Coarsened And Vulgarised

"...so M. and Mme Cottard, typical, in this respect, of the public, were incapable of finding...what constituted for them harmony in music or beauty in painting." (Proust, 232)

Religion, politics, sports- topics we're all told to avoid in polite discussion, as to avoid unpleasantness and unnecessary arguing. It seems to me, though, that art should be added to the list. Preference in art, especially music, seems to be one of those issues best not discussed at all, or rather, only discussed with people one can be sure they agree with. The fierce allegiances people form to certain styles of art, again, especially music, can lead to rather heated discussions. The section of the chapter Swann in Love that covers his discovery of a new piece of music and its effects upon him got me thinking along these lines.

As the piece is played, he begins to wonder what about it makes him feel the way it does- what powers a certain magical phrase holds. He asks the others present at the performance a variety of valid questions about the artist's mindset while composing the phrase, what he meant by it, and how exactly his work comes to affect its listeners so deeply. Responses include rather contemporary sounding cop-outs about not wanting to put things under a microscope, not to over think, and not to analyze, but rather, simply to absorb or consume and be done with it.

This response is common, still, in regards to art. I find that often, if something grips me, I allow my mind to run where it will in regards to my curiosity about its abilities to affect me. However, many individuals do not respond well to the questions I raise about the piece, and often default to a canned response along the lines of: "I don't really think about it like that. I just like it."

It's so simple to say why I like pizza, cake, tube amplifiers, dark beers, sex, music on vinyl, bike rides, vintage motorcycles; yet, it is so challenging to explain why the opening 8 bars of Thursday's "No Answers" or the chorus of Radiohead's "Lotus Flower" absolutely take me. 

There's something less immediately quantifiable there, but perhaps more powerful even than the magical combination present in the perfect slice of pizza. So common, even today, for someone to claim to love something, some work of art, without being able to say why. Not being able to say why, even in Proust's time, most "connossieurs" would shirk the responsibilities of even attempting to identify what resonated with them in their favorite works. Easier, I suppose, simply to default to not-thinking. We are as much today a species of non-thinkers as when Proust made his very astute commentary upon art culture; content to consume and defend without analysis or clarity of vision, never fully, then, appreciating these things we claim to love and believe in.