…. but never called it art.” This line from Leonard Cohen’s last album really seized my attention this afternoon. One of my sons, knowing my lifelong involvement with his work gave me his Thanks for the dance as a Christmas present, and after we got back to Bradford this afternoon I had the opportunity to listen to it. Truly it is a remarkable collection. Rather than describe it as a collection of songs I would prefer to describe it as a suite of poems. Cohen has been honoured in his native Canada particularly as a poet, and listening to these verses I sense that I am listening to a poet reading his work against a musical accompaniment, rather than to a singer. There is hardly a memorable melody to any of them. Nevertheless, I have no hesitation in describing these pieces as among his best work.
As I listened, one line (in Happens to the Heart) really registered with me. “I was always working steady but never called it art.” If he can’t call what he created “art” (I asked myself) then who among us can? Cohen has always been rather self-deprecating. His Tower of Song, comes to mind, in which he compares himself unfavourably with Hank Williams. From what I read of him this was not an affectation, and he always underestimated the magnitude of his own achievement.
Recently I had some rather acid comments to make about a piece by Marizio Cattelan.* Here is somebody who makes outspoken claims to be producing “art”, but whose work I find to be of questionable value. I couldn’t help but reflect on the comparison between his attitude to his work and Cohen’s modesty. Then I decided that, regardless of what we claim for ourselves, the value of what we do, and its credentials as “art” are not open to us to decide. What constitutes art is decided, ultimately, by its durability. I am prepared to bet that the results of Leonard Cohen’s “working steady” will be respected long after Maurizio Cattelan is forgotten.
*See my post of 12 December.