Tagged: Art

One of these days

Writing outside one’s own identity is called fiction writing.

This should go without saying.


Naive and/or intersectionalist realism faces a conundrum when it comes to the Little Women film.

Saoirse Ronan is Irish.

Emma Watson is British.

Florence Pugh is British.

Eliza Scanlen is a Roo.

Compulsory intersectionality and naive realism suggest they are unfit to portray “American” little women. Some type of cultural appropriation is going on here. It must outrageous.


Art does not bear the burden of truth, it bears the necessity of being art. Art is only untrue when it ceases to be art.


Jacobin magazine says Jesus was a revolutionary. That would make the Catholic Church the Communist Party of antiquity.

Paul would be Lenin. Constantine would be Stalin.

American Evangelicism is convenience store Christianity. It is clearly the most hypocritical sect among the world religions today.

Notre Dame Cathedral


From the viewpoint of sheer durability, art works clearly are superior to all other things; since they stay longer in the world than anything else, they are the worldliest of all things. Moreover, they are the only things without any function in the life process of society; strictly speaking, they are fabricated not for men, but for the world which is meant to outlast the life-span of mortals, the coming and going of the generations. – Hannah Arendt



It is a platitude that art becomes caviar to the general when the reality it imitates no longer corresponds even roughly to the reality recognized by the general. Even then, however, the resentment the common man may feel is silenced by the awe in which he stands of the patrons of this art. Only when he becomes dissatisfied with the social order they administer does he begin to criticize their culture. Then the plebian finds courage for the first time to voice his opinions openly. Every man, from the Tammany alderman to the Austrian house-painter, finds that he is entitled to his opinion. Most often this resentment toward culture is to be found where the dissatisfaction with society is a reactionary dissatisfaction which expresses itself in revivalism and puritanism, and latest of all, in fascism. Here revolvers and torches begin to be mentioned in the same breath as culture. In the name of godliness or the blood’s health, in the name of simple ways and solid virtues, the statue-smashing commences.

Clement Greenberg, “Avant-Garde and Kitsch” [1939], The Collected Essays and Criticism, Volume 1: Perceptions and Judgments, 1939-1944 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 18-19.

The essay form

The critique, the essay — call it provisionally what you will — as a work of art, a genre? I know you think the question tedious; you feel that all the arguments for and against have been exhausted long ago. Wilde and Kerr merely made familiar to everyone a truth that was already known to the German Romantics, a truth whose ultimate meaning the Greeks and Romans felt, quite unconsciously, to be self-evident: that criticism is an art and not a science. Yet I believe — and it is for this reason alone that I venture to importune you with these observations — that all the discussions have barely touched upon the essence of the real question: What is an essay? What is its intended form of expression, and what are the ways and means whereby this expression is accomplished? I believe that aspect of “being well written” has been too one-sidedly emphasized in this context. It has been argued that the essay can be stylistically of equal value to a work of the imagination, and that, for this reason, it is unjust to speak of value differences at all. Yet what does that mean? Even if we consider criticism to be a work of art in this sense, we have not yet said anything at all about its essential nature. “Whatever is well written is a work of art.” Is a well-written advertisement or news item a work of art? Here I can see what so disturbs you about such a view of criticism: it is anarchy, the denial of form in order that an intellect which believes itself to be sovereign may have free play with possibilities of every kind. But if I speak here of criticism as a form of art, I do so in the name of order (i.e., almost purely symbolically and non-essentially), and solely on the strength of my feeling that the essay has a form which separates it, with the rigor of a law, from all other art forms. I want to try to define the essay as strictly as is possible, precisely by describing it as an art form.

György Lukács, “On the nature and form of the essay,” Soul & Form