Les Refusés

I had mixed feelings when I read April 7, 2005 The New Times article, ‘Colorful Personalities’, about the personality clashes at Art Center/South Florida, an art colony located on South Beach's famed Lincoln Road Mall. On the one hand, I was chagrined by the focus on the bickering instead of the art exhibited. Little was said of the art itself, other than the inference drawn from the mouths of disgruntled dissidents: that the art must be of poor quality because of the authoritarian regime of the institution’s current chairman. The reporter, Forrest Norman, did make a general positive statement about the center in the first sentence of his leading statement, but then used his "blessing" as a license for a protracted revelation of the carping "turmoil."

We all know jerks who happen to be masters of their art as well, whether it be the art of business or the art of fine art. For instance, I have known Martha Graham dancers who hated her personal regime yet praised her art; and I know others who view her as a saint and her works as the ultimate in modern dance.

I have in the past submitted to The New Times several high-quality essays on specific works of art displayed at Art Center/South Florida, all to no avail. My submissions were greeted with absolute silence, leaving me to think that The New Times is not as counter-cultural as some of its readers think it is, especially now that the old, in-your-face counter-culture is the current culture and everything is "cool" because anything goes. I am not surprised by editorial silence: in the security of my vanity and my certainty of good taste, I have learned that the fashionable world is Absurd (deaf) to excellent dissent, not to mention the truth about itself.

On the other hand, I sympathized with the dissenting tone of the report, or rather with its emphasis on dissent, for nothing is perfect, and, in the absence of criticism, there is no art. As one of the foremost Refusés in my field, I am keenly aware of the mean personal mediocrity that leads the degenerating culture to the demise of fine art, making it extremely difficult for creative talent to rise on its merits alone. Any true renaissance of the Spirit of Art shall be accompanied by the occasional infantile tantrums and neuroses bordering on psychosis, and other symptoms of insanity attributable in part to the rejection of talent by the sane or ‘whole’ herd subject to its lowest common denominator.

In fine, mean people with bad taste and plenty of money are putting talent down and celebrating trash. The majority, naturally subservient to authority as defined by material wealth and other forms of power including celebrity, follows suit. The power elite needs to have their taste adjusted. What the world needs, what the artists need, is a new set of Medicis. The renaissance of the Spirit of Art will not occur absent their patronage. Collectors who count on their riches alone have never been famous for their aesthetic judgment. Respected collections are respected too much for the power of the wealthy owners and benefactors, and what they might do for people who flatter them, and not for elevated principles. Respected collections of paintings are respected too much for the signatures, and too little attention is paid to artistic merit waiting at the door of the mausoleums.

I have visited Art Center/South Florida many times. If the art there is trash, then I am just another steer. I admire some of it. I do not care for the coloring of the works of one of the most successful resident artists, because it clashes with my prejudice, yet I believe he deserves his success. Mind you that after I win the Diamond Lotus Prize, I plan on applying for residency at the Center myself. I happen to be an absolutely painterly painter, a painter without a painting; I have regressed beyond the Suprematists to the Origin of Art, where my mastery is beyond criticism. Yes! Diamond! Lotus! As One!

Now odd as this might seem, my favorite artist at Art Center/South Florida is not a resident artist. His name is Darwin León. (http://www.darwinleon.com). He works at the front desk. He is devoted to the institution and he is worried that the bickering reported by The New Times will damage its reputation. I had to disagree with him on that point because one of my critics has honored me with the phrase, "a most provocative controversialist." Controversy, by the way, is what gets us by and gives us due cause to progress. As every patron worth his patronage knows very well, people who have a talent for controversy should be brought into the fold for good effect. We need people who have a talent for controversy.  Indeed, talent is forged by controversy,  producing  virtuous works of art as well as talents of gold. I shall further belabor this point, which is the principle of my line, the next time I see Darwin. I believe I can bring him around to my perspective if I take advantage of his understanding of the dialectical progress of the Spirit of Art, an historical line bound to become a circle when extended to its full length. Thus in the mirror do we see past and future joined. 

