Halloween and Loss (of Creativity)

My wife Carrie and I were invited to a Halloween party at an art gallery last Saturday night. A well-known artist was to be in attendance. We both wanted to do something interesting and unique, especially since prizes were to be given to the best costumes. First place was a free cruise.

So we assembled pieces of clothing and costumes that we bought or that we owned over the years. We decided to dress as something mysterious, slightly dark, strange.  A black mask covered my face under a long curly black wig. I wore a black-and-white checkered top hat, white shirt, black pants and flowing black cape. Carrie wore a white mask, a tiny top hat titled to one side, a white blouse, checkered white leotards, and a snug purple jacket. We were some strange, dark Harlequins. We decided to create not just costumes but characters. We chose to act our roles that evening. We wanted to set up an eerie, foreboding atmosphere. We would remain silent all evening, and, if necessary, mime our thoughts to the other partygoers.

We got to the gallery and peeked in the window. We saw a few simple homemade costumes. A man in a white T-shirt, jeans, and a house painter’s brush in his back pocket. A man with a tweed cap and a tweed suit—maybe Sherlock Holmes? A woman with a beard or tattoo painted on her face. All the other costumes were all store-bought: a Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man with a Ghostbuster, Colonel Sanders, Popeye and Olive Oyl, Cleopatra, and a guy in a toga holding a rubber pizza on a stick, presumably the Pizza-Pizza guy from Little Caesar’s. We thought we had a pretty good shot at a prize that evening. Possibly the cruise.

When we entered, we were greeted by one of the employees who asked us who we were. Staying in character, we silently stared at her. “You don’t speak?” she asked. We just nodded. “Are you from around here?” she asked. My wife nodded. I pointed at the ground. She gave a nervous smile. After all, I did have a long, plastic scythe with a skull’s head on the end. In the news recently, there had been some protestors at art museums around the world who had attempted to damage expensive paintings and then glue themselves to the wall in protest of “inaction on climate change.” I don’t get how that encourages action on climate change, but it was out there. Maybe this employee was worried about us being such nutcases.

We wandered around the art gallery, much as we usually do at these events, looking at the paintings on the walls. From time to time, an employee would come up to us, hesitantly say hello, and ask us some innocuous question. We would simply nod or point or shake our heads. “You’re smiling in there, I’ll bet,” said one of them. But we simply stared.

Eventually Caesar with the pizza came up to us. He tried to make casual conversation, then jokes, but we remained silent. It wasn’t hard. A little chuckle escaped my mouth at one point, which he assumed was for one of his jokes, but it was really from the sight of the toddler who had crawled between us and was pointing and giggling. Caesar offered me a beer. I shook my head slowly. Silently.

When it came time for the judging, my wife and I waited expectantly. Caesar, it turned out, was the guest artist, and he had been talking to the patrons to judge the costumes. He announced that he had selected the winners: Colonel Sanders, Popeye, and Cleopatra. All off-the-shelf costumes. Cleopatra’s was at least complex and worn well, with a nicely draped gown, crown, and golden bracelets. She even had the hairdo. Popeye wore cheap felt pants and shirt with cloth-covered, tattooed foam forearms. Colonel Sanders had a white suit, black tie, and paste-on goatee.

We were disappointed, but we waited through the award presentation and politely clapped for each winner. The gallery manager then gave a short bio of the artist followed by the artist’s talk about his artwork and his inspirations. As soon as it ended, we silently left the gallery and headed home.

As we walked to our car, amid the stares, nods, and compliments of those who passed us in the hotel/casino, Carrie and I talked about our disappointment. We also talked about the artist and his artwork. Carrie is an artist, and we collect art, and we have some strong opinions on the subject.

So why do I bring all this up? It seems like a personal gripe, and not the kind of thing I normally write about. But as I thought about it, I had some reflections about society.

This artist was a Midwesterner who seems to have changed his name to sound particularly patriotic. His way of dressing, his physique, and his attitude would make most people guess that he’s a plumber or construction worker rather than an artist. He creates a lot of Americana, most of it abstract versions of American flags, Statues of Liberty, and American Indian figures and scenes. Some of his works, in fact his favorites, are just streaks of dull colors on washed out canvases. I know some people like that kind of thing. We don’t.

This artist talked about his inspirations—his wife, his country, the Midwest. I’ve heard the spiel before. About how he cherishes his art and does it for love not money. Yet, his humble brags seem transparent as he makes a lot of money off works that I can’t believe take more than a few hours to create. When I was a kid, I bent paperclips into bizarre structures, just out of boredom. When adults asked me what I was making, I told them that these were sculptures. I made up deep-sounding but meaningless titles like “Fear of Humanity” and “Insecurity vs. Reflection.” I even pointed out when they were placing it “upside down” on the table. They thought I was an artistic genius.

This artist claimed that he picked Cleopatra because his Caesar needed her. He picked Colonel Sanders because his fraternity always served Kentucky Fried Chicken. And he picked Popeye because he loved watching Popeye as a kid.

Did he not pick us because we frightened him? But this was Halloween. Wasn’t that the point? Children have funny costumes. Adults have scary costumes. Or sexy costumes. Or scary sexy costumes.

And aren’t artists supposed to be creative and risk takers? Why would an artist choose a cheap, mass-produced item over one that obviously took creative energy and effort and where we also created characters and performance? It felt to us like this “artist” wasn’t really an artist. He chose the safe picks. The non-frightening, non-controversial picks. He chose mediocrity.

I think of all the churned and rechurned superhero movies these days. Or the sequels to sequels. Or the remakes. They’re all comfortable and unoriginal, but they make money. Have we lost our creativity? Does our culture just want the same tried-and-true over and over again? When I was in film school, I always challenged the three-act structure that my teachers insisted on. Usually my effort failed, but sometimes it was great. When I write my novels, someone usually points out where I deviated from the standard, even if I didn’t realize it.

So has our society become dull and predictable? Or maybe I’m just pissed off that we didn’t win that costume contest. I was looking forward to that cruise.