That's not art; it's just sh*t

I have to admit it; I don't get modern art.

I've tried to get it. Even went so far as to read a couple Clement Greenberg essays. Can't say it helped me much.

I'm given to pondering the 'what is art' question because one of the greats of American abstract expressionism went to the big gallery in the sky this week. Helen Frankenthaler had a career that spanned well over half a century. I like some of her stuff, a lot of it in fact. But I don't get it.

Take Nature Abhors a Vacuum for instance. I like it. I see a green eagle leaving her nest. Or maybe it's a green sunset. Either way, it's pleasant. I've got a spot for it in the upstairs hall here at Falling Downs. Unfortunately something called the "art market" makes this single painting worth several farms just like this one. How is such a thing even possible?

For a small fraction of the price I could have an original Marla Olmstead. She too produces colorful and pleasant canvases that would look good in the upstairs hall. Very similar in style to Frankenthaler.

Then again, I could go a step further and produce a pleasant and colorful work myself. After all, it is not as though I have never spilled paint. In fact, when I was painting the kitchen ceiling I knocked a gallon of Daffodil Ambiance from the top of the stepladder. The many subtle shades of yellow splatter on the maple floor really drew the eye in. If I'd had the forsight to place a canvas on the floor I might have had something.

So why is Marla Olmstead's spilled paint more valuable than mine but less valuable than Frankenthaler's? Who makes these decisions? Clement Greenberg? The "art market"?

It seems to me that some of the artists prominent today got their art education at business school. Has Damien Hirst every produced anything without at least one eye already on the "art market"?

At least I get Hirst. I don't get modern art, but I get kitsch.