Scottish artist Jack Vettriano died in March at age 73. Vettriano, whose paintings have been described as being “like a double cheeseburger in a greasy wrapper,” was insanely popular with the masses but thoroughly despised by the art world. Considered a terrible draftsman whose work lacked anything of substance to say about the world, he was basically the most hated popular artists since Thomas Kincade. I’m not really sure why, but I have my ideas. I’m an artist and have long been turned off by the snobbery of the art world. We’re not all like that, but many are, and those snobs found Vettriano’s art to be severely lacking. In many ways, it was. Some of his faces veered uncomfortably into the uncanny valley for me. At the same time though, the guy kind of scratched a particular itch, and sometimes that’s all you need.
Vettriano often, but not always, painted noir-inspired works featuring dour-looking men in suits and sultry dames in tight-fitting dresses—or just lingerie—nylon stockings, and stiletto heels. That’s why he always felt like an imitative pulp artist to me, but one who was nowhere near as good as the pulp artists who defined the genre. Still, there’s a sensual kick in some of his best art. Pretentious art critics have always disparaged him for “just” making sexy art, but that’s always seemed odd to me when you consider the entire, sprawling lineage of pulp and good girl artists. Of course, art critics were always disdainful of those styles. It wasn’t until my generation began to proudly claim both highbrow and lowbrow art as our own that the notion of having to choose between them evaporated.
Well, it didn’t evaporate within the art world, as evidenced by the disdain for Vettriano’s work. It’s fine, he certainly wasn’t for everyone, and yet he made serious coin because “unsophisticated mainstream” buyers bought his stuff. For what it’s worth, I like a double cheeseburger in a greasy wrapper. Not all the time, mind you, but there’s a time and a place for it, and in that time and place they’re frickin’ delicious. It’s the same for art like Vettriano’s—it’s awfully tasty when you’re in the right mood for some noir-flavored fun.
More than two decades ago, a friend of mine gifted me a framed Vettriano print (this one). It’s buried somewhere in the clutter of our basement, but I might have to dig it out. After all, since the artist passed, I’ve been hankering for a double cheeseburger in a greasy wrapper.
The Starfire Lounge 