“There are painters who transform the sun to a yellow spot, but there are others who with the help of their art and their intelligence, transform a yellow spot into sun” – Picasso
‘Gay art’ is at a dead end; perhaps it’s just dead. Killed by overbearing narcissism, preening vanity, lazy repetition and low expectations. We keep being presented with utter shit and on the whole we seem to keep wolfing it down while congratulating ourselves on our appetite. Whether it be photography, film, illustration or painting, modern ‘gay art’ is almost entirely concerned with variations of the following:
Masculinity. Vulnerability. Sex. Sexuality. Grindr. Attractive naked men. Attractive naked men having sex. Attractive naked men masturbating. Men in their underwear. Cruising. Hook-ups. Sex. Naked men. Voyeurism. Body hair. Nudity. Sex. Making connections through sex. Expressing oneself through sex. Gay sexual subcultures. Fetishes. Sex. Men naked. Photos of naked gay friends. Vulnerability. Masculinity. No women.
This stretches all the way from countless Tumblr blogs and websites like Butt to an infinite array of short films and even James Franco’s ohGodthismustbeparodybutit’snot Interior.Leather.Bar. A polished take on it took critics by storm in Weekend – it at least had a narrative of sorts. What does all of this mean? What does it say, what does it illuminate and provoke and challenge? Being generous, it overwhelmingly relies on verisimilitude – gay men watch and recognise themselves as someone who enjoys sex but wants to meet that special someone, as someone who is attracted to ginger men, as someone who uses Grindr – but what’s so great about presenting things as they are, over and over and over again? Being less generous, it relies overwhelmingly on self-love. You’ll search the films, the naked boy club nights, the photos, in vain for unattractive/overweight/underconfident men. They are populated rather by guys whom gay viewers might want to fuck. That’s the hook to all of this and if the guys were replaced by less sexually appealing people the ‘art’ would undoubtedly meet with a less warm response. It is, of course, an unspoken hook: everything is covered in the fairy dust of ‘creativity’ in order to convince everyone involved, from the participants to the consumers, that a higher purpose is present. This delusion is the real creativity on display. There is certainly nothing to make us question our world or, God forbid, ourselves. There is no sense that there is a soul present, no attempt at Joyce’s “mode of life or of art whereby my spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom”. No transcendent beauty, no unbearable despair, no didactic provocation or reflective urge. It’s all so much ego-stroking shit.
‘Gay art’ (and clearly I’m talking overwhelmingly about gay men here) is of course not alone in this. Narcissism and circle-jerk relationships are widespread in modern Western society. Our popular culture is largely predicated on flattering our sense of self and encouraging triviality in both our interests and our emotions. Social media is neoliberalism-become-chimera, encouraging us at every turn to think of me me me. Forums like Instagram present photography which says absolutely nothing about anything as art. Gay art, however, suffers from that infantile disease of self-ghettoisation and ‘gay is good’. It’s spread at gay film festivals, in gay media, at gay-themed galleries and at gay nights. Indeed, the undoubtedly many artists who are gay and make art which doesn’t fit with the above themes are never labelled (or claimed) as ‘gay art’. As such, their work is subject to far more rigorous criticism as opposed to the free pass which most of this dreck, barely a step up from topless self-pics, receives when it’s presented and shared. To return to my most recent blog, a documentary about Chelsea Manning is unlikely to be playing at Dalston Rio any time soon.
I started by saying that gay art was at a dead end. It’s certainly difficult to know where it can possibly go from here. Progressing beyond this would entail not only stepping beyond narcissism but also leaving behind the ‘one-dimensional man’ who is little more than ‘Gay’. It would involve feeling uncomfortable and finding ways to feel special beyond being a ‘minority’ (which, incidentally, I’m sure isn’t confined to gay identity politics and its art). Difficult challenges, certainly. You can play your small part, however. Next time a ‘photographer’ shows you their photos of their mate in his sports socks or a ‘director’ uploads his film about guys meeting online and shagging – tell them it’s fucking shit. You’ll be doing us all a favour.