Finished and ready to roll

I think I'm finally done pulling at and tweaking my presentation for this Sunday's symposium, The Figure in Contemporary Art, at the Tacoma Art Museum. Approximately forty minutes and one-hundred and eighty some powerpoint images in length, putting this together has nearly done me in. I've been saying, maybe if I had gone to art school - any college, really - I might have had to put together this sort of thing, learned how it works. But I came to this completely unprepared and ignorant.

How to you tell everything you think about your art? How you developed as an artist? Your feelings and thoughts about art, in general? I've taken a month-long leave from work to get ahead with my painting and here I am, three weeks in, and all I've been working on is this presentation. Working on it day and night. Not sleeping very well. Alright, I'm obsessive.

I mentioned to G the other night that I'd been thinking recently about how weird it would be if either one of us was with someone who wasn't as obsessed with their work as both of us are. Someone who wouldn't work and work until they finally felt they'd got it right, like we do. Someone who said, "Oh, that's good enough", when it wasn't, really. "No sweat." "It doesn't really matter." I can't imagine. In a lot of ways, it would probably be much healthier to not be so fixated on "getting it right". But what G and I both work at isn't a group effort, where the individual isn't always crucial to the end product. If you're writing something or painting something that only you can do, that is so personal and singular that, in a way, it says who you are, how do you find an easy place to compromise?

Well, anyway, I think I've got this thing together as best I can. G has been an enormous help, reading and listening and watching. She even skipped class last week so she could help me edit. She's been wonderfully tough, and I've made almost every single cut she suggested - and very happy for it, too. She'll sit again, tonight, while I run through the whole thing once more; it might be the last time before the actual event. It feels good to be on this side of the process. I'm nervous, of course, but I'm looking forward to Sunday.

And, now, what I really need is a manicure!

Writing women and the generous community

I'm married to a writer. I never knew writers before. And now I get to be around them a lot. I'm an artist, of course, but I've never really socialized much with other artists; never actually felt part of the "tribe". So it's been a revelation to experience the warmth and camaraderie that I routinely witness within the writing community here in Portland. I don't know how other writing communities are; maybe Portland is the exception. Here, writers come out to hear writers read, big or small readings. I see well-established authors, with multiple books published, and relative novices at the same events. Often reading at the same events. Sharing contacts, happy to put in a good word with an agent or publisher for someone trying to get ahead. Sadly, a lot of the people who've "made it" in their careers are afraid of others getting too much success in the same field. But I never see that here. And I see very little sign of hierarchy. But I see such generosity, always.

I've read a lot lately on the status of women in the Arts. It's shocking how they get published less, performed less, shown less. Ironically, the vast majority of the writers - and published writers - I know or are acquainted with are women. Such fantastic writers. As supportive as the writing community is, here in Portland, the writing women are maybe even more so. They are so kind to each other, they give each other time and smart advice, they are so amazingly available to each other. I'm afraid - as a man, after all - to muddle my way into speaking about the nurturing natures of women, but that's what I see so much of, honestly. The writing women who have been published, wanting so much for those who haven't been to have that, too. There isn't a feeling of scarcity; there's enough for everyone. "Here, look, I made this beautiful cake. It's so damned good! Have a piece; I'll give you the recipe."

Writing when you have to

I'm nearing the deadline for finishing the talk that I'll be giving at the symposium at the Tacoma Art Museum on April 3rd. And, I have to say, it's proving to be rather a tough job. Since I'll by talking about my art, much of the presentation will be visual, but I still need to have enough material to go on for forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes! Oh....

Though the theme of the symposium - which is in conjunction with the big Norman Rockwell exhibition at TAM - is the figurative in art, I'll end up speaking of other things as well. One of the thoughts rolling around in my head right now is the idea of "art for the art world" versus "people's art". Norman Rockwell was certainly a people's artist. That's one of the qualities, I believe, that made serious, critical attention and appreciation so slow to come; he wasn't seen as "serious" enough, his work is so straightforward and accessible. That's one area where I think our work has parallels.

