Reverberations

On the phone this morning, my dad mentioned that he'd been mulling over my assessment of Haydn's string quartets, in which I suggested that they're pleasant, bright works, but without a great deal of depth, or strength. Dad agreed, ultimately, in spirit, but suggested a rewording: that they're works that can be used to foster joy - which, of course, is no small thing.

A few hours after that, while Cleo, her mommy, and her maternal grandparents were up in Havre de Grace visiting relatives, I plunked myself down in the sun and read a few of Max Kozloff's 1960s reviews for The Nation, in preparation for a talk on the subject that I'll be giving in Chicago, in February. And so I was delighted to come across his analysis of Bonnard's paintings, in a 1964 essay:

"Despite the boundless affection engendered by the art of Bonnard and despite the shivers of pleasure it has given countless spectators, no one has ever quite had the nerve to place him among the greatest artists of the twentieth century. It is as if a naked, sensuous joy had in the end to be discounted as vessel for proper genius..."

That's about right, I think. Bonnard is not really Haydn - he's more like a cross between Saint Francis, Matisse, and Marco Bartoli - but, yes, perhaps we all too often overlook joy as an end in itself. Canons and talk of greatness may have a place in certain contexts. But sheer pleasure that stems from art must have a place in others.