This series, aptly titled The Ethics of Art, is intended as a meditation in the philosophy of art. It is the work, no doubt, of a young writer, one with ambition, who wishes to see the iniquities of art erased to reveal a new landscape, one which cultivates success and talent not out of some seeming altruism, pity, or sheer dumb luck, but for the sake of the success of the system itself. The problem with Theatre, the reason it has been dead or dying for the better half of the last century, is that there are hardly any structures in place meant to support the growth of actors, meant to ensure the quality of performance. The current system devalues the “work” of the actor in favor of the “grind,” of sheer output and seeming. Headshots, websites, subscriptions, overpriced classes where one says two lines and sits and watches so many mediocre and uninspired people coming from their nine-to-fives hoping to discover that they are, in fact, as special as they always thought they were; or, worse still is the “educated” actor, who flaunts their endless energy and lack of self-restraint, calling it art. The fact of the matter is, in order to become an actor, an artist, there is a massivity of muck to be waded through before one sees the light of day. And, this is understood and understandable: the system is not built for the actor to search for truth; it is built for the consumption of the truth which the actor finds. But, should it be this way? Should we resign ourselves to “the way it is?” 

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As I said, the system we now have in place is certainly a far cry from what Plato would call an “aristocracy of talent” in which the best are selected and celebrated while the rest are politely pointed in another direction—but, it has been the general, steady decline in intellectuality within the field which has exacerbated and prolonged the plight of art and the theatre. For the last century—ever since Stanislavski broke the mould and acting became specific and individualized, since it became about both performance and experience—the leading acting philosophy has centered around the idea that the actor is no longer a vessel for a person completely disparate of their self, that the actor and their character are no longer separable. Sentiments echoed excitedly in the halls of university, regional, and broadway theaters alike are meant to dissuade the actor from doing too much, from “trying to act.” The modern ideal would be for the actor to bring their personality to any given role, not the other way around as it had been for centuries. But, what the actor is not told is that they must first develop a personality, or taste, in order for that to be relevant. It was Rothko who argued that “the progression of a painter’s work, as it travels in time from point to point, will be toward clarity.” What does this mean for the actor? It means that the actor’s "job" is to clarify his or her relationship to the work, with the work being the attainment of "truth," and the "truth" being something akin to divine revelation—which isn't found through methods of seeming. It is achieved in a multitude of ways, but it is most common for sustained success to come from the nurturing of one's passions and interests, leading one to naturally form specific taste, or perspective. But, these institutions, in their rhetoric, downplay this fact as being secondary to simply "doing the thing," hoping to make the actor feel insecure and more inclined to purchase more classes. Therefore, it is imperative that the actor understands the importance of working towards this clarity—towards this deeper understanding of their relationship in and of the world—because if they do not, then the technical work (the voice coaching, text work, on-camera boot camps, etc.) is useless. If we do not first know what anything is, or, more specifically, what anything means to us, then how can we expect to use it properly? To be able to "go against the grain" with specificity would require one to know which way the grain is going first. 

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Now, does this mean that all institutions should scrap their modus operandi and espouse only that which is metaphysically virtuous? No. This would be art for art’s sake—to expect every T.V. show, play and pamphlet be a work containing within it some undefined amount of enlightened knowledge would not only be pretentious, but boring too. Don’t fret, this series is not just another in the long line of attempts to argue for the moral righteousness of pursuing only that which rips one’s heart out and bares, naked and stark, the human soul; but, rather, it is meant as a foundation of thought for the artist, a body of work representing the proper questions to ask when we ask ourselves “what do we deserve? And what must we earn?”

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Let’s begin with a general question: is art perfect? Likewise: is the system which brings up the artist infallible? Well, it is the double edged sword of human existence to be alive at both the highest and most frustrating point in time: where things are best, but not the best that they can be. It has always been been the duty of the succeeding generations to take the knowledge of their predecessors and put it to good use, with the accruement and storage of knowledge being a unique feature of humanity, distinct in the universe. This extends into all professions, hobbies, and interests with capitalism meant as a systemic catalyst, as a way to incentivize and monetize progress. But, somewhere along the way, businesses realized that fixing problems, curing them, wasn’t as monetarily beneficial as treating them. It has become more advantageous for theatrical institutions to profit not off the success of the actor, but off of their continued failure. I’d venture so far as to say that any institution that does not explicitly pay the actor a living wage, or provide for them objective opportunities, does not care about the actor’s success. 

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Once again, this is not profound. Remember that it is not the "right to happiness" but the "right to the pursuit of happiness." And, to their credit, actors have been anything but dissuaded by this prospect. In fact, the rejection of any semblance of normalcy has become a point of pride for the actor: the overcoming of the obstacles one faces—the serious voices, the panic of jobs—is seen as a necessary and honorable part of the actor’s journey. However, it can be difficult to discern between an obstacle to be overcome and a dead end. Isn’t it seemingly honorable for the young actor to struggle, to be played, to take those endless classes where one pays to say two lines once a week and to, despite it all, come out as some gleaming diamond beget by a crushing pressure? Isn’t that honorable? Perhaps a better question would be: what is honor worth? If we are to listen to the words of the eternal bard, we would know that honor is but “a word,” and that he who has it “died o’Wednesday.” Essentially: the amount of honor one stands to gain is directly proportional to how deep the wound is. But, here we are not interested in being wounded, we are interested in creating a system which allows for a healthy and good life for the artist—one devoid of these nominal values which tend to hold back the artist, more than encourage. In short, it is for the birds. 

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It is safe to say that this acceptance of the seemingly infallible hardships of being an artist is an abdication, and one of many abdications to be found in our contemporary dialogue. It is a relegation of the actor to say that the ancillary aspects of acting—all that which is not acting, but which prevents one from acting—are what mould the actor is a blatantly false statement that does as much more for a slit throat as would a bandaid. It is intended as a reclamation, a source of pride and reassurance, that it—everything—will add up to some great undefined end. But, how does one discern between a good thing and a dead end when one is only ever promised that this opportunity, this class, or this agency is the former, when most would agree that the bulk of them are the latter?  Even if these things were all, somehow, “good” opportunities, even if they all had equal ability to get one into any door, then they would cease to be a good opportunity, instead becoming nothing more than free-for-alls. The question becomes: how can we create a system that allows for equal opportunity regardless of outside factors, one that allows anyone to act but which promotes only those with the most to offer? Wouldn’t that not only be better for the actor, but for the audience as well? Certainly this idealism is a slippery slope: we can’t have our cake and eat it too, but, nonetheless, shouldn’t that be our goal?  

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This series will ask and answer these questions, providing you, the artist, with the mental ammunition to bring about changes in the way we make art. It will deal with the abdications of the artist, posit new ways in which we can approach the questions of “good” and “bad,” and aim to debunk what atavistic lingerings there are left by the old masters—scraps of knowledge which are no longer relevant, let alone important. My focus will be on the actor, if not the artist. It is where my education and interest lies, but I hope that a nod in the direction of art in general will be sufficient to inspire, at the very least, a conversation or criticism of this work or of the system itself as is intended. It is true that actors, painters, singers, chess players—artists are all in search of the truth, and for the same values that come from the virtues of art: “the work, the food, and the time to sit and smoke;" it is high-time we cleaned up the muck.