How and Why to Not Be Postmodern

Throwing the

Recently I had coffee with one of my adult sons. I wanted to hear his insights about his spiritual development growing up. One unexpected comment came to light as he compared our family’s culture to that of a close friend’s. He observed that Mollie and I had modeled a faith that permeated all of life, and that our values reflected this. By contrast, for some people, faith is something added on, like an extra-curricular activity.

He said, “For you guys, a biblical worldview was like a pair of glasses through which you viewed everything. For my friend’s family it was more like a pair of binoculars that they would pick up now and then.”

This got me to thinking about postmodernism – the cultural state of society that distrusts the very idea of objective truth.

What is Postmodernity?
Philosopher and author Paul Copan describes postmodernity this way:

“French philosopher Jean-Francois Lyotard said that, simplifying to the extreme, postmodernism is suspension toward a metanarrative, which is a ‘world story’ that’s taken to be true for all people in all cultures and ends up oppressing people…”

So, postmodernity is a perfect example of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. Because there are many horrific examples in history of people oppressing others over strongly held beliefs – both religious and secular – postmodernity seeks to solve the problem by getting rid of the notion of truth altogether. It’s like John Lennon’s song, Imagine. Copan continues:

“…When people are so certain that they’ve got the truth and believe their system explains everything, then people who disagree with them are on the outside. They end up in Auschwitz or the Soviet gulags. So instead of metanarratives, postmodernism emphasizes mini-narratives. In other words, each person has his or her own viewpoint or story.”

Postmodernity attempts to address a very real problem in the world. It’s true that there are many metanarratives, ideologies, worldviews, and religions in the world that are coercive. But in making all truth relative, postmodernity does the world the ultimate disservice if there is, in fact, an objective Authority who has communicated a true story that includes all of us. Followers of Jesus should confidently and joyfully ignore postmodernism and instead, prove the life giving nature of the story and message of Jesus in our own lives and families.

“All Truth Claims are Wrong!”
Copan points out that the relativism that stems from a postmodern worldview is self-refuting. It simply doesn’t work as a worldview.

“…the relativist believes that relativism is true not just for him but for every person. He believes that relativism applies to the nonrelativist (‘true for you’), not just to himself (‘true for me’). The relativist finds himself in a bind if we ask him, ‘Is relativism absolutely true for everyone?’…There’s no reason to take seriously the claim that every belief is as good as every other belief, since this belief itself would be no better than any other.”

But having noted the self-contradictory nature of postmodernity, what about the problem of metanarratives being necessarily oppressive? Specifically, does the big picture presented in the Judeo-Christian scriptures necessarily marginalize those “on the outside”?

Self Righteous and Holier-Than-Thou?
I don’t buy that. The Bible specifically teaches that self-righteousness is not even possible (Ps 14; Ro 3:10-18.) Salvation is a gift from God and something none of us can claim to have earned (Ro 3:23,24; 6:23; Gal 2:15,16; 3:2-5; Eph 2:8,9; 3:7-9.)

From a biblical worldview Jesus is the only human being who could rightfully claim to be without sin, claim to be righteous in-and-of-Himself, and claim to be unerring in His knowledge of truth. Yet He was the perfect picture of love and inclusivity. His life was characterized by loving, healing , and reaching out to the marginalized: those on the fringe of respectable Jewish culture, women, lepers, the sexually unchaste, traitors, servants, children, Romans and other non-Jews, and so on. He typically did this even though it was inconvenient for Him and often got Him into trouble with His critics.

Not only His actions but also His teachings explicitly taught that following Him must mean reaching out to and welcoming the marginalized in a broken world. Several parables come to mind:
The parable of the Samaritan
The parable of the Pharisee and the tax-collector
The parable of the prodigal son
The parable of the wedding feast and the uninvited guests
The parable of the widow’s offering
The story of the rich man and Lazarus

Rather than oppressing the marginalized, a biblical worldview acknowledges our common humanity. It roots human worth in the idea that all people bear the image of God, and yet it humbles human standing in the idea that all people “fall short of the glory of God’s ideal.” It is notable that two of the most combative personalities in the New Testament repeat the quote, “God is opposed to the proud, but gives grace to the humble” (Jas 4:6; 1 Pet 5:5.) Humility invalidates oppression and marginalization. A quote attributed to D T Niles rings true to me:

“A Christian witness is not like a rich man who has a lot of bread which he hands out to the poor beggars who have nothing. He is rather like one beggar who tells another beggar where he has found bread.”

