"The ballet, in which half-naked women make voluptuous movements, twisting themselves into various sensual wreathings, is simply a lewd performance."
What is Art?
Leo N. Tolstoy
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Leo, Leo, Leo. As I recall your argument, (from when I read your book 17 years ago) such art forms must be evaluated in terms of who is being served, i.e., who can be pleased by such performances. Last time I checked, more Americans were going to see the ballet on an annual basis than were going to baseball games.
So to the answer to your question about who likes ballet, we must answer, "pretty much anyone." On the other hand, a case can be (and has been) made Off Balance, by my old friend Suzanne Gordon, that too often ballet companies have encouraged anorexia, and otherwise exploited young dancers who can end up with occupational health issues and no real careers by the time they hit 30.
***
In a roundabout way, this brings me back to that odd coffee house conversation the other morning between a silly man and a beautiful woman. (Obviously, it was not the man who caught my eye.) In my highly agitated state, I pick fragments of conversations out of the air around me, much as my small camera snatches scenes from the sidewalks to spill out onto one of my other blogs, Photo Blog.
I'm sure our male hero in this drama did not want to have his tiny woman as a pet for any sexual purpose. After all, this is not a Bukowski story, with a six-inch man and an opportunistic woman. Our fellow's desire for a robot is understandable -- how many of us couldn't use an automated helper that would handle some of those oppressive daily tasks that wear us out?
As a single Dad, I can attest to how constantly I have to work sometimes, for hours straight, between the kitchen and the laundry room and the bathtub and the bunk beds, until there finally is a space, such as now, when I can lie exhausted over my bed and tap out my thoughts onto my computer screen.
The sweet dog was the real answer to the lovely woman's question.
Something else from Tolstoy seems more relevant: "If only the spectators ... are infected by the feelings which the author has felt, it is art." To this, I can agree. We try to connect with each other through various channels.
When you try to connect with me, by phone, email, letter, commenting on this blog, in person, or by sending your feelings out into space, hoping I will sense them, you are an artist. In this way art is contagious.
Really tonight my main concern is baseball. Our beloved Giants are on a two-game roll. Maybe their season isn't over, after all. Come to think of it, I'm not sure what this post is about. Except that I wish I were not alone, night after night, so much of my life -- not alone alone, in that my children are here (all six) for the last night for a long time -- but so alone as a man, not knowing whether anything will ever again work out for me with one woman, one life partner, one soul mate.
Writing may provide comfort of sorts, but it doesn't keep me warm at night.
3 comments:
Your writing may not keep you warm at night, but it does me, and I am sure many others. There is a quality you've developed and a rhythm between topics that you circle. I've come to count on the day's new post every evening, like sitting by the fireside when it's very cold outside.
Thank you. I do not get many comments, so I don't know how my writing affects people. Tonight I am in a melancholy mood, lacking enough connectedness. Your comment helps. Now I will try and write a new post.
Let's not forget Tolstoy's perspective: his wife was a legendary shrew and, in one of his walks to get away from her bitching, caught the pneumonia that killed him. After he died, she went and published a book talking about what a prick he was. The poor guy obviously was too bitter to see any beauty in the female form. But he was dead-on in the other point he made: you are an artist, David. Peace.
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