On my first visit to the Center in late 2004, I happened to pass by the front desk after touring the various studios. I noticed that Mr. León was sketching something. I asked him for permission to look at his sketchbook. The cubist sketches therein amazed me. I asked him why he did not have a studio at Art Center/South Florida. He said his application had been rejected. I asked him for his manifesto. He declared himself to be anti-anti-art. I figured that the product of the negatives is Art. On my next visit to the center, I mentioned Darwin’s name when I was asked which artists I like best. I said I thought Darwin’s art was excellent. My opinion was pooh-poohed. “Darwin is just a college student,” I was told.

 

Here we go again, I speculated. Little do they know that Darwin is their resident El Cinderello (El Cinderciento). El Padron of Los Cinquentas Padrones de Imagine Miami shall find Darwin soon enough, and Darwin shall have a ball because the golden shoe fits.

Of course our abstractions are only natural. People put each other in categorical boxes and then do their best to keep them there until they are suitably crushed by their illusions. Wherefore everyone feels they are secure in their respective boxes, even the ones who live in a cardboard box overrun by cockroaches. They are unaware of Kant's precaution about the illusions inherent in the transcendental logic of the categorical imperative; wherefore faith is a practical duty: in the final analysis, it must work. 

Even the “innovative” artists are working in boxes today. No wonder people inside the boxes are raving about the best seller, Thinking Outside of the Box, by John and Jane Doe, doctors of modern philosophy. Ironically, innovators and creators outside of the boxes want to get into the boxes so they can make a living too. Good grief! What ever happened to Cubism’s hypercube, inspired by Ouspensky’s mystic Fourth Dimension beyond time and space?

My own access to Miami’s boxes has been so panoramically denied that I have become resigned to what must be my fate, the effect of a form of social and economic homicide. As I beheld the downtown Miami skyline from the bus after viewing Darwin Leon’s work the previous day, Miami appeared to me ala Cubism. The towers of stacked boxes were leaning and twisting. The towers of Babel competed for a place in the Sun, a blazing cube. Each brick or office-box in the box-towers was slightly different than the other boxes. Each variance under the Sun constituted the name and competing argument of its occupant. The arguments were variations on the same theme - a river of hundred-dollar bills sparkling with some sort of white powder. I envisioned said boxes, on the whole and individually, from various perspectives at once as the scene fragmented before my eyes. Somehow the bus I rode and the causeway as well wended through the towers. One tower was an ocean liner standing absurdly on its stern.

Of course words cannot adequately describe the images I beheld from multiple perspectives outside of the box. Wherefore I sought out Darwin León the next day and told him about the vision of Miami his work had inspired in me. I said I wished I had the money to commission him to do such a work, dubbed, "Miami’s Towers of Babel." I secretly hoped he would take the suggestion to heart and pick up his brush gratis.

If he composed such a work, who would buy it given today’s arty Miami scene? Darwin León has been virtually rejected and ignored by the powers who preside over Miami's artéworldé, because, said one power, he, like Picasso, is not "consistent", nor he is "modern" enough, meaning he does not suit their definition of the "market needs" of their artémarket. Poor Darwin León does not have access to a box, a wall or stall in the artsy artégallerie or artéshow, where his work would stand out and sell out if reasonably priced and fairly criticized.

Darwin León is not alone although he is given reason to believe that he is. There are many Darwins out there, many Refusés whose fine art is ignored as if it were refuse.  Instead of being treasured for what they are, they are treated like worms. Some do manage to worm their way into the most precious woodworks and live in luxurious boxes, but not many so succeed.

Art is almost dead because the soul is dying: hysterics of old had paralyzed limbs; postmodern hysterics have paralyzed souls. Alas, Art’s demise would be the death of humankind. A resurrection of the Spirit of Art is overdue. If we would live creative lives, if we would live artfully, we must begin to savor fine art once again, savor it in the galleries and at the shows and at home, and enjoy the art of cooking in dining rooms. And that is why I think media like The New Times should focus on the art and not on the artistic personalities who are bound to clash because of their creative dissatisfaction with what is, compared to what could be.

