The Facebook Catechism

To be memorized and repeated at least five times a day, as a minimum before going online.

I saw this really cool thing on Facebook the other day. It said that if you—

No. Don’t. It’s not what it says it is.

But it’s on Facebook! Everyone reads Facebook, it must be trustworty.

No. You are confusing ubiquity with respectability. It’s precisely because it’s on Facebook that you have no knowledge of the real source, only what they themselves say they are.

But, look, loads of my friends have already—

No. Your friends might be smart people, but even smart people can be fooled sometimes.

OK, so it’s almost certainly not true: but what’s on offer is so cool and all I have to do is—

No. That’s exactly the gamble they want you to take. They exploit our natural cognitive bias to presume that things to our advantage are more probable or reliable than they really are. They offer something fantastic for apparently almost nothing, but then you find they’ve actually taken far more than you intended. And even if, once you’ve taken the apprently harmless gamble, you realize you’ve been conned, you’ve added your name to the millions who have taken it, and it looks more and more convincing, such that other people are less likely to realize it’s a con.

Once you have mastered this, you may progress to the Advanced Level, in which you repeat the entire exercise substituting the words “the Bible,” “the Qur’an,” or “the Torah” for “Facebook.”

One worthy, I feel, of Keats himself

As well as being the mother of her country, Evita had a string of artistic and cabaret gifts which she employed to calm the General down when was he was in one of his moods, or sometimes to entertain house guests. A particularly popular talent was her ability to—in the gentlest and sweetest of timbres—fart out the tune of the national anthem, and other popular songs.

The composer Maurice Ravel, an old bridge partner of the General, was visiting once and was treated to this most exquisite and private of musical performances; the experience inspired him so much that he rushed off and immediately penned that classic suite, Le ton beau de cul Peron.

(And yes, I know that’s a gratuitously split infinitive. I do these things deliberately to annoy you, you know.)

Linkage: this is what happens if you don’t believe in the Art myth

In contrast to the pompous dictatorship of taste as promoted by Jonathan Jones and appropriately excoriated in my previous rant, let me link you to a magnificent example of the alternative: a piece by Armando Iannucci (in the Observer/Guardian too; they have earned a kudos rebate for this) lauding classical music: there is no call to Greatness or Art or any of those nonsenses to defend his tastes, merely a celebration of those tastes, an eagerness to experience and experiment with new styles—whether currently condemned by the arts establishment or not—and a willingness to discursively engage with those of different tastes and opinions. Occasionally a little fluffy for my liking, but it’s worth noting the only instance of the word “great” in association with the works under discussion is in the subeditor’s strapline. Iannucci celebrates what he loves, for no other reason than that he loves it: he has no need for mythologized justificatory crutches or fossilized establishment diktats.

I’m with him on Mozart, too. Still don’t get it. Still don’t get it.

You see, this is what happens if you start believing the Art myth

I thought that, a few months ago, I had made the nature of the Art myth clear: that it is a bullshitty nineteenth-century dogma arising from a Rousseauian sweet-toothed hero-worship of the creative individual, adapted using spurious pseudo-objectivist claims to function as a bulwark with which the privileged elites, long accustomed to defining culture according to their tastes but now threatened by post-Enlightenment democratization and egalitarianism, sought—and regrettably still seek—to defend their subjective views as somehow qualitatively superior in order to avoid having to face the otherwise obvious reality that taste is just taste, that no-one’s taste is better or worse than anyone else’s, and that to attempt to hoard all of the cultural resources of our society in order to reflect the proclivities of a tiny proportion of the populace is inconsistent with the principles of egalitarianism. Thus was invented Art, Literature, Greatness, and other such unsupportable and nonsensical concepts: all of them labels designed to give this veneer of objective superiority to the particular objects of elite adoration, so that these elites could continue to dominate culture at their pleasure.

Apparently some of you weren’t listening, and in particular the Guardian: a newspaper which generally I like, but sometimes despair of for the inconsistency between the pluralism and democratism of the politics they espouse, and the smug intellectual presumptuousness of a great deal of its arts and social commentary.

