High time for obscure, incomprehensible pussy art

Before Mark Rutte professionally engaged in unprotected viewing of Donald J. Trump's rectum, he was the prime minister of the Netherlands who was sure that Dutch theatres only had 15 people sitting in the front row. It was 2011 and the beginning of a decade full of outraged artists. Whereas now we must seriously long for that very empty theatre back.

The prime minister was not right in 2011. Halls were certainly well-filled in the Randstad. Perhaps in ‘the region’ there were fewer audiences for subsidised theatre, but things were not bad. Indeed, since the most successful governing party has been in power unabated, things have only got better. Halls are full. festivals are bulging. Even at a relatively small theatre festival, you have to book in advance to see anything. 

But is it still distinctive? The well-known, and highly successful substack ‘Oat milk lite’, usually not averse to mildly-ironically following the masses to the latest hype in a world without flight shame, this time interviews a writer who looks at it differently, David Marx considers in Blank Space cultural development at the beginning of the 21st century. He observes an increasing uniformity. A ski jump that leads inevitably to fascism. (read the interview here)

Colourless

Anyone looking around and listening cannot help but agree. In the last 30 years, almost all colour has been removed from clothes and interiors disappeared. Cute tents look the same all over the world, no matter how original local they claim to be. 

And, it must be said, a bit of the same thing is happening in the arts. The performing arts, which I follow quite well, have long been dominated internationally by makers who show work that could be anywhere, could have been made anywhere. This is also because internationally operating artists are ludicrously expensive and productions with more than four collaborators soon need multiple co-production partners with deep pockets. Not to mention internationally leading music ensembles. Then ‘distinctive’ becomes a hallmark, but no more than that.

Seven sisters

But it is not just that price trend, it is also the public's taste that is becoming increasingly uniform, increasingly conforming to a kind of international average that does well on Instagram and TikTok. Those who are too weird will at best be laughed at globally and could possibly make some money from it, but generally the masses gravitate towards what sounds familiar, looks familiar and writes about seven sisters. The world is confusing enough as it is.

In its cultural policy, Mark Rutte's VVD believes that art only has the right to exist if it can keep its own trousers on. Only heritage deserves support, according to the liberals. 

For a small language area like ours, that means going with the crowd, making sure your halls are full and no one is left out. We thus create our own analogue algorithm. With the logical consequence that performances start to resemble each other. The umpteenth immersive Van Gogh experience is then as istagrammable as the Renoir experience, a year later. This venue's indictment of the world differs marginally from that, two theatre doors away.

Untraceable on Google

Shouldn't we return to an art world where the empty room is the norm? Where art is made by people the general public doesn't understand, but subsidy advisory committees can't boil soup either? Should we not move towards a subsidy system where applicants do not have to explain themselves in advance, but are given carte blanche by a government that sees risk-taking as a virtue?

Art in places that can't be found on Google Maps. I sign for it. What can we do against algorithms that keep presenting us with the same thing? Innovation rarely comes from big factories and carefully selected norm followers. Innovation comes from people who dare to deviate from the norm. Only then will we move forward.

Perhaps it is a sweeping sign that even the Oatmeal elite are starting to get bored that a writer like David Marx is now being taken seriously. 

It's time for non-instagrammable art, noticed only by casual visitors to an obscure gallery, or cherished by a small group of insider friends. Off to those little rooms with 15 people in row 1. Cosy. Phone off.

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