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Poet and Peasant

This is not intended as a review of the literary standard, but more of a critique of the general tone of the publication.

The form seems to be that of a set of very strident theme, in most cases in a rather minor key.

We do not have to read "Salient" to hear it either. Drop in on a conversation about the Penguin shelves in any of our "arty" bookshops; listen to that odd looking character at the next table in any restaurant frequented by our "colonial bohemians," or Just pause in your efforts to find a worthy successor to Bob Scott in the depths of the fug in the Grand Hotel and you will hear that disturbing voice sulking, "But what about the arist?" Please do not get me wrong. This is a very pertinent question.

The artist in this country certainly has something to say. However, until he succeeds in establishing a liaison with his potential public, his will remain, as it is now, but a voice in the wilderness. The "average" New Zealander is always quite willing to laugh off, or simply ignore, something ho has difficulty in understanding. He has not been brought up to understand art so ho simply "leaves to the longhairs." There are things he can understand, of course, and these he is particularly fond of, to the point of a particularly stubborn parochialism. See what happens when a local Rugby League wants to hire a Rugby Union playing field for an important representative match (as occurred up north in 1951).

The artist, of course is different. He is so far different as to be lengths apart from his society. He looks back at the environment from which he has emerged, shudders and turns away again. Occasionally he throws a scrap of paper over his shoulder with a poem or something scratched on it which the fellow trotting at his heels greedily snatches up and stuffs into his pocket.

Unless we can produce a Shakespeare (or a Long land, perhaps) pretty smartly, the artist in this country is very likely to destroy himself. The only alternative is for him to find something in common with the public, a bond of sympathy, which must be reciprocal and founded on sincerity. This will only be possible when the artist deserts his self-erected pedestal of patronising arrogance, and learns to humble himself in the face of his art.

There is a great deal to be said for humility. It is only when the artist achieves this quality that ho finds perspective. Then he will find, if he is worthy of it, that he is being raised on a new pedestal, erected not by the "superfine intellects" of his coterie but by the people themselves. This will not come of his personal charm or notority but as a direct result of the impact of his art on the bourgeoise.

A great actor once said that he would rather be met by the shooting of an angry audience than the story silence of a disinterested one. Of course it is very nice to be applauded warmly, too. I feel that Mr. Baxter will have to seduce his Eurydice by more subtle means or go to the other extreme and throw her on to a bed and rape her. She will not be won by long lingering looks, however suggestive.

—David Bridges