My Kid Could Paint That - Review

                                     

Outside of politics and religion few things can get people as fired up as a debate on the value of modern art.

It's easy at first glance to dismiss it as lazy, a brainless splattering of paint created by someone who couldn't make the cut in the world of 'real' painting. Even within the art world there's a hardy core of people who decry it as little more than decorative wallpaper, or as a reviewer once described Jackson Pollack's work "a joke in bad taste."

That perception lies at the heart of My Kid Could Paint That, a documentary on the career of Marla Omstead. At the time of the film Marla was a four year old prodigy who's abstract canvases sold for thousands and made her the talk of the media. Then a 60 Minutes expose alleged that her father, not her, was the true painter and an intense backlash began. Today, after having videotaped her creative process to refute the charges Marla continues to sell paintings, but the controversy never truly died out. The filmed work differs in tone and style from her other pieces, and questions about their authenticity linger.

The filmaker never blatantly chooses sides, but by his choice of what conversations and film to include, it's clear he believes fraud was involved.

My own opinion? I think she did a lot of the painting, but I think her  father stepped in to help her out,  maybe simply by 'directing' her, or by finishing them himself. He certainly does himself no favors in this film. On camera he comes across as a stage Dad eager for the limelight, pushy with his daughter, a bit creepy, and if body language means anything, estranged from his wife.

No matter; I wasn't there. I can't tell you if she did the work herself, and neither can the director. More to the point - does it matter who painted them? Either way the paintings are stunning, 'worthy of the Metropolitan' or so one reviewer states on camera.. So if Marla didn't paint them, and her father did, who cares?

Apparently a whole bunch of people. I'm not naive. I know that a doodle from Da Vinci is worth more than a masterpiece from you or me. But it surprises me that it matters so much in this case. It's more than a financial issue, it's as if the artistic worth of the pieces are based solely on the girl.

I don't get it. To my mind having the paintings debunked would seem to be a boon to the art world. No matter their level of sophistication, how much of life and love and emotion can a four year old instill in a painting? As it stands, the paintings might be technically proficient but devoid of depth.

Ok, if she was outed your pocketbook would take a hit. But wouldn't you look at the canvas on your wall knowing that a grown man with a lifetime of experiences under his belt created it  and say "wow, there really is X and Y and G in this piece, and it truly means R and S and C?" Doesn't that mean something?

I guess not. And if you think that isn't the center of this whole Marla 'issue' top to bottom, you're crazy. Watch the film and listen to the condescension the gallery owner, Marla's gallery owner, has for abstract art as a hyper-realist himself.

It's all about our obsession with liking and valuing this work while at the same time holding it in contempt. It's twisted, it's foolish, and it's very real.

An interesting film, but short in length, wishy-washy on announcing the director's bias even while it's obviously atwork, and arguably guilty of (further) exploiting the child. As documentaries go, 74 out of 100.

* * * *

I used to scoff at modern art and consider it junk, but it's growing on me as I get older. I spent part of this evening on No Ordinary Moment looking at some pieces and thinking that I should encourage Lisa to paint something to hang on the office walls. Interested Lis?

Oh, one more thing. Marla might have more talent than other kids, but part of that can be chalked up to her parents. Honestly, if one of my kids just started dumping paint on a canvas in the quantity she does to start a piece, I'd freak out, scold them for wasting my hard earned money, and shoo them to bed. Kudos for them - and their pocketbook - for allowing her to give it a go in the first place.