The chef I studied under, when I still wanted to be a chef, had stories. All chefs do. They have stories about the crazy people they worked with, the insane dishes they prepared through the years, the shouting, the sweating, and the violence of creating with food. I was a chef for only a short while, and I have enough cooking stories to fill a book. I could have written Kitchen Confidential, but Anthony Bourdain beat me to it, and did a far better job of it than I would have.
Anyway, I’m at chef school, learning the trade. The chef who’s school it is, he tells stories, all the time, one after the other. And there’s one that stayed with me.
Apparently this happened back in the 80’s. It’s the Culinary Olympics, or the equivalent of the Culinary Olympics. He was a bit vague on the competition details. So, the Culinary Olympics has teams from across the globe competing in different cooking events. This particular year, it’s the Europeans that are the favourites. It’s between the French, Germans, Italians and Belgians, and they’re killing it. But, when it comes to the national dish event the Americans come out of nowhere and serve up hamburgers and fries, while the Europeans are doing some fancy shit. Literally ground beef sandwiches and deep-fried potato chips vs. foie gras and zucchini flowers stuffed with truffles.
Everyone thinks the American’s have lost their minds. But it’s the masterstroke that leads to their victory. The burgers are perfect. The buns are soft, and only ever so slightly toasted. The beef patty is moist, grainy with a slight burn on the exterior that adds that perfect texture. On the inside the patty it is on the cooked side of pink; juicy, meaty. The lettuce and tomato are perfectly proportioned to the bread and the meat. The mustard and ketchup are freshly made. The ketchup is the equivalent of the Southern Italy having a love child with New York. The mustard is all gangster, Chicago with a hint of French sophistication.
The chips are twice fried, cut to perfection. Crunchy on the outside, pillowy soft in the centre, with the perfect amout of salt. Chef didn’t know if they served mayo with the chips.
And because the simple dish was so perfect in every way, the Americans won that year, to the horror of the culinary world.
Apparently. I have subsequently scoured the internet to substantiate the story. No dice – or burgers.
The moral of the story – a simple thing made perfectly will always beat a grandiose attempt at showing off.
But, the moral of the story isn’t only that about simple perfection
There is something bigger going on in the story. And I only realised it recently.
The story is actually about the age old question; what is art and what is just craft or decorative art? Who is an artist and who is merely an artisan? Is a hamburger worthy of the name, cuisine, or is it just a burger?
People started distinguishing art and craft in the 1400’s. Painters, who were up until then paid by the square foot, started petitioning their patrons to start rewarding them for the quality and originality of their work.
And, as this idea of originality being a measure of value was starting to take hold, Giorgio Vasari, published the first volume of his book, Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects. His book was a hit, and within a generation it elevated architects, painters and sculptors to Rockstar status in Italy, while relegating other creators, such as ceramicists, people who made mosaics, tailors and ironworkers to mere artisans; creators of mass produced decorative art.
And the dichotomy spread
Over time the dichotomy between high art and low art spread and infected other creative disciplines. In cooking we distinguish between haute cuisine, bistro food and junk food. We have haute couture, and ‘clothes’. In the world of publishing there is a delineation between genre fiction and literary fiction – one is more plot driven while the other is more character driven. In character driven (literary) fiction, not a lot happens, and only smart people tend to understand what actually did happen.
Same with cinema. Hollywood blockbusters are seen as lowbrow while arthouse and some indie movies are seen as more artistic, more cerebral. And depending on what you wear, what you read, what movies or TV shows you watch or where you go out for a special occasion, you either have good taste, are smart… an intellectual or a luddite with common tastes.
And in many cases, high art is more expensive, more desirable, while low art is ubiquitous, affordable and less desirable.
Aesthetics and the philosophy of art
I’m in my first year of university, I’m studying philosophy, and I sign up for a course; Aesthetics and the Philosophy of Art. I don’t really know what we’re going to discuss, but I sign up, because it has the word ‘aesthetics’ in it, and I want to be impressive, and knowing something about aesthetics (like what the word means) will somehow make me more attractive to the opposite sex and more popular in general.
