The art of being a voyeur

After writing about Larry Williams, it’s time to talk about voyeurism. Although voyeurism used to be all about the sexual thrill of spying on someone engaged in an intimate act, our culture has taken it to a new level. No longer is the subject unaware of our eyes upon him. In fact, the subject invites us into his world, strange as it may be. Who’s getting the thrill now – us or them? As Long John Baldry says, a thrill’s a thrill.

I confessed earlier to watching a few (ok, 5) episodes of The Hoarders because I was struck by the similarities of their stories to those of outsider artists. They could pinpoint the moment when the hoarding began. But there are even stranger behaviours being filmed for our entertainment – addictions you can’t even imagine that people foster. Although I still have a sense of discomfort watching these people wrestling with their personal demons, I have to remind myself that they have agreed to be onstage for the world to view, to ridicule, to denigrate. Why do they agree to this? Does money change hands? My point is that we no longer feel shame in casually observing what used to be a closely held secret.

But what about people who haven’t agreed to their most intimate creations being put on the market for sale, for display, for exhibit? I often think about two of my outsider art heroes – Morton Bartlett and Henry Darger – who worked in secret their whole lives. Their artwork sprung from intimate and personal stories that only they had heard before. As Renaldo Kuhler says – I am Rocaterrania. Maybe they thought their rooms would be cleared out and deposited in a dumpster when they died. I sometimes wonder if they held on to their collection because they didn’t care if anyone saw it. Or maybe they just couldn’t part with it. I don’t know.

So, what have I concluded after all this self-flagellation about being a voyeur? I have sidestepped the issue by focusing on the art. I say, “Why should the world be deprived of another Mona Lisa?” And it makes it a lot easier that these two artists are dead. I don’t have to look anyone in the eye and account for myself. But in the case of living artists who choose to be reclusive, whose “artworks” are only intended for their eyes… maybe it’s best to honour their privacy. They don’t think of it as art, but rather an intimate conversation with themselves. It’s akin to therapy. If it were me, I wouldn’t want anyone listening in on my therapy sessions and then speculating about the stories I tell to heal myself.