A Bedtime Story
Accordingly, this all affects what we say to our children. As a young father it was my job and privilege to tuck my children in at bedtime. I would sing and pray with them each night. I remember a brief period of time when one of my boys was very troubled. He would tearfully express that he was a “bad boy.” Those are the words he used. He was probably 7 or 8 years old at the time. I was a bit taken aback by this because Mollie and I made a point of never telling our children that they were “bad,” even when correcting them.

He didn’t seem to be trying to confess a specific hidden offense that was troubling his conscience. Instead, he seemed to be expressing a recognition that there was something generally wrong within himself. I remember thinking carefully and prayerfully before answering him, because he expected an answer. Should I assure him that he wasn’t all that bad? Should I point out how favorably he compared to serial killers and drug dealers? This was my first impulse – to minimize his feelings and build up his self-esteem by pointing out all the things on the “good” side of his scale.

But a biblical worldview compelled me to say something different. Instead, I essentially agreed with him. And, holding him close in the dark, I sympathetically let him know that I was also “bad,” and so was every one else in the world; that what he was feeling was accurate. I explained that this is why God sent Jesus to us, because we all need a Savior. My son’s recognition of his own brokenness was simply the first step toward the spiritual rebirth that Jesus offers to us all. Jesus promised to give us His Spirit to live inside of us, and after that we help each other to live a new life in that Spirit.

I’m certainly not recommending that we as parents teach our children that they are pure evil. The truth is more nuanced than that. I think the Bible’s description of the fallen human heart as “inclined” toward evil is helpful (Gen 8:21.) When I think of an incline, I notice it’s possible to roll a ball up an incline, but it takes deliberate effort. A ball naturally will roll down an incline. So it is with our hearts.

There is a world of difference between telling a child that he or she is a “bad person,” and teaching a child that all human beings struggle with corrupted hearts.

Speaking the Truth in Love
I assume there are those who would say it is appalling to say such things to a child. I imagine that a time may come when a secularist government will see fit to intervene in cases where parents teach such things. But truth is that which corresponds to the way things really are. What if a child is taught that he or she is naturally good and perfect? Where does that leave the child when he or she sees within himself or herself a tendency to lie, cheat, and hurt others? I contend that it leaves the child in a truly hopeless place.

The fact of human brokenness should never be used to shame or manipulate others. But neither does a biblical worldview indulge secularist, utopian, wishful thinking about the natural goodness and perfectibility of humanity. In fact, ironically, this kind of thinking is actually dangerous when it comes to granting human beings governmental power over others. This is why we have a dystopian genre in film and literature.

I would like to hear about your experience as a child or a parent. How did you understand the state of the human heart? How was it communicated to you, and what effect did it have on you?

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My Art Institute Days – A Fundamentalist Dropped Off Behind Enemy Lines

My parents, God bless ’em, had no idea what they were exposing me to when they dropped me off at art college. They were unaware that pretty much every “normal” value that they believed in would be ridiculed daily at my school. Neither of my parents had attended college. My dad was a blue-collar guy and my mom never went to high school, or even learned to drive. I was a white bread, ultra middle-class, Southern Baptist boy from a suburban St. Louis neighborhood where every house basically looked the same and every driveway had a basketball hoop over the garage door. Other than the Catholic church peeking up over the single story houses of our subdivision, there wasn’t an interesting piece of architecture within miles of where I grew up.

Of course, they could’ve dropped me off at any secular college and my parents’ “white middle-class values” would’ve been attacked. But if other secular colleges were pit bulls, the Kansas City Art Institute was a rabid, mutant 3-headed beast with laser eyes. From a Southern Baptist perspective, the Art Institute was the gates of Hell. Maybe my parents’ first clue could’ve been the perky, bra-less, spiky-haired lesbian who gave us a tour of the campus when we arrived. But they couldn’t have known, and I’m so glad they didn’t. At the Art Institute I learned as much about God and life as I learned about art.

Regarding the title of this post, I should say that I’m still not sure what a fundamentalist is, or if I am one, and I certainly never viewed my professors or fellow students as enemies, but I’m going with the stereotype that inevitably gets put on the church subculture from which I came.

