Disco balls don’t just magically appear. People place them to set the scene.
(This is the second in a three part series. For PART 1, start HERE.)
To millions of people, Taylor Swift’s The Eras Tour presents itself as a repudiation of all that’s unpleasant or intractable about daily life. Wrapped up in pop-propelled grooves and glitter, this is the sand in which many human ostriches seemingly want to stick their heads. And why not? I’m no Swifty, but I understand the immediate appeal. Why watch cities burn when you can dance, dance, dance?
If you think that’s glib, it isn’t meant to be. Everyone wants to believe in a dazzling day and a sparkling night at least some of the time. The unspoken promise of The Eras Tour is that if this kind of scintillating dreamscape can even exist at all in a time of intense global turmoil, maybe things really aren’t so bad.
The title of this three-part series is not “The Coming Darkness”. I’m suggesting instead that darkness looms like a cloud, like something lurking, waiting, and potent. Real and lasting darkness is a genuine possibility— a strong one—but certitude would confer a sense of hopelessness. For the moment, at least, I’ve not yet abandoned all hope, although I’ll confess that it’s fading fast. The Eras Tour along with similar confections distracts people from the looming shadows with bright spectacle and adolescent fun. I can’t even affix blame here. Nobody wants to be glum.
But let’s not pretend. Hiding in plain sight just outside the concert venues are shockingly vocal, vibrantly active entities working hard to usher in an enveloping darkness. Daily we are suffused by many who seem to pursue bellicose self-absorption over the harder but more sustaining work of finding constructive ways to live together. Democratic stability teeters on a knife’s edge, and the risks of collapse have never been more perilous. Hundreds of thousands flock to Swift’s shows, suggesting a similarity of tastes and mores, yet communities everywhere have simultaneously fallen into shouting matches about banning books. Fights rage about whether scientific data really points to climate change, not to mention a lack of political motivation to do something meaningful about it. People continue to argue if vaccines should be mandated, regardless of how well science can explain how vaccination makes everyone healthier.
She may not be my jam, but I’ve got nothing wrong with Taylor Swift. As Paul Simon famously put it, “Every generation throws a hero up the pop charts.” My concern has to do with a culture that seems determined to distract itself to a point of soporific inaction. Your social media accounts are the microscopic analogue to Swift’s macroscopic live show. Largely a distraction from daily life, your Instagram feed pretends to be your tether to a larger world, when in fact it’s often little more than the elusive glint of a shiny object, a silvery fish darting beneath the liquid surface of reality.
Art, alternatively, presents a counter-narrative. While some art will always fetch a bunch of money—and reasonable people can debate elsewhere whether Swift’s music qualifies— most is simply about finding a way to make sense of the world. As a cultural expression, art therefore becomes a mechanism to enable people to share ideas outside the realm of material transactions or direct expressions of power. For those casually cruising on the Swift boat, the common theme appears to be escape from quotidian worries while endlessly searching for the perfect paramour. Wars rage, pandemics lurk, xenophobia rises, climate boils, but hey! We could always push the furniture back and dance in the living room, right?
Creative work literally becomes priceless because it emerges into the world without a price. It has a cost, of course. Paint doesn’t come for free. But where some people may pay a price to purchase a piece of creative work, it’s a true statement to say that no symphony nor painting nor sublime piece of poetry ever fed a hungry family after a deluge destroys their home. In a purely economic sense, art has no value at all. At the same time, I cannot imagine a world without symphonies and paintings and poetry, just as I cannot imagine a world without food, or the impetus to help those who don’t have any.
All this becomes backdrop to the massive transformation that literally remade how the world functions. We’ve all effectively achieved super powers since the start of the 21st century. Everyone has information on demand, anywhere and everywhere. Science delivered sophisticated protections against a new, deadly virus, whether you believe in those protections or not. People have the ability to be in instantaneous communications with anyone anywhere, basically all the time.
Based on these and thousands of other examples, one might think that technology is the means to pull humanity out of whatever morass into which it may have fallen. It’s as if your ability to Google an answer promises you the world of your own making. To millions of people, the whole idea of “art” is either a way a person may choose to spend precious free time (“Let’s see: museum or ball game?”), a luxury (“$400 for concert tickets?”), or simply a source of irrelevance (“Boring!”).
Perhaps. But where advancements of technical capability may be the stuff of magic to anyone who lived in earlier times it’s hardly a rudder to healthier, more stable cultures. We may “do more” in our lives now than ever before, but do we “live better”? We have neither abandoned war, nor embraced a sense of mutual respect and commitment. In our persistently connected electronic webs, we are more isolated than ever, with loneliness a newly pervasive cause for physical and emotional decline in many people. We’re isolated, less well informed, and yet overwhelmed with just keeping up. As if to illustrate the point, studies suggest that people are even having sex less often than in the past.
As usual, we turn to technology for comfort, and as usual, technology distracts us from actually finding something that comforts us.
