Uncle Ernie on
Contemporary Art

I always had a soft spot for Caitlin. She was a redhead, got a lot of flack from the other kids and needed a defender.

Her family had come to live nearby when Caitlin was four and Kathleen and I babysat her many times. Caitlin caught on quickly that I was fighting on her side and made sure it stayed that way.
But Caitlin’s almost out of high school now and things have changed. You could say, about the kids who used to give her grief, that she’s left them behind.
One day, when I was over at her place carrying a message from Kathleen, I saw her running down the steps with a handful of paintbrushes. “Caitlin, when are you going to show me those drawings you were talking about?” I asked. “And did I ever tell you about the time I won the art prize in grade three?”
“Uncle E, you can come and see my portfolio any time you like. I’d love to show them to you,” she said. “How about Sunday?” she offered. “I’ll be here all day because I’ve got to get them all into shape for the HSC.”
Caitlin was sunbaking in the backyard when I got there. Her stomach wasn’t quite right and she was giving it an extra 15 minutes to get it into synch with her shoulders. At exactly 15 minutes she jumped up, pulled on a T-shirt and led me into the house.
“Now Uncle E,” she explained, “this first part is representational. It’s boring but you gotta do it. And Mum loves them. And these are the abstracts. They’re prehistoric but that’s the way they want them.”
She sidled up to me and whispered, “You’re an artist yourself, Uncle Ern, so you’d understand. But Mum hasn’t seen these and they might be a bit much for her to handle.” She pulled out a few canvases. “You see, I’m doing deconstruction now. It’s the future of art, Uncle E. All the rest is kindergarten.”
I gulped when I saw them. I was just about to tell her how careful artists have to be choosing their subjects . . . but Caitlin was in control and kept pulling more paintings and drawings out for me to look at. Then she stopped, and pulled out one that was all wrapped up. She carefully unwrapped it and put it into my hands. It was a piece of board painted bright purple and stuck on top were torn bits of magazine pages painted into the shapes of bodies without heads .
“This is my favourite, Uncle E. Isn’t that just the coolest thing I’ve ever done?”
I was about to answer but never got the chance
“These bodies are the culture of the noughties,” Caitlin explained.
“Naughty isn’t the right word,” I said. “It’s disgusting.”
“Right on, Uncle,” said Caitlin. “All culture is disgusting. Ours too. It says so in the book of Revelation.”
I spluttered but he couldn’t say anything because she just kept on. And someone was coming up the stairs.
Caitlin walked over to the door and said, “You can’t let them get away with it, Uncle E. You’ve gotta tell ‘em straight. And art is the way you tell ‘em.”
Although I’d always had a soft spot for Caitlin, I decided that I couldn’t let her get away with it. I had to tell her straight. And I would have told her too, except that Caitlin’s two friends rushed into the room and bustled her away. As she went through the door she said, “Thanks for coming, Uncle E. I’m glad you like it. I’ve called it “Babylon is fallen, June 2004.”