I DON'T APPROVE OF YOU OR YOUR LIFESTYLE
Modern Art for Descending Masses
BY JASON GANTENBERG I JULY 2, 2008
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A DRUNK AND FATIGUED MAN DOING HIS DUTY |
I've got about an hour and a half to pound this thing out, which should be plenty of time for someone without a crippling internet addiction and the will power to disengage the information tubes when the time has come to Work, but since I'll be toggling between my own self-important rubbish and the hourly meteorological literatures, I'm going to be cutting it pretty close to the wire. It's a good thing my confidant and Sloth Jockey co-founder Blake Mikol had the foresight to take down the minutes for Warren Ellis' talk on Friday night—a Q&A panel discussion that spanned the better part of three hours and culminated in a delirious Ellis posing bleary-eyed for pictures with some of his adoring fans—or you might be reading about the potential repercussions of the coming ice age. I would be, as my high school physics teacher used to say, up the proverbial estuary with no visible means of propulsion.
Warren Ellis possesses an uncommon popularity within his field insomuch as many of his fans are probably more intelligent than your average superhero aficionado. Billed as a neo-futurist, the major themes in his work often have something to do with the evolution of technology, many times into forms that highlight the sexual masochism and voyeuristic tendencies of modern day culture. Political story arcs unsurprisingly often revolve around an Orwellian sense of dread and paranoia that our legal governing bodies will one day devolve into something resembling all too closely the police states depicted in any given work of dystopian fiction. Pick your poison, as they say. What the reader truly sees is that Ellis, like others before him, is using the future to relay a commentary very much grounded in follies of the present day. His ideas, especially in Transmetropolitan, could be described as ultra-liberal peacenick trash for those of you still on Dick Cheney's mailing list, which is one big reason I think whoever labeled Warren as a neo-futurist doesn't quite understand futurism as an artistic movement.
Anyone who has read the Futurist Manifesto would have no choice but to agree with me. The Industrial Revolution of the early twentieth century is a movement that we have lived through in many respects, as its effects were not unlike those of the Information Revolution that began with the advent of computer technology. The unprecedented growth of the industrial sector spurred a litany of advancements both trivial and profound, and because the Industrial Revolution was largely fueled by World War I for a span of time, many innovations were military in nature. One would have to go back to the Renaissance to find a comparable period of expansion in human history, and tied into the aggressive, militaristic tone of this vast industrial mushroom cloud were the Futurists.
Founded by F.T. Marinelli, the Italian Futurists embraced many of the more violent aspects of the industry burgeoning around them. They made references to constant war, and even if live performances were marked by mischievous yet playful pranks on an unsuspecting audience, most of the Futurist literature I've read is typified by the sort of fervent malice that is, sadly, all too familiar to the nationalistic tripe coming from our own modern day political war parties. Marinelli and Company's obsession with the future had less to do with commenting on their contemporary climate than it did with looking forward to an era of constant strife. One might make the argument that the Futurists were simply anticipating a return to Darwinian existence via technological surge, but they exhibited far too much glee in the proposition of conquest for that to be the case.
The distinction is there to stay, though, for Warren Ellis—right or wrong and regardless of any historical context that proves relevant. It's just that I threw up a little in my mouth when one eager member of the audience approached the microphone and called Ellis a neo-futurist as if that was any different than calling Bob Dylan a neo-Nazi or George Pullman a humanist.
But let's curb this talk of modern art before we bog ourselves down in snarky anecdotes about Dada or Cubism and roust Marcel Duchamp from his sleep. He might need to use the Fountain, and I for one don't know where it is.
I scribbled this about comic book geeks in my little black book shortly before Warren Ellis took the stage:
It's clear to me that these people are all, in a very literal sense of the word, winners. Perhaps not by conventional reasoning, and perhaps many of them practice hubris as a way of life. But almost nowhere in the world will you encounter a mass of freaks, geeks, and sociopaths this comfortable and proud to be the societal outliers that they are.
There is a certain arrogance that comes with the turf. Part of me finds this necessary, or if not necessary, then an expected defense mechanism bred from constant scrutiny by their peers and a lifetime's worth of jocks. |
The crowd in the Stephen E. Gerber room, by most accounts, was a pretty tough one—laced with scrutiny and vitriol for anyone with the balls to gum the microphone and throw a stammered question at the Guest of Honor. At one point, a stocky, bald-headed character began screaming at someone in his proximity, prompting Ellis to yell, "Shut up and sit down, or get the fuck out." The thing could have gotten ugly pretty quickly, but for the most part, any aggression was filtered through the sarcastic, shitty grimaces of the comic world's bourgeoisie.
And why not? There's nothing that bolsters the ego quite like picking off a few weaklings in front of a crowd and heckling them into submission.
Preliminary reports from my contacts in attendance that night indicate at least one instance of the fat bastard two rows back rolling his eyes all the way through my own stuttered question. I won't elucidate the contents of my public interaction with Warren Ellis suffice it to say I must have looked like a brain damaged coot through the first part of it managing to salvage what little dignity I had left in the end with a more or less coherent inquiry as to Hunter S. Thompson's reaction once he recognized some of himself in Spider Jerusalem. After all, Thompson did threaten to set Gary Trudeau on fire for the Doonesbury character Uncle Duke, which might make a more skittish writer loath to test the courage of Hunter's convictions.
Most of the questions thrown at Ellis were standard fare-type hogwash.
What advice do you have for aspiring writers? Who are your favorite writers? Please tell me to fuck off.
Work in a couple of specific questions regarding Planetary or Desolation Jones, and the night ended off on a rather entertaining note even if watching Ellis suck down cigarettes made me want to douse the fucker in kerosene. One must have at least a modicum of clout to have a Q&A panel discussion somehow billed as performance art. They don't buy that shit off of just anybody.
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