Long ago, before the earth cooled—well actually in 1963— I, as a college student, took a summer long vacation in Europe. It began in London as a bicycling tour. For reasons I don’t remember, this included a side trip to the Tate museum.
In any event, I was blown away. Prior to this, I had never heard of J.M.W. Turner. Yet there he was in all of his glory. His seascapes were magnificent. They struck me as an incandescent version of what would later become French impressionism.
This summer, when my wife and I travelled to England, I was determined to recapture the delight of that encounter. Yet before we could do so, we were touted on the splendor of the new Tate. Dubbed the Tate Modern, it had become the cynosure of sophisticated eyes.
And so Linda and I joined the crowds. This, I am sure, will be to her eternal dismay. For I was not a happy camper—and my incessant grumbling let her know it. What I observed was appalling. The days when I enjoyed a honeymoon with modern art may be in the distant past, but, in this case, I loathedwhat I witnessed.
My disenchantment began when we entered a room dedicated to the grandeur of a urinal. I am not exaggerating. There, in the center of the room, in a glass case, sat a urinal that had been acclaimed cutting edge art a century ago. To me, this was merely a grubby toilet fixture.
The next space was entirely dedicated to automobile bumpers from which untidy wool seemed to be hanging. The accompanying description, however, told me that this was human hair. To my eye, it was as if a slovenly toddler had failed to pick up after herself subsequent to destroying her mother’s knitting.
After this came a room in which a television camera was focused on an egg. The image was simultaneously captured on an adjacent TV set. That’s it. This too was portrayed as fine art. Meanwhile across the way stood another television screen displaying a distorted version of Richard Nixon delivering a speech.
By now I was beside myself. Where was the skill in any of this? Where was the beauty, the design, the composition? How was this an aesthetic experience? Obviously the traditional elements were totally absent. A single high “concept” evidently replaced them.
And what was this concept? It is that ordinary people—especially the middle classes—are beyond contempt. They are patently crass, insensitive, and unworthy of higher pursuits. Nonetheless, here they were trooping by to be insulted—and thereby exalted.
The artists, on the other hand, demonstrated their moral superiority. They doubtless exhibited unrivaled insights into the human condition. In their arrogant liberalism, they held up a mirror to underscore the crudeness of anyone who did not share their sensibilities.
In fact, this was pretentious nonsense. It exemplified ignorant and untalented frauds pretending to be nobler than the ordinary ruck of humankind. Sadly, this also unmasked contemporary progressivism in it rawest form. All egotism, with little genuine discernment, it sneered at anyone who disagreed.
And yet the public was eating it up. How was this possible? How could so many people be fooled into believing this pastiche of insolent drivel was avant garde? How could they assume that a compendium of condescension held the key to a brighter future?
It is not as if the old Tate had disappeared. It is still there. Now rechristened the Tate Britain, the Turner’s that were its former glory remain its current glory. The John Singer Sargent’s, Anthony van Dyke’s and John Constable’s are not bad either. Old verities do not vanish when they are shouldered aside by vulgar novelties. They persist as a foundation upon which we could build—were this our desire.
The world does not stand still. There are always new discoveries to make. There are always fresh challenges to overcome. But this does not confer legitimacy upon imposters to who boast of knowledge they do not possess. Their conceit is no substitute for authentic understanding.
Liberalism is not only wrong; it is disastrously wrong. It is insufferably obtuse and inherently mean spirited. It does not love ordinary people; it hates them. It does not bring people together; it tears them apart. So I say: Yeah, Tate Britain; Yeah, J.M.W. Turner. Let’s not disparage their validity.
Melvyn L. Fein, Ph.D.
Professor of Sociology
Kennesaw State University
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