The Art that Offends

          I’m not easily offended.  I once saw a play in London where an actor defecated on stage.  I have seen art that depicted scenes of torture or sexual violence.  And they were awful, but they weren’t exactly offensive.  They were heart breaking and disturbing at times, but they were always making the point that something wrong was happening and that we need to acknowledge that it happened and change it in the future.  Sometimes art shines light on something we would rather not see.  And that is hard.  But it’s not offensive.

            The only time I have ever been offended by art, was when I was working for an auction house.  We were called to appraise the works owned by two private collectors.  A wealthy, retired, married couple with many grandchildren, they had spent the last few decades picking up some amazing sculptures and some really horrible paintings of nude women with abnormally large breasts.

            They also owned a bright blue plaster sculpture of an oversized pistol.  They had it displayed so that the gun pointed at a portrait of Robert Kennedy.  “It’s hilarious,” the collector said.  “But most people who come here just don’t get it.  I don’t know why, they just don’t get it.”  Oh they get it, madam, they’re just too weirded out to say anything.  So was I, and I didn’t say a word.  It wasn’t my place after all, I was just there to appraise the ugly breast paintings.  I was but a glint in my father’s eye in 1968, while these two collectors probably actually watched the coverage live on the news, and there was nothing I was going to say to make them snap out of it.

            I’m guessing they weren’t huge fans of RFK, but it doesn’t really matter.  Think he was a great man or think he was a jerk – he was still a real person.  He wasn’t a character in a novel.  When he was a little boy somebody held his hand when he crossed the street.  Somebody made sure he ate his vegetables.  Somebody made sure he learned that three times four is twelve.  And when he was gunned down, a pregnant woman lost her husband, and ten children lost their father.    The gun pointed at his portrait wasn’t funny.  It wasn’t something “to get.”  The collectors thought they were being witty, but they weren’t.  They were degrading the value of a human life.  I have seen art that was disturbing.  I have seen art that portrayed murderous dictators as benevolent leaders and art that portrays good people as maniacs.  I have seen art that upset me.  I have seen art that displayed the artist’s racism, sexism, and hatred.  But I was never really offended until I saw these two collectors trying to depict a real person’s death as something funny.

            As frequently as I’ve told this story over the years, I don’t really care what those two old yahoos are up to.  It’s no skin off my nose how they choose to embarrass themselves in front of their dinner guests.  But it does get a girl thinking.  When I disagree with someone, when another person’s opinion is actively hurtful to myself or others, when I actually hate someone else, what do I think?  I cannot claim that I already do, but definitely should firs think, OK.  This individual is a real person.  And when he was five, somebody made him eat his broccoli.