Eye of the Beholder

Can a piece of art ever exist entirely on its own, or is it always tethered to the context of its creation?

For instance, is it possible to listen to the Ring Cycle without remembering that Richard Wagner was an anti-Semitic prick whose music inspired the rise of Hitler?

Can one watch Manhattan—the story of a 42-year-old man’s love affair with a 17-year-old girl—and not be distracted and/or repulsed by the personal life of its writer, director and star, Woody Allen?

As a society, we’ve had a version of this argument many times before, trying to figure out how to separate the art from the artist, while also debating whether such a thing is even desirable in the first place.  (The answer to both:  “It depends.”)

Lately, however, this perennial question has assumed a racial dimension, compelling us to re-litigate it anew—this time with considerably higher stakes.

Here’s what happened.  Over at New York’s Whitney Museum of American Art, the curators of the institution’s 78th biennial—an exhibition of hundreds of contemporary works by dozens of artists—chose to include Open Casket, a semi-abstract painting that depicts the mutilated corpse of Emmett Till, the 14-year-old African-American boy who was tortured and lynched in Mississippi in 1955 for allegedly whistling at a white girl.  (The woman in question later admitted she made the whole thing up, but that’s another story.)

As a painting, Open Casket is arresting, with the oils so thickly layered that Till’s mangled face literally protrudes from the canvas, as if calling out to us from beyond the grave.  As a political statement, it fits comfortably into our uncomfortable era of police brutality and racial unease—a natural, even obvious, choice for any socially conscious art show in 2017.

There was just one little problem:  The creator of Open Casket is white.  Specifically, a Midwestern white woman living in Brooklyn named Dana Schutz.

Upon hearing that a Caucasian had dared to tackle Emmett Till as the subject for a painting, many patrons demanded the Whitney remove Open Casket from its walls, while condemning Schutz for attempting to profit off of black pain—a practice, they argued, that has defined—and defiled—white culture since before the founding of the republic, and should be discouraged at all costs.  The message, in effect, was that white people should stick to their own history and allow black people to deal with theirs.

In response to this brouhaha, the Whitney defended its inclusion of Schutz’s work without directly addressing the race question, while Schutz herself issued a statement that read, in part, “I don’t know what it is like to be black in America.  But I do know what it is like to be a mother.  Emmett was Mamie Till’s only son.  I thought about the possibility of painting it only after listening to interviews with her.  In her sorrow and rage she wanted her son’s death not just to be her pain but America’s pain.”

In other words:  Far from being exploitative or opportunistic, Open Casket is meant as an act of compassion and empathy toward black America from an artist who views Emmett Till’s death as a tragedy for all Americans—not just black ones.

Of course, that is merely Dana Schutz’s own interpretation of her work, and if history teaches us anything, it’s that the meaning of a given cultural artifact is never limited to what its creator might have intended at the time.  The artist Hannah Black, one of Schutz’s critics, is quite right in observing, “[I]f black people are telling her that the painting has caused unnecessary hurt, she […] must accept the truth of this.”

The real question, then, is whether offensiveness—inadvertent or not—is enough to justify removing a piece of art from public view, as Black and others have advocated in this case.

If, like me, you believe the First Amendment is more or less absolute—that all forms of honest expression are inherently useful in a free society—then the question answers itself.  Short of inciting a riot (and possibly not even then), no art museum should be compelled to censor itself so as not to hurt the feelings of its most sensitive patrons, however justified those feelings might be.  Au contraire:  If a museum isn’t offending somebody—thereby sparking a fruitful conversationit probably isn’t worth visiting in the first place.

Unfortunately, in the Age of Trump, the American left has decided the First Amendment is negotiable—that its guarantee of free speech can, and should, be suspended whenever the dignity of a vulnerable group is threatened.  That so-called “hate speech” is so inherently destructive—so wounding, so cruel—that it needn’t be protected by the Constitution at all.  As everyone knows, if there was one thing the Founding Fathers could not abide, it was controversy.

