Now that we know America is fractionally less crazy than we might have
supposed before the election, we might ask ourselves what shall we do if the
end of the world isn't just around the corner? Is preparing for an ongoing
future more complicated, frustrating and (dare I say it?) taxing, than total annihilation?
Will muddling through yet another decade and then another after that prove to
be more than we can handle? It just might be the case.
Americans are "fed up". A term that has as many possible
interpretations as there are cable channels. We're literally fed up with junk
food, with TV commercials, with radio talk show hosts, with global warming,
with traffic, with young know-nothings, with unemployment, with religious
kooks, with the national debt and yes, we're even fed up with the Fed. We're so
blotted with being fed up that we're all about to pop.
I understand that we are also fed up with Congress. Yet voters were barely
able to shift any of them out of their well padded seats. How fed up would we
have to get for that to happen? Perhaps it's beyond our puny power to deal with
something as enormously immovable as that chronic body. Having gorged itself on
unlimited campaign denaro, the endless rantings of goofball talk show hosts and
inactivity, the Congressional body has become as bloated as the military budget
and remains as disgustingly engorged, arrogant and uncooperative as Jabba the
Hutt.
We know that most Americans who bother to consider it, don't agree with this
do-nothing bunch, still, there they remain. But if we are going to carry on
living here on Earth instead of crashing into some end-of-life-as-we-know-it,
we're going to have to figure out how to motivate that immobile institution
into something more than a sounding board for flaccid blowhards with about as
much personal integrity as the paparazzi.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Authenticity, like artistic talent, is something innate; it can’t be acquired intentionally. Authenticity and originality together is such a rare pairing that most of us almost never encounter it. Ted Kuykendall was perhaps the most authentic and original visual artist I have ever known. His work affects the receptive viewer viscerally and unmediated. The effect is powerful, if not always welcome, because Kuykendall produced work that stabs at the emotions while leaving the question of intention unanswered. His images are daring, palpably disturbing and occasionally baffling but never accommodating or predictable. This photographic work is also as unpretentious and unglamorous as was its maker.
Ted had integrity; a vanishing commodity in this day of rampant self-promotion in the quest for fame. Real integrity is a burden that most of us couldn’t carry if we tried. Ted lived by a code of personal conduct that we haven’t seen around here for over a hundred years. He never mediated what he had to say in order to advance himself professionally. For most people in the art world, his attitude was shocking and for some of the more faint-hearted in the commercial art world, frightening. His work and his person were stern indictments of flabby thinking and phony pretence.
Ted was a genuine Western man. By that I mean a product of the actual West; not necessarily the wholesome fantasy popularised in commercials for big banks or chewing tobacco. He was a product of hardship and long periods of isolation, where personal resourcefulness, keeping your word and a respect for the natural world were a way of life not just an excuse for empty boasting and greedy self-advancement. He had no patience with the image of the West promoted by wanabe macho men, pious hypocrites or the big wig fat-cats who tarnish the land and the legend for their own gain. Ted was real sinew and bone; a hard man, who held himself to a higher, older standard, who never judged a person on anything other than the amount of truth that they could handle. His blunt and at times, gruff manner, were perhaps better suited to a person who was less sensitive and perceptive. But driven by some kind of relentlessly interior vision, he was just deeper and darker than most people can understand.
Ted Kyukendall was in many ways a self-taught artist. For all intents and purposes he was just another man looking for work when his path crossed that of contemporary art in the persons of Luis Jimenez and Richard Shaffer here at the residency in his hometown of Roswell. Unlikely as it may have first appeared, he had the courage, energy and intelligence to push his way out of the confines of his rural hometown and onto the front edge of his craft. No small accomplishment for a young man with a troubled life and limited prospects.
If Cormack McCarthy were to imagine a character, raised up in a remote corner of the West, flaws and all, he couldn’t have written a more vivid portrait than was the real-life Ted Kuykendall. He was something of a hell-raiser back in his day and hard luck followed him around like a hungry dog. It must have worn away at his fragile heart. He was also a crack shot and could gentle a spooky horse but he also carried around some kind of heavy burden that was just too personal for him to share and he had too much pride to bitch at his cards or the dealer.
Any arts residency, and the Roswell Artist-in-Residence Program is no exception, is naturally pleased when one of their artists becomes successful and we’ve had our share. But few have commanded our respect and admiration like Ted Kuykendall. We are proud to have played a part in this artist’s life and proud to claim this man as one of our own.
Ted had integrity; a vanishing commodity in this day of rampant self-promotion in the quest for fame. Real integrity is a burden that most of us couldn’t carry if we tried. Ted lived by a code of personal conduct that we haven’t seen around here for over a hundred years. He never mediated what he had to say in order to advance himself professionally. For most people in the art world, his attitude was shocking and for some of the more faint-hearted in the commercial art world, frightening. His work and his person were stern indictments of flabby thinking and phony pretence.
Ted was a genuine Western man. By that I mean a product of the actual West; not necessarily the wholesome fantasy popularised in commercials for big banks or chewing tobacco. He was a product of hardship and long periods of isolation, where personal resourcefulness, keeping your word and a respect for the natural world were a way of life not just an excuse for empty boasting and greedy self-advancement. He had no patience with the image of the West promoted by wanabe macho men, pious hypocrites or the big wig fat-cats who tarnish the land and the legend for their own gain. Ted was real sinew and bone; a hard man, who held himself to a higher, older standard, who never judged a person on anything other than the amount of truth that they could handle. His blunt and at times, gruff manner, were perhaps better suited to a person who was less sensitive and perceptive. But driven by some kind of relentlessly interior vision, he was just deeper and darker than most people can understand.
Ted Kyukendall was in many ways a self-taught artist. For all intents and purposes he was just another man looking for work when his path crossed that of contemporary art in the persons of Luis Jimenez and Richard Shaffer here at the residency in his hometown of Roswell. Unlikely as it may have first appeared, he had the courage, energy and intelligence to push his way out of the confines of his rural hometown and onto the front edge of his craft. No small accomplishment for a young man with a troubled life and limited prospects.
