapes, derivative abstract painting, hollow expressionistic gestures by different actors, singers, etc.

The implications of this segment are manifold but the one I sensed most strongly was the backwash of  the commentary that surrounded a rather banal subject matter. Somehow, one had the sense that painting, especially "figurative" painting, was the real subject of interrogation: is painting by definition retrograde, even kitsch?  In 2012 can any self-described "serious" contemporary artist use the old tired vehicle of figurative oil painting and watercolors and be taken seriously (by us, the panelists on this television show)?

The death of painting is an old and certainly false assertion.  Some in the business of writing about art may have categorically decided that the whole endeavor of painting is so out of touch with contemporary society and avant-garde art.  There is no reason to be too dismayed by such cocktail chatter and gossip as cliquish preferences are of little value anyway.


I recently read a wonderful essay by the French poet and writer Marcelin Pleynet about the character of "monumental" art.  In the text, Pleynet writes that by nature, great art allows us to live outside of the daily chronologies of life and to experience the ecstasy of the "eternal present."  By nature, all great painting escapes the timeline of histories and when one allows oneself to enter into their presence, great paintings always point one to a place outside of the mundane into the plane where one can time and again experience (in French) "la jouissance du présent éternel".  And this explains why one is so enthralled in front of great painting, it transports each of us elsewhere, into our own constructed sublime.  

Painting and poetry live on the same plane, they are of no apparent utilitarian use and society have no need of them.  They function as doors to that which is outside of us.  Like religion in the best sense of the word, they search to reach the the eternal present of those of us who are living, where life and death really end up becoming one moment.  As such, painting exists on the plane of ideas, of notions, of reflection, it cannot die.