What is most disturbing about this liberal drift toward total political correctness is the creative slippery slope it has unleashed—and the abnegation of all nuance and moral perspective that goes with it—of which the Whitney kerfuffle is but the latest example.

See, it’s one thing if Open Casket had been painted by David Duke—that is, if it had been an openly racist provocation by a callous, genocidal lunatic.  But it wasn’t:  It was painted by a mildly-entitled white lady from Brooklyn who has a genuine concern for black suffering and wants more Americans to know what happened to Emmett Till.

And yet, in today’s liberal bubble factory, even that is considered too unseemly for public consumption and must be stamped out with all deliberate speed.  Here in 2017, the line of acceptable artistic practice has been moved so far downfield that an artist can only explore the meaning of life within his or her own racial, ethnic or socioeconomic group, because apparently it’s impossible and counterproductive to creatively empathize with anyone with a different background from yours.

By this standard, Kathryn Bigelow should not have directed The Hurt Locker, since, as a woman, she could not possibly appreciate the experience of being a male combat soldier in Iraq.  Nor, for that matter, should Ang Lee have tackled Brokeback Mountain, because what on Earth does a straight Taiwanese man like him know about surreptitious homosexual relationships in the remote hills of Wyoming?  Likewise, light-skinned David Simon evidently had no business creating Treme or The Wire, while Bob Dylan should’ve steered clear of Hattie Carroll and Rubin Carter as characters in two of his most politically-charged songs.

Undoubtedly there are some people who agree with all of the above, and would proscribe any non-minority from using minorities as raw material for his or her creative outlet (and vice versa).

However, if one insists on full-bore racial and ethnic purity when it comes to the arts, one must also reckon with its consequences—namely, the utter negation of most of the greatest art ever created by man (and woman).  As I hope those few recent examples illustrate, this whole theory that only the members of a particular group are qualified to tell the story of that group is a lie.  An attractive, romantic and sensible lie, to be sure—but a lie nonetheless.

The truth—for those with the nerve to face it—is that although America’s many “communities” are ultimately defined by the qualities that separate them from each other—certainly, no one would mistake the black experience for the Jewish experience, or the Chinese experience for the Puerto Rican experience—human nature itself remains remarkably consistent across all known cultural subgroups.  As such, even if an outsider to a particular sect cannot know what it is like to be of that group, the power of empathy is (or can be) strong enough to allow one to know—or at least estimate—how such a thing feels.

As a final example, consider Moonlight—the best movie of 2016, according to me and the Academy (in that order).  A coming-of-age saga told in three parts, Moonlight has been universally lauded as one of the great cinematic depictions of black life in America—and no wonder, since its director, Barry Jenkins, grew up in the same neighborhood as the film’s hero, Chiron, and is, himself, black.

Slightly less commented on—but no less noteworthy—is Moonlight’s masterful meditation on what it’s like to be gay—specifically, to be a gay, male teenager in an environment where heterosexuality and masculinity are one and the same, and where being different—i.e., soft-spoken, sensitive and unsure—can turn you into a marked man overnight, and the only way to save yourself is to pretend—for years on end—to be someone else.

Now, my own gay adolescence was nowhere near as traumatic as Chiron’s—it wasn’t traumatic at all, really—yet I found myself overwhelmed by the horrible verisimilitude of every detail of Chiron’s reckoning with his emerging self.  Here was a portrait of nascent homosexuality that felt more authentic than real life—something that cannot possibly be achieved in film unless the men on both sides of the camera have a deep and intimate understanding of the character they’re developing.

Well, guess what:  They didn’t.  For all the insights Moonlight possesses on this subject, neither Barry Jenkins, the director, nor a single one of the leading actors is gay.  While they may well have drawn from their own brushes with adversity to determine precisely who this young man is—while also receiving a major assist from the film’s (gay) screenwriter, Tarell Alvin McCraney—the finished product is essentially a bold leap of faith as to what the gay experience is actually like.