If Cormack McCarthy were to imagine a character, raised up in a remote corner of the West, flaws and all, he couldn’t have written a more vivid portrait than was the real-life Ted Kuykendall. He was something of a hell-raiser back in his day and hard luck followed him around like a hungry dog. It must have worn away at his fragile heart. He was also a crack shot and could gentle a spooky horse but he also carried around some kind of heavy burden that was just too personal for him to share and he had too much pride to bitch at his cards or the dealer.
Any arts residency, and the Roswell Artist-in-Residence Program is no exception, is naturally pleased when one of their artists becomes successful and we’ve had our share. But few have commanded our respect and admiration like Ted Kuykendall. We are proud to have played a part in this artist’s life and proud to claim this man as one of our own.
Friday, May 16, 2008
The West
The West
I suppose everybody who has ever thought much about it, has their own ideas about what it means to be a Westerner. More than most regions of the U.S.A., the West has layer upon layer of myths and clichés piled upon it. So much so that it could sometimes be mistaken for natural fertilizer. I figure that there’s nothing wrong with clichés as long as we Westerners don’t start believing in all of the horse sweat made up by other folks.
For years I’ve tried to put into words what I believe being a Westerner is all about. All of the while I have had to endure the claptrap shoveled by the powers-that-be about what they want us to believe about ourselves. Without naming names and to list just a few, these powers tend to be rich ranchers, corporate oil producers, politicians and preachers, usually born somewhere else. They all like to tell us who we are and what we should believe just because they said so and that we should mind our betters. What these folks really want to do is to get us to think of ourselves as being members of little groups that they can control with their fancy smoke and dime-store bravado. They want to lay their brands on us by calling us “blue-collar whites” or “gun nuts” or “evangelicals” or just plain old “Hispanic voters” (whoever exactly they might be). They almost never mention “Native Americans” unless they want to get in on some of that gambling denero or grab a bit more water.
So how do these powerful folks get it done? Well, I think the word is “macho”. You know, it’s that thing that men have got to have and women can’t resist; or so they say. Macho has turned from meaning strong, modest, reliable and brave, into believing whatever the powerful interests want you to believe without asking any embarrassing questions. Macho has now become the same as closed-minded, not-so-smart, afraid of foreigners and the future.
The media people tell us that Westerners are “conservative”. So if you are from the West or grew up out here or just like to think of yourself that way, then you have no choice but to be “conservative” and, if you’re male, “macho”. Now many folks don’t spend a lot of time thinking about it, but you have got to ask yourself, “Who in the heck gets to say what a conservative is and why in the heck do we all have to be that way?” The truth is that these same powers-that-be want us to define ourselves that way and keep telling us that if we don’t we’re not macho. And you just can’t be a westerner unless you are macho. From what I can see around me now-a-days, being macho means having a truck with more horsepower than will ever be needed along with a muffler that magnifies the noise rather than diminishes it. You know, a whole lot of hat and no cattle.
So what do I believe it means to be a Westerner? Some of the words that come to mind are: Freedom, (yeah, I know it’s not free, you have to pay with macho.) Individuality, (sure, as long you believe exactly what the preachers and real estate brokers tell you.) Tolerance, (great, as long as you look and sound exactly the same as folks like me.) Nature, (‘course it’s beautiful but don’t get bothered by cheap grazing permits, atomic waste or shooting a few thousand pronghorns).
Now that I think about it, maybe the media have got it right. Maybe we are just what the-powers-that-be wanted us to become after all; mean-spirited, angry, unsure of our manhood, frightened by the folks that work for us illegally, narrow-minded, wasteful, destructive, dogmatic, and, let’s face it, not that bright. The real question we’re faced with is; do we really want to go on believing all of their bull, just to be macho?
As a freedom loving individual who makes a stab at tolerating the differences folks are born with while having some affection for our vast and beautiful land that surrounds us, I think it’s about time we started making up our own minds about who we are and stop listening to those powerful folks just because the own a ranch, run a company or claim to have God on their side.
I suppose everybody who has ever thought much about it, has their own ideas about what it means to be a Westerner. More than most regions of the U.S.A., the West has layer upon layer of myths and clichés piled upon it. So much so that it could sometimes be mistaken for natural fertilizer. I figure that there’s nothing wrong with clichés as long as we Westerners don’t start believing in all of the horse sweat made up by other folks.
For years I’ve tried to put into words what I believe being a Westerner is all about. All of the while I have had to endure the claptrap shoveled by the powers-that-be about what they want us to believe about ourselves. Without naming names and to list just a few, these powers tend to be rich ranchers, corporate oil producers, politicians and preachers, usually born somewhere else. They all like to tell us who we are and what we should believe just because they said so and that we should mind our betters. What these folks really want to do is to get us to think of ourselves as being members of little groups that they can control with their fancy smoke and dime-store bravado. They want to lay their brands on us by calling us “blue-collar whites” or “gun nuts” or “evangelicals” or just plain old “Hispanic voters” (whoever exactly they might be). They almost never mention “Native Americans” unless they want to get in on some of that gambling denero or grab a bit more water.
So how do these powerful folks get it done? Well, I think the word is “macho”. You know, it’s that thing that men have got to have and women can’t resist; or so they say. Macho has turned from meaning strong, modest, reliable and brave, into believing whatever the powerful interests want you to believe without asking any embarrassing questions. Macho has now become the same as closed-minded, not-so-smart, afraid of foreigners and the future.
The media people tell us that Westerners are “conservative”. So if you are from the West or grew up out here or just like to think of yourself that way, then you have no choice but to be “conservative” and, if you’re male, “macho”. Now many folks don’t spend a lot of time thinking about it, but you have got to ask yourself, “Who in the heck gets to say what a conservative is and why in the heck do we all have to be that way?” The truth is that these same powers-that-be want us to define ourselves that way and keep telling us that if we don’t we’re not macho. And you just can’t be a westerner unless you are macho. From what I can see around me now-a-days, being macho means having a truck with more horsepower than will ever be needed along with a muffler that magnifies the noise rather than diminishes it. You know, a whole lot of hat and no cattle.
