Picking on Sports Writers

I am not particularly fond of sports writers nowadays. In my hierarchy of favorite things, they rank slightly above disease, visits to the dentist, and terrorism. It's not that I don't like sports or reading [anyone who knows me, knows that I love both]. And it's not that I've grown tired of reading about the Cowboys' failures in clutch situations [because while painful, it's also true]. It's that their writing is so bland, so un-insightful, so obvious, so outlandish, so unfunny, so tedious and cliche', that they systematically destroy two things I love in a mere 600 words. They should not be called sport writers, because they do many things, but writing is not one of them. They have earned a different title. The term "douchebag" comes to mind.

Let me clarify quickly. I am not including people like David Halberstam or H.G. Bissinger or Michael Lewis in this group of despised sports writers. My anger is directed toward the weekly columnists, who write their articles once or twice a week, and yet never seem to have anything to say. I hate 99% of sports journalists [cnnsi writer Jeff Pearlman is a rare exception] for many reasons, but the two below are the most pressing.

Reason #1: Sports writers are never held accountable for their predictions, claims, etc, and are then paid for said predictions. It infuriates me when after week 1, a writer will say that team so-and-so looks "super bowl bound", or that they're "the team to beat right now." Really? You know all that after one week? You completely grasp the potential and character of a team after one week, and can already predict how the season will turn out, even though there is no way to account for injuries? You must, because after all, you wrote it, then put your name at the bottom. But seriously, really? I guess that explains why you're a sports writer. These are the same people who anointed Matt Barkley "one of the greatest freshman quarterbacks of all time" after his win at Ohio State [the same Matt Barkley who lost four games this year, and who put up rather pedestrian numbers in the process]. The same people who will call a team unstoppable one week and then hopeless the next. Who will call T.O. 'matured' in one article and a 'cancer' in another. Sometimes, when they've scavenged the sports world for stories and not found any, they talk about the psychology of the game [makes me nauseous], and how someone is a true competitor [are there such things as false competitors?], and that a player has a "will to win." They are consistently inconsistent, if nothing else. I have figured out the pattern that your syndicated sports writer follows, and I am here to share it with you. They make sensational claims [to attract readers], and when those claims don't pan out [which they usually don't], they keep on making newer, even more ridiculous claims [which they're never held to answer for], and then when one of their rocks launched into the darkness actually hits something, they refer to it endlessly [for credibility with their new, laughable claims] and proclaim their own brilliance.

Reason #2: The funny/original opinion piece, reserved for the 'senior' or well-respected columnists of the sports realm. This is specifically directed at Rick Reilly and Bill Simmons, and any other writer who is convinced they are clever, and worst of all, funny. In these articles, you can expect to be hit with one-liner after one-liner. "Tiger Woods drives a golf ball better than a Cadillac." Or maybe, "the game was so shocking, it felt like I was watching Janet Jackson at halftime all over again." It makes me angry just writing those. I read sports articles, *gasp*, to read about sports. Not to be impressed with your pop culture references, or to read your practice for a stand-up routine. I want to read interviews that I can't get, or stories that are only told in locker rooms. What makes it even more unbearable are the short, formulaic endings at the end of each piece. As you read it, you are left with an empty, hopeless feeling in your stomach, especially because you know that Reilly or Simmons wanted to applaud themselves for their ingenious ending to a masterful blending of comedy and sports. For an article on Tiger Woods [which both men have written], it would end with something like "After all, that's par for the course." For Lance Armstrong, it would be "...a man who has shown the ability to do anything. Except quit." It's painfully uncreative. Agonizing also comes to mind.

I ask any sports writer who may be reading this to remember a few things. You are here to write about sports. More specifically, to write about what happened, the inside information from coaches and players, and your 'expertise' occasionally as well. It's ok to admit that you don't know who's going to win it all at the beginning of the season, because then, even though you can't write, you're still being honest. And honesty, in any situation, is a homerun.

*Vomit.

