Arrived lately a CD of Britten’s Noye’s Fludde, a setting of a late mediaeval popular play about Noah. Noah, his termagant wife and God are played by adults, the three sons and their wives by children and the animals by more and more children, all the way down to squeaking mice. The band has a core group of eight adults and more hordes of children who play strings, recorders, bugles and bells. Not to be left out, the audience join in singing two hymns, one at the beginning, uneasy and ominous, another at the climax of the storm (‘For those in peril on the sea’).

It’s one of my favourite works, for its skill and invention, its fun and its moments of theatre magic (the dances of the raven and the dove, the descent from the Ark while they sing Tallis’s Canon) but above all because here if anywhere is that ‘community theatre’ we were all on about in the 70s. It wouldn’t have counted then:

 

And here we go again. The Prime Minister’s nephew, who describes himself as an ‘artist/activist’, is in several kinds of trouble over a picture which shows Ronald McDonald carrying an Olympic torch and running happily past a Buddhist monk in flames.

Deep.

Juxtaposition is the method for the gormless dauber. It allows the cognoscenti to savour the politically OK interpretation (US = evil) while maintaining (of course) the spectator’s freedom to interpret. It saves artists the trouble of arriving at an intelligible or defensible position about anything whatsoever and leaves them free to sloganeer.

Now that the concept of vulgarity has been overtaken by progress we need another to capture work which cheapens human sacrifice. I couldn’t care whether Rudd’s work ‘references’ Banksy (‘reference’ is evasive cant). I do care when an image of ultimate human commitment and suffering is exploited to make childish political noises.

And I care that because of Rudd’s connection with the PM the dreary little episode will circulate for days in that murky asteroid cloud where celebrity merges with creativity. Art school students look on and learn: this is how to build a career.

The last self-immolation to make the news was, wasn’t it, that of a monk in Tibet?

 

Art community defends naked teen photo exhibition.

The moment this story broke this headline (on the ABC site earlier today) was sure to follow. The police are taking a look at the legality of exhibiting naked photographs of children said to be aged thirteen or fourteen. A critic is cited: these photographs do not sexualise the children.

Maybe, maybe not – I haven’t seen them. But we notice once again, as with all such events that the critic (and someone described as an ‘art market analyst’) defend the photographs by making an interpretation – they don’t sexualise the children. In other contexts, you may be sure, these same authorities will make the argument that the interpretation of art is down to the spectator.

It’s not news that the visual arts ‘community’ makes self-contradictory arguments. What’s interesting is the ritual character of these events – people shout, slogans are exchanged, the art world sees the affair as further evidence for the doltishness of everybody not in the art world, right-thinking burghers see it as further evidence of moral decline. Business then continues as usual until the next arbitrary crisis.

The fixity points to an underlying script. Perhaps the concept of art, whether emptied of all meaning, as conservatives claim it now is, or vastly enlarged, as in the aesthetic of the late Robert Rauschenberg, still operates as a quasi-sacred concept. ‘Art’ liberates the artist and the spectator from the rules that govern other forms of exchange. Remember the case of Serrano’s ‘Piss Christ’ (the crucifix suspended in urine)? Desecration was of course the point of the piece – everyone got that – but when Christians actually objected to the desecration of their sacred icon they were treated with derision. The function of the word ‘art’ here is to license licence: we will do as we wish and an invisible barrier will protect us. Well it didn’t in the Serrano case, and I doubt it will in the present one.

May 182008
 

IT came as no surprise to anyone who knew her that Dr. Elena Wechsler would find herself with a man who won her heart with ducks.

But the ducks worked their magic only after the bride had been prinked up by Rachel Greenwald, the author of

 

It started when I mentioned that Chaim Potok was inspired to write by reading Brideshead Revisited. Which brought this comment from Dr Phillips:

I have it on good authority that PG Wodehouse was inspired to write

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