Good Art Bad Art - Part II – Dancing in the Nude

So yes, here we were. Invited to welcome one of Iran’s most famous painters, Gizella Varga Sinai – married to the award winning and highly controversial filmmaker Khoshro Sinai – to the United States where she is facilitating a two week intensive on painting at a school in Connecticut. Best behavior. Eyes on the manners and etiquette. Revolutionary or not, she is still Muslim at heart. No insane ambassador shit Fishy. Mind yourself. Don't push it over the edge. Shit man, I flew over that edge twenty years ago. You know that. Yes, yes, I do. No truer words ever spoken. And everybody knows it. But she doesn’t. So at least pretend that you crash landed and survived and climbed back onto the ledge somewhere between here and eternity. That you are still halfway human, or at least semi-in-touch with reality. O.k. roger that. Will do. Will try at least. Good boy. Now go on and get. Let’s go play the game.

More than a mere welcoming committee we were to be, we were to accompany Mrs. Sinai to a live performance we were invited to by acclaimed choreographer Amy Greenfield that featured all-nude dancers performing in front of film and photography being flashed over them by Leonard Nimoy, while original music by Phillip Glass and John Zorn played in the background. Just another night in New York. And I mean that. At any given minute in New York City one has the opportunity to experience hundreds of such events. The city is raging with opportunity for these kinds of things. Every block is celebrity and spectacle. Perhaps we just get so accustomed to it that something really spectacular has to come in the mail to get us excited about attending. Reminds me of Oscar Wilde. Our lives in New York are one big Oscar Wilde dream. Cynicism invisibly walks beside us down our bustling crowded streets and jumps inside of us and possesses us in between sips of Starbucks and Jamba Juice. Not necessarily great, but certainly Gatsbys each and every one of us.

But this was different. I have long admired the work of Gizella Varga. Her painting is glorious. It is truly transcendent. And I looked forward to being in close contact with her, eye to eye, human breath to human breath, waxing philosophic about the arts. Poetry, painting, dance, theatre, literature, politics. I knew by studying her painting that she was a valid force to be reckoned with and this was one opportunity that I should not call in sick for and “work through” as I was accustomed to doing. My own work is more important to me now than it has ever been. So it is easy for me to rationalize not doing much of anything else other than spend as much time as possible to attempt to complete as much of it as I can while I am still alive. Art is, after all, life itself. Without art, there is no life. There is only living. And living is thoroughly boring. Unless of course it is lived artistically. Which brings us right back to the necessity to create as much art as possible while we are lucky enough to still be able to fog a mirror with our own breath.

Italian restaurant. Giant plates of antipasto. Huge. Radicchio, arugula, salami, Romano, mozzarella, duck sausage, olives, chicken stuffed with cheese and spinach. On and on. Bottle after bottle of wine. We spoke of many things. Compared the subtle beauty of the poetry of Hafez – Iran’s greatest claim to fame in that arena – to the complex intricacies of the wordplay of Vinicius De Moraes, perhaps Brasil’s most beloved 20th century poet. Iranian music. United States and Iranian relations was a big topic of discussion. Iranians are radical. They have to be. Death or prison is constantly knocking at their door. When it’s not, they know it will be soon enough.

In America we are a wee bit more secure. But only if we allow that all we hear is bullshit and propaganda and that nothing is real. We are awash in debt, sold out to China, out-sourced to India, and drugged up on prescription medicine too expensive for us to be able to actually afford, and hypnotized by celebrity. Reality television has become the new opiate for the masses. No more need for bread and puppets. And for good reason. Real life is just too damn sickening for most. Sit down. Stand up. Sit the fuck down. Pay your taxes. You don't have health insurance. Tsk tsk, shame on you. Don't worry, we’ll get around to that. One day. Not in your lifetime, but one day. Slap that back. Grease that pocket. Did you pay your taxes? Why don't you get married? Have some kids? Worship Britney. Now hate her. Now worship her again. Now laugh at her. Let’s kill Anna Nicole Smith. She's our bitch. She won't mind. We gave her fame and money and celebrity. She's ours for the taking. Read all about it. Get your very own copy of the New York Times today for only twenty dollars a week. Can’t afford it? Charge that shit man. Fuck it. Go ahead and CHARGE IT! Heath’s dead. Killed himself on prescription drugs. You're next. Don't worry. What’s that? That was Owen Wilson? Not Heath? But Owen only TRIED to kill himself. Heath was accidental. Oh that's right. No worries. He won every fucking award we could give him. It was worth it. Aint that America? You and me? Aint that America? Home of the free baby? Eat your Quarter Pounder. Drink your milk. Or your Budweiser. Or your “highest rated Vodka three years running.” Just do it! And don't forget to just do it in your sweat-shop-sewn Nikes so everyone knows you are one bad mothafucka.

How was the play Catherine? What's that? Ethan Hawke was sitting right behind you? Did you manage to snap a picture of him on your new 3 megapixel camera phone? Aw too bad. Maybe next time. Speaking of pictures, did you hear about all those poor people in Gaza? Yeah I know, what a shame. Too bad we can’t do anything about it. Hands are tied. We’re in up to our arses with Israel. Democracy be damned there's not a damn thing we can do about it. Another one bites the dust. And another one’s gone and another one’s gone. So buy that new CD, or magazine, or tabloid, or pack of gum, or new car, or refinance your over valued house so you can buy more stuff you don't need to relieve you of the burden of having to think about how truly fucking irrelevant and shallow our lives are here. And while you're at it, don't forget to donate to the ONE campaign to help those poor starving people in Africa. You'll get one of those cool rubber bracelets. Larry King wears one. You should too.

