The occasional critic
Art critics, even occasional art critics like myself, are never allowed to utter the immortal words: “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like.” Except, it turns out, in the privacy of their own homes.
There’s something immensely liberating about owning art that has its value calculated on the basis of individual enjoyment, rather than on industry-determined artistic worth. And it’s extraordinarily satisfying watching guests enjoying a painting or a sculpture in an idle way, rather than the more committed consumption peculiar to a gallery event.
I tend to collect—if collect isn’t too grandiose a word for a selection of art that numbers only about 30 pieces—work by artists whose home base is Cape Town, with the exception of one or two essential geniuses such as Clive van den Berg and the oh-so-recently deceased Robert Hodgins.
In a sense, this is because those artists share an ethos, real or imagined, that I associate with the town that forged my identity. But actually it’s because it’s easy to wander into an artist’s studio if they’re neighbours. And also—and this is kind of crucial to most of us—you can get a good deal if you’re shopping locally, especially if you pop in just before lunch.
Much of the art I own I bought when the artists were young and just starting out, and evil gallerists hadn’t yet told them exactly how much they were worth.
Medina Morphet’s gloriously uncompromising abstract expressionism, for example. Ten years ago, no problem. Now, well ... at least it means I’ve made some good accidental investments.
Alternatively, I buy small and, therefore, relatively cheap works by big artists, such as my Brett Murray print of Bart Simpson with an erection (don’t ask). Of course, I’d prefer to own a huge Brett Murray sculpture, but then I’d have to move the helipad to the back of the mansion to make room, and that’s just rude to guests.
I love all the pieces I’ve bought, although the relationship has cooled with one or two. But my favourite piece is, unquestionably, Cardinal by Paul Edmunds. I bought it a good few years ago, for way more than I could afford.
How to describe it?—a silver ball built out of pins, painstakingly, pin by pin. It’s astonishingly heavy, given how ethereal it seems. When I look at it I see the artist, a man devoted to craft but haloed in art. And the ball passes one of the great tests of good art: children are irresistibly drawn to destroy it.
I suspect that is one of the reasons to collect art. Not to give kids something to play with, precisely, but to give people a touchpoint for living life; a focus that isn’t about consuming something, but about showing it respect.
