From: manzara@flipflop.cpsc.ucalgary.ca (Leonard Manzara)
Subject: yoderland
Keywords: at the frontier of unthinking rationalism
Reply-To: manzara@cpsc.UCalgary.CA
Organization: University of Calgary Computer Science
Date: Tue, 25 Aug 1992 20:07:41 GMT


The gate loomed ominously before him.  C had heard that it was very
difficult to get into Yoderland, so he walked alongside the rampart
with little hope of entry. He had asked a fellow traveller how many
people managed to get by the gatekeeper.

"Not many," he said.  "Mostly older men---in fact, it helps if you're
dead."

C did not yet feel ready to make that sacrifice.

He walked under a darkened archway, down a narrow passage until he
came to sign which said "All visitors must report to the Customs and
Importations Inspector".  An arrow pointed towards a small, dingy
office which was located just off the passageway.  Through a tightly
shuttered window he could just make out a naked lightbulb dangling
haphazardly from black wires.

C stepped into the office and was greeted by the Inspector.  "Good
evening, Sir."  He was standing behind a large counter.  A great many
volumes of what appeared to be customs regulations were stacked on the
counter and on a drab grey metal desk to the rear of the room.  There
was little room for anything else.

"What is your occupation?" he asked.

"I make Art," said C.

"Art?"  The Inspector's brow furrowed slightly.  He reached towards a
shelf behind the desk and pulled out a dusty volume.  He mumbled "A-,
A-r-, A-r-t" as he paged though it, finally arriving at a page near
the end.

"So you are an Artist?" he asked C.

"Well," said C, "if by Artist you mean a person who makes Art, then
yes, you can call me an Artist.  However, I really don't hold much
store in definitions."

The Inspector's eyes peered at him with suspicion. C began to feel
that the interview was going badly.

"Why do you wish to enter the country?"

"To show some of my latest pieces.  I have been to many other lands
and many other people have been interested in them.  I take my Art to
anyone who wants to see it."

"And can you show me this Art?"  C thought he could detect a
trace of sarcasm as the Inspector pronounced the last word.

He opened his travelling bag and lifted out a small package covered
with brown paper, tied up with a loop of string.  He carefully undid
the knot and pulled the paper off a rather plain looking box, with a
clasp in front holding down the lid, and two brass hinges at the back.
He placed it on the counter in front of the Inspector.

"Inside is one of my best known works, although few people really
understand it."

The Inspector undid the clasp and lifted the lid.  He looked puzzled
as he bent his head to examine the contents of the box.

"Why, there is Nothing here!"

"Right!" said C.  "That is very clear to see.  The work is made out
of Nothing."

"But how can Art be made from Nothing?  Art must always be made from
Something!"

"Oh yes, well, Art is usually made of Something, although I decided I
would make this particular piece from Nothing."

The Inspector pulled back and exhaled sharply through his nose.  C
could feel the tension in the room rise, and he was suddenly aware of
a weak buzz from the light bulb above the Inspector's head.  The walls
of the office seemed to close in, and the lurid, institution-green paint
made him slightly sick.  There was no doubt that he was making a poor
impression.

The Inspector turned and flipped through the regulations manual,
settling on a page dense with small type.  He pursed his lips as his eyes
darted over what must have been several paragraphs of text.  Finally he
said, "That thing is definitely not Art."

"What?", said C.  "Why not?"

"Look at the regulations, sir.  It says, quite clearly, in Section
V.II, that to be Art, the object in question must `express a
metaphysical value judgement.'  How can Nothing do that?"

C was at a loss at what to say.  He had not heard the terms
Expression and Art juxtaposed in many years, except, perhaps, by
novitiate Art Lovers.  He decided to try another tack.

"Do you listen to Music?"

"Oh yes, sir!  Although I only like to listen to Good Music."

"Well, Stravinsky has said that Music is powerless to express anything
but itself.  Surely you agree that Music is Art?"

"I do, sir, if it is Good Music," said the Inspector, drawing himself
up to his full height.  "But this Stapinskee fellow is just plain
wrong.  The regulations are very clear.  Read them again."

The Inspector pulled out a small grey book from a drawer of the
counter and made a notation on one of its pages.  C was now fairly
certain that, although Stravinsky was dead, the Master would not make
it past the gate.

"The regulations have surely changed over the years," said C.
"Perhaps you could change Section V.II to be more reasonable?"

"No, no, no, sir!  The regulations are inviolable.  They never
change."

"But somebody had to invent them at first.  How did people decide
what is Art before the regulations were in print?"

"The regulations are simply codifications of eternal principles.
Somebody finally just had the good sense to write them down."

"But what are these eternal principles?"

"They are the regulations, sir.  That should be plain to see."

Circles danced before C's eyes, and the buzzing from the lightbulb
seemed to seal out any other sound.  It was clear the Inspector was
not going to give up his regulations.  C thought a bit, and then
decided to try another path.

"I can produce a signed affidavit from a countryman of mine, which
states that, for him, this object expresses a metaphysical value
judgement.  Perhaps it does meet the requirements of the regulations
after all?"

"Ah, sir, I'm afraid you don't understand the regulations.  I'm the
one who decides if the object does indeed express a metaphysical value
judgement.  An affidavit from anyone else will not do at all."

"It won't?"  C was becoming exasperated.  "What about somebody else in
this office?  Do you have a supervisor?  I would like to appeal to his
good sense."

"There is no course of appeal, sir.  About this, the regulations are
very clear.  I am the Final Authority in these matters."

With this he shut the book with a snap and replaced it on the shelf.
He jabbed sharply at a small bell on the counter and a guard appeared
in the doorway.  "Please escort this gentleman back to where he came
from."  C wrapped up the box and carefully retied the string.  As he
replaced the box in his bag the Inspector turned to him. "Mind now,
sir, that you don't try to enter our country again.  Once you have
been turned away once, you can never enter in the future."

C looked at the Inspector's face and saw that its blankness was meant
to shut him out.  Having no choice, C walked quickly out the door and
retraced his steps down the passageway, the guard a few paces behind
him.  The sky opened up before him once he made his way past the
archway, and leaving the shadows of the rampart he felt the darkness
lift.


---
Leonard Manzara
..with apologies to FK, and respect to C
Newsgroups: rec.music.classical