Art to Your Heart’s Desiree

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

Sneer: 3

No: 8

Yes: 1.

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.

Best wishes,

John (Paul)

 

 

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