You may think I’m exaggerating about the Art Institute. I’ll give you my freshman impressions. The Art Institute was very experimental – creatively, philosophically, spiritually, sexually, and chemically. My first night there, my RA explained that every Sunday night they show pornographic movies in the campus amphitheater. There were no extra-curricular activities or student groups on campus – you know, like organized sports, or Campus Crusade for Christ. But my RA explained that every spring there would be a big event called the Beaux Arts Festival, when trucks of beer kegs would roll up and “everyone” would party and get drunk for several days. (It wasn’t clear to me if this was optional.) When the festival did roll around, the packed schedule of events included Priest Burning and Nude Mud-Wrestling. But by then I had been there long enough to be pretty sure they were only kidding about the priest burning part.

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Student self-portraits – We were encouraged to draw every day, so I have a ton of these, which amounts to a sort of visual journal. OK…I admit I made the last one up. Apparently the forces of natural selection in an art institute environment do not always produce such results.

My best friend attended college in a neighboring town, which provided an interesting contrast to the Art Institute. Several of my Southern Baptist peers from home attended this Christian college – William Jewell College, in Liberty, Missouri. I used to go there on weekends to escape the Art Institute. The contrast was stark. The spacious William Jewell campus was architecturally coordinated with neo-classical buildings on green, manicured lawns. It was peopled with clean, shiny students; some readily identifiable as “jocks.” The girls openly engaged in middle-class behaviors such as curling their hair, shaving their legs and armpits, wearing make-up and bras, and smiling. It seemed like the sun was always shining on campus. When I would go there, I felt like something that had crawled out from under a rock.

When I would return to my small, eclectic, inner-city campus, I swear that my memory tells me that the sky was always dark and there was rolling thunder overhead. However, in time I grew to prefer my little campus at the gates of hell, for the same reasons that I prefer a glass of wine over a coke. I do remember the one time my William Jewell church friends came to visit me at my campus. I think they may have done this to cheer me up. We met in the lobby and I started hugging them. Some lone guy at the lobby pool table immediately saw an opportunity and came over and started hugging all the girls, some of them more than once. When we got up to my room one of them asked, “Was that guy down there your roommate?” I had no idea who he was. Within minutes, a different guy came into my room holding a can of beer, and parked himself. It took both of us a few minutes to assess the situation. I knew this guy’s name was Gary, and I had been told he was a Satanist (I’m pretty sure he told people this to yank their chains, but he did kind of look the part.) He assumed this was a party. I was unfamiliar enough with partying to not realize this was his assumption. I just wanted to talk to my friends. I think somebody mentioned Jesus at some point, at which point he got up and left, also mentioning God and Jesus, but using them as expletives.

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One of my greatest life lessons learned at the Art Institute was about loving people, and not judging by outward appearances. The Art Institute students specialized in outward appearances. I soon learned that the scariest looking people were usually quite gentle and good-hearted, (for human beings.) They just liked to express themselves creepily. As a freshman I remember going to a “dance” one weekend at the Irving Amphitheatre. This was during the late 70s, when Punk was part of the vibe at the Art Institute, (way before it never actually became a part of mainstream America.) Amidst the pogo-ing and slam dancing, one mop-haired student was “dancing” with a big hunk of raw meat. Mostly he was kicking it around the floor, (to the music.) Another guy was dancing with an actual mop. I’d love to tell you a ridiculously funny story about a Halloween dance one year, but I can’t because the protagonist (who is also the antagonist) is a Facebook friend. But you can imagine; art college…Halloween…drugs and alcohol…costumes. So I’ll just tell you that the prizes for the best costumes that year were sex toys.

You could often tell what a person’s major was by how they dressed. The antitheses were the Sculpture and Design departments. The “designers” would have mostly gone unnoticed on the William Jewell campus, except that they were trendier and gayer. These were the people who would have real jobs after graduating art school. Apparently this was viewed as a sellout by the sculpture guys. My freshman impression was that the sculpture guys hated the designers. In fact they seemed to hate everyone. There was actually a sign hanging in the sculpture department depicting a red circle and a slash. Inside the circle was a (poorly drawn) black silhouette of a limp wrist and hand. (I’m pretty sure this sign is gone now.) These guys (both men and women) wore lots of black leather and ripped jeans, and they never slept. Perhaps this is why they always seemed angry. Several of these guys were pretty ripped themselves, (both men and women.) Keep in mind these guys were not sculptors of Precious Moments figurines. I’m talking sculpture as in big red steel I-beams. It was always like the fires of Mordor over there, with welding sparks flying up into the night sky, hissings, the clanging of metal, and deep, bellowing voices. (My freshman dorm room window directly faced the sculpture yard.)

