Clement Greenberg, from 'Avant Garde and Kitsch' (1939)

Download 106,91 Kb.
Date conversion17.11.2016
Size106,91 Kb.
Allikas: Art and its Histories: A Reader. Ed by Steve Edwards, Yale University Press,

New Haven and London, 1999, pp.211-216

Clement Greenberg,

from 'Avant Garde and Kitsch' (1939)
Clement Greenberg (1909-94) became the leading figure in modernist criticism in the years from the end of the Second World War to the late 19605. In this post-war period Greenberg's writing was understood as advocating an intimate apprecia­tion of works of art that dispensed altogether with social determinants of artistic production and interpretation. His first major essay, 'Avant Garde and Kitsch' was, however, published in the New York based left-wing magazine Partisan Review. In this text, Greenberg employs, the term 'avant-garde' as the name for what was more commonly referred to as the 'modern movement': the increasingly autonomous artistic tradition which traced its own origins to French art of the mid-nineteenth century, and which, by the outbreak of the Second World War, seemed to have culminated in the abstract work of artists such as Mondrian and Miro. In this essay Greenberg saw kitsch (a kind of cheap item of entertainment) as the product of bourgeois culture in profound and terminal crisis. He believed, at this time, that avant-garde art was necessary to keep culture alive until a gen­uine socialism could create a new culture. (One note omitted.) [PW/SE]
Source: Clement Greenberg, from 'Avant Garde and Kitsch' (1939), reprinted in Clement Greenberg. The Collected Essays and Criticism, vol. I, Perceptions and Judge­ments 1939 —1944, John O'Brian, ed., University of Chicago Press, 1986, pp. 6—11

A society, as it becomes less and less able, in the course of its development, to justify the inevitability of its particular forms, breaks up the accepted notions upon which artists and writers must depend in large part for communication with their audi­ences. It becomes difficult to assume anything. All the verities involved by religion, authority, tradition, style, are thrown into question, and the writer or artist is no longer able to estimate the response of his audience to the symbols and references with which he works. In the past such a state of affairs has usually resolved itself into a motionless Alexandrianism, an academicism in which the really important issues are left untouched because they involve controversy, and in which creative activity dwindles to virtuosity in the small details of form, all larger questions being decided by the precedent of the old masters. The same themes are mechanically varied in a hundred different works, and yet nothing new is produced: Statius, mandarin verse, Roman sculpture, Beaux-Arts painting, neo-republican architecture.

It is among the hopeful signs in the midst of the decay of our present society that we — some of us — have been unwilling to accept this last phase for our own culture. In seeking to go beyond Alexandrianism, a part of Western bourgeois society has produced something unheard of heretofore: - avant-garde culture. A superior consciousness of history - more precisely, the appearance of a new kind of criticism of society, an historical criticism — made this possible. This criticism has not confronted our present society with timeless Utopias, but has soberly exam­ined in the terms of history and of cause and effect the antecedents, justifications and functions of the forms that lie at the heart of every society. Thus our present bourgeois social order was shown to be, not an eternal, 'natural' condition of life, but simply the latest term in a succession of social orders. New perspectives of this kind, becoming a part of the advanced intellectual conscience of the fifth and sixth decades of the nineteenth century, soon were absorbed by artists and poets, even if unconsciously for the most part. It was no accident, therefore, that the birth of the avant-garde coincided chronologically — and geographically, too — with the first bold development of scientific revolutionary thought in Europe.
True, the first settlers of bohemia - which was then identical with the avant-garde -turned out soon to be demonstratively uninterested in politics. Nevertheless, without the circulation of revolutionary ideas in the air about them, they would never have been able to isolate their concept of the 'bourgeois' in order to define what they were not. Nor, without the moral aid of revolutionary political attitudes would they have had the courage to assert themselves as aggressively as they did against the prevailing standards of society. Courage indeed was needed for this, because the avant-garde's emigration from bourgeois society to bohemia meant also an emigra­tion from the markets of capitalism, upon which artists and writers had been thrown by the falling away of aristocratic patronage. (Ostensibly, at least, it meant this — meant starving in a garret - although, as we will be shown later, the avant-garde remained attached to bourgeois society precisely because it needed its money.)
Yet it is true that once the avant-garde had succeeded in 'detaching' itself from society, it proceeded to turn around and repudiate revolutionary as well as bourgeois politics. The revolution was left inside society, a part of that welter of ideological struggle which art and poetry find so unpropitious as soon as it begins to involve those 'precious' axiomatic beliefs upon which culture thus far has had to rest. Hence it developed that the true and most important function of the avant-garde was not to 'experiment,' but to find a path along which it would be possible to keep culture moving the midst of ideological confusion and violence. Retiring from public altogether, the avant-garde poet or artist sought to maintain the high level of his art by both narrowing and raising it to the expression of an absolute in which all relativities and contradictions would be either resolved or beside the point. 'Art for art's sake' and 'pure poetry' appear, and subject matter or content becomes something to be avoided like a plague.
It has been in search of the absolute that the avant-garde has arrived at 'abstract' or 'nonobjective' art - and poetry, too. The avant-garde poet or artist tries in effect to imitate God by creating something valid solely on its own terms, in the way nature itself is valid, in the way a landscape — not its picture — is aesthetically valid; something given, increate, independent of meanings, similars or originals. Con­tent is to be dissolved so completely into form that the work of art or literature cannot be reduced in whole or in part to anything not itself.
But the absolute is absolute, and the poet or artist, being what he is, cherishes certain relative values more than others. The very values in the name of which he invokes the absolute are relative values, the values of aesthetics. And so he turns out to be imitating, not God — and here I use 'imitate' in its Aristotelian sense — but the disciplines and processes of art and literature themselves. This is the genesis of the 'abstract.' 1 In turning his attention away from subject matter of common experience, the poet or artist turns it in upon the medium of his own craft.
The nonrepresentational or 'abstract,' if it is to have aesthetic validity, can­not be arbitrary and accidental, but must stem from obedience to some worthy constraint or original. This constraint, once the world of common, extroverted experience has been renounced, can only be found in the very processes or disciplines by which art and literature have already imitated the former. These themselves become the subject matter of art and literature. If, to continue with Aristotle, all art and literature are imitation, then what we have here is the imita­tion of imitating. To quote Yeats:
Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence.

