Head in the Clouds

Merely a critic, but still with delusions of grandeur

Sitting somewhere between the weighty, scholarly work and the coffee table art book, Peter Conrad's Creation, as with Modern Times, Modern Places which preceded it, is nothing short of encyclopedic when it comes to modernism in particular, and the arts in general. A formidable critic, Conrad ranges vastly across literature, painting and music, and, in particular, his transcription of modern classical music into words is spectacularly crea­tive. The sheer weight and exuberance of it is beguiling. But it's a display of linguistic fireworks that dazzles but doesn't linger.

In his review of Clive James' recent self-proclaimed magnum opus Cultural Amnesia, Conrad suggested that James' book flaunted his encyclopedic know­ledge of the arts while going frus­tra­tingly round in circles. On reading Creation, this may be a case of the pot calling the kettle black. While on one hand we can be awe-struck at the breadth of material Conrad uncovers and applies to the theme of creativity, on the other hand the endless parade becomes overwhelming. To read it in lengthy sittings is to become punch-drunk. Or bedazzled. And like the under­grad student who thinks a mere colla­tion of material makes for an argument, it seems as if, in each chapter, Conrad decides upon a sub-theme of 'creation' and then simply makes a great list of everything he can find relating to that theme ("I pricked up my ears when­ever someone used the word I was thinking about").

Creation: Artists, Gods and Origins Peter Conrad (Thames and Hudson)

All this information is marshalled to bolster the rather flimsy and flippant conclusion that artists have replaced God. In exploring what creation means in artistic terms, Conrad's aim is also to rescue creation from the Creator. ("This book is celebration of art that doubles as a critique of religion".) Creation abounds with pronouncements that have all the force of religious doctrine ("art is Dionysian") but that require further scrutiny. When it comes to God, these pronouncements become almost ludicrous: Oppenheimer (co-creator of the atom bomb) "over-ruled God's will" in splitting the atom; Jules Verne "inverted Genesis". Conrad's sly wit is obviously at work when he writes that Balzac worked harder than God, so we can only wonder if his state­ment that God instructed animals to procreate but didn't expect them to enjoy it is tongue-in-cheek. Likewise his inference that the "staid" and "naïve" Christian God doesn't like dancing. This is, however, typical of his general attitude. All that's missing is for him to suggest, straight-faced, that God is old, has a long beard and rides on a cloud. Despite all his research, G.K. Chesterton seems to be the last and only modern religious writer he has read.

Conrad's description of Charles Baudelaire's work as "witty blasphemy" could equally apply to his own. In this work, and Modern Times, Modern Places, he revels in what Peter Gay, in his own history of modernism, calls the "lure of heresy". "The failure of religion gave art a new elation, a witty deviancy", Conrad writes. But his understanding of religion is questionable. This rebel­lion is like that of the bold but ignorant teenager who rebels against parents he fails to get to know. As Chesterton notes of nihilism, this is merely immaturity. And like the militant atheists with whom Conrad here is often aligned, who can't help be defined by (their opposition to) religion, so much of modern twen­tieth century art, while trying to usurp God, can't help but dialogue with Him (just look at how much of the art Con­rad here puts on show is a reworking of the creation and other religious stories). Although modern art tries to "make it new", it is a constant reaction to Christian story and symbolism.

Despite the seeming death of God and triumph of materialism, art con­stantly shows us that we have a need for transcendence. The title of the recent TV series How Art Made the World indicates, aping Conrad, that we are all too willing to make art the ultimate transcendence. Art galleries are the new cathedrals, we are told. But art can never be a prime mover. Picasso, while undoubtedly a genius and an innovator, admitted he simply read the times well. Art, remarkable as it can be, is a product and reflection of the world. To suggest the reverse is to be like Icarus, with one's head in the clouds, and at risk of crashing back to earth.

by Nick Mattiske