The Figge

Yesterday I visited the Figge, in Davenport. It's really quite a nice collection, certainly far better than I was expecting in a metropolitan area as small as the Quad Cities. There's a Dürer, and a Brueghel (the Elder). And the Mexican Baroque collection is very fine indeed.

Still, I have not yet come to an understanding about abstract art. There is a logic implicit in representative art: viz., its purpose is to portray its subject. When this telos is abandoned, we're left only with what the art makes us feel. (That's not to say representational art shouldn't make us feel things; indeed, it should. When it doesn't, it isn't art.) There's some abstract art I like very much; there's some I find to be quite without a point. The problem is that I have no reasonable gauge for thinking so, now, do I? I suppose all art can be appreciated to the extent that it takes some skill to create, but then we're left with the difficulty of appraising those works that neither represent anything nor demonstrate any sort of skill. Maybe a red circle on a white canvas makes you feel something; maybe it means nothing at all to me. But you'll have to explain the justification for paying thousands of dollars for it. Abstract art—even the good stuff—has led us into the thickets of subjectivity. This may not be a bad thing, but it is certainly not a comforting thing. Perhaps that is the point.