This reminds me of an experiment I did when one of my nephews was five. I'd recently made a friend who was into modern art, and I couldn't see any difference between throwing paint at a board and what he called art. So, after many fruitless discussions with my friend, I had my five-year-old nephew fingerpaint a mess. I let it dry and put it in an expensive frame. My friend oohed and aahed over the "art," and spent a good 15 minutes trying to identify the artist, talking about its intention, etc. I ended up leaving it hanging on the wall for several years, and got lots of compliments on it from various visitors, all of whom thought it was interesting, expressive, evocative, etc. It was a smear of green surrounded by a blotch of blue, with a streak of red.
'Twas more than enough for me to conclude that all of the "art" was in the eye of the beholder, and none of it in the artwork itself.
Of course, since then I've come to believe that perhaps it really was art, because there was intention. After all, I directed the five-year-old, then I selected a portion of the page for framing, selected the frame to go with it, and chose where to hang it for the best effect. So if there was any art, I was the artist. The difference between this kind of art and interior design escapes me, though.
I like a nice abstract on subway walls, or even in my own house. However, I usually use the word "decoration" instead of "art." I normally reserve the word "art" for representational pieces, and also for pieces that take experience and skills to create.
Anyone may attempt to replicate my results. Get a five year old, a bunch of fingerpaints, one "real" piece of art, and two frames. Frame them identically, hang them side by side, and invite your friends to tell you their reactions to the paintings.
Part of my cynicism, no doubt, comes from my experience as an editor and writer. I've seen the most risible analyses of fiction from readers and serious lit students, seeing all sorts of things I know were not intended by the authors. But even this doesn't mean that authors don't sometimes create something greater than intended. Perhaps the same thing happens with five-year-old fingerpainters, or professional modern artists. Yet a part of me remains unwilling to use the word "art" to refer to an interestingly-shaped lump of clay, a collection of garbage can lids, or a pile of stacked lumber. If while painting my house, I accidentally back into a wet wall and then sit on the couch, the resulting blotch is not art. If an artist produces my blotch intentionally, it's still not art.
But that's just me.
