Art as Intervention

I have laughed my ass off when I watched that episode in How I Met Your Mother about Intervention. Intervention. It's funny because it is ridiculous. But its not fun and games all the time. Sometimes, instead of doing something about the world we are in, we are happy commenting about. Like I am doing right now. I choose to comment about the lack of intervention rather than doing something about it. However, the fact that I am sitting a good thousand miles away from the location of the incident, washes my hands off some blood, at least immediate blood. When a cop, a man who has pledged to put the rest of the world ahead of himself is cut up in the middle of the road and pleading for help, two ministers are holed up in their cars and the cop handling their security detail explains that they had to protect the ministers and take all necessary precautions possible. Sounds ridiculous, and I would have laughed, trust me, if not for the sickening thought of the man lying there, dying there. They did not intervene. They did not do anything besides staying put, calling 108 (that's our ambulance code in TamilNadu; one of the few states that proudly claim the possession of an ambulance hotline), and then putting the cop on a convoy car, rushing him to a hospital... albeit, minutes late... Precious minutes, that could have saved his life.
They did not intervene. The ministers did not. And life comes a full circle when NDTV reporters, or any other TV channel's reporters, the name does not mean a thing, it's all the same, stood there, recording and transmitting information, manufacturing news about how the ministers could have intervened and refused to, instead of intervening themselves. Unlike my commentary on their Godot-ic inaction, theirs actually cost the man his life. Oh, of course, we have stunning footage of a cop crying for his life in a moment more dramatic than any nailbiting action sequence of a movie; but we lost a cop. Oh yes, the TV news channels have managed to show how heartless these politicos are; but we lost a cop. And most significantly, the charioteers of the news-driven nation have fed the right amount of anguish to a people who really don't need a reason to be angry against the khadi-clad mafia; by making a lesson out of a life they could have saved. J'accuse. The inaction on part of the newspeople is much more condemnable than that of the politicians. At least the latter do not have any qualms in acting like they are above the law. What the fuck was the cameraperson doing, shooting video footage, when (s)he could have done something better?
This is where I draw the line. If art is going to pretend that it has no other role but to merely record reality, then it serves no function and such an art should cease to exist. Enough is enough; as Samuel L Jackson says, I have had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane. I am tired of the media constantly pointing out issues about what somebody did not do, when they have behaved in no better a fashion. We are not shooting an episode of South Park here. It is a time for change. Change starts now and here. Intervention is the new mantra of art. If Art does not adapt, it shall perish, like so many other things in this continuum of the world.

Maugham said, "...that's why I couldn't read PostColonial Drama so much!"

errm... well, Maugham did NOT say that. Not even close. But he actually did say something which is a significant part of this blorticle. If not the most vital part if it, certainly the definitive moment of the piece. But I get ahead of myself. Let me start with a story about a kid. An average schoolkid who still has left in her/him, all the illusory promises of greatness that the future promises to offer. Being the ever enthusiastic participant in every inter-school competition, (s)he ends up winning one. A debate, quiz or poetry recitation; does not matter. Our objective is that (s)he wins a gift-certificate of, say, one hundred rupees to some bookstore. It does not matter if it is a traditional piles of books on top of books kind of store or the new places where you have to cross a sea of CDs/DVDs/accessories/crockery/chocolates/perfumes/PC games/PSP games/PS1,2,3 games/toys-stuffed and otherwise, to finally reach some of the good books. Either place would work for our story.

The child decides, out of sheer boredom and overexposure, the (s)he would not buy anything else but some books. Perhaps it is a selfrighteous fit of overenthusiasm, a bout of sincere inclination towards knowing more of "literature" or even a simple curiosity of the unknown (read: parental pressure to do something that they never did). Anywhichway, this kid, whose age I have forgotten to mention (is about twelve, by the way), steps into the books section. Let us skip to the point of the story; Too many options described in an aloof/borderline funny way, a lot of derision towards self-help and biographies, a moment of self-indulgent ogling at the awesomeness of the comics section and a little more venom spat towards self-help books later, we are at the drama section, where our little friend (if you snigger, you shall die a death by reading self-help) has stopped. Why has (s)he decided to have a look at this section is a different blorticle; whose essence I am giving out in the next line for the certain uncertainty of never getting down to write it. It could be because (s)he felt the inner, natural pull towards the most ancient form of worship, or it could be the natural spidey-smarts that alerted the kid that shorter than a novel, simpler than poetry; a play is all that you could read in minutes ninety. I don't know. But ya, either way, there (s)he stands, looking, staring, judging at playwrights from Aeschylus to me (boink! wishful-thinking, redalert!). Read closely folks, for this is the point of the piece. (S)he invariably buys a simple-Shakespeare edition and goes back home, living happily ever after. Well, at least until that second divorce and that bizarre double murder-suicide. But that is not part of our story. Our story has ended. Get out. Go out and play in the rain. If you read the previous line, you did not listen to the one before that and so I can say whatever which you will not pay the slightest attention to... Okay, I cannot understand what I am saying but let me quickly put down in bullet form, what I intend you to infer from the above story.