A Response

Fear not, loyal readers. This rebuttal promises to be, if nothing else, refreshingly simple. You won't be forced to trudge through sentences weighed down with words like "chrestomathy", "heretofore", "tectonic" and "fungible". Words like these are used to impress the reader, rather than inform him. They are written to inject a sense of superiority, instead of clarity. In the end, tragically, the words get in the way, as they did here, and as a result some very clever arguments are overshadowed. Allow me one piece of gratuitous advice before I address the issue. My dear misguided fellow, instead of following in the self-indulgent footsteps of Mencken, follow another's path. Might I suggest Orwell, who had such a firm mastery of the English language that his writing is above all else, accessible and straight to the point. You can start by following one of his Six Rules on Writing: "never use a long word where a short one will do."

Enough about that. Our disagreement, I think we can both agree, lies mainly in our views of progress, and partly in change itself. Allow me to clarify my own position first. Nowhere in my piece did I argue against ALL change or progress, nor did I lament that we no longer speak Brythonic or Latin. [In fact, as I wrote, "I’m...pointing out that language changes, and I believe not always for the better."] You'll notice the absence of an absolute in that sentence. Yet somehow, I was labeled as being resistant to any form of change, even the most basic evolution of a language. But we expect this laziness from a writer who accused me of being too "abstract" and yet also of "narrow vision" in the same blog. In the future, let's stay away from the extremes of absolute statements, where progress must be either all good or all bad, because little gets done there. We both understand that language, like technology and society itself, changes out of necessity over time. My point was [and still is] that far too often, this progress brings about a cheapening of the language, the death of a once powerful word. Allow me to cede the floor to Ernest Hemingway for a second, who makes my point much more succinctly than I ever could. [If I was employing my opponent's style, I perhaps would have said that Hemingway said it more compendiously than I ever could. It means the same thing, but it lets you know how smart I am, and forces you to look it up]. As Hemingway wrote in Death in the Afternoon, "... all our words from loose using have lost their edge." This is the sort of progress I see [and apparently so does Hemingway]; a language full of words, once sharp and vibrant, now dull.

Let me stand on the shoulders of another literary giant. One who does not require a paragraph of introduction. George Orwell, as he wrote in the New England Weekly, was aware that change was not always for the better. He writes [in reference to the declining art of the novel]:

"The degradation that must follow is obvious. Look for instance at the fourpenny novelettes that you see piled up on any cheap stationer's counter. These things are the decadent offspring of the novel, bearing the same relation to Manon Lescaut and David Copperfield as the lap-dog bears to the wolf. It is quite likely that before long the average novel will not be much different than the fourpenny novelette..."

And so I ask, what has the 'sunlight of progress' illuminated for us? Where have our Capotes and Steinbecks and Hemingways gone? Our Frosts, Nerudas? Why are our newspapers floundering, bordering on unreadable and irrelevant, and in their places people like Hannity and O'Reilly and Olberman claim to report news when it is in fact entertainment and opinion? Why do more people recognize Britney Spears and Simon Cowell than Cormac McCarthy [or even your beloved Mencken]? Why is the novel worse off now than when Orwell wrote, and modern poetry all but forgotten? Where are these benefits of change? Is our language increasingly flexible, or increasingly misused? Does anyone speak with the same passion as Samuel Johnson and Daniel Webster did? [I seem to remember my opponent writing a blog on Mr. Webster, where he quoted a portion of a speech Webster had made. The main point of the piece, or one of them at least, was that it is a shame nobody talks like that anymore, especially in politics.]

But, according to those who blindly promote the banner of progress, "these are societal changes we must not lament as each of our parents did, but must adapt to.” Yes! We should lie down and let the waves of change wash over us, embracing the erosion that naturally follows. Eventually, we'll learn to accept and "adapt" to this deterioration of literature and the language that fills it, and it will be comfortable to settle for books that are written to pass time, rather than say anything. It will become easier, as we learn to adapt, to force bad writing down our throats, to forget the struggle that is worthwhile writing, and to eventually relegate it to the past.

Let’s talk about Herman Melville, another giant of literature who needs no introduction. Actually, I'll let Orwell talk about Melville. [Taken from The Collected Essays, Journalism and Letters of George Orwell, Volume 1].

"Later, when industrialism was tightening its grip, something in Melville's spirit wilted with the times. The country was being debauched by 'progress', scoundrels were prospering, leisure and free thought were declining..."

And yes, it was Orwell, not me, who put progress in quotation marks. It seems he also understood the inherent irony attached with progress, like Freud did.

