Beauty vs. Novelty

In the aftermath of World War One the arts underwent a revolution: the goal of art changed from beauty to novelty.  Disillusioned with humanity, antipatriotic and cynical, the French Dadaists took it upon themselves to subvert the establishment, and when Marcel Duchamp succeeded in having his urinal exhibited, catalogued and eventually canonized, their project was underway. In Germany, the Expressionists deconstructed art to the level of psychological projections and emotions, and the emotions of Germans in 1918 were rage, anger, disappointment and, again, cynicism. Hence, the portraits of Otto Dix leer at us from the canvas with grotesque, imbecilic sneers.

The problem, of course, was not in depicting the dark side of life, but in artists losing their belief in the public at large. Taking a hard stance on the idea of art for art’s sake, artists developed an attitude indifferent – if not antagonistic – to the layman, shielding themselves under the aegis of novelty. By making novelty their goal, it became moot whether the public appreciated them or not. In fact, a lack of appreciation from the public served as proof of their novelty. 

The House of Art

By rejecting beauty, the artist rejected humanity, and this was the sin of the post-war artists. Unwittingly, they took art into the realm of logic, mathematics and philosophy, dispossessing it of its power to inspire the heart, banishing it from the soul, trapping it in the mind, forcing it to share its space with science. The door had been opened and in came Picasso with his juvenile paintings tucked under his arm. The masters such as Caravaggio, Velázquez, Vermeer (and even Moritz Daniel Oppenheim) must have chuckled as the young Spaniard attempted to hang his paintings on the wall. But no sooner had the laughter subsided than everyone noticed the visitor refused to go, claiming that as the first one there to present such art, he had the right to stay.

Suddenly, as if the shock of World War One had awakened them from a dream, the esteemed guests began to notice that other paintings had been hung (close to the floor or high up toward the ceiling) which were not of the standard befitting their beautiful home. Arnold Böcklin bent down and for the first time noticed someone had hung a rather mediocre still life by a fellow named Matisse. Alfonse Mucha climbed up on a chair and found a shamefully unschooled picture—he couldn’t call it a painting—by a peasant named Chagall. “How did that get here?” he thought, looking over to his friend Delacroix in amazement.

But it was too late. Picasso had hung his paintings and approached Caravaggio: “My art is unique,” he declared, clapping the dust from his hands, “The world has never seen paintings such as these, and, in fact, your paintings are unique, too.” Pablo looked around at everyone in the room and waved his arm. “All of your paintings! This is the reason I look up to you. Each one of you took art in new directions. This is the reason your paintings are hung in this house.”

Caravaggio broke out laughing. “Of course, my paintings are unique! Just as my ugly face is unique! Everybody is unique! Haven’t you noticed? And that has nothing to do with art! Our paintings haven’t been hung in this house because they’re unique. Ha! Now that’s an idea! My boy, they’ve been hung here because they’re good.”

Pablo lost his smile and with hatred in his eyes scowled at the great painter. “We’ll see about that, old man.”

Set Adrift

Thus the grand tradition of European art was unmoored and the great ship, for the first time in centuries, went adrift, its passengers nervously exited the ballroom and went out on deck, no longer watching the horizon, but watching each other with suspicion, wondering who will get a place on the lifeboats. And if the ship should sink? To where would the survivors row?  The answer was clear: America.

What for Thomas Mann was the end of everything good in the world (as his “hero” Hans Castorp lay in wait up above in the Alps while the world below tumbled into war) was for Louis Armstrong, Frank Capra and William Faulkner a beginning: it was the birth of jazz music and Hollywood films, the birth of America as the cultural leader of the western world for the next forty years—that is, until the next blow to idealism hit Americans on their home turf: the Vietnam War. And once again Modernism stepped in to fill the gap.

On Good Taste

“Ah, good taste! What a dreadful thing! Taste is the enemy of creativeness.” Thus spoke Pablo Picasso with the pithy acumen of a coffeehouse poet—and yet he forgot to mention that good taste is the conscience of art. It’s the Jiminy Cricket that whispers in an artist’s ear when he begins to go astray. For good taste is not the enemy of art. God forbid! It is the dyke that keeps our creative energies flowing in a direction rather than spilling amorphously into the field, flooding the crops meant to feed future generations. Verily, a closer look at this seemingly benign statement reveals not wisdom, but pessimism, because the logical conclusion is chaos (which, when it becomes a creed, is another way of saying nihilism).

