In his appearances on shows like Dick Cavett’s, Norman Mailer often showed himself to be an immense ego. Especially while seated across from his ever contrasting, literary sparring partner, Gore Vidal. Mailer as curmudgeon and as one audience member yells, “chauvinistic,” was there to declare himself as his generations Hemingway, the ‘literary champion’ of the world. The master of American letters. Mailer was a great writer, he knew that and demanded the world know it as well. From an era when the writer was held in regard, many then read, television shows often had authors on to debate and discuss. Intellect aroused the audience, the written word satiated a sapiosexual majority.

Mailer was a violent man, in such a regard lazily described to be a man of his time. A cover if there ever was one for universally understood vileness. In his youth the charismatic emotional declarations of greatness steeled from his works that the reading public craved, was charming. His established wealth as a writer was enough to grant him a cultural pass, even after he nearly stabbed his wife to death. In an egotistical intoxicated rage expressed by a man who must be heard, whose opinion and own mind was all that mattered, he could lash out. Even against his own wife. To be prone to violent outbursts made him macho, was part of his character. His disdain for liberalism, women’s liberation especially and his thoughts on sex were of a singular perspective, his own. In his writing their was empathy for a man who would murder his wife, and in his book Prisoner of Sex, a self obsessed thesis into his thoughts on sexuality, sex and relationships. He was more than that as a writer, but it was very much part of him and his appeal. Mailer saw himself as a prizefighter, each word he wrote, a punch landed, his prose a fight. Belligerent and competitive. Often prone to fist fights beyond the page.

In today’s age of self-promotion the diatribe script from curmudgeon Mailer, would serve many modern ‘influencers’ and social media creatures well. Lesser intellects who invest in imagery and falsified bravado. On them it’s appealing to the audience seeking unabsorbable content. In Mailer’s time it was obnoxious and detracted from his otherwise appreciated talents. Today it’s grift worthy. Those looking for ideological or philosophical agreement or disagreement may find plenty in the pages of Mailer, rather than the false minds of content ‘creators’.

The young man, with talent and wealth whether material or otherwise, obscene arrogance is now embraced. ‘He knows his worth.’ It can be passed on as attractive. Part of the package, appealing. In fiction such a character may be written by implied deed, the deed of their own words. The swagger is understood to be alluring. An expression of a man in control, strong in will. Better than others.

In Justine Ettler’s The River Ophelia, her books Justine loves Sade. When we first meet Sade, named for Marquis de Sade of sadomasochism fame, he is described as handsome, physically attractive to Justine. He writes for Playboy magazine, but hates it. He is above such a magazine. He is cocky.

“The only people who think writing for Playboy constitutes an interesting occupation are people I meet at parties. People like you.”

Sade can afford to slap Justine with his words, She is already attracted to him and impressed by his status. He has told her how overqualified he is for his role as a writer, for such a magazine. Perhaps a generation or so earlier and Justine could have met Mailer at a party, smiling in lust as he described himself in such a manner. His youth, wit and self-determined greatness just as attractive. Sade has more tomorrow’s ahead, than yesterday’s behind him. Unlike the Mailer when he lost the crowd on Cavett’s show.

The fictional Sade did not try to murder Justine with a penknife at a party. He did however do just about everything else to her in the following tenure of their relationship. Sade is narcissistic, a sadist. Ettler writes a sexual and kinky world that does not pull any punches or spare detail. A prison for the books Justine to live in, abuse at the hands of a lover. A dysfunctional relationship that seems to suit him, just not her. An arrangement of power imbalances that youth, talent, perhaps wealth, can buy a man who wants to control and sexually harm his woman.

In 1995, when The River Ophelia was released it was met with condemnation. Downplayed by some as low brow “yuppy” smut. It took time for the gatekeepers of society and literature to digest the books meaning. It was not a celebration of S&M or abusive relationships, rather a warning. A vulgar perspective for the reader to gleam into. A generation later and E L James would produce her own version of a dominated relationship, thanks to Stephanie Meyers and her Twilight series the world got Fifty Shades of Grey. There a rich, young, handsome man could seduce a woman into obedience through contract. Absent of looking like Harvey Weinstein, in James’s fiction we get Christian Grey, or the fictionalized adaption of a real life Andrew Tate, only better looking. In that case maybe more like Tristan. Grey can afford confidence, to demand, to own and inflict pain and degrade. He is young, handsome and above all else, rich. The trifecta of HOT.