• There is a general, often unnoticed trend in the pricing of the books which "encourage" us, from a very young age, towards buying books which are touted to be "them, Classics". For a hundred bucks, there are only 'n' number of books that you may buy, particularly when you are not willing to shell out extra cash. And despite a revision of gift-certificate values in mid-range city schools makes a real and present representation; it ain't my battle and I shall stick to the pricing.
• Let's face it, Shakespeare will always be cheaper than Beckett or Ngugi. And let us not even GO to Pinter or Shaffer. As a writer, you are saved as long as you are being taught as a part of a syllabus; thanks to some friendly neighborhood professor-assissted publication which makes some of the books relatively affordable. GOD FORBID, if you are a standalone, popular enough to be shunned by the academics and not popular enough to be blessed with a paperback edition. You are doomed to be one of those names that are oft-mentioned but never read.
• Playwrights who are affected most by this tendancy, are the postcolonial ones. Sometimes I wonder, is this a way by which the Empire prevents us from striking back? It is as if one of those Harv-grad business execs got up and said, "Here's a good strategy to keep these dissenting voices under a tab. Let us sign them all on good figure deals, no matter how good/bad they are and overprice their books, so that nobody would ever read them!" Who am I kidding? Those kids cannot even say dissenting. But somebody's doing something which makes certain books more/less accessible than the others, aren't they?
• Before I go on about it, let me drop another term, most probably self-invented, the indeterminacy of Classicability factor. Simpler put, it is the who/what decides a book to be a Classic, a.k.a, must-read. It is almost like a transitive verb (all students of Franco-German languages, gimme a hell yeah!), but only it is not. Who says, that despite from being the same age, Sean O'Casey should be more expensive than Shaw or Strindberg's Dream Play alone should be unavailable online in translation when all his other plays are non-dime-a-dozen (if you are not counting the internet/current/initial investment of purchasing a computer charge). Does that mean, that these books (plays, in this context) are so revolutionary that THEY are doing everything to prevent us from even getting hold of a copy? So, to conclude in the same fashion of my previous paragraph, somebody must be doing this, who are they?
• Okay, lemme ground myself back-to-reality (Peace! 2 Eminem), and accept facts. Fact is, newer IS dearer. Given that the authors are not dead yet in a more literal plane, it makes it that much tougher to bring out low-price editions. Between royalty and copyrights, most works seal their fates. And works by themselves are non-living things which only accomplish, or try-to, the intentions of the author behind the book. Fact of the matter is, (all those waiting for the moment of a piece where I make a preposterous accusation, this is it!) AUTHORS DO NOT WANT TO TAKE A CUT IN THEIR PAYCHECK.

Face it, they might pretend to care about the third-world-ness of the third-world, they might cry you a river or lie down in front of a steamrolling roadroller charging at 5 kmph in a rainforest (oddly, almost often near the release of their next books) or even pay in obscene number of dollars to get that, oh-so-unfashionable! look befitting an author who fights for the CAUSE! But bottomline is, they have bills to pay, possibly a bit more than what you and I have to and acquired tastes, be it caviar or cocaine, is the hardest to kick and dearest in the world too. That is why dead authors make more benevolent souls.

And that is why Maugham's words come back to me, for its startling inaccuracy. "Writers write, not because they want to; but because they must!" Bollocks to you my Maughaman! They write, because they MUST BE PAID! Remember, I am not your usual geek who remembers quotes, so there is a source besides the source. Couple of days ago, I read a piece by my favorite author, Paulo Coelho where he adds his own third line to Maugham (everybody's after this guy to add another line, poor dude!), saying, "because they want to be read!" Coelho walks the talk and puts up, get ready to do the double take, PIRATED E-VERSIONS of his OWN WORKS! He started this way back in the early nineties, putting up the Russian version of The Alchemist on a fan's request and has gone on to put up books in any language where he is not bound by a contract to do so. This shockingly self-defeatist attitude which seems to be a sure way to bury one's self has, au contraire, helped the writer. He has sold in millions and is still counting.

What all could be achieved if only a creator wills to put the creation ahead of her/himself, has no bounds! It is a fact that most, if not all, writers have a "day-job" which contributes to their writing not insignificantly. By making their works available to the world, writers guarantee a wider reach of audience without necessarily putting themselves in a corner, eating the I-am-not-getting-paid-for-this pie. Time is money, and the more interesting your work is, the more money you make, without imposing a toll on the audience for experiencing your work. What more, other fields would also benefit from such a policy. Already, the principle has been verified with in the movie-business in the days of P2P sharing. Have we not, in the past three years, seen more Global-grossers than before, when the audience were "protected"? With a little innovation from the creators, movies would simply become two different realms; one, where good stories are told with non-existent budgets and the other, which would be a pure spectacle industry; both extremely successful!

But I get ahead of myself, again! Let me start the change, by being the change. Henceforth, all my works shall be considered public domain. Do not let the current absence of a publisher make you take me lightly. I am considered to be a man of my word; more or less. To read any of my works, simply write to me at thesaruaon23@gmail.com. I shall soon upload a detailed catalogue of my completed works, few though they maybe. So, until then, think, write and be cool!