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.

Utility

Secularly speaking, God is what gives us faith. God is the positive parts of human nature. God is:
Those moments when you hear laughter breaking out beautifully.
Those moments on West Wing when Josh pulls off a perfect witticism.
Those moments when you watch musicians' fingers flitting over their instruments.
Those moments when you look out the plane window and see the majestic mountains.
Those moments when you see the softened eyes of admiration of the usually-stoic.
Those moments when you see the underdog triumph: those 4 Jamaicans with their bobsled.
Those monuments like Republique in Paris.
Those vaguely British wafts of mist across the New England scare-crow trees of winter.
Those revelation's like Oakeshott's on human conduct.
Those books like L'Etranger.
Those speeches like Obama's on race.
Those photos like Han's.
Those masterpiece films like Vertigo.
Those communal acts like Wikipedia.
Those paintings like Leonardo da Vinci's The Enunciation.
Those perfect questions like Shelly Kagan's "What's new?"
The realization that objectivity is possible.

Is this utility? Or Kant's sublime? Or just chills up the spine? Is this what drove Augustine's homilies? It sure as hell is a better motivator than hell.

Trail to Guantanamo

When I look at the results of the Gitmo detainee database, I feel a strange pride. There's something about feeling every fiber of your being over a long time span interwoven into a factual process, into every numerical component of a statistic. You have in some way achieved numerical representation. You didn't fabricate the data yourself, but derived it from empirical reality, so you have not contrived a fantasy. Therefore you are not looking at a monolith of your imagination, but your related thought processes intertwined with reality.

Such are the only profound thoughts of a researcher.

Why didn't they tell us?

It's a cold feeling when you realize that they didn't tell us because they can't. But surely there's something objective about it, there's something that you can detect in it, some systematic process that all engaged, Hegelian beings understand and follow? They seem to understand one another well enough. Surely they could at least try to impart that. But if they tried to tell us, we would'nt understand. You realize that though the objective good might be out there, it's inaccessible to us except through experience - through the same repetition of experiences. It's so sad to recognize that the reason the literature is still out there is not because the world itself hasn't changed, but because the world itself can't change - that's a task for the individual, and new individuals always appear. It's even more sad to recognize that you can't fully appreciate and recognize what a book has to say until you've experienced it.

Here is where Tommy comes in. The Buddhists similarly have a procedure of particular objective practices that they've passed down over centuries, but that still achieve the same individual results. But the ritualists, who like their intrinsically worthless but traditional practices, try to hide the objectivity as mere opinion. Perhaps in a more conspiratorial, Nietzschean way, they are engaged in an attempt to make us like them

Why couldn't someone tell me how to solve by perceptual problems? Because I couldn't articulate them into a question myself. By the time one can, they don't need the answer any more. There is no advisor, because they know nothing more than the details of their particular program, all the objective things that you can get online. You can't go to people for general counseling, you must go in with a question, put people on their guard for an attack, for a responsive action that responds to you, rather than a mere performance.

Repression by Free Market

During a visit to the Thai King's exhibit of contemporary artwork in the ancient, belabored Thai style, I commented to a fellow visitor about the tragedy that such an art form would prove unsustainable under Western pressures for productivity. I proffered the comment carelessly, expecting a sympathetic affirmation. The answer I received, however, took the comment as an opening spar: "Personally, I don't care that this would never happen in a market economy. If there's no demand, there's no value."

This reverberated through my entire system as inordinately dogmatic, even dangerous. Especially in art as the expression of human creativity, I have always thought that no tiny piece of diversity should be suppressed, no matter the censor or cause. After all, the market is supposed to be the guardian of diversity. The idea that the majority or the consuming population should determine what ideas should exist and therefore justify the death of others confers what I consider an undue moral authority on the market. This is the classic Millian social dialogue in its purest form.

First, the market is easily swayed by prevailing views. This is easily demonstrated by the existence of varying markets across the planet. However, this is not necessarily an adequeate check against the arbitrary disappearance of certain expressions or thoughts, since they may become caught in a contrary market, and there is anyway quite a feedback on demand in weaker markets from supply in stronger ones.

But why need we fight to preserve these crafts anyway? Unless they have intrinsic value, the arbitrary decision to exclude them should scarcely matter, regardless of the agent of exclusion. At the Thai exhibit, I was particularly struck because I considered the inimitable intricacy of the art to be an intrinsically good characteristic. However, in all honesty, perhaps my fellow visitor's comment was based on the opposite view. The key was that consensus was lacking. If only one person thinks the product is intrinsically good, and they aren't strong enough to convince others of the same truth, why need the market paternalistically foster it?

What bothered me was the frightening reality that the selection criterion here was not the intrinsic good of a product - which is, in my view, subjective anyway - but the believer's ability to sell it. It's unclear to me that one's skill as a salesman or debater are indicative of the caliber of one's judgment. The chief problem here is the paradox that, in art, many demands need pre-existing supply and many supplies need pre-existing demand. One thinks immediately of Howard Roark and his employer in Rand's The Fountainhead: their architecture was in a class all its own, edging them from the NYC limelight. Their faith that a clientele would naturally emerge was hopelessly optimistic to say the least.

