Artists and the art

Recently, at a gallery I heard someone say: “Jackson Pollock was such a drunk. I can’t stand his paintings”. In 2005, I watched Tiger on the third day of the Open at the Old Course, number 12 (Heathery), and I’ll never forget the sound his club made as it “whooshed” through the air five feet away.

When an artist becomes the event, the thing, overshadows the art itself, the art becomes this bit of forgotten matter, which for a time doesn’t matter, but in the end it is the painting and the shot, the putt under pressure that endures, maybe. People argue otherwise. The artist does matter. We need to understand the artists to appreciate the art. Where the writer “was” is essential to appreciating the story. Who edited the work is just as important as what the writer originally drafted. The caddie is sometimes a crucial element of the player’s play.

Tiger an artist? Sure. There are the mechanics to his swing, the emotion of his play, his caddie, his grip, stance, and the way he accelerates the club head to make that distinctive whoosh sound that when combined with a ball makes an incredible distance result.

On that July day, Tiger never took his eye off the fairway while standing on the 12th tee. He pulled his three wood from the bag and took a few practice swings. Steve whispered to him to hit the three iron instead; took it out of the bag, shining the head. Tiger handed him back the three wood. Aim left of the bunker, that spot between it and the bushes. Three more practice swings and that whoosh. Silence. A huge crowd, no sound. Ernie Els standing with his arms crossed looking out toward the green. The ball streaks, the whoosh, follow through, staring down the ball as it hits a few feet to the left of the small bunker and kicks up on the green in eagle shape. Steve remarked he hit a better shot during the practice round and he might have teed the ball too high.