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Where to begin? This is something I've been thinking about for a long time now, and something I've begun to consider more and more seriously in the last few months. To give you some background as to what I'm going to rant about, I'd like to refer you to Mr Chesterton:
"The coming peril is the intellectual, educational, psychological and artistic overproduction, which, equally with economic overproduction, threatens the well-being of contemporary civilisation. People are inundated, blinded, deafened, and mentally paralysed by a flood of vulgar and tasteless externals, leaving them no time for leisure, thought, or creation from within themselves."
...and it is specifically the artistic aspect with concerns me. Greatly. There seems currently to be such a massive - and for that, depressing - wave of vulgar and pointless 'art' swamping our society.
Now I'm willing to acknowledge that a great deal of my concerns exist purely on a superficial - and selfish - level. As an author, a large part of me is concerned that my books face this vacuous tide of 'literature' which blinds agents and publishers as much as it does the book consuming public. The greater part of me however, is concerned that said tide even exists.
Sure, there has always been slush literature which is churned out at a frightening pace, but it just seems that the degree of such literature has boomed in the last ten years or so, and made all the more frightening by the apathetic absorption of such tripe into our rapidly declining culture.
On further reflection I honestly don't think that the problem is a lack of art or cultural accomplishment; rather, that there is - in my humble opinion - a distinct lack of identifying such works. I think the borders between kitsch and creative have become so blurred, so nebulous that almost anything is acceptable as art, or - in this case - literature. As Robert Southey said, "Kitsch is the corpse that's left when art has lost it's anger," and I think that's part of the problem. The massive output of lazy art and it's unwelcome bedfellow - equally apathetic consumption - have become so standardised as to ensure that (I suspect) very few creative accomplishments will be remembered for any length of time.
On the one hand that depresses me on the grounds that I have a healthy ego and like to believe that my books are several cuts above the latest ghost written nonsense about last year's [insert medium here] personality. On the other hand, and of larger concern, is that our cultural identity with respect to art is not in fact evolving, but slowly dying. And that fucking terrifies me.
So please people, and I really do mean this sincerely, tell me I'm wrong... |
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