As per the reading of thermometers

Ever since Sean and I began our discussion on art, criticism, and the publicly imagined artistic persona, it seems articles relevant to that discussion have been popping up all over our respective computer monitors. In particular, adding to my mix is this Gelf Magazine interview with poet/former hedge fund recruiter, Katy Lederer. In this interview, Lederer handily dimantles any derisive notions we might have of artists who "sell out" and enter the American corporate schema.

She says, "Like any good poet—any good liberal, really—I had been trained all my life to distrust corporate environments." And I too, have often balked as I felt like I was getting too close to my black-holish perception of jobs that actually make money, worrying that the money would chafe my freak veneer right on off. But somehow, in reading Lederer's interview, I began to wonder that she might have the healthiest attitude toward the (false?) choice between practicing one's art and getting a real job that I've encountered in a while.

Now, Lederer has all the poet street cred she can muster. She's published three books, she's got the MFA from (where else?) Iowa, and she can quote Oppen and Bataille without disturbing the air around her. Meanwhile she's also quite well-versed in all the shortcomings that accompany the wholesale purchase of the MFA/Po-Biz machinery:

"One audience I imagine for myself is people who can't understand how a serious poet could work at a finance firm. This is also bizarre. Goethe was a bureaucrat. Eliot worked as a banker. Stevens worked as an attorney at an insurance firm. The ghosts of Rilke and Wordsworth—along with the 300+ MFA programs, which now seem to employ all Living Poets—have misled the American public egregiously into thinking that poets are morally pure and/or useless."

From this, I take it to heart that Lederer's healthy distrust of the corporate life-model could only, eventually, extend to become a distrust of inner gears that have us all working our romance with the marginalized artist around our mouths like so much worn-out chaw. I love her insistance that opting out of academia isn't a path banned to the poet. And I love the suggestion that being creative does not, after all, render us "useless" to our deeply fucked up, soul-sucking, scary Capitalist culture. Beyond that, she seems to suggest that participating in said culture doesn't necessarily have to fuck up, suck the soul from, or frighten any reasonably sound person-- creative or otherwise. And that choosing to starve for one's art doesn't necessarily put one on a higher ethical plane.

All of that, I find very refreshing. And, well, I guess it makes me feel a little less like a faker that I didn't decide to go whole hog into the academic/artist life myself.

torture and critics and the critics who torture

In one of my very first graduate-level poetry workshops, my professor "reminded" us that to be an artist is to be marginalized. We were to forget whatever privilege from which we came and recall that the road we chose or accidentally fell into or had some innate proclivity towards was inherently problematized and put us at odds with the rest of the world, she said. There we were, all of us working so hard to tug our affected mantles of artistic humility up around our ears, and there she was, telling us that whatever talents got us into one of the top Creative Writing MFA programs (a questionable distinction, perhaps?) in the country did, indeed, make us special-- and made our path perhaps a little stonier than it might have been if we'd been naturally predisposed to becoming, say, CPAs.

It was, at once, a difficult, painful thing to hear and a wondrous thing to hear. I know I've always been a little uneasy with the notion that because I'm reasonably (though, clearly, not spectacularly) intelligent, because I happen to have some facility for stringing words together to make meaning, because I have crazy, curly hair, because I have the heart of the haute pervert, that there was some "specialness" about me. And whatever artistic aspirations I might have or once have had couldn't possibly make me any more different. I mean, everyone fancies themselves a poet now and again, right? But then, hearing Jane tell us that merely because the path of the artist cuts against the grain, it is all the more important, was still so incredibly validating. Truly, by that point in our lives-- most of us well into our 20s, several of us one or two decades beyond-- I think most of us had lost a lot of the romance with being an artist. We worried about rent and beer money. We thought we were idiots for delaying getting real jobs for as long as we had because other people our age no longer had to freak out about whether they'd have enough money left over at the end of the month to feed their dogs. The writing became work. We became stuck. Sometimes we had a hard time remembering when writing was fun. We worried about the Business of Publishing and about how piss-poor self-marketers we all were. What the fuck is romantic about any of that?

Or maybe that was all just me.

Regardless, being called "marginalized" simply by virtue of my being a somewhat creative soul was a thing that pushed me forward on so many long, bored afternoons of sitting with my laptop between my thighs, staring at what I was sure was the most boring poem ever composed in the whole miserable history of poetic endeavors. But if I was marginalized, suddenly nothing I wrote could be all that mundane, could it? Never mind my blasted happy childhood. Never mind my never having had to struggle for money (up until grad school, that is). Never mind the lilies in my skin, my mother's Lexus, the two fulls sets of silver awaiting me in my Hopeless Chest. Because I was an Arteest(!), my going to the trouble of committing my "unique" perspective to paper was, in fact, a worthy venture. Or so I had to remind myself time and time again.