And for that whole first semester while I was doing the course we discussed who decides what is art and what isn’t. And after much speculation, much looking at images of naked men and woman to decide what is pornography and what’s art, the answer was revealed.
It’s a small group with a lot of influence who work in the art industry. They are the ones that get to decide what is art and what isn’t.
Similarly, a small few in the fashion industry get to decide what is haute couture and what isn’t. In the literary world, again, what is considered literary fiction and worthy of consideration for awards, comes down to a select few. And the thing about all these people are that they derive their position and much of their wealth from the fact that they are the mediators who get to decide what is art and what is merely decorative, functional or entertaining.
It is worth pointing out that Giogio Vasari was himself a painter, architect and writer, and good friends with Michelangelo. He was the first opinionator, the first artistic influencer, the first person who decided who’s work was worthy of admiration.
Me, I don’t know, I’m somewhere in between
The problem is that I walk through IKEA and I see some of their wall art. There are photos and prints of paintings that I really like. Genuinely. But I then I think to myself, I’m in IKEA, and this isn’t really art, it is merely wall decoration. This isn’t what an adult with taste hangs on his or her wall. And I walk away, but secretly wishing I could have that monochrome photo of the New York skyscraper above my bath to look at while I’m soaking in bubbles.
And the same happens to books. There are the books you should read. The classics, the Russian Classics, the classic self help books, the philosophy books, the beat generation, the essayists. But Lee Child, James Patterson, Stephen King, they’re not considered as adding anything to the literary world. You can read them but the time spent reading their books is time you’re not using to better yourself as a human being by reading Dostoyevsky.
And I love reading Lee Child. Reading a Jack Reacher books has become a guilty pleasure. Something I have to earn by reading other ‘important’ books.
And then there’s clothes. I like plain t-shirts. I find Uniqlo makes good ones. They’re bland, like a clear sky over the Sahara, but they’re comfortable and last a long time. I should probably aspire to wear Prada, and I would love to own a few of their suits, but Uniqlo does the trick.
And when it comes to food, I loved French cuisine. As a chef I only worked at Michelin starred restaurants. But now, as I grow older, I like plain food. I enjoy light, spicy, honest and simple food. I enjoy a good hamburger (as long as it’s vegan), I love falafels, and smother most of my food in Tabasco or Sriracha sauce – to my wife’s horror.
So, on a few fronts I allow myself to stray from the high-brow. I’m not the best dressed person on the planet, I’m not the most well read. And I eat junk, but don’t mind some molecular gastronomy every once in a while. But, when it comes to what we hang on our walls, my wife and I seek out what we believe to be art, which is art. And it’s unlikely we will ever buy a picture from IKEA.
And somewhere in there is the problem
The thing is; what I consider good and beautiful and worthy of my admiration I still evaluate in relation to what the opinionators deem to be art, or worthy of critical acclaim. And that bothers me.
It bothers me because it reminds me that my point of reference for what I see as art, or good food, or great fiction is limited twice over. The opinionators (I’m starting to fall in love with this word. It’s a combination of ‘influencers’ and those sinister people we only ever refer to as ‘them’). The opinionators only ever evaluate a small fraction of the food, art, literature, clothing, ceramics, rugs, sculptures, candlesticks that are made in the world for potential inclusion into the pantheon of ‘high’ art, food, fashion etc.
And because they are predominantly white, and educated in the West, they don’t take the time to see what is happening in Africa, Latin America, the Middle East, and across Asia. The opinionators limit what I get to experience and desire twice. Firstly by the limits they define what is worthy or acclaim. And then by the limits of their own cultural horizons. For instance; there are blankets, pots, headresses and outfits made by people in Peru that should 100% be considered art. Similarly there are dishes, like ceviche, which the culinary world only recently discovered. This is a dish which has been enjoyed by people in South America for decades, and we’ve only now discovered how special it is.
What other wonders go overlooked across the globe just because the opinionators haven’t looked there yet?
So, I’m trying to be less influenced by those people who decide for all of us what should be in a museum and what should be on display in IKEA. I’m trying to work out what I like, and trying to not be sucked into what the opinionators are raving about now.
And I’m hoping to make more time to immerse myself in different cultures to discover what creative gems that I love, before the opinionators ruin these for me.