I am the furthest thing from an art critic there is.

I consider myself a meat ad potatoes kind of art lover. That is, I appreciate artwork drawn or painted so I can tell what the artist was looking at or thinking about when he or she was inspired. I want to
enjoy a painting’s beauty with very little thought given to what this means and that means. Hey, if it matches the sofa and the Lazy Boy recliner, I’ll buy it.

You can call me uneducated or close-minded or challenged in the art appreciation department, but I derive little pleasure in standing in front of a painting at a dimly lit art gallery trying to decipher the meaning of a gallon of paint thrown on a piece of stretched white canvas. After a while I start thinking what I’m looking at is the product of the gallery owner’s first-grader and would best be appreciated attached to a refrigerator door with vegetable magnets.

I recall standing in one such dimly lit art gallery during a high school field trip. The picture whose meaning I was trying to interpret was a bunch of red blotches on a white background. As I scratched my
head in confusion, a tall, emaciated Vogue model type and her male companion who wore a purple beret stepped up to the red blotches on white canvas and gasped in delight at its presence.

“Oh, it is exquisite,” she commented. “Is it not?”

“It’s to die for,” beret boy said exuberantly. “I can feel the artist’s pain. Can you not?”

“Oh, I can. I can.” She paused for a personal moment of contemplation. “The strokes of his brush are brilliantly representative of his personal strikes at his anguished past. The crimson contrast against the white canvas emphasizes his incessant longing for personal acceptance.”

“Oh, dahling,” beret boy cried out. “Hold my ears. It is screaming at me!”

“We must go,” she said. “We must leave this place before I suffocate in the sorrowful emission pouring into my heart from this painting which draws me closer like moth to flame, yet repulses me with every eyeful.”

The couple scurried away to feel the pain of another artist whose green blotches on white canvas hung on another wall.

I squinted for a moment at the red blotches again. I then moved closer and read the name of the painting which was printed on a small brass card on the wall.

“Red Blotches on White Canvas.”

I smiled to myself. Maybe beret boy and his fashion waif were not all they thought they were. It was obvious to me from that day on that art appreciation was definitely in the cockeyed eye of the beholder. Especially when I recall that the price to have “Red Blotches on White Canvas” hanging over the living room mantel was $3,500. My Farah Fawcett poster was only $1.75 at Roses.

The Farah poster has long been trashed and I’m now nearly 50. Has my acceptance of modern art expanded? Well, “Red Blotches on White Canvas” is not presently hanging in our house, but I do try to accept all sorts of artistic expression—no matter how off-the-wall they may be hanging on the wall. But let me assure you, this does not mean I will be seen wearing a beret in public. I will never adorn felt fashion accessories from France—they clash with my Redwing work boots.

No matter how educated and open-minded you are, there is one art form that is difficult for anyone but the artist to appreciate yet its popularity has skyrocketed and you see examples of it hanging everywhere. Graffiti.

What’s the deal with graffiti? A kid has got to have a lot of extra time on his or her hands to fit in spray painting something on a bridge or a church or a dumpster.

“It’s a visual expression of what I’m feeling inside, man,” I heard a teenager say on the news a while back.

Well, isn’t that special. By the way, kid, that bridge and that church and that dumpster are properties on which the rest of us pay taxes. And we are the ones who have to dole out extra funds to have your “visual expressions” removed from the bricks and cinder blocks around town.

I have a few tips for all you graffiti artists. If you are so inclined to express yourself; get the grammar and spelling right. “John are here” does very little to get your message across. It’s “John was here.” Also, there is no “u” or “z” in the word “was.”

And must you use such profanity? It is bad enough that you spew out a string of curse words in your everyday juvenile conversations, but what makes you think the rest of us want to see them when we are taking a peaceful drive in the country or a quiet walk in the park? Can’t you get your fill of profanity from cable TV shows without making us suffer?

Here’s a tip. If you want to tell your girlfriend how much you love her, I would recommend a nice handwritten letter on pretty stationery; I do not suggest spray painting “I love you Bobbie Lee, yours forever, Billy Bob” on an overpass. You just might find out how she really feels about you when she tries to run you over in your driveway. Women like subtlety. They do not like love notes written in Rust-o-leum.

I take my faith very seriously. Still, I get upset when I see “Jesus Saves” spray painted on an overpass. We know Jesus saves and it is a good message to spread, but I don’t think he appreciates it painted on a concrete pillar near the interstate. I don’t believe there was any such thing as spray paint during His time on Earth. And if there was, I really can’t imagine the Son of God vandalizing public property by writing “I Save” in bright fluorescent colors on the stone wall of a synagogue. If you really want to impress somebody, show up at church on Sunday.

Everywhere you look there is somebody saying “Hey, let’s take care of this Earth today so there will be something left for our children tomorrow.” All I can say is that it is difficult for us adults to preserve something if a few kids continue to tear it down.

For all of you who thrive on destructive artwork like graffiti, why not buy yourself a sketch pad and a pencil instead of a can of spray paint and start creating some visual expressions that will raise your personal worth and not your taxes. We are all different, so don’t expect everyone who sees your sketch pad to appreciate what you have drawn, but I assure you they will appreciate the fact that our scenery is no longer scared by your destructive strokes.

I am the furthest thing from an art critic there is, but you don’t have to be an accomplished art critic to know that swastikas spray painted on the front door of a church or an unflattering comment about President Obama misspelled on the side of a bridge are not and will never be considered masterpieces in anyone’s eyes.

So for all you juvenile delinquents who don’t want to buy a sketch pad and are unable to control your urges to paint something on a bridge or a church or a dumpster, you are invited to help me finish putting the second coat of paint on the outside of our house. I’ll supply the brushes and plenty of encouragement.