On the New

1. Newness must mean, Never having existed before.  After all, that makes sense, right?  If something is described as being new, it can’t be old, can it?  And a thing is either old or it is new.  Period.  Thus, if we’ve seen it before the very present moment, it is old and cannot be new.


2. The It that is seen now, to be judged against all that has gone before, gets to be defined by the viewer. I am sympathetic to this view while recognizing this view’s limitations.  Viz., no one can be expected to judge what he does not see; and so what he sees, however limited, must entirely form the basis of all judgments he can make about it.  Unfortunately, another assumption about newness relates to this limitation and often occurs concurrent with this assumption:  A thing is entirely new, or else it is old.  I.e., if a person’s limited viewing of the It fastens upon aspects that have been witnessed in the past — and these are all the viewer can see — then the It must indeed be old and cannot be new.
   


3. The old is to be derided, when it is presented, as having existed before. I.e., no one likes a repeating record (those who remember what vinyl records were; others, a repeat-skipping CD player), and anyone presenting what appears to be old as if it were something new must be shut up, halted, edified, etc. Numbers 1 and 2, above, bear heavily upon this presumption, since the viewer gets to decide whether the presentation he views is old or new and knows full well that whatever is created in the present must be something he has never read before if it’s to be considered new.  Old is bad, New is good.  (As Ruby Rhod might say, Make it green!)
   

Let’s look at these assumptions through a metaphor.

A relatively unknown painter living in New York City creates a painting and takes it to a second-rate art gallery.  The gallery owner happens to be available at the moment, although she has limited time, and agrees to take a look at the painting; so the painter hands it to her — When Lo! She laughs and says, “Um, okay, so you’ve brought me the Mona Lisa…?”

The painter shakes his head and plaintively replies, “But I spent a month painting it!”  He seems rather distraught, so the gallery owner explains that someone named Leonardo da Vinci already painted it, in the 16th C.  The man looks confused, as if this is news to him; the gallery owner chuckles and glances at her watch. She could, theoretically, display the painting as an example of an excellent forgery — she tells him this after he starts crying — but no one would like it.  People want to see something new, and forgeries of the Mona Lisa are a dime a dozen, have been done for years.  The painter shifts on his feet, finally quiets his sobbing, thanks her for her time, and leaves with the painting.

Next the unknown painter drives to Pennsylvania, to an art gallery in Pittsburgh.  When the gallery owner throws the painting back at him — “Get away with your shit and stop wasting my time, asshole!” — the painter picks it up (secretly happy; the painting’s not been damaged) and leaves.

The unknown painter tries 15 art galleries, even drives to San Francisco, Houston — all over the U.S.  But the responses from the gallery owners are always the same.

He has never once visited a library or looked up “Leonardo da Vinci” on the Internet.  He knows his painting is new; he made it himself, spent weeks painting it.  The canvas was a fresh white before he touched it with his brushes, covered it with his colorful and precious materials — all of which he mixed himself.  When he holds it in its frame (he made the frame himself, as well) and feels its proportions, he knows this thing is all his own and has never existed before.

Finally, he decides that the best way to get his work of art into the public realm is not through a gallery — those stuck up snobs had their chance, and missed it, he gleefully acknowledges to himself.  He takes it to a flea market, where he finds a stall owner who seems quite eager to take it:  “Ha!  I’m sure I can sell this excellent imitation!  How’s ten bucks sound?”  The unknown painter wants more than anything for the painting to be viewed by the public, so ten dollars is beyond adequate.  He would have given the painting freely, if only he would have been asked.

Day after day, for a whole two weeks, he visits the busy flea market and sees person after person pick up the painting, sometimes touch its textured surface, follow its brush strokes.  One little boy even put his nose on the woman’s nose — to peer into her eyes!  The unknown painter is happy with his choice, although he has not forgotten the snooty gallery owners.  Eventually, a fat woman with a Texan accent squeals at her scrawny husband — “Ooooo; look at that!  Get it for me, John!”  John, obligingly, takes the painting to the cashier and forks over the $35.

And the painter goes home, overjoyed that the painting has disappeared into the heartland of America.

Within a week of his return to New York, the news hits the airwaves.  The unknown painter, however, is dead and does not hear it.  A plague, of unknown origin, is sweeping America.