So many issues regarding elitism have arisen lately in my quasi-literary life that I’m impelled to write an essay. I don’t flatter myself that I have a literary life, hence the above qualification. Books have always been a refuge, even when I don’t read them. In my childhood I had a packed bookcase at the right side of my bed on top of my bureau. That bookcase was like the walls of Babylon. It prevented dragons from getting through to me. You don’t want to face a Babylonian dragon! If I could have melted into that bookcase and become part of it, I would have done it.
Elitism excludes people. I suppose it does. But the barrier of ignorance is the worst exclusion. It trumps even the exclusion of not having money. In my town, at the Metropolitan Museum, there’s a VIP lounge for the exclusive use of privileged members. I could actually just afford to pay the elevated member fee to get in. But that would mean giving up attendance at all other museums, which I could then no longer afford, so I won’t do that. Still it looks like a very comfortable room.
The ignorance that is fed by a lack of curiosity is a worse barrier than not getting into the VIP room. Besides, we have a society of VIP rooms. Most people can’t get into any of them.
Lack of curiosity means that you don’t pay attention because you don’t really care. There is that aesthetic (or anesthetic) conga line of art lovers that head to the Impressionists in the nineteenth century European galleries of the Met Museum. First off, there’s more to 19th century European art than the Impressionists. Degas wasn’t an Impressionist, quite the contrary. Next door to the Impressionists are the Islamic art galleries. A gigantic civilization, a landmark of world history. How much interest among the Impressionist fans? None but the brave deserves the fair. (Dryden). Lack of perspective.
Leaving the Metropolitan Opera after Benvenuto Cellini, one of my favorite operas, an opera goer asked their friend: “I wonder who did that statue of Perseus with the head of Medusa that we saw in the opera?” Answer: Benvenuto Cellini. They thought he was a fictional character. And who was that stud on stage holding a cardboard lightning bolt? That’s Zeus, among the Greeks in charge of lightning. You can afford an orchestra seat at the Met, so you can afford to know that. But if there is any justice at the Metropolitan Opera, it’s to be found onstage, not in the audience.
At the Museum of Modern Art, someone asserted that Joan Miro wasn’t a man. Ignorance is understandable. But you should care about knowing. Bravo to all those people who go on free tours of the art. (I’m patting myself on the back here.)
Not wanting to know is a worse failure than not having money. Even though our society acts like the worst failure is not having money. So never mind the people in the (VIP) August Belmont room at the Met Opera. Go read a book and learn something about Benvenuto Cellini. I’ve read his autobiography, a Renaissance bestseller. The more you learn, the more curious you get, and therefore the more you learn. Virtuous circle. It’s like lighting a campfire you can’t put out. But this is a good fire. Of course, reading might cut down your time watching Floor is Lava. But I also watch Floor is Lava.
My father once heard me listening to classical music. I could tell he was interested. But he said: “It must be enjoyable if you know more about it.” Appreciating the arts is a perceptual skill. (Schopenhauer) It’s not so much about conceptualizing as learning to look or learning to listen⸺or learning to read. How do you do that? By doing it.
When grandfather taught my father how to swim, he did it by throwing him into the Mediterranean. They didn’t fool around with learning in those days! My father never threw me into the sea. I still can’t swim.
The classics are boring, while pop culture is entertaining.
This is my favorite. Ninety-five percent of Netflix offerings are boring to most people. (I’m excluding Floor Is Lava.) But it’s the other five percent that you enjoy that makes the subscription worth it. Then after you’ve run through all the episodes of one of your favorites, you have to wait at least another year, maybe longer, and maybe forever, to see new episodes. I’m barely surviving on Netflix. There are longish periods of drought. Then it’s like monsoon season.
Classical themes are widely considered to be boring. There’s a long list of classic tropes that demonstrates they’re not. Want to see gore, extravagance, desperate characters, unrelenting drama? Look at a few classical or neoclassical paintings. As for your beloved Impressionists, they’re too busy picking flowers or trying on hats. Or go to the opera, if you can afford it. I hope that fellow who didn’t recognize Zeus, the lord of the gods, has vacated his seat. Hey buddy, Zeus doesn’t recognize you either.
Very few people like the arts. How many people read a book or listen to classical or jazz? A few percent of the population? So it doesn’t matter.
Here’s something I’m sad about. It’s not so much that the audience for some of the arts is small (which I dispute) but it’s who’s not in it that saddens me. When Lincoln Center opened, you were lucky to see one African American couple attending the New York Philharmonic. It’s better now, but not by much.
In painting and sculpture, it’s taken at least fifty years for more women, African American artists, and other minorities to be recognized. The cultural enrichment of having more diverse voices respected is enormous. And collectors, tuning in to the rainbow zeitgeist, have skyrocketed prices for a greater span of work. But does the Metropolitan Museum call gay artists gay? I’m still not sure.
Included in this section is the observation that the audience for the arts is a bunch of gray heads. (I wish my hair was even gray.) Pardon me while I fall on the floor laughing. If the audience for the concert hall is aging, and has been aging for at least the past fifty years, then how come those suckers are still sitting in their seats? How long are they living anyway? And why is it still hard to get tickets to Beethoven’s Ninth or Tristan and Isolde?
Those ticket buyers must not have heard that the classics are boring! Please inform them, so I can get a ticket. When I saw the Philip Glass opera, Akhenaten, a twelve-year-old kid came to the matinee dressed as Tutankhamun. His mother had made him a brilliant costume. He’ll be coming back to the Met all his life. Yes, eventually he’ll be gray headed. But maybe it’s just that older folks with years of experience know a good thing. It also helps if your Mom takes you before you grow up.
I have talked to teenagers on a glamorous date at an evening performance of New York City Ballet. I told them I hoped they’d have the chance to attend as often as I have. The torch is passed.
My friends once tried to persuade a wealthy owner of something to support the New York City Ballet. He said he wouldn’t because not enough people were interested in it. Lincoln Center Plaza is packed even on a weekday night. Before Covid-19 it was anyway. Those days will come again.
When I was a church member, (I’d like to go back.) I remember we’d stand singing a hymn during the commencing procession. Later we’d recite the Nicene Creed, that basic credo that affirms you’re a believer. Did I believe in the credo? I believed in belonging.
I felt the purpose of the public recitation of the creed was to link me to innumerable generations in fellowship. All the processions of the past, with their incense and sacred images, and all those still to come. You don’t protest “Well, not many people do it.”
Actually it’s a lot of people. The generations join hands. Stand together. All elite interests are like that. An elitism is anything that a few people care deeply about. And you’re quoting percentages to me? Civilization survives because somewhere, under some circumstances, for some reasons, some people cared. And they cared a lot.