Freud once comically noted, “What progress we are making. In the Middle Ages they would have burned me. Now they are content with burning my books.”

Yes, what progress we have made.

Starting Again

Before I begin, let me speak on a few unrelated topics. First, I will post a rebuttal to this unprovoked attack later on in the week. I am not sure if this vitriolic piece of writing even merits a response, but I will give it one nonetheless. Secondly, I apologize to my faithful readers for my inconsistency - I am currently working on a book and a script on top of the blog, which is no real excuse, but one that I will use anyway. I will try to be more regular. Lastly, I welcome all comments, and as I have said before, any pieces of writing that are submitted to me, I will gladly post.

That is all. On with the blog.

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I am training again, and it feels better than I remember. It is still too cold for my liking, [I think it was 58 degrees when I ran today], but I take comfort knowing that Spring and Summer always find a way to appear, and in a few months I will once again be running under the Texas sun, and a glass of cold water will taste better than it does now.

Today was my second run since Ironman Florida. My legs tire faster than they did a few months ago, my heart pounds a little harder going up hills, but all this is to be expected. I'm not concerned with mile pace or distance covered or time elapsed right now. No, I'm outside because I have been inside long enough, and it is time to to be back on the road, getting strong again. Strong enough to ride across America. Strong enough to take down my older brother, and maybe qualify for Clearwater. Even strong enough to look good while racing in a speedo.It has taken a lot of patience to get back to this point; to be excited about putting on my running shoes, or setting up the windtrainer.

For eight weeks after the race I did nothing. The closest thing to exercise I did was walk up and down a flight of stairs to get bottles of cold beer. I guess I also carried a bit of firewood and shoveled some snow. But that was really about it. Anything more than that seemed pointless - there was no longer a race, let alone an Ironman, to train for. Everything, every long run, every weekend ride, every swim session, every race, every damn thing I had done in 2009 was structured to get me across that line, which I did. I finished. I took a finisher's photo with my dad and brother, and then I went to sleep with sore legs. In the days after, I wore the finisher's t-shirt, sat on couches and hobbled around. I was an Ironman. But I didn't feel like one. I wasn't training, and even worse, I didn't want to.

But that feeling of stasis is gone, even though I was scared that it would never leave. I'm motivated, and right now that's enough. I have no training plan drawn out, no time goals in mind. I'm not even really sure what races I'll enter. I'm not sure if I'll be as fast as I was last yera. I don't need to. All of that will fall into place, like training always seems to. The peace of a long run, the slow fatigue in the legs, the sweat of a hard windtrainer session, that's enough for me right now.

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I'm sorry. I must cut this short. The ideas are there, but the words are not. I keep writing then deleting, then writing, then deleting. Unpleasant for the writer, usually even less pleasant for the reader. This is a difficult topic for me to write on, but one that I must try to regardless. There is so much I want to convey, and I am too frustrated to keep trying tonight. So I'll leave it here, wherever that may be.

Hopefully I'll find the right words somewhere out on the road. I've found plenty of other things there.

Three Fingers

Here's a piece I wrote during the summer of last year:

I hopped in a pickup truck today with a man I had never met before. He didn’t speak a lick of english, and his right hand was missing two fingers. The truck itself was as dirty inside as it was on the outside, and the passenger door was jammed shut, so I had to climb in through the window – NASCAR style.

But I have gotten ahead of myself. You are probably wondering who this strange three-fingered man is and why I would want to hop in his grungy pickup. Fair enough. I’ll start from the beginning.

I eventually found my way to 1000 Denton Lane to retrieve a few things Carinne had left in her totaled Toyota Corolla, which was being stored at “Auto Auctions”, which is really just a sophisticated name for a huge field full of wrecked cars surrounded by fences and barbed wire.

I strode in to the office and instantly knew I was not their typical customer. The man ahead of me looked as though he hadn’t bathed in well over a week; he appears to be the reason deodorant was invented. The people who worked there seemed accustomed to men like this. They stared at me, probably wondering if I’m lost. But I wasn’t. I knew I was supposed to be here, even if they didn’t. I waited patiently, trying to breathe in only through my mouth.

