The Nth Viewing of a Play

As I told my father a while ago, I think the true value of a play can only be understood upon the third or fourth (or nth) viewing. When you watch a play for the first time, you struggle just to grasp the language, the characters, and the plot. No doubt this is partly why Shakespeare infamously punishes the (even momentarily) wayward concentration - by zipping past its comprehension. Forget grasping the deeper message that first time. It is only after viewing multiple productions that a playgoer can detect the nuances of the director's interpretation.

Yet I think the true masters of literature understood this about their audiences (or readers). (Clearly I would not include T.S. Eliot among these masters.) They attempt to give their audiences a leg up in comprehension by simplifying plots, purging all extraneous details, and using intelligible language.

Although I didn't immediately realize this, I believe that Shakespeare's recycling of commonly known plots was the typification of this genius (though of course the plots are no longer considered a comprehension aid for modern audiences). If one already knows the plot (think the short blurbs in programs at Shakespeare plays) then she can concentrate on the artistic devices like emphasis and tone that clue her into the artist's message. Every simplification is a leg up to profundity. I used to fear that the limited breadth of the Western canon would inevitably lead to either blind adulation or disillusionment. Now I recognize that it is, at least in part, a great aid to our artistic communication. After all, none of us could speak much if our vocabulary comprised millions of words.

As I have often commented to others, I've slowly come to realize that near-objective aesthetic beauty exists. The glaring illustration of this was, for me, the viewing of the Annunciation in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. Standing in one of many similar galleries, surrounded by dozens of drab-colored Christian scenes painted by mediocre technicians (see the long faces and two-dimensional perspective), I was preparing to rush through to the next room to hasten the end. Then suddenly, in the corner, I saw a painting that gave me faith in not only Renaissance art but universal aesthetics: an arresting image of The Enunciation, Gabriel declaring to Mary that she is pregnant with Jesus. The vivid colors and - most of all - the lifelikeness of the scene are striking, and differentiate the panting from all others in the room. I literally froze as though to hear Gabriel's words. I had finally found a real Renaissance artist, and I called to Lauren Henry from across the room to proclaim this. Lauren got as close to rolling her eyes as she is capable of doing: "That's because it's the only da Vinci in the room." My personal favorite artist was none other than everyone's favorite artist: Leonardo da Vinci.

That moment caused for me a radical shift in my interpretation of art. I realized that art is purely about communication, and that some artists are simply objectively better at getting through to their fellow men. Thus I've begun to articulate the need for a grade-school class in classical art. Each student would be assigned some works of just one artist, to examine independently and write on the meaning of these works to them personally. Certainly it is possible that the answer to that investigation would be: they mean nothing to me, personally. And that would, of course, have to be an acceptable answer, so long as it was thoughtfully articulated. But I doubt that it would ever be the student's thoughtful conclusion - because the classics usually communicate something to everything, if only because of the clarity of their artistic expression.

Yet the modern art movement would beg to differ. It has denounced rhyme, meter, metaphor, and (imo) aesthetics. Certainly they are right to intone that these classical rules hold no intrinsic value. But I think they are wrong to claim that adherence to them is categorically rule worship. Rather, I believe that many of the great artists were well aware of the contingency of the rules - but merely recognized that they were aids to comprehension and communication. If an audience finds poetry pleasantly lyrical, they may be more likely to listen to and appreciate its substance. Essentially, form is not a hindrance to substance.

Unfortunately, the rebellion against form often replaces substance. The message of much modern art seems to be: Fuck the academy! While that's a fine refreshing sentiment, exhibiting a healthy self-awareness, it is not exactly an unspoken - or enlightening - one. You can see a fuzzy red rectangle mounted on a museum wall only so many times before you get the picture. Abandoning traditional form is fine - but only if you take seriously two conditions: First, you should become masterful in one of the old forms, so you can convince others that you speak from experience of the failures of the old, and not from a shallow iconoclastic position. Second, you should propose a new system of communication to replace the old one. I think Pablo Picasso is a fabulous example of a revolutionary painter who met both of these conditions. Perhaps, from what I've encountered of him, e.e.cummings is, too.

Of course, acknowledging the value of the classics does not mean ascribing to them the final word. But it does mean that subsequent artists must at least acknowledge their role in the conversation - and, perhaps, learn from their technical mastery.

Thinking in Paragraphs

It's hard to let go of the individual words. There are so many endlessly interesting details of spelling, vocabulary, grammar, and syntax. After the words come the sentences, which we want to diversify and complicate, with semicolons and complex clauses. But as Oakeshott says, these are the platforms that eternally distract the philosopher. The true secret of writing is to embrace the idea behind a paragraph and to write it in one thrust, leaving the careful wording for later revisions.

It's about taking a step back from how the idea sounds to make sure the idea is conveyed. I spent years of my education analyzing the way that I communicate, without stopping to consider whether I was communicating anything in the first place. The coherence of the argument through a paragraph and the entire piece is the most important aspect of any writing. This is the writer's opportunity to confront his writing from the reader's perspective. And honestly, the reader cares most about getting the main idea.

I've increasingly realized that this philosophy applies widely outside writing. If marathon runners were to think hard about each step before taking it, they would never run an entire rce - let alone win it. If those jumping over the rocks at the tide pool were to consider each jump, they would end up splashing in the salt water half the time. Walking without individual steps and writing without individual words requires having faith in your subconscious to cover the minutiae.

I know a rare few people who can think in paragraphs, but these are the ones who are truly creative, inhumanly inspirational. They are able to put aside the mechanics and open themselves to profundity. If I am ever to write a good book, I know it must be one that is thought in paragraphs, in which each thought is ordered and complete. You cannot string together thousands of independent sentences and hope for a coherent work - no matter how smooth your transitions.

Essentially, self-consciousness is comforting because it makes us feel like we are being reflective and meticulous and philosophical. But it kills inspiration.