By Kevin Lee Associate Editor

One of the first things taught in the most rudimentary art classes is the use of perspective. Sad then more people don’t apply the word’s philosophical definition beyond a physical medium.

In 1991, bargain hunter and retired long-haul trucker Teri Horton wandered into a San Bernadino thrift shop and spied a large canvas awash in multi-colored paint in dribbles and streaks. Though she didn’t find it particularly appealing, Horton thought it would make a good present to lift a friend’s spirits and haggled the shopkeeper’s price down from $8 to $5.

Horton’s friend was grateful but concurred with Teri’s low opinion of the piece. Before long, a local art teacher viewed the sizable abstract and mentioned a possibility the work could be a product of Jackson Pollock, a giant among Twentieth Century abstract expressionists. The teacher also let slip the tens of millions of dollars such a find would be worth.

Horton became as ornery an iconoclast as Pollock himself when the hardscrabble grandmother ventured from her world of trailer parks and nights at the VFW bar into a domain of illusion and affectation. Her subsequent travails were turned into “Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollock?,” a late 2006 documentary film with a title derived from Horton’s initial response to the art teacher.

Horton researched the likelihood of possessing a rare find worth a fortune. Her inquiries were met not with mere rebuff but blatant derision from various cognescenti who ridiculed her for entertaining the notion of a lost Pollock. She was called “an imbecile,” patronized and dismissed.

Mockery steeled Horton’s resolve.

The film introduced a few of the arts mavens who snubbed Horton and the unsavory arrogance emanating from them gives full credence to the pretentiousness that turns away many potential art lovers from the high brow realm.

Foremost among the parade of dilettantes is Thomas Hoving, former director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The foppish Hoving views the piece, going through an exaggerated display of eccentricity during examination, then haughtily dismisses the work as garbage.

Later hearing of Horton’s resentment, Hoving snorts, “She has no right to be bitter. She knows nothing. I’m an expert. She’s not.” When informed that her acrimony stems from her treatment more than differing opinion, the former director seems unable or unwilling to understand the results of his condescension.

Horton eventually employed a team of advocates including a forensics expert whose research into the authenticity raised compelling evidence gathered not only from Horton’s painting but also from Pollock’s studio in East Hampton, Long Island.

Still, amidst the loggerheads steeped between Horton and her detractors, one question continually jumped to the fore of my mind: “Essentially, does it really matter that much?”

Amidst their consternation, Horton and her foes have lost sight of the seminal intention of art, which is the desire to move someone emotionally. All they’re consumed with at this point are the dollars and cents and being proven “right.”

Admittedly, on initial glance, the painting didn’t strike me as an original Pollock. It’s technique seemed different in some almost unnamable fashion from his other work. But even so, it’s just a matter of opinion and ultimately of no more value than two guys in a bar arguing over whether Joe Louis was a better boxer than Mohammed Ali.

It doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it for what it is or what it says to me.

And it’s certainly no excuse for the treatment Horton received from the intelligentsia she sought for guidance. If the purpose of art is to share our humanity and connect with others, then these so-called experts have lost their focus and forgotten the lessons to be learned from something they claim to love. They have failed tragically.

In essence, if you like someone’s work, then you like their work. Why care whether someone else validates it or not? Perspective is vital to true appreciation.

I understand how easy it is to be superficially distracted and persuaded by intricacy, but I also know that regaining perspective can come at a high cost.

Earlier in life, I was easily preoccupied with a variety of pursuits but over the last few years the onset of health concerns have whittled away at my list of diversions. Things I once thought seminal to fulfillment have faded away in the shadows of terminal illness and I find things once insignificant more essential.

Arising among all of this is a further dismissal of external validation. I just plainly don’t care whether someone agrees with my opinion of art and while I like for others to share an emotional experience I enjoy through any given medium, whether they do or not has no bearing on what it brings to me. I still derive the same pleasure from the work regardless of the whims of others.

Glitterati be damned, but Shakespeare was exact. “This above all: to thine own self be true.”

Life is too short and unsure to think otherwise.

Kevin Lee is Lagniappe associate editor. Contact him at klee@lagniappemobile.com.

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