I finally got to talk to Juanita, [not her real name, but rather one I have assigned to her based on her ethnicity and massive waistline], and explained the purpose of my visit. I triggered some alarm bells in her high-school educated brain, and she proceeded with caution. After convincing her I wasn’t a criminal, she agreed to let me get a few “personal items” from the car. Given the vast size of the lot, and the 500+ cars in the field, I would need a guide and a ride there [rhyming intentional].
This is where Three Fingers comes in. He was my guide. It was an awkward car ride [about 5 minutes], I’ll admit. I knew we probably weren’t going to have a great connection after he glared at me for trying to wrench his jammed door open – he had to hand-signal to me that I needed to pull a Dukes of Hazard maneuver and jump in through the window. Come to think of it, it would have been easier if I had just gotten in from the driver’s side and scooted over to my seat, but apparently Three Fingers is either too lazy to wait for me or too selfish to think of others. So we passed along through this graveyard of cars in silence. Maybe he was a mute. I hadn’t thought of it until just now, I just assumed he didn’t speak English. Splitting hairs I guess.

With no conversation to entertain me, I speculated about my driver. I wondered if he was born or immigrated here. I hate to admit it, but I wondered if he is here legally. I wondered if this is the America he dreamed about moving to and/or living in. I wondered if he keeps his missing fingers in the freezer, and if so, if he has ever used them to play practical jokes on people like Juanita.
But before I can feel any emotional attachment to my new companion, Three Fingers drops me back off at the office. Getting out through the window is more difficult than getting in [again, why didn’t Three Fingers just let me get out the driver’s door? That selfish bastard], and after nearly tearing my hamstring, we part ways without so much as a nod.

That’s it. No big twist. No epic tale of me avoiding rape at the hands of Three Fingers, or me arriving at some deep realization about the duality of man; just a bizarre, brief encounter with a man who didn’t say a word to me and never will.

I hope my swim workout tonight is this interesting – unless it involves a practical joke involving missing fingers.

A Tragic Tale

If I was devoid of any creativity, this piece on tragedy would begin with a definition. Something along the lines of 'according to the dictionary, tragedy is both “a dramatic composition…dealing with a serious or somber theme…typically that of a person destined through a flaw of character to downfall or destruction” as well as “a lamentable and dreadful event”, though the second meaning came much later [from everything I can find, around the 14^th-16^th century].' If, after all that, I still wanted to follow the all-too-predictable path laid out by countless writers of other opinion pieces, I would then build upon these definitions, perhaps putting them in terms you could understand or applying them to areas that wouldn’t seem obvious at first. Maybe I would go about contradicting the very definition I had printed only a few lines earlier! But this is not a safe or formulaic piece of writing. I intend to, as my sweet mother might say, throw caution to a burning bridge. Although, if we are being honest, [which I’ve heard that good writing should], though I mock the act of opening a paper with a definition, I admit, that I am technically guilty of this lazy form of writing myself. Accept my humble apology.

We must forge ahead – a look at tragedy, and perhaps a fresh perspective on it, awaits.

The Greeks are widely considered the masters of tragedy [I should say the Ancient Greeks are considered the masters of tragedy [e.g. Sophocles and Euripides], because if we are being honest again, I have heard little, if anything, about modern Greek tragedians. And yes, if you were wondering, someone who writes tragedies is actually called a tragedian, not a tragist, or depressed]. So, we have agreed that the Ancient Greeks [though by no means every ancient Greek, only a select few, like the famed Aeschylus] mastered the tragic form, and that is why today, Athens is considered the birthplace of the tragedy, or so I've been told. The Romans and many others have tried their hands at it, but the gold medal for tragic writing still belongs to the Greeks.

You can relax, because I am not here to detail all the characteristics of a tragedy, or what the technical distinctions are between a drama from a tragedy [partly because I couldn’t really do it even if I had the time and desire to, which fortunately for both of us, I don’t], but do allow me a brief explanation.