One of my favorite Art-Institute-character stories has to do with a well-loved student named Bob. This story, which involved no actual interaction between Bob and me, tells you something about both of us. Bob was a very cool-looking dwarf. He had long black hair and a full beard. He struck me as a very self-assured guy who always smelled like pot. Bob and I both were majoring in printmaking at the time. One day he came bopping in to the studio wearing a T-shirt that said “PBPGINFWMY!” For those too young to know, this stands for, “Please Be Patient, God Is Not Finished With Me Yet!” It was a Christian sub-culture thing in the 70s. Kind of like “WWJD”, but stupider. There was even a song. So when Bob came in I thought, “What? Did Bob get saved?!” (Finding a Christian at the Art Institute was like finding live rabbit on a shooting range.) I was so excited! I was going to ask him about it, but then I noticed he still swore a lot and smelled like weed. It took me probably a week to figure out that he was wearing the shirt as a joke. Get it? Think about it.

Then, speaking of shooting ranges, there were the professors. I came to genuinely love several of my professors, eventually, but they were freaking intimidating to a little Baptist boy from suburbia. I actually had a couple of freshman classes where professors asked the Christians to identify themselves on the first day of class. One of them grinned and promised, “We’re going to take care of that for you.” This turned out to be the best thing he could’ve done for me. I definitely got the feeling I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. The great thing about these guys was that they were brilliant and unrelenting, but they graded us on how well we supported our thinking, not on how much we agreed with their depressing, existential, nihilistic outlook. I was told by one professor that I could be rational, or I could be a Christian, but not both. So I set out to find out if he was right. It seemed that in the sea of anarchy in which I found myself, the most rebellious thing I could’ve attempted was to be a serious follower of Jesus. Freshman year I had a hard time keeping my mind on my philosophy reading assignments because I was thinking of quitting school and becoming a missionary. This is funny to me now, considering that I was already in a foreign land with a language I barely understood.

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The Country Club Plaza (pronounced pul-LAAAW-zuh) – a twinkling beacon of capitalism, wealth, punctuality, & clean-shaveness existing in uneasy proximity to the KC Art Institute.

Finally, I must mention the art, since it was art school. We were daily surrounded, inside and out, by art on campus, of course, and the whole place was a beehive of art-making and performing. The environment was stimulating and always changing. But even in the studio I found myself out of step with my peers. I was just a kid from the suburbs who happened to have an insane amount of natural artistic ability. That got me a scholarship, but once I was in art school it seemed pretty irrelevant. It came in handy sometimes, kind of like lettuce on a sandwich, but what really mattered was the meat – the statement. No one actually told me this with words, but the statement was supposed to be about death, sex, drugs, death, angst, despair, esotericism, protest, death, left wing politics, anger, nihilism, absurdity and/or death.  Did I mention death? Did I mention that I once had an art student living above me who drove a refitted hearse and kept a coffin in his apartment?

Examples of such art abounded. One day in the “dining hall”, I looked up to see a low-relief, fabric and string reconstruction of a vagina, staring down at me. It was titled, “Vaginas are not all they’re cracked up to be.” I believe this was a piece of student work. One faculty member exhibit in the on-campus galley also stands out in my mind. I’m pretty sure this show was mounted by Jim Leedy, a sculpture instructor at that time. The show consisted of actual road kill, mounted on wooden panels, with nails, studs, and other decorative elements hammered in or affixed to each panel. Each panel and carcass was completely sealed in thick white latex paint, so that each panel was reasonably clean and odorless. A focal point of this monochromatic show, at least in my mind, was a panel that featured a dead fetus with some spikes radiating out from its head to form a halo. I have no way of knowing if it was an actual fetus or a replica, but given the pursuit of authenticity at the Art Institute, I assume it was real. Of course, for me this crossed a line and pissed me off, and of course that was probably part of Leedy’s intent. After all, I was in an environment that questioned everything. In fact, I also eventually became a proponent of questioning everything. Questioning is a wonderfully enlightening exercise. I just think it’s important to realize that questioning is not the same thing as rejecting – usually there are good answers to the questions. I’ve come to suspect that the avant garde is not as open-minded as they think they are. For many, “questioning everything” may just be a pretext for doing whatever the hell one wants to do.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that dark or nihilistic art is illegitimate. Art should be honest expression. If an artist lives in a universe where a knowable, relational Creator doesn’t exist, then human beings also cease to exist in any objectively meaningful way, and his/her art will reflect that. At art school, it’s true that I sometimes felt that I was staring down into a downward spiral. But, for these people, given the absence of any transcendent reason coming from a transcendent God to think and create otherwise, all of this hopeless art made sense to me. It still does. In a purposeless universe populated by accidental beings, how could it be otherwise? Such artists may even believe they are doing society the service of exposing pretensions.

