The negative turn in Australian art: Reproducing the government's narrative

What is the point of art in Australia at the moment, and whose interests is it really serving?

My political commentary with Alexandra Marshall on Spectator TV Australia, discussing the negative turn in the Australian art scene and how government funding of art is reproducing the government's narrative, rather than speaking for the common people. Spectator TV Australia, ADH TV, Season 2, Episode 14, 24 May 2024.

The dodgy portrait of Gina Rinehart is one example of the cultural embarrassment that is 'modern art' 🎨

The Renaissance was 500 years ago, and their artists were vastly superior to ours.

For all the millions of dollars taxpayers donate to prop up the art world, all we ever… pic.twitter.com/w7eqmb1TZ7

— Alexandra Marshall (@ellymelly) May 29, 2024

Art’s gone Woke and no longer serves the common good

Mona Lisa from the Prado, Pudong Art Museum, Shanghai 2024

The recent brouhaha over an unflattering portrait of Gina Rinehart is emblematic of a much larger problem with Australian democracy. For centuries, art represented the glory of what Thomas Carlyle referred to as the ‘great men’ of history. Sure, there were great women, too, but the term ‘men’ meant ‘people’ until recent times. Interestingly, men can now be women, and while the whole Woke ‘thing’ is not my focus here, it is the backdrop to my argument that art is failing ordinary Australians who just happen to be paying for it.

Unfiltered had this to say about the article:

I love Michael de Percy’s story in Flat White on ‘Woke’ art. As an artist myself, the rapid decline of art in the West has seen ‘modern’ masterpieces share gallery space with literal trash. It has debased itself to the point where satirists have lost interest. How do you insult a blank canvas or a person dressed as a sheep, pretending to eat grass outside the gallery? They insult themselves. As Michael correctly states, ‘It is not organic, it is socialist. Artists flock to the inputs provided by government and they produce work that meets the requirements of government.’ And as we know, collectivists build ugly things.

My latest in The Spectator Australia, Art's gone Woke and no longer serves the common good.

Art’s gone Woke and no longer serves the common good

Perhaps the National Gallery of Australia should be renamed the National Fringe Gallery of Australia...?

At least that would be closer to the politics it is currently playing with our money.https://t.co/s8OZzrGB5H

— The Spectator Australia (@SpectatorOz) May 21, 2024

Activists have severely damaged the arts in Australia

Politicisation of the arts in Australia has upset half the audience [Michael de Percy CC BY-ND 4.9]

Some of our finest cultural institutions have been hijacked by political activists. Captive audiences have been subjected to political activism while artists have used their taxpayer and subscriber-funded platforms to advance their personal political agendas. Such political activism has severely damaged the arts in Australia. And the lack of swift action by the leaders of these institutions means the damage will be difficult to repair in the foreseeable future. 

Here is my latest article in The Spectator Australia's Flat White, Activists have severely damaged the arts in Australia:

Activists have severely damaged the arts in Australia

Some of our finest cultural institutions have been hijacked by political activists.

And that is a tragedy.

The question is, can they be rescued before the damage is made permanent?https://t.co/GV5wW6aQLl

— The Spectator Australia (@SpectatorOz) December 6, 2023

Exploring Cultural References in "Mad Men"

Mad Men: Pete Campbell, Don Draper, and Roger Sterling. Photo: MCC Current [CC BY-SA 2.0] via Flickr.

The Ultimate Guide to Mad Men: The Guardian Companion to the Slickest Show on Television by Will Dean

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Recent period-drama television series closely resemble soap operas but with a twist: there is much to learn from deliberate literary, cultural, and historical references. 

I first became aware of Mad Men while reading a post on The Art of Manliness about Don Draper's haircut. Much has been written about the series on respected media websites, including the Wall Street Journal, The Conversation, and The Guardian. (Another of my favourite period-dramas, Downton Abbey, has a similar following in terms of literary, cultural and historical references.) 

I purchased this book to delve deeper into some of the cultural references appearing in the series. I have been pleasantly surprised by some of the more obvious references, such as Frank O'Hara's Meditations in an Emergency, Palisades Amusement Park, the story of Park Avenue Armory, Penn Station, and other historical sites. The New York Public Library has also compiled a Mad Men reading list and a series of 1960's fashion illustrations. 

What I didn't know was that most of this book is available on The Guardian's website. The book itself is formulaic, and only covers the first three seasons. Aside from some interesting essays on the various sociological aspects of the show, the general format is a description of each episode, commentary on the social and cultural references, and comments by a number of the participants on the original blog. 

It wasn't riveting stuff, and at times I felt that almost anyone with the right institutional backing could produce such an easy (lazy?) book. Having said that, I discovered much that I had missed on my several viewings of the series. 

Like Downton Abbey, so much of the background research that went into writing the drama is far from self-evident, and there is much to be gained from lifting the lid on the research. Even the anachronisms and historical errors (usually stemming from poetic licence) are sources of fascinating knowledge. 

Matthew Weiner's work is first-class, and I must admit to a tinge of envy that someone could know so much and write for the screen. Of course, this is no ordinary person, but it was interesting that one of the blog commentators noticed in the credits that a mental health expert had been employed in the making of one episode. I took some solace in the fact that such big productions are the work of many people. (Until I discovered that Matthew Weiner has written a novella, too. Now I will have to read it - and that's how my reading process works!) 

I have often struggled with the idea of not finishing books that I do not like, but then I often end up discovering something interesting in even the worst of books. Not that this book is so bad, but when the formula for the final episode of the book ends, so does the book. It is followed by a list of the music featured in each episode. (Check out Spotify's Mad Men playlist - the soundtrack is great!) 

I often get a bit snobbish about the value of a television series in comparison to literature. But the same could be said of my favourite computer game, Sid Meier's Civilization, which has been referred to as a form of "edutainment". 