Picasso, Braque, Mondrian, Miro, Kandinsky, Brancusi, even Klee, Matisse and Cezanne derive their chief inspiration from the medium they work in.2
The excitement of their art seems to lie most of all in its pure preoccupation with the invention and arrangement of spaces, surfaces, shapes, colors, etc., to the exclu­sion of whatever is not necessarily implicated in these factors. The attention of poets like Rimbaud, Mallarme, Valery, Eluard, Pound, Hart Crane, Stevens, even Rilke and Yeats, appears to be centered on the effort to create poetry and on the 'moments' themselves of poetic conversion, rather than on experience to be con­verted into poetry. Of course, this cannot exclude other preoccupations in their work, for poetry must deal with words, and words must communicate. Certain poets, such as Mallarme and Valery, are more radical in this respect than others -leaving aside those poets who have tried to compose poetry in pure sound alone.
However, if it were easier to define poetry, modern poetry would be much more 'pure' and 'abstract.' As for the other fields of literature — the definition of avant-garde aesthetics advanced here is no Procrustean bed. But aside from the fact that most of our best contemporary novelists have gone to school with the avant-garde, it is significant that Gide's most ambitious book is a novel about the writing of a novel, and that Joyce's Ulysses and Finnegans Wake seem to be, above all, as one French critic says, the reduction of experience to expression for the sake of expres­sion, the expression mattering more than what is being expressed.
That avant-garde culture is the imitation of imitating - the fact itself- calls for neither approval nor disapproval. It is true that this culture contains within itself some of the very Alexandrianism it seeks to overcome. The lines quoted from Yeats referred to Byzantium, which is very close to Alexandria; and in a sense this imitation of imitating is a superior sort of Alexandrianism. But there is one most important difference: the avant-garde moves, while Alexandrianism stands still. And this, precisely, is what justifies the avant-garde's methods and makes them necessary. The necessity lies in the fact that by no other means is it possible today to create art and literature of a high order. To quarrel with necessity by throwing about terms like 'formalism,' 'purism,' 'ivory tower' and so forth is either dull or dishonest. This is not to say, however, that it is to the social advantage of the avant-garde that it is what it is. Quite the opposite.
The avant-garde's specialization of itself, the fact that its best artists are artists' artists, its best poets, poets' poets, has estranged a great many of those who were capable formerly of enjoying and appreciating ambitious art and literature, but who are now unwilling or unable to acquire an initiation into their craft secrets. The masses have always remained more or less indifferent to culture in the process of development. But today such culture is being abandoned by those to whom it actually belongs - our ruling class. For it is to the latter that the avant-garde belongs. No culture can develop without a social basis, without a source of stable income. And in the case of the avant-garde, this was provided by an elite among the ruling class of that society from which it assumed itself to be cut off, but to

xxii) Pablo Picasso, Bowl of Fruit, Violin and Wineglass, 1912, Philadelphia Museum of Modern Art, the A.E. Gallotin Collection. © Succession Picasso DACS 1998.

which it has always remained attached by an umbilical cord of gold. The paradox is real. And now this elite is rapidly shrinking. Since the avant-garde forms the only living culture we now have, the survival in the near future of culture in gen­eral is thus threatened.

We must not be deceived by superficial phenomena and local successes. Picasso's shows still draw crowds, and T. S. Eliot is taught in the universities; the dealers in modernist art are still in business, and the publishers still publish some 'difficult' poetry. But the avant-garde itself, already sensing the danger, is becom­ing more and more timid every day that passes. Academicism and commercialism are appearing in the strangest places. This can mean only one thing; that the avant-garde is becoming unsure of the audience it depends on - the rich and the cultivated.

1 The example of music, which has long been an abstract art, and which avant-garde poetry has tried so much to emulate, is interesting. Music, Aristotle said curiously enough, is the most imitative and vivid of all arts because it imitates its original - the state of the soul - with the greatest immediacy. Today this strikes us as the exact opposite of the truth, because no art seems to us to have less reference to some­thing outside itself than music. However, aside from the fact that in a sense Aristotle may still be right, it must be explained that ancient Greek music was closely associated with poetry, and depended upon its character as an accessory to verse to make its imitative meaning clear. Plato, speaking of music, says: 'For when there are no words, it is very difficult to recognize the meaning of the harmony and rhythm, or to see that any worthy object is imitated by them.' As far as we know, all music originally served such an accessory function. Once, however, it was abandoned, music was forced to withdraw into itself to find a constraint or original. This is found in the various means of its own composition and perform­ance.
2 I owe this formulation to a remark made by Hans Hofmann, the art teacher, in one of his lectures. From the point of view of this formulation, Surrealism in plastic art is a reactionary tendency which is attempting to restore 'outside' subject matter. The chief concern of a painter like Dali is to represent the processes and concepts of his consciousness, not the processes of his medium.

The database is protected by copyright © 2016
send message

    Main page