The Illusive Definition of Art

Defining art can be a tricky business, I've had several run ins where my opinions on the line between nonsense and brilliance have gone before me. But when it comes to my own artistic ventures, I have been fairly reclusive - only attempting to be creative on a few occasions.

Around 18 months ago my girlfriend and I decided to exchange paintings before we both left for university, a romantic and sweet prospect, and I have to say the gift I received was both thoughtful and a joy to behold.

Unfortunately, my smear-on-a-canvas resembled something more fitting to a mentalist's eruption of creativity, uncovered in an abandoned flat after a suicidal killing spree. Needless to say, it was not quite as well planned or well executed as the painting that now sits so elegantly on my wall.

Now, I wouldn't class this shameful painting as art, and yet others would do - well at least for argument's sake, they would.

The label of 'art' unfortunately blankets a vast area of what I would more accurately label as 'terrible examples of misspent time', and yet we are forced to respect and revere the views of the few who study art and whose opinions, for some reason, have an air of intellect.

I recently found, whilst wasting my life online, an example of this kind of art; the sort that has been so built up by pretentious artists and critics that it has cascaded over the brink of normality and in the end we are somehow left watching a woman being injected with horse plasma and expected to think it's amazing.

I would readily place my own shoddy artistic achievements alongside this life-threatening freak show, and yet some would hail it as a magnificent example of man's interconnectivity with nature.

As an English student - despite my best attempts to run away to do something a little more functional - I am constantly subject to these kinds of views. I am lectured on Freud's Oedipus complex and question my relationship with my mother, and I'm told about the theories of Platonic idealism relating to Essentialism whilst concluding that things are, on the whole, being over thought somewhat.

These theories, like sycophantic art forms, prevail despite their incomprehensibility. Whilst looking at these artefacts, you can try to fool yourself and dream up meaning behind the delicate brushstrokes, sentence formations, or casual eyebrow movements but it will remain on your part to fabricate these hidden messages.

As these art forms are impossible to deconstruct and understand, they rely on our own willingness to assign meaning to them. The various experts and professors of art don't deserve our high accolades and awards; they're as clueless as the rest of us, they just assert themselves with a little more gusto.

Which is why I can claim my own artistry to be postmodern, revolutionary and aesthetically pleasing whilst in full knowledge that, regrettably, my deftness with a paintbrush would fail to impress even the least cultured dormouse.

Educate the Masses!

A few years ago I began courting a girl as I'd recently split from another and I, subconsciously, am terrified of being single. I remember the date exactly, not because this story is particularly interesting, but because it happened to be the day I passed my driving test - first time I might add.

It was a frosty late December morning, the 29th, and I made my way from Hastings to Ashford to meet this girl. We had an average day, little happened other than watching Gavin and Stacey in her callously central-heated home - the cooling systems in place were not to turn down the thermostat, but to open windows above radiators, allowing the warmth to seep out into the Kentish suburban sprawl. So I was already annoyed. More to come...

Towards the end of the day I found myself stood in the hallway talking to the girl and her mother (for some reason mums like me, unfortunately I did not return the feelings in this case).  We were discussing a topic of unrivalled thrills and intrigue - my home village of Northiam. I ventured to describe it as quaint, to which the mother simply agreed. Unfortunately - for her at least - the girl looked confused as asked, 'What does quaint mean, mum?'. In doing so, she tumbled down in my estimations (Vocab snob, I know. I have no shame in being labelled so). The mother then, with a wry look of 'I almost got away with that' ashamedly had to utter the immortal phrase we all dread after blagging intelligence; 'I don't know'.

Needless to say, I left swiftly and this has lingered on my mind ever since. How can a women so bereft of both language skills and honesty be trusted to successfully raise five children!? This still irks me - as I'm sure is obvious from my retelling of it over two years on. I would genuinely love to bolster our country's grasp on its rich, diverse and almost infinitely malleable language, especially as it would not take all that much to change to make a significant difference.

Unchallenged conventions and blindly accepted rules are often a hotbed for problems, at least in my mind anyway. One recently asserted to me is the necessity to stick to simple lexicon in journalistic writing, under the argument that full and proper communication of facts to audiences is the most important element in this form of storytelling.

It seems to me, though, that this act is diluting our highly evolved language and casting it back a few thousand years to a flat, lifeless language that merely comments on what is seen, and fails to give any depth to the described. This continual repetition of the same old jaded phrases in the tabloid papers does, indeed, allow for the ignorant masses to effortlessly digest the poorly nutritional morsels printed every morning, but it also perpetuates their own ignorance and failure to broaden their own vocabulary.

I propose that if newspapers - probably the most widely read literature daily - were to expand their vocabulary to include just some of the more wonderful words and sayings currently residing under the banner of obscure , we could use our fantastic linguistic tool to far greater effect, both as writers and readers. By drip feeding in such a way, it would become possible to extend the nation's linguistic education far beyond our school years.

I do agree that proficient communication is paramount in journalism; with less and less space to give our messages we must be concise, interesting and engaging. All within 160 characters, it seems an impossible feat, but we all are so keen to know what is happening now, so we are all slowly becoming experts and condensing messages, be it through utilising the ugly txt spk, or by deliberating our messages and making every word count, we all do it.

Something that is not, never has been and never will be, in question is that a larger arsenal will give journalists (or anyone else, for that matter) better communication. The unfathomable 32 demonstrative pronouns that Aleutians have access to can pinpoint descriptions in incredible detail that is difficult to fathom in our language. Equally, I'm sure that the varied choice of adjectives available to us would confound any ice-dwelling man.

By saying a man 'smiled', one can paint a picture, but by saying he 'smirked', or 'grinned', or 'beamed', or 'sniggered', one can compose a photographic image of any situation. Surely that would be preferable to writers? By making use of the tools available to us, we can both report news more efficiently and accurately, but we can sound more intelligent whilst we do it, and no-one can resist sounded intelligent when they can.

I cannot pretend that the feeling of using words others are unfamiliar with does give a smug sense of superiority, especially when that person is your self-assured arrogant lecturer (that was a good day), but the revelation of continually learning new words and communicating with exponential proficiency  would be infinitely preferable to the guilty and unfounded superiority complex that festers within me

Something needs to change to allow this to happen, the obsession with dumbing down has to stop before we are drummed into the ground believing that uneducated interpretations and poorly thought out opinions are as valid as researched and respected studies.

Now get out there are start saying 'quaint' to mothers overburdened by five-too-many children that they are unable to educate themselves. And yes, it is definitely the job of parents to educate their offspring, don't pass the buck and expect Miss Wilson and CBeebies to do it all you fat slob.

Happy new year!

Also, it seems as though Sky have moved into the sex-trade with an advertisement Facebook provided me with just now.