||[июн. 20, 2001|01:12 pm]
статья Тома Стоппарда.Хорошая |
This is what has been jettisoned, not furtively, not in cabals or garrets but in triumph, in national galleries, in the Venice Biennale – where this week one of the exhibits temporarily escaped notice, being an empty room with green walls. At its present extreme, a work of art may be no more than a mental act, complete at the moment of inspiration – “Eureka! An empty room painted green!” There is nothing to make. Where there may be something to make – “Eureka! A scaled-up reproduction of a toy! A photograph torn from a newspaper! Framed tinfoil!” – technicians can do the making, or the shopping.
How new is this? When did it stop being true that an artist is somebody who can do something more or less well which the rest of us can only do badly or not at all?