The Artful Dodger

A Brick, Unknown Artist.

The subtleties of an artist’s creative work, to say nothing of the subjective nature of the viewer’s opinion, mean we are often on very soft ground indeed when we take it upon ourselves to criticise such work.
Who am I to say that a painting (for example) is good or bad, particularly if I have no knowledge of the artist’s intent? I am on far more solid—though liquid— ground when I assess a good scotch: I know what I like, and don’t like, and I can in confidence settle on that, knowing that you may have an entirely different opinion of the same scotch.
Allow me please the presumption to suggest I may also know what is a well-written book (Gore Vidal’s Julian) and what is not (E.D. James’ Fifty Shades of Grey).
But throw me in front of a painting, and I have no opinion of what is good and is not. Unless of course we are taking of a Graham Sydney, the quality of which is beyond dispute. But among the raft of contemporary artists—many of whom are dealing in obscurities—I completely flounder.
I have a young artist friend, Brett A’Court. I like his work. His Flesh and Spirit Exhibition is now showing at the TSB Wallace Centre in Hillsborough, although I am afraid I am unable to attend. And I have a friend in France who does some interesting work, though I am drawn to believe her most creative work yet is her family.
With these exceptions, I tend to journey, naked and vulnerable, through the world of art. I have no pretensions to say anything pretentious (Art often speaks for itself) and if that makes me appear ignorant, so be it—I am. Anyway, I  have a sneaky suspicion that one or two so-called “artists” are conning us—scamming us. Throwing a bit of paint about. However, that was said of Jackson Pollock, and no-one doubts his talent, for art and for life. Warhol on the other hand…
But I imagine that most artists today are sincere, and honest. One in particular.
I found him in Hamilton. He is currently exhibiting there. His name is Guy “Moskon” Horton and his Sans Serif exhibition is at the Wonderhorse Tavern in Hamilton—yes, there!  You might take to his stuff. I don’t. Wrong generation. Mr “Mockson” Horton specialises in a comic style. Indeed he admits to being, mostly, a jobbing illustrator—and that is fine.
However, if I am not taken by his art, I do like his honesty and his humour. In promoting his show on Facebook, Mr Horton invites us to “Gaze at the shapes, lines, piles and renderings of colourful goop created by 'Moskon' whilst sipping on artisan beverages and absorbing audible pleasure from Actual Nutritionist Mike Blanchett.”
No real pressure applied there. Just a good time.
But what really stuck me as a virgin traveller through Mr Horton’s world was the self-effacing spirit in which he treated his own work and his helpfulness in suggesting for me the somewhat cynical and comparative view I should have of it. Indeed Actual Nutritionist Mike Blanchett and Bricks may be the primary attractions of Mr Horton’s exhibition if the following admission by him is anything to go by:
“Come drink a cocktail, beer, wine or all three and gaze at some beautiful brick walls covered in pictures.”
Now, that is honesty in Art.