In many ways, I find television series, particularly period-dramas, a useful form of Netflix bingeing with a mild excuse of having some educational value. For example, after finishing both Mad Men and Downton Abbey, I looked for the "best" television series to start on next. Consistently, Breaking Bad rated as the best television series of all time. But after a few episodes, I found the show rather empty and I abandoned it soon after. 

Recently, Grimm had me hooked, and it has sent me off to learn all about the Black Forest and the Grimm brothers. I daresay learning from Breaking Bad would not lead to the type of education I am seeking! But I digress. 

I learnt much from this book, but it is obviously dated, and I am in no rush to read up more about Mad Men any time soon. But I will continue to delve into the many literary, cultural, and historical references from the series (and this book), but I really must be a little more critical with my reading choices and not rely on a brand name (no pun intended) when going off the beaten track.

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Walter Benjamin's Oeuvre: The Work of Art in the Age of Digital Reproduction

Sketches of Walter Benjamin. Credit: Renée [CC BY-NC-SA 2.0] via Flickr

The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction by Walter Benjamin

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Walter Benjamin's work fascinates me, and his chapter "The Flâneur" in his unfinished tome, The Arcades Project, was the inspiration for my research philosophy (or how, as a political scientist, I can work while being disillusioned with contemporary politics). 

This collection consists of three essays translated by J.A. (Jim) Underwood: The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction; Franz Kafka: On the Tenth Anniversary of His Death; and Picturing Proust. I have not read Proust's work, so the third essay felt a little like name-dropping, and I was the uneducated who had no idea who Benjamin was talking about. I am somewhat familiar with Kafka's work, so the essay was enlightening and provided an interesting background on Kafka. 

The first essay, which gives its name to the collection, I found to fit the theme of much of my experience with social media, and I was comfortable with the content. That is not to say that I didn't learn anything, however, as Benjamin's ideas would easily be revived today as "The Work of Art in the Age of Digital Reproduction". 

My immediate thought was to Da Vinci's Mona Lisa, one of the most over-rated tourist attractions, according to Techly's Joe Frost. I tend to agree. I was surprised how small it is. 

But here Benjamin comes to the rescue: Mona Lisa has an "aura". With the invention of film, the aura disappears. The camera becomes the audience. Stardom replaces the aura - fans are in awe of the film star, rather than being in awe of the event. 

Social media does something similar. It is more about creating an aura around the holiday for others, rather than enjoying the viewing in the moment. While I don't pretend to know anything much about Walter Benjamin's work just yet, I am already a fan. 

But as the camera hides all of the apparatus of film-making beyond the lens, unlike the theatre which forces us to ignore the reality that surrounds the stage, so too is social media. But in terms of marginalia, I found myself most out of my depth with the knowledge of Benjamin's endless name-dropping. Had I a clue who most of these people were (contemporary art, film, and literary critics, I presume), I would have a better understanding of the essays. 

One thing that I have learnt, especially in attempting to understand an author's oeuvre, is that a sound knowledge of the author's times and contemporaries is essential. Reading Hemingway, I discovered Scott Fitzgerald, Ford Maddox Ford, Gertrude Stein, et al. Reading Calvino, I realise I have much to learn. 

Reading Plato, I am pleased that my reading of the Stoics, Heraclitus, Homer, Hesiod, and even Virgil have given me enough of this knowledge not to gloss over names as I might with non-English phrases, but to feel like I know something about what I am reading. Whether I am missing Mortimer Adler's point is another story, but I feel that if one wants to study another's oeuvre, one must study more than just the author's work. 

And that is what makes my latest ventures into Italo Calvino and Walter Benjamin so exciting. I am leaving my Anglophone shores far behind as I paddle off into the unknown. Where I land I do not know. 

But I do know I enjoy Walter Benjamin's work immensely. Whether I can bring myself to tackle The Arcades Project's 1,000-odd pages anytime soon remains to be seen.

And while I was hoping that my fascination with Benjamin made me somewhat original, I was saddened to learn that, once again, I am simply late to the trend!

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On Taste, Sound, and Smell: Calvino's unfinished business

Skunks rayé ou mouffette. Photo by Tomfriedel [CC BY 3.0] via Wikimedia.

Under The Jaguar Sun by Italo Calvino

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

My experience of Calvino is quite limited, but after reading his Why Read the Classics, learning more about Calvino's influence from Harold Bloom, and more recently purchasing The Cambridge Companion to the Italian Novel, I have decided to immerse myself in Calvino's work. 

In Under the Jaguar Sun, Calvino begins what was planned to be a novel on the five senses. Unfortunately, Calvino died before he was able to complete sight and touch, but the three short stories on taste, sound, and smell survive and work as stand alone pieces, or pieces on a theme. 

The first story (the title piece) covers taste and tells the story of a couple of gastro-tourists discovering the link between taste and ancient Central American human sacrifice and cannibalism. 

The second piece, "A King Listens", had me shivering with imagery so vivid as to be on the edge of surreal. 

The third piece, "The Name, the Nose", was my favourite, although I can barely work out what was meant to have happened. This is, so far, the most gritty of Calvino's work I have read. 

It reminded me of Bukowski crossed with Thomas Mann. The language seems suited to the 1980s (when it was written), but after mostly reviews of classic works and Marcovaldo, I wasn't ready for Calvino to be so grunge. 

Cynthia Ozock's review in the New York Times of 23 October 1988 suggests "The Name, the Nose" was not a success. 

But I found it interesting in the way it echoes Arthur Schnitzler's Dream Story. Or rather, having previously thought of Calvino as a late-nineteenth early-twentieth century writer, "The Name, the Nose" is more like Stanley Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut, where you get the sense that the characters and setting are of another time, but not as in the "on steroids" Baz Luhrmann version of Romeo and Juliet. 