I'm lucky that my career has come at a time when critics and the art establishment are increasingly more open minded about what kind of art can be taken seriously. But I still think my work is appreciated even more by the "average Joe". And though to be able to sell my work, I need to access a different layer of society, shall we say, I think - maybe unconsciously - I still aim my output at the less-art-educated majority. I'm not talking down to that audience. We appreciate the same things; their sensibilities are mostly my own. And they get my work as well, if not better, than the art-educated minority. The way I look at it, my work - with all its historicist excess, its gender tweaking, its unabashed prettiness - isn't meant to be thought over too deeply, just to be enjoyed. For its clear language and its "too utterly utter" preposterous pretensions. It's probably equally outrageous of me to say so, but I've come to think of my visual style as "elitism for the masses". And I hope it is.

Perspective

Last Tuesday.

The building where we live had posted that they'd be turning off the water on Tuesday at 10:00 am to do some repairs. They've been doing that a lot lately. Always at ten in the morning. Often they don't get started then. Often they start much later or don't start at all. And the shut-off, when it happens, is almost always very brief. I figured that, since I didn't have to be to work until three in the afternoon, there wasn't any reason to try to shower before ten. Soon after ten I noticed that the water was off. As it got later, I kept checking to see if the water was back on. I had showered the night before, so I wasn't actually dirty, but I hate getting ready for the day unless I'm really clean and fresh. (I also shave and brush my teeth in the shower.) Past two, running out of time, I called the management office to check the status, and got the typically vague response that it would be back on soon. At the last minute, with still nothing coming out of the tap, I had to find some way to get myself ready.

There was very little water in the container in the refrigerator, but I put what we had in a pan to heat it up a little. Added the small amount that was in a container of bottled water G had saved and the - very flat - remains of the lime-flavored bubbly water that we hadn't thought to throw away. When it was warm I took it into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, wetted my hair a little, and got a cloth, wetted it, and dragged it over myself a bit. When it came to shaving, I didn't want to rinse off the blade in the still relatively clear water, so I thought to use the very murky, paint-y liquid in the water container I use for my painting. I wasn't - comfortably - clean when I'd finished, but I thought myself pretty resourceful for doing what I could. Later that night, after work, as I was heading for the shower, G agreed that I was pretty clever.

Three days later, on Friday, a 8.9 magnitude earthquake hit Japan, followed by a devastating tsunami. Many of the thousands of survivors have not had any access to water for more than two days.

Trying to Balance the World

The saying goes something like, "If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention". I agree with that absolutely. Even with our eyes half-closed, there's enough wrong, enough gross imbalance in this country, in the world to fill us up with horror. And if we are paying attention, how do we keep ourselves from being completely swamped with despair? How do we go about our lives, consciously, without being crippled with depression? How can we find the strength to recognize and focus on all the positive and the good in our lives, when nearly all the news we get is negative? What is out there to give some balance, to feed us hope and some positive stimulus that, as sensitive beings, we need in order to function?

I struggle with this void all the time. I think I cope less well with this than most people. People I know, family, Facebook friends seem to have a better internal balance. So that they can be smart and informed about all the world's horrors, without losing their perspective. So easily, I lose mine. My outrage always brings out the warrior in me; I want to go out and fix all the worlds problems. (I must be some sort of egomaniac, because it never occurs to me that I might not be the right person for the job.) At its worst, my unfocused fervor to go into righteous battle makes me feel that - in order to be ready, I guess - I need to turn my life upside down. Sell everything, move "off the grid" or to another country, devote my life to one and all of the so many great "good causes". I need to turn myself inside out, because somehow I think that's the only way I can help save the world. And when I'm thrashing about like this, desperate, one of the first things I think to rid myself of is making art; what good to the world are the silly pictures of a whiny, middle-aged artist who paints himself in a dress?

