A Nation Built On Sciolism (A World of Philistines)
I’ve been listening to the original soundtrack for Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream, composed by Clint Mansell and the Kronos Quartet, and it’s very compelling, very entrancing — at least, to me. By my systematic categorization, I rate it at an 3% Failure Rating, for being an all-round stirring musical piece on the level of a symphonic composition, coming across less as an album with track and more as a concerto by movements. If nothing else, it reminds me of the movie, which, in turn, leads me to more depressing thoughts and darker musings on the state of humanity.
Are we, as a generation, the most illiterate people to exist, or is it a byproduct of America’s stupidity-laced culture? We grow up, thinking what it is good to do is watch television and listen to popular musical groups whose lyrics are as recycled as a porn star’s vagina. It is an unacceptable practice to read, to write, to stop and think, almost, not condoned by the commercial forces that run our lives, nowadays. It’s an interesting scenario, wherein children become aghast to contemplate Shakespeare or Joyce, believing it to be an unthinkable act to sit down with classic literature. I, for one, am a huge buff when it comes to the classics — in music, in literature, in art, in drama; I do not believe things are innately superior by being “classic,” but I find that those works which survive to be denoted as classical and survive the test of time are of such a high, undeniable quality that it is nigh ludicrous to question otherwise. Not that I am going so far as to say that it is wrong to not have a taste for the classics, but it is rather ignorant to deny the qualities they possess, the craft of the masterpieces. It is not the fault of the artist, the composer, the writer that one may not see what makes their works superb, but it is the ill-educated eyes of the viewer that fail to comprehend and appreciate the artistry therein.
Yes, I think that everybody who claims intelligence should have an appreciation for classical works of fine art; no, I don’t think every smart person should indulge in them on a regular basis, or even prefer them over modern works. Still, it is the basis of any valid opinion to be well-supported by reliable sources and information, not to mention the history and background of the subject at hand, therefore if one is to approach me about good music, good art, good books, then I will not shy away from referencing Vivaldi, Bach, Titian, Goya, Flaubert, or Eliot. The same goes for movies, honestly; if one does not know Kubrick, Scorsese, Coppola, Burton, Fincher . . . Then one may as well be a child when it comes to movies. We are where we are at, today, because of the efforts of those of the yesteryears, that and that only is what composes the backbone of fine art.
Even an appreciation for the obscure artists of the past should be culled, if you ask me. Indian, Japanese, Chinese, Portuguese, Sri Lankan, Indonesian . . . One does not solely look towards the names of the Old World to find the jewels of art history. African art and Islamic music, Hindi literature and Japanese poetry, all should be considered in one’s background of art. If an attempt to, at least, know some foreign art, then it is a wasted time spent thinking one’s self a connoisseur of fine art.
The argument can be posed that these classical works of art, they are deigned as such by those in history who wrote the records, penned the historical texts, and thus they are fallable as such. Of course, this argument inevitable comes from the mouth of someone who tends to lack much understanding of the scholarly pursuits of history, so I can’t say I listen with rapt attention to them, most of the time . . . Yes, “history is written by the winners,” per se, but that does not defy the solid principles upon which classicism is founded: developed theory, tested aesthetic, indelible mastery. Works of art have, of course, been lost through time, but that only makes those which survived all the more precious, in my opinion.
I have deviated greatly from my original point, though: why is my generation so afraid of, en masse, the classical fine arts? A lot of it has to do with exposure, I think, in that the majority of people in the past were not allowed to view such things, so it is not a new trend that I am observed, but merely the resultant of open venues accessible to all breeds of people. I can’t expect, nor can anyone else, that everybody will understand Shakespeare . . . Or can I?
Why shouldn’t I? Why should I expect it to be part of a complete education to, at least, devout some time and energy into the understanding, contemplation, and appreciation of classical works? Such a cornerstone of culture can, surely, not be ignored just because “not everyone likes it.” A lot of people like a lot of shallow, superficial things; that does not merit these works as viable. People like Linkin Park, but that doesn’t make Linkin Park a talented group of musicians or lyricists, or performers. Perhaps, the latter I’ll relent on, a bit, since to perform successfully merely means to entertain, but to be a true musician, true lyricist? It’s not infeasible to expect of such people a thorough training in the classics, a full education in the theory, philosophy, and scholarship behind it, given the opportunity for such an education to exist.
