Etiquette and the Meaning of Art

As a group of friends, we gather for dinner at a restaurant. There is no fixed menu and no prior agreement as to how the bill will be settled, just an unspoken ‘understanding’ that it will be divided equally, regardless of individual choices. So, what happens towards the end of the jolly proceedings, when we are all quite tipsy (except for the unfortunate driver) and someone proposes that we should order yet more wine? We order more wine – because nobody wants to be a killjoy or a skinflint. This is the etiquette to which we conform and which leads, invariably, to excess.

The following morning, remnants of the group reconvene for a head-clearing walk along Crosby beach, where a hundred cast-iron replicas of the artist Anthony Gormley are planted irregularly over a mile of the shoreline. The installation is titled Another Place, which I am inclined to think of as a clue to its meaning – if there is a meaning. But we do not voice so crass a question. Instead, we comment on the patina of rust the figures have acquired, their apparently haphazard distribution, the fact that one of them is toppling over (a great selfie opportunity) and another has fallen on its back so that only its toes protrude from the sand. Visitors have ‘intervened’ in the work, adorning some of the iron men with hi-viz vests and other oddments of clothing. I suppose there is an element of mockery intended, but in the case of the one that has been given a lovers’ pledge, a padlock attached to its inventorial wrist-band, it seems that someone has sought to invest it with meaningfulness of a personal kind. But whatever they stand for, the iron men are resolute: they face the sea, come what may, make of them what you will. I (after satisfying my curiosity regarding the technical details of fixture) am left with the feeling that they represent a yearning to go back to a place and time that is no longer accessible. I imagine longing in their blank eyes.

I find myself experiencing such wistful feelings from time to time, most recently at Manchester Art Gallery, where Martin Parr’s photographs of the City are currently on display. Gazing at the monochrome pictures taken in the 1970’s is a bit like flipping through an old family album: there are familiar but shabby-looking backgrounds and people I feel I ought to know but don’t, dressed in comically dated fashions. It was another time, alright, but it also feels like another place and one to which, on second thoughts and nostalgia notwithstanding, I don’t yearn to return. To an outsider, of course, the pictures will be of interest for other reasons: historical (the content) and/or technique (the medium). The question of where this work sits in the spectrum of art is debatable but it is at least easy to attribute meaning to it, if only as documentary comment.

Perhaps that also applies to a 1950s novel I picked up recently, a well-regarded work that I had never read. It would be interesting to know what impression somebody too young to have known the period first-hand would form of the context. I do recall the timbre of domestic life at that time, so the author’s words effortlessly conjured images, feelings and atmosphere. But an abiding impression of history was impressed on me by an unexpected subtlety – the yellow-edged pages of the book itself, which added an authentic period feel to the medium, thereby enhancing the message.

I was explaining this to a friend over a lunch for which he had offered to pay and which was in danger of taking up most of the afternoon. Etiquette forbade me suggesting another bottle, even though I felt the need for one. Happily, though, he picked up on the vibe and voiced it himself. I just hope I wasn’t too obvious.