Today, Sean put up this post on his blog in which he (posts smokin' hot photo of one Ms. Anne Sextonm but also...) asks this question:

Question: If artists are inherently not normal, but the goal of analysis is more or less to overcome abnormalities, is treatment of psychological problems likely to inhibit the subjects’ creativity?

Answer: I don’t know.

He also says this:

Have we, at long last, finally debunked the romanticized notion of the disenchanted individual (see: tortured artist) churning out masterworks in spite of, or because of, their affliction? This has been an especially egregious construction of lit-crit vampires and prurient pundits, most of whom have no actual insight regarding the association between creativity and mental illness. Hence, we get academic treatises depicting the requisite “abnormal” consciousness that compels creation.

And then, a little later, he goes on to say this:

Nevertheless, many artists are inspired to create because of a fundamental dissatisfaction with reality and how it is defined, and/or perceived by the masses (is there a better way to say this? The average folks? The normal folks? The consumers? The quietly desperate?).

I think he's onto something.

I must say, I too find the notion of the "afflicted artist" to be a cumbersome one. On several levels, many of them deeply personal. As I said, sometimes the only thing that keeps me seated in my desk chair is that notion that I'm not normal... and that not normal is inherently more interesting than normal. And, well, I mean, sure, I go through my annual funks. Right now, even, I am in the throes. Do they engender writing? Hell, no. Quite the opposite. Check my archives. Last year, I wrote nearly every day once the sun came out in March, April, May. And yet my postings dwindled to 3 or 5 a month as the days shortened. But perhaps that's a poor example. It's not like I'm actively destroying my life, and blaming the SAD, in the way so many notable creative sorts have. My issues are so mickey-mouse.

But I think Sean's best point is this: it is that artists, purely by virtue of the way their brains work, are necessarily dissatisfied with some aspect of the world around them. Now, that dissatisfaction can manifest in ways both healthy and unhealthy, or either, or neither. And true enough, that dissatisfaction might open a window of susceptibility to mental health and/or addictive problems, but I continue to believe that assuming a causal correlation between the drive to create and the drive to destroy the self is a false and faulty approach. Sean blames critics and the academy for perpetuating this queer line of thinking. I agree that such folks shoulder their fair share of the responsibility here. But I also tend to think an artist or two, over the years, just might have been a little complicit in tacking a frill or five onto our culture's insistence that the tortured artist is the only kind of artist for whom it has any patience.

You know the ones. The ones who swear they can't write when they're sober. Or on Xanax. Or regularly speaking with their spiritual and/or mental advisor of choice. The ones who get so fucking sick of themselves when they aren't stirring up their own drama. For their art, they say.

These are the ones that kill me. Now, please don't think I mean to minimize the pain of real, live, hurting people. I don't. It's just that I so easily recognize my own need to play the oddball as part of my own creative process. And so I wonder that it isn't that so many of us need to play up our freakishness-- even to desperately problematic heights-- just to keep ourselves interested in our own work? And so maybe we forget that history prefers the E! True Hollywood Story to our body of work. And then what gets remembered is Lord Byron's clubbed foot and his collection of envelopes full of his lovers' post-coitally snipped pubes. And Shelley's tuberculosis. And Whitman's boy-lovin'. And Caravaggio's. And Wilde's. And Plath's head in her oven. And Sexton's tail-pipe sucking.

But then again, Sean is right. The critics and the biographers certainly aren't helping matters, as they are the ones who think they can understand the work just by learning a hell of a lot about the people who make it. Folks, that's just not the way. It can't ever be.

Twice in the past couple weeks, I've caught a fair-to-middling little film called Starting Out in the Evening on some deeply advanced cable channel. Really, it's just an okay sort of movie-- one that looks very much like a hundred other mentor/student indie dramas NetFlix has to offer. It notable, however, for Lauren Ambrose's slick curtain of orange hair, her spaniel eyes, and her newly sinewy, svelte, pencil-skirted little body. She is nice to watch. Even more compelling, however, is the eroticizing of Frank Langella's lumbering, Frankenstein's-monster-esque, old-man body. For that alone, I watched it a second time-- a thing I rarely, rarely do.

The story, though-- it's about an aging novelist and a young graduate student writing her thesis about his oeuvre. And how they get confused in their relationship to each other. They, neither of them, know whether they are in love with his books, or with the man who made the books. It is the usual conundrum of the critic/artist relationship.