Milan Kundera has written that the baroque architecture of Prague is kitsch, and that, in fact, the entire city has been stamped by bad taste. If this is so, we are left with a conundrum: Why do so may people want to see Prague? The Charles Bridge, Old Town Square and Wenceslas Square on an average summer day are teeming with visitors from near and afar. Are visitors kitsch? Indeed, are people kitsch? They are if you are a cynic.

  

One of the more insidious projects of Modernism has been its assault on good taste, which expresses itself in the minds of artists as a kind of “sapophobia,” if you will—a neurotic fear of good taste which collects within the soul of the artist, festering in his chest, growing, spreading and ultimately blocking the vital connection between mind and heart. For the key to understanding good taste is to know that it lives in the heart. That is why it is so easily recognized—the reason it is universally understood—and why art is an uplifting experience. Indeed, to devote one’s life to it is to undertake a great ascent.

The danger in Mr. Picasso’s statement may not be evident at first glance. By putting undue emphasis on creativity, Picasso is obscuring the value of art. For all art is creative, but not all creative things are art. The creative process is more akin to pregnancy than birth, and, at a certain level, Pablo is promoting the act of conception while shirking the responsibility of bringing up baby. 

IPM

It is common among amateurs of Techno music to refer to tunes in terms of beats per minute (or “BPM”). Hence, compositions are often accompanied by a parenthetical reference to the BPM, facilitating the disc jockey with his mix (e.g., “nuclear meltdown – 80 BPM”). As one may well imagine, there is a tendency toward speed among aficionados, and those little numerical values seem to egg composers on to ever shriller rhythms.

Let us propose the IPM system: that is to say, books and movies should provide the ideas per minute. For just as sound, repeated in an organized manner, provides the composer with the material with which to carve his aural sculpture, ideas provide the writer with the selfsame stuff. Indeed, if one thinks about it, it is not editing, camera work, or even dialogue that determine the speed of a film, it’s the IPM. Case in point: Andrey Tarkovsky, who, despite the snail-like pace of his films, grips the viewer in a state of suspension that seems to continue for as long as the filmmaker wishes it. This is because, although his narrative flow is calm, the IPM quota is high. Or, to quote Woody Allen: “It just seems more fun and quicker and less boring for me to do long scenes.” In other films, amidst a blitz of rolling cars, explosions, gunfire and blood, we mysteriously find ourselves yawning. There is only one way to define such films: slow.

Artistic speed is not measured in footage cut (a negative value), but in the ideas per minute (which is positive like stepping on the gas). Indeed, only by accelerating the thoughts can the artist force the audience to hold on to its seatbelts? And, honorable reader, just as you wouldn’t like to sit in a room with a monotonous gong crashing in your ear 120 times per minute, why should being clubbed with a single idea over and again at the same frenetic rate be any less torturous?

Coolness

Sheep aren’t cool. And yet where are the wolves? Because it seems that everyone we meet reeks with sheepish trendiness: every mode of parlance, every ripple of silk, every gesticulation from everyone and his brother reveals a fashion savvy. The bourgeoisie is no longer confined to a borough of Paris, and the hippie has wandered a long way from the corner of Haight and Ashbury. Indeed, it’s well nigh impossible to imagine a society of any size today without these familiar players. Even Micronesians who a generation ago were bare-breasted and living in huts are now posing for our cameras in the karate-kick stance of their favorite movie stars.

Most disturbing is the fact that coolness exists. We would like to wish it away, damn it to the depths and be done with it once and for all. We resent the envy with which it taints our rosy picture of things—and, worst of all, we look into the mirror one fine morning and come to the shocking and revolting discovery that we’re cool, too. God knows how much time we’ve invested in trying to scrub away this superficial blemish, just to discover we’re cooler than ever. It won’t go away! We imagine aging will rid us of this pest, perhaps marriage or career, but, alas, all of it is to no avail. Society keeps getting cooler.