So what do I believe it means to be a Westerner? Some of the words that come to mind are: Freedom, (yeah, I know it’s not free, you have to pay with macho.) Individuality, (sure, as long you believe exactly what the preachers and real estate brokers tell you.) Tolerance, (great, as long as you look and sound exactly the same as folks like me.) Nature, (‘course it’s beautiful but don’t get bothered by cheap grazing permits, atomic waste or shooting a few thousand pronghorns).
Now that I think about it, maybe the media have got it right. Maybe we are just what the-powers-that-be wanted us to become after all; mean-spirited, angry, unsure of our manhood, frightened by the folks that work for us illegally, narrow-minded, wasteful, destructive, dogmatic, and, let’s face it, not that bright. The real question we’re faced with is; do we really want to go on believing all of their bull, just to be macho?
As a freedom loving individual who makes a stab at tolerating the differences folks are born with while having some affection for our vast and beautiful land that surrounds us, I think it’s about time we started making up our own minds about who we are and stop listening to those powerful folks just because the own a ranch, run a company or claim to have God on their side.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Disaster Mania
America loves disasters. Perhaps it’s because we are a large nation geographically or maybe it’s because America is the most religiously conservative country in the Western World, but there is no doubt that we Americans love big disasters. It’s inevitable that with a land mass as large as North America, disaster will strike somewhere at frequent intervals. Since we Americans are by far the most self-absorbed nation since the demise of the British Empire, it should be expected that we would dwell on all things American, including our many disasters. The media after all, can only tell so many feel good stories and remain in business. The affecting impact of the terrorist attack on New York and Washington has unleashed a stampede of predictions of woe the like of which we haven’t heard since Jeremiah.
A quick survey of cable channels, including the religious rantings of televangelists to networks purporting to be educational or science based, will reveal just how hooked we are on the idea of our own cataclysmic demise. For five years or more we, as a nation, have wallowed in a self-involved orgy of doom. The scenarios appear on the left (although I am not exactly sure where that is any more) and, as usual, on the far out fringes of the radical right. It would be comforting to assume that this glut of apocalyptic horror shows is only the purview of the low-brow pop culture types or of the biblically bamboozled. Even a cursory survey of the bookshelves shows something quite different. Today’s frenzy of End-time scenarios spans everything from the pure fantasy of the “Left Behind” novels of Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins to the blockbusting Will Smith mega movie “I Am Legend”. Both commercially successful, but perhaps not culturally refined enough to be taken seriously. Recently however, writers of some eminence have also put their oar in. Alan Weisman’s "The World Without Us,” while not exactly about a particular cataclysm, dispenses with the actual disaster and settles for a scientific dissection of its aftermath. And now a towering figure of modern literature, Cormac McCarthy, wades in with an un-named post-apocolyptic disaster scenario titled “The Road”. This latter entry into the field should convince any skeptic that “The End” is near and dear to all Americans.
Admittedly, Americans have toyed with disaster for more than fifty years. The Second World War was, after all, a disaster of biblical proportions. It was ended with what can only be described as a doomsday device. Not surprisingly just about everybody in the Fifties assumed we would all go up in a mushroom cloud of radioactive smoke. This all too plausible scenario was red meat for the entertainment industry and some would argue, the military industrial complex. By the Eighties, however, Americans were jaded by the fireball and brimstone morality plays and began to explore something called Nuclear Winter. Draped in scientific legitimacy, this tale of gloom posited a slow, cold demise of the planet as gruesome as any that befell the dinosaurs and as chaotic as a monster truck rally on meth. The warming of the Cold War and the breakup of the Soviet Bloc created a lull in these musings. We turned our attention to fretting over the possibility of gray-goo nanobots smeared over the planet, global mind control of internet vampires, and the hugely disappointing and now nearly forgotten disaster of “Y2K”.
The last half decade has more than made up for whatever let-down we may have experienced on New Year’s Eve 1999. The new disaster movement is as diverse as American culture and as varied as our cable channels. I am reminded of Cyrano de Bergerac’s famous duel in which he enumerates the possible insults that might have been hurled his way regarding his large nose. Rather than merely accepting the fact that we’re all going to die, we Americans have now embarked on an encyclopedic examination of “..let me count the ways.”
At this point I’m not sure whether to begin at the micro-level and work my way towards Divine Retribution, or start there and end with the Revenge of the Nanobots. Perhaps some other form of categorization is in order. We could line up the entries in degrees of probability from the highly unlikely, say, an attack by the Borg, to the far more inevitable “Asphalt Parking Lots Finally Cover the Entire Planet.” Since almost all of the disaster scenarios are in the realm of million-to-one shots, this methodology would become a tedious form of hair splitting. A more obvious choice is a simple threesome: Natural, Manmade and Divine.
I have watched at least twenty hours of programming devoted to the theme of a natural cataclysmic destruction of the Earth. The most common version of this theme, and represented in various formats on a number of networks and not a few film offerings, is the asteroid collision with our home planet. This theme has a real advantage over its rivals. It has dinosaurs in it. Any theories, facts or fables that have dinosaurs in them are at a statistical advantage to their competitors. Of course for a disaster scenario to be credible it has to be in the “future”. Since we have obviously survived up to this point, why bother with old news. However, any discussion of asteroids colliding with Earth automatically gets to include the demise of the Big Guys. Computer animations of gigantic beast crashing around in primordial jungles then getting wiped out by a flaming ball of destruction, is plain hard to beat. This genre is so tried and true that there are variations on the theme. It wasn’t an asteroid, it was a comet or a hail of meteors. Competing theories have done their best to insinuate that their world-ending scenarios could also account for the end of the dinosaurs, in part I imagine, just so they could use CGI dino-images in their programs. These include the Super Volcano scenario. This version of the apocalypse renders the world a smoke covered hell hole without any help from above. A gigantic volcano, which you have to admit, is an attention grabber, somewhere around Yellowstone, sure, right here in the good old US of A, blows its top and suddenly there are no more shopping days until Christmas. Since such things have happened in the distant past, this script can also avail itself of a T-Rex crashing to earth, teeth bared, as a wall of superheated pyroclastic ash races towards it, or us.
