When we were on holiday recently we spent an enjoyable hour in the small local museum at Reeth. On the way out we noticed shelves displaying second-hand books, for sale in support of the museum, and we both came away with trophies. I was fascinated to find, in what seemed like an unlikely location, a copy of The Sociology of Art, by Jean Duvignaud. Of course, I had to buy it for old time’s sake.
My expectation was that it would be pleasurable linking my former academic interests with my current artistic activities. In the event, however, that turned out to be a disappointment, although the reason why that has been so is instructive. Reading Duvignaud is like looking at art through the wrong end of a very powerful telescope. It creates the impression that one is a very long way from its supposed object of interest.
It turns out that what Duvignaud is actually interested in is not art, in the sense of the activities of specific people, and the objects they created. He isn’t even interested in the familiar subject-matter of a great deal of art criticism, namely, movements or “schools” of art. His attention is actually directed towards the work of people who have written about art, such as Gyorgy Lukacs or Pierre Francastel.
I find this very disappointing, wearing my sociological hat (if I’m still entitled to one.) If the discipline isn’t concerned with concrete, historically situated, human activity then I don’t know what it is supposed to do. The book might pass muster as a history of art criticism, or something of that order, but you can read the entire volume without actually encountering any art or artists.
Curiously, I was reminded, in reading it, of a story told about the famous nineteenth century anthropologist E. B. Tylor, known for his influential work on “primitive peoples” and cultural evolution. He is supposed to have been asked on one occasion how he had managed to obtain his information about the customs of the peoples about whom he wrote. Wasn’t communication rather difficult? His response is reported as being the incredulous question, “What, have a savage in my study?”
I’m afraid that, reading Duvignaud, I formed the impression that he would have been similarly dismayed at any suggestion the he might ever have had to meet an artist.