The editor of
The Art Newspaper worries that art is letting us down in this time of international crisis. "What has art done to give us an antidote to the terrible images that flashed around the world of the Twin Towers collapsing, of the naked man on a leash in Abu Ghraib, of the American having his throat cut?" she asked in
The Independent recently.
The short answer is it's too early to tell. But if she is urging artists to address the political didactically, much as American artists, including writers, did in the 1930s, then I think a longer answer would have to challenge some of her assumptions about the proper ends of art.
Here in Chapel Hill, I'm
Reading Lolita In Tehran. This is a thoroughly absorbing account of an American-trained Iranian literary scholar's teaching career before, during, and after the revolution. As her university becomes taken over by the forces of fanatical intolerance, she is at first mystified. She watches as
"America, the place I knew and had lived in for so many years, [was] suddenly turned into a never-never land by the Islamic Revolution. The America of my past was fast fading in my mind, overtaken by all the clamor of new definitions. That was when the myth of America started to take hold of Iran. Even those who wished its death were obsessed by it. America had become both the land of Satan and Paradise Lost."
Mike Gold, the now-forgotten editor of the radical American journal of the 1930s The New Masses--the subject of her Vietnam-era dissertation--she now finds far less relevant than less "political" American writers. And so, while on the one hand her students are negotiating their own relationships with the Iranian Revolution, on the other they are asked to read The Great Gatsby.
This work of art is so troublesome to some of them that they demand a response: a trial. They put the novel on trial! Can it stand up to the moral rigors of the Revolution? No, says the prosecutor. "This book preaches illicit relations between a man and a woman. First we have Tom and his mistress, the scene in her apartment—even the narrator, Nick, is implicated. He doesn't like their lies, but he has no objection to their fornicating and sitting on each other's laps, and, and, those parties at Gatsby's . . . remember, ladies and gentlemen, this Gatsby is the hero of the book—and who is he? He is a charlatan, he is an adulterer, he is a liar . . . this is the man Nick celebrates and feels sorry for, this man, this destroyer of homes!"
The book defends itself by pointing out that the novel allows us to make judgments, principally through Nick, the narrator, who claims at least to be "honest." Through his eyes, we see that indeed the rich are not like you and me—they are "careless." The professor herself speaks for the book: "You don't read Gatsby," she/it said, "to learn whether adultery is good or bad but to learn about how complicated issues such as adultery and fidelity and marriage are. A great novel heightens your senses and sensitivity to the complexities of life and of individuals and prevents you from the self-righteousness that sees morality in fixed formulas about good and evil."
There was no verdict—only heated discussion, which to the professor was the best outcome of all.
The professor (this is, the author; her name is Azar Nafsi) has further thoughts. Jay Gatsby "should never have tried to possess his dream," she concludes. He is so caught up in its romance that he doesn't see the reality until it is too late. "What we in Iran had in common with Fitzgerald was this dream that became our obsession and took over our reality, this terrible, beautiful dream, impossible in its actualization, for which any amount of violence might be justified or forgiven. This is what we had in common, although we were not aware of it then."
At one level this is a political reading, but this novel is not the kind that "teaches peasants to use tractors" and "does a hundred other useful tasks," as Mike Gold prefers. This is a reading of a novel that asks us to confront essential, if old-fashioned, questions about our own motives and values, about choices and consequences--and it doesn't guarantee any answers.
Later in the book Nafsi writes,
"It is said that the personal is political. That is not true, of course. At the core of the fight for political rights is the desire to protect ourselves, to prevent the political from intruding on our individual lives. Personal and political are interdependent but not one and the same thing. The realm of imagination is the bridge between them, constantly refashioning one in terms of the other. Plato's philosopher-king knew this and so did the blind censor, so it was perhaps not surprising that the Islamic Republic's first task had been to blur the lines and boundaries between the personal and the political, thereby destroying both."
Perhaps it requires a position of safety, comfort, and privilege in order to profitably treat literary works dispassionately as political statements. Or perhaps all it requires is a perspective from which the answers are already given. For Nafisi and especially for the young women that she ends up teaching illegally, in secret--how wonderful the image of these women shedding their dark robes and veils to reveal their colorful individuality in Nafisi's living room--the passion is the point, each line of these novels a lifeline.