Complex Pleasures: A Litmus Test for Art
While “She’s Lost Control” might qualify as art by this test, just because something is complex does not mean it is unknown, and vice-versa. (Text-free cover of Unknown Pleasures by Joy Division; art by Peter Saville
One of the most fundamental questions of aesthetics is “what is art?” and it would be a misstep to not try to cover that in our writing on the subject. In discussion with Edgar, we happened upon a potential definition – “something intentionally created, in larger part, for aesthetic value instead of practical utility.” Of course, we have to explore the concept of “aesthetic value” there.
We've gotten somewhat far afield from being a blog associated with a podcast production (it will resume after our engineer is back from honeymoon. Honest.) Of course, I often get off into the weeds principally because I seem to live there. So, let's plow full force into the weeds: what is “aesthetic value”?
Now, it's been said that it's impossible to define pornography, but you “know it when [you] see it.” I dislike definitions of this sort. There's no litmus test. There's no practical application, and there's endless argument about whether something qualifies or not, and the arguments are bad because nothing is defined. There's room for subjectivity, but lets build a framework for that subjectivity.
Oskar Herrfurth’s illustration of the Baron Muchhausen pulling himself up out of a mire by his own hair. The Munchhausen Trilemma is one of the basic problems of proof, and this is very material for stories about the Baron. The basic issue is that all types of proof fall into one of the following three categories: circular logic, infinite regression, or axiomatic proof. Up until the post-modern period, western culture was broadly axiomatic. Now we’re ping-ponging between the other two.
This may seem a less-than-useful question to most. After all, we have come a long way from describing the point of art as depicting the good, the true, and the beautiful. That conception went out the window with modernism. We can't say what's good and we doubt the existence of an objective truth – the Munchhausen Trilemma tends to rear all three of its ugly heads when we do that – and beauty is, and always has been, in the eye of the beholder.
But we can ask what puts beauty there. Art calls for a response from the audience, and it isn't always a pleasant one. Edgar and I have both succumbed to the pleasures of hate-reading a story or hate-watching a movie or television show. As much as we despise the media we are exposing ourselves to, it becomes difficult to look away. I know this phenomenon is not unique to us, and so I feel this is a good place to anchor my thoughts.
Let me attempt: there exists a category of experiences that can be called “complex pleasures”. Complex pleasures are feelings that are not necessarily good or bad, but which you find yourself drawn into for reasons other than necessity or biological/chemical dependency. It may be a wholly unpleasant experience, like the complex pleasure of gawking at the grotesque spectacle of a car accident. It may be transcendentally beautiful, for a time filling your mind with reflections and refractions of the object of beauty, such as dawn breaking over the mountains or sunset over the ocean. It isn't about how pleasant it is, it's about the compulsion (possibly a very weak compulsion, but a compulsion nonetheless) to experience it – and fulfilling this compulsion brings pleasure, even if the experience itself isn't pleasant.
This is where aesethetic value comes from: something can be said to have aesthetic value when it leads to an opportunity to experience complex pleasures.
If we insert this into our definition, we get: “something intentionally created, in larger part, to lead to complex pleasures instead of practical utility.” If we take this at face value, then we have to expand our list of what qualifies as art. Traditionally, the arts includes writing, music, painting, sketching, sculpture, drama, dance, as well as combined forms – sketching and writing to form the graphic novel; music and writing to form opera and all of its offspring genres, et cetera – but are there not other opportunities for these complex pleasures?
It pains me to admit that these might qualify as a statement piece. They’re so bad.
Fashion or fiber arts are often placed with the arts, but there's still a lack of acknowledgment. Clothing can often inspire a number of feelings in both the wearer and the viewer, a number of which qualify as complex pleasures. Consider the phenomenon of the “statement piece”, an article of clothing intended to “make a statement.” These are often intentionally ugly in a very particular way, and become otherwise when placed into a context. In short, these are a type of art, not just for the tailor or designer, but for the wearer or costumer who places it in context. Or, if this doesn't satisfy you, consider the anecdote about the sweater in David Sedaris's essay “Buddy, can you spare a tie?” in which he describes a garment he bought that looked as if it had been attacked by a wild animal:
The only expensive thing I actually wear is a navy blue cashmere sweater. It cost four hundred dollars and looks like it was wrestled from the mouth of a tiger. "What a shame," the dry cleaner said the first time I brought it in. The sweater had been folded into a loaf-sized bundle, and she stroked it the way you might a freshly dead rabbit. "Its so soft," she whispered.
