Feminist art always puts plain vanilla art lovers like me in a pickle. I can get slammed for liking the work in spite of it being feminist, and slammed for liking it because it’s feminist. Can’t I just like it? Highly politicized art of any stripe is a bear trap waiting for a rabbit.
Here’s my stance. Fuck you, I get to appreciate it on my own terms. I get to shed a tear when the Taliban trash the Buddhist sculptures in Afghanistan even though I’m not Afghan or Buddhist. I get to marvel at the art in Gothic cathedrals even though I think the most minor of the Catholic church’s human rights atrocities makes Cambodia’s killing fields look a bush league warmup.
So, anyway, [pant…pant…pant…] the bottom line is: me like Cynthia Consentino’s kick-ass art.
Holy shit, did I just compare feminists with the Taliban and the Khmer Rouge? Ha! That’s really funny. Talk about putting your foot in it.
I, even though I consider myself a rampant male feminist, should shut the hell up. Or be clearer.
So here’s the gist, restated without the exaggerated and inapt comparisons. In the same way that all great art transcends it’s medium or its inspiration, is more than the sum of it’s parts, so too does Cynthia Consentino’s art transcend it’s feminist roots and speaks loudly to our human condition.
There. That’s a little better than lining her up with Pol Pot.