- David Chorlton

Good taste is undemocratic. The more I consider it, the more I see it as being unnatural. What culling of our instincts does it take to see that each item around the house matches or complements the others? Who is to say that sardines and Camembert don't belong on the same plate? And on what grounds are critical assessments of art made? As an opening salvo to an essay published in the Arizona Republic in praise of Edward Abbey, a local journalist (who once won a Pulitzer Prize and who should be above carping) wrote, "But recently I've noticed a steady stream of essays written by Arizona writers, all of whom are under the delusion their pathetic efforts actually have literary merit. When I think of Arizona writers only one hits me: Edward Abbey." He went on to decorate his opinion with, "The collected works of all the others, with the possible exception of Barbara Kingsolver and Ron Carlson, should be dumped in a cardboard box and transported to the nearest secondhand bookstore and used to fill the back lower shelves." While we wait a couple of decades or so to find out whether Kingsolver and Carlson wear well, we have time to read Abbey's books ad infinitum. The art critic of the same newspaper once responded to a reader critical of his meager coverage of local artists with a lengthy personal letter in which he opined that, ". . . a great pile of art is created and very, very little of it is any good at all. . . The percentage of keepers is minuscule, certainly less than a tenth of one percent, maybe less. . . Well, I've seen their work; I'm tired of seeing their work. . . The genuine article inspires such gratitude in the critic that he may weep at the discovery." While this critic weeps, I prefer lowering my sights and taking my pleasures with a more generous spirit. My wife plays violin with a quartet that is often hired to play for weddings. While the musicians prefer Mozart, they sometimes get requests for a Celine Dion tune. Surely there is no better occasion than the exchange of marriage vows for a good weep brought on by the music of undiluted sentiment. And who is to question the emotions of the weepers? There is no point in spoiling a special occasion by forcing the classics on an unwilling audience. To lament the public's love for kitsch and romance novels is an understandable response on the part of those among us whose writing is uncommercial, but it is ultimately a futile protest that smacks of jealousy. If only cinema attendees would change their ways and commit their attentions to movies that send them home deep in thought rather than licking the taste of the blood they have just seen shed from their lips. If only Ricky Martin's fans would shift their allegiance to our symphony orchestras. I have uttered if only many times myself, only to change my ways and accept the fact that good taste doesn't make us feel good; it just makes us feel virtuous. As far as the visual arts are concerned, I have lost all orientation. Taste is no longer at issue. Damien Hirst's sliced shark in a tank of formaldehyde isn't exactly a tasteful idea, yet it received much expensive attention, and since Jackson Pollock dripped his way to fame I am not surprised that a majority of people have come to doubt the integrity of modern art, no matter how critics try to educate us in new ideas. Whenever I visit someone's home for the first time I can't help looking at the pictures they have on their walls. It may be disappointing to find someone highly educated in his own field and exceptionally bright, whose aesthetic sense endears him to a portrait of a clown, but such contradictions make for a more interesting populace. For those who crave tasteful surroundings, there is always Venice, perhaps the only city unsullied by the presence of automobiles. For the most part, modern cities have become utilitarian, dominated by the hard edges of high-rise buildings and concrete parking lots, that drive us into our own homes to create our own preferred settings and escape sterility. Here we surround ourselves with whatever visions compensate for the geometry outside, and where taste is irrelevant. Objects that would never qualify for inclusion in a museum take pride of place, like the hand-painted jug decorated with a bright red heart bordered with yellow I brought back as a gift from strangers on a trip to Sicily years ago. Martha Stewart aficionados would not want one like it. So, back to the literature that our journalist wants to hide on the bookstore's lower shelves. If I followed the lead of my teachers at school, I would never stray far from reading Shakespeare. I appreciate an honest attempt to communicate by my contemporaries, and the chance to understand the world that is common to us. The canon be damned, I know when a work evokes genuine feeling in me. Praising only those who have already been praised to the hilt is a lazy option. I side with Robert Browning's lines from his poem, Andrea del Sarto: Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know,/Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me. (c) 2000 David Chorlton

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