Once upon a time I was a writer/editor/co-owner of a now-deceased
arts and entertainment publication. Among many other things, we covered
the visual arts. For that reason, the town's visual artists regarded us
as a visual arts paper. Our competitors mentioned this to our
advertisers and questioned the wisdom of throwing money away to reach
the pitiful segment of readers who cared about that snooty art crap. (As
opposed to the unbelievable results achieved by advertising in their
papers, which appealed to rich people who bought shiny things and
working class slobs who went to titty bars, as the case may be.) Thus,
our doom was sealed. But before that day, along with editorials and news
features about architecture, jazz, rock, electronic music, poetry,
fiction, drama, dance, performance art, stand-up comedy, photography and
cartooning, we printed pieces about paintings and sculpture. Strange as
it may seem, our town's visual arts community actually cared about what
we wrote. And that wasn't always fun.
So this thing happened. Some time in the early 1990s.
Here's the background ...
An
artist who shall remain forever unnamed had landed a major public art
commission. Whenever this happened, a large chunk of the artists who got
passed over inevitably howled. Their objections broke down to: (A)
Hair-splitting analysis of the decision-making process. (B) Accusations
that the decision-making process was inherently flawed or corrupt. (C)
Accusations that the decision-making process had not been followed to
the letter of the law. (D) Assertions of the incompetence or corruption
on the part of the decision makers. (E) Assertions that the art selected
sucked. (F) Assertions that the artist chosen was a rotten artist, a
rotten human being, or not from around here. (G) You didn't pick my art,
goddamnit! That was of course the subtext. But never mentioned.
One
artist gets the Golden Ticket. The rest of the arts community turns
into a mob of peasants with torches. If the howls got loud enough, the
public sector often said, "This ain't worth the hassle" and pulled the
plug on the whole damn thing.
That's the context of
that thing that happened. The unpleasant conversation you're about to
read. The one I had with that unnamed artist I'd mentioned earlier.
I'd
been doing a news piece on that artist's public art commission. We're
talking 600 words, tops. Not a softball piece. More like a nerfball
piece.
The blahblah committee awarded the blahblah commission to
blahblah. The piece is called whatever. This is what it's made of.
Here's where it's going to go.
I'd made a couple of
phone calls gathering, what do you call 'em, facts. Evidently one of my
sources was the artist's friend but not mine. They'd informed their pal
that a reporter had called. Asking reporter-type questions. And they
gave the artist my name.
And so the artist called me.
(I
found all this out later. A few days after this incident, the artist's
friend, being a lousy spy, asked if the artist ever called me. At the
time I didn't have a clue. Sorry if I'm getting ahead of myself.)
Anyway ...
It
was 9:30 in the bloody evening or thereabouts. Lacking staff, money or
resources, we worked a lot of late night hours, kids. Such was the case
with me. Yep, there I was in the office, typing away, all alone in the
world like Mr. Magoo in that Christmas special.
Ring, ring.
Why, it's the phone. Who the hell's calling me this late? It must be someone who likes me!
Like an idiot, I picked it up.
It was the artist. I recognized their voice. The artist introduced themselves anyway.
The
artist proceeded to inform me that they'd discovered I was writing a
hatchet job about their public art commission. I assured them I was not.
(Actually, I was working on that very item when the phone interrupted
me. Like the artist
knew. Rrrrrrreal freaking creepy.) In a
display of rare fake humility, the artist said OK, maybe I spoke out of
turn, maybe it's not a hatchet job, but I know for a fact you're writing
a column about my commission, so stop dancing around. I asked how they
knew. But that was none of my business. And if it
was a hatchet
job, they wouldn't take it lying down. The artist pointed out that there
were laws concerning slander and libel. Having seen several "Paper
Chase" episodes, I gave them the benefit of my profound legal expertise.
After mentioning this little thing called "freedom of the press," I
drew the artist's attention to the "absence of malice standard" and
assured them that my blurb was malice free -- adding that the question
was irrelevant anyway, as it was a factual news item, not an opinion
column. The artist told me that they would be the judge of that and
demanded I show them the copy before it was printed so they could
determine its factual accuracy and malice-freeness. I told the artist I
couldn't do that.
"Why not?"
"It's prior restraint."
"Prior restraint?"
Offended.
This hack on the other end of the line spouting these hifalutin words like he knows what it's talking about.
I started explaining what "prior restraint" mean. But the artist cut me off.
"I know what it means! I want to see your copy, OK?"
"No."
"NO?!"
"No, it isn't OK. I can't let you see it."
"I've been stabbed in the back before!"
"I'm not going to --"
"Oh, your intentions are good! Oh, I know! Yeah, you're a nice guy. Fine. But you'll put words in my mouth!"
"No I won't."
"No. But you'll screw something up or twist it around because you don't know what you're talking about."
"I know what I'm talking about."
"How? You went to art school?"
"Research."
"Research?"
"I called and asked questions."
"You called and asked questions, now you're an expert?"
"I never said --"
"A few phone calls? That gives you the right to judge my art?"
"The Constitution --"
"Don't tell me about the goddamn Constitution."
"Look, I did my research, I checked my facts, that's all I'm going to say."
"Uh-huh. So I'm just supposed to trust you?"
"I'm just doing my job."
"What gives you the right?"
'"Hey, I'm sorry if it pisses you off but the United States --"
"Oh
you've got the right. You and your girlfriend can print anything you
want in that rag. You own it, right? But who says you know what the hell
you're talking about?"
"Nobody. I'm a journalist. Maybe --"
Maybe lousy, maybe good. If I know what I'm talking about, the readers keep reading. If I'm full of shit, they stop.
Of course I didn't get that far. My mouth got to the "M" sound in maybe. Maybe.
The
artist cut me off. With this noise blasting out at me from the
receiver. Half laugh, half shriek. A loud squawk on the line like a wild
blue heron with its bird balls caught in a threshing machine. Words
fail me.
"Journalist!!??"
More crazy noises beyond phonemic description.
"You're a journalist? You? Seriously? Who says?"
I mentioned that freedom of speech thing again.
"That's
bullshit," the artist said. "A doctor needs a license to practice
medicine, an architect needs an architect's license, an engineer needs
an engineering license, a goddamn hairdresser needs a hairdressing
license, but any idiot with a computer and access to a printing press
can call himself a 'journalist.' You guys should be licensed!"
My reply was, "Hominah hominah hominah." Or words to that effect.
The
artist expanded on their thesis. In a perfect world, not just any idiot
could start a paper or call themselves a reporter. Only trained and
certified idiots would have that right. Like any modern professional,
journalists should be licensed and held to certain standards. There
should be a mandatory term of study, a test and a licensing review
board. If, at the end of the process, you were deemed qualified, you'd
get a license to practice journalism. If not, you could keep your
opinions to yourself. Police raids would doubtlessly haul off unlicensed
reporters to more productive labor on the chain gang.
This from a card-carrying, flaming liberal who marched in protest rallies.
"Journalist licenses? You seriously think that?"
"Yeah, I seriously do. Show me the copy."
"No."
"Fine. You fuck this up you'll be fucking sorry."
SLAM!
"I'm
sorry now, OK? And while we're on the subject, how'd you like it if you
had to get an artist's license before you made a fucking painting or
sculpture you hypocritical --"
But I didn't actually say that.
The puffball piece ran. As-is.
The
readers, God bless 'em, continued to love us. But they weren't paying
for the paper. The advertisers were. And they eventually stopped.
.jpg)