In short, this is an example of a garment that inspires a complex pleasure in the viewer (the dry-cleaner, here.) For this woman, the garment is, in effect, a sartorial tragedy – not in the sense of it being a mistake or a miscarriage of construction, but in the sense that Hamlet is a tragedy.
Consider, also, the culinary arts. It's hard to imagine a tragic torte, isn't it? But much of the modern history of the culinary arts has been about retreating from spice and excess, leading to an emphasis on minimalism, presentation, and complex procedures performed by hand – the complex pleasure of knowing that the thing you are consuming represents several man-hours of labor, placed on a plate and given a drizzle of some expensive condiment. Of course, I have issues with this conception of what makes food good (it is, by definition, an exclusionary pleasure: not everyone can afford to enjoy those twelve-dollar asparagus spears, after all.) But consider, also, that context can elevate even a normal dish to an art form, just as placing something in the right setting can change it from a pedestrian photograph to a work of high art.
I originally referred to this as the tragedy test, but it seemed to me to be too eurocentric (tragedy being somewhat unique to the west before the global exchange of culture began.) And I struggled for a while to imagine the tragic in the culinary arts.
But consider meditating on the memory of the last meal you ate in your childhood home. The last slice of the pie your departed grandmother used to make. The last sandwich you ate at your favorite restaurant before it closed down and the upscale cupcake store moved into the same place. This context, of something beloved slipping into deep time and losing definition, makes the pleasure a complex pleasure. It makes the full meal, the slice of pie, the sandwich, into a work of art: an emotional performance with the foundation laid by the cook and enacted whenever you bring the memory back to mind.
There are other art forms, and I wish to touch upon one that has its roots in so-called “nerd culture.” I will not be treating video games, though I have many thoughts on that subject. I find the most vocal subculture around that medium to be odious and do not wish to give them attention here. Instead, I will be treating tabletop role-playing games.
The Twitter profile picture of Monte Cook, the man who designed the edition of Dungeons and Dragons that I started playing on, and who designed Invisible Sun, the game that is currently devouring my life.
I have been playing these games for more than half of my life, and I have a great deal of affection for them, but they dot not really resemble other games (there is no “winner” and no “loser”, nor are there necessarily end-conditions, for example,) nor do they resemble a performance (having an audience is actually detrimental to successfully playing the game, in my experience.) However, they are clearly artifacts of a producer, and they do lead to complex pleasures. By my litmus test, they qualify as art, and I think that this is a successful application of the test.
Consider, the medium for sculpture is stone or clay or wood; the medium for music is sound and time; the medium for writing is language. I would argue that the tabletop role-playing game takes as its medium the social contract. The game only works if the participants in it understand the functioning of the rules and trust one another to help the narrative – which none of them know beforehand, despite the tendency of many game masters to plan extensively – unfold. It requires trust, it requires an understanding of what are valid and invalid moves within the game – the constitution of which is contained within the rule books, but which must (by definition) go beyond the simple deployment of the tools put forward in the book. The fiction of the game is the result of the players abiding by the social contract.
Just as Chaucer and Shakespeare created works of art that changed their medium forever, I can imagine the people creating these games designing things that alter the social contract that forms the foundation for society. It will probably just be very slow to diffuse.
These are deeper weeds than I anticipated. Allow me to step back.
So, to our original list of arts – writing, music, painting, sketching, sculpture, drama, dance, as well as combined forms – we can add clothing, cooking, and the open-ended game. It's entirely possible that some mutant hybrid forms can be created by adding them to the list, though I'm not sure they would all qualify. Can edible clothing be art?
Does it lead to a complex pleasure? And, no, “eating and fornicating simultaneously” doesn't really count. Remember, for our definition, a complex pleasure needs to be something that leads to a (potentially weakly) compulsive engagement that doesn't feature a biological or chemical dependency.
And this is where you find the difference between pornography and erotica – which I must admit to not having much experience in the criticism of. But, based on what little I know the principle difference between the two is that the former leads to a simple pleasure of release, whereas the latter leads to something else, something more complex.
So we have a litmus test:
If we understand a complex pleasure to be something, pleasant or unpleasant, which leads us to want to re-experience it for reasons other than biological or chemical dependency then any artifact intentionally created more to lead to complex pleasures than for utilitarian purposes is art.
There is room for subjectivity here, but it's a subjectivity with backbone. However, I think it is improper to accept an idea without testing it. I invite anyone who can poke a hole in this test to do so in the comments.
Come on, I invite you to find fault with my test, if you can.
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