Art from the Artist

How much can you separate the art from the artist? This question has been on my mind of late. OK, that's a lie. It had been on my mind when Saul Bellow died a few weeks ago, because I'd read a thing in Altercation about how Bellow may have been prejudiced against African-Americans. Alterman's take was basically, "So, he wasn't perfect, but we can gain much by reading his work."

The question popped up again as Michael and I were headed across the Bay Bridge to Marcos & Isabel's house, listening to the new Beck CD. M said, "I was surprised you bought this, since Beck's a Scientologist." The thing was, I did actually consider that when I was buying the package (of course I bought the deluxe edition with bonus DVD). It was one of several factors. Knowing that a little bit of my money would be going indirectly to support a creepy cult didn't keep my from buying the CD, since I figured Beck probably doesn't get that much money from each one sold, and not all of the money he gets goes to the cult. So I figured, Scientology probably gets a couple pennies from me, tops. I can live with that.

The other factors included the 5.1 mix on DVD and Michael's enjoyment of Beck's previous records. Actually, I think M is not really more into Beck than I am. Maybe a little. Beck's work is often very clever, and I admire it for that. But it rarely moves me. Know what I mean? But I digress...

Buying the work of a living artist is a way of supporting that artist financially (to a greater or lesser extent, depending on the artist's ability to get a good deal from a label/publisher). So if an artist were actively supporting causes I find immoral or otherwise unpalatable, I might avoid buying that artist's work. If Bellow were writing today, and he gave money to, oh, I don't know, the Republican party, I wouldn't buy his books. If Beck were a dues-paying supporter of the John Birch Society, I wouldn't buy his records. Scientology is creepy, but it's not KKK creepy.

But what of the media conglomerates? Should I buy books and records manufactured by companies that support evil causes? That's a tough one, because they probably also support some good causes (heck, even Republicans probably support some good causes). Oh, it's that slippery slope of moral relativism, which Republicans used to rail against.

Jesus Christ, am I boring you as much as I'm boring me? Either the time for this essay has come and gone, or is not yet here. Stay tuned, as I'm sure you're all on pins and needles waiting to hear more from me on this endlessly fascinating topic.

Should you read novels by racists? What about something like Huckleberry Finn, which some parents over the years have tried to ban from high school reading lists? I think the book is profoundly anti-racist, but some folks have decided that the mere fact of a character's name being Nigger Jim, reflecting the racism of the era in which the book was written, is enough to poison the novel for students.

But what of a truly objectionable authorial stance. Like, I don't know, John Updike's misogyny. I say, if you can stand to regard some art created from a different point of view than your own, you can learn a lot. Know your enemy and all that. Heck, isn't that a great thing about art? You get to confront other peoples' hopes, dreams and fears in a safe way? Mabye you learn something about other people, maybe you learn something about yourself.

When I saw "Chasing Amy," I loved its critique of the main characters' decisions, viewpoints and actions. M, on the other hand, just hated the two male leads' characters too much to enjoy the movie. As it turns out, the film was not a critique. It was just Kevin Smith's attempt to make sense of a failed romance. So OK, his movie doesn't offer a critique, but it does offer the opportunity for a critique. And the fact that Smith didn't realize his (characters') failings meant he put his truth up there on the screen for us to learn from, even if he failed to learn from his experiences. I don't mean to suggest that "Chasing Amy' is strict autobiography. But I do think it's an honest work (unlike, say, the painfully phony "Jersey Girl"), and that's what gives it both its power to entertain and its power to make us examine our attitudes about intimacy.

OK, I gotta feed Olive some dinner. That's my reality. There are people starving in the world, but I buy dog food for my canine companion. Should you really bother reading the blog of a guy who cares more about dogs than people? I leave that to you to decide.

Symphonic Euphoria

Friday night I went to hear the San Francisco Symphony, under the baton of visiting conductor, Kurt Masur, perform Schnittke's First Cello Concerto and Brahms's Second Symphony. The Schnittke was amazing, with thorny melodies on the cello underscored with a shifting focus between quietly dischordant shimmering and glorious thirds from various parts of the orchestra. The soloist was Natalia Gutman, for whom the concerto was written, and who played at its premiere nearly twenty years ago. She performed with command and sensitivity, with total control but still with a sense of spontaneity, as if the music were being created as she played. Sometimes I worry that our audience will embarrass itself by showing undue enthusiasm for a performance; in this case, I think the crowd should have been more effusive in its applause. God, am I sounding like Thaddeus Bristol, here?

The Brahms. What can I say? I first heard the Brahms, without knowing it, on a cassette tape of Mic & Suz's Le Petit Mauvais Chose (er, Michael, how do you spell that?), a radio show on KZSC in Santa Cruz. That was probably only a couple of years after Gutman premiered the Schnittke concerto. Anyway, Mic & Suz played for at least forty-five minutes a tape loop of a five-second snippet from the first movement of the Brahms Second. Only they didn't identify the source. I was intrigued, but didn't know how to figure out where the loop came from.

One day years later, when I was downstairs at Rasputin's in Berkeley, they were playing the first movement over the loudspeakers, and when I heard the familiar rising strains of that theme, I got very excited. I asked an employee what it was that was playing. He said I'd have to ask upstairs, because that's where the cd's are played from. I ran upstairs and finally found out where that tape loop had been drawn from: the Brahms Symphony #2. Not wanting to buy a mediocre or idiosyncratic version of the symphony, I didn't plunk down ten bucks on the first used version I saw. I had to consult the Penguin Guide, of course. Eventually I decided on the Mackerras/Scottish Chamber Orchestra version (the box set with all four symphonies and a few extra things).

And boy, do I love that Second Symphony. By the final fanfare of Friday night's performance, I felt almost levitated. I'm sure that piece of music is too fucking cheery for some folks, but I think it has just enough darkness to keep it from being the symphonic equivalent of a '70's Coca-Cola commercial. And the melodies and harmonies and rhythmic tricks are glorious. It's probably not the best piece of music to listen to when you're depressed, but when you're happy, it can leave you floating two feet off the ground.

Hello world!

Are you there? It's me, Andy.