Displeasing, Not Worthless

Taste is a fast judge and a poor historian. It rules in seconds, and it rarely reads the file.

Paris, 1913. The audience at the premiere of The Rite of Spring boos, hisses, and shouts over a ballet that sounds like the earth cracking open; how far it went, the accounts still argue. Less than a year later, a Paris concert crowd carries Stravinsky out on its shoulders. Same music, no dancers.

Displeasure, then, is often just the sound of a habit breaking. Sometimes it’s simpler, and less flattering to everyone: the work isn’t for us, and that’s fine. A cathedral doesn’t owe the tourist a good mood, and a dense novel doesn’t owe anyone a fast afternoon.

So I try to separate two questions that like to travel together. Did it please me? Did it do what it set out to do, and was that worth doing? The first is about me. The second is about the work. Confuse them, and you end up with a culture that rewards whatever goes down easiest.

Dislike is allowed. It’s even useful. Just keep the receipt: someday the work may turn out right, and I may turn out to be the one who needed time.