Imogen Haisman

The rather abominable trope of quiet luxury has sadly yet to brush its influence upon the art world and, as a result, I am calling to action concern on what one could coin, nouveau kitsch. 

*DISCLAIMER* Whilst, yes, this is a matter of taste, we’re not merely defining taste levels here – but rather drawing in on the binary of contemporary practices versus the commercial “trinkets” that overflow our current market. There’s no right or wrong way of navigating what art is for you, but a spotlight needs to be placed on the dizzying growth of galleries that sell a Bathing Ape-esque gorilla. Immediately.

First it’s worth establishing the traditional semiotics of kitsch; popular, cheap, marketable. 

Kant and Hegel called upon this need for authentic and self-conscious notion of originality, that will ultimately always trump any form of reproductive art or ‘craft’. Craft alluding to the mechanic means of creation – similar to these ‘poster boards’ that insist on laying the cheap thrills of popular culture together into grotesque collage. (cc’d below)

Another delectable piece for the home, “My Name is Mona” could be yours for the modest price of £4,795.

Whilst commercial gallery must remain just that, commercial – we now have an ever growing body of (horrendous) work that feels akin to the subcategory that evolved to be known as kitsch. 

Just for balance, I’m weaving in here a wonderful example of hyper-real artifice by director Alex Prager to highlight that there is still hope for this genre.

A different medium of course, but Alex’s signature stylised body of work brings brilliantly to light how to call upon past era’s through the her distinctive use of archetypes, everyday objects, humour, and allegory—along with her signature technicolor facades.

A) Why are there now so many of these. B) We really should have left the neons to Dan Flavin.

My favourite quote pertaining to this particular institution taken from Joe Bromely; “Best believe some poor sod is saving up to buy something terrible, conned by the “Mayfair gallery” premise, only to have their savings wired to an LA-based tosser mass-producing ghastly prints.” 

The fallout result of this budding market consequently places the adjacent art practices of our time in wonderful contention. It is not hard to find anything that doesn’t feel that much more truthful, when put up against a spray painted silhouette of Mickey Mouse. 

Such repetitive imagery I suppose is an aim to forge a sort of “brand” for these artists. Not in the sense of iconographic semiotics through ones style, but rather an artist who congregates pre existing texts and figures that relate immediately back to their audience thus quickly forming a style akin to a logo. Sort of like an overly branded knock off handbag.

Or as Joe Bromely notes as fake ‘tat’. Pierre Bourdieu’s coining of conspicuous consumption has never felt so apt.