The title refers to art I never want to experience. Everyone should have their own list.
Around the inescapable fact of death we prioritize our time. From this perspective I spend incredible amounts of my time on art: not necessary for survival: something I can do without, which is why the list widens. And I don’t mean the art I’ll never get around to experiencing; the following is a brief list of the ones I avoid.
Perhaps I should write a book titled 100 Works of Art You Must Not Experience Before You Die. Instead of telling people what to do–you must sit through all of The Nutcracker–I’m proscribing what not to do, which seems more kindly to me. The first chapter of the book would deal with any and all TV series and spin-off movies premiering prior to June 2002, or anything before The Wire and quite possibly after. This is a paradoxical and possibly deranged stand for not only a scientist to take, but also for one who loves 1950-60s era sci-fi genre fiction. I harbor a healthy distaste for Star Trek, Stargate SG-1, Battlestar Galactica, Akira, and Babylon 5, despite the aplomb and guarantee of true cinematic greatness from those whose tastes I normally agree with. It’s inexplicable: I tolerate Star Wars, detest E.T., enjoyed Dark Crystal, loathed Cocoon. In general serial dramas are ungaingly behemoths lumbering to nowhere and shamelessly manipulative in their narrative arc, that tyranny of suspense. (There was a semester in college where I experimented with the Dragon Ball-Z series and now I’m over it.) The seventh layer of hell isn’t fanned by the Dark Prince’s wings. No, it is where you are cast in a serial drama, a place where dying won’t even save you.
Now that the hype has worn off, can anyone say that they’d watch the Sopranos all over again? From someone who has only seen ten random episodes I have no desire to go back and supplement my brain with twenty DVDs of filler. Heralded as the Great American Drama, the Complete Series Deluxe Edition (released before Black Friday this year) will not likely find its way on too many Cephalopodmas lists. And yet, as testament to our Fallen nature the 30 disc monstrosity will nonetheless wind up under the Christmas tree of loved one’s through this great nation. It would be disingenuous if I didn’t account for my one exception to the rule, The Wire. Proximity to Baltimore, unshackled from the weekly hour long doses doled out by corporate television, and its relatively short lifespan in the pantheon of crime dramas (Law and Order, NYPD Blue, CSI, Miami Vice, Magnum PI, Murder She Wrote, etc.) are the only excuses I have, besides the obvious–that The Wire happens to be the only crime drama I’ve ever watched.
It’s not that I wasn’t willing to get a little giddy over the hype of Harry Potter. It’s just that I consider wading through several pounds of a children’s book series, and a few more pounds of supplementary work, a waste of my precious mortal energy. Even those hordes of Potteristas will admit that the first attempt, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, is hard going…so why bother? And it’s not only the saga of an adolescent boy learning to wield his wand for pleasure, anger, fear, and chivalry, I shy away from all serial fiction, because if it takes an excess of 1000 pages for a character’s development or the denouement then chances are you are not reading the final draft.
“Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.” Ironically, the long-running American soap which uses this as its tagline jumped the shark back in the 90s when James E. Reilly, the show’s writer from 93-98, resurrected a main character from the dead three times, created another who went by Billy Warlock, and, in a full slip down the slope, subjected a third to a demon possession, Exorcist style. I never saw a single episode outside the ones my babysitter forced upon me.
I don’t like Bob Dylan. I’ve resisted his rasp and poetry for so long now my dislike must in some way be significant. It’s not just that his songs are tough to listen to, lyrics are mostly irrelevant to music (Dylan has been nominated for several Nobel Prizes in Literature). For example, the three tenors will move you regardless of your ignorance of the Italian language. And how else do we account for the continued popularity of Pearl Jam’s Yellow Ledbetter, a song whose lyrics were made up during a jam session, are incomprehensible on the first ablum and live, and often change between performances? There are even occassions when knowing the lyrics dimishes the value of a song. I’m thinking specifically of everything from the Brittney Spears and Madonna catologue. Unlike those two whose music I do enjoy, Dillon is considered a lyrical folk genius, his stream-of-conciousness style is the length by which subsequent folk singers–from Jewel’s idle poetry to Tom Waits–are measured. I can only get on board only when Dillon’s songs are covered by people who can carry a note.
The QVC artist, and self-titled “Painter of Light,” Thomas Kinkade is the only oil painter whose work I actively avoid. Not only do I not appreciate his work, I stay away to prevent any inspirational contagion floating about. Dreamy, vague, schmaltzy, free of vision, soft and sentimentality as lowest common denominator define his painting philosophy. Kinkade is to painting what DC Talk is to hip-hop and what Rachel Ray is to Italian food. Many popular pieces of art have found their way to refrigerators as magnets, on desks as mouse pads, and wall outlets as nightlights, but a Kinkade is the only kind not dramatically diminished because of it. I’m an elitist bastard for saying this, but art safe and simple enough to be hanging behind your grandmother’s davenport is art I must experience as little of as possible before I die.
