Art and Reality

A couple of weeks ago, there was quite a bit of hubbub in the literary world around Jonathan Franzen being crowned the 'Great American Novelist' by Time magazine, as well as being given two impossible-to-get New York Times book reviews before his new book Freedom even hit the shelves. There has been sort of a critic-war about whether Franzen has really earned such lauds or not. There's also been a sub-debate, led primarily by commercial fiction writers Jodi Picoult and Jennifer Weiner, about which authors receive critical acclaim and which ones don't.

The thrust of this argument (or public whining, depending on your perspective) is not that Franzen’s work is not worth reading or even worth acclaim, but that the excess of praise dumped on him around his latest novel represents the imbalance between “high literature,” and what real people actually read (and buy) -- especially genre fiction, like romance, science fiction, horror or "chick lit."

There's also a feminist thread to the discussion, to quote Weiner in the Huffington Post, "I think it's a very old and deep-seated double standard that holds that when a man writes about family and feelings, it's literature with a capital L, but when a woman considers the same topics, it's romance, or a beach book - in short, it's something unworthy of a serious critic's attention."

I have mixed feelings on this issue. On the one hand, in my English major days, I definitely would've felt more comfortable to be spotted at the coffee shop with Absolom! Absolom! than Bridget Jones' Diary. [Incidentally, two of my favorites during that era]. The same literature-snobbery holds true in reverse, though, because I would've felt the same way about Virginia Woolf or Flannery O'Conner versus Stephen King.

Women authors do seem to be underrepresented in the Great Canon of Literature, as we are underrepresented elsewhere. Troubling, for sure.

But there's also the genre question, and the issue of popular culture as opposed to "high culture." The books that tend to fall under the not-so-flattering label of 'chick-lit,' or women's fiction, are definitely commercially-oriented books. I know if I pick up Good in Bed or Something Borrowed, I'm in for an entertaining and relatable story that will make me think and feel, perhaps even laugh and cry; but will not leave me re-reading or reaching for the dictionary to get through a couple of pages. Those books are enjoyable, but don't stretch and challenge my brain the way Mrs. Dalloway did.

Is that a bad thing? Of course not. I love commercial fiction, and these days I read that far more often than I read Literature. It's a matter of energy and concentration - and the purpose that books serve in my life right now. When I work on the novel I have playing in my head, it's certainly closer to being an enjoyable beach book than something college kids will discuss in depth over lattes and cigarettes. Wearing berets - let's give them berets.

Art Credit: Georges Seurat, Photo Credit: Yours Truly

There are parallels in every aspect of culture - Britney Spears vs. Beethoven, Jersey Shore vs. Nova... Some things get ratings and some things get thoughtful critical acclaim. A few things get both. But often it's the distinctiveness of a work of art labored over by genius until it is truly, truly exceptional -- that makes something stand out from the crowd in the art world. It's what delineates the innovation of pointillist Georges Seurat from those horrifying pictures of babies in flower costumes. And though it makes me cringe personally, I'm guessing that there are more of you reading this who have something in your home created by Anne Geddes (the weird baby picture lady) than by Seurat. And that's okay.

Now I'm not saying that Franzen is or isn't worthy of the acclaim he's receiving (I haven't read Freedom, and it's been a decade since I finished The Corrections). His disdain for the mainstream -- mostly female -- audience of Oprah who provided him with most of his commercial success around that latter title is wildly arrogant for sure, but no one said you had to be a nice person to create art. 

So what makes art worthwhile? A completely unique artistic perspective? Years of schooling? Binge drinking? Good reviews by people with years of schooling? Commercial success? Popularity among lots and lots of average people? Challenging social norms? Shedding light on injustice? Making people laugh? Creating a world of teenage wizardry, vampires or werewolves?

Yes. (Except maybe the binge drinking part). (And maybe one or two of the vampire books).


Art that is creative and innovative, makes people think, finds a new means of expression, and changes the landscape of our intellectual world is definitely worthwhile. Art that is simple, accessible and entertains is also definitely worthwhile. The best art, in my humble opinion, does both: inspires us in a new way while connecting to the universal emotions and experiences to which we can all relate. In my experience, books that manage both things find their way to both critical acclaim and popular success. Those would be the classics - new and old.

Photo Credit: Dan Winters for TIME

When it comes to the current debate, I agree that the disparity between men and women authors when it comes to critical attention and acclaim is something we should all explore. I'd love to see Anne Tyler or Carol Shields looking all serious and artsy on the cover of Time. And I wish there were a better moniker for contemporary women's fiction than "chick lit."

But I also feel that great writing tends to speak for itself: whether it inspires people to scoop it up off the shelf as soon as it's landed there, or has all the little literazzi at New York Times falling all over themselves to interview you. (I also think it's important to note that the folks at the NYT and other reviewing outlets tend to write what they think will resonate with their readers -- not exactly Jane Average).

If such a review does inspire people to check out a book for themselves, great. But most often I think people decide what to read based on more organic methods anyway: browsing through our favorite section of the bookstore, listening to what our friends recommend and why. The nice thing is, we don't all have to agree on what is either critically magnificent or casually enjoyable or both. We can watch, read, admire and listen to whatever we want; despite what the "Literature Experts" tell us is valid or redeeming.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go work on affixing a Don DeLillo cover to a romance novel.

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[Edit to add: A picture of A Sunday on La Grande Jatte (Suerat) that I quite nerdily snapped at the Art Institute of Chicago in June, and Franzen looking novelicious on the cover of Time. In case you are wondering, "nerdily" and "novelicious" are unlikely to appear in the Great American Novel.]