All art is completely useless. However, not everything useless is art. The difference is that the artist must decide that it is art, and, to a lesser extent, the audience must agree. The artist's opinion takes precedence, because the audience (i.e., the general public, the Great Unwashed), are generally a bunch of tasteless Philistines who think that little ceramic clown figurines are cute, and really do stand a good chance of increasing in value. Ok, maybe that's not the case, but the artist should have final say in what is or is not art. It's not like we're facing a plague of artists tearing up a newspaper and calling that action art. Sure, you'll always have a few people doing and creating odd, silly, and dumb things (interpretive dance) and calling it art, but we have to take the good with the bad. You want the Mona Lisa? Then you must also take someone's masterpiece "Dance of the Spring Snails (Happy Mate Slow Slime)." Or, as Sun Ra used as an example, a vacuum cleaner under plexiglass.
Considering my views on the subject, you're likely to think that I support these theoretical artists against any criticism. Such is not the case. Like Sun Ra, I appreciate art that displays decent amounts of skill, imagination, and creativity. But art should not be subject to arbitrary dismissal based on the opinions of individuals.
It has become clear that any definition of art is going to be fairly nebulous. Even my definition defines it as what it is not, and while that is not entirely satisfactory because it requires knowledge of the things that comprise the set of is not art, it is a definition that can be communicated without undue difficulty. Lictor's corollary also helps by reducing the overall gray area.
I'm really not obsessed with art, anyway; I'm obsessed with definitions. I also enjoy a rousing debate that involves a lot of intelligent ideas being tossed around.
Wait a second...buggering Buddhas. I'm getting soft!
Look at that: I called my opponents intelligent! I praised my intellectual rivals, those who would wrest from me my well-deserved fame. I don't know what came over me. Let me just slip into my Harlan Ellison personality...there. Ooh, snug.
Right, first thing: you're all a bunch of cretins. Lictor displayed the merest hint of a spark of intelligent thought with his argument, and any moron can see that his "theory" is just an extension of my own, or at least the part before he loses his spine, gets all wishy-washy and caves in to the "I know it when I see it" faction. No, let's not offend anyone, or challenge anyone's ideas too strongly. Hell with that: You're all wrong, and I'm right.
So I'm declaring myself the winner. And if I were half the writer I should be, I'd be taking a giant swig of bourbon right now. But I'm not, and my desk doesn't even have those low, large drawers that I would need to stash my booze bottles. So just pretend that I'm drunk while I'm writing this, because that's what I'm doing. I'm so bitter. So very, very bitter.
Get me a Canadian. It's time for lunch.