Something Wicked This Way Comes

No, Norfolk suffers from a dearth of determined and desperate artists.

And buyers.

Not public art.

Art is organic. It doesn’t suddenly erupt. It’s a process. A struggle. And where do you find such conflict?

It could be anywhere. Where ideas about culture and society clash and compete for attention.

It’s not a sense of place, though place has its place. It’s a sense of feeling, mood and instinct.

Drawing a line and saying this is where art will gestate smacks of totalitarianism, of someone’s intense need to control and conduct.

There will be conditions. Who will decide what is art? Will a mural of a male couple kissing be appropriate? Or pass the test? Will a mural of the death and transfiguration of Christ adhere to standards set by someone?

That’s the problem – someone will decide what is appropriate. Someone will set standards. Someone will tell the artists that they can’t paint this or that.

Therein lies the rub.

In reality, designating an arts district runs counter to the instincts of most artists and performers.

You have created a boundary. Artists don’t like boundaries. They like freedom, independence, cheap food, cheap rent and a place to be left alone.

Creativity begs for freedom of expression.

Not window dressing.

Did the Rive Gauche in Paris make artists famous? Or did the artists, intellectuals, pimps, thieves and prostitutes make the Left Bank famous?

Was it the architecture? The cafes with sullen waiters? Or was it a feeling among the hundreds of people who congregated there, led by an intense desire to paint, exchange ideas, fornicate, drink cheap wine and eat cheap food.

This is so American.

We think that by drawing a line around a couple of city blocks we have created a milieu for artists and performers.

Prettify those battered blocks of concrete and the creative energy will burst forth upon the city scene.

No it won’t.

But I have something to confess.

I lived and breathed art. I was raised by artists. They fought, fornicated, struggled with the lows of poverty and the highs of recognition, ate when they could, argued and lived.

There were no tax incentives or rebates or arts districts.

Art wasn’t driven by city officials or a special interest group. It was driven by individuals with passion.

Art is an expression of the individual, not of a group and of group-think.

Underneath the tinsel, the gloss and the glamour, I suspect that something wicked this way comes.