Problem is, which is which? The maquettes for the monuments to Guido de Marco, Dom Mintoff, and Ċensu Tabone are neck and neck in a breathless race towards a banal mediocrity.
They’re so God-awful that one hardly knows where to begin. The inspiration, assuming there was one at all, seems to have been the tacky pasturi (crib figurines) one might pick up at the local stationers. Or maybe it was the rather charming miniature political caricatures that have been doing the online-shopping rounds.
Nothing is left to the imagination. We learn that Mintoff raved, that de Marco moonlighted as a librarian, and that Tabone did what doctors do all the time, that is, hold out four fingers in a bizarre gesture. And that’s that.
There are a thousand reasons why the models should be smashed into little pieces, ideally in public, and thrown into a bin labelled ‘Other Rubbish’. On no account should the materials be recycled or otherwise allowed to go anywhere near an art studio again. As someone once said: “That’s a Smith and Wesson, and you’ve had your six.”
The other day, someone sent me a picture of a monument somewhere in North Korea that includes figures that bear an uncanny resemblance to the Mintoff and de Marco pieces. Only in that country, chances are the sculptor was, or will be, hauled out of bed and made to stand blindfolded against a wall at some point.
No such consolation here I’m afraid. On the contrary, I have terrible visions of waiters going round with ‘light refreshments’, of priests blessing the properly unblessable, and of family members struggling not to scream out loud: “What did my father do to deserve this?”
I’ve had occasion briefly to discuss the maquettes with four or five knowledgeable people these past few days. One winced and clutched at his left shoulder, another took out a long sticky sweet and proceeded to suck (on) it. Not one of them said they found them remotely tolerable.
The main reason why the creators of this dreadful junk will get away with it (and they will) is that Malta is what it is. Local artists and critics move in tight circles in which the slightest whisper can lead to banishment and isolation. Resources, commissions, honours, and whatnot are assigned by means of a perennial game of musical chairs. I can’t say I entirely blame people for keeping their giggles to themselves.
The upshot is that we’re happy to spend several months sparring over whether it was de Valette or La Valette but can’t find the 10 seconds it takes to conclude that the monument to the same is anachronistic, pompous, and just plain ugly really.
That’s the nice bit, but there’s actually a pretty dismal side to this monuments business. For one, they’re a damning indictment of current artistic standards. I have in mind works from earlier periods, notably those of Antonio Scortino and Vincent Apap. Compared with the kind of mediocrity that’s being churned out, the monuments to Dante, Paul Boffa, and Christ the King (among others) stand out like the remains of a lost civilisation.
Which is not to say that there aren’t artists around today who produce work of great value. I love Andrew Diacono’s recent Three Graces at Mġarr (Gozo), for example.
Trouble is that good public art has been relegated to the deeply-offensive status of ‘embellishment’ and is usually to be found keeping the water sprinklers company on roundabouts and such.
The point is that a diabolical division of labour has been set up. Someone has decided that good art is sort-of-pretty and sectioned it to second-rate commissions. When it comes to monuments and other high-profile jobs (which also get the choice locations, obviously), the hideous-clueless are wheeled out.
I don’t think this is at all incidental. Rather, it probably has something to do with the fact that good art is invariably and for various reasons a risk. The fact that selection committees, and specifically those that commission monuments, prefer mediocrity to excellence is really a risk-avoidance strategy.
There are a thousand reasons why the models should be smashed into little pieces, ideally in public, and thrown into a bin labelled ‘Other Rubbish’
I can almost hear the committee members thinking out loud: “We can’t risk being accused of having commissioned a splendid Mintoff and a dodgy de Marco, or vice-versa; no, let’s have two equally-poor ones instead.” The obsession with balance, fairness and whatever other terms are used to mask bi-partisan tussles, leaves its mark on art too.
I’m not sure the people who love to go around unveiling monuments realise that the health and safety committees (let’s be nice and call them that) are actually doing them a disservice. That’s because rubbish is so timeless it doesn’t generally age well.
There’s no sense whatsoever of contemporary idiom about these maquettes. Their long-term value will be rather like that of antiques that may be old but which cannot be linked to a definite period, in other words, zilch. Or maybe I underestimate the uniqueness of the Age of Bad Monuments.
I think not, which would mean the great men of this small island will miss their chance to slip through time using the passport of good art.
Take the centro storico of Rome, which crawls with the symbols of the Pamphilj, Farnese, Barberini, and other doers of their time. The main reason we remember them is that they had themselves plastered (in subtle and not-so-subtle ways) all over some of the greatest works of art ever made.
Bernini apart, there’s something self-defeating about people who make themselves, or are made, omnipresent and unavoidable. My friend and colleague Conrad Thake wrote an entertaining post on this a couple of months ago for his Din l-Art Ħelwa blog. Do two (or is it three?) monuments to Mintoff in as many months serve the man’s memory well or poorly? I think the latter.
The more I look at these maquettes, the greater my suspicion that the selection committees were taking the mickey out of the national ego. In serious and upright North Korea, where such behaviour is not tolerated, they would join the artists at the wall at dawn.
mafalzon@hotmail.com