Looking back, I consider my art school experience one of my life’s great blessings. It was humbling and spiritually cleansing as it forced me to confront prejudices and arrogance that I might not otherwise have noticed. It built in me a love for understanding viewpoints different from my own. Plus it was extremely entertaining. I like to think I made friends with “the enemy.” People were patient with me and mostly seemed to regard me with curiosity. I made some mistakes. I also got some lifelong friends out of the deal, and even met my wife there. (Eventually she did have to shave her legs and ‘pits to avoid embarrassing our daughters.) My wife did inform me that her circle of friends used to refer to my small circle of Jesus-people friends as “the Den Mothers.” Cute. My wife and I have come to believe that above all else, life is about relationships and communion. The crazy atmosphere of the Art Institute is where I began to understand that.

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…From Lester Goldman’s drawing class.

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Drawing based on a Rembrandt etching, “Christ Before Pilate.”

                                                                                All drawings copyright 2013, Scott Freeman

Modern Art: “My Five Year Old Could’ve Made That!”

“Unconscious Image” by Jasper Johns, 1946, New York Museum of Contemporary Art.  Note how the repetitive “X” motif is subsumed by the amorphous field of homogeneity… …Wait…did I fool you? This painting was actually painted by my 3 yr old daughter. My point is, if this were presented properly in a museum setting, people would be standing in front of it, stroking their chins.

“Unconscious Image” by Jasper Johns, 1946, New York Museum of Contemporary Art.
Note how the repetitive “X” motif is subsumed by the amorphous field of homogeneity…
Wait…did I fool you?
This painting was actually painted by my 3 yr old daughter. My point is, if this were presented properly in a museum setting, people would be standing in front of it, stroking their chins.

“I don’t get it. Why is that great art? My five year old could’ve painted that.”

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard someone say this, I could buy a big tube of cobalt blue oil paint. Now… be honest. I’m guessing most of us, myself included, have stood before a work of modern art in a museum and thought, “Why is this in a museum? Either end of my dog could’ve produced this.” We assume there must be some secret that we’re not “in” on. There must be something special about this crude-looking piece of art; something that only museum curators, or people smoking crack, can see. The artist must be a genius beyond our powers of comprehension, to paint something both historically significant and worth more than my house, yet apparently executed while blindfolded.

I’m kidding. Mostly.

From a 21st century post-modern vantage point, there are now a million answers to this question. But I believe that all contemporary painting that is expressionistic and intentionally non-realistic owes a debt to the great 20th century modernist painters who’s work first gave rise to the charge of infantilism. For these groundbreaking artists there is a very understandable, overriding reason that much of their art looks like it was made by five year olds.

It is this: these artists were studying and imitating the work of five year olds.

I’m specifically referring here to the work of Henri Matisse, Vasily Kandinsky, Lyonel Feininger, Paul Klee, Joan Miro, Jean Dubuffet, Karel Appel, Asger Jorn, and Pablo Picasso for starters. I’m not being disrespectful here. The child art connection was apparently no secret at the time these artists were painting.

Here I want to insert a parenthetical note. As a working 21st century painter, I’m as happy as anyone that the boundaries defining art have been blown wide open. I love the resulting freedom and free-for-all. In fact I’ve just listed some of my favorite painters. But “liking it” is not the same thing as “getting it”. The question at hand still deserves an explanation.

My wife and I have collected children’s art for years. This is an example from 3 yr old Lee’s “square-headed armless man” period, which preceded his “cello” period.

My wife and I have collected children’s art for years. This is an example from 3 yr old Lee’s “square-headed armless man” period, which preceded his “cello” period.

