Watching comedy is tricky these days. And you can never be too careful when the subject matter is deeply troubling. It’s why I soundproofed my apartment walls and this Halloween I’ll be handing out earplugs to candy craving children. Sadly, it doesn’t always work.
To be extra safe from prying ears, I catch every new special on mute with extra small subtitles and a pair of handy binoculars. I’ve constructed makeshift screen blinders, like the ones horses wear, in the event someone – the mailman, the pizza boy, whomever – walks in on me consuming too much edge. With the blinders, I’m protected from judgment. I suppose they could judge me for supergluing darkened sheet metal to my laptop, but alas, that I can handle. That I understand.
The truth is that the best art doesn’t challenge, it caresses instead. Gently, warmly, supplely. We consume to reinforce our most deeply held beliefs, not to shake them up with complex and novel ideas.
Works of art change over time to fit the current social mores. Most people haven’t noticed that Andy Warhol’s famous Campbell’s condensed chicken noodle soup can now sports a trademark ™ symbol as well as the logos for Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram alongside a short copy line that encourages museum goers to “tell andy what you think about his can using #soupboy2021). The soup is organic, too. Art changes, we don’t.
Art should be a blanket. A nice, thick blanket. The kind of blanket you buy at L.L. Bean in the clearance section since most of the shoppers are there to buy boots and parkas. That’s the type of blanket art is. Not the ones firefighters hand out after evacuating a burning building. You know the one you hoist over your shoulder as a pushy photographer snaps a few pictures of your sooty mug for tomorrow’s paper. That’s too traumatic. That’s not the type of blanket a normal person brings home to bed.
The point is this: We don’t watch comedy specials to laugh. Good thing there’s very little danger in that happening anytime soon.
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