‘Work of Art’ Isn’t One

It’s a good thing for everyone involved in Bravo TV’s Work of Art: The Next Great Artist, that none of them has the slightest sense of shame. If they did, they would have run as far and as fast as possible to get away from this dog of a program. (Work of Art, which premiered last night, is a new reality show, this time about contemporary art; it features 14 wannabe artists competing for fame and fortune.)

Reviews of the show so far range from it’s got problems but it “works” (The New York Times—whose TV critic took pains to explain that one of the judges of Work of Art being married to a colleague had no influence on her judgment), to it’s just plain weak (Christopher Knight at the L.A. Times, in an appropriately snide piece). On the show, we watch a group of unknown artists competing with one another in a series of art-school-like projects that are then judged by a group of art-world luminaries. They include a couple of dealers, an auction-house exec, and Jerry Saltz, New York magazine’s art critic. (One wonders what prompted someone of his standing to degrade himself this way). The winning artist gets a plump prize—$100,000 cash and a solo show at the Brooklyn Museum of Art. (One also wonders who at the museum arranged this deal and why, and how the curators there feel about it).

Work of Art, produced by Sarah Jessica Parker (if I had any sense, I’d quit right here) is fueled by the same phenomenon that propels all reality shows: People everywhere lust for fame and don’t care diddlysquat about whatever dignity they might have to sacrifice in order to get it. A part of me—that with a taste for tacky television (I have a serious jones for Snapped and The Girls Next Door)—says I should lighten up and just enjoy the greed, silliness, catfights, pretense, and humiliation. Work of Art simply serves up this familiar soup so that a wider audience can gain some insight into what artists are really like and how they go about making art. What’s to fuss over?

Well, first of all, Work of Art is a deep betrayal of serious contemporary art, an endeavor whose reputation has already had to absorb the blows of being dragged closer and closer to the puffery and glitz of show business, and of being regarded primarily in terms of outrageous prices paid at auction. Serious contemporary art is usually—and most appreciatively—regarded by being looked at without the artist hanging around to explain it. (“Performance artists” are sometimes exceptions, and it’s crucial that Work of Art doesn’t include full-blown performance art for the obvious reason that it would blow away any and all art objects in terms of televisibility.) The show promulgates a massive deception that out-deceives all other reality programs: If we were to have a real reality show about artists, one that showed how artists really make art, it would bore the tears out of the audience. Artists are frequently quiet or dull sorts, and much of their art-making consists of sitting around, thinking, looking and puttering around in incomprehensible ways. No hissy fits, no artificial deadlines, and no visiting Euro-suaves like Simon de Pury, the auction-house exec, to give pats on the back and ask helpful questions.

Secondly, there has been a tradition—and the program’s subtitle, “The Next Great Artist,” openly attempts to link itself to this tradition—of deep separation between the artist and the work of art, whether artists worked in workshops or in lonely, romantic ateliers. Some artists have loved social life, but others have been like Cézanne, who was terrified of anyone even touching him. Most artists (presumably including many of “Work of Art’s” contestants when they’re not on the program) are still attached to the protected privacy of the studio. Artists thrive in protected spaces, free from the prying eyes of others. Holed up alone like this, they can let themselves make awful mistakes, come up with wretched results, learn from those results, and move on—in their own ways, at their own paces, and for their own reasons.

Finally, Work of Art is, at bottom, more about the judges than the artists. On American Idol and Dancing With the Stars, the contestants are showbiz performers whose on-screen deeds can hold their own—if not supercede—the presence of the judges. On Work of Art, the contestants aren’t singers or dancers, or even particularly eccentric characters; they don’t have much screen presence, and the objects they produce—meant to be seen in the flesh—don’t either. So the dramatic focus ends up on the judges and their various ways of posing as judges. The program reiterates this with interrogation-room lighting, impending-doom music, and Roman-coliseum verdicts.

All of this makes it impossible for the audience to connect art with awe, or even a bit of mystery. Work of Art brings to mind the ever-familiar lines from Macbeth about “a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” A little genuine sound and fury, however, would have been a distinct improvement upon the posturing and whining that Work of Art provides.

P.S.—If you’re interested, I originally blogged on this show when the announcement that it was going to be produced first came out.