Yet another long post. Sorry about that--especially when it's a simple
copy-and-paste job from a post that appeared on the old AML-List on the day
it hiccuped here a little over a month ago.

Sorry for the bad form, but I spent enough time writing this five weeks ago
that I want to give it a chance to flop on its own merits rather than simply
being lost in the noise surrounding the commencement of the List's death
throes.

---

A long time ago on another version of this list Thom Duncan wrote:

> Good art can harm people only in the way that true religion can harm
> people. It may make them feel uncomfortable, but so does true
> religion.

For good art that may well be true (for weak or even bad art, it's not
nearly so true). Unfortunately the definition of "good" in this context begs
a lot of questions. Do we mean good (moral) content? Do we mean good
(refined) technique? Do we mean good (executed to author's vision or to
arbitrary standard) presentation or performance?

I ask because I think this is where a lot of us get sideways to each other
on these discussions--we're using the same words but talking entirely
different concepts.

I'm going to write a pseudo-essay/blog entry/rant/meander on this broader
topic and post it to AML-List (and possibly a social/artistic blog that my
friend Scott Bronson and I have been cooking up recently) fairly soon, but
let me pick a couple of ideas to meander on here...

I just got back from a week-long trip to Las Vegas where I did some concept
development presentations for a professional conference about IT asset and
configuration management (deeply boring for those not engaged at a
fundamental professional level). Of course it was also a sales opportunity
for cross-selling to customers, and a chance to reward both customers and
employees with a week-long boondoggle in Vegas.

While there we saw a number of shows. Two in particular caught my attention.

Cirque de Soleil does a *bunch* of different shows based around incredible
acts of acrobatic strength, balance and elegance. One show in particular
featured two men performing acts of unfathomable physical power and grace
off of each others' bodies. Of necessity they wore skin-tight clothing and
came in full contact with each other at various points throughout the
performance.

The underlying homoerotic tension was a planned and integral part of the
performance, and was presented as such. The artists intended you to consider
the sexual nature of some of the contact, and to be at least marginally
scandalized by it--planned tension to keep the audience focused on the stage
and the extraordinary acrobatic feats being performed there.

At best the the performance was morally neutral; it displayed athletic power
and grace, not messages about philosophical concepts. It used the audience
members' own assumptions about "appropriate" physical contact as a
foundation for creating dynamic tension in the overall presentation, but
argued nothing about whether that contact was morally good or not. The
overwhelming focus was on acrobatic excellence.

It was an example of extraordinary technique, refined choregraphy, excellent
presentation, and display of talents far beyond the ability of nearly anyone
in the audience to even approach, no less equal. It was beauty, power and
elegance.

In other words it was not morally good (it was not morally anything at all),
but it was good technique and good presentation. In isolation it was an
incredible and even uplifting presentation that gave me insight into what is
physically possible for those blessed with certain physical advantages who
are also willing to pay the price of training and rehearsal.

Just outside the performance hall were advertisements for the all-male drag
revue down the street, a show on the vampiric exploration of forbidden
pleasures up the block, and a "naughty hypnotism" act across the street. On
the street outside were two people in yellow t-shirts advertising in-room
stripper service (guaranteed arrival in 20 minutes or less; dial this number
for immediate booking).

This larger context undermined the immediate context for me and tended to
make the Cirque de Soleil presentation seem far more tawdry in retrospect
than it seemed when considered in the moment. In other words, the
presentation does not exist in isolation, and ultimately can't be considered
in isolation. At least not for me.

I also had a chance to see the Blue Man Group (third time for me--fourth if
you include their concert tour; I love that show). Less about raw physical
power and more about playing with audience expectations about expectations
and breaking out of staid, pointless behavioral limitations. It's a
celebration of sights, sounds, and ideas that leverages absurd contexts and
characters to break down audience inhibitions in harmless expressions of
energy and joy at living, with an occaisional social or philosophical nugget
deconstructed (for entertainment purposes only) and some wonderful rhythmic
music using atypical instruments and performance techniques.