I am often amazed at how good short stories can fire up the imagination in such a way that the work takes some time to digest. "The Name, the Nose" has left its residue, and while it may not be regarded as one of Calvino's best, I am pleased to discover that his range is not as limited as I first thought.

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Patricia Piccinini: Curious Affection for the Uncanny Valley

Patricia Piccinini's "The Comforter", Queensland Gallery of Modern Art, 24 July 2018. Photo by Michael de Percy.

The "Uncanny Valley" creeps me out no end, so I entered Patricia Piccinini's recent exhibition at the Queensland Gallery of Modern Art with some trepidation. 

The art works on display are so real, I kept waiting for one of the figures to blink or turn around. Like Nathan, the stuffed lion at the South Australian Museum. I stood there looking at him in his glass  box. And then his tail moved.

I was completely freaked out. Thankfully, the story of Nathan confirmed that there was indeed a windscreen wiper motor driving the tail, but it was so infrequent, and so life-like. I still shudder. 

At "Curious Affection" (thank God), nothing moved, but it was so real I expected it to happen at any moment.

This incredible blend of fantastical creatures with human and life-like qualities is not to be missed. The layout of the first half of the exhibition gave the impression that it was all over, except for a large outdoor balloon bladder thing  (Pneutopia) that could be viewed from inside and out.

As I followed the signs towards the exit, a small sign read "Exhibition Continues". And here I walked into a darkened room for the full uncanny valley experience.

The second part of the exhibition was quite the uncanny valley experience. Photo by Michael de Percy.

I admit that I was most comfortable when other people were in the vicinity. This would be a great setting for an uncanny valley horror movie. I found The Couple mesmerising and had to return to it several times.

Patricia Piccinini's "The Couple" at the Queensland Gallery of Modern Art. Photo by Michael de Percy.

I mean, Duane Hanson's "Woman with a Laundry Basket" is enough to freak me out, but that couple in the caravan, now that freaked me out no end. I couldn't look away.

Piccinini takes this type of art to a whole new level. I saw the Curious Beasts exhibition at the SA Museum in early 2017. It was not uncommon for fake mermaids and other unnatural curiosities to be made and sold for profit in the 19th century. But Piccinini's work defies imagination.

With Piccinini's work, you know it is not real, it doesn't pretend to be real, but you can't really be sure. Now that's the uncanny valley.

Rilke: Is it better to choose one's career carefully, or to know oneself through trial and error?

Monument to the poet Rainer M. Rilke in the city of Ronda, Spain. In the gardens of hotel Reina Victoria.
Photo by Wwal [Public domain] via Wikimedia

Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Rilke wrote a series of letters to the young poet, Franz Xaver Kappus, beginning in 1902. Kappus was reading Rilke's poetry under the chestnut tress at the Military Academy in Wiener Nuestadt when his teacher, Horaček, noticed the volume. Rilke had been a pupil at the Military Lower School in Sankt Pölten when Horaček was a chaplain there, and Horaček had known Rilke personally. 

The military proved not to be for Rilke, and he continued his studies in Prague. Kappus, however, felt that his own choice to pursue a military career was "directly opposed to my own inclinations", yet would continue his military career for years after. In the meantime, Kappus decided to write to Rilke to ask for feedback on his own poetry, and Rilke maintained their correspondence despite his constant travels. 

By Rilke's tone in the letters, it is obvious that he enjoyed his correspondence with Kappus, and often told Kappus that if he wished to be a poet, he would need to change careers, or, at worst, he might find time in barracks life to keep at his poetry. The book provides Rilke's correspondence to Kappus, beginning with his return letter of 1903 and continuing until 1908. 

The book also includes a second work, The Letter from the Young Worker, which adopts a letter format to "a polemic against Christianity". This style recalls the dialogues of Plato and others, but in this case is one side of a potential written conversation. In many ways, the style mirrors the way we read Rilke's correspondence with Kappus, only having (mostly) one side of the narrative. In his first response, Rilke provides some important feedback. He suggests that Kappus' poetry lacks an identity. He suggests that Kappus is looking to the outside, but the answer is (pp. 6-7):

Go into yourself. Examine the reason that bids you to write. This above all: ask yourself in your night's quietest hour: must I write? Dig down deep into yourself for a deep answer. And if it should be affirmative, if it is given to you to respond to this serious question with a loud and simple "I must', then construct your life according to this necessity; your life right into its most inconsequential and slightest hour must become a witness to this urge... A work of art is good if it has risen out of necessity... Accept this answer as it is, without seeking to interpret it. Perhaps it will turn out that you are called to be an artist... Then assume this fate and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking after the rewards that may come from outside.

Imagine having such a mentor? Rilke was patient, kind, and wise. His connection with Kappus has, perhaps, something to do with being a poet while in the military system, something I identify with personally (having found that the military was, once I neared the tell-tale signs of the evening of my youth, "directly opposed to my own inclinations"). 

There is so much in such a short work, with Rilke's advice becoming "Candidean" - "take refuge in [subjects] offered by your own day-to-day life" - and focused on the individual rather than the work (and not in a mean-spirited way but as a mentor). 

Given that Kappus continues his military career and does not become a poet of any note, and that Rilke was the opposite in springing from the military's well, it makes me wonder: should we take care in choosing our careers so we do not waste time in the wrong station? Or should we learn what really floats our boat through trial and error? I suspect, based on Rilke's care for Kappus' work, that Rilke really knew himself as a result, while I felt that, perhaps, Kappus had taken the easy option.

