One morning recently, I was reading the New York Times newsletter and said out loud to an article, “NO!”
The piece was about two music critics, and the writer, who I can’t attribute since there wasn’t a byline, wrote “We need critics to help us form our tastes. That includes their reaction to art—especially when some of us think it’s decent art. To keep our standards high, we need arbiters…”
Really? Is this The Emperor’s New Clothes type of thing?
Why do you and I need someone to tell us what we should like when it comes to the arts? I believe if a song speaks to me or makes my foot tap the floor, that’s good music. If a painting evokes an emotion in me, then it’s a fine painting. If a book stays with me long after I’ve finished it, then I say it was worth the hours I spent reading. My opinion doesn’t mean you also have to love the song, the painting, the book. We each have our own reaction when it comes to the arts.
I’ve long maintained that an author does half the writing by the time she types The End on the last page of a novel, and the rest of the writing is up to the reader. We bring our own experiences to what we read. If the major character is a widow, I’m likely to identify with her. If the main character faces a big move and you’ve recently packed up your belongings, you may really understand the character’s motivation. At my book clubs, members are free to express their opinions, and it’s enlightening to see how we view the same book differently and the reasoning behind our feelings. No one is wrong; no one is right. We’re merely discussing what we get out of a book.
When one of our sons was in middle school, his assignment was to write a book review. He read the novel, wrote the review, turned it in, and the teacher returned it to him and said, “That’s not what the author meant.” He had to rewrite the review. I threatened to call the author, since she was a friend, because only the writer can know what she meant. But that really didn’t matter. What’s important is what the book meant to the reader.
It reminded me of the movie Back to School when Rodney Dangerfield got Kurt Vonnegut to write a paper for him, and the paper was to be about, you guessed it, Kurt Vonnegut and his novels. Dangerfield’s teacher accurately accused him of not writing the paper, gave him a deserved failing grade, and said, “Whoever did write it doesn’t know the first thing about Kurt Vonnegut.”
I’ve long thought critics were people who couldn’t write, paint, compose, so they made a career with magazine and newspaper columns criticizing those who had the courage to express themselves creatively.
I don’t need anyone to tell me what I should like in the arts. Neither do you.