(Sadly - or fortunately - I have to realize, I'd make a terrible "savior of the world". It seems I have the ego for it, and I'm a good organizer, but I'm no "leader of men"; I always make a surprisingly awful boss. Always say the wrong things, always piss people off. Desire and commitment are only part of what's needed to do - well, anything, really. You also need very specific talent and skills. Very few of which, in this case, I possess. And so, it becomes obvious, I am unqualified to save the world....)

I don't really ever question why I paint what I paint. But I constantly question what the point of it would be to anyone else. Especially in the presence of what I see in the art world: deeply feeling and intelligent artists, striving to say something meaningful with their work. Something that relates to and comments on the world as they experience it. I always feel a bit out of place alongside these artists, because I don't make art like that. I really don't try to say anything at all with my art. There is content, of course, but whatever is there comes about subconsciously. My primary goal is always to just make something beautiful. Often humorous, always beautiful.

But when I'm feeling a little less insecure, a little less self-conscious, I will allow myself some hope that my work does serve a purpose. It's hard for me - myself - to really understand, but maybe the fact that I make work that doesn't reflect the real world, that avoids any commentary on war or misery or any of the real inequities so much of the world faces, does some good. Maybe my "silly" work does some good. If I complain that there is so little hopeful, balancing information or imagery being fed us through the media, then I have to recognize that maybe I'm doing a tiny bit to give someone, somewhere, something of that. If I make paintings that contain some light of beauty or laughter - which is what I try to do - I have to believe that there might just be people out there longing for something of that. Just the way I, as a child, always longed for it. As I long for it now. And if I recognize that I have some sort of "warrior spirit", I also need to understand what it is I have to work with, what it is I was designed to do. What my small but specific talents might offer to a world suffering and overwhelmed with uncertainty and real ugliness. To be coldly aware of the world as it is and, at the same time, to have the desire to retreat into the soft chambers of human imagination and human joy are not mutually exclusive. And that is what I have to keep searching to balance within myself. And I hope that my work can, in some small way, be helpful for others trying to maintain that balance.

The Question of Birds

How long does a bird live?
A robin or a sparrow or a jay.
How large is its brain?
What are its cognitive powers?
Does it have any sense of time or change?
How much does it feel of the cold or heat?
Easy enough to know these things,
With a click and a click.

Not long, not large, not much
Would be the answer
To the question of birds.

But if we question our own ability to answer the question,
Our capacity to carve an understanding
Within the hardened range of our own comprehension,
Of a bird or of anything, could we ask:

Would it ever fear the turning of the leaves in Fall?
Might it feel the ache of the old age of a brief life?
Could it know any regret,
Or the sharp loss of other brief lives?
Clutching to a narrow branch high in a leafless tree,
Head tucked against the grey mist,
Could it ever feel a longing for time
To bloom forward?

Back. Again. Still.

I find that sometimes the good brings out the bad. And that's usually for the best. The more success I have, the more I can face my failures. The more loved I am and the more love I am able to give, the more vulnerable I can allow myself to be. And then the more room for all the old hurts to surface, the ones that never really healed. Some people are able to gracefully ride out their pain and failures. They move on, they press on. I always need to drag out the hurtful things, again and again, hold them in my hands and stare them down, before they begin to fade. But then there are the ones that come back. Again. Still. Because I don't want to look at those ones. Because I don't want to engage them. Those shadows I keep turning away from.

The shadows of all the things that hurt and confused me as a child. All the shame of being unliked and alone. The new kid. The shy kid. The fat kid. The sissy kid. Freckle-faced. Bed-wetter. My dad was in the Air Force so we moved a lot. So many schools. It was hard to make friends. And the friends I thought I had often turned out to be...not really my friends. A lot of betrayal in my young life. Being laughed at and taunted. All the questioning of why are people so mean to me? All the moments of humiliation that never go away. Not really. After almost fifty years, the feelings of them, the very real pictures of them never go away.

