If you haven’t seen the 2004 documentary In the Realms of the Unreal, about the posthumously discovered work of Outsider artist Henry Darger, I beg you to shut down your computer now and go, find it, though it probably won’t be at your local Blockbuster (and rightly so). With the capitalist system that dictates art these days (Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Clear Channel) it is difficult to imagine someone working on their art without thought to whether or not anyone will ever see it, let alone buy it and love it and make them famous. But Darger was different.

I won’t tell you about the life of Henry Darger. You can rent the DVD and watch it eloquently unfold, thanks to filmmaker Jessica Yu. Suffice it to say, Darger makes Charles Bukowski look like a downright well-adjusted guy. But I will tell you about the French, and how much respect they have for people like Henry Darger.

The term “Outsider Art” has been co-opted in America, as you might expect, to include anyone outside of the mainstream art establishment (including your grandmother and your dog, but not including you, since you took that one painting class in college). The term originates from the French phrase “Art Brut.” Art created by insane asylum inmates, discovered only after they die. This is art the artist never meant anyone to see. This is art created because the artist would go insane if he didn’t create it. (Or more insane, perhaps.) This is art created because it had to be.

We all know the intangible thing that happens when you’re listening to music, or reading a book, or looking at a visual installation. It happens if you’re lucky, or on drugs, or if the art is very very good. This is an act of creation between the audience and the artist, where there is a mutual understanding: I will create this, you will interpret it, the finished product is art. But what of the artist who truly creates without any thought to the audience? What of the artist who only creates for himself? Or even more intensely, the artist who doesn’t ever want an audience to see his creation?

Watching In the Realms of the Unreal, I felt like a voyeur peeking into the private thoughts of Henry Darger without his permission. I wasn’t supposed to be seeing it, or watching it, or hearing it. The self-consciousness, on the part of both artist and audience, was absent. Like reading a newspaper article about a disturbing event or person, but coupled with that uncanny sense of being a witness to true art. This is Art Brut. The French don’t use the term lightly, and they definitely don’t buy it on Amazon.

And it might give you nightmares or it might change your life. Or better yet, both.

[Editor’s Note: Jessica Star Rocker’s column, “Cut Out The Middle Man,” brings us straight to the primary sources.]