Robert Rauschenberg, the American artist, died on May 12.
For decades, experts have praised Rauschenberg and his work. Museum curators have worked hard to include his works in their collections. Gallery owners and "tastemakers" have cultivated a market for his work. Corporations have striven to add his works to their collections too. Nicely dressed men and women stand before his works in museums.
The only thing about Rauschenberg is, he couldn't paint. He could nail a mattress to a board and smear it with pigment. He could glue a dead bird to a panel. He follows in a long line of artists - Pollack, DeKooning, Rothko - who couldn't paint either. Their careers and repuations have been constructed by experts and authorities. There are copious writings about these artists - why their work is important, why it is emblematic of the human condition, how it is reflective of our troubled age. Somehow, art has gotten mixed up with psychoanalyis and we are supposed to stand in awe before the works of artists who work through thier neuroses before our eyes.
But today, I want to take the role of the little boy who cried out, "The emperor has no clothes."
Our society's adoration of artists who can't actually do anything but express themselves is the end result of placing too much trust in experts, tastemakers, and other "authorities." Trust yourself. Trust your eyes. Nothing, as Emerson wrote, is reliable except the authority of your own mind. Perhaps if we trust that, we can find our way to some higher beauty.
