JULY 1, 2024 – Recently, several members of my family got embroiled in an argument over “concept art” and whether it’s truly art. The heated discussion began over one of the participant’s recent trip to the Yale University Art Gallery. The specific item that engendered debate was a shovel; an ordinary snow shovel purchased in New York City in 1915 by the French-born, American artist, Marcel Duchamp. Duchamp signed the shovel and called it a work of art, which he named, “In Advance of the Broken Arm.” This piece of minimalist concept art led to mention of a host of other examples of “questionable” art, not only of the concept genre but of other modern art forms—including what one of the group simply called bullsh__ art.
One participant in the lively exchange refused to accept the concept that concept art is art. “I could’ve done that,” he said in reaction to the shovel.
“Yeah,” answered another member of the group, “but whenever someone mocks concept art by saying ‘I coulda done that’ . . . H________ [a family member not present for the debate] says, ‘but ya didn’t!’”
The argument went on for the better part of a half hour, but as is the case with most arguments, no one changed their mind—and admitted it.
One of the discussants, however, has a reliable gauge, I’ve decided, for what qualifies as legitimate art and what doesn’t. She’s developed her guidelines by frequent exposure to lots of art, music, dance, theater, and literature. After attending a play, a concert, a dance performance or an art exhibition, she’ll provide a review that is per se as colorful and entertaining as the event she experienced. Part of the reason for this is that she’s not afraid to experiment. If she hears or reads about some unusual exhibition or performance, she’s game to check it out—but by the same token, she’s not reticent about blasting what’s presented as “art” if she thinks it isn’t.
Over the weekend here at the Red Cabin I experienced a random encounter with a hose and aluminum extension ladder that reminded me of the recent family argument over “what’s art.” At first I figured our resident art critic would categorize the hose-and-ladder as pure B.S., but as I played around with this combination for a while, I began to think it could be my ticket to fame and fortune . . . or at least 15 minutes of fame.
By way of background, in anticipation of our Fourth of July extravaganza, we needed to round up an infant’s personal floatation device. My wife believed that one might be stored high up in an inaccessible storage area in one of the bedrooms. I was appointed to conduct the required reconnaissance, which would necessitate deployment of our aluminum extension ladder. The ladder, however, which is stored next to our tool shed, was covered with last year’s decaying leaves and this year’s cobwebs. Before it could be brought inside, the ladder would have to be brushed off, hosed off and left to dry.
Accordingly, I hauled the ladder to the side of the cabin where I’d have access to a faucet and garden hose with an adjustable nozzle. I then placed one side of the ladder horizontally on the ground and leaned the other side against a couple of trees. To optimize the cleaning effort, I turned the water on full blast and moved the nozzle setting to “JET.”
Mind you, except for the rubber pads on the feet of the ladder, the entire thing is made of aluminum. Moreover, the rungs are hollow, and the end of each is open such that if you were a nine-year-old kid and had nothing else to do except pick up one of the millions of sticks lying around in the adjacent woods, you could (and in fact, would, synonymic pun fully intended) pick one up and stick it (homonymic pun fully intended) right through each rung.
As I sprayed the jet of hose water from one end of the ladder to the other, I discovered that against the hollow rungs, the pressurized water created a most delightful sound against the aluminum. It sounded like a marimba, with each rung producing a different pitch, depending on the force of the water, that is, on the distance between the nozzle and any given rung.
The improv performance lasted much longer than was necessary to clean the ladder.
Perhaps, I thought, I could haul a tank of water, a pump, a hose, and an aluminum ladder to MOMA, set up shop on the second floor, and call it, “In Advance of Retrieving the Infant’s PDF.” I could make it interactive, so that any visitor to the museum could “compose their own tune” and record it—in sequence with all the other visitor compositions. The Times would feature the exhibit in the Arts Section of the Sunday edition, making me famous, and soon I’d be flooded with commissions by the idle rich who would compete with one another over price, sending the value of my art skyrocketing.
As I marveled at the prospects, I started listening to other sounds around me—the rat-tat-a-tat of the weed-whacker, for example, that my wife was using against the ruffians in the garden; the shiff-shiff-shiff-shiff of her rake as she cleared the cuttings; the deeper bum-bum-bum of the wheelbarrow hauling the cuttings to the woods; and of course, the melodious invisible birdsong emanating from those woods. Why stop with a water hose on an aluminum ladder? Why not compose a whole symphony incorporating the sounds that a cabin owner hears—and produces—while doing yard work? I could call it the Cabin Chores Symphony, which the Minnesota Orchestra would be thrilled to feature among its latest offerings of “new music.” And think of the promotional value among all the thousands of lake cabin owners in Minnesota! Not only would I command a sizable commission, but my agent could negotiate a robust bonus for the marketing bonanza that would accompany (musical pun fully intended) the world premiere performance of Cabin Chores Symphony.
Doubtless the family doubter (grammatical pun fully intended) of concept art would say, “Turning a hose on an aluminum ladder?! Using a weed-whacker and pushing a wheelbarrow across stage and calling it music? I coulda come up with that!”
“Yeah,” I’d say. “But ya didn’t.”
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
