Pathetic what now?

The title of this blog, “Pathetic Fallacy,” is not just a great name for a punk band. It’s a literary and art criticism term for the cliché of attributing human emotions to inanimate objects or natural phenomena, like saying “the angry waves” or having a thunderstorm burst out just as your gothic heroine escapes the mansion and runs into the moors. If it isn’t obvious, the term is mean pejoratively.

“Pathetic Fallacy” was coined by the Victorian critic and theorist John Ruskin (in the photo) in the third volume of his book series Modern Painters in 1856. Ruskin was taking to task the Romantic poets of the previous century, guys like Wordsworth, who might have written about clouds and daffodils but only as props to explore his own feelies. In the 19th century, “pathetic” meant “causing emotions” and “fallacy” didn’t mean “an error in reasoning,” but more broadly, “falsehood.” So the phrase could be restated as “emotional falseness.” Which is not a good name for a punk band and only a so-so name for a 2000’s indie one.

Ruskin was an interesting guy, an art historian who was a painter himself, a theorist whose work paved the way for environmentalism and for the arts and crafts movement, a champion of J. M. W. Turner and the Pre-Raphaelites. He was a social reformer and a philanthropist. At the height of his powers, Ruskin defined what art was and what it did, at least as far as the Victorians were concerned.

He was also a consumptive, depressed man who was abusive to his wife, attracted to adolescent girls, obsessed with Spiritualism (as in seances and that sort of thing), and whose ideas were largely swept aside by the Aesthetic movement in the 1870s and 80s. Today he is most famous for dissing the work of James Whistler, to the point of a retaliatory libel suit.

Critics are often, quite rightly, accused of gatekeeping. In 1939 the critic Clement Greenberg wrote the essay “Avant-Garde and Kitsch,” stating that some art is good because it’s challenging and some art is bad because it’s popular1. In the years that followed, Greenberg worked with the CIA-funded Congress for Cultural Freedom to display artists like Jackson Pollock in communist countries, presenting them as paragons of American Individualism2. “Kitsch” as a concept was ubiquitous in the art world for decades—until another critic, Susan Sontag, struck back with her essay “Notes on ‘Camp.’

Closer to our own time, Roger Ebert spent much of the last year of his life picking a fight with nerds online by insisting that video games would never be art. I dunno, if I were dealing with the terminal health problems Ebert had, I would not spend my numbered days annoying a bunch of surly Zelda fans. Also I find the project of defining “art” to be profoundly tiresome. Still, I will always love Ebert for the joy he brought to his work, the sheer enthusiasm he had when he was recommending a new movie that brought him delight. Like Garfield: the Movie.

I am fascinated and ambivalent about the critical process. At its best, criticism can provide context and perspective that makes the artistic experience richer and more social. It’s a game that we play that doesn’t tell us what a work means but gives us something interesting to think about while we choose what the work means to us. At its worst, criticism tells us to distrust our own tastes.

All of which is to say, I still think Pathetic Fallacy would be a great punk band.

  1. Don’t @ me, I know this is oversimplification, but I’m writing a silly blog. ↩︎
  2. I find it amusing that abstract expressionism was shilled by the Eisenhower Administration, given that these days the Right seems to be all-in on photorealistic AI. ↩︎

Hello (again) World!

I was feeling a bit down the other day, what with (gestures at everything), and I said to myself, what I really need to do is some old-fashioned blogging, the kind from 1999, when the Internet was a wild an wooly place and SEO meant typing your search terms a few hundred times into your website’s <header>.

I still had an old Blogger site, but I wanted to move to something more contemporary. So here am I at my new WordPress home! Maybe having to pay for hosting this will spur me to write more often; anything’s possible. I have imported the old blog’s content but some of it glitched out, and some of it embarrasses me, so I am pruning a lot of the old content, and will continue to. Sorry if you are a completionist? I guess your best bet is the Internet Archive.

Anyway, to reintroduce myself: I’m John McCoy. I am married (for 35 years!) to a beautiful philosophy professor who is smarter than me and dad to two kids who are a biochemist and a medical student and will therefore be richer than me. On the Internet I’m best known for being older brother to my more famous sibling, Dan, of the comedy Flop House podcast. But I am second best known for my own, only occasionally funny podcast, Sophomore Lit. The tagline for this podcast is “where we re-read your 10th grade reading list,” and in the beginning my goal was to focus on stuff you only read in high school, like Catcher in the Rye or To Kill a Mockingbird. Also I wanted it to be silly. But as time went by two things happened: first, I ran through the obvious list of books, and second, I found that my guest hosts and listeners were genuinely interested in having a podcast that discussed formative literature sincerely. So these days episodes might be about kids’ books, like The Twenty-0ne Balloons, or things you might have read in college, like the Bell Jar. Anyway I’ve been doing this podcast since my mid-forties and now…I’m not in my mid-forties.

