The Worst Painting

There exists, a gallery devoted solely towards the exhibition of bad art. The collection is salvaged from yard sales, garbage, or donated by sporting artists themselves– one who bragged: “I have worse! ” Sometimes art is left anonymously, like babies on a church doorstep or pets, found in carriers by the entrance of a local shelter. The online selections viewed at the Museum of Bad Art (MOBA) site don’t disappoint. Portraits of strange people with strange expressions. Garish colours expectorated on canvas. Bizarre imagery executed with limited skill. The lucid, articulate directors must have struggled to keep straight faces while they presented each piece with as much erudition as a tongue-in-cheek permitted. After navigating the site, I believe in the healing power of bad art. Of course, another artist might feel disheartened because awful work has secured a permanent exhibition venue when most of us scrounge for any kind of exposure. But it’s hard not to laugh, especially at the cheerful disregard for all that was ever held holy about art theory, practice or technique. Captions parody curatorial statements, yet exude warmth and affection for the works. My favourite is “Peter the Kitty” with his mad glare and four legs in a row.

As artists, we can labour for hours and still achieve rubbish. But we have enough training and/or experience to maintain pursuit for however long it takes, until we are satisfied by certain criteria. Looking at undeniably bad art can put one’s own efforts into perspective when we are frustrated or depressed about our progress. The egregious products created by others, invite us to stop taking ourselves so seriously– which may be an unexpected kindness, especially when impossible standards have unknowingly caused us grief. Really bad art, offers relaxation until we are ready, once again, to devote ourselves with renewed vigour and intensity to our goals.

It’s one thing when someone else’s efforts provoke laughter. What happens when we stumble across an abomination of our own? I call her “The Christmas Mermaid.” The original title escapes me; the painting is thirty years old. This moniker is more appropriate because of the red and green palette. Basically, it’s a painting of a torso. Instead of a head, ceiling fan blades rotate on top of the neck. A cloak fastens, literally, on to bare shoulders by a button on each side. Growing midway out of the torso, is an acid green mermaid who looks astonished to find a viewer present at her inception. The mermaid’s nipples are the same fire-engine red as the buttons on the cloak above her. She also wears an upbraided hairstyle, reminiscent of a yodelling Alpine maiden. I re-discovered this masterpiece during one of those purges we all conduct prior to a move. In one way, I was glad the Christmas Mermaid revealed how far I’d come. But I also realized there was a time when I truly thought this was a finished product, to be included in my body of work. For a while, I kept my own bad art around, not just for the company, but as a reminder of how easily I once accepted, the quality of such results. The painting was eventually tossed. I snuck out with it one night, to our co-op disposal units on “Garbage Alley.” I rolled the canvas up and slung it over my shoulder. Half-way to the bins, I had a small fit of the giggles because it felt like I was getting rid of a body. The jettisoned painting thumped on a heap of bags. Back home though, a panic erupted. What if there’s a signature? Visions of excited MOBA staff, wading through trash and seizing a rank find they’re able to give an artist credit for– pitched me back across the courtyard. I hoisted myself onto a rim and committed, my very first dumpster-dive. After a furtive inspection by the alley safety light, I concluded that no signature existed. Seriously though, I do recommend that artists claim ownership of all their work, even the dreadful stuff. Obviously, there’s no need to hoard it either. Most of us create weak or undeveloped art in any early stage of our career. It’s all part of the process. If a bit of tenderness returns for our own earnestly dedicated artist, then tolerance and humour in memory of an honest eyesore, grants us a capacity for learning and growing, beyond the limits of what we have already accomplished.