With such a trio of traits, the character is not an antagonist, he is to be desired. The soft core porn is an insert for the reader. It sold well. Spawned films and a culture for commercialised BDSM. A plasticised kink for the unimaginative, cosplay for bored lovers to make believe that they are ‘wild’. Sade is a grim reality in fictional form, the Mailer with his arrogance is the intellectual ego, and Andrew Tate exemplifies the uberinfluencer with his villainy but is the public example of a real Christian Grey. A closer to Tate version we can see in the film series, 365 Days. A trafficker, drug dealer with daddy issues, has generic tattoos on muscles, he kidnaps a woman and demands that she falls in love with him. She has a year to do so, hence the title. It doesn’t take her long. His arrogance is sold for charming, sexy. Above all it’s his wealth that romances the viewer. Sex at grandiose locations, numerous shopping montages and champagne parties each validates her love. A mega yacht, always a yacht. It’s ‘hot’. The message to young men, be rich, be arrogant, be the villain. To women, seek these qualities out in men.

Thirty years ago, when Ettler gave us her Sade it was not a celebration of such men. It was a warning. Over time, the subtext and nuance found in such literature became lost. After all, one must read to better understand perspectives. The world has moved beyond Twilight and Fifty Shades, piles of their discarded DVDs and books thrown away like soiled tissue paper now buried in thrift shop bins. Both however inspired in part the uptick in paranormal romantic fictions and in part the influencer bro cult online. Wealth at all costs, gamers, shitcoin grifters, podcast bros, and all of the above who cultivated the imagery of success and arrogance. A gross symbiosis of youth, wealth, cockiness and ‘rizz’ to be abused via disdain and inauthentic content creation. The modern reverence for and celebration of arrogance for its own sake.

To tell the world that you are great, you are better is part of the gimmickry. It lacks the authentic hubris of Mailer, none of his raw emotionalism is present. Instead they are entitled to it. In time, they too will age. They will disappear beneath plumes of powder, or enjoy the trappings of their wealth. A Pewdiepie ever after, only most lack his dignity. To be replaced by AI agents, the filters and insincerity only better. And more. But unlike Mailer, who despite his victims and crude hatreds, appeal to violence, he has a legacy. He was real, truly himself and inside the pages he wrote, we may read his mind, however flawed, there was talent. Pick your sadomasochists wisely, they tend to age worse than milk, maybe you will see them for who they really are. Do remember it was you, you alone who let them dominate your feed, mind, body. Let them inside of you.

To the young men, if youth is your singular asset remember it’s a poor investment. It degrades fast and if talent is the bedrock of your personality, weeds of such arrogance will isolate over time. Self-perceived greatness does not justify abuse and reckless behaviour. Violence and cruelty are never validated, even if they are egotistical tantrums from the self determined important. Wealth can buy a lot of things, not dignity. There was a time when that mattered to some. For the young ladies, what may be sexy now, hot, will fade. It may be exciting, that too fades just like the bruises and tears. In reality, Anastasia is more like Justine. Both prisoners of love and desire, not because of good men, just bad ones.

I am an artist therefore anything, I produce is art. Or, Anything I produce is accepted as art, therefore I am an artist. I pondered both outcomes, as I walked through the art gallery in the city. A combination of native works, landscapes that captured an Australia when it was a frontier, pioneers and ‘Aboriginals’ in an ancient land. Religious works of human whose eyes that looked beyond the viewer with empty gazes, golden orbs around their heads, immortalising them. To the paintings of important people or the aristocracy of the past and maritime moments, each done with passion, talent and an affection for subject or expression itself.

