It’s the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
At first glance, it looked like he wore lingerie. It was a normal, stiff, black suit, with a normal tie, and white shirt inside, and a red tie, but it was as sexy. He walked into the bar looking only at the barstool. He sat down on it, looked up and ordered a whisky, the money slipping magically out of his fingers. At first glance, it looked like she wore a grey suit in want of ironing, and a cowboy hat. It was a pretty red dress, but she felt it was as sexy. She took the stool next to his and ordered a shot of local rum. The corners of his pupils darted towards her. She had ordered the one drink that would grab his attention. How did she know that? She smiled at herself, knowing full well what response that smile would evoke, not at being proud of managing to grab his attention, or as a reaction to his gaze, that she spotted out of the corners of her eyeballs. She was too busy concentrating on the perfect balance between a smile and a smirk, to actually think of anything else. He knew that she wanted him to think that it was her reaction to managing to grab his attention. He liked her. She had not spoken to him yet, and it had already gotten as complicated as a relationship. He had to have her. She stopped smiling. Now she was scared. Her heart started beating. She hadn’t realized that he had planned to have her all along. He looked at her. “Hello”.
I was invisible. No one glanced at me. I felt the need to eavesdrop on this interesting conversation. I was flirting with someone who was interested in reading blogs, and decided to stop serving her drinks. I moved to the two of them, with a bottle of local rum in my hands. I began to serve them drinks.
He gulped down his whiskey, and burped, loudly. Seriously, it was loud. Heads turned, and those that didn’t indulge in mutters, burst out laughing. She found it a pity that he was giving her a chance to walk away. It was then that she came up with a move he didn’t expect. She burst out laughing too. It destroyed his composure. He ordered another drink. She grabbed the bottle from my hand and began to gulp it down. Then she burped. It was smelly, but not too loud. He smiled at how primitive the game could get. He decided that it would be appropriate to quote Wilde. “All art is at once surface and symbol”.
She immediately became serious. She was forced into thinking. She replied, hesitantly, but clearly. “I do not comprehend Wilde. It was probably Wilde who set into motion what resulted in the whole neorealism movement. The best definition that any one could come up with for neorealism was that it was weird for the sake of being weird. That’s a lot like art for art’s sake, which was what Oscar Wilde was all savvy about. He didn’t believe that the author was dead. He believed that the author should take deliberate efforts to get himself murdered by his readers. He believed that the interpretation of art should not extend to the psychoanalysis of the author. He believed that the reader should not make assumptions about the author. Sadly, Oscar Wilde was not a neo realist. He even mentions his feelings in his books. Neorealism is more or less aestheticism, with the added benefit of allowing the reader to freely deconstruct a montage of ideas. He showed himself clearly, through and through in his art, because he defined the premise of his own art. Claiming no art to be morbid, and allowing art the capacity to express anything was a philosophy that destroyed notions of dead authors. Oscar Wilde was immortalized for the very wit that he thought would kill him. Neo Realists are several steps ahead in game. They anticipate the moves of the audiences, and then hide behind the audiences. Neo Realists will propose ideas that suggest the reader’s own involvement in the comprehension of the story, reminding the readers, purposefully, that they are alive, and supposed to murder the author. Where Oscar Wilde managed to kill readers, Neo Realists have managed to establish a symbiosis. A symbiosis on neutral ground, that is an area of suggestion and interpretation, where the reader suggests, and the author interprets, a subtle exchange in the roles that allow for the game to continue.”
The man nodded to himself. He understood such people. They were sweet in the innocent way. They thought that the symbolism in language could be limited by the syntax of the communication. They thought that words were clearly defined, and therefore usable to produce that neutral ground. These kinds of people had no clue that such art was killing the author as well as the reader. When the author and the reader exchanged positions, they did not realize that it was now the reader that was dead to the author. The author could not expect to interpret an unknown audience. Therefore, what resulted was a communication so vague, that it would never result in consideration. What a pity. So much heartfelt art being rendered useless. He formed his reply. “Are you single?”
Suddenly, both of them looked at me. In synchrony. In deliberation. Directly. They both smirked and smiled to exactly equal degrees. I understood then. This was planned all along. It was me that they were after. They glanced at me.
I was stark naked. Actually, I was wearing a black shirt and blue jeans. I was an even demographic, a common average entity, somewhere, lost in the hoard of us rabid fools. She looked at me and said “you are the test and the proof. If you interpreted me, then you are a murdering reader. If you thought I interpreted you, then you are a murdering author.” He looked at me an said “Hello.”