It is perhaps time to re-evaluate the standards of merit applied in the criticism of contemporary visual arts. Take painting, for example. It can be argued that the works of the established pantheon (your Picassos, Van Goghs and Matisses) simply do not harbor the resonance and the poignant emotional clarity of those of the facile and uninformed amateur painter. Whether termed Outsider Art or Art Brut, these works have been assessed by callous relatives or next-of-kin as ideally suited to the dusty corner of a Salvation Army or Value Village outlet, which is precisely where the keen-eyed forager may come to find them languishing. 

Unhindered by anything resembling talent, with its inherent self-consciousness and code of responsibilities, the artists behind these works enjoy a spectacular freedom of expression. Moreover, the limited selection of intellectual and aesthetic tools at the disposal of our artists is ultimately of great reward to the beholder, for it engages our deductive faculties in a healthy, edifying game of “what’s up with that?”

You are invited to observe Figure 1, lovingly crafted by the enigmatic Maité. Obscured in silhouette, the dove (pigeon?) starkly embodies the secrets in Maité’s soul, her dreams, loves and fears, reflecting our own. She displays a mastery of this oft-essayed image, which, although seen most frequently on religious pamphlets and get-well cards (usually interpreted by professional photographers), retains a curious sense of timelessness in her care.

Metaphor and mystery are not the only options open to our artists. Gaze now, if you will, at Figure 2 (it is unclear whether the inscription “La Joie” is the title or the artist’s name). Who is this lavender-haired fairy godmother, we might very well ask ourselves. What special place did she have in the artist’s heart? Is she still alive? What’s the deal with her collar, there? One cannot ignore the soothing effect induced by the healing rays that issue forth from her beatific image.

Finally, fix your attention upon Figure 3, M.C. Bruneau’s deeply spiritual tribute to Lailah, clearly so dear to the artist. Is she his lover, his sister or both? Is M.C. in fact of the fairer sex, drinking from the well of loneliness as she worships the bountiful Lailah from afar? As beams of gold and lavender splendor leap forth in joyous harmony across an azure sky, Lailah’s very name brings hope and serenity to the beholder’s soul.

I challenge the ghosts of Pablo, Vincent and Henri to accomplish the same. Shamed, they remain tellingly silent.