Louis Armstrong, the famous Jazz coronet and trumpet player, could not read music for the majority of his life, through most of his career. He was born with an ear for music and a taste for playing, and that’s all he had — no money, no resources, no civil rights as a human being. What he got in response to his contribution to the musical world was meager in comparison to the luxury most white, Big Band musicians lived in, later on in the following decades. Nothing can change the life Armstrong lead, nothing can ever defy the cold truth that he had no musical education yet thrived so beautifully as a musician. It is facets of history such as this that really stop me in my tracks when I say that everyone should be educated very deeply.
But, in is wrong to say that, hypothetically, given the chance, had Louis Armstrong been educated by established institutions and leaders in musical thought, would he have been better for it? I think he would, I think that with the start he had, the natural talent, and a background in musical theory and education, he would’ve been greater, stronger, more of an immense force in musical history than he is, now. As it stands, Jazz is almost a novelty in musical history, a gimmick for musical elitists to flaunt . . . Colloquial music versus scholarly music, that’s a hot debate in the musical world, and it’s something I don’t wish to get into without more room to talk.
What is wrong with my generation? What is wrong with all the peers I knew who would never pick up a novel by Henry James, listen to a work by Haydn, a play by Tennessee Williams . . . Why is there such a resistance to culture among Americans? We want, as a country, sports and celebrities; mindless entertainment; reality television and video games; hip-hop artists and techno remixes . . . It kills me that poetry and art are so marginalized by the populace, but, yet, it is acceptable to indulge in hours of cars racing in circles. It’s somehow more acceptable — more sensible — to spend a night in awe of Must-See TV than a night in attendance at an opera. Perhaps, there is a culture out there that I don’t understand, that I am not allowing myself to absorb . . . Perhaps, my problem is that all of this (what I see as) idiocy is actually a culture of its own, a culture of the everyman, a culture of the proletariat.
Sigh, I’m beginning to sound like Karl Marx, using a term like “proletariat.” I band my head against a wall, though, when I think about it for too long; the fact that The Matrix was an “intelligent” movie, and that people fall asleep during Adaptation. Sometimes, it seems so blatantly obvious to me when something is insubstantial and devoid of innovation, yet everyone else . . . Everyone else loves it?
I guess I should get used to living in a Mad TV world.
Adios.
[Editor's Note: Apologies for the lateness, again.]
Are we, as a generation, the most illiterate people to exist, or is it a byproduct of America’s stupidity-laced culture? We grow up, thinking what it is good to do is watch television and listen to popular musical groups whose lyrics are as recycled as a porn star’s vagina. It is an unacceptable practice to read, to write, to stop and think, almost, not condoned by the commercial forces that run our lives, nowadays. It’s an interesting scenario, wherein children become aghast to contemplate Shakespeare or Joyce, believing it to be an unthinkable act to sit down with classic literature. I, for one, am a huge buff when it comes to the classics — in music, in literature, in art, in drama; I do not believe things are innately superior by being “classic,” but I find that those works which survive to be denoted as classical and survive the test of time are of such a high, undeniable quality that it is nigh ludicrous to question otherwise. Not that I am going so far as to say that it is wrong to not have a taste for the classics, but it is rather ignorant to deny the qualities they possess, the craft of the masterpieces. It is not the fault of the artist, the composer, the writer that one may not see what makes their works superb, but it is the ill-educated eyes of the viewer that fail to comprehend and appreciate the artistry therein.
Yes, I think that everybody who claims intelligence should have an appreciation for classical works of fine art; no, I don’t think every smart person should indulge in them on a regular basis, or even prefer them over modern works. Still, it is the basis of any valid opinion to be well-supported by reliable sources and information, not to mention the history and background of the subject at hand, therefore if one is to approach me about good music, good art, good books, then I will not shy away from referencing Vivaldi, Bach, Titian, Goya, Flaubert, or Eliot. The same goes for movies, honestly; if one does not know Kubrick, Scorsese, Coppola, Burton, Fincher . . . Then one may as well be a child when it comes to movies. We are where we are at, today, because of the efforts of those of the yesteryears, that and that only is what composes the backbone of fine art.