It sounds idiotic, but a tragedy is above all, tragic. It is a story of human suffering, often caused by a flaw within a character himself. Perhaps you could call it bitterly ironic – the tragic hero usually brings about his own demise, or if you prefer understanding concepts through over-used phrases, the tragic hero becomes his own worst enemy. Tragedy also implies a type of self-induced suffering. A loss was avoidable, or a gain was tangible, but in the end, the worst possible outcome happens to the hero because of choices made they made. That’s the real agony of a tragedy – the undesirable outcome was essentially chosen, though almost always unknowingly. For example, if I come home and find my fish murdered, that’s sad. But, if I come home and find my fish murdered by a man whom I wronged years ago, in a way, that’s tragic [for me, not the fish, because Fishy’s actions didn’t bring about his(or her) demise. Random/possibly idiotic question: how can you tell gender on a fish?].

That was what tragedy meant then. While the definition hasn’t changed, its use has. A tragedy nowadays rarely refers to a dramatic work; instead, it almost always used to talk about a “lamentable event”, which wasn’t the original intention of the word, but rather a subsequent derivation of it. I wonder what Sophocles and Aristotle would say about that…

[A totally unrelated side-note/tangent: when people are asked who they would have dinner with if they could choose any person living or dead, many answer Jesus, some even say Plato. Aren’t they forgetting that Plato and Jesus didn’t speak English, or any modern language for that matter? The languages they spoke aren’t used anymore, or even if they are, they have evolved so greatly that they bear little, if any, resemblance to the one spoken when they were alive. So while I think that Jesus is certainly a man who would be worth having dinner with, it could potentially be awkward. You would have to try and conduct an entire conversation through crude sign language, which at best would allow you to convey only the most basic thoughts and ideas to one another. But you don’t have dinner with Jesus to talk about simple things. You want to talk about life, heaven, faith, creation, love – and how the hell do you do that through sign? By choosing Jesus [or any famous person who doesn’t speak your language] you’re setting yourself up for a frustrating, and most likely, unproductive discussion. Although, dinner with the son of God could have its upsides – there’s always the chance of seeing if He can really turn water into wine, or perform one of his miracles that he doesn't get enough credit for; getting George W. re-elected].

To answer my own question, I sincerely doubt that Sophocles or Euripides would care about the transformation of the word ‘tragedy’ if they were alive today. They would be blown away by things like electricity, cars, planes, iPods, the internet, trains, our clothes, and that women had equal standing in society. They wouldn’t care about the word. But we are not ancient Greek philosophers. So, allow us to enjoy what Plato and Sophocles can’t, and in all probability, wouldn’t want to even if they could: tragedy and its meaning today.

I’m not trying to be a language nazi, or harp on technicalities. I let others fight those battles. I’m just calmly pointing out that language changes, and I believe not always for the better.

Haiti is many things. It’s unspeakable sadness, it’s heart wrenching and painful. It’s a harsh dose of perspective. But technically, it’s not a tragedy, because unlike Pat Robertson, I don’t think the Haitians did anything to bring this on [like make a pact with the devil as Roberston claims – it is a “well established fact”, according to this man. You want another well-known fact Mr. Robertson? You’re a coward, a bigot, and a disgrace to your faith. You judge and condemn people you’ve never met, and claim to represent a God you don’t resemble. This recent hateful outburst isn’t uncharted territory for Mr. Robertson. A few years ago, he claimed Hurricane Katrina was God’s way of punishing Americans for their liberal abortion policies. I don’t know what God you (Mr. Robertson) pray to or speak for, but if it’s one that can look at orphaned children and shattered families, and somehow view it as deserved retribution, I don’t want any part of it. This devilish pact, according to you was made by the Haitians in the 18^th century. Does your God really hold a grudge for 3 centuries, and then punish people whose only mistake was being born in Haiti? And if he does, then I hope you live long enough to endure the revenge owed to white American men for their mistreatment of Native Americans and enslaved African-Americans]. So to call Haiti a tragedy, is to unknowingly imply what the hateful Mr. Robertson does – that it was somehow self-imposed through choice. However, no one means that, just as no one is really talking about circular reasoning when they say something “begs the question”.

I have been blown off course yet again, and if I keep rambling on, I run the risk of doing so again. Let me conclude.