I would argue that it was good from a moral standpoint, good from an
esthetic standpoint, and a good performance (not perfect, but good) that met
the expectations of both audience and performers. It was a joy and fun in a
way that the larger context of Las Vegas couldn't change; there was no clear
bridge (or resonance) from their performance to the highly sexualized
environment of the greater Las Vegas strip.

There's no question the Cirque de Soleil performance was more refined,
precise and powerful. The Blue Man Group was far more thought-provoking and
entertaining. I admired the first in a more detached way; I absolutely
adored the second in an interactive, ongoing way. I can recommend Cirque de
Soleil to anyone, but have further need to see it; I will see Blue Man Group
every chance I get.

Both were good. For me, one was much, much better if less awe-inspiring.

A couple of weeks ago I attended a composition recital at BYU for "new"
music. One of the foundation assumptions of the music was to free itself
from the tyranny of traditional meter, rhythm, instrumentation, and melodic
considerations. The effect was music totally disconnected from common
assumption and the traditional concert experience.

One piece featured a tone poem with accompanying vocalist depicting
experience around Coney Island attractions. The vocalist's facial
expressions and physical interpretations were the only familiar elements and
kept me connected to the overall tone poem. It was a thoroughly engaging
blend of familiar, suggestive, and alien.

Another piece featured sampled vocals of long sounds (ahhhh, ohhhh, mmmm)
put through assorted electronic transformations and blended with rhythmic
presentation and dynamic change, all accompanied by a visual presentation of
still images of a mouth making the featured sounds and changing over time as
various Photoshop filters were applied to the image. It was a clever idea
that lost my attention after a few moments of the same set of tranformations
occuring again and again.

Another piece featured a harpsichord striking a set of rhythms and melodic
phrases repeated as a relentlessly monotonous foundation to an alto
saxophone performing largely atonal and arhythmic expectorations. The
juxstaposition was interesting, but functionally unvaried, and by the end of
the piece (9 minutes objective; 40 minutes subjective) I was playing
Brickout on my Blackberry. The piece was offered in multiple movements, and
the saxophonist used four music stands to hold approximately 7 feet of
musical score to play from (he walked across the stage as the piece
progressed)--something that initially intrigued, but eventually undermined
by giving me a visual clue that this wasn't going to end any time soon.

The foundation assumption of the music was that traditional melody and
rhythm were old and new music had to transcend them. The only proof of
freedom from the old restrictions was to either avoid traditional
melody/rhythm, or to use them mockingly.

For me the result was a presentation that had moments of interest as I
considered the atypical constructs followed by functional boredom at the
essential lack of innovation within each composer's diversions from the
ordinary, compounded by the overall equivalence of each composer breaking
the rules in essentially the same way. By the end I had lost meaningful
interest in the music even though I admired the quality and technique of the
performers themselves.

In a brief, informal poll of audience members I found that about 3 of 4
people were there on assignment (listen to a concert and write a concert
report on what you heard...). Of the remainder, 3 of 4 were either faculty
or friends or family of either the performers or the composers. That left a
very small group of people who were there specifically to listen to new
music *because* it was new music. No one I spoke with could hum a few bars
of any of the pieces we heard that night.

In other words, the effective audience for the music was limited to those
with academic interest, and the performance itself was capped by an
intentional lack of familiar hooks to carry it home with the audience where
they could chew over it some more. The performance and its impact ended at
the doors of the concert hall, and its intended target was the mind rather
than the emotions.

In other words, the appeal was the performance itself. The score was mostly
a vector to admiration of the performer's craft with a nod to the composer
for enabling it.

Was it good? I admired the technique of the instrumentalists, was left cold
by the technique of (most of) the composers, was intrigued by the idea of
music that departs from the familiar constraints, but was ultimately left
unchanged by the music itself.

