Lynn Ruth Miller finds pretentious is as pretentious does

A German artist, Wolfgang Laib, wanders around the foothills of the Alps collecting four jars of bee pollen every spring. He arranges the pollen on a floor in various shapes and exhibits the results in art spaces all over the world. His current exhibit called Pollen From Hazelnut is on display at New York’s Modern Museum of Art, a large yellow blob on the gallery floor. Viewers stand before the mass of pollen that took the 62 year old Mr Laib 20 years to gather. “It’s amazing what happens,” he said. “They feel like they’re standing in front of the sun. They begin to weep. And, occasionally, they sneeze.”

This exhibit brings to mind the eternal question: what makes art, art? I have to say that there have been many moments in my life when I have wept and sneezed over something I would hardly exhibit in an art gallery. Just the other day for example, I was addressing a perfectly lovely slab of fish at a restaurant in Brighton. It was seasoned imaginatively with several varieties of pepper. As I chewed, the tart, acrid combination of lemon, fish and pepper brought tears to my eyes until, at last, I sneezed. I did not insist that the waitress send the dish (beautifully presented as it was in its nest of shiny multi-colored vegetables) to The Tate. Instead, I wiped my eyes, blew my nose and ate it. I have to say it was a lot tastier than bee pollen and to my hungry eyes, just as lovely.

The first installation I ever saw was back in the ‘90s when a friend of mine confined 50 unpaired children’s shoes in a cage of barbed wire and won the prize for her student exhibit. That work of art also made me weep. I shed tears for the unwanted children, the abused, misunderstood, tender-hearted, innocent babies of the world. I did not sneeze however and that just might have been what kept my friend’s exhibit from making the big time.

“I’m sure they were appalled at her poor housekeeping skills”

I doubt if anyone wept or sneezed at Tracey Emin’s ‘My Bed’. Instead, I’m sure they were appalled at her poor housekeeping skills. Had my mother seen it, she would have turned up her nose and said: “That girl will never keep a husband at the rate she’s going.” And my mother might have been right. However, the thousands of pounds Emin has made on her art work has made it possible for her to continue creating exhibits that mirror her life without worrying about her matrimonial potential.

But is ‘My Bed’ art? Is bee pollen spread out on a gallery floor a work of creative excellence? Art is supposed to be a reflection of the society we live in and the life that traps us. It is certainly true that both these museum pieces make us ponder over what we are supposed to be doing with the time we have on the planet. Laib’s work reminds me that when bees are buzzing in my garden, they are creating a teen tiny bit of something far larger than themselves. When I contemplate Emin’s work, I realize how fortunate I am to have a washing machine.

The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls. – Pablo Picasso