On the Nature and Purpose of Artistic Nihilism

“I can't remember the exact quote but I think it was da Vinci who said artists HAVE to be arrogant about their art.  Otherwise how would they ever be able to do the things they do? Hmmm...maybe it wasn’t da Vinci but it’s still true”

 – Anonymous  Friend...after one too many...

My friend and I have a long-standing debate: He takes the position that the purpose of Art is to enact change. I hold strong, however, to the belief that Art HAS no intrinsic purpose; or no intrinsic value for that matter! Much like everything else we experience through life, meaning and value come from our interpretation.

Interpretation. Not Intention.

I submit to you that art is not whole—not complete, not art—until it gets observed, rendered and deciphered into someone’s psyche.

In other words, if someone paints a picture of a tree falling in the woods…

And as for the quote above,  I hates to disagree with da Vinci…but…

The danger in arrogance in art is that it leads to elitism and that restriction…the taking the audience out of the equation is the true enemy of expression.

Art, for everyone’s posturing and delusions of grandeur, is a SERVICE industry. It’s wonderful (not) that we’ve turned our celebrities into demigods but at its crux art is giving a gift.  Sharing an experience.  And all this stuff about making a difference in the world and changing things is a by-product that comes from this gift.  

Can art change the world?  Absolutely. Can an artist set out to change the world? Absolutely.  Is it a fool’s errand to try to change the world through art? A.B.S.O.L.U.T.E.L.Y.

How it works:  Something happens. To ME.  And it affects me; makes me happy, sad, pissed, anxious, horny.  I decide I simply MUST communicate this to somebody.  So I filter that experience though the medium of my choice (paint, music, prose, film, interpretive dance, whatever) and release it into the world.  YOU receive this, unfold it and interpret it based on your experiences, beliefs and yearnings; and simply does not matter if your interpretation agrees with my intention!  

You can’t control what someone does with a gift.

Just ask Oliver Stone.

Stone meant Wall Street to be a scathing indictment of the Brokers and greed and a wake up call to America and accidentally ended up inspiring a whole generation of Gordon Gekko wannabes!  

And to extend what I’ve been talking about to the next level:  If all art has no intrinsic value then all art is basically equal. Everyone who creates art is equal. It’s society that gets the final say as to whether it’s changing the world or if it’s full of shit.  This means (since you can’t control society) that the act of creation is the only thing that the artist can control and is therefore the only thing that matters. 

Art, truly, is in the doing.

Now, where I’m a big fat hypocrite on this is that I’m just as guilty as the next guy…probably more so…of questioning someone’s right to be an artist: why does he get to make a movie, oh she socks, wah wah wah.  And that is a behavior that I’d really like to squelch in myself…stop the hatin’ if you will.

And the argument I hear a’coming is this:  Are you saying that Humans cannot enact change?  What about Ghandi? What about MLK?

Well of course humans can enact change. On an even more base level:

You alive.  I shoot.  You dead.

Change!

But I’m not talking about Humans. I’m talking about Art.

An Artist can in NO way DICTATE what form inspiration will take.  

Meaning is in the domain of the audience.  

I am not saying I don’t CARE if an audience “gets it”.  I’m expanding my circle of awareness to accept the very real possibility that an audience may “get it” in a way that I could never have conceived.

And THAT, is what is so fucking great about ART!!!   

It’s when we get into the realm of “well if you don’t see it the way I wanted you to see it, then you are stupid or unenlightened” that we start getting into elitism and (in my opinion) masturbation. Demanding that someone interpret your art in a specific way is a) impossible,  b) limiting and c) missing the point of truly great art (and no I’m not saying that I have made truly great art…yet?)

So yes….I do hope that someone will listen… I just don’t worry about WHAT they take away from it WHILE I’m creating.  I mentioned the Wall Street example but think about Waiting for Godot…someone might see that and go, “Wow, that is a wonderful exploration of faith”  Someone else might go “wow, what a cynical take on the futility of life”  Is one of those people WRONG?  Does it matter to either one of them what BECKETT’s reason for writing the play was?   