In other natural world-ending disasters, the planet is subjected to methane bubbles, solar flares, gamma ray burst and supernovas. Since all of these are occasionally occurring phenomena which may have affected earth in the past, they also get to use the Jurassic Park approach in presenting their ideas. But this disaster lacks real spectacle. The agency of doom in this case is more or less invisible so the creatures just sort of keel over without any pyrotechnics; not much of a show, however likely.
Manmade disasters show the most long-term promise for the attention of a dim-witted public; the reason being that there as many possible manmade threats to the planet as there are stars in the sky. Technology has reached a point that the general populous will believe just about any scenario involving high-tech stuff running amuck: microbes, robots, mutants, clones, nanites, satellites, chemical poisons and various pollutants of one kind or another to name a few. We mustn’t forget our old friend and really one of the most likely scenarios, nuclear annihilation. Besides the fact that we are just board to death with this particular apocalypse, it has the legs for the long term. There are thousands of H-bombs laying around and plenty of deranged megalomaniacs supported by their adoring cult followers to provide fodder for this venerable old standby. The main problem is that despite the predictions of Nuclear Winter, without an all out exchange of our atomic arsenals, the world would somehow survive and muddle along. For a disaster to be really exciting it must mean the end of life as we know it or, at least, the end of all humankind.
For a real classic disaster we have to look to the Divine. However ironic we may find it, God seems to be the expert in total destruction. Most of the world’s major religions believe that their particular God has destroyed the world at least once and in some cases, frequently. It’s safe to speculate that the reason these scenarios are so popular is that they simultaneously present the disaster while providing the means of escape. Nothing is more enjoyable to Americans in particular, than seeing other people suffer while they get off scot free. The Christian version of The Apocalypse is just such a script. The happy Saved go to heaven while all of those foreigners, fags and flag-burners get their comeuppance. The blissful outcome of all of this is a thousand years of peace that would probably prove to be among the most relentlessly boring periods in the history of the Universe. The Bible types have the advantage of already having The Flood on their side. There are also the plagues of Egypt; disasters to be sure, but small potatoes these days. There are however, other angles on the Divine Intervention theme. The most current involves the Mayan calendar which predicts the end of the world in 2012. While there isn’t much in the way of blood-red moons or creatures gnawing our flesh, there is plenty to suppose that we will all be unhappy enough for it to qualify as a major disaster if not the complete end of the world as we know it.
One disaster comes to mind that doesn’t quite fit into any of these categories - the arrival of alien beings on our planet. Sure we’ve had the War of the Worlds and some other scary rides with little green men, but the actual implications of encountering another civilization and dealing with the consequences, is perhaps just one disaster too far for the self-absorbed American public to really contemplate. It is strange to consider that the odds of this event occurring are perhaps no greater than any of the others discussed here.
We as Americans are obviously in love with disaster. If we can’t get a total destruction of mankind, then we will happily settle for California sliding into the sea, (you can’t help but think that this is a favorite among Southern Baptists,) New York awash in the Atlantic, or Florida totally blown away. This leaves us with the question, “Why all the interests in End of the World” scenarios right now? The range of speculation on this question is almost as varied as the kinds of doomsdays so far imagined. The insecurity now manifest in many Americans, who were until 9/11, happily cocooned inside their middle-American bubble, is one answer. This rude awakening has required a re-examination of the current world political order. This is a subject so alien to the average American that even recognizing its existence is disorienting. Because of America’s unique history and its native brand of Protestantism, it is most likely preferable for us to imagine a total destruction of the planet than to admit that they have no idea what makes the rest of the world tic; or worse still, actually doing something about it.
If Apocalypse is a metaphor for punishment, then some might argue that Doomsday is a subconscious admission of our collective guilt. It is not hard to find reasons for the American public to feel guilty. Americans have redefined the word “excess” on almost every front. From the individual Americans consumption of massive amounts of food to the excessive use of energy and raw materials, we as a nation, are now the unparalleled gluttons in all of history. There is also nothing like an unjustified war to prick the subconscious. If that wasn’t enough, the concern about the world’s deteriorating environment might now just be starting to sink into the zeitgeist of even the most happily dumb American. Since the religious Right has pitched its tent on an anti-environmentalism platform for the last ten years, the return of Jesus might turn out to be the best short-term outcome they could hope for. The obvious demise of the petroleum economy and the rise of corporate globalism are trends so disorienting that most of us can’t bare to live with the idea of it let alone the thought living through it. We would rather be extinct than admit just how wrong we have been about so many things for so long.
My favorite explanation for our self-destructive impulse is that it’s a sort of Jungian manifestation of all of humankinds collective will. So fed up are we with the entrenched lack of progress for the last forty years on just about every front, that we might as well give up and all go out with a bang. What’s really worrying is the possibility of it all becoming a gigantic self-fulfilling prophecy where the obsession with the end simply justifies the madness that could lead us there.
