It’s almost sacrilege to admit to disliking certain things. People who regard themselves as culturally aware, artistically sensitive, aesthetically sophisticated must occasionally find themselves faced with work that has such apparent popular appeal among those they consider simpatico which they frankly do not care for or do not understand or both. Uttering their honest opinion can be the equivalent of farting in church.
So they suppress that opinion, perhaps nod politely and even go so far as to find some pseudo-intellectual way of understanding the thing disliked so they can at least be seen as trustworthy within their circles. It really is a case of the Emperor’s new suit.
I suppose what we’re talking about is a blind spot. Sometimes you just have a kind of aesthetic aphasia, you really can’t see (or hear) what everyone else is so on about. You could put it down to taste, but that’s a mild word, connoting a kind of passive difference of opinion. It fails to describe your true reaction or, more tellingly, the possible sham going on around certain artists.
Years ago I had a conversation with the artist Rick Berry, whose work I both admire and occasionally love, about one of my blind spots—Jackson Pollack. I gave him my opinion, that this is crap masquerading as art because by now a lot of reputations have been built upon the propagation of the idea that this is somehow Great Art. I look at a Pollack and I see squiggles. I watch films of Pollack working and I see advanced fingerpainting in action. I realize this is a kind of heresy and I’ve often received looks ranging from pity to revulsion for expressing this feeling.
Berry nodded. He said he’d felt the same way for years. Then one day, walking through a museum, past a Pollack, he glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye and ended up sitting in front of the painting for a couple of hours. Since then, he’s grown to love Pollack. I asked him if he’d come to the conclusion that Pollack was, in fact, a great artist, and he said “I don’t know, but I know I like it.”
That is unassailable. It is absolutely personal, it is absolutely subjective, and has nothing to do with any universal qualities in a given piece of work or possessed by a particular artist. I make a distinction myself between work I think is Good and work I simply like. They are often the same, but occasionally I like something that I can in no way defend as good.
However, I sometimes wonder at the adulation poured on certain artists for work that is simply mediocre if not an outright scam. Adulation that transcends the simple metric of “I like it” and goes on to become bodies of apologia, written by people who seem compelled to find a reason, a justification, for liking something that has little to recommend it except as an eccentric appeal. These people start the avalanche that eventually becomes part of the liturgy of cultural in-group vetting. To not think this or that is tremendous, brilliant, a work of genius is to be revealed as philistine, sub-par, suspect, common.
This morning I was reading an introduction to a collection of short fiction and the writer listed a string of what he considered geniuses in their fields as a way to place the author of the collection. Interestingly, I found myself nodding at every name listed—but one. And I thought, what the hell is HE doing in this group? John Cage.
I know he is the darling of a kind of avant-garde set, but come on. It’s noise. He even admitted he was not very adept at actual music. His “found” soundscapes, while occasionally interesting, lack, to my ear, even the virtue of clever arrangement. It’s cacophony, chaos, crap. That it’s frowned upon to point this out in certain groups does not make it less true. I suspect that in this case it’s not so much that I am failing to “get it” but that there actually isn’t much there to get.
Other blind spots? I already mentioned Pollack. My opinion of Picasso has changed over the years. He really was a very good, very talented artist, but frankly I think he became more a parody of himself over time and much of his work was a running joke, a game to see just how much the art world would take before it threw up its collective hands and declared the work garbage. I find many of the abstract artists of the second half of the Twentieth Century tiresome. Form has a function, after all, which is to make something comprehensible. Breaking rules is all well and good but I think you should know the rules and be able to use them before telling the world that they should be dispensed with.
I’ve written about my aversion to certain musicians, but that really is a matter of taste—I just don’t like the sound of certain voices, but that’s not a criticism of what they’re attempting to do. (But I draw the line at Tom Waits—the man cannot sing, period.) I categorically loathe Country, especially C & W, but again, that’s taste. I recognize ability, structure, form, etc, and can hear good musicianship—I just don’t care for the genre.
But there are composers I’ve frankly never understood the appeal—Charles Ives. Certainly a great deal of educated command of his medium, but to what end? A precursor to Cage? Noise.
The sculptor Richard Serra. Please. Rusted plates of iron arranged in clumsy assemblages and purported to be art? If nothing else, it all looks unfinished, like work begun and abandoned. But mostly, the art, I suspect, is in the selling.
In my own field, I will never understand the praise heaped on Kurt Vonnegut Jr. I find him tedious and, frankly, insulting. I do not read at a fifth grade level and I have never been able to get past the intrinsic condescension in his choice of style, which is to pitch his tone and vocabulary at that level. He managed the feat of becoming a best-selling writer while ridiculing (a) the genre in which he began (science fiction) and (b) telling his audience how stupid they were. The brilliance of his vision, of his stories, I can see in the films made from his novels, but they are not so wonderful to justify, in my mind, his approach, which undermines what he tried to do. At least for me.
The blind spot that has gotten me the most negative reaction is one that I have had since I first saw the work. Can’t help it. But when I say this, the reactions are often profound and sometimes horrified. How can I say this? How can I not see? How can I fail to recognize the genius? How can I not love that work?
Vincent Van Gogh.
To my eye, work done by a marginally talented four year old with fat crayons. Sometimes the claimed brilliance of color looks flat and lifeless to me. That he couldn’t sell any it in his lifetime surprises me not at all.
But the industry that has been built on the corpse of this unfortunate man since strikes me as nothing less than the perfect flower of aesthetic cannibalism. A marvelous job of selling has been done in the 121 years since his death.
(I’ve seen his early work, and his sketchbooks, and what I see is a man whose mental condition slowly robbed him of the skill and ability to do the work he should have done. I like some of his early canvasses and he clearly had the skill, but the late period work which everyone praises leaves me thoroughly unmoved.)
Blind spots. Maybe. My other big one is poetry, which by and large has no affect on me. Once in a while I hear a piece that strikes me as clever or moving, but the vast majority of poetry does not speak to me.
The thing that intrigues me, though, is this: the social phenomenon of elevating matters of taste to measures of status and worth. By this mechanism, people become trapped in conditions where they feel unable to express what they really feel if it runs counter to the current vogue.
It is true that art should be free to myriad forms of expression and we should be free to enjoy any and all of them. That something like the Paris Salon of the mid-19th Century ought not condemn artists to a purgatory of exclusion because they do something different.
But we should also be free to call nonsense nonsense, crap crap, and declare the Emperor naked and defrauded.
The above has been an expression of personal opinion.