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Lenny: Mahler, Pedagogy, Leonard Bernstein, and My Cat

Leonard Bernstein rehearsing with Benny Goodman, 1940s. [Photo: Public Domain via Wikimedia]

Dinner with Lenny: The Last Long Interview with Leonard Bernstein by Jonathan Cott

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A brief look at Jonathan Cott's profile at Rolling Stone magazine reveals a long list of interviews (including dinners) with some of the greats of music, literature, and film, including Bob Dylan, Susan Sontag, John Lennon, Mick Jagger, Henry Miller, Richard Gere, and Francis Ford Coppola. I found this book, which was originally meant to be an article for Rolling Stone, refreshing. During the course of some twelve hours, Jonathan Cott interviews the conductor and composer most famous for West Side Story, but is not allowed to ask questions such as "What is your favourite book/composer/music (etc)?" The interview was conducted in 1989, and within a year, Bernstein, a heavy drinker and smoker, was dead. There are some great reviews that cover the basics of the work, including Amanda Mark's review in the New York Journal of Books. I agree with Mark's criticism of the interviewer injecting a little too much of himself into the interview, but it is clear that "Lenny" was taken with him. Suzy Klein's interview in the New Republic captures more of Lenny's sassiness.

But for me, two things stand out most. First, Leonard Bernstein was a great conductor. And not just because others say so, but now I am armed with more knowledge of his work as a conductor, I have been able to compare the works conudcted by Bernstein with that of others. For example, I have taken a keen interest in Mahler. This interest stems from a number of coinciding interests. I first "discovered" Mahler after reading Thomas Mann's Death in Venice. This led me to watching the movie starring Dirk Bogarde, where Mahler's music forms a major part of the soundtrack. (This led me to discover the literary work of Dirk Bogarde.) Around the same time, I was fortunate enough to attend the inaugural performance of John Adam's Saxophone Concerto at the Sydney Opera House, where John Adams conducted the work. Despite a non-existent microphone, Adams held the audience captive as he spoke to the audience about Mahler (among other things). I have never heeard such silence from such a large crowd. John Adams is easily my most favourite composer (of any genre), but there is clearly a connection here with Mahler. So I was surprised to learn that Bernstein fits into the theme of things I enjoy, and I have been comparing recordings of Mahler's work conducted by Lenny with other conductors. There are clearly interesting differences that I would otherwise have missed.

Second, I had no idea that Bernstein had a clear pedagogy. He is credited with teaching a new generation about classical music with the 1950s television series Omnibus. Suffice it to say that Bernstein had a way to lift the lid on education, to inspire, entertain, and really teach. I like West Side Story, but I was never really enamoured with it, as many others seem to be. But reading this book has given me a glimpse of the great man. Finally, and despite my initial reservations about the interviewer, I have a new appreciation for Jonathan Cott's work, and will investigate some of his other published works. I am not sure how I stumbled upon this book, but I have a suspicion it was from Maria Popova's wonderful blog, Brain Pickings, which is easily one of my favourite blogs. And by way of an aside, we named our cats Karl and Lenny (of The Simpsons fame), but interchangeably refer to them as Karl Marx and Lenny Lenin. But now I can only think of my cheeky cat as Lenny Bernstein. And, based on Cott's interview, reincarnation was not something that Lenny took lightly.

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Eyes Wide Shut: The book is better than the movie

Mask from the film Eyes Wide Shut by Stanley Kubrick. Exhibit at EYE Filminstitut Netherlands, Amsterdam. Photo by FaceMePLS via Wikimedia[CC BY 2.0].

Dream Story by Arthur Schnitzler

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

While reading St Theresa's Interior Castle, I needed a diversion to bring some interest back to my reading. A simple way to ensure I have a steady supply of novels to read is to buy all of the Penguin Classics series. This international series brings to the reader authors and stories that would otherwise be neglected by we Antipodean Anglophones of little news from the Otherphones. Unless the story was the plot of a movie. 

I knew nothing of Austrian author Arthur Schnitzler, nor of his novella Dream Story. As I read it, I couldn't help but think of Stanley Kubrick's final movie, Eyes Wide Shut. When I looked up Arthur Schnitzler just now, I discovered that the movie was indeed an adaptation of this very novella.

Such discoveries are pleasing and bring an undeserved sense of achievement, much like becoming a grandfather. 

But I recall hating the movie when it first came out. Bearing in mind, of course, that at that time I thought Starship Troopers was the greatest movie ever made. But long since my late 20s, I have revisited many of Kubrick's movies (as I have done with Woody Allen), and there is certainly something of the genius there. 

(I still struggle with Clockwork Orange, but will read the book and see if that helps. After reading this novella, I intend to watch Eyes Wide Shut again and see if my opinion changes.)

But as for this novella, I read the lofty dream-like scenes before sleeping rather late, and then awoke to finish off the last few pages where reality hits Fridolin, our protagonist. My state of being suited the plot rather well. 

One scene in the Kubrick movie had Tom and Nicole smoking a joint, and this must have been where Fridolin's wife, Albertine, tells him of her desire to have an affair with a young naval officer. I recall being annoyed by that scene - Kidman didn't have the innocence that Albertine portrays in the novella.

The innocence brings out the stupidity of Fridolin's jealousy in sharp relief, whereas Kidman's character, I recall, was really trying to stir things up. This means some of the key themes of courage and class-based morality are lost in the movie.

The movie, too, seems to direct the audience too much, whereas the novella doesn't answer all reader's questions; it is left to the imagination. Schnitzler does this well.

This is a very quick read, but of course, the book is better than the movie.

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Oscar Wilde on Contradiction: Learning Unintended Lessons Through Art

Cartoon depicting Oscar Wilde's 1882 visit to San Francisco, from The Wasp, 31 March 1882. Public Domain via Wikimedia.