Then we give up. We resign to the idea that trendiness is our lot. We turn on the tube and meekly smile to our televised counterpart. He puts on his sunglasses and we slap our knee with the joy of knowing that we bought that model first. We belt out a chuckle and cry to our loved one in the kitchen that we just can’t help it! And yet, at precisely this moment, from somewhere in the far reaches of our consciousness we sense the truth: that beyond cool is real, and in the end it’s the twinkle in the eye that attracts¾the look of a confident ego¾not sunglasses.

Genius

Has the reader ever noticed that thinking is easy? For most of us it’s more difficult not to think than the contrary. It seems that with every turn of the head our brain showers us with thoughts, flashing across our mind’s sky like fireworks. Indeed, the rush of ideas is a delightful feeling. Sometimes it seems to palpably flow through our body in a euphoric, almost ticklish sensation. Interestingly, it’s often ideas we perceive as untruths that tickle us most: absurd, ridiculous thoughts that produce outrageous images. People who, with a haphazard turn of the head, stumble upon these thoughts sometimes find themselves giggling aloud in public, or walking with a silly, conspicuous skip. This is genius: the ability to produce freely and easily new thoughts. And the sensation is pleasurable.

It has been said that philosophers should be judged by the volume of their laugh. Those who laugh loudest are saying the most. If thoughts that are contrary to our existing sense of reason (our mental status quo) produce the response of laughter, then the laughing philosopher is apparently stumbling upon more new ideas. Hence, even the most somber texts, if written by a genius, will have a smirk between the lines. And, honorable reader, don’t let their humor elude you. What for your eyes may appear to be cold and calculated prose could well be slapstick and schlock to its author. Moreover, the author may have failed to realize he or she was fumbling onto some important ideas.

Shall we stretch this argument to its limit? Can an historical treatment of the holocaust be funny? The answer is no. A philosophical one, however, can be. The author may find it amusing to link the poor manners of a woman pushing her way onto a bus with the fist-shaking antics of Adolf Hitler some fifty years before. The thought is absurd, and thus the naughty giggle comes. But what if there is truth in this observation¾a truth that has yet to be published, or to have been thought? At this point in the relay, the jolly philosopher may pass the baton to the sober historian, and humanity is the better for it. An astute historian of the holocaust once coined the phrase “the banality of evil.” Perhaps it was her laugh that brought to light the depth of her horror.

Now this brings us to the question of the sulking scholar. European culture has promoted the idea that depressed people are deeper ¾ hence, more intellectual ¾ than happy ones. Depression arises from entrapment. Humans, like most living creatures, don’t like to be caged; and psychological captivity is every bit as stressful as physical captivity. Thus we’re faced with a conundrum whereby depression conflicts with free thought. Ultimately, it’s more logical to deduce that the frowning academics and icy intellectuals are nothing more than sphinxes without secrets: perhaps their grimace isn’t due to the weight of their thought, but the lack thereof. After all, thought doesn’t weigh anything! Maybe they are technicians posing as geniuses, which is a pity because technicians are of greater value, and one should be proud of this task. Ironically, these are the folks who despise the shallow, plastic and superficial people of the world¾ironic because it is they who are hiding behind the facade, and essentially out of touch with themselves. This psychological dissonance generates stress, and hence the pout makes its appearance on their lips. It is for this reason that only the shallow truly know themselves. There may be deep thought, but deep people don’t exist. Our bodies must float on the surface, otherwise we drown.

The genius creates new thoughts. Yes, this means there are quite a few geniuses running around. Pablo Picasso was a genius. His achievement was in bringing new thought into the fine arts. Technically, the painter-sculptor has much to be desired. No one may applaud his three-minute sketch of a bull as a feat of technical diligence. In this category, Thomas Mann, who spent 17 years writing The Magic Mountain, deserves the laurels upon his brow. The problem arises when one notices the throng of geniuses in the world, filling up empty bar stools and churning out new thoughts at lightning speed. What is rare, if we may return to Mann, is the combination of genius and diligence. Genius on its own has little worth, and quantity should not be considered when making qualitative judgments.