Barnett Newman, you suck

You like box easels.

Paint. Paint indoors. Paint outdoors. Paint even though you don't know how to paint. And one of the most convenient ways to get started is with a box easel. You can get one with legs, if you prefer (definitely more useful, but bulkier and a lot more expensive).

"But I don't paint!" you say? Well fuck you, you do now. I've had a real epiphany about this art form: a bad painting is better than no painting (no one else has ever thought this before ever; it's entirely original to me--I checked!). Now, before we get too philosophical, allow me to offer an exception. An all-black canvas called "Study in Happy," inevitably coasting one million dollars, isn't better than no painting--in fact, it isn't better than having your testicles stomped with hob-nailed boots--so let's not indulge in thought-experiment paintings (for more on the subject, read The Painted Word). But other than those, the most amateur painting ever is still cool.

Here's the thing: paintings don't have to be technically proficient to be enjoyable. I realize that's sacrilege in some circles. But the advent of photography changed the purpose of painting. No longer was painting the way we recorded what we saw. Photos capture objective facts very well (easy there, egg-heads, save your objections for someone who gives a shit about your over-intellectualizing). I'm afraid I don't see the point in creating a photo-perfect painting. I can respect the talent it takes, but I believe painters should pursue what paint does best: expressing personal bias or, simpler, decorating our lives. It doesn't mean that we have to declare the finger mashings of a four-year old the equal of Van Gogh, but it means that we can step away--miles away--from the elitest view of painting. Everyone can paint, and if the result isn't always art, it's undeniably the personal made public.

So where did we start? Oh yes, box easels. I love these things because they are the tools of my manifesto. Don't get stuck in a studio doing Art. See the world and say something about it with paint.

(And to all my beret-wearing detractors with doctorates in Abstract Expressionism, yes, someone did die and make me the greatest art critic in the world. Go smoke another cigarette.)