As I look around and see best-selling books about teenage vampires and boy wizards, I wonder if I am staring at our society’s tragedy. We have made a choice to read things that aren’t challenging or provoking, and we settle for instant [and usually poorly written] gratification. We choose to read about characters who in the course of one conversation interject, whisper, screech, scream, interrupt, question, opine, chime, utter, declare, assert and protest when all they really need to do is ask and say. We choose to call Brillo boxes art, Twilight literature, and the Harry Potter movies cinema, and now we are living in the tragic downfall created by our choices; where we have Creed instead of Led Zepplin, Miley Cyrus and Kelly Clarkson instead of Janis Joplin, Dan Brown instead of Raymond Chandler, Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen instead of Casablanca.

I long for a time (as Victor Hugo did) when language and its writing was preserved because it was important, not because it was printed. I feel a sense of loss [lamentable loss even?] that our generation has chosen to devour writing that is merely television on paper – where plot twists matter more than the journey itself. [I’m not suggesting everyone run out and buy a copy of Finnegan’s Wake and spend a year trying to digest it, but there must be a happy middle ground somewhere.] The word tragedy no longer represents a dramatic or literary achievement. It’s just a word that people use when they open a thesaurus looking for a different way to say "sad".

In a way, I guess you could call that a tragedy.

Just a game

The Cowboys' season ended today after a humiliating defeat to the Minnesota Vikings. America's team managed as many turnovers as points [3], while their leader, Tony Romo, consistently killed drives [and the Cowboys' chances of winning] in an impressive assortment of ways - fumbling, throwing interceptions, taking needless sacks, missing open throws. The score ended up at 34-3, and in many respects it wasn't even that close. The Cowboys found ways to create mistakes and miss tackles, and the Vikings found ways to capitalize on those mistakes and missed tackles. All the Cowboys [and their fans] can do now is walk in to the offseason with their tail between their legs, trying to salvage positives from a disappointing loss and season. They went out with a whimper.

But after all, it was just a game [a rather pathetic one, though], and no matter how much I hate Tony Romo, it will always be a 34-3 loss. I remember when I was younger my dad once explained to me that it wasn't worth getting upset over a Cowboys loss [they seem to have developed a knack for losing the last decade], because "they don't get upset when you fail a test or make a mistake, so why should you get upset about them?" It's a good point, and one that I try and keep in mind as I google "how to make a bomb" followed by "tony romo's address". It is just a game. It's just a game. I keep telling myself that. It's just a game. Tony Romo's an idiot for throwing that interception...It's just a game. It's just a game. I hope Shaun Suisham gets food poisoning and loses his job...It's just a game. It's just a game. Why didn't we ever think to double cover Sidney Rice? Or maybe consider throwing a screen to slow down their pass rush? Or, here's a new idea, why didn't we throw a deep ball just once, just ONCE to stretch the defense? And when we're down three scores in the fourth quarter, why not try a fake punt? Just once? Or do something out of the ordinary, something to possibly swing the momentum back in our favor? And here's an idea, why don't we try getting the ball to our Pro Bowl wide receiver a few more times? IT'S JUST A GAME...IT'S JUST A GAME. If it's just a game then why can't we figure out how to play it? Why do we have a quarterback who finds way to lose games instead of win them? Why do we have a coach who has one playoff win and 5 playoff losses? IT'S JUST A GAME!

I'm going to go lie down and massage my temples and think happy thoughts.

I'll be back tomorrow. Hopefully with a lower heart rate.

A discussion on art

I never knew much about Andy Warhol other than that he was famous and an artist. After recently reading a lengthy piece about him in the New Yorker I must admit I still know embarrassingly little about the man. Although now I can at least recognize his most famous works and identify him as a pioneer in the "Pop art" movement. I even learned that a schizophrenic woman named Valerie Solanas shot him but did not kill him, and supposedly his art was never the same afterward. He also made movies and recorded an entire novel on a tape-player. But still, after all that, I only know a few scattered biographic facts about Mister Warhol, which at best, paint an incomplete picture of the man and his art [an opportunity for a pun that good should never be passed over].


I discovered that one of Warhol's most famous works are [or "is" - I'm not sure which one fits] the Brillo boxes you see here, which was part of his 1964 exhibit, The American Supermarket. Carpenters constructed the boxes from plywood, which Warhol then painted and silkscreened to look exactly like the Brillo boxes which were being sold in supermarkets all over America. Some called the boxes and the exhibit 'groundbreaking', others a 'brilliant satire on consumerism' and some even praised it as 'an investigation of art into its own nature'. It was 'brave' and 'courageous', and helped transform Warhol from a successful artist to a cult figure in American art.


