“Stolid and
literal, I take my stand.
Art is
decision, not the chance, unplanned
Performance
of a trivial, vulgar act.
It is
selection of the crucial fact.
Though brute
particulars still litter sense,
Art’s the
suppression of irrelevance.
Life’s the
constant pressure of the new,
But art, the
final judgment of the true,
Measures
resistance to inane distraction.
Art is the model
of coherent action.
It is not my
confusion or confession,
It tells you
nothing of my worst obsession,
It’s not a
gossip’s tale concerning me:
It is the
meaning of my history.
It is
constructed and can be construed
As
proposition and as attitude.
Then art is
structure: nothing can be said
Without the
order in which it is read.
Art is
technique, by which the masters say
That ends
are realized in a métier.
Art is
distinction: process is not being.
The words
you see are all there is worth seeing.”
The first
line echoes “Dixie” and the Southern Agrarians’ manifesto, appropriate to a
work of defiance. Gullans likewise echoes the thinking of his one-time teacher,
Yvor Winters. Both can be loosely thought of as classical-minded. Winters gave
his essential thought memorable expression: “The poem is a statement in words
about a human experience.” No gush, no self-indulgence, no “confusion or
confession.” For Gullans, art is “the final judgment of the true.” His teacher
wrote in the introduction to Primitivism
and Decadence: “I believe that the work of literature, in so far as it is
valuable, approximates a real apprehension and communication of a particular
kind of objective truth.” Such notions must sound quaint in today’s literary culture,
in which irrelevance is not suppressed but exalted. An Ashbery poem is nothing
but irrelevance, and celebrated as such.
The poem is
a linked series of adagia on the nature of art, which Gullans calls decision, selection,
structure, technique. He’s a scrupulous poet: “nothing can be said / Without
the order in which it is read.” I wish I had read him a long time ago. The
background to several of the poems in Letter
from Los Angeles is a failed or failing love affair. There’s a cool sadness
to them, an ironic counterpoint to Los Angeles and its sunshine. “Adagia” is
rousing in its principled provocation.
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