Of course it would be remiss to neglect Americas favorite scapegoat in examining such an important question. Since almost all of the worlds ills have been blamed on them, it seems only logical to accuse the sixties generation and baby boomers in general, of manifesting their own mortality issues as a big budget, special effects disaster epic. If not the greatest generation, then at least the biggest, we boomers are the most self-aware, self-obsessed, polarized generation since they started keeping records. It only stands to reason that if we can’t teach the world how to sing our song, then nothing less than the total annihilation of the planet will suffice as our epitaph.
walworth
A quick survey of cable channels, including the religious rantings of televangelists to networks purporting to be educational or science based, will reveal just how hooked we are on the idea of our own cataclysmic demise. For five years or more we, as a nation, have wallowed in a self-involved orgy of doom. The scenarios appear on the left (although I am not exactly sure where that is any more) and, as usual, on the far out fringes of the radical right. It would be comforting to assume that this glut of apocalyptic horror shows is only the purview of the low-brow pop culture types or of the biblically bamboozled. Even a cursory survey of the bookshelves shows something quite different. Today’s frenzy of End-time scenarios spans everything from the pure fantasy of the “Left Behind” novels of Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins to the blockbusting Will Smith mega movie “I Am Legend”. Both commercially successful, but perhaps not culturally refined enough to be taken seriously. Recently however, writers of some eminence have also put their oar in. Alan Weisman’s "The World Without Us,” while not exactly about a particular cataclysm, dispenses with the actual disaster and settles for a scientific dissection of its aftermath. And now a towering figure of modern literature, Cormac McCarthy, wades in with an un-named post-apocolyptic disaster scenario titled “The Road”. This latter entry into the field should convince any skeptic that “The End” is near and dear to all Americans.
Admittedly, Americans have toyed with disaster for more than fifty years. The Second World War was, after all, a disaster of biblical proportions. It was ended with what can only be described as a doomsday device. Not surprisingly just about everybody in the Fifties assumed we would all go up in a mushroom cloud of radioactive smoke. This all too plausible scenario was red meat for the entertainment industry and some would argue, the military industrial complex. By the Eighties, however, Americans were jaded by the fireball and brimstone morality plays and began to explore something called Nuclear Winter. Draped in scientific legitimacy, this tale of gloom posited a slow, cold demise of the planet as gruesome as any that befell the dinosaurs and as chaotic as a monster truck rally on meth. The warming of the Cold War and the breakup of the Soviet Bloc created a lull in these musings. We turned our attention to fretting over the possibility of gray-goo nanobots smeared over the planet, global mind control of internet vampires, and the hugely disappointing and now nearly forgotten disaster of “Y2K”.
The last half decade has more than made up for whatever let-down we may have experienced on New Year’s Eve 1999. The new disaster movement is as diverse as American culture and as varied as our cable channels. I am reminded of Cyrano de Bergerac’s famous duel in which he enumerates the possible insults that might have been hurled his way regarding his large nose. Rather than merely accepting the fact that we’re all going to die, we Americans have now embarked on an encyclopedic examination of “..let me count the ways.”
At this point I’m not sure whether to begin at the micro-level and work my way towards Divine Retribution, or start there and end with the Revenge of the Nanobots. Perhaps some other form of categorization is in order. We could line up the entries in degrees of probability from the highly unlikely, say, an attack by the Borg, to the far more inevitable “Asphalt Parking Lots Finally Cover the Entire Planet.” Since almost all of the disaster scenarios are in the realm of million-to-one shots, this methodology would become a tedious form of hair splitting. A more obvious choice is a simple threesome: Natural, Manmade and Divine.
I have watched at least twenty hours of programming devoted to the theme of a natural cataclysmic destruction of the Earth. The most common version of this theme, and represented in various formats on a number of networks and not a few film offerings, is the asteroid collision with our home planet. This theme has a real advantage over its rivals. It has dinosaurs in it. Any theories, facts or fables that have dinosaurs in them are at a statistical advantage to their competitors. Of course for a disaster scenario to be credible it has to be in the “future”. Since we have obviously survived up to this point, why bother with old news. However, any discussion of asteroids colliding with Earth automatically gets to include the demise of the Big Guys. Computer animations of gigantic beast crashing around in primordial jungles then getting wiped out by a flaming ball of destruction, is plain hard to beat. This genre is so tried and true that there are variations on the theme. It wasn’t an asteroid, it was a comet or a hail of meteors. Competing theories have done their best to insinuate that their world-ending scenarios could also account for the end of the dinosaurs, in part I imagine, just so they could use CGI dino-images in their programs. These include the Super Volcano scenario. This version of the apocalypse renders the world a smoke covered hell hole without any help from above. A gigantic volcano, which you have to admit, is an attention grabber, somewhere around Yellowstone, sure, right here in the good old US of A, blows its top and suddenly there are no more shopping days until Christmas. Since such things have happened in the distant past, this script can also avail itself of a T-Rex crashing to earth, teeth bared, as a wall of superheated pyroclastic ash races towards it, or us.
In other natural world-ending disasters, the planet is subjected to methane bubbles, solar flares, gamma ray burst and supernovas. Since all of these are occasionally occurring phenomena which may have affected earth in the past, they also get to use the Jurassic Park approach in presenting their ideas. But this disaster lacks real spectacle. The agency of doom in this case is more or less invisible so the creatures just sort of keel over without any pyrotechnics; not much of a show, however likely.
Manmade disasters show the most long-term promise for the attention of a dim-witted public; the reason being that there as many possible manmade threats to the planet as there are stars in the sky. Technology has reached a point that the general populous will believe just about any scenario involving high-tech stuff running amuck: microbes, robots, mutants, clones, nanites, satellites, chemical poisons and various pollutants of one kind or another to name a few. We mustn’t forget our old friend and really one of the most likely scenarios, nuclear annihilation. Besides the fact that we are just board to death with this particular apocalypse, it has the legs for the long term. There are thousands of H-bombs laying around and plenty of deranged megalomaniacs supported by their adoring cult followers to provide fodder for this venerable old standby. The main problem is that despite the predictions of Nuclear Winter, without an all out exchange of our atomic arsenals, the world would somehow survive and muddle along. For a disaster to be really exciting it must mean the end of life as we know it or, at least, the end of all humankind.