Jenkins and his actors had no reason—no right, according to some—to pull this off as flawlessly as they did, and yet they did.  How?  Could it be that the condition of being black in this country—of feeling perpetually ill at ease, guarded and slightly out of place in one’s cultural milieu—has a clear, if imprecise, parallel to the condition of being gay, such that to have a deep appreciation of one is to give you a pretty darned good idea of the other?  And, by extension, that to be one form of human being is to be empowered to understand—or attempt to understand—the point of view of another?  And that this just might be a good thing after all?

Ode to Isabella

There once was a lady named Isabella, and she quite enjoyed collecting art.

Paintings, sculptures, tapestries, drawings, letters, silverware—she was not in the least bit picky.

Thanks to a rich father, a rich husband, and an irrepressible curiosity and love for travel, Isabella in her lifetime amassed enough artworks to fill a museum.  And that’s exactly what she did.

The woman of whom I speak was Isabella Stewart Gardner, and the space she created, located in the Fenway neighborhood of Boston and originally called Fenway Court, is known today simply as the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.

While it doesn’t look like much from the outside, on the inside the building at 25 Evans Way is surely one of the most enchanting houses of fine art in the United States.

Designed to resemble a Renaissance-era Venetian palace, with three rectangular floors surrounding an elegant courtyard, the main wing of the Gardner Museum would be a pleasure to behold even if it contained no works of art.

To amble through its dozen-and-a-half rooms—some cramped and dark, others stately and lavish—is like touring the old Newport Mansions or the period rooms of a more traditional museum.  The Gardner has never served as a private residence, but it feels like one nonetheless—albeit one overflowing with priceless knickknacks of every imaginable sort.

That, in a way, is the secret to its appeal, and why anyone even slightly interested in the numinous powers of fine art should give the Gardner a go.  It is why it is with great embarrassment that I confess that, despite my close proximity, until last week I had never been there myself.

As a rule, most American art museums fall into one of three broad categories.  First, those that are loyal to a distinct form—say, a museum of photography or textiles; second, those encompassing a particular subject or time frame—say, a museum surveying feminism or the 20th century or, on occasion, a single artist; and third, those that are more general and comprehensive in scope, which effectively place art itself as their primary subject.

In all three cases—and here’s the main point—the particular works on display are essentially whatever the curators can get their hands on, but each piece must follow a certain rubric in order to be included, if only within a subsection of the institution in question.  There is some definite thematic scheme of one sort or another.

The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum follows none of these traditions, and that’s the magic of it.  As mentioned, it contains every manner of tchochke under the sun—there are over 2,500 pieces within its relatively modest confines—and they have but one unifying characteristic:  They were all purchased and admired by Isabella Stewart Gardner, a humble art enthusiast from New York.  As I say, being there is like wandering through someone’s house—hers, to be precise.

Indeed, the only reason the Gardner Museum makes sense—the only reason it would be worth anyone’s time—is because Gardner herself happened to have such divine taste.

This one-woman-show dynamic was all quite deliberate when the place was conceived, built and opened at the turn of the 20th century, and it is precisely what lends it its idiosyncrasy—a quality that describes far fewer large art museums than it should.

In addition to having amassed the art, Gardner was instrumental to its look and construction, and personally arranged and supervised the placement of every last item in her collection—which she did, according to some expects, in a way that is not particularly coherent.  What is more, in her will she famously included a demand that the layout of every room remain exactly as is in perpetuity.  Should any alterations occur, she stipulated, the entire lot is to be auctioned off, with the proceeds forwarded to Harvard University.

Above all else, my inaugural visit to the Gardner Museum put me in mind of Charles Foster Kane.  The (fictional) hero of Orson Welles’ 1941 movie Citizen Kane, Kane the man was, like Gardner, a voracious, lifelong hoarder of valuable, and often peculiar, bric-a-brac.  In one of the film’s final shots, we are given a breathtaking aerial view of the totality of this mountain of treasure, and the unspoken subtext is that this seemingly inexplicable mass of possessions, hauled up in some warehouse following Kane’s death, is to be taken as both the literal and metaphorical summation of his life.  In lieu of being comprehended through his words and actions, he can only be understood, if at all, through his things.