[In fairness, the experience triggered a significant bit of instrospection
and consideration of the purposes and uses of melody, instrumentation, and
rhythm, and a serious reconsideration of the role of performer in
interpretting the author (or composer). That consideration was sparked by
the performance, but has become essentially disconnected from it--I'm
operating now on the abstracted idea of modern music, not the specific
pieces performed in this instance of a concert.]

To me the distinctions among these different evaluations of artistic
expression suggest that effective evaluation of either author or performance
must be considered on more than one basis to explore whether 1) the art is
good, 2) the performance is good, and 3) the technique is good--or at least
admirably deployed. Any number of admirable performances leave me either
ambivalent or feeling actively diminished despite the excellence of
technique or presentation.

How do we map that disparity to the idea of good art? Does good art have to
match on only one criterion? Is there general agreement on which of the
criteria is principle in determining whether art is good? Or does it remain
relative to the observer (darn you Einstein), and the only value of
discussions like this is to explore different assumptions rather than
declaring one piece good and another bad?


> The way a person may feel should take back seat to the idea
> that maybe the audience should be made to feel the way they will.

Why, and for how long?

If, as an audience member, I suspend my own interpretation and response to a
performance in order to understand the purpose of the artist's presentation,
at what point am I permitted my own reaction? Having considered the artist's
intent (despite common critical theory that says author's intent is
irrelevent), how do I verify that intent--especially when so many of the
artists themselves say they're not responsible for the audience's
interpretation of that intent?

It feels like a catch-22 to me--if I don't appreciate the artist's intent
I'm being unfair, even if I think the artist's intent was weak, poorly
executed, trivial, irrelevant, or insulting. So essentially my only allowed
response is to simply admire the (unverified) intent of the presentation
with no further comment, because that's the only proof that I actually
recognize that intent.

Sort of like new music that can only prove its newness by essentially
rejecting the entirety of what went before, because to accept old music as
worthy is to deny the value or importance of new music.

That's part of the epiphany I had at that concert. As a music major at BYU
many years ago (vocal performance) I was required to attend all kinds of
performances, including composition recitals. I generally hated composition
recitals because new music composers so totally rejected the very
traditional music that I founded my performances on (I was an operatic
bass).

Their essential intent was to devalue the core of my own study. I didn't
appreciate that, and so I could not enjoy their recitals.

Twenty five years later I no longer identify myself as a performer of
traditional music, and as such I have room to appreciate the performers'
technique and musicianship more. I have a greater understanding of both the
intellectual and artistic foundations of both old and new music, so I can
admire the composer's application of technique and theory to their work more
now than I could then.

But I still don't like the vast majority of new music. Admire it in many
ways--absolutely. But it doesn't engage me and I won't say it does. Which of
course proves that I don't really understand new music or I would love it
the same way its composers do. Proof that my mind is too mundane and my
esthetic too ossified to reach beyond myself. Proof that I just don't get
it, and thus should shut up and sit down.

Catch-22. And a huge load of nonsense to boot.

I recognize more than I like, and I admire more than I am moved by. And
despite that recognition and even admiration, I just don't like an awful lot
of what's presented to me as art. Intent is not enough; technique is not
enough. I want engagement and even resonance, and that often has nothing
whatsoever to do with either intent or technique.

I love dissonance--it adds tension and interest to a piece and creates both
intellectual and emotional engagement. But dissonance works because it's
different from the resonance that surrounds it. But like salt in a stew, too
much ruins the positive effect and makes it so much fodder for the compost
heap.

Where's the middle ground for discussion in that? When do I get to reject
the stew as too salty without being declaimed as inartistic for not
appreciating the positive benefits of salt?

