surprised to read something so positive, especially after what he said to Kate on Friday.”
John gave an angry snort. “Well, get this. Micklenberg said he hadn’t written the column.”
“What?”
“I told him I didn’t understand, and he said he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to explain it to me.”
“Is that usual? Do people like Micklenberg let other people write their columns for them?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard.”
“So what happened?”
John shrugged. “I don’t know.” He returned to the sauce.
Rudy couldn’t decide whether this was good news or bad. “John?”
“Uhm?”
“How much does a good review mean to you? I mean, is it really all that important?”
John pushed a hand into the pocket of his jeans and leaned back against the counter. “Do you want the long answer or the short?”
Rudy smiled. “I think we have time for the long.”
“All right. Here goes.” He picked up his wineglass and took a sip, giving himself a moment to arrange his thoughts. “I believe that critics,” he began, “especially in the area of fine arts, serve a marginal function at best. They have power and can do damage to an artist, or help a career along, but essentially, they’re only a guidepost. What I object to most fundamentally is when a critic — any critic — mistakes his own opinion for absolute truth. Opinion, even educated opinion, is still just that. And most important, nothing and nobody should stand between the viewer and his or her personal experience with the work.”
“But,” said Rudy, popping a slice of cucumber into his mouth, “for instance, I’m taking an art history class this quarter. Value, whether positive or negative, is always being assigned to this artist or that piece of work. Do you consider that wrong?”
“I don’t believe it’s ever a mistake to learn about somebody’s life, or about the time — the social milieu — in which someone worked. And of course I agree that some works of art are more successful than others. But when an authority says that your personal response to any given piece
has
to be the same as his — otherwise you’re misguided, naive, or just plain ignorant — then I have to draw the line.”
Rudy nodded. “I think I understand.”
John turned down the flame under his sauce. “Once in a class I took, the professor was discussing objective truth versus subjective truth in relation to art. After the lecture, I stopped him in the hall. I told him that it seemed what he was saying was that when enough people get together and decide subjectively that something has value, it becomes objective truth. After that point, no one is supposed to argue about it anymore.”
“And?” said Rudy.
“The guy mulled it over and then started to laugh. He said that basically I was probably right.”
Rudy shook his head. “Let
me
mull it over for a while.”
“You do that,” replied John, with another amused smile.
“But what about Hale? Is he going to print a retraction?”
“I have no idea.”
“What will you do if he does?”
John lifted the cover off the pot, his eyes momentarily mesmerized by the steam and bubbling water. “Try to ignore it. I’m not always as angry as I was the other night at the coffeehouse. After Kate told me what he’d said, I don’t know what got into me. I’m usually able to control my temper better than that.” He looked around. “But thanks for being there. I really needed a friend.”
Rudy resumed his vegetable chopping. “No problem.” He whacked into a stalk of celery.
“Hey, take it easy. Those knives are pretty sharp.”
Rudy was feeling a slight buzz from the wine. He stopped for a moment and watched John dump the homemade pasta into the water. Being here felt good. This new independence, coupled with the conversation and the valpolicella, made him almost giddy. As he
John gave an angry snort. “Well, get this. Micklenberg said he hadn’t written the column.”
“What?”
“I told him I didn’t understand, and he said he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to explain it to me.”
“Is that usual? Do people like Micklenberg let other people write their columns for them?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard.”
“So what happened?”
John shrugged. “I don’t know.” He returned to the sauce.
Rudy couldn’t decide whether this was good news or bad. “John?”
“Uhm?”
“How much does a good review mean to you? I mean, is it really all that important?”
John pushed a hand into the pocket of his jeans and leaned back against the counter. “Do you want the long answer or the short?”
Rudy smiled. “I think we have time for the long.”
“All right. Here goes.” He picked up his wineglass and took a sip, giving himself a moment to arrange his thoughts. “I believe that critics,” he began, “especially in the area of fine arts, serve a marginal function at best. They have power and can do damage to an artist, or help a career along, but essentially, they’re only a guidepost. What I object to most fundamentally is when a critic — any critic — mistakes his own opinion for absolute truth. Opinion, even educated opinion, is still just that. And most important, nothing and nobody should stand between the viewer and his or her personal experience with the work.”
“But,” said Rudy, popping a slice of cucumber into his mouth, “for instance, I’m taking an art history class this quarter. Value, whether positive or negative, is always being assigned to this artist or that piece of work. Do you consider that wrong?”
“I don’t believe it’s ever a mistake to learn about somebody’s life, or about the time — the social milieu — in which someone worked. And of course I agree that some works of art are more successful than others. But when an authority says that your personal response to any given piece
has
to be the same as his — otherwise you’re misguided, naive, or just plain ignorant — then I have to draw the line.”
Rudy nodded. “I think I understand.”
John turned down the flame under his sauce. “Once in a class I took, the professor was discussing objective truth versus subjective truth in relation to art. After the lecture, I stopped him in the hall. I told him that it seemed what he was saying was that when enough people get together and decide subjectively that something has value, it becomes objective truth. After that point, no one is supposed to argue about it anymore.”
“And?” said Rudy.
“The guy mulled it over and then started to laugh. He said that basically I was probably right.”
Rudy shook his head. “Let
me
mull it over for a while.”
“You do that,” replied John, with another amused smile.
“But what about Hale? Is he going to print a retraction?”
“I have no idea.”
“What will you do if he does?”
John lifted the cover off the pot, his eyes momentarily mesmerized by the steam and bubbling water. “Try to ignore it. I’m not always as angry as I was the other night at the coffeehouse. After Kate told me what he’d said, I don’t know what got into me. I’m usually able to control my temper better than that.” He looked around. “But thanks for being there. I really needed a friend.”
Rudy resumed his vegetable chopping. “No problem.” He whacked into a stalk of celery.
“Hey, take it easy. Those knives are pretty sharp.”
Rudy was feeling a slight buzz from the wine. He stopped for a moment and watched John dump the homemade pasta into the water. Being here felt good. This new independence, coupled with the conversation and the valpolicella, made him almost giddy. As he
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