2011-06-16 12:35![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
digitaldiscipline
digitaldisciplineThis is a discursion from my calling James Joyce one of the most overrated writers in the history of ever on Twitter/FB this morning. It got me thinking, and the path of those thoughts is much like the path of what those thoughts were about, in that my giving you the closing argument without the road to get there makes no fucking sense.
"Who the fuck is Bob?"
For whatever reason, when I was in college, there was a huge amount of focus on the Modernists in art and literature at my school, so I was up to my goddamned eyebrows in Joyce and Faulkner and Picasso and Dali and their contemporaries; not just their work, but their work in the context of what they were trying to say, and the conventions against which they were trying to rebel, and all that shit that gives art historians such tweed-jacketed hard-ons. I'm not saying that it's bullshit, because nothing exists in a vacuum, and it's entirely possible that the socio-political atmosphere of the day was in many ways influencing their modes of expression.
I'm not immune; I have a print of Munch's "The Scream" rolled up in my closet, and it pre-dates my figuring out what the fuck "goth" was, or that I was/am one.
But, regardless, Modernists spurred Post-Modernists, and whatever else came after, and if you walk into an art installation, or pick up a book by one of the more avant-garde practitioners of the movement, or turn on some jazz... if you're not familiar with the cultural conversation, you're left thinking, as I am, "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT?"
Which brings me back to that paraphrasing of Ayn Rand hanging out up there.
If you had wandered into my suite during my junior or senior year of college, you'd have met one of my suite-mates, whom we all called Bob. He answered to Bob. He called himself Bob.
If you'd looked at any of the dorm room assignments, however, you'd be stumped. There was no Bob, Bobby, or Robert anywhere to be found. We had a Greg, two Steves, a Keith, a Brian, a Ryan, and myself. But, nevertheless, there was "Bob," big as life (bigger, actually; he was a jovial six-five galoot).
"Bob" was an acronym, you see, a shortening of "Bunsey, Old Bean."
None of us had the last name of "Bunsey," either.
One guy did, however, have the last name of "Birner," which, now, yes, you begin to see, don't you?
"Birner" becomes "Burner" becomes "Bunsen Birner" becomes "Bunsen" becomes "Bunsey" becomes "Bunsey, Old Bean" becomes "Bob."
But you, no, you walk in at "Bob," and have no fucking idea how it came about.
And for that, I blame Joyce and his ilk. Not everyone has the time or the inclination to back-trace an infinite number of footnotes and influences, to ferret out everything against which you rail for contrast.
If you riff on a theme so thoroughly that the theme itself is lost, you have fallen off the melody, traipsed incoherently beyond "fugue," and become mere noise (or as some would have it, "jazz"). Don't be put out when people look askance at your affected, evolved, or contrived weirdness.
Being misunderstood isn't always a sign of genius; it may simply be a result of your not making any fucking sense at all.
Have your "Bloomsday." I will instead have some Bloom County.
"Good day, sir."
"Who the fuck is Bob?"
For whatever reason, when I was in college, there was a huge amount of focus on the Modernists in art and literature at my school, so I was up to my goddamned eyebrows in Joyce and Faulkner and Picasso and Dali and their contemporaries; not just their work, but their work in the context of what they were trying to say, and the conventions against which they were trying to rebel, and all that shit that gives art historians such tweed-jacketed hard-ons. I'm not saying that it's bullshit, because nothing exists in a vacuum, and it's entirely possible that the socio-political atmosphere of the day was in many ways influencing their modes of expression.
I'm not immune; I have a print of Munch's "The Scream" rolled up in my closet, and it pre-dates my figuring out what the fuck "goth" was, or that I was/am one.
But, regardless, Modernists spurred Post-Modernists, and whatever else came after, and if you walk into an art installation, or pick up a book by one of the more avant-garde practitioners of the movement, or turn on some jazz... if you're not familiar with the cultural conversation, you're left thinking, as I am, "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT?"
Which brings me back to that paraphrasing of Ayn Rand hanging out up there.
If you had wandered into my suite during my junior or senior year of college, you'd have met one of my suite-mates, whom we all called Bob. He answered to Bob. He called himself Bob.
If you'd looked at any of the dorm room assignments, however, you'd be stumped. There was no Bob, Bobby, or Robert anywhere to be found. We had a Greg, two Steves, a Keith, a Brian, a Ryan, and myself. But, nevertheless, there was "Bob," big as life (bigger, actually; he was a jovial six-five galoot).
"Bob" was an acronym, you see, a shortening of "Bunsey, Old Bean."
None of us had the last name of "Bunsey," either.
One guy did, however, have the last name of "Birner," which, now, yes, you begin to see, don't you?
"Birner" becomes "Burner" becomes "Bunsen Birner" becomes "Bunsen" becomes "Bunsey" becomes "Bunsey, Old Bean" becomes "Bob."
But you, no, you walk in at "Bob," and have no fucking idea how it came about.
And for that, I blame Joyce and his ilk. Not everyone has the time or the inclination to back-trace an infinite number of footnotes and influences, to ferret out everything against which you rail for contrast.
If you riff on a theme so thoroughly that the theme itself is lost, you have fallen off the melody, traipsed incoherently beyond "fugue," and become mere noise (or as some would have it, "jazz"). Don't be put out when people look askance at your affected, evolved, or contrived weirdness.
Being misunderstood isn't always a sign of genius; it may simply be a result of your not making any fucking sense at all.
Have your "Bloomsday." I will instead have some Bloom County.
"Good day, sir."