- Fourth or fifth grade, maybe. I knew Steven Large from school. I thought maybe I was his friend. He was English. He was very smart and everyone thought his accent was cool. One day in his back yard with his friends. All the sheets hanging on the clothesline. Between the sheets, and Steven and his friends spitting on me. Spitting all over me.

- Seventh or eighth grade. Gym class. Biggest, fattest, probably least developed physically; certainly the least developed emotionally. I was always the tallest and fattest boy, which made me a great target. If you're big, other boys want to fight you. If you're a sissy and don't want to fight, you're the best kind of target; call out the big guy who you know won't fight back. Every day at my gym locker a boy pushed me hard. I never knew what to do. Every day he pushed me. Finally one day, without thinking, I swung out my arms and pushed hard against his shoulders and he went flying back into some locker doors and sprawled on the tile floor. Before he could get back up, I burst into tears.

- Third or fourth grade, I think. My mom was visiting my dad in Hawaii while he was on R&R from Vietnam. I stayed with my friend Mitchell Conn and his family. We lived in Merced, but we drove up to Sunnyvale for the weekend, to stay with his wealthy cousins and their family. I still wet the bed. On Sunday morning, Mitch led his cousins into the room where I was sleeping. I awoke to Mitch pulling back the covers so they could see how I'd wet. I remember it was such a beautiful, bright sunny morning. The sheets and the fluffy bedding that I'd wet were blindingly white.

- Eighth grade, probably. Linda Little, the female "ringleader" of the cool black kids at school teased me all the time. And pushed me and smacked me. She and her friends liked to single me out. One day, I was standing on the edge of the sidewalk at the top of a small hill on the school grounds, when she came up to me and gave me a shove. I lost my balance and rolled all the way down the hill. Everyone saw. When I got up off the ground, I yelled "black bitch" (even then, with an ache that it was racist to say that) and tried not to cry, but Linda Little and her friends just laughed.

- Junior High. John was my best friend. I used to hang around with him and his younger brothers. They were from West Texas. He had a strong accent and was as skinny as I was fat. He liked the Beatles when they weren't even that cool. We rode our bikes everywhere. To the outskirts of town where there wasn't anything, only flat dried-up fields. I was probably in love with him. In a few years, by the end of junior high, he'd grown up a lot, got a girlfriend. Maryann. He stopped hanging around with me and he told people in school about how I made costumes for my GI Joe and my sister's Barbie. How I played with dolls. He did it to make himself more popular.

*

More than a year and a half ago, a coworker I work closely with - who I'd always been friends with - misunderstood the intentions of something I said and stopped talking to me. I tried to speak with him about it but since that day, other than the most absolutely necessary work communication, he hasn't spoken to me. Some of his friends who, prior to all this, were friendly enough, now seem to be following his lead. So I have several people at work who shun me. Really, that's what it is - as ridiculous as it sounds - I'm being shunned.

Things are going so well in my life. On all fronts. I've really worked out a lot of things that, for a long time, I've needed to deal with. I'm very grateful. And yet, at work, much of my attention and energy have been focused on this negative, confounding situation. But now, finally, in the last few days it has slowly begun to seep in - after more than a year and a half - that my distress with the situation is mostly because it takes me right back to who I was as a child. Puts me in the same position, puts me into the same confusion: Why are people mean to me? Why don't they like me? And I haven't known how to fight that feeling of being defenseless. Maybe that's why this year and a half has been so out-of-proportion painful. It's the sort of thing I wish I could just laugh off, muscle through. But, because of who I am, how I process things, it's brought back all the unfair confused hurt I felt as a little boy...and I know that that's completely necessary for me. For my health and my growth as a person. The sparks of comprehension I'm beginning to feel about all of this are signs to me that, soon enough, I'll be grateful for this hard time. I'll see it as a blessing.

