In the name of what - except perhaps the coefficient of rarity - does man adorn himself with necklaces of shells and not spider's webs, with fox fur and not fox innards? In the name of what I don't know. Don't dirt, trash and filth, which are man's companions during his whole lifetime, deserve to be dearer to him and isn't it serving him well to remind him of their beauty?
Interpretation
The quote questions society's values regarding beauty and adornment, suggesting that humans often disregard their more humble, everyday companions.
Jean Dubuffet's quote challenges the conventional notions of beauty and value in adornment. He provokes thought on why humanity chooses certain items, like precious necklaces, over more commonplace materials, like spider's webs, highlighting a disconnect between societal standards and the natural world. By emphasizing the beauty of 'dirt, trash, and filth,' Dubuffet encourages a deeper appreciation for the ordinary and urges us to reconsider what we deem worthy or beautiful in our lives.
In practice
Using this quote in a discussion about art and societal values.
I had given up ( around 1950, fh) any ambition of making a career as an artist…..I had lost all interest in the art shown in galleries and museums, and I no longer aspired to fit in that world. I loved the paintings done by children, and my only desire was to do the same for my own pleasure.
The things we truly love, the things forming the basis and roots of our being, are generally things we never look at. A huge piece of carpeting, empty and naked plains, silent and uninterrupted stretches with nothing to alter the homogeneity of their continuity. I love wide, homogenous worlds, unstaked, unlimited like the sea, like high snows, deserts, and steppes.
Art doesn't go to sleep in the bed made for it. It would sooner run away than say its own name: what it likes is to be incognito. Its best moments are when it forgets what its own name is.
Unless one says goodbye to what one loves, and unless one travels to completely new territories, one can expect merely a long wearing away of oneself and an eventual extinction.
It seems to me that man is made to act rather than to know: the principles of things escape our most persevering researches.
If everyone isn't beautiful, then no one is.
As for fame, fame felt like nothing. Fame was not a sensation like love or hunger or loneliness, welling from within and invisible to the outside eye. It was rather entirely external, coming from the minds of others. It existed in the way people looked at him or behaved towards him. In that, being famous was no different from being gay, or Jewish, or from a visible minority: you are who you are, and then people project onto you some notion they have.
The door could not be heard slamming; they had probably left it open, as is the custom in homes where a great misfortune has occurred.
Ah, why should all mankind For one man's fault, be condemned, If guiltless?
The most familiar precepts are not always the truest.
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