It is a matter of record that these artists had, some to a greater degree than others, files of children’s art from which they drew inspiration. Often they even exhibited children’s art alongside their own in public art exhibitions.

I get this from an excellent book by Jonathan Fineberg, entitled, The Innocent Eye. Fineberg actually contacted family members of many of these artists and was allowed access to their personal files. This book changed my life as an artist in that it helped me to navigate some of the pretentiousness of the art world, and confirmed somewhat that I’m not a complete idiot.

In fact, I have to admit to being a bit peeved that I spent a lot of money pursuing a painting degree at a private art college, yet I don’t remember hearing any mention of the influence of child art in my art history classes. Which is kind of like not mentioning vegetables in a cooking class. I now see Fineberg’s thesis as a critical piece of history that explains a great deal.

Fineberg is not speculating about the child art connection. There are several cases where he shows side by side comparisons of child art and embarrassingly similar finished works by now famous adult artists, who at times obviously ripped ideas directly from these unknown children.

Why did these artists do this? Answering this question is where the story really gets fascinating for me. Fineberg is not “exposing” these artists in order to poop on them. These artists were pursuing a philosophical line of reasoning. In the late 19th & early 20th centuries, in the wake of the new Modernist ideas of Nietzsche, Marx, Darwin, and Freud, an enormous worldview and cultural shift was taking place.

If one looks at art history books, it would appear that around this time artists lost the ability to paint representationally. In fact, academic painting was alive and well, but art history has favored the line of those artists who were expressing the new worldview shift. These artists were simply no longer interested in painting in the traditional way. They were seeking inspiration outside of the highly cultured world that produced them, looking for something more psychologically primeval.

For example, Kandinsky owned a collection of roughly 250 works by children, and influenced contemporaries Klee, Feininger, and others. Fineberg states:

“Kandinsky’s art theoretical writings make it clear that he sought in the art of children stylistic principles for pushing aside the “worldly” sophistication of naturalistic rendering in his art, to reveal a more universal, visual language. He wanted to address a subject that transcended the materialism of his age in a form that bypassed cultural convention and resonated directly with his viewer’s inner, spiritual consciousness.”

Fineberg points out that several late 19th century researchers were connecting child art with tribal art, and artists increasingly viewed the child as a kind of “domestic noble savage.” I am quite drawn to the later art of Jean Dubuffet, even as I strenuously disagree with his worldview. In a 1951 lecture, “Anti-Cultural Positions”, he stated:

“ I, personally, have a very high regard for the values of primitive peoples: instinct, passion, caprice, violence, madness. Nor do I feel that these values are in any way lacking in our western world. On the contrary! But the values celebrated by our culture do not strike me as corresponding with the true dynamics of our minds…”

Another creepy quote from Dubuffet: “Creative invention has surely no greater enemy than social order…”

 So the study and pursuit of children’s art was an exploration that became quite varied. Some of these artists were seeking a more universal language of the heart. Some believed that children were “closer to nature” and therefore less corrupted than their adult caretakers. In contrast to the older biblical idea of original sin, they were buying into the idea that children are actually born in a pure and enlightened state, and that we adults are the ones corrupting them with our oppressive mores, and our programs of civilization and religion. You will recall that some of these same artists were also looking at the work of “primitives”, for the same reason, (most famously Gauguin, Matisse, and Picasso.) Some were even looking at the art of the mentally ill, whom they assumed also may perhaps be unbounded by the corrupting influence of European culture.

Since this is my blog I get to say that, to the extent that they were looking for answers to life’s big questions, I think these guys were barking up the wrong tree. As a Father of five children I can testify that if toddlers had nuclear capability, none of us would be here today. However, in seeking to shed light on one of the most colorful and influential chapters in art history, Fineberg’s contribution is indispensable.

 

A cutting edge piece by Lee. Note the Warhol-esque appropriation of mass produced objects into the composition. The genius of it only dawns on the viewer when one learns that this is a Mother’s Day card.

A cutting edge piece by Lee. Note the Warhol-esque appropriation of mass produced objects into the composition. The genius of it only dawns on the viewer when one learns that this is a Mother’s Day card.

 

 

A favorite childhood piece created by my oldest son who is legally blind from birth. Now, as an adult, his work is not markedly different in appearance. Perhaps an interesting subject in itself.