It's now officially Sunday (hell - it's 12:45 a.m. Sunday morning!) so I can post this photo.

Now, I posted the one from the 19th hole only an hour or so ago, so this really represents a two-for-one bargain (well, it represents a "bargain" if you like the photos...otherwise...). But, in the interval, I checked in on Mike Johnston's site, where I found the beginnings of (or the end of?) a discussion on the nature of art. Oh, no! This is not the sort of thing one wants to find at 12:45 in the morning! But, naturally, I'll stick in my two cents' worth here.

Art is a means of communication. Sometimes that communication can be pretty darn obtuse, but... Unless the "thing" intended as art speaks to someone else's experience, the artist has failed. The artist is simply talking to him-, or her-, self. Granted, it may take some time before someone gets the message, but, until someone does, it ain't anything.

It is, I guess, a lot like radio transmission. The artist is the transmitter, and is responsible for sending a signal that's at least, in principle, receivable. But the artist can't be held totally responsible if the message isn't received. The "art consumer" (sorry - I can't think of a better term at the moment) is responsible for being receptive. Sometimes the signal is impossible to receive, but much of the time there is simply a failure on the consumer's part to be receptive. For me, Andy Warhol's art is a good example. "It's a Brillo box, for heaven's sake!" was the general, original response. The other levels went unappreciated. Another good example is Shakespeare. Most people these days seem unable to get beyond the incomprehensibility of his language, so they miss the fact that the things he's writing about are things we all experience as life goes on.

Teaching Bill's stuff in high school is probably pointless. Until you've lived a lot of life, you're not likely to understand what he's talking about - the heartbreak of love gone wrong, despite one's best intentions; the struggle to do the right thing that, nevertheless, brings about disaster; the foolishness we all inadvertently indulge in that, amazingly, we find ourselves forgiven for. It's nice to know that people living 400 years ago were just as dopey as you are. You think misery loves company? Not half as much as helpless silliness does.