ANOTHER VOICE
How modern painters can still save the world
AUBERON WAUGH
Last week's Montblanc Literary Gala dinner of the PEN American Center, held in the 19th-century splendour of the US Customs House on Manhattan's furthest tip, was a gloriously lavish affair. Tina Brown was chairperson. Barbaralee Diamonstein-Spielvogel was one of the four vice-chairs, although I am not sure I identified her in the excitement of meeting so many wonderful new people: Arthur Miller, Jack Nicholson, Lauren Hutton, Norman Mailer and, er, many, many more. Mario Vargas Llosa, all the way from distant Peru, said grace. I repre- sented English letters, such as they are, and very properly held my peace. Over 600 people and persons sat down to an excel- lent dinner and seriously good wine; all received a Montblanc fountain pen as a reward for having attended and a good time was had by all. Many thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of dollars were raised for suffering writers the world over.
Americans have been criticised for a certain hardness of heart towards the Kurds, and it is true that Kurdish problems did not feature largely in the conversation at this auspicious event. Nor did we waste time discussing the Kennedy rape allega- tions, or any of the interesting suggestions made about Nancy Reagan in a recent biography. Perhaps the Kurds' time will come. In New York, the Anti-defamation League of B'nai B'rith is agitating on their behalf. It cannot be long before another such glittering company sits down to dine, possibly inside the Statue of Liberty.
In the trough between Kennedy rapes and the Kurds, New Yorkers had reverted to their main staple of conversation: money. A shy, benign figure at my table was said to be worth $3,000 million, none of it loaned. Another had just sold YCA or possibly BCC, probably to Murdoch, for three times what it was worth — $526 million, or possibly $623.5 million. Every- body was amazingly specific about the sums involved, but they were meaningless to an Englishman, going in one ear and out the other.
What happens to all this gigantic wealth, how can they possibly enjoy possession of it? Well, they go to Gala Literary Dinners, of course, which can be fun. Many of them give huge sums to charity, and that is a good thing to do. They can live in large apartments, with 24-hour security protec- tion, and put jacuzzis in their bathrooms. At a pinch, they can buy themselves ocean-going yachts and sun themselves on a special deck provided for the purpose, but for the life of me I cannot see that they have more comfortable — let alone more enjoyable — lives than my own. There is only so much money to be spent on food and wine. What on earth to do with the remaining $2,999,900,000 or so?
The answer, in nine cases out of ten, would appear to be that they spend it on modern paintings, or 'art', as these things are called in New York. I suppose the pleasure to be derived from this 'art' — at its best, it can be mildly decorative, at its worst it is transparently the most hideous rubbish — comes from the knowledge of what it has cost, and the knowledge that others want it, too, for the same reason. Its following is really just another manifesta- tion of dollar-worship, rather like decorat- ing an apartment with hugh piles of $10,000 bills. They would be less ugly than 'art', it is true, but your friends would despise you because everyone would know it was not increasing in value. And there's the rub. What will happen to all this hideous rubbish when everyone knows that it is no longer increasing in value?
For some time I have assumed that the collapse of socialism would be followed by a collapse in the market for modern paintings, but this was for metaphysical rather than commercial reasons. Socialism, unlike modern art, its twin naked Emperor on the 20th-century intellectual scene, was always susceptible to being tested by re- sults. It underpinned the whole apparatus of tyranny in eastern Europe and Asia, and the tyranny was able to suppress the evidence of its failure. In fact, any child of ten could see that it was theoretically unsound, that any system relying on volun- tary exertion for the common good, rather than the workers' self-interest, would soon require coercion and produce nothing but poverty and incompetence. A deliberate act of faith was required to overlook this obvious error. In the same way, modern paintings somehow came to underpin the entire capitalist system by solving the problem of its overproduction of surplus wealth. Just think what havoc all these billions of dollars would cause if everyone tried to spend them on something else. None of the comparatively poor or dispos- sessed can resent the possession of this hideous rubbish. If modern art did not exist, we would have had to invent it. The act of faith required is to overlook its ugliness, its tawdriness, its worthlessness.
But why should anyone be required to make such an act of faith voluntarily? Just as oppression supported Russian belief in socialism, so an element of greed is neces- sary to support American and Japanese belief in modern art, which any child can see is a load of rubbish. Untune either of these strings — oppression and greed and hark what discord follows.
The reasons for rejoicing in the collapse of socialism are too obvious to list. My own reason for rejoicing in the collapse of the American and Japanese 'art' market for modern paintings was that, like socialism, it seemed a monument to human self- deception, affectation and stupidity. Now that the collapse is imminent, one begins to see the positive side of tying so many qualities to the money supply. Capitalism, for all the abominations of vulgar prosper- ity which accompany it, is a strangely beautiful system. It does not force anyone to buy modern paintings. Even in New York, it is possible to live a civilised life. Visiting the apartment of an old friend from England who has settled there with her husband — both are at the top of their professions — I found elegantly appointed rooms, full of pretty pictures and furniture; a smiling Afro-American nanny; two spirit- ed, affectionate and independent children. They have a country house on Long Island for the weekends and Manhattan rooms to entertain family and friends.
Capitalism is worth preserving even at the price of betraying our aesthetic integri- ty. Every Englishman visiting New York should be given an American phrase book to help keep the ship afloat. When con- fronted by the latest piece of hideous rubbish, all brown smears and excremental daubs, the Englishman should exclaim: 'That's a really fine picture, Bud.'
Bud will reply: 'Well, gee, I guess I was very lucky. As a favour, because we are old friends and because I guess I am such a big customer, Grey let me have it for $976,432,410. I happen to know Harry J. Haubman was prepared to go over $1 billion. Grey as good as told me that.'
'Gosh, well done, Bud. I wish I could afford it. It must be worth at least one and a half billion dollars by now.'
'Well, let's say 1.32 billion, give or take the odd hundred thousand. Sure, you'll be able to afford it just as soon as you get your act together.' That is the great lesson which America has to teach the world.
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