And so we come to this hideous little piece, published on their website, in which the author bemoans the fact that a popular author was popular; that when a popular public figure dies a great many people are sad about that; and that when a less popular person dies, less people are sad. (I will give him the benefit of ignorance, and allow that he was not aware that Pratchett had bravely and openly discussed his horrible condition, and that many of those who expressed their sorrow may not have read a single word of his books, but been touched by a man who had used his own personal disaster to contribute to breaking the prejudice and stigmas that surround dementia.)

This is what I was talking about, dear readers, this is precisely what I was talking about. Jonathan Jones, the author of the piece, is perfectly entitled to his literary opinions, and I don’t even take issue with his decision not to read any Pratchett. We all know our personal preferences and make exclusionary decisions based upon them; indeed I have not read Mansfield Park, though unlike Mr Jones I feel a complete lack of guilt for this omission, and have the intellectual honesty to declare that my neglect of it—and indeed, the entirety of Austen’s oeuvre—is founded upon my dislike of nineteenth-century fiction, a wholly subjective view which I feel no need to dress up in the ugly rags of claims of about what is and isn’t “literature” in order to justify.

This piece is a crystalline example of the Art myth in action: he has not a single argument to wield, whether persuasive (which is fine, try to persuade people of your taste by all means) or claiming the status of objective reason (which we could then, at least, take down piece by piece). No, Mr Jones merely delivers statements of his opinion as incontrovertible fact, and these purported facts are presented with all the élan of an automated phone-answering system.

For this is what really has me almost retching with ire over this arrogant little piece of drivel: for a man who sneers at Pratchett’s prose as “ordinary”, as part of a “middlebrow cult” (sweet Jeebus, as another popular figure Mr Jones no doubt holds in contempt would say, we musn’t only sneer at the lowbrow: even the middlebrow is contemptible), his own writing is clunkingly dull: his unoriginal and unimaginative opinions set forth with clichéd and turgid turns of phrase, which rise to an apotheosis of nonsense with “They enrich the very fabric of reality”, at which utterly meaningless and pompous locution I actually spat out my gin and tonic in nauseated fury.

Mr Jones contends that “life is too short to waste on ordinary potboilers.” Does he really suppose that his own little gem has not wasted precious minutes of mine (and—I apologize—now yours), spewing forth in colourless cadences the same facile, presumptive nonsense about Art and Greatness that one could get for free from any first-year arts undergraduate; all underlined by an ill-concealed spite towards the success of a man who brought pleasure to millions?

On bullshit

Art—oh, we’re not yet done with Art—is bullshit.

I rarely feel the need to justify my use of rude words, I enjoy them so, but in this case there is a genuine reason for this usage. I refer to an article by the philosopher Harry Frankfurt from which I take my own post title: “On bullshit.” Frankfurt seeks to set out the difference between bullshit and lies: the crux of bullshit, according to him, is not that it seeks to deceive. Bullshit may deceive, but it may also be accurate. The bullshitter, according to Frankfurt, is not interested in the truth values of his statements: he is solely interested in the effect that they have, and the desired effect is usually to impress, to elevate, to create a sense of worth.

Art is bullshit. Especially music, and specifically the Romantic aesthetic—that which many would assert is the only “true” aesthetic of music, that which claims that music has “meaning”  or somehow objectively “expresses” emotions—is bullshit. And if you buy into this, you are buying into the bullshit. I want to be clear: you are quite entitled to, if this is how you enjoy music. Really, I mean that. But I don’t really enjoy music that way, and I am sick of being told that this is inferior, unsubtle, or lacking in true understanding. I don’t do the bullshit, and I don’t see why I should.

