I don't necessarily disagree with either of you, at least broadly, but the Collingwood quote I put in the OP set me thinking. According to him, some of the greatest art ever made isn't art at all, or at least was not considered such by those who made it. Here's more from Collingwood:
If people have no word for a certain kind of thing, it is because they are not aware of it as a distinct kind. Admiring as we do the art of the ancient Greeks, we naturally suppose that they admired it in the same kind of spirit as ourselves. But we admire it as a kind of art, where the word ‘art’ carries with it all the subtle and elaborate implications of the modern European aesthetic consciousness. We can be perfectly certain that the Greeks did not admire it in any such way.
The bold is mine. So how does that change things. Perhaps it doesn't for you, but I think it at least puts some strain on Jamal's distinction between craft as work product and craft as skill. — T Clark
But isn't Collingwood saying that we admire a work product as art precisely because we are so far removed from the practical use of the object?
In any case, I think it's wrong to break it down in the way that
@Pinprick has done. As you've shown with your examples, and as I mentioned in passing myself, it's often precisely the perfect functionality of an object that makes it aesthetically pleasing. This distinction between function and prettiness is, to me, obviously a fruitless way of looking at it.
My question is can you have good art without good skill, craft, technique. Or maybe which matters more. — T Clark
I think maybe you sort of can, when the originality or beauty of a work outweighs the techincal flaws. I'd put this into two categories, (a) works by great artists who were nevertheless technically bad in some ways, and (b) accidentally good or interesting art made by people who are entirely unskilled and talentless.
(a)
Don Quixote is full of mistakes, inconsistencies, continuity errors, boring bits, and yet it's been massively influential and loved by millions. Similarly, Henri Rousseau was a self-taught painter, clearly lacking in technical training, but was quickly considered a great and original artist by others in the art world. And his paintings are great. Crucially though, there is some kind of skill, craft, and technique going on here, just different.
(b) Outsider music is not always made by unskilled people, but the Shaggs surely is. The girls were pretty much forced to do it by their father. But the thing about this sort of thing is that, precisely because there is no conventional skill on show, it can sound refreshing, sonically interesting and arresting, etc., and it can be influential, meaning that it has a place in the world of art.
The question raised by (a) is what makes these great artists great, if it's not total technical competence? I wouldn't say it's
meaning, though I wouldn't rule that out. Off the top of my head I think there can be great artistry in following a path of one's own, because doing so can produce unconventional, fascinating, and beautiful things--things that would not be the same if the artist possessed an all-round competence. So I think it comes down to a single-minded creativity and confidence in certain, sometimes narrow, directions.
If we discount (b) for the moment, maybe the proper answer is no, you can't have good art without
some kind of technique, craft, or skill.
Or maybe put it like this: technique or craft is almost always required, but not necessarily the technique and craft that is traditionally handed down in formal training; certain individuals invent their own technique because they don't know any better. I just thought of another example: Ornette Coleman, the free jazz saxophonist, learned to play based on a total misconception of the notes he was playing, and his music is brilliant no doubt partly because of this:
When he learned to play the saxophone — at first using an alto saxophone his mother gave him when he was around 14 — he had not yet understood that, because of transposition between instruments, a C in the piano’s “concert key” was an A on his instrument. When he learned the truth, he said, he developed a lifelong suspicion of the rules of Western harmony and musical notation.
In essence, Mr. Coleman believed that all people had their own tonal centers. He often used the word “unison” — though not always in its more common musical-theory sense — to describe a group of people playing together harmoniously, even if in different keys.
https://www.nytimes.com/2015/06/12/arts/music/ornette-coleman-jazz-saxophonist-dies-at-85-obituary.html
The way he freely shifts key in the solo starting at 1:46 is likely not something he'd have come up with if his training had gone more smoothly.