Scott Parkin

You (speaking generically) can reject the stew anytime you want as long as you also allow other people to slurp it down with elan. The gist of this thread to which you are responding as always been, from my pov, a simple plea from some to be able to appreciate the art they appreciate without rancor from the other side. No, it's more than that. It has more to do with this question: "Why aren't the works of folks like Richard Dutcher just as valid forms of art as the less edgy types?" It's even more than that. "Why must we pass judgements of moral value on a work of art, which, as a non-living entity, cannot have morals attached to it." The only morality a work of art can possess is that which we give to it. So isn't it unfair to judge a film of sex and violence, for instance, as "not worthy' when what we really should be looking at is how well that film addresses the issues of sex and violence? Is the sex gratuitous? And not because we might not like sex scenes and so any sex scene is gratuitous. But does the sex scene grow out of the plot? Is it absolutely required? Is it set up properly so that it, when it appears, it does not shock us or, if it does shock us, is it a shock that was just thrown in or, once again, does it seem to be an outgrowth of the piece as a whole. A movie that has a gratuitous sex scene is House of Sand and Fog. Only one such scene and, imo, not at all required. A film that has no gratuitous sex scenes in it, though it has many sex scenes is China Blue. None are gratuitous. All serve the purpose of the film. Eyes Wide Shut is another film where the sex scenes aren't gratuitous. As in 9 and 1/2 weeks. The violence in the Godfather movies isn't gratutious but the violence in any movie by Stephen Segal is.

I can't think of a way to end this paragraph-long response, so I'll just stop and let others chime in.

---

Thom Duncan
Playwright, Novelist, Poet, Lyricist, Screenwriter, Curmudgeon

Scott,

This is a small, unrelated question but did you get the phrase "horse-brained masses" from Bloom County?

Mark

There was a sequence when Opus has a nose job and his usual giant honker was reduced to a petite, hooked nose. Everyone hated it. For the first several strips it was obscured, Austin Powers-style, by various items but finally it was unveiled and it was pretty bad. So they had a faux readers call-in sort of thing where they were to vote on whether Opus should keep the current nose or go back to his old one. Opus looked at the readers and said that he had perfect faith in the common horse-sense of the people. The results were announced in the next panel that, overwhelmingly, the old nose was preferred. So, as they were hauling him off for involuntary plastic surgery, Opus cursed the "stupid horse-brained masses." It made me laugh then and it did again today.

I'm not actually trying to disagree with you so much as I'm trying to explore a question here, so I hope you'll bear with me.

Two thoughts--

First, I think part of my disconnect from the generally accepted norm here is that I'm still not convinced of a clean definition of "artist." Where's the Artist Accreditation Board qualification list, and who's issuing the certificates so that I can separate the merely arrogant, self-aggrandizing weenie from a real and true artist?

That's not actually a flippant question, though I understand it's impossible to answer in a meaningful way. Truth be told, there are any number of people who claim to be artists who, while I accept that they took a valiant shot at creating art, have simply failed to meaningfully earn the title, in my opinion (including some good friends).

Yet common usage suggests that anyone who even tries to produce a work for public consumption gets the moniker, and thus gets to close the door on criticism because others simply don't "get it" the way true artists do. That's where I get sideways to a lot of the rhetoric I hear, because I honestly and truly give everything I see/read/hear multiple chances before disappointment drives me away. Yet a tremendous amount of work still drives me away.

A simple example--Quentin Tarrantino. I admire his films and I appreciate the way he tells stories. But he has a love affair with graphic depictions and is starting to bore me as a one-trick pony. I want to see him move to a new story type, and perhaps a different set of presentation techniques--not because I'm offended, but because I'm bored. To a very real degree Neil Labute falls into the same category.

A lot of Mormon literary fiction strikes me the same way. One of the desperately small set of story types that seem to be worthy of artistic consideration is the crisis point story where POV is forced to either deny his true inner self in conformance to the institution, or is forced to exit the institution in order to remain real, honest, and human. A story where POV chooses to change toward the institution's suggestion is merely a vapid morality tale unworthy of a claim to art.

Except that to me theme or intent is simply not enough for me to accept a thing as valuable. I don't grant anyone to privilege of telling me how anything is (or should be) without also inviting me to question, explore, and criticize. If someone tells me I don't have the right to question, then as far as I'm concerned that person hasn't earned my time or attention and I will walk away on principle (a problem of much ecclesiastical and political discourse--interesting bedfellows there).