There is, however, a moment in the film that I think illustrates all of Sean's points perfectly. Up until this moment, Heather (the Ambrose character) has been struggling with her analysis of Leonard's (the Langella character) second two books. For years, she has loved his first books. She finds passion and a spiritual quest for personal freedom in them. But the last two, the ones he claims are writ on a broader social palate, leave her cold. She is loathe to admit it, but she really hates them. She goes to Leonard's posh, book-filled apartment and bursts in on him. A friend has just informed her that, in the break between the first books and the last two, Leonard's wife had had an affair another man and then died within the year. Heather watches her analysis of the last two books crystallize before her eyes. No wonder those books suck! He was heartbroken.

But Leonard yells at her. How dare she reduce his art to simple psychoanalysis? How does such an interpretation not completely undermine the work and accomplishment of creation, his creation? He tells her that she insults him. He repeats it. It is a complex moment for him. To this point, Heather's presence in his life has done nothing but massage his flagging ego. Not only does this lovely 25-year-old female thing adore his work (though he hasn't published anything in over ten years and he doubts whether he ever will again), but she kisses him. She unbuttons her blouse for him. She charges his life with sex in a way he cannot resist (though he is an old man, much given to assuming he would never fuck again). And then his disappointment when she tries to explain away the shift in his writing style that he believes represents his own artistic growth by way of pedestrian biography? It is here that we come to understand this tango that writers and critics have always done. How they hate each other and need each other. How it's personal. How much the writer yearns to be understood, despite all his different-ness. All things considered, it's a pretty smartly constructed scene.

I suppose it comes down to this (and I wonder if Sean will agree with me): you can never really understand an artist's life without understanding, or at least appreciating, his or her work. You can, however, given enough attention and time, come to understand an artist's work without understanding his or her life. And that is why the job of the artist will always be, and must always be, privileged above the job of the critic. And perhaps that is why our romance with the creative life, tortured or otherwise, perpetuates itself. Perhaps.

a question of values

(via debauchette's tumblr)

If you think art is good and masturbation is bad, you will most likely deny that there is truth in this tagger's analogy.

If you think art is bad and masturbation is bad, you will most likely agree that there is truth in the analogy.

If you think art is bad but masturbation is good, you will most likely deny that there is truth in the analogy.

If you think art is good and masturbation is good, you may or may not agree that there is truth in the analogy, depending on whether or not you have experienced or witnessed artful masturbation. But you would be duly challenged to argue that the creation (and, often, the consumption) of art is NOT masturbatory.

If you think both art and masturbation are good and concur with the tagger's correlative, you might wonder why someone felt the need to state something so obvious.

An argument for watching impenetrable, arty movies

The other night, after I finished watching Harmony Korine's film, Julien Donkey-Boy, Jon and I had a conversation in which we both recollected how much we'd initially hated Kids, the movie Korine wrote on which his whole reputation was built. When this film was released umpteen celebrities (including, if I recall correctly, Madonna) weighed in, acclaiming it as a raw and realistic depiction of high school life in America. It was 1995. Both Jon and I would have been seniors in high school, ourselves. I remember thinking that that film was so far removed from MY high school experience that I couldn't imagine how it was anything other than an alarmist swamp of teenage debauchery.

The film tells the story of Telly, a delinquent brat who runs the streets of NYC, getting stoned and fucking virgins. Oh, and little does he know, but he's HIV positive and therefore, he's gaily spreading late 20th Century plague and pestilence with nary an eye to the consequences. He infects Chloe Sevigny, in her introductory role, and then moves onto a little, skinny, barely post-pubescent Rosario Dawson. And the whole thing culminates in a rape scene involving Telly's friend Caspar and some anonymous catatonic girl in the midst of a post-party conflagration. Yes, this film is depressing as all get-out but it was absolutely seminal as a representation of mid-90s American arthouse cinema.

So, in 1995, I was 18. My existence had, heretofore, been a strange mixture of exposure and shelter. My high school experience had been wholly devoid of both drugs and sex. I mean, I knew a few girls were having sex and I knew a few girls were into weed-- but the general culture at my somewhat schmancy private all-girls' school was that those sorts of activities were a little trashy and those who partook were subject to derision. But somehow, I'd never really felt as though the rougher parts of life had been kept from me. I don't know if it's because I'd debate politics with my dad over dinner or because I intuitively felt that people were always doing self-destructive things all around me, but I never encountered the shock that some of my friends did when they learned that life wasn't so idyllic as one might presume from behind Harpeth Hall's lion gate. But I also remember thinking, if Kids is so "realistic," is it my life, then, that's the fantasy? In other words, I felt very unrepresented in this film that was supposed to be the most accurate representation, to date, of the youth of my generation-- the slackers, the stoners, the fuck-ups and the disease-ridden. I thought the movie got it wrong and I felt alienated from it and therefore, I hated it.

