We have become so refined, so elegant in our choices of form, that the books we
read must necessarily be complicated like crosswords where authors do nothing
else but lay one word on another and create new unknown forms of crosswording.
Poets do the opposite. They simplify things to the most insignificant levels of
language, creating verses that remind you of the first words of a toddler
"You. Me. We". Artists are too rarely like poets. Too many paint the compulsory black square and call it infinity or even worse, they become victims of new styles and fashions, and therefore create images they themselves rarely comprehend.
But what about the content of art, whichever form it takes, must it not have a content?
Mustn't there be something hidden behind the beautiful (or ugly) facade of a book or a painting?
Why do I struggle with myself everytime I open a modern day "bestseller"? I
start reading it: short sentences, confused meanings, crosswording plot, simple
words. I close the book, go for a walk, rest my eyes and start again. My eyes
struggle through the next 3 pages and in the end I shut the book once more. It's
dull from the start, and completely pointless. I read "fifty shades" and it
instantly puts me to sleep ; I open "Love Lives 3 Years" and I laugh
hysterically thinking that a grown-up man cannot and should not write what
a teenager could have written.
No wonder these are international bestsellers. They are easy to digest, no
reflection is required. They are literature for the hard of thinking.
"How can you not love Fifty Shades?" I was asked by a close friend the other day
"The book has it all: the Cinderella story, love, sex and the perfect prince". Strange that I never noticed!
"You must go and see L'amour, it's such a beautiful and tragic story of true
love" I say to another friend. The response is predictable: "Why do you like these complicated and emotional films?"
"Dostoevsky is nothing compared to Calvino" - a professor of Italian literature told me today. No offence to Calvino, but I was astonished.
"Monet was not really an artist" I am told by a friend ( an artist) who thinks black circles make more sense than colour-swirled ode to beauty that is Giverny.
Of course, you will tell me, art is a personal perception of reality, just an
opinion. And I will nod and say "Yes, you are right". But beneath my well-mannered smile I scream internally. What is the form we are talking about? What about the content?
If you explain to me why "fifty shades" is such a great book (judging only its
content) , if you will explain to me why two forks on a canvas can make an enduring work of art, if you explain to me how on earth Calvino (with all due respect) can substitute Dostoevsky in the great canon of world literature, then I will surrender to your judgement.
I may even treat you to what must surely rank, according to your criteria, as a supreme example of that other art form - the culinary masterpiece. At McDonalds.
