Lonnie Busch's Blog - Posts Tagged "houdini"

(Originally appeared in Crime Reads magazine in slightly altered form)

Houdini, maybe the most famous escape artist of all time, astonished audiences with his ability to shed shackles and chains (at times even bound by a straightjacket) while submerged in a tank of water without a breathing apparatus, the clock ticking, his very life on the line. It takes my breath away just thinking of it.

Most artists are “Houdinies” of a sort, illusionists able to free themselves from the shackles of convention, break through the rational boundaries of science, slip the straightjacket of logic. Nevertheless, many writers end up chained and shackled by another restraint: artistic bias. Detective novels, science fiction, horror, fantasy, romance, and just about anything else that isn’t considered “literary” is usually relegated to the category of Escapist Fiction, a term not often used favorably. Escapist Fiction helps us escape the mundane and terrifying aspects of our real world. But doesn’t all fiction, literary and otherwise, transport us temporarily from our everyday life? I mean, isn’t that kind of the point? Then why the distinction?

The Role of Art. What is the role of art? Well, from what I can gather, it is to reveal universal truths, plumb the depths of human suffering, teach us about ourselves and our proclivities, imbue our pointless lives with meaning, nothing short of saving the world! Is anyone or anything actually capable of such a Herculean task? Much art may actually realize some success in reaching these lofty goals, though art with the intent to “teach and save” from the outset usually falls prey to pretension and contrivance.

I doubt consumers of romance, thrillers, science fiction novels and cozy murder mysteries give one fig how literary criticism brands the fiction they love. But maybe they do. Regardless, the battle rages on between accessible fiction and erudite prose, the later believed to be some nefarious conspiracy to condescend and exclude, while the former is purely a commercial ruse to make a buck! And what’s at stake in this battle between escapism and true art, between hacks and heroes?

Absolutely nothing, except for the annihilation of art and books, the very thing we are supposedly devoted to defend! That’s what makes this argument so ridiculous. Is one side hoping to eradicate the other’s art from the planet? Do writing critics hope to obliterate the authors they don’t like, make them pay dearly for not checking the appropriate boxes, failing to deliver on the critic’s expectations? Can art possibly meet every individual expectation? Should it be expected to? And if it doesn’t satisfy an individual’s needs, is that art then a complete failure? Many critics believe it is, so secure in their conviction.

But are we missing some crucial point here? Does The Stand by Stephen King engage its readers any less than The Shipping News by Annie Proulx compels its own audience? And don’t they each have their own individual fans, as well as shared lovers of literature? And don’t both these authors harness their power through the imaginative manipulation of narrative and the masterful use of language? I do find it ironic that the erudite art world, as well as many casual readers these days, are very willing to construct a “caste” system to delineate the true artist from the fantastical escapist, the hero authors from the underserving hacks. Critical review by its very nature creates a system of division, an attempt to burn down work that doesn’t fit one’s own biases, while heralding those masterpieces which comport with their personal tastes and views. Critical review is never objective, based off a very narrow slice of ideals, preconceptions and prejudices; divided into those that fit one’s personal objectives. And those that don’t.

Somerset Maugham, in response to an American critic said: “I didn’t expect you to understand me. With your cold American intelligence you can only adopt the critical attitude. Emerson, and all that sort of thing. But what is criticism? Criticism is purely destructive; anyone can destroy, but not everyone can build up. You are a pedant, my dear fellow. The important thing is to construct: I am constructive; I am a poet.”

If you love Maugham’s work then you probably agree with him. But if you are not a fan, then Maugham is merely another hack who got the slamming he deserved. I personally think Maugham is one of the greatest writers ever. But if you’re reading this, you have no idea what I base my praise on, especially if you’ve never read his work. This is how the divide begins, and to what end?

For instance, does a simple painting of a red barn at some local art fair carry the same weight as the Mona Lisa? To the people who love the red barn, absolutely! And for them, may even carry more weight than the famous seated lady. Let’s face it, today’s masterpieces may have been yesterday’s mad ravings. Consider Vincent Van Gogh, whose brother owned a successful art gallery and couldn’t traffic enough of Vincent’s swirly creations for the poor painter to afford a latte, if they’d had them back then. I can only say this, that these artists—Leonardo da Vinci, Vincent Van Gogh, and the weekend painter—approached their subjects with the talent afforded them through grace and hard work, and a passion for finding what is true, whether in the mysterious smile of a curious and iconic woman, the tortured and magnificent brush strokes of a starry night, or the isolation of a long ignored red barn.

Maybe stepping back a moment to study this bickering and battle, we might find that it is born from a need for legitimacy, to feel worthy of our pursuit, either as artist or critic. Those of us who have dedicated our life to art in one way or another, want to feel that this irrational and often lonely enterprise—putting words to paper, paint to canvas, notes to scores—contributes in some practical way to humanity. After all, artists don’t build roads or cure diseases or unwrap the complex mysteries of the human genome. For artists, the planet Mars is an iconic device for a futuristic painting, a landscape for a fictional Armageddon, or part of a lyric, not an actual destination as it is for NASA. Parents rarely urge their children to become painters, writers or musicians.

Most of my career was spent as a freelance commercial illustrator, a fairly practical pursuit, even if my profession is marred by dubious intent. But commercial art made sense, had meaning. I made my client’s product look appetizing, magical, consumable, and they gave me money. No need to dig deeper. Not so simple with most other forms of real art. Its purpose is more furtive, unknowable.

William Kowalski, author of Eddie’s Bastard and The Best Polish Restaurant in Buffalo, said of my novel, The Cabin on Souder Hill, that it, “illustrates the power of the mind to overcome the dichotomy of what is rational and what is true.” Kowalski didn’t say it would save humanity, imbue our existence with meaning, or provide us the roadmap to world peace. And though it would have been impossible for me to elucidate my own intent behind my novel, I could not have imagined a more poignant and eloquent assessment of the result. Like the painter of the red barn, I was drawing upon the skills afforded me, and trying to remain faithful to what I believed was true.

I suppose we could all take a clue from Houdini, who spent his life “escaping” self-imposed manacles and constraints, not in order to save humankind or imbue anyone’s life with meaning, and maybe not even to delight and shock audiences with his amazing illusions, but rather to rail against the boundaries of his own being, to sacrifice himself to the magic and awe of his existence. No artist could hope to accomplish more.