I met up with my friend McKenzie Davis, a fellow writer, recently at KGB Bar in New York. McKenzie is a voracious discusser of all things—most ridiculously, when we both lived in Boston, we once spent the better part of a half-hour hashing out the fundamental qualities that must be in place for food to be considered a “pie”—so it didn’t take much for a conversation about art and writing to begin. I know, I know, a story about two guys talking art and literature in a bar is a tired cliché akin to women shopping for shoes or the elderly driving too slow, but this is actually how it played out:
With a nod meant to indicate the folksy music coming from the speaker mounted in the corner, McKenzie said, “This reminds me of a thought I had the other day: Is the difference between art, like a symphony, and pedestrian entertainment, like pop music, as simple as the fact that pop adheres strictly to its formulas whereas great composers strive to create something that pushes beyond the boundaries of form?”
I told him that I believed the distinction was more complicated. “What about painters who had to work under the specific guidelines of their patrons, or poets who write sonnets?”
“Well, every artist is required to operate within the guidelines of some form, but I think the artistry of a given piece exists in the tension that results from the give and take that between an artist and the conventions of the medium he’s chosen.”
I took a drink while I considered the question. Then I asked him to explain how this idea fit with his belief that art can be found in anything an artist puts his hands to.
“I’m not arguing for a strict definition of what is and is not art,” he replied. “I’m still defining art by degrees, and I still believe the most basic level of art is to bring order to disorder—”
“So am I making art when I straighten up my house?”
McKenzie ignored me. “—Remember the installation at MoMA last year that just was a collection of found objects, as they say? It was nothing more than a pile of junk that would be called trash if you dumped it all in the alley, but because someone put it in a specific arrangement, it became art. Pop music is basically the same thing: a collection of worthless elements—a simple beat, a simple melody, simple lyrics—that are organized in a way that results in something that qualifies as art.”
“And what you’re proposing,” I added, “is that only the difference between a simple pop song and the world’s greatest symphony is the level of organization, not the talent of the composer?”
“Yes. I mean, I’m sure the people who write pop songs are talented musicians. I’m sure many of them are virtuosos. So, the question is at what point does their process of creation differ from an equally talented musician who composes symphonies? And for me the answer is the form that the artist chooses. Perhaps I can articulate my point better by using fiction as the example. I’ve been around a lot of people who had a talent for writing. Almost every university in the country has a creative writing program filled with students who can write, but almost every single one of those students will never produce a great book. The reason: conception. Talent, I believe, is not all that rare. The ability to conceive a transcendent story, however, and the ability to match that story to its proper form is a true gift. I’ll use your favorite author as an example. To me the work of Joyce is overrated, because the value of his writing exists entirely on his talent with language. Reading Ulysses is the equivalent of watching a world-class athlete run sprints and lift weights. It’s nothing but an exhibition of raw ability. The beauty of Proust or Dostoevsky, on the other hand, is that they matched their talent to subjects and forms that elevated their writing to a superior level.”
“So, if I follow you’re reasoning, Joyce is like pop music to you?”
McKenzie smiled. “Yes, but really good pop. Like Michael Jackson.”
And then we talked about him for a while, but I won’t bore you with that.