No one cares if YOU have a personal moment only if THEY have a personal moment.

Death is a many Splendored Thing.

I found out that someone died. 

And this is very strange…I hadn’t thought of this person in literally 20 years. But, in a bizarre way, most of the man I am today is because of Her.  She was…in that way that everyone you know in High School becomes the benchmark for everyone else you meet in life…the most beautiful person I’ve ever actually touched; and my first real LOVE. And you know the love I mean: obsessive high school infatuation.  The stuff that makes you spend hours carving Her name inside a heart on a tree in the woods. The stuff that makes you jog by someone’s house….hoping She’ll come out.  I was in 10^th grade. She was a junior.  I was an unpopular band geek, She was a homecoming nomine and a former cheerleader and the top of Ware Co. High’s A-list.  And for whatever reason, for about 2 months in the spring She decided that She liked me. So I got to sit next to Her in Algebra, eat lunch at the cool table and even got a ride home one day…followed by an awkward, sweaty (my sweat), tight close-mouthed kiss.  Didn’t matter, as far as my 15 year old heart was concerned, I’d found my soul mate. My true love.  I saw marriage, kids, our mansion in LA when I became a rock star…the works.

Lot’s of “where do I stand??” phone calls and some really heartfelt notes later, the interest waned.  One day, She didn’t wait for me for lunch and that was it.  We never really spoke again.  I still got to sit next to Her in algebra for the rest of the quarter but it was done.  For Her. For me, of course, it was only beginning and I secretly plotted ways of getting Her to fall for me again. I’d coincidentally show up at places she frequented.  I even managed to convince my friend, Phil, to throw a party just so She could come and I could show up. She did…with her boyfriend  and the party ended up getting busted by the cops…another tale for another day.  My lowest point involved a plot to seize control of an assembly so I could perform Against All Odds to Her because nothing says true love like Phil Collins. I spent countless hours practicing that song…picking the precise point to drop to my knees and make eye contact(“TAKE A LOOK AT ME NOW!!!” you know the part I’m talking about!). She wouldn’t be able to take it and would stand up and try to leave. BUT THEEEEEERE’S JUST AN EMPTY SPACE…” And She’d turn…and when I collapsed, spent from all the emotion She’d run up and as I sang the last “take a look at me noooow…” She’d lift my head, we’d kiss in front of a standing ovation from the entire school.  That took me a solid year of planning to work out…strangely enough I didn’t figure out a way to actually hijack an assembly. Didn’t really matter I guess…

Her senior year, She graduated and was gone.  But somehow, I still thought that we would find a way to be together.  I carried that torch long into my senior year.  In fact, I never really found a girlfriend in High School (or college for that matter until Poodle…much longer story) because in my eyes they paled next to Her. She was the one that kept me motivated…kept me moving…not giving up on anything…because I was gonna SHOW Her.  Show her what She was missing…and thereby win her back!

Of course time is a fickle bitch and eventually I lost track of Her memory…somewhere in there it got replaced by the various other loves of my life along the road.  

Until that day.

When I found out that She died.  I got a quick sense memory thinking about Her. The smells of high school. Jean jackets. Perfume. Big Red Gum.  Her maroon mustang convertible that I got to ride in exactly once.  Turns out She had become a teacher, gotten married, had kids. Lived a great, fulfilling life without ever missing out on becoming a Rock Star wife.  Just as well since I kinda missed out on becoming a rock star.

I don’t know why I’m writing this.  I guess, in lieu of flowers I just wanted to do my part to keep Her alive. She’s now a part of history…a caveman’s drawing on the wall.  Because no matter what She was or became…She will always, at least to one gangly, pimply teen, be the first lesson of loss…of love.  And love never dies, right?

Rest in Peace, S.F.