Open Door

It’s become stylish to criticize people like Steve Jobs, Quentin Tarantino, Joss Whedon or even Lena Dunham for being jerks and (sort of) bullies. Want to cancel them for their alleged transgressions. But here’s the thing: those people almost certainly would not have been able to produce the quality art and products they have sans those characteristics that supposedly condemn them.

And you can kind of tell the effects this has had by absence — because the quality of art has declined enormously since woke, sensitivity readers and cancellation became de rigeur.

You do not get all that far by not pushing too hard sometimes. There’s a reason Tarantino always manages to coax the absolute best out of his cast, and that Dunham crossed boundaries with her actors: she was attempting to get something true out of them. (I’m not a fan of Girls, but the bits I’ve watched there’s no denying it’s well-made and has a voice.)

Artists are always transgressive and should be so. We need those people. They will always be going too far, opening doors many people feel should be left closed. And that’s exactly what they should be doing.

Fabricated

Lord, look at the detail on that satin. I cannot even begin to imagine how to do that. Lady had skill.

Apropos

The quest to offend no one leads to art that elevates and inspires no one.

Appropriate everything, says what’s true, look into the darkness, cast aspersions and dent your helmet bashing through to the truth. One should not aim to offend, but excising anything with power and beauty is what the goal of removing all possibility of the offensive ineluctably leads toward.

All good art is offensive in the original Latin sense: it hits you, it moves you, it strikes against you. Otherwise, it’s worthless.

Free Free Verse

There are seven tales
And seven wonders
A kingdom alone
And a sound of thunder

Nothing destroyed is wholly gone
And nothing broken
Can’t be split further asunder

There’s a dreaming in the hills
An echo long ringing
And through the valley it spills
Like a drowned choir’s singing

Each time on stopping in this sunlit place
I feel the darkness bleeding in from space