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by Marya Mannes
from But Will It Sell? (1964)
Suppose there were no critics to tell us how to react to a picture, a play, or a new composition of music. Suppose we wandered innocent as the dawn into an art exhibition of unsigned paintings. By what standards, by what values would we decide whether they were good or bad, talented or untalented, successes or failures? How can we ever know what we think is right?
For the last fifteen or twenty years the fashion in criticism or appreciation of the arts has been to deny the existence of any valid criteria and to make the words “good” or “bad” irrelevant, immaterial, and inapplicable. There is no such thing, we are told, as a set of standards, first acquired through experience and knowledge and later imposed on the subject under discussion. This has been a popular approach, for it relieves the critic of the responsibility of judgment and the public of the necessity of knowledge. It pleases those resentful of discipline, it flatters the empty-minded by calling them open-minded, it comforts the confused. Under the banner of democracy and the kind of equality which our forefathers did not mean, it says, in effect, “Who are you to tell us what is good or bad?” This is the same cry used for so long by the producers of mass media who insist that it is the public, not they, who decides what it wants to see and hear, and that for a critic to say that this program is bad and this program is good is purely a reflection of personal taste. Nobody recently has expressed this philosophy more succinctly than Dr Frank Stanton, the highly intelligent president of CBS television. At a hearing before the Federal Communications Commission, this phrase escaped him under questioning: “One man’s mediocrity is another man’s good program.”
There is no better way of saying “No values are absolute.” There is another important aspect to this philosophy of laissez faire: it is the fear, in all observers of all forms of art, of guessing wrong. This fear is well come by, for who has not heard of the contemporary outcries against artists who later were called great? Every age has its arbiters who do not grow with their times, who cannot tell evolution from revolution or the difference between frivolous faddism, amateurish experimentation, and profound and necessary change. Who wants to be caught flagrante delicto with an error of judgment as serious as this? It is far safer, and certainly easier, to look at a picture or a play or a poem and to say “This is hard to understand, but it may be good,” or simply to welcome it as a new form. The word “new” — in our country especially — has magical connotations. What is new must be good; what is old is probably bad. And if a critic can describe the new in language that nobody can understand, he’s safer still. If he has mastered the art of saying nothing with exquisite complexity, nobody can quote him later as saying anything.
But all these, I maintain, are forms of abdication from the responsibility of judgment. In creating, the artist commits himself; in appreciating, you have a commitment of your own. For after all, it is the audience which makes the arts. A climate of appreciation is essential to its flowering, and the higher the expectations of the public, the better the performance of the artist. Conversely, only a public ill-served by its critics could have accepted as art and as literature so much in these last years that has been neither. If anything goes, everything goes; and at the bottom of the junkpile lie the discarded standards too.
But what are these standards? How do you get them? How do you know they’re the right ones? How can you make a clear pattern out of so many intangibles, including that greatest one, the very private I?
Well for one thing, it’s fairly obvious that the more you read and see and hear, the more equipped you’ll be to practice that art of association which is at the basis of all understanding and judgment. The more you live and the more you look, the more aware you are of a consistent pattern — as universal as the stars, as the tides, as breathing, as night and day — underlying everything. I would call this pattern and this rhythm an order. Not order — an order. Within it exists an incredible diversity of forms. Without it lies chaos — the wild cells of destruction — sickness. It is in the end up to you to distinguish between the diversity that is health and the chaos that is sickness, and you can’t do this without a process of association that can link a bar of Mozart with the corner of a Vermeer painting, or a Stravinsky score with a Picasso abstraction; or that can relate an aggressive act with a [F— K—] painting and a fit of coughing with a [J— C—] composition.
There is no accident in the fact that certain expressions of art live for all time and that others die with the moment, and although you may not always define the reasons, you can ask the questions. What does an artist say that is timeless; how does he say it? How much is fashion, how much is merely reflection? Why is Sir Walter Scott so hard to read now, and Jane Austen not? Why is baroque right for one age and too effulgent for another?
