I trod on a chip yesterday. This got me thinking – which perhaps is worrying.
For a moment I considered taking a photo of the begrooved and besplattered spudulous would-be masterpiece, and sending it to an art historian friend, with the intention of suggesting we construct an art installation around it. Entering this for the 2013 Turner Prize would surely inspire a generation of neo-Mashionists of which King Edward himself would have been proud. Chip Footprint. Far less worthy concepts have walked away with the spoils at the Tater Modern.
But then I took another pill, and thought again.
So what is art? Art? So what?
I write cryptic crosswords for a living. Is this art? Perhaps it depends who’s creating the puzzle. Perhaps all it needs is for someone to declare it art.
So I asked some passers-by whether they considered my squashed Maris piper a work of merit. And here are the results:
No comment/walk on by giving me a wide berth: 15
The ‘yes’ was asked why he considered it art. The reply? Because you told me it was.
So I tried again, taking a different line, it being all about the set-up.
‘Sir/madam, I am from the Evening Argus and wondered if you have a moment to give us your views on this piece of artwork from acclaimed potato sculptor Duchesse Fritz’.
Results as follows:
Not really: 12
Sorry, I’m in a rush: 6
Go away* 3
*or less wholesome snub.
So there you have it. Make of this what you will.
All I know is that the word ‘potato’ comprises the word TAT inside the word POO. The crossword defines art, though art never may define the crossword.
Whatever that means.