It never ceases to amaze me just how much people are threatened by art. A common hyperbolic comment is ‘awesome’. Awe, according to any dictionary, is that state of mind on encountering an all-powerful being, a god-like figure. Some artists may be treated as gods by dealers and buyers anxious to increase their profit margins through advertising, but few are gods unless being good at what you do to the extent of being remembered into posterity raises you to that status. There are any number of billionaires, mass murderers and politically-minded individuals, to say nothing of those who were legends in their own lunchtime, who are certainly remembered, but ’godlike’ would be stretching things a bit. Artists on pedestals…not something most would be comfortable with. But a modicum of respect wouldn’t go astray.

Modern art and its antecedents [yes, modern art was over more than half a century ago for all of those armchair critics still using the term as an all-encompassing insult] suffered unlimited judgemental comments from the abysmally ignorant to those who proclaimed to know what was what, including art critics, presidents and the proverbial man-in-the-street. Threatened indeed. But by what? Change, difference, diversity? If people are threatened by art that looks a bit different, what hope has humanity of ever solving the problems presented by difference and diversity in the Sapien family of bipedal primates? Change in art is inevitable and desirable. While some art may respond to the time in which it was produced, it is the artist who develops and changes and the art follows. To deny such change takes us back to Pharaonic times where political stability was directly linked to lack of artistic change. Ah, the power of art.

The majority of people, those in the street and elsewhere, really couldn’t care less about art but they ‘know what they like’. Fair enough. No one is suggesting that anyone has to like or appreciate any kind of art [more’s the pity] or to have an opinion for that matter. So why are ‘people’ threatened by what is hung on gallery walls? Any number of institution patrons, those that front up the money to buy art for their favoured museum, have resigned in protest over time at purchases made in their names. Having money and the intent to solidify your reputation as a patron of the arts doesn’t guarantee anything. As the self-proclaimed guardians of the living culture, such patrons I suppose are entitled to their opinion. I guess it all depends on who’s culture.

However, for all of the squabbling and ignorance in the world, there is a mythical five year old who gets quoted endlessly. He gets quoted as the ultimate measure of what is art and what is not. Moreover, his skills of imitation know no bounds. When Pollock’s first major exhibition was spread over numerous pages of Life Magazine, an indignant man in the street gave his five year old son a canvas and told him to do his own version. Of course, being an obedient child, he did just that – as have thousands and thousands of artists young and old, ever since. What it was supposed to prove was anyone’s guess, but the father was righteously offended and determined to prove that insanity had descended on an unsuspecting populace. Whatever was his preferred genre or medium, Pollock didn’t fit the bill, but he was more than happy to thrust his precocious offspring into the battle lines on behalf of ‘reasonable’ people everywhere.

The same mythical five year old was dragged into the limelight at the unveiling of Who’s afraid of Red, Yellow, Blue by Barnet Newman. Incidentally Kandinsky, Jasper johns and Piet Mondrian all painted versions of this colour combination in Abstract form but apparently didn’t attract anything like the same attention as Newman in spite of being just about incomprehensible to not just your average man in the street but just about the whole world. Nevertheless, Barnett Newman has gone down in history as the target of the would-be father and his mythical five year old. The father damaged the painting in the name of his son, who could have done better in his father’s estimation, and on behalf of like-minded people whose sensibilities had been so severely compromised. It was never followed up by the media but the painting at 304.8 x 259 cm, art critic father obviously had a five year old with the wingspan of a jet fighter and the vertical leap of a basketballer capable of dunking the ball without leaving the ground. On the technical side he would have needed to know how to use a spray gun and compressor, a great deal about the properties of acrylic paint and be versed in the idea of Minimalism in art. Surely, there was a story in this.

So, just what was this father, and any pr all of the others who hide away this mythical five year old in a variety of cupboards until required, actually complaining about? Apparently, the expectation of artists is an unspecified level of sweat-induced labour in the first instance. If it looks too easy then it can’t be art let alone good art. Secondly, there had better be a nice landscape or a portrait on offer which is capable of producing pleasured endorphins. After all, good art is happy art and happy art is therapy. And thirdly, it had better be by someone of whom everyone has actually heard. If there is no tangible reputation, then the artist can’t be any good in the first place. And so goes the thinking.

If you don’t want this culture warrior father and his precocious five year old turning up at your next opening you’d better either consult him and his progeny first so that you’re all on the same page artwise or gird your art loins in preparation for the trial in the court of public opinion.