Even an appreciation for the obscure artists of the past should be culled, if you ask me. Indian, Japanese, Chinese, Portuguese, Sri Lankan, Indonesian . . . One does not solely look towards the names of the Old World to find the jewels of art history. African art and Islamic music, Hindi literature and Japanese poetry, all should be considered in one’s background of art. If an attempt to, at least, know some foreign art, then it is a wasted time spent thinking one’s self a connoisseur of fine art.
The argument can be posed that these classical works of art, they are deigned as such by those in history who wrote the records, penned the historical texts, and thus they are fallable as such. Of course, this argument inevitable comes from the mouth of someone who tends to lack much understanding of the scholarly pursuits of history, so I can’t say I listen with rapt attention to them, most of the time . . . Yes, “history is written by the winners,” per se, but that does not defy the solid principles upon which classicism is founded: developed theory, tested aesthetic, indelible mastery. Works of art have, of course, been lost through time, but that only makes those which survived all the more precious, in my opinion.
I have deviated greatly from my original point, though: why is my generation so afraid of, en masse, the classical fine arts? A lot of it has to do with exposure, I think, in that the majority of people in the past were not allowed to view such things, so it is not a new trend that I am observed, but merely the resultant of open venues accessible to all breeds of people. I can’t expect, nor can anyone else, that everybody will understand Shakespeare . . . Or can I?
Why shouldn’t I? Why should I expect it to be part of a complete education to, at least, devout some time and energy into the understanding, contemplation, and appreciation of classical works? Such a cornerstone of culture can, surely, not be ignored just because “not everyone likes it.” A lot of people like a lot of shallow, superficial things; that does not merit these works as viable. People like Linkin Park, but that doesn’t make Linkin Park a talented group of musicians or lyricists, or performers. Perhaps, the latter I’ll relent on, a bit, since to perform successfully merely means to entertain, but to be a true musician, true lyricist? It’s not infeasible to expect of such people a thorough training in the classics, a full education in the theory, philosophy, and scholarship behind it, given the opportunity for such an education to exist.
Louis Armstrong, the famous Jazz coronet and trumpet player, could not read music for the majority of his life, through most of his career. He was born with an ear for music and a taste for playing, and that’s all he had — no money, no resources, no civil rights as a human being. What he got in response to his contribution to the musical world was meager in comparison to the luxury most white, Big Band musicians lived in, later on in the following decades. Nothing can change the life Armstrong lead, nothing can ever defy the cold truth that he had no musical education yet thrived so beautifully as a musician. It is facets of history such as this that really stop me in my tracks when I say that everyone should be educated very deeply.
But, in is wrong to say that, hypothetically, given the chance, had Louis Armstrong been educated by established institutions and leaders in musical thought, would he have been better for it? I think he would, I think that with the start he had, the natural talent, and a background in musical theory and education, he would’ve been greater, stronger, more of an immense force in musical history than he is, now. As it stands, Jazz is almost a novelty in musical history, a gimmick for musical elitists to flaunt . . . Colloquial music versus scholarly music, that’s a hot debate in the musical world, and it’s something I don’t wish to get into without more room to talk.
What is wrong with my generation? What is wrong with all the peers I knew who would never pick up a novel by Henry James, listen to a work by Haydn, a play by Tennessee Williams . . . Why is there such a resistance to culture among Americans? We want, as a country, sports and celebrities; mindless entertainment; reality television and video games; hip-hop artists and techno remixes . . . It kills me that poetry and art are so marginalized by the populace, but, yet, it is acceptable to indulge in hours of cars racing in circles. It’s somehow more acceptable — more sensible — to spend a night in awe of Must-See TV than a night in attendance at an opera. Perhaps, there is a culture out there that I don’t understand, that I am not allowing myself to absorb . . . Perhaps, my problem is that all of this (what I see as) idiocy is actually a culture of its own, a culture of the everyman, a culture of the proletariat.
Sigh, I’m beginning to sound like Karl Marx, using a term like “proletariat.” I band my head against a wall, though, when I think about it for too long; the fact that The Matrix was an “intelligent” movie, and that people fall asleep during Adaptation. Sometimes, it seems so blatantly obvious to me when something is insubstantial and devoid of innovation, yet everyone else . . . Everyone else loves it?
I guess I should get used to living in a Mad TV world.
Adios.
[Editor's Note: Apologies for the lateness, again.]
posted by c.Jay Wrong at
3:01 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home