For a real classic disaster we have to look to the Divine. However ironic we may find it, God seems to be the expert in total destruction. Most of the world’s major religions believe that their particular God has destroyed the world at least once and in some cases, frequently. It’s safe to speculate that the reason these scenarios are so popular is that they simultaneously present the disaster while providing the means of escape. Nothing is more enjoyable to Americans in particular, than seeing other people suffer while they get off scot free. The Christian version of The Apocalypse is just such a script. The happy Saved go to heaven while all of those foreigners, fags and flag-burners get their comeuppance. The blissful outcome of all of this is a thousand years of peace that would probably prove to be among the most relentlessly boring periods in the history of the Universe. The Bible types have the advantage of already having The Flood on their side. There are also the plagues of Egypt; disasters to be sure, but small potatoes these days. There are however, other angles on the Divine Intervention theme. The most current involves the Mayan calendar which predicts the end of the world in 2012. While there isn’t much in the way of blood-red moons or creatures gnawing our flesh, there is plenty to suppose that we will all be unhappy enough for it to qualify as a major disaster if not the complete end of the world as we know it.
One disaster comes to mind that doesn’t quite fit into any of these categories - the arrival of alien beings on our planet. Sure we’ve had the War of the Worlds and some other scary rides with little green men, but the actual implications of encountering another civilization and dealing with the consequences, is perhaps just one disaster too far for the self-absorbed American public to really contemplate. It is strange to consider that the odds of this event occurring are perhaps no greater than any of the others discussed here.
We as Americans are obviously in love with disaster. If we can’t get a total destruction of mankind, then we will happily settle for California sliding into the sea, (you can’t help but think that this is a favorite among Southern Baptists,) New York awash in the Atlantic, or Florida totally blown away. This leaves us with the question, “Why all the interests in End of the World” scenarios right now? The range of speculation on this question is almost as varied as the kinds of doomsdays so far imagined. The insecurity now manifest in many Americans, who were until 9/11, happily cocooned inside their middle-American bubble, is one answer. This rude awakening has required a re-examination of the current world political order. This is a subject so alien to the average American that even recognizing its existence is disorienting. Because of America’s unique history and its native brand of Protestantism, it is most likely preferable for us to imagine a total destruction of the planet than to admit that they have no idea what makes the rest of the world tic; or worse still, actually doing something about it.
If Apocalypse is a metaphor for punishment, then some might argue that Doomsday is a subconscious admission of our collective guilt. It is not hard to find reasons for the American public to feel guilty. Americans have redefined the word “excess” on almost every front. From the individual Americans consumption of massive amounts of food to the excessive use of energy and raw materials, we as a nation, are now the unparalleled gluttons in all of history. There is also nothing like an unjustified war to prick the subconscious. If that wasn’t enough, the concern about the world’s deteriorating environment might now just be starting to sink into the zeitgeist of even the most happily dumb American. Since the religious Right has pitched its tent on an anti-environmentalism platform for the last ten years, the return of Jesus might turn out to be the best short-term outcome they could hope for. The obvious demise of the petroleum economy and the rise of corporate globalism are trends so disorienting that most of us can’t bare to live with the idea of it let alone the thought living through it. We would rather be extinct than admit just how wrong we have been about so many things for so long.
My favorite explanation for our self-destructive impulse is that it’s a sort of Jungian manifestation of all of humankinds collective will. So fed up are we with the entrenched lack of progress for the last forty years on just about every front, that we might as well give up and all go out with a bang. What’s really worrying is the possibility of it all becoming a gigantic self-fulfilling prophecy where the obsession with the end simply justifies the madness that could lead us there.
Of course it would be remiss to neglect Americas favorite scapegoat in examining such an important question. Since almost all of the worlds ills have been blamed on them, it seems only logical to accuse the sixties generation and baby boomers in general, of manifesting their own mortality issues as a big budget, special effects disaster epic. If not the greatest generation, then at least the biggest, we boomers are the most self-aware, self-obsessed, polarized generation since they started keeping records. It only stands to reason that if we can’t teach the world how to sing our song, then nothing less than the total annihilation of the planet will suffice as our epitaph.
walworth
Monday, May 14, 2007
Dearth of Painters
Painters are perhaps headed the way of haiku poets, wheelwrights, jugglers and banjo players. They will in the future occupy some little niche in the art industry in the same way that hula dancers wiggle their way into the world of dance; the difference being that people actually like to watch the hula.
There is a drying up of discernment. Fewer and fewer artists really have any ideas about painting. When we turned the real lore of painting's past over to 'art historians' (who never really understood painting the way painters used to understand it.) it became a relic. The confusion about "appropriation" is a case in point. In 'olden' days a painter, say Manet, admired the work of another painter, say Velasquez. He then stole visual ideas or physical techniques from the Spaniard which showed up in the Frenchman's work. This process, filtered through the lens of art history, ended up as being described as making "references to" art of the past or "more famous art". The actual evolution of respect for great painting was re-packaged as an idea of content and not one of form. So now-a-days we say the sun rises because the rooster crows. In any event, if someone made good paintings, who would really be able to see it and more importantly, who would really care?
I understand that America's favorite painter is Kinkade....
There is a drying up of discernment. Fewer and fewer artists really have any ideas about painting. When we turned the real lore of painting's past over to 'art historians' (who never really understood painting the way painters used to understand it.) it became a relic. The confusion about "appropriation" is a case in point. In 'olden' days a painter, say Manet, admired the work of another painter, say Velasquez. He then stole visual ideas or physical techniques from the Spaniard which showed up in the Frenchman's work. This process, filtered through the lens of art history, ended up as being described as making "references to" art of the past or "more famous art". The actual evolution of respect for great painting was re-packaged as an idea of content and not one of form. So now-a-days we say the sun rises because the rooster crows. In any event, if someone made good paintings, who would really be able to see it and more importantly, who would really care?
I understand that America's favorite painter is Kinkade....
These laughably kitsch efforts now command real money.
They remind me, in a way, of the early 60's work by the person know as Keane...
...although today Keane (turns out she was a woman whose husband was taking 'credit' for her 'art'.) seems downright modern by today's standards and, dare I say, "with it". The sad fact is, that by today's 'standards' they are "with it" and probably are as worthwhile as most of the stuff currently coming out of University MFA programs.
If I had made this statement in 1980, what do you think the reaction would have been?
Walworth
Monday, March 12, 2007
The finger points to the moon and the fool looks at the finger.