 

A Masterpiece Refused

That is why I submitted the above paragraphs in the form of a letter to the editor of The New Times along with a condition that the entire piece be printed:  "I will lose first rights on this work if you publish it, therefore it is submitted as a “letter” under the condition that it be published as it is, meaning that your letter editor must not butcher it by cutting words, adding words and irrelevant sentences, omitting diacritical marks satirically made, such as in arté.

I had several good reasons for the condition against mutilation. The histories of art museums and galleries and newspapers are rife with examples of art mutilation - art taken out of context and wrongly placed. The New Times has a history of butchery, of which I am a disgruntled part. I submitted a letter to its editor a few weeks ago, appertaining to the bickering over the artsy-fartsy vodka served at the Arts Center/South Florida 'Art in the City' exhibition. My letter included an _expression of dismay over the size of the portions of pop served from dinky bottles. My baby was brutally mutilated; it was truncated, excised, and revised to make me look like El Tonto. I resolved never to submit anything artful to the publication again, at least not without an express prohibition against the abuse of my brainchild

I received a swift response from Jim Mullin to my latest brilliant essay. He identified himself as both the editor and the letter editor of The New Times. He said my masterpiece was “very long”, and asked me to send over a shorter version. Without my cooperation, he said, and given his editorial restrictions, he would be unable to run it. I replied that it is such a fine work of organic art that I could not mutilate it; but I gave him permission to run it as an article as it is, since as an article it would not be “very long” given the length of many New Times articles, in which case I would waive my fee. No thanks, he replied. I said, no problem, I shall put the word out to those concerned, that he had rejected my little masterpiece. To which he suggested that I simply copy our email exchange - this is the virtually verbatim summary of the momentous transactions.

I was not offended by Mr. Mullin's refusal - not at all. My reputation as the leading Refusé in my field would have been ruined by his acceptance. I took quite a risk with my counteroffer, for he could have had the work gratis and on an all-or-nothing basis. I certainly would not butcher my baby to appease the editorial restrains presumably imposed by his publisher. Would we ask Dali to cut Jesus out of his painting or amputate his arms outstretched on the crucifix simply to suit a gallery director's narrow sense of proportion? No.

Ah, but forgive me, father, for I believe I have misjudged Mr. Mullin's rejection of my counteroffer. My letter may have been too long for a mere letter; but it was also too short for a regular article, given Mr. Mullin's editorial criteria! My letter was 1,200 words in length, in contrast to the 450-word published report it appertained to. The New Times editor ran a 3,300-article, about a hip-hop studio king's diet, in the same issue as the ‘Colorful Personalities’ report. The 3,300-word piece was entitled 'Organic Produce'. Its composition did not comprise the "organic art" or artful excretions of my own that I had with good reason bragged about to the editor. Organic art evolves from life as life is felt.  'Organic Produce' was a well-crafted report issued in accord with the generally accepted accounting principles of journalism. It was an impersonal account or narration of facts, posing as the truth about the superficial aspects of its subject. 

I am glad it finally dawned on me that my letter was obviously too short to be an article. To maintain my reputation as the foremost Refusé in my field, it would behoove me to flesh out my letter a little and beef up my composition on the whole, that it may correspond to The New Time's ideal model, at least in respect to its length. My little masterpiece will then be a great organic masterpiece. Of course I shall do my duty quite naturally and before your eyes, in accordance with the philosophy I learned from my jazz dance master, Luigi Faciutto, who, when choreographing, used to say to us dance grunts, "This just came out. Now it is our job as dancers to make it smell good."

Not that the editor of The New Times will accept my organic elaboration. His rag is a free, weekly periodical. Notwithstanding their parochial and pop-culture content, free weeklies are, in respect to journalistic style, frustrated major daily newspapers.  We find hardly anything really new in the news or in the times it reflects today. The journalistic style of most papers and magazines is scarcely artistic: it resembles an inorganic machine, and poses as impersonal and as objective as the printing presses. It is designed to inculcate obedience to the "market needs" of the power elite who own the machine and control the major means of production. No, the romance or spirit of artistic reporting and commentary is seldom found in any journal or periodical today - everything is broken down into bits and pieces, into incoherent fragments - any artful organic elaboration is resented and feared as an insult and threat to the technical process. 