I'm the kind of person who is always going to try and fix things, to talk things out, but you can't make someone talk to you. At this point, my understanding of the situation is that my coworker is a very sensitive individual. Who acts as though he's not. On some level he knows that he overreacted to the whole thing and is embarrassed by that. I guess it's easier for him to put the blame on me than to sit with the shame of his behavior. All of which, honestly, I can completely understand. I understand because there is another side to this.

I've shunned people, too. A lot of people who grow up victimized in some way, subconsciously look for some way to hurt back. It's a sad truth that, if you're bullied or ridiculed or shunned, you may later have a tendency, yourself, to bully, ridicule, or shun. It's the abusive cycle. It's a defensive mechanism: if I hit you first, you can't hit me first. Even if it's just a look or caustic words delivered to keep someone at a distance. Or behaving toward someone as though they just don't exist. I believe that it's all part of the hyper-vigilance, that need to self-protect that is so often a result of trauma.

One of the biggest things about getting my anxiety issues under better control was that I've needed to go back and apologize to people that I've snubbed for no other reason than that I just couldn't deal with them in some way. My response to things - normal things - was often quite warped. For a long time. At work, over the last few years, I've made personal apologies to people I've treated dismissively or unfairly demonized in some way. And a few months ago, I sent out a general email to apologize for any bad behavior in the past. I felt pretty vulnerable - and maybe a bit foolish - doing so, but it seemed the right thing; I'm grateful that people were so kind and understanding in response. But even still, I'll always need to examine my reactions to people and question my motivations. So that my relationships with people aren't shaped by the feelings of the hurt little boy I was.

*

As I've been writing this, I keep thinking about three boys I went to school with. They'd all be the same age as I am now. I didn't really know any of them. But I've always remembered them so clearly.

I want to say I'm sorry to Joseph, the little boy in first grade who was ugly and smelled like pee. When given the choice to name my baby brother Joseph Brian or Brian Joseph, I chose the latter. A choice made only out of disdain for that poor little kid. I can still see his little first-grade face and I feel so sad. I hope life has been kinder to him since.

And I want to say I'm sorry to the Hispanic boy in junior high gym class - I think his last name was Gutierrez - who was fat like I was. His body was very soft and he had deep scars on his abdomen. Having to get naked in the locker room, having to run around the track. All the shame I felt, he must have felt. I don't know if I ever really talked to him. Or any of the other fat or big or slow kids. I was so desperate to not be the last one, the worst one. "At least I'm better than he is." That's all I could think about, then. "At least I'm not as bad as you!" I wish I could have known how to be friendly with him; we might have given each other some of the support we both needed so much. I hope he's had a happy, loved life.

And I want to thank the boy - another Hispanic boy - who stood up for me one day, when I was in sixth grade and we lived in Miami. I think that's when it was; there were so many times in my childhood that were similar. When I'd just be walking home from school and I'd get followed. A couple of boys from school would crowd around me, calling me names, trying to get me to fight with them. And I would stay as silent as I could, just walking, trying to be as dignified as I could, my head high, my eyes straight ahead. No one ever stood up for me, no one tried to get people to leave me alone. So I remember that day. The sky was heavy and the light was dim and yellow, like it often seemed in Miami. I didn't know the boy at all, just recognized him from school. I remember he was dressed very tidy, a button-down shirt, pressed. And he just walked along with me and kept telling the other kids to leave me alone. Even pushing one or another of them at times. He just walked along with me until they eventually drifted away. And then he went his own way. I don't know that we ever talked after that; I don't remember him except for that day. But I want to say how grateful I am to that noble child who just wanted to do the right thing. To be kind to someone who needed it. I needed it.