What does every aspiring surfer, writer, film director, baseball player and rock musician have that aspiring young artists seem to be without? A hero. How is it that whenever you see or read an interview with a rock band or young film director they will spend much of the time extolling the virtues of older practitioners of their respective crafts and cite examples of life changing moments involving particular works? Yet, this is not true of today's young visual artists.
Today's young artists arrive in art school with not so much as inkling of who did what, when or why. Not only did they NOT spend hours pouring over the work of their beloved favorite artist, it's very likely that they can't even name more than ten so-called famous artists of any century, any where.
I was talking about this with a friend recently and he pointed out that perhaps graffitist were an exception. While I have no real firsthand proof, I'm inclined to believe him. Graffiti is a realm of it's own. A self-evaluated subculture of like minded yet competitive individuals who grow up striving for some form of higher quality. My guess is that these young people see work that they admire and proceed to develop their own way of working. No one butts in and starts telling the taggers who is more valuable than whom. If you're not doing Graffiti then it's fairly unlikely that your opinion of their work matters in the least. Linking this activity with the Art industry is unfair to Graffiti.
If you were to attempt some sort of critical examination of Graffiti..(I almost said Gaffiti Art which would be a confusing devaluation of this activity) you would no doubt find a tagger and begin the long process of figuring out why some graffiti is more admired than other graffiti. The more taggers you spoke with, the wider your understanding of the particular value set that determines the ethic of good graffiti.
Just let me say that this process is what I believe happed at the very beginning of what we call modern art criticism. Some artist told somebody about the value set and ethic of painting or sculpture at that time. This was inside information that was only available from artists themselves. These artists already knew what was admirable art and what wasn't. Connoisseurs of painting spent years trying to gain the insight that many painters took for granted by the time they finished their training. The only way that an accurate understanding of any art form can be grasped by a non-practitioner is by having a practitioner spell it out for them. All of the evaluative information understood by a critic, came originally from the artists.
It could be argued that it is possible to deconstruct a particular piece of art without recourse to the artist or the background within which it was created. You can do that, but you shouldn't. Imagine watching a group of surfers and then developing a critique based on some form of deconstruction of a certain surfer's movements. Would you conclude that they are an index of bourgeois rebellion or icons of male mating behavior. Whatever you concluded, you would be looking at surfing all wrong.
At the beginning I mentioned the hero and how most art-forms generate them and they in turn inspire young talent. Why doesn't this process happen in the wider world of "visual art"? It's not happening today because even though everybody would love to live the Art Lifestyle, no one really looks at art. It's not something you spectate for fun. No one really gets any pleasure out of it, unless they think that the art is becoming more valuable and they stand to profit. In a few instances there is some pleasure derived from knowing the value of the art as a rare object or occasionally pleasure is derived politically. That is to say the message of the art is loud enough so that everyone in the room has to acknowledge it's message. If you support the message, then you are happy.
Beyond that, there is little pleasure to be derived from today's art. In the long gone days of yore, there were connoisseurs. Today we can scoff, but at one time, these individuals derived real pleasure from art. They savored it at every chance and many where very well informed. Artists often befriended them and they became more informed. Some of these individuals eventually became correspondents for daily newspapers. They shared their discoveries with regular people. Much the way a restaurant critic goes out for a meal, then evaluates it for John Q. Public. The meal is not deconstructed beyond categorizing it as , say, Hungarian and expensive. After that, the evaluation is on terms of pleasure for value. If you like goulash, this is the place. Perhaps even a suggestion that you order a certain dish to experience the subtle flavors of a certain spice. The food critic probably knows chiefs. And he knows connoisseurs, like himself, that challenge his palette to new taste experiences. The whole notion now sounds deliciously dated.
Some of these connoisseurs could afford to collect and they did. Not because it was a sure sign of their "now-ness", but because they loved the art and had the time and money to enjoy it. (I admit that even now as I write this, a pang of guilt is coming over me. It's elitist and hopelessly bourgeois to even mention such things.) These connoisseurs were about as politically un-hip or incorrect as you can get. They were in almost every instance white, well-to-do and Euro-centric. Let's face it, not the kind of person you would want your kid to become. No street cred, no cool, just some kind of lame snob that loved art...and embraced the value set and ethic of the artists who made it; without, I might add, without the mediation of museum curators, gallerist, magazine articles and advertisements.The idea of a connoisseurs today seems as out of date as ladies maids and bootblacks. I am aware that there are numerous collectors these days. But collectors create collections, connoisseurs actually appreciate the individual objects in and of themselves.
The fact of the matter is that the modern Art Industry just doesn't produce enough connoisseur-worthy objects any more. And, let's face it, the culture that had for centuries created the demand for connoisseur-worthy art objects has largely disappeared. Corporations, which have replaced the nobility as the ruling class of the day, have no need, nor the time, to impress folks with connoisseur-worthy art works. Since there are no longer any individuals of importance around that could appreciate art objects at the connoisseur level, why make or acquire them? Instead they have large collections managed by professional curators whose job more closely resembles a stock portfolio manager. Few if any of these individuals are connoisseurs. They are collection managers. They understand the value of objects but not necessarily the values of the artists that created them.
The Art Industry has begun to believe it's own PR. How many times in the last two decades have you heard just how important art is? Apparently, art is like fiber in our food, something we all need but no one is that interested in eating.
Art is huge. The Art Industry is so big now that nothing can be done about it. Despite the fact that the number of post-graduate degrees in Art has ballooned beyond all recognition, you don't need a degree or any education or license to buy and sell Art. Nevertheless, the Art Industry now employs thousands of people in art-like activities. All of whom consider themselves more qualified to judge art than the artists themselves. And artists have just caved in and turned everything over to the Art Industry people. Why? For a very un-fulfillable promise of "Fame".
What we are left with is an activity that young people find they might have a talent for but don't have any real interest in. Hence, the irony factor...you know, "I want to be famous for doing something that nobody's interested in or really understands...including me!" How sad is that?
