Under the surface

A great way to divert my son’s attention, if only briefly, from the lure of fragrant blossoms and free seeds is to ask him hard questions about art. He doesn’t have all the answers. Nobody does. But he’ll likely have pondered the question.

‘I loved Future Library,’ my sister says, as we soak up the sun over late lunch outside Modern 1 in Edinburgh. ‘I can see that’s art. But what about the Sarah Lucas? That reminded me of pained intestines tied in knots.’

He scratches his bearded chin and nods. ‘Yeah, but I thought it had a sensual curviness from some angles. It is art.’

‘Why?’ I ask him. ‘How can ladies’ tights stuffed with fluff be art? And how can the Lucas and say the Mona Lisa both be art? What can they possibly have in common?’

‘Not much visually,’ he says. ‘But one of the great discoveries of the 20^th century, according to Arthur C. Danto, was that something could be art without being pleasing to the eye. The history of art until then was all about aesthetics. Artworks had to be beautiful.’

‘Who’s Arthur C. Danto?’

‘Philosopher and art critic. Done a lot of thinking about the question: What is art? So have I. But he’s written more books than me.’

‘Yeah, but you’re here and he’s not. Tell us what you think.’

A little dachshund, from the next picnic-table, sausages it’s way between his feet, chasing a sycamore leaf and making him smile.

‘A good artist is trying to do something specific,’ he says. ‘So an artwork goes through a process of being made with intention. There is meaning in the artist’s mind.

‘Some contemporary art is missing that, I think. So when you look at it you, the viewer, don’t get any meaning from it. When you see good art and think about it, on the other hand, you don’t necessarily get all of its … Platonic meaning, if you like. You do get a shadow of that though. And it’s enough.

‘But you only get that because the artist put it there.’

‘What you’re saying reminds me of Hemingway’s thoughts about writing,’ I say. ‘He claims that most of the meaning of a good story is under the surface. The quality of what the writer does not say is the test of a good story. He called it the Iceberg Theory.’

‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘And quite similar to what I’m talking about.’

‘So what meaning did you get from Future Library?’ my sister asks.

‘The idea is appealing and original, I think,’ he says. ‘It’s an optimistic piece. There’s faith there that despite wars, floods and climate change, people will still be around in 100 years and will want to read books, rather than simply survive from one day to the next, in a post-apocalyptic hell.’

Much as I’m enjoying the chat, I have to stand up now to give space to the small apocalypse that my iceberged Americano has set off in my tummy. ‘Should we go look at the flowers?’ I ask and turn to get their response.

But they’ve gone. Never seen either move so fast. Largo is their usual speed, but from a sitting start they’ve leapt straight to allegro, leaving me with the friendly dachshund sniffing at my toes.

Looking over to the herbaceous border, I can see Sis shoving something into her pocket, in a manner that would be furtive in someone less elegant, while my son has an appreciative nose buried in some pale, pink phlox.

The dachshund looks up at me hopefully, so I offer the last corner of my raspberry almond flapjack, which he gobbles gratefully. ‘What is the meaning of a carnivore eating a vegan biscuit?’ I ask him.

He studies me with big brown eyes and ambles amicably away, in silence.