As A Boy, He Dreamed Of Becoming An Astronaut

Last night I was at a Koffee With Karan viewing party. As deviant as that behaviour is, it is not the subject of this post. That dubious honour belongs to a person I have never met, and a profession I had not heard of prior to this party.

The individual in question (let's call him Zoltan) is an art investment consultant. He caters to the nouveau riche who are also nouveau purchasers of art. Except that to them it's not art, it's an asset class to diversify into. And Zoltan helps them to make those investments. So far, so good. Artists get access to a market of buyers, the buyers get a diversified portfolio, Zoltan makes a commission, everyone is happy.

Except that we forgot about the art. You see, Zoltan's clients don't particularly want to display the art they're buying. They only care about whether the paintings they buy appreciate in value. They don't actually care to appreciate the paintings themselves. In fact they don't even need to see them, because Zoltan takes care of warehousing them. That's right, he warehouses them.

Somewhere along the way the entire concept of art got perverted. The way I see it, art is all about expression. Anything that is expressed can be considered art. Even this blog is art, albeit of a rather pedestrian standard. Conversely, anything that is not expressed is not art. And Zoltan, by arranging for people to buy paintings and stick them in a lightless warehouse, has become a middleman facilitating the temporary destruction of art.

Maybe I'm overreacting but the whole business seems twisted. What I find most disturbing is that even the artists themselves might prefer things this way. After all, the alternative is hardly better. The penniless artist's life is a great literary subject, but it's not a life anyone would aspire to. At least with Zoltan's help the artist can make a living from art and therefore create more. And there is still hope that when Zoltan liquidates his clients' assets, he will sell them to someone who believes that the proper place for a painting is a wall where people can admire it.

Yes, I can imagine this happy ending. That makes me feel a little better. But I remain convinced of one thing: Zoltan's profession may be a necessary one, but it is not admirable.