Much of the "news" today, seemingly devoid of arbitrary emotions, political and social prejudices, is not what it seems to be: it is a sales pitch; it is dogmatic propaganda. The creative talent fled from the “art of journalism” to novel writing some time ago; the artistic journalists do write entertaining nonfiction books as well. The subjective, first person is virtually anathematic. The 'I' appears here and there, in feature stories and the like, but that 'I' is usually an empty perspective, a dead fact instead of the "fact" of a continuous event. And that is why the people in the boxes above know very little about what is really going on in the street, for they do not care much for the man in the street any more. Such is the art of journalism today, a product of our disintegrating culture.

Of course art is contemporary or produced in its time. Our most popular art, dubbed Contemporary Art, enjoys unprecedented commercialization and popularity at present, but its time shall soon pass away. Each producer would corner the market if he could. He would differentiate his product from others, isolate it and place it rightly in hopes that it will stand out of its context and appeal to the consumer. He would have his art mass marketed in big-box stores if not in the White Box of Contemporary Art galleries  (the walls are painted white, the wood floors are polished) despite the declaration of a "theme"; but there is no underlying theme besides the cult of the original artist and gilded individual. Of course the consumer is easily deceived by what he sees and believes and what he sees and hears because his conscience has been fragmented and repressed in the competitive process of democratic consumption. The consumer is free to buy or to buy; shopping and consumption constitutes his freedom; he does not want so much the things in themselves as the demon of the fetish, the feeling of power endless conspicuous consumption provides.

Very few craftsmen have the talent for representing the organic reality of the living person, a continuity that is necessarily romantic: What is love? Love is your life. What we get today from the craftsmen is a face, an image, a flat, superficial view of things, without depth or breadth. The death of spiritual culture is a shame, especially where the free weeklies are concerned, for many of them proceeded with high hopes of providing a viable alternative to the materialist atomization of humankind via the cult of gilded individualism.

Let the gold glitter, but with the talent of gold give us a good tale to boot! Not that a 3,300-word account in the Miami New Times about a hip-hop studio king’s diet plan is of minute interest. Without a survey of a representative sample of readers for their opinions and a statistical tally and analysis of those opinions, we have no way of knowing how many people were actually interested in the article or in the free weekly for that matter. We know not how many people would actually subscribe to the paper if they had to pay for it. And in the absence of reliable independent surveys, most advertisers do not know for sure how much additional business their advertisements bring in. 

Contemporary Narcissism

 

No doubt the 3,300 words of 'Organic Produce' had a substantial audience given the cultural mentality I have enjoyed while riding the buses every day. The article revealed how Timbaland became one of the most influential and innovative record producers of the last decade; bought an $8 million house; hired an expensive trainer; went on a creatine - supplemented diet, reduced from 331 to 222 pounds thus far; and wants to become a bodybuilder because communicating an image of perfection is seen as the key to maintaining celebrity today.

Nowadays the ideal of perfection is a rock-hard body. Timbaland is sure that his new body and outlook will make his new album "way hotter" than the others. "There's going to be some jump. Plus, how I look, that's what's going to kill it. Appearance is anything," he said. He wants to teach the youth the lesson he is learning so well: "Your outer being is who you are as a person. People say no, but your outside effects who you are inside." Our young buck keeps natural models in mind: "I don't want to be lean and cut, I want to be buck. I just like that look. When you see horses, or animals, like you see a monkey or gorilla, like, the cut. It's a freaky look. When you keep working out, you get to be almost like an animal. I like the veins popping out. I love all that."

There are two sides to every coin in our dimension. I have no problem with tails if heads are honored. After all, I was a dancer - I am still a dancer of sorts. A healthy body and good appearance are certainly important. But we must deliberately cultivate the mind as well; mind and body may be one, but we are able to elevate the mind in our favor; the mind must be superior to the body, at least for those of us who walk upright, with our heads in the heavens, and our feet on the ground. 

