Quote:
Originally Posted by Orwn Acra
I've come back late to say that I actually like some of Kenneth Goldsmith's work. As I said in another thread, Traffic gives off a nostalgic warmth because of all the times I fell asleep listening to traffic reports and talk radio in my dad's car, and Day is just a real Ulysses. Like any form of art, not all of it is going to be good. Shopping lists as poetry? The idea isn't interesting enough to be a successful conceptual piece. But Goldsmith occasionally gets it right, and the results are worthy of study and thought and deserve to be read. Plus, Goldsmith runs Ubu, a wonderful, wonderful archive of modernist and avant-garde art. Sure, he loves the notoriety, but he's also genuinely interested in the history of poetry.
That said, I lost a little bit of respect for Goldsmith when rumors surfaced that the newspaper that supplied the body of Day was run through a scanner, so that he didn't have to type out the entire paper. Machine production (a la Warhol) is nothing new in art, but it makes me question how much time I should spend with Day if the author couldn't be bothered to do so (and it's why I wonder if Goldsmith is truly being tongue-in-cheek when he says there's no reason to buy his books). |
Shopping lists and scanned newspaper clippings may have beauty in them, the way that land might have gold in it whether it is mined or not, and flowers on it whether we look at them or not. There's poetry in everything, in that sense, anyway. If I looked up at the passing clouds, I expect I'd see a horsie or a castle after a while, and there's something pleasant about conversations that fade in and out at a diner or on the beach.
There's beauty in every morning and in any rooster crowing, but the sun doesn't come up because of that, and poetry isn't made by standing there taking credit for random beauty moved just a hair sideways. When kids find things like that, it's delightful; and when Lily Tomlin plays Edith Ann, she's funny; but seeking praise, plunder and publicity for random discoveries takes the inner child out of it. In concept, at least. So, from my part of the peanut gallery, 'Meh.'
Best,
Ed