Faysy's blog

I just finished reading a book, “The Best of Modern Humour”, compiled by well known Canadian author Mordecai Richler (published by Penguin), a thick anthology of the 19^th and 20^th centuries' funniest short stories from both sides of the Atlantic, or what Mr. Richler considers to be the funniest. I bought it about a month ago from the Sunday Bazaar for Rs. 250, after much haggling (got it down by just 50 bucks-I'm very charitable to shopkeepers). Leafing through the contents pages, I saw that it contained much promise, with works of P.G. Wodehouse, Woody Allen, Truman Capote and the inimitable Groucho Marx and Art Buchwald included. Judging by this, I felt Rs. 250 was a steal. I was to learn that one must never judge a book by its cover and especially not its content pages. While the first story (Stephen Leacock's 'Gertrude the Governess or Simple Seventeen') foretold great things to come, it was all downhill from there. Whereas the above mentioned authors (plus a handful of others) delivered, I failed to even guffaw at the rest of the 60+ stories, managing an enforced smile at best. It was when I was about half-way through the book that I chose to read the back-cover. It all became clear when I read the words, “Here are stories, plays and letters chosen by a connoisseur of high-calibre humour,...” Lesson 2: Judge a book by its back-cover instead. Of course! A very intelligent marketing gimmick. Include the words high-calibre, sophisticated, bohemian and/or esoteric and Weelah! People have to buy the book. “Have to?” you cry. Exactly. See, people will go to great lengths to avoid being caught looking like the ignorant philistines that they are. Some will even spend Rs. 250 if they must. Just look at their masses of fancy titles, lying untouched in bookshelves or on coffee tables for show, gathering dust. Their ego is at stake here. “Excuse me, Mr. Richler, are you saying that I'm too run of the mill to read high-calibre humour? I'll show you yet that I can go beyond innuendo and double entendres." And you buy the book, instead of the Captain America comic you had originally planned to purchase. It will be interesting to note, my 'enforced smiles' increased exponentially after I read the back-cover. I was actually finding humourous meaning where there was none.

Well, it was only a matter of time. I'm surprised no one saw it coming, considering my father is a practitioner of this age-old scam (for the most part). Since this is the reason I can afford to sit in front of a laptop screen with DSL internet and impart my wisdom to my readers, naturally, this topic is very important to me. Art, dear reader, has been abused. (A disclaimer about my dad is in order: in the 18 years I have known him, I have seen that he loves art because of the thrill it gives him, and not to look pompous or artsier-than-thou)

I extrapolate the above paragraph about 'The Best of Modern Humour' to include art in all its forms. I want to expose this scam for what it is. There are four main components of this big rip off- the artist, the patron, the critic and the common man. And they are all linked in a vicious cycle. I will discuss them turn by turn:

The artist: He usually, but not always, unwittingly plays a part in this scheme. Yet he is the most vital, obviously. He paints/writes/cross-dresses because it gives him some sort of emotional satisfaction. The kick other people get from bungee-jumping, he gets from manifesting his emotions in some form. Of course, you have those artists who end up churning out pulp-art to pay the rent or to make some big time moolah. His art is only bought by the public if he has reputation. And reputation is built by the art critic and the patron.

The art critic: Arguably the worst of the lot. To understand what I mean, think of that food critic in Ratatouille. Art critics tend to be full of themselves. They take upon themselves the role of the Oracle, self-righteously translating the works of the demagogue artist to a language understandable to the common man. Or more correctly, they spoonfeed into our mouths the viewpoint we should have about a certain artist. They pen down criticisms of the art in fancy words (The bold strokes of XYZ's pen clearly reflect the exuberance of his multifaceted youth), and the common man just regurgitates everything he reads. Thomas Carlyle said that the critics of his day were like sheep; place a stick in their path, and the lead sheep jumps over it. Remove the stick, and the rest of the herd does so too, even though there is nothing to jump over! Howard Bloom (former publicist of ZZ Top-the Texan band with the long beards) says:

'Everything you’ve ever heard about pack journalism is true. In fact, it’s an understatement. Though journalists pride themselves on their intellectual independence, they are neither very intellectual nor even marginally independent. They are animals. In fact, they operate on the same herd instincts that guide ants, hoofed mammals, and numerous other social creatures.... If the key critics at the New York Times, the Village Voice, and Rolling Stone fall in love with a musical artist, every other critic in the country will follow their lead. On the other hand, if these lead sheep say an artist is worthless, every other woolly-minded critic from Portland to Pretoria will miraculously draw the same conclusion.'

