The quote from Picasso is gold — it’s both humbling for any artist/writer and is a bit of a misdirection in the sense that the visual images, words, or notes, etc. pieced together by an artist — kind of like a morpheme or motif, blocks of meaning — have enough information or significance that they capture an audience’s attention much longer than a birdsong. Clearly, the more someone knows about birdsongs, the more they might perseverate on it and come to see how the song itself is unique to a bird, reflects the bird’s state of being in that moment, geography, etc. But most aren’t as readily equipped to take these in as the images and other blocks of meaning used by artists. The point is, one reason most (me included) don’t spend more time on birdsongs than art is because we don’t understand some basic things about it.
As you point out, Sontag’s essay also encourages a more meta-analysis of the work, not just how it lands in history (missile crisis), but what are the themes this artist ruminates about, what tools do they use to catch the mood or capture our interest. But, I think just as important, art made with a certain level of ambiguity is going to act like a mirror that tells you something about yourself. And in this sense, it becomes one of the best platforms for both getting to know someone — whether that someone is the artist or the person next to you in a theater or gallery — and for learning about oneself. Not to minimize that art absolutely can reinforce destructive mythologies and function like propaganda (as Plato and you point out), but it also can deconstruct these mythologies and get people talking about it.
As for Eraserhead — in my personal experience, I see a few threads. As a parent, I see the fears of parenting. As a scientist, I see that Henry has hair remarkably like young Oppenheimer did, I see the nuclear bomb explosion image by Henry’s bed, I see the defoliated tree, the deformed baby, the strange Radiator lady with deformities, and note that Lynch started making this in 1971, not long after the Cuban missile crisis. The film has an obsession about containers — the missing pot of the defoliated tree, the mailboxes, the box that Henry opens from the post. And also the brain being reduced to the white noise of eraser shavings as a sort of annihilation of meaning and intent. And on top of all these storied observations, I see a metaphor of an artist afraid of his work (the baby). Nurturing something that could be ultimately ugly that no one wants to see and destroying or not finishing it at the end (like so many artists before.) I see a meditation on monstrosity, fear and the unexamined life and how seeds of fear, living as one “should,” going through the motions, leads someone to an act of perverse curiosity and destruction — which is the ultimate absurdity. And finally, I see Lynch’s production company name, Absurda, and Beckett’s defoliated tree, all as a sort of grand joke that dreams have no meaning, but trying to interpret them gives us a sense of purpose and significance in a vast world where we are ultimately an insignificant speck. Is it a comforting time with Lynch? No… but I do learn a lot about myself and then enjoy listening to other reflections. I feel as though this piece makes me more human and connected to what I find beautiful in the world — people and nature, and the fragility of these gifts. So thanks for hitting this on your detour! I came for this, and now I want to stay and learn more about high grossing films.
I like your angle. But of course you'll meet with some disagreement in the present-day art world, where interpretation is obligatory. Although I should say that great art doesn't (surely can't) bypass language. It's a material thing and, in many cases, won't work at all without language!
Enjoyed this, thank you. I don’t get him either and your point about individualism makes sense to me.
The quote from Picasso is gold — it’s both humbling for any artist/writer and is a bit of a misdirection in the sense that the visual images, words, or notes, etc. pieced together by an artist — kind of like a morpheme or motif, blocks of meaning — have enough information or significance that they capture an audience’s attention much longer than a birdsong. Clearly, the more someone knows about birdsongs, the more they might perseverate on it and come to see how the song itself is unique to a bird, reflects the bird’s state of being in that moment, geography, etc. But most aren’t as readily equipped to take these in as the images and other blocks of meaning used by artists. The point is, one reason most (me included) don’t spend more time on birdsongs than art is because we don’t understand some basic things about it.
As you point out, Sontag’s essay also encourages a more meta-analysis of the work, not just how it lands in history (missile crisis), but what are the themes this artist ruminates about, what tools do they use to catch the mood or capture our interest. But, I think just as important, art made with a certain level of ambiguity is going to act like a mirror that tells you something about yourself. And in this sense, it becomes one of the best platforms for both getting to know someone — whether that someone is the artist or the person next to you in a theater or gallery — and for learning about oneself. Not to minimize that art absolutely can reinforce destructive mythologies and function like propaganda (as Plato and you point out), but it also can deconstruct these mythologies and get people talking about it.
As for Eraserhead — in my personal experience, I see a few threads. As a parent, I see the fears of parenting. As a scientist, I see that Henry has hair remarkably like young Oppenheimer did, I see the nuclear bomb explosion image by Henry’s bed, I see the defoliated tree, the deformed baby, the strange Radiator lady with deformities, and note that Lynch started making this in 1971, not long after the Cuban missile crisis. The film has an obsession about containers — the missing pot of the defoliated tree, the mailboxes, the box that Henry opens from the post. And also the brain being reduced to the white noise of eraser shavings as a sort of annihilation of meaning and intent. And on top of all these storied observations, I see a metaphor of an artist afraid of his work (the baby). Nurturing something that could be ultimately ugly that no one wants to see and destroying or not finishing it at the end (like so many artists before.) I see a meditation on monstrosity, fear and the unexamined life and how seeds of fear, living as one “should,” going through the motions, leads someone to an act of perverse curiosity and destruction — which is the ultimate absurdity. And finally, I see Lynch’s production company name, Absurda, and Beckett’s defoliated tree, all as a sort of grand joke that dreams have no meaning, but trying to interpret them gives us a sense of purpose and significance in a vast world where we are ultimately an insignificant speck. Is it a comforting time with Lynch? No… but I do learn a lot about myself and then enjoy listening to other reflections. I feel as though this piece makes me more human and connected to what I find beautiful in the world — people and nature, and the fragility of these gifts. So thanks for hitting this on your detour! I came for this, and now I want to stay and learn more about high grossing films.
The whole point of any work of art is to experience it. Not to interpret it. Great Art goes beyond and bypasses language.
I like your angle. But of course you'll meet with some disagreement in the present-day art world, where interpretation is obligatory. Although I should say that great art doesn't (surely can't) bypass language. It's a material thing and, in many cases, won't work at all without language!