Then the cold minimalism of modernity, the cynical professionalism of studied art and sanctioned pieces. A pair of mannequins embedded with countless screws. An inferior piece to the non-gallery display found in the back lot of a country town, the creator Barry or Bazza. He lived out of a caravan with his own garden of scrubs. The Barry collection were in depth, detailed, creations from his deranged mind, crafted by hands that trembled between suicide and addiction. The imagined realisations of a brain floundering in the miasma of isolation and rage that came from dark shadows of a traumatic youth, followed by maturities regret. The nails, staples, bolts and screws that weighed down his mannequins were punctured with feeling, purpose, perhaps absent of design, rather impulses to form shape or expression. The heads wore such expressions, given life the sprays of canned paint and whatever tins that had enough coloured liquid in them to impress flesh on steel, features that had gained shape with every piece of sharp metal he punched into the mannequins.

The figures at the gallery looked as though they had been devised by committee, formed around an idea to copy Barry’s work, based on a vague description from a person who knew a person who once saw it. The “artist” appointed, given grant money to delegate tradesmen to implement ‘their imagination’. Void of anything other than the materials on display. Lifeless screws inserted into lifeless mannequins. It’s displayed, therefore it’s art. Barry’s work, likely sold as scrap metal once he died. Was not art, at least not sanctioned. Instead it’s the clutter and accumulated junk of a ‘nobody’, no art degree, no wine drinking admirers and no state government funding, only a measly dole check to help him buy weed and supplies.

Then the taxidermists monstrosity, the joined lower regions of two horses, hung as though in an abattoir. If found in the shed of a single man it would be seen as a red flag. Any who would pollute nature postmortem in such a manner must clearly be sick. Or so, we are told by media, by the experts to be wary of such behavioural signs. The morbid affection for dead things, the disdain of an animal, the Dr Moreau fascination of intermingling beast with beast, is degenerate in the extreme. But alas, when curated, and on display it becomes a fixture, to conjure conversation, to fascinate and be considered and explained in such a way that it is above all else, art. When I was in the meat industry, a slaugherman had created similar works by sewing pieces of animals together. His bloody and sticky hands, lacing the dead together for his creations. He sold the smaller pieces, I once saw two rabbits running from one another and a rams head on a kangaroo. Morbidly talented or as another slaught muttered, “a wrongin’.”

Then comes the coloured lines, layers of paint and abstract expressions, no distinct shapes or purpose. Art can be anything we want, a person expresses, we admire. That is the point. It’s just that some expressions are more important, or valued than others. Perhaps they have a university degree, have been taught and trained to do art. They study those from the past who themselves may never have studied formally, who experimented and invented, who are now the definitions of the art form. Those in the past who with a free hand, and open mind simply did, are the definable methods or styles. In the after Art,inc becoming dogmatism and doctrine. Art that non-artists may invest in or stand and admire or discuss, allowable culture, for the viewer to feel as though they have culture.

Then there are the words or more to the point sentences and partial quotes engraved into marble. I have seen such work in funeral parlours, a talent, a craft indeed. But these are quotations, words from literature. Other people’s words. As is the contemporary relationship with literature, the written word is now compressed, to be summed up. Reduced for the short attention span, and for those who want to seem smart, intelligent, notable quotes plucked from larger pieces. Here we have such memes, quotations, engraved on blocks of marble. On the wall, black backdrop, white paint, “Ah!, Ahh! Ahh

h!!”

and so on. It’s art.

A couple of years ago in the gallery, there was a fascinating diorama of ghoulish skeletons tearing at and killing Wehrmacht soldiers. About 1/72 scale. The soldiers on trains or marching into certain death, a pre-Hell. It was detailed, well created, and imaginative. I have seen dioramas in military museums, and hobby shops. I made many in my early years, they varied between realistic depictions of historical moments or imagined ones. Fantastic convergences between metaphysical fates, metaphors and dream-like outcomes for very real decisions. Judgement. Punishment. Fantasy or religious moralism implanted into a military display. Except when I did it, a hobby. Merely to exist so friends may mumble, “That’s cool,” or a parent to say, “that’s nice dear.” In the gallery, it’s understood to have meaning, it’s valued, respected. It’s art. It transcends hobby or the imagination of a creative model maker, such are menial and socially speaking, time wasters.

