Art has rapidly become unimportant. Artists have been effectively dismissed by populists as subsidy-addicted scum. Media leaves no opportunity to downplay the consequences of the ensuing cuts. Putin is about to bring a third world war to Europe. In Amsterdam on Saturday 6 September, three of the Netherlands' last daily newspaper critics talk to artists about the usefulness and necessity of stars above a review.
Or balls.
So you can. To convey and interpret something in 70 words. Let that also be the length many editors-in-chief of paper media prefer when it comes to reviews. But with room for five stars above it.
Or balls.
Understandably, the journalists in question are worried. After all, your self-respect derives a bit from the surface you occupy on a newspaper page. The same applies to artists, of course. You work your ass off for six months on a painting or performance and what do you get as a reward? 70 words and a star or two.
Or balls.
Perfectly logical, then, that reviewers and artists should start talking about those stars together.
Or balls.
An artist will say, "But we're all in the same boat! We should just support each other a bit!"
It is not the first time that reviewer and artist have sought solace with each other in the face of an angry outside world. I know, I was part of that society for 15 years. No doubt someone will say again during that conversation that journalists have nothing to do with artists. That artists are lucky that they are written about at all.
A single enlightened mind will say that the whole country would be outraged if the cabinet started talking to parliamentary journalists about how the latter do their work. And that Saturday's session is therefore a serious attack on democracy and press freedom.
In an ideal world, reviewers would never do anything but review. They would not do interviews with the people they are supposed to judge too. They would avoid contact with artists. At vernissages and stage premieres, journalists would be locked in a separate cage, only to be released into a special press box just before curtain-up. And then they would publish as brilliantly, personally, wildly, solidly, viciously, biasedly and objectively as they liked about what they saw. Because the reader is sacred and needs to be amused and informed. Preferably at the same time.
With balls.
The reality is different. The newspaper reviewer is a lonely freelancer, who sits in a theatre at least four times a week, is treated like royalty there and also only talks to colleagues in the profession and other art people. Furthermore, the reviewer does not have much of a social life outside art. The reviewer is completely embedded. Is an integral part of the world he is supposed to judge objectively.
But it's all about the reader. Who wants to know what the paper thinks. Not what the reviewer thinks. The reader wants to read a juicy piece too. In the grand scheme of things, the reader hasn't cared for years what the reviewer thinks of anything. That's the way it should be. Because the newspaper is the gentleman who matters.
With or without balls.
I am founder of a busy online news site about culture. We sometimes post reviews too, because we can't resist. Some of us even like to give marks, instead of stars. Or balls. All are allowed. But we experiment plenty. Our readers, who speak to us every second through Google Analytics and social media, have questions and look for answers. Those questions keep changing, and each needs to be answered in its own way. The question of how many stars, or balls a theatre performance gets with us, I have only had from artists. The answer to whether a performance that happens to be nearby is worth seeing, readers already hear from their social network. And so it should be.
We are there for the interpretation, the explanation of details, the finding of unexpected backgrounds and connections, the entertainment of the flaming argument, the tirade against the injustice of incompetent artists, or politicians.
I am still waiting for the invitation to a debate between the newspaper journalist and his reader.
I already know mine.
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