I wouldn't dream of arguing against the idea that most Mormon art is ordinary technique combined with simplistic (and as such possibly irrelevant) content. I absolutely agree that while earnest desire and personal testimony are both useful and personally valuable, they are also poor indicators of either quality or external value in artistic works.

But the inverse is also true. The fact that an idea is "dangerous" does not imbue it with special social significance or moral value, it just describes the nature of a work's content. I will withhold acceptance or approval of the thing until it has proven itself useful or delightful to me (if it's both useful and delightful, so much the better). Sure, its "dangerous" content might well be a draw and will probably cause me to give it extra chances to succeed, but I will not give it an automatic pass just because it tries to deal with a difficult or controversial issue.

The DaVinci Code. Need I say more? Clever, dangerous (to some), competently constructed, and ultimately irrelevant. Not art at all, in my opinion.

===

Second, the problem is that everything is a complex blend of purposes, successes/failures, and subjective judgment.

At the risk of opening a can of worms, I recently read the first book of the Golden Compass series, Northern Lights. I found the voice to be interesting, the POV to be unique and enagaging, the imagination to be vivid and powerful, the pace to be breathtaking (in a good way), and the characters to be self-consistent.

I also found the moral framework of the story to be odd and possibly distasteful--certainly alien. I don't have a problem with that, but the dissonance does make it difficult to fully embrace or recommend at this point because I need the other shoe to drop before I can comment. I enjoyed the technical and artistic presentation of the first book enough to start the second book; I will re-evaluate again when I finish it.

At the same time, the author has made several public claims that functionally demand that I consider the book differently than I would have otherwise. He's called it a literary response to Milton's Paradise Lost. He's described it as an argument against certain religious assumptions. He's called attention to his own antagonism to popular Christianity.

Alongside that, many have dubbed the series more important, more creative, more honest, and more inherently valuable than some other fantasy series that I personally loved, including the Harry Potter series. Many critics have claimed that Pullman's books are the model for how YA literature should be constructed--both technically and morally.

That's a lot of noise. And that noise directly impacts the means, methods, and contexts in which I evaluate the work.

I already like his writing style and storytelling technique, but I'm at best ambivalent about his moral framework and I actively disagree with quite a few of the philosophical constructs he's using and the conclusions he's drawing from them. In the end, I suspect that I will admire it on some bases, remain ambivalent on others, and ultimately reject it on yet other points.

As a result, I will be forced to give an equivocating answer as to whether I "liked" it, and I will likely recommend against it as having too unsatisfying a payoff for the effort required to work through it (jury is still out, but that's the current trend).

Which is how I feel about an awful lot of the more literarily complex Mormon literature and film I consume. Dutcher tells a great story, but there's some overhead--especially in States of Grace--that really sticks in my craw. I loved The Backslider, but ultimately came out with a more intellectual appreciation than an emotional engagement--unlike others that I trust who felt that the book spoke directly to their soul. Peterson's characters just don't engage me at a deep enough personal level to make me want to actively pursue more of his works. Not because I don't get his intent or appreciate the artistry of his presentation or technique, but because they just don't grab me all that much.

That's why I have to resist the impulse to turn off my evaluative brain--because what has value to others just may not work for me. I love anime in much the same way Eugene Woodbury does, but the elements that engage each of us are so totally different as to make us functional aliens to each other when discussing why we like it.

I'm not really trying to draw any conclusions here. I'm just challenging the idea that I have to give anyone special consideration just because they're an "artist."

Scott

Oh Thom, that is a major bummer, for us to lose your excellent response, and for you to see your work so needlessly evaporate. That's also terrible lack of options in Preview. I'm not one to use Preview, so I had no idea. I'll put the Preview problem on my list.

Right now this Board is set with no time limits on editing your own posts. Perhaps in the meanwhile, it's a better strategy to actually post your draft (sorry) and then correct any little errors that have creeped in.