“It’s certain there is no fine thing/Since Adam’s fall but needs much labouring.” – W.B. Yeats
Last night the orchestra I play with did a concert of opera standards with tenor and soprano soloists and a chorus. It was a great concert – a lot of fun – but it forced me to confront a very embarrassing fact about myself: I have had very little exposure to opera in my life, especially the weepy Italian kind. I know the “important” Mozart operas quite well, know enough Wagner to fake my way through, and of course love some of the more recent American operas like the great Einstein on the Beach and Nixon in China. But my knowledge of opera has a boot sized hole in it: I’d be hard pressed to distinguish La Traviata from Il Travatore (ok ok, I know this is the one with the anvils), and let’s not even get started on lesser but important figures like Donzinetti. Here’s the thing I’ve just come to terms with: I know so little about opera because, frankly, I’ve been avoiding it most of my life. As I have thought this over I think this is not because I assume that I won’t like it, but because I’m afraid of what the implications are if I do not. Opera is like the Minotaur of classical music: even finding your way towards it is winding and difficult, and who knows how long you’ll last once you reach the center of the Labyrinth? It’s a strange hybrid of word and music, part man and part beast.
We do this our whole lives with culture, of course, going three blocks out of our way just to avoid confronting what we think we cannot handle. Call it what you like: cowardice, laziness, survival instinct – we love to rush away from the things that challenge and intimidate us. Some have different triggers than others. You might be ultra-adventurous with literature but only listen to Top 40 Radio; you could be super into Indonesian cinema yet balk at the thought of reading anything more challenging that Harry Potter. I knew a kid growing up who refused to eat anything but hot dogs. We all have our blind spots, our triggers – the areas we are desperate to avoid.
I promise I’m not ranting, but I do wonder if we are not being trained, by the culture that surrounds us, to just keep avoiding what we do not want to confront. Pop culture offers endless choice, which essentially results in endless pandering: we never have to step outside our own bubble, and indeed it can take tremendous effort to do so. Worse, our of the now mentality ensures that we privilege the present at the expense of the past. Edmund Burke’s idea that the social contract exists not only between peoples living but also with the departed is to us anathema; this is a time where people say things like “I enjoy older movies, like Pulp Fiction” with no trace of irony on their lips.
Please understand that I do not say this to make a widespread condemnation of pop culture, which I love with my whole heart. But by only seeking out things that provide fleeting pleasure – with no lasting side effects of aesthetic edification – we weaken our taste muscles, so to speak. Like our torpid American palettes which cringe at anything sharper than Colby Jack cheese, our aesthetic palettes become dull through lack of use. This is why I despair when I see teens (or adults, for that matter) read nothing but sci-fi, or vampire novels, or Danielle Steele. I know, I know, I should be grateful they are reading at all, but a constant diet of sugary sweets leaves the reading mind with a distended belly.
A few years ago the NY Times Magazine ran a fairly controversial piece by Dan Kois on this very subject. Mr. Kois is a talented writer (I enjoy him greatly on Twitter, as well as on Slate), and I appreciate several things about this article, foremost its honesty. Kois comes right out and says what a great many people keep to themselves: he’d much rather consume what he wants, culturally speaking, than slog through things he finds difficult. Though I definitely relate to the feeling, in the end that practice leaves a great deal to be desired. For one, I’m too much of a Girardian to believe that humans will grow unattended, so to speak. We learn by imitation, by being forced into places where we must sink or swim, through imitating that which calls us to higher ground. In The Supper of the Lamb, Robert Capon has a long rant about wine drinking in which he insists that you not simply “drink what you like”, because doing so deadens you to the world of possibilities. In my second job as part time liquor store clerk, it always saddens me to see the same people come in, week after week, and by the same cheap, sweet wine that panders to their taste buds. That’s what we risk becoming – moscato-swillers – if we do not regularly challenge ourselves with culture that feels beyond our reach.
Even for someone like Mr. Kois, who has a well developed cultural palette, it is never enough to sit and rest. We must always push forward and strive for the things which matter. This is why, as a teacher, I seek to introduce students to some of the great texts of the world. Not because I think there is some sort of bare minimum checklist of books that must be read before someone becomes human (well, ok, I might secretly think that just a little) but because the Great Texts have survived because they teach us to wrestle with them and, in the process, become more human. That is what both sides of the battle over the canon fundamentally miss: the books which continue to be passed down as great do not form a vast, impenetrable monolith, but an ongoing dialog in which we are invited to participate.
There are obstacles on both ends for those who wish to challenge themselves with higher culture. Preservers of that culture need to be aware how isolated they can be, how hard it is for others to access the cache of treasures they sometimes guard so jealously. Why, for example, is it so dang expensive to go see a symphony orchestra? Slash prices, loosen the dress code a little, and see what happens. Give talks before the concerts so people with less knowledge can feel informed walking in. Pair pieces with drawing power with ones that are more obscure and difficult. Do everything possible to make the experience comfortable for everyone, not just Remington J. Worthlington and his plus one (it’s his monocle). At the same time, we need to be honest about what we consume. We cannot pretend that we have firmly developed tastes if there are things we repeatedly balk at even trying. You don’t have to enjoy everything, but you should not be afraid to approach anything with a mind lively enough that you can search for value therein.
This year think about ways in which you can challenge yourself culturally. Finally get around to reading Moby Dick, or Don Quixote, or The Brothers Karamazov (I promise, all three are well worth your time). Try getting into Mahler, or head the opposite direction and explore the exquisite elegance of the best Baroque music (Archangelo Corelli is amazing). If you are theologically minded, skip whatever crap is available at your local Crossway and pick up St. Augustine, or John Calvin, or Karl Barth or (gulp) Thomas Aquinas. Instead of seeing every last superhero blockbuster this summer, try to make time and money to watch one of the (actual) old masters like Renoir or Lubitsch or Hitchcock or even Buster Keaton. To keep myself honest, I’m going to publicly list my own three goals for the year here.
1. Yes, get into the films of Andrei Tarkovsky (mentioned in Mr. Kois’ essay). Possibly his acolytes as well.
2. Opera, opera, opera.
3. Continue my exploration of serious fiction of the last 20 years or so.
There you have it, friends. Good luck, and happy trails. Eat your cultural vegetables this year, lest I be forced to come over there and trick you into it by turning every last Dickens, Bruckner, and Fellini into “Mr. Airplane.”
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