For those unfamiliar with the below image, this was a work of 'art' done by Andres Serrano in 1987 entitled, "Piss Christ". He urinated in a jar and placed a crucifix inside it — all for the sake of art. The reason I show this image is because of a recent discussion in one of my classes as to the definition of art and whether it should be censored. This type of art is called "Abject Art" and is often used to shock the audience or to express the inexpressible. While I am not a big fan of such art, it does draw some curiosity. I am reluctant to promote censorship within public art, but do feel there are some places where it needs to be contained within a certain area for viewing.

On Serrano's controversial piece, I liked the commentary of Sister Wendy Beckett, a South African-born British art expert, consecrated virgin and contemplative hermit who became an unlikely celebrity during the 1990s. She stated in a television interview with Bill Moyers that she regarded the work as not blasphemous but a statement on "what we have done to Christ" - that is, the way contemporary society has come to regard Christ and the values he represents."

What are your thoughts? I would love to hear from you.




After this lively classroom discussion I then came across the below comic from an unknown source. This appealed to me more than the above. Does this say something about my humour?
 

In Lebanon where I lived for a short period there were lovely Snobar Cedars, which grew predominantly in Lebanon. We could see them all around and I would often retreat beneath their shade for an afternoon get-away or a picnic. I would sometimes talk to the trees (and yes, I am a little odd) and could imagine our discussions had I been able to hear their voices. I'm sure we have all heard of the phrase, "oh, if walls could talk". I applied this phrase to the cedars which rested on the hills around me and wondered what these trees might have said as they looked over the horizon of a war-torn country; forever changed by unfortunate hatred and misunderstanding.

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blackbirds and bullets ravens and rockets swirl in my head dizzying my senses they keep me from sleeping long into the pitch of night my branches heavy weary from protecting the young lovers gathering near my feet etched into my body their names fade an indefinite memory i see their hiding place on the distant hill more have come others have gone i remain snobars snobars they cry with false hope yet i am left only with my rings rings of years tales of borrowed time shouting blowing through the wind a whispered melody majnun and laila beckon me to shield them from an encircling hate i despise their freedom

i tower above others and therefore I must surely commune with god yet i am only the cedar ever green lacking affection never knowing the ecstasy of change nor the repeating seasons of death of life of rebirth stuck on this mountain i am a symbol of time past of time hopeful   a display for the refugee seed is spilled into the ground beneath me nothing ever is born my roots partake in their bittersweet devotion unbeaten by the elements i will nevertheless search for pure water regrettably in a land no longer my own i am the snobar cedar

I am sure this original ad, which I updated a little bit, was quite the scandalous image during its time. For some reason I almost see young boys hiding such an image under their mattress or sharing it secretly with their friends, with a lot of 'oohing' and 'ahhing.' In a very short span of time we have certainly come a long way in what is acceptable and unacceptable. I was reminded of this during one of my recent classroom discussions on censorship in advertising. Today we are constantly being subjected to images that push every boundary and what is offensive or distasteful becomes much more debatable.

Remember, Remember, the Fifth of November;
Gunpowder, Treason and Plot.
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,
Twas his intent.
To blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below.
Poor old England to overthrow.
By God's providence he was catch'd,
With a dark lantern and burning match.

Holloa boys, Holloa boys, let the bells ring
Holloa boys, Holloa boys, God save the King!

Hip hip Hoorah !
Hip hip Hoorah !

A penny loaf to feed ol' Pope,
A farthing cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down,
A faggot of sticks to burn him.

Burn him in a tub of tar,'
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head,
Then we'll say: ol' Pope is dead.