Can a standard of craftsmanship apply to art of all ages, or does each have its own, and different, definitions? You may have been aware, inadvertently, that craftsmanship has become a dirty word these years because, again, it implies standards — something done well or done badly. The result of this convenient avoidance is a plenitude of actors who can’t project their voices, poets who can’t communicate emotion, and writers who have no vocabulary — not to speak of painters who can’t draw. The dogma now is that craftsmanship gets in the way of expression. You can do better if you don’t know how you do it, let alone what you’re doing.
I think it is time you helped reverse this trend by trying to rediscover craft: the command of the chosen instrument, whether it is a brush, a word, or a voice. When you begin to detect the difference between freedom and sloppiness, between serious experimentation and egotherapy, between skill and slickness, between strength and violence, you are on your way to separating the sheep from the goats, a form of segregation denied us for quite a while. All you need to restore it is a small bundle of standards and a Geiger counter that detects fraud, and we might begin our tour of the arts in an area where both are urgently needed: contemporary painting.
I don’t know what’s worse: to have to look at acres of bad art to find the little good, or to read what the critics say about it all. In no other field of expression has so much double-talk flourished, so much confusion prevailed, and so much nonsense been circulated: further evidence of the close interdependence between the arts and the critical climate they inhabit. It will be my pleasure to share with you some of this double-talk so typical of our times.
Item one: preface for a catalogue of an abstract painter:
“Time-bound meditation experiencing a life; sincere with plastic piety at the threshold of hallowed arcana; a striving for pure ideation giving shape to inner drive; formalized patterns where neural balances reach a fiction.” End of quote. Know what this artist paints like now?
Item two: a review in the Art News:
“... a weird and disparate assortment of material, but the monstrosity which bloomed into his most recent cancer of aggregations is present in some form everywhere ...” Then, later, “A gluttony of things and processes terminated by a glorious constipation.”
Item three, same magazine, review of an artist who welds automobile fragments into abstract shapes:
“Each fragment ... is made an extreme of human exasperation, torn at and fought al the way, and has its rightness of form as if by accident. Any technique that requires order or discipline would just be the human ego. No, these must be egoless, uncontrolled, undesigned and different enough to give you a bang — fifty miles an hour around a telephone pole ....”
“Any technique that requires order or discipline would just be the human ego.” What does he mean — “just be”? What are they really talking about? Is this journalism? Is it criticism? Or is it that other convenient abdication from standards of performance and judgment practiced by so many artists and critics that the, like certain writers who deal only in sickness and depravity, “reflect the chaos about them”? Again, whose chaos? Whose depravity?
I had always that the prime function of art was to create order out of chaos — again, not the order of neatness or rigidity or convention or artifice, but the order of clarity by which one will and one vision could draw the essential truth out of apparent confusion. I still do. It is not enough to use parts of a car to convey the brutality of the machine. This is as slavishly representative, and just as easy, as arranging dried flowers under glass to convey nature.
Speaking of which, i.e., the use of real materials (burlap, old gloves, bottletops) in lieu of pigment, this is what one critic had to say about an exhibition of Assemblage at the Museum of Modern Art last year:
“Spotted throughout the show are indisputable works of art, accounting for a quarter or even half of the total display. But the remainder are works of non-art, anti-art, and art substitutes that are the aesthetic counterparts of the social deficiencies that land people in the clink on charges of vagrancy. These aesthetic bankrupts ... have no legitimate ideological roof over their heads and not the price of a square intellectual meal, let alone a spiritual sandwich, in their pockets.”
I quote these words of John Canaday of The New York Times as an example of the kind of criticism which puts responsibility to an intelligent public above popularity with an intellectual coterie. Canaday has the courage to say what he thinks and the capacity to say it clearly: two qualities noticeably absent from his profession.
Next to art, I would say that appreciation and evaluation in the field of music is the most difficult. For it rarely possible to judge a new composition at one hearing only. What seems confusing or fragmented at first might well become clear and organic a third time. Or it might not. The only salvation here for the listener is, again, an instinct born of experience and association which allows him to separate intent from accident, design from experimentation, and pretense from conviction. Much of contemporary music is, like its sister art, merely a reflection of the composer’s own fragmentation: an absorption in self and symbols at the expense of communication with others. The artist, in short, says to the public: If you don’t understand this, it’s because you’re dumb. I maintain that you are not. You may have to go part way or even halfway to meet the artist, but if you have to go the whole way, it’s his fault, not yours. Hold fast to that. And remember it too when you read new poetry, that estranged sister of music.