Intentions: The Decay of Lying, Pen, Pencil and Poison, the Critic as Artist, the Truth of Masks by Oscar Wilde

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This collection of dialogues and essays demonstrates Oscar Wilde's aesthetic, but also his vast knowledge of the classics, Shakespeare, and other great things in nineteenth-century Anglo art, literature, architecture, and theatre. Three pages into The Decay of Lying and one has been exposed to Aristotle, William Morris, and Ralph Waldo Emerson. He uses a form of the "iceberg" principle (later perfected by Hemingway) that demonstrates his knowledge without appearing to be name dropping. It is one thing to mention Aristotle, Morris, and Emerson as part of Vivian's critique of nature; quite another to append one's own aesthetic to the name dropping that leaves no doubt as to the author's learning. For instance, William Morris once said:

Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.

Wilde, in discussing nature versus art, mentions Aristotle (p. 3):

Nature has good intentions, of course, but as Aristotle once said, she cannot carry them out.

Vivian is discussing his preference for the indoors, and says (p. 4):

Why, even Morris' poorest workman could make you a more comfortable seat then the whole of Nature can... If Nature had been comfortable, mankind would never have invented architecture, and I prefer houses to open air.

This first part of the introduction is then neatly wrapped up with reference to Vivian (p. 5) writing the word "Whim" over the door of his library, echoing Emerson doing similar in his famous essay Self-Reliance. What does this all mean? It sets out several themes that thread through these five dialogues and essays. First is the interaction of art and nature in the human spirit. Second is contradiction. Vivian doesn't want to go outside, until he does. Vivian thinks writing is a waste of effort. But he is writing an article. In the final paragraph of the collection, Wilde writes:

Not that I agree with everything I have said in this essay. There is much with which I entirely disagree. The essay simply represents an artistic standpoint, and in aesthetic criticism, attitude is everything. For in art there is no such thing as a universal truth. A Truth in art is that whose contradictory is also true.

Third is the rhythm of life and the pursuit of human excellence. Wilde's characters in the dialogues go from contradictory point to contradictory point. In the essays we learn how ill-discipline and ignoring our intuition can lead to trouble (for instance, the poisoner leaves his ground-floor curtain open and is instantly recognised from the street); how Shakespeare used architecture and costume to make a point (as opposed to the theatrical archaeologists who point out Shakespeare's character's anachronistic raiment); how one moment we are focused, the next bored, even depressed, but we can be humorous, witty, intelligent, and dull. The dialogues read like a moment of intense thought that begins out of boredom and ends in boredom with thought. An indoor conversation is the scene of energy, but after talking "long enough", the outdoors beckons:

Egotism itself, which is so necessary to a proper sense of human dignity, is entirely the result of indoor life.

It is unsurprising that Oscar Wilde is so well-read and witty. After all, he was a graduate of Oxford at a time when only the elite or those with elite patronage could dream of studying there. Yet there is an intense use of Plato's form of dialogue, an interesting blend of self-reliance and pompousness, intensity appearing indoors (even within Shakespeare's Globe Theatre), and the outdoors being a place of leisure (for the well-to-do, at least!). Yet the point of contradiction is not to be dishonest, but, through art, to bring to Nature the human experience:

The final revelation is that Lying, the telling of beautiful untrue things, is the proper aim of Art.

I recall in high school, when studying English literature, the teacher would ask: "What does the author mean by this or that?" to which I would say, "How should I know? And how do you know if you didn't ask them?" Logical to an egotistical teenager, to be sure, but hardly intelligent. And now? It would take several re-readings of these dialogues and essays and some intense study into Wilde's life at the point in time of writing these works to discover more. Yet, armed with the knowledge of reading given to me by Harold Bloom, Mortimer Adler, Italo Calvino, and Theodore Roosevelt (to name but a few), I think I can safely tell my teenage self that, contradictory to what I thought then, one can interpret and learn from the writings of others, even if the lessons learnt were never intended. And if Art cannot deliver such lessons, what other medium can?

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Learning to Draw with Margarita Georgiadis: Creative Gunning's Fine Art Classes

My third still life, "Lenin: or, Bust" (10 February 2018).

Creative Gunning's Fine Art Classes are taught by Margarita Georgiadis at the Tony Foley Centre in Gunning. For more information, check out the details here. 

There are two things that cramp my creative style: having to drive too far to get to the place of work, and being distracted by other things when I get there. Creative Gunning's Fine Art Classes remove both of these barriers and after only three weeks, I feel like I might actually be able to draw!

My first ever still life, "Pear" (13 February 2018).

I did technical drawing at high school up until year 10, but I messed about and, although I enjoyed the drawing, I lacked the discipline and dexterity to do it well. That is not to say that I have not used these skills when building chook pens and other garden structures, but it is always functional rather than pretty.

I have always wanted to draw but felt I lacked talent. Until recently.

Internationally acclaimed Australian artist Margarita Georgiadis is currently conducting beginner classes in drawing on Saturdays from 10am to 1pm at the Tony Foley Centre in Gunning. More classes are due to commence soon, including an intermediate course. I decided to give the classes a go and I am having a blast!

In the first week, we began by learning to draw circles. The trick is to use your shoulder as a pivot, rather than your wrist. I also learnt to hold my pencil in a way that I would never have done if learning by myself. It was strange at first but one picks it up quickly.

We learnt how to use "construction lines" to keep the size of our circles consistent.

"Turner's Trumpet" (24 February 2018). This is my first
attempt at a still life in compressed charcoal. It took two
hours to get it to this stage.

After learning to draw circles, we were given our first still life to try. I chose a pear. Shock of horrors, it didn't look too bad.

We learnt how to add contour lines to bring out the depth and shading to indicate the light. 

I was so pleased with my pear, the next day I practised another still life, this time using my Falcon pipe as my subject.