He then goes onto relate his experience with the band. At its Minneapolis concert in 1976, two of the city's top critics were present. At the start of the concert, one was reading the New York Times' reviews and the other the Village Voice's (it had called ZZ Top's music 'hammered s**t'), gathering hints on what they should think of ZZ Top. Apropos to what they read, they cranked out damning reviews of the band, despite the crowd having gone wild in the concert (they called it a collective descent into tastlessness). Bloom then writes: 'For the first few years, the press continued to sneer whenever the

group’s name came up. But gradually, I got a few lead sheep by the horns (do sheep have horns?) and turned them around. The rest of the herd followed. One result: For the next ten years, ZZ Top became one of the few bands of its genre to command genuine, unadulterated press respect.

Eventually, the group didn’t need me anymore. They don’t to this day. The press is now ZZ Top’s best publicist. Say something nasty at a press party about this band, and those in the know will turn around and snarl, forgetting that over a decade ago they would have growled if you’d even confessed to listening to one of the Texas band’s LPs.'

See? Oh, and did you know, 'the' Picasso was reviled in his time? Then what happened? A repeat of the ZZ Top story. Did his art change? No, he had died by the time his work became popular.

The patron: He finances the artist. He picks an artist, mostly based on the critics' reviews he reads, and commissions him to continue his art under his financial aegis. He is usually a tycoon. He is the type whose home is dotted by pieces specially commissioned by him, so he can have something to brag about when the guests (the common people) come over.

The common man: You and I. The patron and the art critic work together to sell us (or not) an artist's product. And as mentioned at the beginning of the article, we want to look as sophisticated as these art connoisseurs. So we lap it all up, regurgitating the art critics' words (word for word) when looking at the paintings at the patron's house in order to impress him ('Yes, I can clearly see that the bold strokes of XYZ's pen clearly reflect the exuberance of his multifaceted youth). The patron has read the reviews too and knows exactly whom you're quoting, and feels very smug at his superiority. We, the Toms, Dicks and Harrys have forgotten the real purpose of art; not one-upmanship (though that is an art in itself), but simply to have fun. We feel the need to conform to society's opinions of a certain art form, even if it means praising something we detest deep inside. For example, I love Marcel Duchamp's abstract painting, 'Nude Walking down a Staircase'. For some reason, it reminds me of bio-physics (I first saw it in a physics textbook), so it fires my brain's pleasure centres. I love it because it makes me feel good. I don't know who the heck Duchamp is/was, and I have never heard or read reviews of his works in my life.

Marcel Duchamp, Nude Descending a Staircase, No.2 (1912)

Let's look at English Literature courses in schools and colleges today. I have been told that the purpose of English Literature is to learn to express ourselves by reading books by the greatest authors of history...like Shakespeare. With all due respect to him, NO ONE writes like Shakespeare anymore. You would be mad to, because no one would get a word you're saying. Sure, we can learn something from him, but how much? Yet, students everywhere are forced to read his works and comment about them like they understand them. If my readers like my writing-style, they should know that I have been influenced by the likes of Douglas Adams (of Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy fame) and The Harvard Lampoon, and not Byron or Tennyson.

I have one request to you. Get off the bandwagon, and make your own. Also, I'm sure you've noticed that I have dotted this article with obscure cultural references and have dropped some big names like Buchwald and Duchamp. It's a little sociological experiment I am conducting. Will my readers go out of their way to comment on this post, and maybe drop a few names of their own, just to show that they too, are art aficionados? Will they be verbose, like art critics? Let's see. I love being proven right. Who knows, if my blog makes it to the big time inshaAllah, I may be reading a review of this post soon (His self-righteous rantings about art bring to the limelight not only the hypocrisy that surrounds him, but also bubbles within)