“A multitude of causes, unknown to former times, are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and, unfitting it for all voluntary exertion, to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor. The most effective of these causes are the great national events which are daily taking place and the increasing accumulation of men in cities, where the uniformity of their occupations produces a craving for extraordinary incident, which the rapid communication of intelligence hourly gratifies. To this tendency of life and manners, the literature and theatrical exhibitions of this country have conformed themselves.”
This startlingly applicable comment was written in the year 1800 by William Wordsworth in the preface to his Lyrical Ballads; and it has been cited by Edwin Muir in his recently published book The Estate of Poetry. Muir states that poetry’s effective range and influence have diminished alarmingly in the modern world. He believes in the inherent and indestructible qualities of the human mind and the great and permanent objects that act upon it, and suggests that the audience will increase when “poetry loses what obscurity is left in it by attempting greater themes, for great themes have to be stated clearly. If you keep that firmly in mind and resist, in Muir’s words, “the vast dissemination of secondary objects that isolate us from the natural world,” you have gone a long way toward equipping yourself for the examination of any work of art.
When you come to the theatre, in this extremely hasty tour of the arts, you can approach it in two different levels. You can bring to it anticipation and innocence, giving yourself up, as it were, to the life on the stage and reacting to it emotionally, if the play is good, or listlessly, if the play is boring; a part of the audience organism that expresses its favor by silence or laughter and its disfavor by coughing and rustling. Or you can bring to it certain critical faculties that may heighten, rather than diminish, your enjoyment.
You can ask yourselves whether the actors are truly in their parts or merely projecting themselves; whether the scenery helps or hurts the mood; whether the playwright is honest with himself, his characters, and you. Somewhere along the line you can learn to distinguish between the true creative act and the false arbitrary gesture; between fresh observation and stale cliché between the avant-garde play that is pretentious drivel and the avant-garde play that finds new ways to say old truths.
Purpose and craftsmanship — end and means — these are the keys to your judgment in all the arts. What is the painter trying to say when he slashes a broad band of black across a white canvas and lets the edges dribble down? Is it a statement of violence? Is it a self-portrait? If it is one of these, has he made you believe it? Or is this a gesture of the ego or a form of therapy? If it shocks you, what does it shock you into?
And what if this tight little painting of bright flowers in a vase? Is the painter saying anything new about flowers? Is it different from a million other canvases of flowers? Has it any life, any meaning, beyond its statement? Is there any pleasure in its forms or texture? The question is not whether a thing is abstract or representational, whether it is “modern” or conventional. The question, inexorably, is whether it is good. And this is a decision which only you, on the basis of instinct, experience, and association, can make for yourself. It takes independence and courage. It involves, moreover, the risk of wrong decision and humility, after the passage of time, of recognizing it as such. As we grow and change and learn, our attitudes can change too, and what we once thought obscure or “difficult” can later emerge as coherent and illuminating. Entrenched prejudices, obdurate opinions are as sterile as no opinions at all.
Yet standards there are, timeless as the universe itself. And when you have committed yourself to them, you have acquired a passport to that elusive but immutable realm of truth. Keep it with you in the forests of bewilderment. And never be afraid to speak up.
“[T]he higher the expectations of the public, the better the performance of the artist.” We live in a society of reduced sensitivity to artistic excellence, and therefore a society of pitifully lowered expectations. How else to explain how Marlon Brando (let alone Leonardo di Caprio) can be adulated as ‘great actors,’ or Barbra Streisand lauded as a ‘great singer,’ or ... or ...? “Only a public ill-served by its critics could have accepted as art and as literature so much in these last years that has been neither. If anything goes, everything goes; and at the bottom of the junkpile lie the discarded standards too.”Mannes speaks of the denial of “the existence of any valid criteria” for art criticism, which had been the fashion “[f]or the last fifteen or twenty years” — she is therefore speaking about the period from 1945 to 1963/64.
But what would she say now?
— kph
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