When Henson became a blood sport

What do Bill Henson and a Beaver have in common?

More than you'd think.

Manly rugby league player Steve "Beaver" Menzies played a grand final as hero on the footy ground, whilst artist Bill Henson was played in the media as a weirdo on the school grounds.

Both men have had long and distinguished careers in very demanding fields, and both made their debut — one on the field, the other in a gallery — at the age of nineteen. They have both represented their country — Henson at the prestigious Venice Biennale, Menzies in the Kangaroos — and their peers consider them humble, talented, and gracious.

Right now, both also probably feel a bit battered and bruised.

But whilst being beaten up in the general rough and tumble of footy would hurt, it must hurt even more when caught in the rough and tumble of a media beat up.

Shock, horror, outrage! Henson walked through a school playground with a staff member looking for a suitable model for his art. It would be entirely different if the exact same act had been done by a scout for a sporting team — like rugby league. Looking for another Menzies is fine. Looking for another muse is not.

Sport is more important and more popular then art. In fact, sport is the new art.

In the good old days artists used to be the crazy people — notorious, nonsensical, challenging and with great haircuts. They were adored as much as they were feared. Warhol had a peroxided echidna perched on his head, Dali had a rollercoaster of a moustache across his face and Brett Whitley's blonde afro rebelled against the strictest regime on hair care. They lived and breathed their art.

Now the crazy haircuts, awkward facial hair and amazing afros are all found on the sporting field. From the bearded Warriors, Manly's wolfman and Willie Mason's former bouffant. The players live, breathe and sweat their sport. Adored and feared.

Last century, newspapers recounted that artists who didn’t look different acted different — Christo would wrap cliffs, Duchamp would honour the port-a-loo. Some artists even had ordinary skills they used in extraordinary ways. Jackson Pollock could have been a basketball player if only he sank three pointers like he sank bourbon, dribbled a ball like he dribbled paint.

Today news reports are of football players wrapping each other's heads in grapple tackles, having all sorts of "Miss – adventures" in loos and using their extraordinary playing skills to get out of ordinary things — like honouring contracts.

Yes, football is the new world of art. Art is dead.

No longer will artists have to worry about offending someone who hasn't seen their work. The fear of being labelled a pornographer or "scourer" of children will no longer hang over artistic heads. The only palette they'll need are those with their team's colours. Art classes can be replaced by more sport, and galleries renovated into trophy rooms.

Henson's horror week has pulled the sporting beanie from our eyes — art is truly a waste of time.