So yes. US Iranian relations. And painting and poetry and literature. The table confidently agreed that Italian was the most beautiful of all languages. I begged to differ, inviting everyone to actually listen to Portuguese one day. And despite their overt Frenchiness, French is still pretty freaking mellifluous as well. But German is the language of philosophy. Agreed. But still have no interest in becoming fluent in it. No reason why. Just don't like the way it sounds.

“It’s because you have seen too many propaganda films about Hitler. That's why,” she tells me. No. That's not it. Look, the guy was a murderous fuckhead bastard who killed millions of people. I'll give you that. But the American government killed over three million people in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia and you don't see me refusing to speak English. Nah. I've been around long enough to be utterly immune to murdering fuckhead bastards. Even in my own country. Shit, we’ve killed over one million Iraqis in the last six years and Desperate Housewives is still the hottest show on TV beeyotch. Or 24, or Grey’s Anatomy, or Weeds, or 30 Rock. Truth be told as long as that wine, whiskey and song, and that TV and tabloid trash is still flowing we could give a shit. Hitler is nothing more to us than a good excuse to see Tom Cruise rake up another box office smash.

Good conversation. My head spinning. Too much wine too fast. Head to head with a sure footed and worthy fellow intellectual entirely confident from 60 plus years spent travelling the world as a respected and revered painter. My kind of gal. My kind of night. But what of this Leonard Nimoy in the nude tripping on acid performance art thing? We have to go now. Get your coat on. Let’s ditch this bitch and head out into the bright city lights of Manahatta.

We’re in the theatre. The lights have dimmed. It’s been minutes. Feels like hours. If I wasn't one of the guests of honor I would have bailed by now. I am going to fall asleep. Perhaps no one will notice if I pass out. You can’t bail bro. You know how rude that would be? Just sit here and act like a gentleman. Act like you are enjoying yourself. Act interested. Meditate with your eyes open if you have to. Never mind that I'm so bored I'm going to shoot my fucking head off and splatter my brains all over our guest from Iran. Easy for you to say. I'm the one who has to sit here.

The films are a blur of nakedness and boring light shows. I cannot believe this theatre is filled 213 people. I saw it on the sign when I walked in. Maximum capacity 213 persons. And for what? One of the dancers is running around the theatre dressed up as some sort of reject from the Star Wars franchise. All lit up like an android but naked. I feel like I am at Disney World. Bored. Tired. Slightly awed that people pay for this. That it even exists. I want to go home and write. I’d even take a bathroom stall. Just sit there with a pad and little pen and scribble ideas. Anything but another hour of this.

A naked woman writhes on the stage in front of us while another one reads from the Kabbalah into a microphone. I couldn’t make this up if I tried. It was that bad. Blurred images of more naked women running through the forest flash on the screen behind them while Dr. Spock himself mind-numbingly mumbles something about finding his spirituality through photographing naked women’s bodies. Well if that’s spirituality I must be a fucking saint or a Bishop by now.

This is New York at its worst. I glance over at Gizella and wonder what she is thinking. She has exhibited in every major gallery on earth over the last 40 years. What could she be thinking now. Her head nods. I knew it! She's going to fucking fall asleep. O.k. good. So can I then. But that repetitive music just keeps going and going. My God when will it end?

There is good art and bad art, I think to myself. But there is no way to qualify such ideas. It is truly all completely subjective. For all I know there are people in this theatre who think this is good art. I am no more right than they are. What is “right?” Exactly. Never been such a thing. Just idea-labels slapped onto things by consciousness fooling itself into thinking that it is awareness. No, art is art is art. Some you will like. Some you will not.

I contemplate Gizella’s paintings. All her different periods over the last fifty years. The fact that she is still so vibrant and alive and intellectually stimulating at her age. We agreed to start emailing in order to continue our dialogues, but only in Farsi. That way I learn faster. So I can better appreciate the poetry of Hafez, Sadi, and Rumi in their native language. I agree to turn her onto to all that is good and glorious about Brasilian and Italian song and culture. There is much to be learned. That was good. If anything came of this... plenty did... I now have a place to stay in Iran. Good respected people high enough on the totem pole that I am guaranteed to get in again. I tell her about my love for Esfahan. She shares it. But tells me that Yazd is actually prettier and quainter. I will go then.

At some point I blacked out. My body was there. My eyes still open. But I was adrift in another world entirely. Trying to justify what I deemed the rubbish being presented to our Iranian friend as art when she had combed the greatest museums in the world as an insider. Surely she must know that we are better than this. It was at this point that I realized the enormity of the contributions of America. Fully asleep in my own ruminations and entirely unaware of what was going on around me. I was reminded of Steven Spielberg. Of Woody Allen. Wes and P. T. Anderson. Of rock and roll. Jazz. Gospel. The automobile, the telephone, electricity, the fax machine, the CD, the personal computer, the first man to walk on the moon. This was America. We had contributed plenty. And perhaps one of our greatest contributions has just appeared over the horizon twinkling golden radiant light halfway around the globe.

Let all of the Bush bashing and fear mongering wash away like blood soaked sand on a deserted beach in the middle of the night. Let our cynicism and heartbreak of the last eight years slowly disappear into the recesses of our collective unconscious and forever be nothing more than a bad dream or a fading memory. Obama is our mama now and all the world watched as we proudly cheered our new leader smiling from ear to ear as he walked down that avenue to the new White House. A White House that will never be the same again. There was art aplenty in that day. His speech, the way he carried himself. His elegant and gracious wife. The centuries of reconciliation that the moment carried with it, the sighs of relief, and the promises fulfilled that may be lurking just around the corner. That was good art.