Of course, every government lacks the resources to prop up every nascent product. Rather, I think what is needed is a certain openness of mind - a realization that the market's declaration is neither infallible nor sacred. I admit this is unsatisfactory as a solution, but I think it is practically necessary to tolerate even the least plausible ideas without dogmatic repression. After all, this is how I was able to see gold textured so beautifully that a barking deer seemed to have fur that looked so real and soft that I wanted to reach through the glass to stroke it.

Thai Culture?

I've been preoccupied during the last week with a question posed to me very soon after I entered this country: What do you think of Thailand? It's a simple question, but the task of answering it involves a complex characterization of an entire nation.

Thailand's culture is sort of Las-Vegasesque, a description confirmed by the webpages for Vegas versions that spring up when I Google certain tourist sites here. The colors are vibrant pinks and yellows, the presentations are glitzy with glimmering sequins, gold, and silks, and MTV (or ice cream truck music) provides the background for every bus ride, telephone call, and restaurant dinner. Golden Buddhist shrines lurk in middle of shantytowns and over the rear-view mirrors of taxicabs. The culture is very physical, in-your-face: slapstick comedy, dancing, massages; the prevalence of sex tourism appears to be no coincidence.

But there is also the harmonious side to Thai culture. Somehow drivers on the highway are able to weave confidently between the hoards of motor bikers and other cars that use the yellow lanes painted on the road as suggestions rather than rules - accidents are supposedly rare here. Enormous masses are funneled through small entryways, without undue frustration. Despite jostling through crowded sidewalks, I have made elbow-contact with fewer people in the last two weeks than I would in one walk in the UK. I've seen more people sitting idly in groups on plastic chairs, just smoking or people-watching, than I have since reading literature set in 1930s rural America. The pace is much slower.

As a result, inefficiency is rampant. At our tournament, check-in for a hundred people devolved into an hour-long ordeal of individuals filling out forms at the reception desk, problems handled on a case-by-case basis. Stalls crowd together in malls or along streets, with individual sellers and lines in front of good food stands. Roads are planned so that one must drive half a mile past their destination, then u-turn back and drive toward their exit.

For everything but the amazingly high-tech sky train public transit system, the Central Planner seems to be conspicuously missing, both in culture and government. Even the architecture is haphazardly constructed, with Grecian columns randomly thrown on top of modern facades with colonial window frames; one rarely sees uniform design or color in any neighborhood, or even in shopping districts. Street signs often are not marked. Most street trash recepticles are hanging bags placed by individual stall- or shop-keepers, not by the state. Public restrooms often collect 3 baht for the privilege of using them. All of Thailand reeks with the individualism of the marketplace.

The inequalities resulting from government neglect and economic underdevelopment are also glaring. Next to the highways, solid mansions rise in the swampy jungle just next door to the squalor of the shantytowns. Zoning is almost unheard of outside the central city (and almost, inside it). Filthy makeshift stalls selling various pawned goods and manned by individuals missing teeth and shows lean against decently clean laundromats with printed signs and fresh and clean owners. No one seems to bat an eye. However, it makes me wonder whether the gated segregation from but abstract sympathy for poverty that I have observed among the wealthy in America - which actually drives many people, whether the older through charitable donations and foundations or the younger by pursuing public interest careers - is perhaps valuable anyway. Or at least, it seems to offer some prospect for change that seems impossiblt from the callous matter-of-factness of the wealthy Thai, confronted by poverty so close to home every day.

But I think Westerners often forget the downsides of our rules and bustle. Once you emerge from the ever-intrusive ad hoc commercial advertising, hawkers selling everything from tuk-tuk rides to riverboat tours, the Thai easiness seems to translate into a very deep kindness and awareness of others. As I walk quickly down a street, a slow woman in front of me will graciously step aside to let me pass; those whom I apologize to on the street will stop and turn to face me, saying no problem; one person asked about directions will call a conference of five to answer the question; yogurt purchased at any 7-11 receives a spoon in the bag, while Coke receives a straw; taxi drivers at the Henry's gate joke with the security guards whom they've never met. People are also very trusting (partly due to the language barrier) - any excuse will get you into a locked hotel room.

However, I fear that the Thai may prostitute their culture to Western tourists. They often try to truss up their culture, as was done at the Worlds closing ceremony. Few people travel to their National Forest besides tourists, who are driven from site to site in over-priced tourist trucks. They also tend to translate their business communications into poor and - worse - vague English, naming businesses things like Great Insurance and Food for Fun. They also don't seem to care much about the precision of the translations, suggesting that they are not trying to convey a nuanced message about themselves to foreigners. It's unclear to me whether they view the glamorization and translation of their own culture as a compromise for the sake of business or not.

Perhaps it would've helped if I had spoken in-depth to any Thai resident, beyond the occasional haggling and request for directions...