The Schlock of the New

The Shock of the New, a book and TV series by Robert Hughes that examined modern art’s history and impact. Additionally, it nods to the Saatchi Gallery's pivotal role in introducing the Young British Artists (YBAs), such as Damien Hirst and others, to the public. I attended this show, which sparked discussions about what constitutes art. It also brought to the public consciousness the idea that art could be seen as “bad,” even if it was critically acclaimed. For many, encountering this show in the tabloid headlines of the day, it became an exemplar of art that wasn’t art — something other, something alien.

Why is one thing considered art, while another is dismissed as schlock, as bad, amateurish, or unstructured? Examining this question reveals curious divides. For instance, why does Mike Kelley’s work feature prominently in institutions like Tate Modern, while someone creating ingenious, lo-fi visual effects in the basement of their parents’ house goes unnoticed? Why do games like Dungeons & Dragons or Magic: The Gathering achieve cultural and commercial success, while filmmakers working with shoestring budgets and fantastical ideas are often relegated to the realm of “cheap” or “b-movies”? There feels a similar creative force in all these works and ideas, but a varying scope of receptions and acknowledgments. This came to my mind when I was watching the videos of Rothkrantz, a filmmaker from the 80s and 90s who turned his house into a full spaceship or a pirate island with homemade effects.

In her essay “Notes on Camp” (1964), Susan Sontag explores the aesthetic value of things considered kitschy or excessive, framing them as an alternative sensibility that celebrates artifice and stylization. However, this doesn’t fully account for the layers at play here. Consider theatre: it often relies on imagination to transform sheets into waves, or light and mirrors into illusions. These effects and props, though minimal and “shlocky,” are essential to the experience. Similarly, making a film with friends in your bedroom, using a virtual studio or virtual camera, can feel both substantial and insubstantial—a cycle of artifice becoming meaningful, then returning to artifice.

Why is one person’s creative output kept on SVHS dusty tapes in their house, while another’s is hoarded by researchers and academics of art history?

Take Unreal Engine, for instance. This widely used software enables creators to build immersive environments, such as “sitting in the cockpit of a spaceship” (Epic Games, 2023), blurring the lines between digital art and participatory play. This virtual engagement often echoes the imaginative games many of us made up as children, I myself sat when young in a washing machine pretending it a spaceship, door open.

The matte painting, the effect, the artifice. It’s both earnest and artificial, substantial and disposable.

Growing up Jewish in London’s East End, the word “shlock” was ever-present. It’s a Yiddish term, derived from the German Schlacke, meaning “slag” or “dregs” (Oxford English Dictionary, 2023). In North America, “schlock” has come to mean something shoddy or inferior, akin to “dreck.” Yet in my childhood, it also carried connotations of untidiness, disorder, and unkemptness.

Perhaps. Art made by enthusiasts is often lauded; games designed with intention are seen as cultural exemplars (Jenkins, 2006). Meanwhile, films made with low budgets, aiming to emulate epic or fantastical worlds, occupy a liminal space: celebrated for their ambition but rarely accepted as “high art.”

Perhaps this is not about participation alone, but about creation as a form of world-building. It’s not merely emulation or expansion; it’s generation. Schlock, then, is not inherently lesser. It’s a different kind of creativity, one that’s rough around the edges but teeming with vitality. Schlock is a creative force; it undermines the arbitrariness of artistic hierarchies and questions the role of institutions in shaping them. This connects to the end of gatekeepers and the energy released through the ubiquity of social media.

Now, there’s a plethora of people in their homes, working with virtual production, sitting on their couches while watching themselves piloting spaceships. It’s all schlock—which is more than just lo-fi or rough and ready. The digital tools now give it sophistication and greater verisimilitude. I recently saw a video on YouTube titled “How I Remade Dune the Movie in a Day.” It’s this immediacy between thought and action that defines schlock today. Schlock is no longer just a term of dismissal; it’s a testament to creativity in its most immediate and democratized form. It carries its own kind of shock, challenging the very idea of what art can and should be. There is a quote from the film Now voyager, staring Bette Davies which is 'Why reach for the stars when we can have the moon'. A Shlock artist would remake the moon from egg cartons, and then the stars, and then a space ship, and then create a film where they are swishing light speed through that universe chased by pirates.