A friend gave me a book voucher for my birthday and although I was excited by it, it turned out to be the kind of gift that caused pain and should be avoided. The voucher was generous but the art books I bought were large, nearly 500 pages each, and expensive. To boot, I was unable to choose between two books and in the end justified the purchase of both with the argument that it would ensure that I would be up to date with current trends. The price I paid was hurtful not only because the books cost three times the value of the voucher but also because my self esteem took a beating as these books made me feel like a has-been.

I have yet to finish reading the second book but I think I have the gist of them now. There are several common genres but not much overlap in the works of art chosen for inclusion. It is significant that both authors selected works by Wim Delvoye. (‘Cloaca’ and ‘Cloaca Turbo” and you can see a similar variation of the work on the web here (that means click there!). They are representative and symbolic of the works contained in these two volumes as Delvoye has made a sculpture in which you deposit a meal at one end, the machine replicates the digestive system and voila! You get a stinking pile of crap at the other end.

I have reread the authors’ arguments several times and like so much of academia it is seamless. The authors show the historical lineage which runs from Marcel Duchamp’s urinal to Mary Kelly’s soiled nappies to Piero Manzoni’s canned artist shit to this work. Pooh, it seems, is a regular medium that is used to debunk mastery and medium. In addition, the writers point out the benefits of this pooh art to society, “It makes you aware of your bodily functions”, which, of course, is true. I think it shows that you can justify just about anything.

However, this work, like all works has mastery, medium and content. One has only to look at the machine to realize that it is sophisticated, though I suspect that Delvoye’s real skill was to find the funding and person who could make it. His medium is not new nor is it without an aesthetic even if that is one of shock and horror. This is a conceptual work, a genre which places the emphasis on the idea but I have still to discover its’ intellectual merit. In the end Delvoye’s work is no different from any other artist’s work but I have no interest in this subject, nor am I fascinated by the medium and it is not the kind of art I would like in my dining room.

It did make me think that I should place a pile of choice prunes on a plate as an artwork at my next showing. I feel certain it could be next big thing in the scatological genre. It would have the same historical linage and seamless academic argument but this time there would be the added dimension of audience participation. The thought was fleeting, desperate and occurred moments before I sunk into a depression and began to think that I am not an artist.

I have, however, recovered, and have subsequently found some benefit to my expensive and demoralising present as it has helped me define my parameters.

My historical perspective is that I align myself with pre-Duchampian movements and that ‘Cloaca Turbo’ and its’ kind is an art I reject and react against. Reacting against a work or a movement has as much precedence and merit as a developing one and this negation or affirmation is the swing of the pendulum and the way in which art moves forward. The art illustrated in the two publications I bought is, I hope, the height or outer limit of conceptual art and it has made me think about and value the merits of the much maligned “precious object” that is visually exciting. It makes me appreciate the merits of well composed works, craftsmanship and enduring and exciting mediums. It makes me believe in a creative process that is hands on as opposed to one that is predetermined by concept or directed from a distance.

For a while I had been intimidated by the authority of the written word, the size of the books and the academic’s ability to rationalise. Coincidentally, through a chance meeting with the salesman for one of the books, the artworks have been put into perspective. I learned that there was only one of these books for sale in Kwa-Zulu Natal and that I had bought it. Suddenly, the king had no clothes on as it seems this kind of art has a very small following. If my friend’s gift caused some pain and bruised my self respect I still have to thank him for I have been forced to think and define myself and in a roundabout way they have shored up my self esteem.