Isabella Stewart Gardner was not nearly as opaque as Kane.  She declared her passions loudly and clearly and, depending whom you talked to, was perhaps slightly easier to get along with, too.

But she is nonetheless a person whose immortality became assured through what she physically amassed in the course of a lifetime.  She did not create the works in her museum, but by acquiring them and throwing them all together in a way that only she could, she became their author.  The museum is not only by her, but in a rather endearing way, it is her.

As far as living a life to some purpose goes (to paraphrase Thomas Paine), one could do a lot worse.

Roger and Me

I have just returned from a weekend trip to Washington, D.C., visiting with family and being a tourist.  Of the rather grueling museum-hopping upon which I embarked, the highlight was probably my extensive self-guided tour of the National Gallery of Art, situated along the northern edge of the Mall, custodian to an almost unfathomable trove of masterworks from all corners of the globe.

“You seem to have an appreciation for art—you ‘get’ it,” said my brother, with whom I was spending quality time.  He inquired as to my personal favorites, and as I began to tick off some examples—French impressionism, Dutch landscapes, the collected works of Salvador Dali—three thoughts occurred to me, one after the other.

First, that my tastes in fine art are disparate, having very little in common thematically.  Second, that, for all the museums I have frequented in my life, my actual knowledge and understanding of both the history and ascetics of the paintings and artists I so cherish is, despite my brother’s impressions, rudimentary and rather shallow.

And third, that I don’t terribly care about either Thought Number One or Thought Number Two.  It doesn’t matter.  I can amble through the galleries of a great art museum and appreciate its contents for their own sake.  If a particular work draws me in, it is due not to whatever its creator might have intended it to mean, but rather to what I, the vulgar audience, derives from looking at it.

Art, in all its forms, is ultimately a personal experience.

If there is an art form of which I do possess some expertise—or, at any rate, a bachelor’s degree—it is the cinema, which last week lost one of its most prolific and essential advocates and critics, Roger Ebert, at the age of 70.

While it would be hyperbolic to say that everything I know about movies I learned from Roger Ebert, I would nonetheless go as far to say that, in an alternate universe in which Ebert did not exist, I might not have pursued film as a vocation and, consequently, would have lived a very different life than I have thus far lived.

Ebert, whose knowledge of film history and technique was peerlessly encyclopedic, received no formal film schooling.  He studied English in college with the intention of being a newspaper reporter—which, for a time, he was—and wound up the best-known movie critic of his generation for no reason except that he enjoyed movies so goddamned much.

That might seem a rather flippant and facile summation of a career that spanned nearly half a century, but to me at least, it is the key to explaining the significance of Ebert’s life and his so-called legacy in the canon of film criticism.

By his own admission, Ebert’s verdict on a given movie was based predominantly on emotion rather than intellect.  “If I have a criterion for choosing the greatest films, it’s an emotional one,” he once wrote.  “These are films that moved me deeply in one way or another.  The cinema is the greatest art form ever conceived for generating emotions in its audience.  That’s what it does best.”

David McCullough, the biographer and historian, defined a great teacher as someone who shows what he loves to his students, enticing them to love it right back.

That was Ebert’s gift in his most ecstatic reviews:  His ability to express his affection for a particular film, and for film in general, in a fashion that inspired equal passion in his readers.

A favorite quotation of his was from Robert Warshow, a film critic from an earlier generation, who asserted, “A man goes to the movies.  The critic must be honest enough to admit that he is that man.”  In other words, don’t believe those who claim movies can be judged objectively or academically, reduced to some kind of a math problem.

No.  Their value lies in the connection they forge with an individual, no matter how misguided that individual might be.

It is curious that I, who attempts to apply cold reason to all things, would be so drawn to such a subjective approach to the cinema, but then I regard movies as a love, and love is not rational.

Of love, of movies and of writing as well, Roger Ebert, whom I never met, was as essential a teacher as any I have ever had.  I will miss him terribly.