Students are often first responders to this tension. Filled with the energy of youth, limited material bonds, and the self-declared certitude that’s only possible before life’s complexities have fully imposed themselves, students typically assert they know how things should be. Sometimes they erect barricades; sometimes they create ideas. Sometimes both.
Pure, righteous indignation doesn’t generally add constructively to discourse, but youthful passion cannot be ignored, and neither should the availability of moral investment. Passion germinates seeds of creative work, and it is up to us who are older and perhaps more experienced to help steer this energy away from the barricades and into more lasting expressions.
This is the fulcrum upon which the whole concept teeters. Those more lasting expressions may never get a chance to grow if the looming darkness descends. Right now the looming darkness appears to feed on self-interest and aggrieved anger, with countless messages reinforced every day that life is all about competition of one sort or another, an inward focus rather than an outward focus. If the most fundamental lessons we teach young people ultimately reduce to pursuits of self-interested “win” scenarios, it’s inevitable that local and global trends toward belligerence and hostility will continue. When everyone is a competitor, everyone becomes a risk. When everyone becomes a risk, everyone becomes an obstacle. When the goal of the day ultimately comes down to overcoming obstacles of once sort or another, society begins to dismantle support for civil liberties, privacy, and freedom of thought. Said more crudely, this process describes a descent into the most brutish aspects of survival of the fittest. In a world where survival itself becomes the dominant value, limited beauty can grow. Where beauty withers, souls wither, too.
A culture built of people who largely measure their days by how well they’ve advanced their status relative to others suggests a general hostility, a repudiation of life in favor of something even more transient. Nonetheless it may feel oddly twee to promote the importance of art in the face of looming darkness. Basic necessities like food, water, health care, and shelter easily supersede art in the daily hierarchy of need. I’ll suggest instead that this is precisely the leverage that makes art not only relevant, but essential. A culture built of people invested in creative enterprise is a culture that cares about building connections. Creative expressions almost always reach out. By its very nature art does not insulate itself from interaction; it pursues interaction. In times like these, when identity politics and political polarization press our self-interested faces into hand-held screens, the value of shared experiences becomes not simply a luxury, but a campfire on a bitterly cold night.
All creative work that requires more than a single person must, to some degree, contend with coercive market forces. Your four piece garage band can’t play in the local pub unless the pub owner knows who you are, likes how you sound, and agrees to promote you instead of some else. That’s true for big enterprises, too, but as creative work scales up in size, the potential for personal connections does not move commensurately. Big events like The Eras Tour are most certainly the product of many creative, inventive people involved in a massive creative project. I like a big show once in a while, too, and I’m not at all begrudging those who liked Swift’s. (Truth in reporting: I didn’t see it.) I also think it would be absurd to suggest malevolent actors steer her show and other similarly massive events in order to stupefy the proletariat in order to keep them under control. (Although depending on who comes to power next year, that may start to change.)
But events like The Eras Tour remind me of “Feelies” in Aldus Huxley’s Brave New World. Whether the effect was a design intention or an inevitable by-product, shows like Eras take on aspects of industrialized social engineering. They’re so large and expensive relative to other creative works that they tend to crowd out other artistic expressions from mainstream conversation. They require so much money, time, and resources, and also ingest an outsized proportion of collective attention, that they inadvertently appear to challenge the idea that most people aren’t interested in art or creative work. “That show was massive! And those screens and costumes were unbelievable!” My concern is that despite all of the apparent skill necessary to create something like Eras, it begins to act as a group-think means for centralizing thought, for pressing art out of the public’s attention. With vast audiences swept up in an all-enveloping arena experience that begins weeks prior to the event with the frenzy of simply getting a ticket, the cultural conversation becomes more monotonic. I’m sure that Taylor Swift the person is a person just like anyone else (if, perhaps, ridiculously more famous) but Taylor Swift the commercial invention is something describing different forces.
All of this brings us back to the beginning. Millions of people want to be distracted from the pain of daily life. More pointedly, millions of people want a less painful daily life. Events like The Eras Tour purport to be pressure valves for the masses, a brief respite from the looming darkness. What they do not do, however, is change the conversation in any way that might shine a light into that darkness as an antidote.
There’s nothing wrong with wanting an escape, wanting to fantasize and live vicariously. But when those escapes start to erode any sustained efforts to push back on forces of repression, hostility, or isolation, they become mirrored rooms. We enter and see ourselves smiling back in the reflections. We enjoy the surreal surprise of all the reflected light, and delight in how the experience feels nothing like the grind of our day to day spaces. Then we return to those day to day spaces and burrow back in to our competitive, often agitated, often angry little grooves. We look at our screens, again. And again. Then again. In the meantime, darkness looms closer. Until we collectively determine to engage it head on, rather than distract ourselves and pretend the darkness won’t be so bad, it will grow.
If we don’t, then we’ll find out just how dark things can be.
Next month, I’ll publish the final installment of this series. Part III is called REGRESSION, and it goes live here on Monday, January 1. Mark your calendar for appointment reading! You can also As a reminder, FASTER THAN LIGHT (this blog, my friends) publishes on the first Monday of every month.