I was taught nothing of practical use about painting when I was a student. Worse than the daily dose of esoteric BS was the relentless, sneering attack on the subjects of technique and history, which were held in utter contempt. Pollack, so I was lectured, allowed his brushes to dry in cans of house paint, which he drizzled from stiff bristles onto unprimmed canvas on the floor. If that was good enough for him, it’s good enough for you–so said they. I wrote elsewhere about one professor’s favorite piece of painting gear–fishing boots. My artistic education can be summed up this way: daily attempt by inept professors to destroy the same clumsily constructed straw man. No questioning the received dogma; that was the way it was–and worse
Rubbish–worse than rubbish. Not only not true, not even important to the discussion–mere fashion. Worst of of all, it was all served up without the least bit of humor.
[Rant End]