Let’s talk about Beethoven, and that half-hour of bombast that ruins the previous three movements of his ninth symphony: the famous setting of Schiller’s “Ode to Joy.” “The symphony’s roots are in German poet Friedrich Schiller’s 1795 poem ‘An die Freude’ (‘Ode to Joy’), which has as a central theme mankind’s earthly happiness,” declares Terrence Hackett, and everyone tiresomely points out—and Bernstein tiresomely apotheosized—the claim that Freude (“joy”) here is a veiled reference to Freiheit (“freedom”). The ninth symphony, inspired by this hymn to liberty, was completed in 1824, and only a churl such as I would feel the need to direct your attention to the fact that this final movement bears something more than a passing similarity to the last movement of the 1808 Choral Fantasia—which not only does not use Schiller’s poem, but for which Beethoven composed the music first and then, only shortly before the performance, commissioned a poet (whose identity is still not certain, so minor Beethoven’s textual requirements at that point) to write words fitting the music already written. Enjoy the symphony if you must—I defend to the death your right to be wrong on this point—but if you persuade yourself that there is any “inspiration,” any “roots” of the music in the Schiller text—retrofitted to a melody written a decade and a half earlier—then you are indulging in bullshit.

Mahler’s sixth symphony of 1904—“The Tragic,” as it is called, though not by him—is an intensely personal work. The erratic rhythms of the third movement depict his two daughters playing: “the unrhythmic games of the two little children, tottering in zigzags over the sand,” as his widow later put it. Tragically, the elder daughter died and this, coupled with Mahler’s own diagnosis with a terminal heart condition, and the forced departure from his job as conductor at the Vienna opera house, formed a “triple hammer-blow” of fate—the three fortissimo timpani strikes which punctuate the final movement. Except … except this is bullshit. These interpretative nonsenses all stem from his wife Alma Mahler—a fascinating, extraordinary woman, but not one adverse to bullshit of her own. The third movement was composed before his younger daughter was even conceived; Mahler himself, as late as 1907, was of the opinion that his condition was far from a death sentence and merely prohibited over-exertion; and in his revision of the work he actually removed the final of these supposedly fundamental “hammer blows”—though so prevalent is adherence to bullshit that the majority of performances reinstate it. Once again: enjoy this music—it’s too long and over-the-top for my tastes, though it has some fine moments and the ending is, fairly literally, sensational. But why bullshit in pseudo-autobiographical silliness? If you enjoy the music, why do you need these justificatory crutches? Only to claim that the music is “deep,” that it is “personal,” that it is “Art.” Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

These are only the most egregious examples: the cases where the bullshit happens to be exposable; but the principle behind them—the idea that music somehow carries meaning, or can somehow literally recreate (rather than emulate) emotion or personal connection—is the bullshit. I don’t reject the pleasure in the Romantic aesthetic, though I only indulge in small doses; neither do I say you are wrong to totally immerse yourself in it, if that’s how you get your kicks. But it is, in Frankfurt’s terms at least, bullshit.

“The English do not much care for music,” the waspish conductor Thomas Beecham is purported to have said, “but they love the sound it makes.” The delight with which this apocryphal bon mot is paraded around the internet and in columns by the great and good of music criticism demonstrates how much the Art snobbery that insists that this bullshit is necessary for true appreciation of music still permeates our culture. Less wittily the 19th-century critic Eduard Hanslick, in his magnificent demolition of the Romantic aesthetic On The Musically Beautiful, spoke contemptuously of the pathological appreciation of music, which—desiring, as he did, a return to classical aesthetics—he contrasted with the active, the analytic, the appreciation of form and structure. Though I have more sympathy with Hanslick’s concept of analytic appreciation, the value judgement he sets up between analytic and pathological appreciation is as elitist and unnecessary as the Romantic, Rousseauian worship of the emoting individual. It is also as illusory: who would listen to a piece whose structure they appreciated but the sounds of which they hated? Having myself performed Stockhausen’s Klavierstück IX—a piece intricately structured around the Fibonacci sequence, but which starts with the same discord repeated 229 times—I can tell you: very, very few.

Romantic, modernist, classical, jazz, pop—whatever your tastes in music, they start with Hanslick’s so contemptible pathological, with the sound it makes. And there is no shame, no inferiority, no lesser appreciation in staying there: the rest is bullshit.