After staring at the picture for a while, and re-reading all the praise the exhibit had garnered, I felt I was missing something. All I could see were wooden Brillo boxes, not satire or courage, certainly not pioneering art.


A question that Louis Menand, who wrote the piece on Warhol in the New Yorker, asks is, "why is something that looks exactly like a Brillo box a work of art, but a Brillo box is not?" The questioned almost seemed rhetorical.


Menand's answer is that one needs to have an understanding and appreciation of art history in order to recognize the Brillo boxes for the work of art that they were [and I guess still are]. Apparently, the knowledge of what came before the Brillo boxes is essential in being able to appreciate Warhol's exhibit as a progression in art history, one which even calls into question what was and could be considered art.


Perhaps I am ignorant [which is a good possibility] and lack the culture and understanding necessary to appreciate the Brillo boxes [also a good possibility]. But I disagree with Mr. Warhol and Mr. Menand and the pretentious art world who think those boxes are 'groundbreaking'. It's art, I'll give you that. But so is finger painting. And so are the Garfield comics. And just because art requires a lengthy explanation doesn't make it good. I remember reading a few years ago that a man [I've forgotten his name] put some elephant feces in a brown paper bag, then folded it, and cleverly named his piece, "Bag of Shit". It caused a bit of a stir, to say the least, but eventually this same man went on to win some famous prize as well as 20,000 pounds for his artistic creations [though not for the "Bag of Shit"]. Is this what Warhol pushed art forward to? The notion that art be accessible only to those enlightened/educated enough and everyone else was just too dumb or too blind to see what the elite few could? Are we really saying that paper bags of shit and wooden copies of consumer products are artistic statements if viewed through the right lens?

The point that everyone seems to be overlooking is that art should judged on the work itself, not on the artist behind it or his reasons for creating it. Because art shouldn't need an explanation. It should stand alone and be great because it is a great thing in and of itself. I didn't need someone standing over my shoulder telling me that Oliver Twist was a great book. I knew it as I was reading it. I didn't need a tour guide to explain what made Notre Dame so exceptional and beautiful. I could feel it as I stood beneath the high ceilings and see it in the detail on the stained glass windows.


What Menand and the art world is too afraid to admit is that if an unknown person had created those Brillo boxes in 1964 and displayed them as art, they would have been ignored, because if we are being honest with ourselves, those boxes are boring to look at - and art at its most basic level is a form of entertainment. However, since a fairly well respected and up-and-coming artist created them, they became something more than just boxes. They became important and symbolic landmarks in American art, which challenged the very definition of art itself. The point is, it wasn't the art/boxes that was great, it was who did it, and the meaning that everyone attached to it.


If you put the Brillo boxes in an empty room with no mention of who created them or what they represented, would they still be considered great works of art? Or would they just be wooden replicas of Brillo boxes in an empty room? You can rip the cover off the book and take the author's name away, but The Sun Also Rises is still great literature. It doesn't need an introduction detailing why Hemingway wrote it, or how old he was when he wrote it, or who Lady Brett Ashley represents [though those can certainly be interesting], because it is a beautiful European journey [with the most sparse and masculine language imaginable] regardless of whether I know all the background information or not. Even Swift's A Modest Proposal, a satire entirely based on the British-Irish economic relations in the late 1720's, can be appreciated for its humorous absurdity and clever writing even if the reader was oblivious to the context in which it was written and the situation it is satirizing. What is there to appreciate about Warhol's boxes in and of themselves? Perhaps it is that they look exactly like ordinary boxes that were designed to sell soap pads - but is that truly great art? What are they without this meaning that is apparently so evident that we have to be told it's there?


But art is not created nor observed in a vacuum. Context and artist will always shape the perception of the art itself, often unfairly so. And as I see modern paintings coupled with explanatory plaques, and read poetry with introductions explaining what a red wheelbarrow symbolizes, I just yearn for the simple great works of art. The ones that need no plaques or introductions or context, because timeless brilliance can not be paraphrased or interpreted, only experienced.