WALWORTH
What does every aspiring surfer, writer, film director, baseball player and rock musician have that aspiring young artists seem to be without? A hero. How is it that whenever you see or read an interview with a rock band or young film director they will spend much of the time extolling the virtues of older practitioners of their respective crafts and cite examples of life changing moments involving particular works? Yet, this is not true of today's young visual artists.
Today's young artists arrive in art school with not so much as inkling of who did what, when or why. Not only did they NOT spend hours pouring over the work of their beloved favorite artist, it's very likely that they can't even name more than ten so-called famous artists of any century, any where.
I was talking about this with a friend recently and he pointed out that perhaps graffitist were an exception. While I have no real firsthand proof, I'm inclined to believe him. Graffiti is a realm of it's own. A self-evaluated subculture of like minded yet competitive individuals who grow up striving for some form of higher quality. My guess is that these young people see work that they admire and proceed to develop their own way of working. No one butts in and starts telling the taggers who is more valuable than whom. If you're not doing Graffiti then it's fairly unlikely that your opinion of their work matters in the least. Linking this activity with the Art industry is unfair to Graffiti.
If you were to attempt some sort of critical examination of Graffiti..(I almost said Gaffiti Art which would be a confusing devaluation of this activity) you would no doubt find a tagger and begin the long process of figuring out why some graffiti is more admired than other graffiti. The more taggers you spoke with, the wider your understanding of the particular value set that determines the ethic of good graffiti.
Just let me say that this process is what I believe happed at the very beginning of what we call modern art criticism. Some artist told somebody about the value set and ethic of painting or sculpture at that time. This was inside information that was only available from artists themselves. These artists already knew what was admirable art and what wasn't. Connoisseurs of painting spent years trying to gain the insight that many painters took for granted by the time they finished their training. The only way that an accurate understanding of any art form can be grasped by a non-practitioner is by having a practitioner spell it out for them. All of the evaluative information understood by a critic, came originally from the artists.
It could be argued that it is possible to deconstruct a particular piece of art without recourse to the artist or the background within which it was created. You can do that, but you shouldn't. Imagine watching a group of surfers and then developing a critique based on some form of deconstruction of a certain surfer's movements. Would you conclude that they are an index of bourgeois rebellion or icons of male mating behavior. Whatever you concluded, you would be looking at surfing all wrong.
At the beginning I mentioned the hero and how most art-forms generate them and they in turn inspire young talent. Why doesn't this process happen in the wider world of "visual art"? It's not happening today because even though everybody would love to live the Art Lifestyle, no one really looks at art. It's not something you spectate for fun. No one really gets any pleasure out of it, unless they think that the art is becoming more valuable and they stand to profit. In a few instances there is some pleasure derived from knowing the value of the art as a rare object or occasionally pleasure is derived politically. That is to say the message of the art is loud enough so that everyone in the room has to acknowledge it's message. If you support the message, then you are happy.
Beyond that, there is little pleasure to be derived from today's art. In the long gone days of yore, there were connoisseurs. Today we can scoff, but at one time, these individuals derived real pleasure from art. They savored it at every chance and many where very well informed. Artists often befriended them and they became more informed. Some of these individuals eventually became correspondents for daily newspapers. They shared their discoveries with regular people. Much the way a restaurant critic goes out for a meal, then evaluates it for John Q. Public. The meal is not deconstructed beyond categorizing it as , say, Hungarian and expensive. After that, the evaluation is on terms of pleasure for value. If you like goulash, this is the place. Perhaps even a suggestion that you order a certain dish to experience the subtle flavors of a certain spice. The food critic probably knows chiefs. And he knows connoisseurs, like himself, that challenge his palette to new taste experiences. The whole notion now sounds deliciously dated.
Some of these connoisseurs could afford to collect and they did. Not because it was a sure sign of their "now-ness", but because they loved the art and had the time and money to enjoy it. (I admit that even now as I write this, a pang of guilt is coming over me. It's elitist and hopelessly bourgeois to even mention such things.) These connoisseurs were about as politically un-hip or incorrect as you can get. They were in almost every instance white, well-to-do and Euro-centric. Let's face it, not the kind of person you would want your kid to become. No street cred, no cool, just some kind of lame snob that loved art...and embraced the value set and ethic of the artists who made it; without, I might add, without the mediation of museum curators, gallerist, magazine articles and advertisements.The idea of a connoisseurs today seems as out of date as ladies maids and bootblacks. I am aware that there are numerous collectors these days. But collectors create collections, connoisseurs actually appreciate the individual objects in and of themselves.
The fact of the matter is that the modern Art Industry just doesn't produce enough connoisseur-worthy objects any more. And, let's face it, the culture that had for centuries created the demand for connoisseur-worthy art objects has largely disappeared. Corporations, which have replaced the nobility as the ruling class of the day, have no need, nor the time, to impress folks with connoisseur-worthy art works. Since there are no longer any individuals of importance around that could appreciate art objects at the connoisseur level, why make or acquire them? Instead they have large collections managed by professional curators whose job more closely resembles a stock portfolio manager. Few if any of these individuals are connoisseurs. They are collection managers. They understand the value of objects but not necessarily the values of the artists that created them.
The Art Industry has begun to believe it's own PR. How many times in the last two decades have you heard just how important art is? Apparently, art is like fiber in our food, something we all need but no one is that interested in eating.
Art is huge. The Art Industry is so big now that nothing can be done about it. Despite the fact that the number of post-graduate degrees in Art has ballooned beyond all recognition, you don't need a degree or any education or license to buy and sell Art. Nevertheless, the Art Industry now employs thousands of people in art-like activities. All of whom consider themselves more qualified to judge art than the artists themselves. And artists have just caved in and turned everything over to the Art Industry people. Why? For a very un-fulfillable promise of "Fame".
What we are left with is an activity that young people find they might have a talent for but don't have any real interest in. Hence, the irony factor...you know, "I want to be famous for doing something that nobody's interested in or really understands...including me!" How sad is that?
WALWORTH
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