For the second week, we were asked to bring a favourite object we would like to draw. I racked my brain to think of a "favourite" object, and settled on a bust of Vladimir Lenin. I bought this in Antique Street, Soho, Hong Kong, and I like it because it has Chinese symbols on the base.

At the beginning of the second class, we began by learning how to draw ellipses. Using construction lines and our circle-drawing shoulder technique, we drew ellipses of varying sizes, using a plastic cup for perspective.

My second still life, "Pipe Day" (2 February 2018).

Next was our object. Mine turned out to be rather difficult. But we learnt more about construction lines, and this time, we were not allowed to use our eraser. Except, of course, when one uses one's eraser to create construction lines. Soon enough, my drawing began to take shape.

I was happy with the outcome, although I did run out of time and have not found the time so far to go back to it.

The third class was held on 24 February. The first thing we did was to imagine a bowl, and, using our ellipse-drawing technique, we were to draw our bowl. I have been reading Homer lately, and my first thought of a bowl was a tripod.

My fourth still life, "Homer's Tripod" (24 February 2018).

The Ancient Greeks would give tripods (basically, a bowl with three legs used for cooking or whatever, depending on the style) as gifts and trophies. In Homer's The Iliad, for example, Achilles includes tripods in his list of prizes for the winners of Patroclus' funeral games (after Patroclus had been killed by Hector). 

Once again, I dreamt up the most difficult thing to do. But with a little help from Margarita, "Homer's Tripod" started to take shape.

For the final two hours of the class, a complex still life was revealed. The display consisted of a vase with gum leaves, a model train, a trumpet, some fruit, a couple of bowls, and a metal pot plant holder, and some drapery. 

It looked over-whelming. And this time, we were to use our compressed charcoal. I had never used this before.

Yet, two hours later, "Turner's Trumpet" emerged. The drawing is far from finished, but I am still in shock that I did this, in the time allotted, and I really like charcoal!

My fifth still life, "Turner's Trumpet"
(24 February 2018).

When I think back to when I used to draw, I can only recall as a young child, less than ten years of age, when I would draw amphibious landing battle scenes based on the advertisements in the back of DC Comics. (Remember the "sea people" adverts? These "sea people", otherwise known as brine shrimp, featured on an episode of South Park.) Either the sea people or a toy soldier set was a common advertisement on the inside cover of DC Comics books when I was a kid. I used to draw the battle scene.

Well, since then, I once drew a picture of a scene in my house when I should have been doing something else, and another time I did a drawing of my pets on a home-made birthday card. And that's it. To put it another way, in three lessons, I have drawn more than ever before.

And this is what I enjoy about Creative Gunning's Fine Art Classes. Margarita has everyone drawing on the first day, and in three lessons, I have several drawings to my credit. They may not be the greatest, but I can see that, upon completion of the beginner's course, and with a little practice, I will be able to add drawing as another hobby for rainy days like today. 

From what I have learnt so far, it is all about the structure. Much like essay writing, getting the structure right first leads to a competent outcome. The style and finesse will come with practice. But I highly recommend Creative Gunning's Fine Art Classes, and Margarita is an excellent teacher!

For further information, see the Creative Gunning Facebook page. The next beginner's classes commence on 5 March 2018 at the Tony Foley Centre.

Romans? Lend me your ears: or, Nietzsche: The Neo-Con Flâneur

Marble sarcophagus with the Triumph of Dionysus and the Seasons; Roman, circa 260-270 CE; Metropolitan Museum, New York [Public domain] via Wikimedia.

Twilight of the Idols/The Antichrist/Ecce Homo by Friedrich Nietzsche

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The first interesting thing I discovered about Nietzsche is something I suspected when I read Beyond Good and Evil: Nietzsche "learnt much from La Rochefoucauld" (p. viii). And to start off with first principles, Nietzsche makes an interesting observation: morality is "a misrepresentation of certain phenomena, for there are no moral facts whatever (p. xi). I have now come to terms with the idea of Dionysian "chaos" versus the Apollonian "order". Interestingly, this struck me last night at the Canberra Symphony Orchestra's performances of Prokofiev's Piano Concerto No. 2 in G minor, op. 16 (with acclaimed Australian pianist Tamara-Anna Cislowska as the soloist), and Shostakovich's Symphony No. 9 in E flat major, op. 70. My friend and colleague, a sociologist, who invited us to the concert, has often spoken of these two opposing approaches. But until now, I have been ignorant to the depth of meaning that is so readily missed when one's antennae are not properly directed. And so, Nietzsche sees art as "Dionysian. It is amoral". "Christian art" is an oxymoron, yet Islam is "a virile religion, a religion for men". Nietzsche sees Christianity and alcohol as "the two great means of corruption" (p. 160). A central message (one of too many!) is that, "where the will to power is lacking, degeneration sets in" (p. 97). Nietzsche blames Saint Paul for destroying Rome, and Luther for destroying the Renaissance. Well I never! Kant perpetuated some of the decay, but Goethe, the antipodes of Kant, "disciplined himself into a harmonious whole, he created himself" (p. 81). Further, and while Nietzsche may well have predicted the World Wars, he may also have predicted the decay of our current institutions. Nietzsche argued that we have forgotten the purpose of our institutions (something that would seem apparent in my understanding of theories of institutional change), in effect, institutions require:

...a sort of will, instinct, imperative, which cannot be otherwise than antiliberal to the point of wickedness: the will to tradition, to authority, to responsibility for centuries to come, to solidarity in long family lines forwards and backwards in infinitum. If this will is present, something is founded which resembles the imperium Romanum: or Russia, the only great nation today that has some lasting grit in her.

In speaking of first principles, Nietzsche appears as a Neo-Con Flâneur (p. 72); yet he does not mince words:

First principle: a man must need to be strong, otherwise he will never attain it. - those great forcing-houses of the strong, of the strongest kind of men that have ever existed on earth, the aristocratic communities like those of Rome and Venice, understood freedom precisely as I understand the word: as something that one has and one has not, as something that one will have and that one seizes by force.

