Barack Obama is back in the bush

BY THE old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay! "
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay ?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat - jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
Bloomin' idol made o' mud
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay...

When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo!
With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.
Elephints a-pilin' teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay...

But that's all shove be'ind me - long ago an' fur away
An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."
No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
But them spicy garlic smells,
An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
On the road to Mandalay...

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
An' the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an' grubby 'and -
Law! wot do they understand?
I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay...

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
O the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay !

 

As for art and art criticism in the age of capital-M Modernism, harder to say.

Non-representational art is certainly harder to pin down. And certainly relies less on comforting standards like "beauty."

But the idea that everything since Picasso - and everything written about art since Picasso - is self-referential nonsense is wrong, too. I'm guilty of falling into that trap, the trap of comforting traditionalism, myself.

That the viewer is forced to decide some things about the work of art and its intentions and its assumptions makes things more complicated - without necessarily stripping the thing itself of meaning.

Jeff Koons's work, for example, cheapens and commodifies art at the same time it makes a damning commentary on the cheapening and commodification of art.

Which doesn't mean I surrender my right to like it or dislike it as a giant chromium balloon animal.

"Modern" art engages the viewer in a different, more reciprocal way than "classical" art, and not all "postmodern" art is a punchline.

 

By doing so, Ebert was essentially returning movie criticism to what it was before the French New Wave and Cahiers du Cinema created a literature of "film" and criticism as high art.

In that way, Mr. Ebert was really a traditionalist returning to a tradition.

 

Fair enough, but Frost has been dead for more than 50 years.

Yeah, I don't exclude Dylan, rap or pop as poetry. I guess the songs we all know as popular music is today's poetry. I still read poetry because it sparks ideas for my prose, but I don't find myself re-reading contemporary poems, mostly because they don't resonate with me.

 

Found my book "What Happened to Art Criticism?" from 2003.

Crazily, it's all online: https://monoskop.org/images/1/1e/Elkins_James_What_Happened_to_Art_Criticism_2003.pdf

Anyway, from page 12: "In the last three or four decades, critics have begun to avoid judgments altogether, preferring to describe or evoke the art rather than say what they think of it. In 2002, a survey conducted by the Columbia University National Arts Journalism Program found that judging art is the least popular goal among American art critics, and simply describing art is the most popular: It is an amazing reversal, as astonishing as if physicists had declared they would no longer try to understand the universe, but just appreciate it."

It is true that not all postmodern art is a punchline. But some view it as such because every piece of shit that shows up in a gallery must be profound, or else it wouldn't be there, and to suggest otherwise is suggesting that a sportswriter can't look askance at a 4th-and-15 failed fake punt play because she's not a coach and she's not "part of the brotherhood in that locker room."

 

All true, but we say the same thing about art that winds up in a museum. It must be good because it's in a museum.

It's much harder to critique a roomful of ceramic sunflower seeds than a Raphael, I think, because it comes at you indirectly rather than directly, and yes, the story of its conception and manufacture and installation are good to know if you want to fully grasp the thing.

But you can also just look at it and say "wow, a roomful of sunflower seeds" and keep walking.

So yes, it's much harder to "judge" art in the post-modern age, but I'm OK with that.

Some of it's a con, sure, but art always has been.

 

Reminds me of the numerous outlets nowadays that no longer carry negative book reviews. A few years ago one of the outlets that was carrying my reviews wanted to change a large swath of a piece, to replace criticism of the work with a section that was merely summary. I told them, in so many words, that if I wanted to write book summaries, I would do that. They wouldn't budge, so I never wrote for them again. I'm not saying the world needs more Dale Pecks out there taking bats to the knees of writers (figuratively), but I enjoy reading pieces by reviewers -- Gore Vidal, in particular -- who would call out authors for their ridiculous writing. If I spend my time reading a book, I don't want to be paid a kill fee just so I don't write something negative about it. You should be able to point out why that effort was unsuccessful. It's a disservice to the entire industry to not criticize, sometimes deeply, a novel that didn't need to exist.

 

And, once grasped, can be judged "bad art." That's the question.

I think for art to truly thrive - which is to produce great art - you have to have bad postmodern art. It didn't work, and here's why. And most of the time, nothing's bad. If it's seen, it must be good, because it got in the gallery in the first place.

I'm sure you've gone to local art shows where you know the art isn't any good, and that's obvious, and nobody can or will say it, and the scary thing is when nobody does say it.

 

I've tried reading the reviews of books, art and music in The New Yorker and have yet to find anyone able to actually convey why anyone should be interested in a particular work. I get it, when your magazine is paid for with ads from publishers, museums and concert halls - you do what ya gotta do, but....

 

Say what you will about this message board, but this thread co-exists with musings about Johnny Manziel and teachers banging students. That's astounding.

 

Absolutely.

But the mainstream press is where the punchline prevails:

"But it's just a roomful of sunflower seeds!"

I think where you get the absolute refusal to "judge" a piece of art critically, meaningfully is in the academy, and in the downtown demimonde of the art journals.

The bourgeois only want to buy something that fits above the sofa; artists all want to sell without selling out; the avant-garde hates everything.

The ratio of bad art to great art is still 999 - 1.

It was ever thus.

 

A thought.

While I understand the value of mainstream film or book or music criticism as a kind of consumer advocacy - spend your money on this, which is good, rather than that, which is bad - what purpose does fine art criticism serve?