So many years later, after having expanded my frame of reference with regard to how arty movies operate, I think I have a little bit better perspective on what Korine was doing, what he continues to do, and why these sorts of films-- the ones that are misanthropic and uncomfortable to the core-- are worth watching. I still think Kids is an alarmist representation of teen life in America. But I also recognize that it DOES represent the experiences of SOME kids in America. Doubtlessly, my childhood and adolescence were privileged in a way that I could never have understood now in the same way that I do now. And Korine has no interest in telling the stories of the middle class. He's a troubadour of the disenfranchised and the marginalized-- and my 18-year-old self had a lot less patience with such ne'er-do-wells. He's confrontational in his style, as well. He wants his audience to squirm-- not unlike Damon Packard does. Though, I should say here that I find Korine's films watchable, as they are suffused with an extremely understated empathy and lack so many of Packard's sophomoric gags (and gagging).

Julien Donkey-Boy isn't really any more enjoyable to watch than Kids is. It's just barely narrative and the film quality is so grainy that you can hardly tell what's going on in parts. The blurb on my NetFlix envelope says that the main character, Julien is "schizophrenic" but it seems more likely to me that he's autistic or mentally handicapped in some other way. He lives with his pregnant sister, his little brother who wrestles with garbage cans, and his father who slurps cough syrup and wears a gas mask. They are a family of minimal means and no real aspirations to evade their poverty by way of anybody's American Dream. Sooner or later, we learn that Julien is actually the father of his sister's baby... and when the kid is born still, he steals the fetal corpse, runs home, and squirrels it away in his bed. If the implication of incest doesn't give you the willies, surely the image of a retarded kid curled up in bed with a dead baby will. Oh, and that's the final scene, by the way. Uplifting, it's not.

So what's Korine's point, here? Why produce art that relentlessly skeeves out an audience? And furthermore, why become an audience willing to be skeeved out? I could make an argument about how we spoiled middle-class babies NEED to be subjected to the miseries of the have-nots-- to give us perspective, to inspire our empathy. But that argument, in and of itself, reeks of a superiority with which I'm just not comfortable. But Korine must know that the down-and-out people he describes in his films are not his audience. The simple reality is that people of minimal education and low economic status do not watch ooky, sad, artsy films. So I return to the notion that Korine is making the films so as to challenge my desire (and that of people like me) to look away, to flinch, when faced with stories of derangement and marginalization.

I personally find that experience valuable. And I also find value in engaging with other peoples' artistic obsessions, even if they have little in common with my own. There aren't a whole lot of people puttering around within these little crevices of human experience and because Korine is compulsively scavenging through the scapes of poverty and insanity-- and using the characteristic voyeuristic and low-tech methods of Dogme 95 (the film almost reads as though it's composed of film scraps you found in a dumpster somewhere in the heartlands)-- I'm interested in his work. It's not for everyone. And ever since I saw Reflections of Evil, I'm feeling a little more receptive to moods of the things I consume than I usually am. So, I've felt sad ever since I pulled the thing out of my DVD player. This movie made me want to be hugged.

But ultimately, I feel like people make art so that other people will see it. I may as well be that audience. As may anyone else who cares to go looking. So, we watch weird art movies because they exist. They may move us; we may think they're crap. But they're out there, interesting little experiments or self-indulgent outpourings, either way. And they only exist so long as their audience does. So, I guess what I'm saying is, if we can accept the concept of art for art's sake, why not also embrace the concept of audience for the sake of being audience? The art exists, so why not watch it for its own sake, rather than with an eye to some sort of personal reward? If I approach a film hoping to be affected, rather than entertained, my But ultimately, I feel like people make art so that other people will see it. I may as well be that audience. As may anyone else who cares to go looking. So, we watch weird art movies because they exist. They may move us; we may think they're crap. But they're out there, interesting little experiments or self-indulgent outpourings, either way. And they only exist so long as their audience does. So, I guess what I'm saying is, if we can accept the concept of art for art's sake, why not also embrace the concept of audience for the sake of being audience? The art exists, so why not watch it for its own sake, rather than with an eye to some sort of personal reward? If I approach a film hoping to be affected, rather than entertained, my perspective expands. And this, I like.