Robert Arneson: Breaking Clay and Rules
I was scrolling through Instagram the other day, as one does when trying to avoid being productive, and stumbled upon a post by Paul Gagner. It featured the work of Robert Arneson, and I immediately thought, “Oh yeah, that guy!” It was like running into an old friend you’d completely forgotten about but are genuinely thrilled to see again. Arneson’s cheeky, irreverent style hit me all over again, and I had Paul to thank for the reminder. Naturally, I spent the next few hours diving headfirst into a rabbit hole of Arneson’s work because why not procrastinate with purpose?
For those unfamiliar, Robert Arneson was a ceramic artist who didn’t care about following the rules. Actually, it seems like he preferred breaking them. Ceramics, at the time, were stuck in this polite little corner labeled “craft.” Pottery, vases, and other functional objects dominated the medium. Arneson looked at that corner, laughed, and said, “What if I make a toilet instead?” He wasn’t just being shocking for the sake of it—well, maybe a little—but he was also challenging the way we think about art. Why can’t a toilet be art? It’s a question Duchamp asked with his famous urinal decades earlier, but Arneson took it to a whole new level by putting his irreverent, California flair on it.
Arneson’s work is funny. Like, actually funny. Not the “you have to understand art history to chuckle” kind of funny—though knowing the context helps—but the kind that makes you smile because it’s just absurd. He created self-portraits that were anything but flattering. His own head became a recurring subject, and he never treated it kindly. He’d sculpt himself with exaggerated features, cracks, and all kinds of visual gags.
Arneson helped define Funk Art, a movement that **was all about rejecting the pretentiousness of high art and embracing humor, everyday objects, and, let’s be honest, a fair amount of weirdness. Arneson’s work fit perfectly. He made ceramic sculptures that were unapologetically odd—like giant bricks or toilets—and injected them with a kind of satirical edge that made you think while laughing. There’s something undeniably cool about that.
His use of ceramics as a medium was equally rebellious. Ceramics are often seen as a craft, But Arneson made pieces that were raw, funny, and often outright ridiculous, proving that clay could be as expressive and thought-provoking as any other medium.
Arneson’s work feels like a middle finger to convention, but it’s not just rebellion for rebellion’s sake. There’s thought behind every piece. He had a way of layering humor with commentary, making you laugh first and think later. And while his work might seem unserious on the surface, it’s anything but. He was asking big questions—about art, politics, and culture—and answering them in a way that felt uniquely human.
By the end of my Instagram-fueled rabbit hole, I was left wondering why I don’t see Arneson’s work pop up more often. It’s funny, smart, and, above all, honest. So, if you’re like me and need a little cheeky rebellion in your life, do yourself a favor and revisit Robert Arneson’s work. Thank me—or better yet, thank Paul Gagner—later.