Art

For some reason in a discussion I noticed in myself a frustration when hearing mention of Art (in this sense I'm purely talking about art displayed in galleries). Whilst I've certainly never found myself enamored with the medium I didn't notice such strong, stark, negative feelings in me before.

I suppose this post will most likely constitute a bit of a rant, but there are certain elements of my vastly unfair and irrational criticism that might have some legitimacy. Let me be clear, my problems with the medium lie less in its value as creative expression, but rather with the 'art world'.

It's perhaps best to start with the oddity that put me down this road of thought in the first place. In art I feel there is a great need (seemingly greater than any other medium) for uniqueness. Galleries pay millions to hang paintings, to show sculptures and to display installations created by the original artist. Whilst it may be worth paying for a first edition or original manuscript of a famous book, the intention is certainly that these works were meant to be distributed - the wider the better. Copying a novel, poem or film doesn't depreciate the value of the art itself, only the physical vehicle by which it is delivered.

Somehow this principle is reversed in the art world. The physical 'vehicle' is seemingly more important than any other identical copy. Even an indistinguishably similar forgery is worth infinitely less than the original, regardless of the emotion it evokes in the onlooker.

Conversely an undetected forgery is somehow worth exactly the same as the original. Only when its authenticity is assessed - using increasingly complicated techniques - does the value ever come into question.

There seems to be a necessary amount of self-denial required to make this system work - a false importance needed to be injected by the viewer, rather than a universal importance.

This question of the importance of authenticity and historicity is addressed - and in my opinion, adequately answered - in the Philip K Dick novel, The Man in the High Castle. The creation of art has greater value than the objects which physically embody this value and the connection we place in the object is subjective: seeing Lincoln's top hat might be significant because Lincoln wore it, but the hat itself has no value - after all, it is just a hat. It did not free the slaves nor perform the Gettysberg address nor die in a theatre. However, it does serve the purpose of an emotional conduit, through which we can feel a connection to its famous owner. We search, perhaps naively, for a connection to the long-gone subject through the object.

For all my ranting, I don't have any problem with this. Ultimately the connection we feel is genuine and important. For instance, I would never take away the mementos of a long dead friend for the purile reason of it not being 'real'.

However, what I do take issue with is the monetary valuing of this commodity; this emotional connection. A process that ultimately strikes me as incredibly undemocratic.

To make a(~nother) preposterous analogy, if Bill Gates, or any other infinitely rich person, were to buy the only copy of a literary work to form part of their private collection, there would be uproar. Ok, maybe not if it were Russell Brands Bookey Wook, but for virtually any text with remote artistic value, this would be shocking.

It is my belief that techonolgy will provide the ultimate liberation of Art from the shackles of oligarchical economic control. After all, it is the invention of the printing press that allow William Tyndale to take advantage and disseminate great works to the public. This act was of course illegal and Tyndale's punishment was infamously dire. We owe much as a society to the sacrifice he and others made.

I also read (rather fondly) that it was acts of literary piracy that allowed the spread of the works of Robert Louis Stevenson abroad to Australian and American readers, where he received his greatest fame and praise.

I am also at this point inclined to once again mention The Man in the High Castle, in which the fictional novel, The Grasshopper Lies Heavy is spread both illegally and widely.

To draw more modern parallels, it is the internet that has allowed widespread distribution of digital media. So perhaps, one day, we will wonder around virtual art galleries, where every man woman and child can hold a great work of art in their hands; barriers of distance or cost long dissolved. Perhaps we will wonder what it must've been like to live in a world so restricted.

Rant OVER and out.

The Man in the High Castle

I've not read much Philip K Dick, but he comes highly recommended from several friends of mine. I've read parts of Ubik, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? and A Scanner Darkly but never found them engaging enough to finish. Having now completed The Man in the High Castle, I realise that many of my original criticisms were probably well-founded - confusing plots, odd characters and unnatural and erratic pacing. However, I've also realised that none of this matters. I've really come to appreciate Dick's genius.

The story is set in an alternate reality in which the Nazis won WWII. They control Europe, Africa, South America and the East Coast of the (now former) United States. The story takes place on the West Coast of the USA, now the Japanese occupied PSA (Pacific States of America). Reading all this in the blurb, I expected a highly political plot, centering mainly on events that help flesh out the alternate history Dick has created.

To a certain extent this is correct, but it's such a small part of the overall piece. Dick goes to incredible lengths to create this detailed and thoughtful alternate world and then writes an entire chapter about a character (Mr Childan) struggling with the dilemna of giving a gift to a customer's wife for feeling it would be improper. Another chapter ponders the nature of historicity and authenticity of antiques.

This is not at all a flaw. If anything it's an example of his greatness. Not only does Dick create a vivid alternate world - displaying incredible insight into Japanese culture, Nazi psychology and an uncanny ability to emotionally channel the characters he writes for - but he manages to incorporate in-depth philiosophical and existential discussion.

The novel is unlike any other I've read before. It constantly challenges the expectations of the reader, jumping around unpredictably and always providing food for thought. It's unconventional, interesting and always brilliantly written. This should definitely be on more reading lists. It truly is under-appreciated genius.