Speaking of kids’ books, Phil Gonzales of the Deep in Bear Country podcast and I did a podcast called Klickitcast, where we read through the entirety of Beverly Cleary’s books. It took a few years but we made it all the way from Henry Huggins (1950) to Ramona’s World (1999) in 33 episodes. This podcast was always going to end, but it has a special place in my heart and I miss it.

What else? I was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder in early 2020, just before the pandemic. Getting a late-life diagnosis was weird enough, but then there followed a sudden explosion of ASD discourse online as folks who became introspective during lock-down got diagnosed, or self-diagnosed, so I guess I was a trend-setter? A lot of people my age would have been clocked as autistic if we knew then what we know now. But self-knowledge is both liberating and anxiety-producing, and I’m still figuring this all out, as I probably will until I die (what we ASDers call “the Great Shutdown”).

Off the Internet, in the real world, I am an Assistant Director at an art museum. This probably isn’t as glamorous as it sounds to you, especially if you are a fan of The Da Vinci Code. But it does mean I get to work with art, and write about art, and plan exhibitions, and help produce exhibitions, and other art-adjacent things. So I am a lucky man.

That’s way more than you need to know about me! So what will this blog be about? Well, anything, I guess, but likely topics are: my podcast, literature, art, comics, autism, typography, art history, traveling, my dog (who I haven’t mentioned yet), creativity, intellectual property, web design, history, parenting, and, I don’t know…maybe a recipe or two?

I hope you’ll find something to think about here, either in the archives of posts I’ve migrated from Blogger or in the posts yet to come. You can also subscribe and get new essays in a convenient e-mail format! I think. I am still figuring that out as well.

The sound of money

There’s a fable that is told in many different versions around the world. In some European versions the hero is a wandering clown, but in the version I first read as a boy it was Ōoka Tadasuke, the 18th century Japanese magistrate who has many folktales attached to him. The story goes: an innkeeper overhears a poor student tell a friend that he always eats his rice as the innkeeper is preparing his fish, and thus the smell improves his meal. The angry innkeeper brings the student before Ōoka, demanding payment for the stolen smell. Ōoka responds by having the student spill his pocketful of coins from one hand to another, and tells the innkeeper that the smell of fish has been repaid by the sound of money.

rice

The popularity of this story speaks to a deep, common-sense understanding that there are some things of value that are beyond commerce. The value of these things lies in part to their having no ownership, to the way they float in the air, literally or figuratively. Unfortunately, this doesn’t mean that indignant, entitled, or greedy individuals won’t try to assert their claim.

Making the Internet rounds today is this disturbing piece on Waxy.org. Andy Baio, a tech enthusiast, made a series of chiptune versions of Miles Davis’s tunes on Kind of Blue; when he distributed the files, he included a version of the Kind of Blue cover that had been highly pixelated. The original photographer of the Davis portrait, Jay Maisel, sued Baio for copyright infringement. The case settled out of court for $32K.

I’m not going to go into the legal issue here—I have strong feelings about the stupidity of the current state of intellectual property law and I’ll bore you all some other time—but I do think that the story poses the question, what motivates an artist to take such disproportionate and vindictive action against a fan? It’s not money—Mr. Maisel is one of the most successful commercial photographers in the world. In Baio’s account, he quotes Maisel’s lawyer:

“He is a purist when it comes to his photography,” his lawyer wrote. “With this in mind, I am certain you can understand that he felt violated to find his image of Miles Davis, one of his most well-known and highly-regarded images, had been pixellated, without his permission […]”

With all due respect, I’m certain I can’t understand how Maisel’s hurt feelings are worth $32K. What’s being referenced here is the noxious concept of Moral Rights, the idea that an artist’s right to preserve the integrity of a piece of work can and should prevent anyone else from editing them in any way—including, apparently, using the original work as a springboard for something new. The American system of copyright does not, in fact, recognize Moral Rights (it’s mostly concerned with people getting paid), but the romantic ideal that somehow the artist’s intent should trump future artists’ intent forever and ever is anti-Art. Everything is derivative. That’s the way culture happens. 

I make a part of my living as a designer and illustrator. I have used existing works of art as inspiration, as reference material, as grist for the mill. Maybe some other artists have taken bits and pieces from what I’ve done and made something new. I don’t know of transformative works, but I have found places where my art was used unaltered without attribution or payment. If someone were to use one of my illustrations commercially, I would ask for payment; if they were to use it in a way I found offensive, I would ask them to stop.

But really? Most of the time, it just makes me smile—because I know my work is floating out there along with all the other smells.