Most of the art that I find appealing is what is classified as low-brow art. That doesn’t imply that I’m a moron (although I’m sure the name was created to make most people feel that way), but rather that I don’t often get excited about art that requires more interpretation than is possible without a Ph.D. or art that could only be at home in a museum. There’s a reason for this: I don’t go to museums. I mean, I’ve been to them and I love them, but I don’t live close enough to any major museums to go often. What I do see often is my house. I see it every day. And most of my seeing it, the parts not concerned with TV, sex, food, or disgust with the state of it, is thinking about what I could do to make it look better. I’ve given up on my current house but I’ve been decorating my next one in my head, and so far it’s a nice place to live.
That’s why my taste in art is what it is. I like art that I can put in my house (the imaginary one). I like art that can live with me and vice versa. Welcome to low-brow though I hate using that term. The artwork of Lisa Congdon is wonderful, but it doesn’t ever need to be in The Louvre. It needs to be in my house. It skirts that gentle line between art and craft, between folk and garage. It makes me smile and feel warm and want to be wrapped in a blanket with only my head sticking out. I fucking love that. There’s dimension and well thought out color, as well as innocence and joy. There’s just no way to go wrong with that combination.
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