To the photos, images of children. Some are of the same child, variations of smile to laughter. Sweet moments of innocence, nice photos to have for the family. What could be an intimate accumulation of moments, now on public display. A physical version of a social media montage that we are all too familiar with. Purity lost the moment it’s made public, sincere intimacy ruined. These are photos of a stranger to me, but to the artist, perhaps their son, brother, nephew, lover? Who knows. On display, it’s art. I should be impressed, inspired, feel an emotion for a strangers child, I should think more than just, “cute kid.” When I am handed a glass of wine, I groan, “it’s not for me,” often the reply is that I need to develop a palate, to culture myself, to grow a taste. Again I say, “not for me”.

Alongside the children are photos of young adults They smile, pose. The quality is nice, a testament to modern camera technology. It’s framed well. Across the street on a street window, models pose in photos. They are framed and shot in a better way. But they are only there to sell high end fashion. That photographer understood colours, shades, shapes that attract the eye. A heterosexual male may think, ‘wow, she’s beautiful,’ a woman may imagine, “I wonder if I could look that way.” The hook to get us to shop, buy a product. In this sense those photos are not art, commercial acts. In the gallery however, it’s art. I am unsure what I am meant to gain from the photo of a stranger, it could be seen in a waiting room magazine, here it hangs on a wall, declaring, “I am art.”

I am not an artist. I have not studied the academic requirements to understand. Not trained in how to appraise or come to an objective evaluation, appreciate what is a subjective expression. Much of the modern works seems as though they were made, with the understanding that they would be displayed and therefore be art. Risk, sacrifice, expression, the intention not mattering as much as the fact of who the creator is. Therefore is it that, “I am artist, therefore what I produce is art?”

One could go into the deeper conspiracies and wider criticisms of art, especially modern art. I’m not interested in doing that here. I wish to contain to what I saw, what I experienced. Is art about how it makes us experience it feel? I can’t help what I feel. Clearly it says more about myself, indeed. Am I wrong? What are the protocols? The critic and those who decide, have the power, to know better. Not the artists, not the public. Should a thing become too popular, does it delve into ‘commercial’ territory and become sullied by the masses affection. The balance therefore must be found in a niche, who and how many of who? If much of the art is created, generated, for the sake of it being presented, an elaborate feature to be claimed as culture, as art. Does that mean, some day a machine will be allowed to be an artist? Or must it have a degree, trained properly to be mechanised in it’s own randomness.

I knew a girl, long ago. She stumbled with her pencil, chalk and paint creating images of those she knew and variations of who she thought she knew. She painted through sadness, in the cold morning hours when sleep hid from her, she created. Her works had tears blotted among the colours, bits of her in the paper. She sobbed, screamed, laughed and even spoke as she looked into what she saw come about from her hands. One day, I received a message that she had taken her life. I still have a piece she did for me, “this is how you see me, not how I am.” She was right, and it’s a beautiful piece. Her other works likely buried as garbage once the public trustee rifled through her things, the family she hid from not wanting them. No monetary value in her feelings. In those drawings and paintings she imprisoned emotions and vulnerability that sailed her beautiful mind through pain, the misery drowned her. Is that not art? Was she not an artist? She was authentic. Is authenticity valued? Or does it need professionals to decide that the inauthentic is in fact, authentically art?

While students and those looking for feelings and meanings walk through the gallery, in search of expression and impression, do they find what they seek? Would they discover it, if they allowed themselves to see the art around them, the expressions born from hands that are not elevated by expert fiat?

Alas, what would I know. I am a writer, actually, no I am not. A hobbyist? A blogger? A labourer who puts words to screen? What would I know, the gatekeepers, the qualified, the experts, the cultural masters, the critic, the invisible reader, that’s they who determines such titles. You must clearly believe it too. Many artists are in the world, they express what they know of the world, but remain hidden nada, incognito. You don’t see them, because you have not been told to know them as artists.