I can't pretend to know everything about Nietzsche, and I doubt I can commit to further study beyond a once-reading of the majority of his work. But something has changed in me as a result. I will blog about Ecce Homo in a subsequent post, as I am reading it in a separate book with an easier-to-read type-font, but from Nietzsche's autobiography, he arose from illness (and, paradoxically, to return to it soon after) to suffer no longer from "'ill-luck' nor 'guilt'". He "is strong enough to make everything turn to his own advantage" (p. 176). In this way, Nietzsche is much like Marcus Aurelius: Amor Fati. And no longer can my response be "merely" academic: I feel a weight of centuries lifting, I see why our institutions are crumbling, I fear the solution will not be forthcoming until the next major crisis disrupts human society yet again; I know that this will all be forgotten by future generations. And so time will march on. But Nietzsche does not leave me pessimistic, nor does he leave me disturbed as Viktor Frankl does. He leaves me free. Is this too dramatic? Read what I have read and tell me. I am all ears.

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On Sweetness and Light, Discipline and Creativity: Culture and Anarchy

William Powell Frith - The Derby Day

Culture and Anarchy by Matthew Arnold

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I had heard others speak of this book as if it were a cult classic. Any wonder. There are so many things going on in this work. I am still trying to see where Matthew Arnold fits in with the likes of Edmund Burke, John Stuart Mill, David Ricardo, Thomas Malthus, and Herbert Spencer. He was a professor of poetry by profession, and his niece, Mrs Humphrey Ward, became a metonym for a conservative wowser. So he was hardly a John Stuart Mill, yet he was also rather short of being a Herbert Spencer. He seemed to be the reverse of a modern Australian Liberal (not liberal) - he did not support free trade but looked to the cultural elite, while remaining socially conservative. The brief introduction eludes to the lack of definitions in the work, and this is supported by a critique of the work by Henry Sidgwick entitled The Prophet of Culture (provided as an appendix). Indubitably, the two were friends, but with some rather major philosophical differences. There are extensive notes and these are important due to the number of then-contemporary social, political, cultural, and religious debates (as indicated by the list of important thinkers above) that would be lost on most modern readers (or me, at least). These are rather important to understanding the context but I suspect the different disciplinary groups did not necessarily cross paths in their intellectual outputs. For my own memory, it is useful to outline some of Arnold's key ideas. First, culture is the seeking (as opposed to achieving) perfection in the pursuit of reason and the will of God. The phrase "sweetness and light" is used by Arnold to refer to the pursuit of beauty (in the Hellenistic sense) and light as intellect. Sidgwick counters with "fire and strength" as being more important to improving society (referring, in particular, to religion). Arnold navigates two approaches to understanding culture (albeit somewhat difficult to articulate a precise definition of either) as Hebraising (referring to the Hebrew penchant for religious discipline) versus Hellenism (referring to the Ancient Greek aesthetic and penchant for reason). Arnold brings in the idea of class here (something completely overlooked by many modern works that assume the myth of egalitarianism in contemporary society is not a myth at all), and names the classes the Barbarians (the aristocracy), the Philistines (the middle class) and the Populace (the working class). Given the book was published in 1869, the "Populace" was still a few decades away from any formal political power, and class-based rioting was emerging as a problem for the likes of Burke (who had issues with the Lockean and Rousseauian conceptions of the social contract. Indeed, Arnold was a form of anti-Jacobin). Arnold was closer to Hobbesian support for a strong State, but tempered by the idea that representatives of each class should strive to represent their ideal best selves (as a class rather than individuals), and the idea of the State was to enable such striving for social and political perfection. There were a few snippets that drew lines where the State should and should not intervene, relating to Nonconformism and antidisestablishmentarianism (I always wanted to use that word - but I must qualify, it relates to then-contemporary debates over the disestablishment of the Church of Ireland [refer to the Irish Church Act 1869], rather than the Church of England - but I had to use the word!) rather than intervening to protect the poor (some Malthusian debate was definitely going on at this time in history). Nevertheless, Arnold was opposed to government "control for control's sake" (p. 170) over education policy, and preferred the Continental approaches to education that had clear strategic objectives rather than simply government control. Sidgwick puts some of this confusion to rest - he is by no means a fan of this particular piece of Arnold's work but empathises with his cause to strengthen society by increasing its culture. Here, Sidgwick's essay does a great service to Arnold's theme, and the two works together are important. Sidgwick (p. 172) surmises that Arnold "wishes for reconciliation of antagonisms" - be these Hebraism versus Hellenism, class differences, or culture and religion (or sweetness and light versus fire and strength) - in an effort to improve society. Without Sidgwick's contribution, it would be easy to miss Arnold's point. But that does not make the work of any less value. Some of these statements have been made by others (including the introduction), and Arnold's belief in the "law of perfection" reminds me of a scene from The Last Samurai where Tom Cruise narrates: "From the moment they wake they devote themselves to the perfection of whatever they pursue". This was a difficult read. Not like Sir Walter Scott's work where one can readily get bogged down in Gaelic dialogue, but because numerous reference to the notes (there are as many notes as pages) are necessary to understand the context, and there is so much jam-packed in this otherwise short essay, that it takes a while to sink in. While that should not diminish the importance of the work, if the attitude to difficult works today is anything to go by - where we are routinely told by lazy egoists (as opposed to egotists) if we cannot explain something to a three year-old child we don't understand it ourselves - then Arnold is amiss. But he was so close to being a futurist that this work ought to be more widely read, not as a cult classic (which arguably it deserves to be), but because we are reaching the culmination-point Arnold seemed to warn about,- should we ever relegate "sweetness and light" to "fire and strength".

