F*cking Arts? How Do They Work?

The credits to the fabulous documentary "My Kid Could Paint That" are rolling and I really want to get my thoughts down while they are still fresh. In a way I suppose this is a bit of a mini-review of sorts.

Since I've been doing such a good job of getting on the internet and feeling ways about stuff, I might as well say that I was genuinely and deeply touched by the film. I never thought I'd really say this about somebody I saw on television (and will jam screwdrivers through my temples before I ever say it again) but the first thing I noticed is what a gorgeous family the Olmsteads are. I even nearly got all teary over it, not just when things got dramatic. There, since that is now out of the way I'll stop being an old lady about it and start getting serious.

Art. Let's talk about art.

I started watching this thing thinking that it was going to be about how insane and absurd the modern art world is. With a title like that, who can blame me? I believed it would be a condescending look at abstract art as childish and the people who buy it as dupes. Well, it wasn't about that. The focus was merely on the paintings and the dispute of where they really came from, and whether or not that mattered. Did a child paint them? Does that matter?

The thing is, I expected to scoff at the paintings themselves and pompously think, "Yeah, that looks like a kid's painting alright. Stupid stuffy, pretentious, cheese-eating boobs can't see the sewers for the shit." Yet, this is not what happened. I found myself awestruck by most of these paintings, particularly "Zane Dancing". I was not willing myself to like them and yet something stirred in me when I saw them. Why is that?

"Zane Dancing"

It is said that nobody can perfectly emulate a child's paintings, because to unlearn all skill as an adult is nigh impossible. A child can grow into a great painter, but a great painter cannot become a child. These paintings evoked a sense of joy, exuberance, innocence, frivolity and other fun words that make me sound either smart or sissy, depending who you are. The point is, these are childlike qualities; ones that we tend to lose and long to have again. Is it possible that it's just as difficult to find that childlike joy, as it is to paint like one? Modern art is chalk full of cynicism and oppressively pessimistic imagery, and when it isn't I personally find it to be beige and boring.

Yet, with the same style of Pollock, little Marla poked at parts of my heart I had forgotten were there.

"Heart"

I wonder if it's because of where it comes from. I wonder if the very fact that a 4 year-old girl painted them is a part of the whole draw. Despite my jaded approach to the movie and modern art in general, maybe the sense of wonder was merely because of aforementioned wistful feelings of missing my childhood.

Now I find myself wondering, "Does that make it less of a work of art?"

Or more?