Nerves

I have my first opening at Winston Wächter tomorrow night. And I'm nervous. It's two shows, really. One is for sculptor Mielle Riggie. The other is a (small) group exhibition; I'm showing with Seattle artists Tatiana Garmendia and Piper O'Neill. So it isn't like the fear I'd have with a first solo show. And it isn't an "introductions" sort of thing for me. I'm not "on spec"; I've got the "gig", so to speak. And they've already seen that my work will sell - thank you for that! The gallery is beautiful. The people who own and run it have been just lovely. Warm, approachable, down-to-earth. I couldn't be happier with the people or the situation.

Most importantly, I'm very happy with the new paintings I've delivered to be part of this exhibition. I really feel that I'm doing the best work I've done thus far. Smart and beautifully painted. Right now anyway, my artistic ambition and my ability are well matched. Well balanced. And I think the work will only get better. I may be wildly egotistical - delusional? - but I don't think so. Dammit, the work is good! So I guess I'm not insecure about that..........hmmm, no....

Judith et Holopherne

La Coiffure interrompue

So why am I nervous? I guess it's just that it's all so new. I don't really know these people, yet. Nice as they are. Or this beautiful place. I'm shy; unless I'm really comfortable, social situations can be daunting for me. So I'm nervous about making an ass of myself, saying something stupid, being a bore. Nervous that I'm not young enough or attractive enough or cool enough. Because, right or wrong, I'm putting a lot of weight on being successful at this new gallery. If I'm going to be able to really claim the job description of professional artist, if I'm going to be able to transition out of needing a "day job", I need to take big steps. Now and in the immediate future. Winston Wächter feels like a big step.

Now, I know that the only thing I really need to concern myself with is the work. Is the work good? It's the work that's important, not how good-lookin' or charming I might be. Deep down I know that that's the only thing that really matters - but who the hell remembers that kind of thing at a time like this?!

I'll try.

Elizabeth Pennington Foster Matson Alberts Dahm Burpee

Today is my grandmother's birthday. She would have been ninety-nine. She was born in 1911 in St. Paul. She died on Christmas Eve in 2006. She was my mother's mother. She was married four times. She had many businesses and interests throughout her life. She sustained a hearing loss in early adulthood that caused her much grief. She was quite vocally opinionated and not at all a diplomatic person. She was admired but, sadly, not very loved. As with a lot of people, there were regrets and disappointments in her life that she couldn't really process or find peace with. Corners she couldn't approach. But she had tremendous energy, was hard-working, creative, always moving forward, always interested. I was very close to my Grandma Betty. She was so important to me, in my life. I thought she was a fascinating woman, and I know I fascinated her. And we recognized each other. We saw each other as people and as creative beings. She was the first person who understood that I was an artist. And what that meant.

I loved being with her, visiting her home. From earliest childhood. She had marvelous taste; she always had beautiful things around her. In her house, her garden, her clothes. She was always looking for beauty in everything. Color, proportion, juxtaposition. The intrinsic beauty of some object and how it might relate to its surroundings. It was never about how much something cost or its pedigree, although she had some nice things. But things were never showy, and they didn't have to "match" or "go". (She wasn't afraid to be a little silly with things, either; many times I'd ask her about some unexpected ingredient to the decor, and she'd just laugh. She'd get such a kick out of it.) She was fascinated by the interrelation of shape and mass and color; it was always about the arrangement of things. She might place an acorn and a dried oak leaf next to an old silver bowl, on top of a cheap bamboo mat, on top of an antique Duncan Phyfe work table, and hang above it a battered plaster architectural casting or a Japanese ink drawing. Whatever appealed to her eye. Whatever objects or arrangement appealed, delighted. I do this, too. In every apartment or house or garden. I have my arrangements, my tableaux. I must arrange. And this kind of patterning, this attention to placement is integral to my art-making. I've often said that she was the one who taught me so see. Her attention to me, her appreciation of me, and the inspiration of her own creativity did more than anything else in my life to make me the artist I am.

