HEAVING POLITICAL THEATER

For at least a week now (it already seems a lifetime), you (and I) have been bombarded with news of self-identified “climate activists” flinging refuse of various consistencies at unsuspecting art masterpieces around the world; or otherwise simply affixing themselves to the art, bodily, with less edible unguents.

Never have I heard of a more imbecilic (conceptually), tasteless (aesthetically), ugly (literally), venal (morally), vacuous (intellectually), selfish (personally), infantile (truly), lame-assed act of abasement in the name of “activism.” Here we are, still reeling from the vicious destructions of January 6, with the barbarians unequivocally at our gates, and these defenders of the environment (whose aims I fully support) are attacking works of great art — one of the few things that we all can still cherish, safely — with food, no less! Of which there is never enough to go around.

According to the New York Times, a “spokeswoman” for this scrum of vandals explained that the group’s “intention had been to generate publicity and to create debate around the climate crisis and the actions needed to stop it.”

Bravo idiots.

Generating publicity is the easiest, laziest, and, by now, the most pointless, activity left in our utterly desensitized (pardon the expression) “civilization.” All you need is a Glock and a schoolroom (it is excruciating to write those words, but there we are) or a can of Heinz cream of tomato soup and a room with a Van Gogh in it and, sure as hell, you will generate publicity .

But, for what? What are you teaching? What do the “consumers” of your publicity take away from your grand, anything but symbolic, act of “slime-ing?”

I will tell you.

I have a friend here in NYC. I will call him “V.” For more than 20 years now, V, who came to this country as an immigrant from a continent south of here, has nurtured, lovingly, a framing business. His store was subterranean; he’d opened it in a subway station. V’s frame shop never saw the light of day, but, slowly and meticulously, V coaxed a livelihood out of it, because V learned to be a very fine framer and already was a very affable guy. His customers liked him. They also trusted his skill and taste when it came to safely mounting their works of art on some wall.

Out of such bonds are enterprises born.

The pandemic lockdown was, of course, as hard on V as it was on all of us. To pile on, V’s landlord, at the most unconscionable moment, handed him a lease renewal with an exorbitant rent increase. Did anyone toss soup on this greedy fellow? Of course not, that isn’t what soup is for.

V was inconsolable, initially. He thought he might have to fold. Eventually, however, he headed out (and up) into the streets of Manhattan in search of an affordable lease attached to a decent amount of empty space. And he found what he was looking for. Even more, in fact. On a block west of his old spot, he found a street-level storefront twice the size of his subway station home, with light streaming in through immense front window panes and more light streaming in at the rear, filling his work room with sunshine.

For over a year now, V has marveled at his good fortune; reveled in it, as his frame business has prospered, with many new, above-ground, customers who live in tall towers in the surrounding neighborhood — in apartments rife with wall space.

Recently, I visited V with something to frame of my own. I called him before I headed over, to check on his hour of closing. Plenty of time, he assured me. When I arrived, though, the store door was locked. I rapped lightly on it. From out of the backroom, V instantly appeared. And after unlocking his door, this is what he told me.

For over a week now, young toughs from a nearby school have been pushing their way into V’s frame shop and heaving crap all over the place, but mostly food on the framed art hanging on V’s walls. Or on V himself. They also throw bottles and cans at his windows.

Now V is not a vindictive guy. He knows these kids don’t know any better and says so, though part of him, he admits, would like to grab just one of them, drag him back to the sun-filled workroom and run him through one of the wood lathe machines. So far, V has restrained himself. He has tried talking to the kids but they don’t listen. He has offered to make peace and buy them all a pizza if they’d just leave him alone. Finally, he has taken to locking his door.

The pain, the frustration, and the fear of losing his front window glass and/or many framed works of art, has begun to eat at V. Still, he told me, he is trying not to take it home with him at night.

Amoral acts of destruction — political theater or otherwise — you want to know what they teach? They teach destruction. Nothing more.