I don't believe in art, I believe in artists *

There is a boy in our son's foundation class whose mother is also an artist. It is a class of about thirteen children, all of them between the ages of four and five, and two of them, not just the one but two, our son being one of them, have mothers who are artists, which is to say full-time, committed artists, and not just your faithful hobbyist types. Anyway, this must be very unusual, I was thinking. Certainly in a normal, run-of-the-mill, state school, such as the one our children attend. What is more, our son's teacher, who is male, which is rare enough I'm told in a class of children this age, is also a bit of a creative spirit: an ex-surfer, in fact, who once played in a band. Add to this the fact the artist has been working on the mural at school - in between the major new piece at home - and you have a potent mix of creativity, autumn chills, and manic looks ricocheting off walls. The boy's mother came round the other day and it was impossible not to make comparisons between the two artists, especially as they sat next to each other and I could see them briefly as one. Our friend works on a fairly esoteric level, I was thinking. To me her work relies as much on theory as on any kind of soulful occupation of physical space. (She is a sculptor.) The work is slightly mysterious, and with so many potential meanings flying about, it can be difficult to work them all out, which may very well be her point. I don't always like art beating a clear and unambiguous drum. But I am a friend to private artists and do not need to be mistrusted. Artists, I would like to think, can relax in my company. Though this is not connected to our new friend, who is unpretentious, a great deal of what others more pretentious probably feel more comfortable in calling obscurantism does exist in art today, and it is a convenient place as a result for many people to hide. (You could argue there is a whole movement of this today: Hideous Art?) Words, on the other hand, or at least I like to think, though I would, are more revealing. Only the very cleverest of writers, and I am not one of them, can hide undetected behind the words. In our friend's case, I totally understand that if you work alone in a studio, one with a rat problem, as our friend does, there can - and must - be a kind of comfort in one's own sculptural unknown. But when you have already shown a glimmer of something special, as she does, it is perhaps helpful for others to coax out its meaning, to lure its hard surfaces into a position where it can yield its inner significance. This is what the artist is doing. She is good with other artists, especially if they are serious. No, I can detect an important relationship developing here. Just as I can celebrate the rest of the creative mix, from children to mothers to teachers alike.
*Marcel Duchamp (1887-1968)