***

Funny that one of my favorite blogs is celebrating grandmothers today. My grandmother wasn't able to keep going strong like these amazing ladies. Several years before her death, her mind quickly retreated from the world, as so often happens. When I'd visit, she'd smile and hold my gaze, silent. When she passed away, I was in LA with G's family for Christmas; I got the word during Christmas dinner. They raised their glasses and made a toast to my grandmother. Spontaneous and sweet. (Just the sort of lovely thing I've come to expect from them.) Honestly, I felt much more relief than sadness. Relief that her strong body could finally let her go. Past the indignity, not being who she was anymore. Relief for her hard-earned peace. And also, in a way, thankful to her for her lingering. Because, for the last several years, every time I saw her I was able to say goodbye. Each time a little more. Each time a little more deeply.

I'm very grateful she got to enjoy the early part of my art career - since she had so much to do with it - but I'm so sorry that she didn't get to know Gigi or be at our wedding; I think they would have been mutually fascinated and have had such appreciation for each other.

Another thing that's "just the way it is"?

Why is it that arrogance and vulgarity are so often linked? A particularly noxious pairing. Separately, both are certainly "timeless qualities". Arrogance has always been disapproved of (but often tolerated in the very great), and vulgarity clearly shunned. But the entwining seems to be a very current prevalence: The rude and the crude are given all our attention. The loudest and foulest, the ugly-acting, the ugly-making, are our celebrities. The most tasteless, the most rich, the most outrageous, the most cruel. In our culture everyone has a "right" to do whatever they want - on television, preferably - and shame is the dirtiest word.

Arrogance is one of the basic human weaknesses. But, it seems to me, if you're to be "respectably" arrogant, you need at least to have something - great talent, great beauty, great learning, even old wealth or a noble family - to make it in some way explicable. Never defensible, never excusable, arrogance in a person should at least be comprehensible. If you have little or nothing that is useful or "important" to offer the world, at the very least be kind. Just be kind.

If you're a vulgar person, getting there wasn't your fault. It certainly wouldn't have been a personal goal. But I believe we're all responsible - at least to some degree - for trying to make ourselves better than we are; what's the damned point of being human if we can't improve ourselves a little. Working to recognize our weaknesses, first of all, and working to compensate for them. A lot of people - maybe most - shy away from things they don't understand culturally. They hold close to lifestyle and entertainment choices they know and to the people who make similar choices. Sadly, much - maybe most - of what we do choose (in this country, now, especially) is just junk. Really, just junk. If you choose not to look farther than your comfort zone, if you are afraid to think and appreciate differently than those around you, or if you know the difference and merely enjoy the ugly or inexpert or vulgar, that doesn't make you a bad person. But chances are you're an ignorant (or just perverse) one. And is that ever something to be proud of?

It used to be that people were embarrassed by their ignorance. By their common-ness. They respected education and culture, even when they possessed neither. And they strove to attain it; if not for themselves, at least for their children. But, now, stubborn ignorance is a virtue. Greed is a virtue - it used to be a sin - and tasteless excess is the surest indication of success. In a world of Sarah Palin, Donald Trump, American Idol, the Kardashians, George W. Bush, Jerry Springer, et al, being loud and proud about your intellectual and cultural limitations - large and small - can make you a celebrity. Or president.

I understand that the human mind - even a very deficient one - is a terribly subtle, contrary mechanism. Most people have backward, self-deluding reasons for doing unpleasant or unattractive things. If they think about it at all. So I don't really wonder why people act like this. But I wonder why the rest of us give it such credence, why we don't condemn it. Why, instead of listening to the tantrum or watching the program or buying the music, or in all other ways validating this mind set, we don't feel at least enough "embarrassed for mankind" to look away. I suppose most of our lack of restraint is because of the "car wreck" reflex; we're just programmed to gawk. But shouldn't we fight that instinct? Shouldn't we try? My thinking, as the damnably old-fashioned parent I would have been, is to say to all this fairly toxic nonsense, as I would to bratty child, "If you can't behave in a civilized manner, please go to your room; I don't want to look at you when you act like this."