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You Can't Judge a Book by its Movie: or, Ethics, Androids, and Empathy

Philip Dick hints at the ethics dilemmas of the future; anything uncanny valley creeps me out no end.
Photo by Max Braun CC BY-SA 2.0 via Wikimedia.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This is a good, quick, and easy read. The book has been selected as the "2018 Book of the Year" for students and staff at the University of Canberra. I was thrilled with the choice. Many of the books to date have been deliberate YA fiction. As a literature snob I find these difficult to swallow, but Philip Dick's work is a bit out there, and although a modern classic, I like that it is not too recent. I couldn't recall the 1982 movie Blade Runner as I was only 12 when it was released. Scenes were familiar but I could not recall the plot. After I had read Dick's book up until there were ten pages to go, I rented Blade Runner (starring Harrison Ford) on BigPond Movies. The movie's plot was all over the shop with large parts of the spiritual elements missing, and the empathy, which Dick illustrates does not belong to androids, is somehow transferred to Rutger Hauer's portrayal of the android Roy Baty. The deity, Mercer, is non-existent (strangely replaced by little people, it seems), and the goat-killing android Rachael isn't a goat killer at all as she is too busy falling in "love" with Harrison Ford. it was an interesting activity to have read everything except the conclusion, and then to have watched the movie before concluding the book. As is often the case, the book is far superior. As far as a "Book of the Year" goes, I am looking forward to teaching in 2018 as I will be able to use the book in my assessment items (which we are encouraged to do). One thing I want to focus on is how civil society develops concepts of ethics around artificial intelligence and robotics, and also how, from a leadership perspective, changes to warfare, the workplace, and leisure activities will be increasingly under pressure from technological advances. Dick's work is helpful in that it does not turn the plot into a grunge-fest (as in the movie), and enables one to tease out numerous themes relating to religion, spirituality, ethics, futurism, machines, and the all-too-creepy "Uncanny Valley". It is short enough to read in one sitting, yet literary enough to satisfy literature snobs, and a good choice for 2018.

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The Art of Letter Writing; or, Send a Letter, Post-Haste!

Letter writing is not entirely dead (just yet)

To the Letter: The Lost Art of Letter Writing and How to Get It Back by Simon Garfield

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This is a quirky book about the lost art of letter writing. I started writing letters again a few years ago, writing to family and later friends. My family and I still correspond but no friends ever returned a letter. One gentlemen did email me, saying he was pleasantly surprised to receive a handwritten letter, but that he used email these days. I have a letter waiting to go to my sister as I write this, and she will respond in kind. Garfield (his name was Garfunkel but this was changed by his forebears during the war; Simon Garfunkel would have been novel) touches on the re-emerging cult of letter writers, but begins at the beginning with the letters of Ancient Greece, and later Seneca et al., and mentions a number of famous authors and artists and their famous collections of letters that exist to this day. I did not know about Pliny the Younger's account of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, nor many other letter-writing stories of old. The book is cleverly punctuated with letter from a soldier to a woman who becomes his pen pal/girlfriend during the Second World War, and the story of their growing love unfolds as does the history of the letter (and to some extent, the post). I found myself wanting to finish each chapter to get to the love story. It has inspired me to tackle a few of the as yet unexplored volumes of letters I have in my library: The Letters of Ernest Hemingway (three volumes), George Orwell: A Life in Letters, The Letters of John Keats, and, although not strictly letters, but The Journal of Sir Walter Scott. Garfield's work is well-referenced and provides a stack of further reading. This book was a gift, and while I may not have chosen it myself, it was an enjoyable and enlightening read, both from a historical perspective and also as one who might consider letter-writing, at least to my family, a form of hobby. I was surprised by the number of typographical errors in this book, typically words missing the plural where it was required and other words repeated other words repeated (like that), and while it is understandable that almost all but the longest surviving (and therefore most edited) works will have some typos, there were quite a few here. Nevertheless, there were many snippets of history I was completely unaware of, and for that alone it was useful, but as a complete package, with the love story intertwined, this is a delightful book and I am pleased to now have it in my collection.

See also: The Art of Manliness: The Art of Letter Writing.

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On Our Taste in Music and Sociological Explanations with Michael Walsh

Dr Michael Walsh, Sociologist at the University of Canberra

Dr Michael Walsh is a sociologist at the University of Canberra. I asked Michael how sociology explains our musical preferences, what our preferences say about us, and about the future of music in a market-driven, high-tech world.

Michael mentions two sociological greats who have waded in on the discussion of music in society, Max Weber and Theodor Adorno. 

When it comes to sociological explanations of music in society, I was curious about the following:

• What is sociology? What does it mean to be a sociologist? How does music fit in with sociology? Is there such a thing as “Sociomusicology” and what is it?
• What did Max Weber have to do with the "Sociology of Music"?
• Pierre Bourdieu argued, “nothing more clearly affirms ones ‘class,’ nothing more infallibly classifies, than tastes in music”. Bourdieu was like an individual publishing machine. Can we trust his judgement or is it true? I like Rose Tattoo and AC/DC, but I love John Adams, Mahler, and Brahms, not to mention Woody Allen soundtracks and Bob Dylan. Does that all mean I am a cashed-up booner?
• Why did you get into the sociology of music, and what music do you like and why? Do you see yourself enjoying the music you like on the basis of the European critical theory, or is it based on rational choice theory? And if someone listens to Katy Perry, are they an economist’s persona waiting to buy the next contrived musician? Or is that just my new-found class status speaking?

The curly questions about European critical theory and rational choice theory and how these relate to music were ring-ins. In my Google searching (not research) about the sociology of music, I found these two terms and just threw them into the interview. Michael took this in his stride.