Comstock's Revenge

In 1873, a man named Anthony Comstock convinced Congress to pass the Comstock Act, banning the distribution of obscene materials through the Postal Service. Those who wished to share their writing could be arrested if it was deemed obscene by the eyes of the law. It was even illegal to send books of anatomy to medical schools due to their depictions of nudity. Fifteen people were driven to suicide as a result of Comstock’s efforts to suppress the artist.

            Since then, we have entered the age of a new breed of censorship, one very different from its predecessors but every bit as ugly and devoted towards the persecution of the creative. What institution is responsible for this cruelty? Not the government, not the church, but the common man, imposing a censorship upon themselves. And what crime are the oppressed artists of this generation guilty of? Blasphemy? Obscenity?  No, instead they have committed a sin far more heinous to the modern world. They are guilty of simple creativity, of attempting to work towards art in a world that no longer has a need for it. We are in the middle of Huxley’s nightmares, a society where books need not be banned because nobody wants to read them.

            This is the generation of instant gratification. As information becomes faster to receive and to transmit, the concept of “take your time” becomes more of a taboo with each year. In the digital age, we have all the minute-long videos we could ask for, an army of amusing pictures, and every celebrity’s thoughts in 140 characters or less. All entertainment must be easy to create and easy to consume. If not, then why bother with it?

            Every film’s an adaptation or a sequel, or perhaps both. The familiar is comforting. There’s no sense in spending time and money on something unless you’re sure you like it, and the only way to be sure of that is if you’ve already seen it before. Our culture continually vomits up the familiar, playing it safe, never treading new waters, because that’s exactly what we want it to do. The new game is content aggregation, not content creation.

            And what of those who dare to attempt something different? What about the few who wish not to rehash, but to create? What if you want to make something out of whole cloth, blow everyone’s mind away, change the world? In today’s society, in the land of keeping it simple, the answer is as plain as our entertainment: God help you.

            Why should we dignify your work with the honor of our attention? We’ve never heard of it before, and we’ve never heard of you either. And look at everything else I can pacify myself with. Giving you a chance simply isn’t worth the time. Run along now, and never bother anyone else again. Don’t you dare ever pursue such a despicable dream.

            The aspiring artist is a fossil, a relic with no place in today’s world. He is a drop in the ocean, fruitlessly fighting for his work to shine in an environment that has left him invisible. Imagine being greeted by a society where everything you love is now hated. You’d almost be tempted to die.

            Throughout the years there have been those who dreamed of destroying the spirit of the artist, countless maenads eager to tear apart poor Orpheus. They chose to fight directly. Censorship, persecution, even physical violence. Though their efforts failed, in the end their task proved not to be so impossible after all. To kill the artist, you do not focus your attention on him. You focus your attention elsewhere, and get everyone else to do the same.

            You can almost hear old Comstock laughing, wishing he’d thought of it himself.