Personal image is overemphasized by the cult of gilded individualism. The rage for superficial self-surveillance and relentless self-promotion in the war of all against all for sake of the Idol Competition renders the self dependent on consumption of ephemeral images, leaving it without any metaphysical ground to stand on. Christopher Lasch (Culture of Narcissism) once pointed out that narcissism, contrary to what one might think, is not based on self-love but rather on self-contempt if not self-hatred, for it is a defense arising from the fear of retaliation for one's own aggressive impulses. 

His generation's culture of narcissism arose from the evolution of the culture of hypocrisy derived from the rise of the city slicker and carpet-bagging confidence man around the turn of the century when the scientific-industrial revolution and world war opened up the pursuit of happiness (property) to more ordinary people. What counted were deceptive images and styles, smiles and other veils of generosity masking selfish, competitive motives.  "Getting ahead" was the order of the day, hence self-realization was based on the devaluation or lowering of others at home, at school, and in the workplace.

Not much has changed; for instance, I have confidentially interviewed several employees of Miami businesses that advertise their "integrity" and "honesty" - meaning other businesses are corrupt and dishonest. Most employees condemn outright theft, yet admit that many "deals" are deceptive and are intended to take in the unwitting and credulous customer. Managers spoke in terms of "manipulating" both customers and employees. All confessed they were loyal to themselves and not to their employers, whose hiring and firing practices they believed were arbitrary. All this is common knowledge. Politics is even worse, except that deception and lying are more obvious and even espoused by political philosophers as necessary to get anything done in a democracy.  Hypocrites control the government: our democracy is a hypocracy.

Has anything at all changed since Lasch's summary critique of typical American image? We still have the usual fear of dependence, inner emptiness, repressed rage, oral cravings, fear of old age and death, decline of play spirit, fascination with celebrity, deteriorating sexual relations, and devaluation of others. But we want healthier, better looking personal images today. The fat man and the skinny woman are out of fashion – “fat” and “skinny” are politically incorrect terms. Lean and mean is all right. Buff and tough might do. "Buck" and "cut" is better, for that will "kill" the competition.

In fine: What you see is what you get, and how you look is who you are. We must give credit where credit is due, and say the posing today is less hypocritical, for the ideals that man falls short of have diminished with the dementation of culture. The mental/moral side of the coin is forgotten - the mental aspect used to be called "moral" because mind chooses conduct. The idols and those who idolize them have their heads in the sand, the barren soil produced by the atomization of social persons into individual competitive units mechanically manipulated by the mass culture they really have no power over.  

Wherefore more attention must now be paid to the old platitudes; such as, appearances are not everything; appearances are deceiving; clothes do not make the man; and the positive affirmation of substance and principal over fleeting, arbitrary forms. "Dumb" dancers, body builders, musicians, and everyone else who really wants to be liberated are well advised to get a liberal education, either on their own or in schools. They would do well to write as many brilliant essays as they can; and the wordier the better if the words flow naturally along the Way. Writing about works of art, for instance, teaches us to question the images we behold, to be at once critical and self-critical in the examination our preconceptions and prejudices; a practice that is useful and applicable to any endeavor the person might choose to pursue. 

Now I have articulated almost 4,000 words to this point. There exists a very slim chance that my articulation will suitable for an article in The New Times. The editor or his master might think my subject matter is inappropriate for his periodical. Perhaps it is too snooty or intellectual or academic, and not the cool talk about the cool stuff his readers like. Yet he has published an article about the controversial bickering at Art Center/South Florida, and he has refused several of my brilliant and edifying   articles about the art actually displayed there. His editorial constraints are obviously discriminatory. I have trashed his pop-art, and he has trashed my masterpiece, but we are not even.

I have often gone to bat for the proponents of the vulgar arts; for instance, in my celebrated 'In Defense of Assholes'. But I have done so with the understanding   that I should have a right to get my say-so in on an equal-time basis every once in a while. As far as I am concerned, artists should have their da-das providing I can have my blah-blahs! If they must refuse my work as if it were garbage in comparison to their own excretions, then I shall have three words for them as I turn my back on them and get on with the elimination of my mounting backlog.