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313 pages, Kindle Edition
First published November 20, 2018
‘What Berger hated in Lust for Life was its glorification of madness: illness as inspiration, disturbance as genius. There are countless crazy people whose art is bad. Everyone knows Van Gogh cut off his ear; what is less known is his almost Christlike devotion—.’
‘Tantrums aside, anyone who has spent an hour in Berger’s presence can attest to the electric attention he brought to each moment, the sense that as you were talking to him he was devoted entirely to you and no one else. As you spoke, you became a more deliberate and consequential version of yourself, his own unhurried, Delphic cadences rubbing off on every exchange. And anyone who has seen even ten minutes of him on YouTube will have at least a partial sense of this: the personal luminance, the mix of self-assurance with professions of humility, the laser-like focus of his mind and eyes.’
‘The more that genius, fame and private property were fetishized—the more that art became a ‘snob commodity’ to be bought and sold—the less it could fulfil its proper social role. And, again, the state-funded museum was not an adequate corrective. Great works, Berger wrote, ‘have never been consciously produced for the museums of the future’. They were, in one of his many arresting metaphors, more like stones in a bridge that can help a people move in a certain direction.’
‘Abstraction was both the cause and symptom of a vicious cycle. It not only turned the medium in on itself, but also pushed working artists further into a state of alienation and social redundancy—As the space for art became more international and more highly concentrated within an elite stratum of festivals and galleries, the general public mistrust of the value of art increased—More and more people were choosing to become artists for what Berger saw as the wrong reasons, while others chose not to for the right ones. ‘Many of our most serious unrecognised artists’, he said, ‘are so sickened by the preciousness, snobbism, ignorance, bluff and blatant commercialism of the “art world” that they prefer to remain outside it, not even to break in.’
‘If colour is the place, as Cézanne said, where our brain and the universe meet, the photo-text may be the place where the different currents inside us—the verbal and the visual, faces and landscapes, desires and ideas—can gather and cohabit. People talk about being ‘right brained’ or ‘left brained’ as if you can’t be both.’
‘The confluence of frank sexuality, aesthetic experimentalism and public scandal forms a particularly robust and laurelled lineage of modernism. In the heyday of the 1860s there was Manet’s Olympia; a year later Courbet’s L’Origine du Monde. Berger’s own ornate renderings derived partly from Picasso. In the artist’s portraits he had noted the sexual disfigurations of the face (the nose as phallus, the mouth as vagina), and spoke of Les Demoiselles D’Avignon as a ‘raging frontal attack’. At the height of literary modernism there were Joyce, Lawrence and Miller. Then, in the 1950s and 1960s, Nabokov, Roth and Vidal.—Artistic and sexual rebels both perform in order to provoke. Both set out to shock the same people: the self-appointed defenders of good taste.’
‘Three weeks after Toynbee’s initial letter—three confusing weeks when the Hungarian and Soviet water polo teams left blood in the water at the Melbourne Olympics, when Elvis dedicated ‘Peace in the Valley’ to Hungary on the Ed Sullivan show, when Sartre declared that socialism could never be brought by bayonet point—Berger finally broke his silence. ‘I do not want to be callous and I respect those who can be moved by the use of their imagination,’ he said.’
‘In Berger’s career there had been stories of shared labour and of restless travel, but now, as an old man, the seasons traversed, he could finally tell stories of the heart—From libidinal fixation, he turned to what was rarer. Tender intimacy, far more than fucking, became his focus—Berger came to speak in a way so many men—shy away from. It was the opposite of Hemingway or Humphrey Bogart or Raymond Carver.’
‘Berger was often accused of being aggressive in print, but his handwriting was a mellifluous cursive, a felt-tip trace. I spent months reading it in archives—to confess to a certain glow I have seen emerge out of the sediment of time. To research is also to resuscitate.’