An Outsider Among the Living - Jan 28 2022

 

An Outsider Among the Living

Jan 28 2022

Outsider art.

But what true artist

would claim to be an insider?

Complicit, and unoriginal,

a servant

to the powers that be?

No, the conceit of the artist

is provocation, alienation

individuality.

Virtuosity, not so much;

that would be too bourgeois

too pandering.

Of course he is unknown.

Obscurity

attests to his purity   —

art for art's sake

he righteously proclaimed

scoffing at commercial gain.

Because money corrupts

and fame passes quickly.

An iconoclast, a breaker of idols

a fierce devotee of ideals.

Like Moses, who shattered the golden calf

he never backed down

followed the crowd

compromised.

His failure, in fact

was his great success  —

he remained unique,

never conceded

to vulgar fashion.

So what does it matter

his work went unseen?

How ironic, then

is the posthumous fame he's achieved?

The impoverished artist

rescued from oblivion

pardoned of scorn.

Who couldn't afford dinner,

and now the caricature

scribbled on a napkin to pay

is worth a small fortune in gold.

When bidding wars

by the nouveau riches

are more about status than art.

Still misunderstood

and still unknowable,

but no longer there to protest

or set the record straight.

At least his integrity remains intact

and what could count for more?

A man

who all his short lamentable life

was a great contrarian

and defied convention;

an outsider among the living

before and after death.

I encountered the term "outsider art", and thought it worth noodling around. This is the result.

The thing is, even though I'm not a visual artist, I somewhat identify: the feeling of being an outsider and perennial contrarian; the insecurity that results in claiming your obscurity as evidence of success (the gatekeepers of poetry must either feel threatened, or lack imagination ...he said, laughing at his own pomposity and self-regard 🙃 (when, really, it's laziness on my part — I'd rather write than hustle!)); and the true gratification of doing something for it's own sake, forget about external validation. (Which is true and not true. Because at some point, we all need it.)

Of course, the artist here is pretty juvenile: he may have no talent — he's no virtuoso! — but is deluded he does. Or simply waves it away as not mattering. Or owns it as a badge of honour. And his idealism is probably a little precious, as self-righteousness always seems. But the basic point remains: the artist must always be an outsider — an observer who keeps his distance, doesn't care about being fashionable or accepted, and strives for originality. No one wants to be called an “insider” artist!

The story about the napkin is true: Picasso, as he achieved some modest fame, did pay for dinner that way. And his doodles sell very well indeed!

But back to poetry. Alas, there are no small fortunes or bidding wars. Because poetry is the ultimate democracy and public commons: in poetry, there is no object; everyone and anyone is free to memorize!