The Last Question  In May 1929, the final issue appeared of the seminal art and literary magazine, The Little Review. It was devoted to the results of a questionnaire that the editors--Jane Heap and Margaret Anderson--had distributed to (as stated) "more than fifty of the foremost men in the arts." As a historical document, it is particularly fascinating, and on several levels. Not only do we get the actual questionnaire and the actual responses, we get photographs of the respondents, and we get an overall picture of some of the feelings, ideas and beliefs of many modernists. We get to see a kind of intellectual snapshot, not only of the individual participants, but also a collective portrait of "the class of 1929," as it were--some of whom had a great deal of influence on artists and writers (etc.) in the remainder of the 20th century, as well as this 21st. The ripples are still expanding.Here is the questionnaire:
What strikes me most about these questions is the impossibility of answering them. But many people tried, in great earnestness, to do so. This is part of the reason for the variety in the responses, and the fascination these responses hold for me. Some of the answers reveal (or respond to) a feeling of self-consciousness, a discomfort or disdain for self-disclosure. But there is an interesting unwillingness to leave the questions completely unanswered, or to simply ignore them. For example, here is part of the response of René Crevel, who seems to have provided his one-paragraph response in English: A man who is speaking about himself is a man full of holes. He says what he would put in the holes. In my holes I want nothing. This is somewhat evasive, though not so much when taken in the context of the rest of his answer, which does address most of the questions. And when placed alongside the response of his friend Tristan Tzara, Crevel's answer is far more satisfying (at least it better satisfies those who want a "straight" answer). Tzara begins his French-language response with the ritualized "It is with great pleasure that I respond to your inquiry," which he punctuates with a colon and follows with a numbered list corresponding to the list of questions. But rather than answering them individually, he brackets the entire list and gives a blanket response that, idiomatically, reads as "What the hell do you care?" This he follows with a cheery English "Always faithfully yours, Tristan Tzara." This kind of response is not at all unusual for him; especially at that time,Tzara was almost exaggeratedly reticent in public about his personal beliefs, experiences and private life. His distaste for self-disclosure influenced the response, yet he chose to respond. For some reason he felt it served him better to be included than to ignore the questions. What drove his decision?  Perhaps it's a similar impulse to that which motivated Jane Heap to include a "cover letter" with this particular copy--my particular copy--of the final issue of her magazine, which had been sent to Harry Hansen, who was then the literary editor for the New York World.* Her letter includes a carefully-worded, non-interrogative request for "a brief comment" about the final issue. Clearly, even facing the end of that particular publishing venue, steps were being taken to ensure its place in "the scene" and in history. That's an impulse I know well. It's not always comfortable. Where do we draw the line between "professional" and "careerist"? Heap's jockeying for comment and Tzara's choice of performed irony for the purpose of being included might, to some critics, function as examples of each, respectively. But I think that they are both nuances in the range of activities that constitute "professionalism" for artists (etc.); as such, they highlight our uncomfortable position in society as much as anything else. Both Tzara's and Heap's choices were performances, in fact, and both of them exemplify the awkwardness of self-promotion for artists. We must word our self-disclosures and our cover letters as if we don't care whether we are included, whether our efforts are noticed, when in fact there are few things we care about more. But I commit a great transgression in admitting it. Jane Heap could not. Neither could Tzara. Is the traditional division between artist and critic partly motivated by this taboo? How odd to realize that, as I've grown more comfortable as a critic, I've also grown more comfortable in promoting my own work.  *This information comes from William Roba's article on Harry Hansen's literary career, available online from the Special Collections of the University of Iowa library. |
 |
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
 
Categories"silicone" vs. "silicon"alternative markets art education art for you to do art history art market art practice: issues and challenges art/activism audio calls for work chicago artists, chicago galleries, art practice, art marketing collage colleagues and collaborators community-supported arts criticism crowdsourcing arts funding double exposure experiments getting involved history of literature Impossible Project jen besemer, david london Modernism packfilm painting performance photo transfers photography poetics poetry poetry market Polaroid Big Swinger Polaroid Spectra portrait press process notes publications reviews of jen besemer self-portrait shows studio visit upcoming events video poems visual poetry words works in progress
|
|
 |
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
    |
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
