In his interesting book, The Accidental Masterpiece: On the Art of Life and Vice Versa, Michael Kimmelman quoted the painter Barnett Newman, "The impulse of modern art is the desire to destroy beauty."
Newman said it in 1948 and since then, modern art changed considerably and so did the slogans of the artist.
Forty years ago, already nobody was going to be challenged by artists on a mission to destroy beauty. Newman's observation turned out be true. Beauty was out.
And what is out will be in again one day.
But the problem with beauty goes a little bit further than the question of whether something is in or not.
As pessimism seems to be more intelligent and less superficial than optimism, ugliness seems to be deeper and so much more profound than beauty.
What Kimmelman challenges in the book is the idea that there is such a thing as eternal beauty.
For example, there are certain pieces of classical music heavily used in commercials for peach yogurt, in elevators, in hotel lobbies and in the ring tones of your mobile phone.
Probably the piece of music itself has to be labeled beautiful. But it’s impossible to listen to it without thinking of commercials for peach yogurt, elevators, hotel lobbies and your mobile phone. Therefore the effect of the music is quite the opposite of beautiful.
The desire to produce something ugly is probably absurd. But the desire to produce something beautiful means—at least when it comes to literature or art—that you are going to produce something utterly forgettable. Maybe commercially viable, but that’s not the question here.
The Dutch novelist Frans Kellendonk wrote (I believe I used this quote earlier in of my blogs, but the quote is too good to use only once) that you could only call a novel beautiful when you have been utterly indifferent to the content of this novel.
Beauty is by its nature decorative.
Mr. Kimmelman wrote, “We are programmed now to expect awe in certain circumstances, and are therefore doomed to be disappointed when, inevitably, we don’t feel it.” I would say it’s worse: we think we are entitled to awe.
We live in a world where almost everybody and almost everything seems to be there to please the eye, the stomach, the mouth, the brain. From politicians to skirts, from laptops to CNN. Even my dentist is eager to give me the illusion that he is pleasing me.
The task of literature in my eyes is simple and broad: just stop pleasing.