Louis Roney: Dilettantism

A recent letter from a relative took pains to describe the mundane activities of many other family members. Once again, I was jolted into the world of dilettantism and reminded that human intercourse may all too often be just that and nothing more.

Artists must put up with well-meaning dilettantes — for often the artist, in truth, is dependent upon them to pay the rent. Artists often find it easier to be around dilettantes than around artistic equals, for even successful artists find it hard to admit the equality of great artiness in others. The artist when he labors at his calling, no matter his sartorial artistic armor, stands stark naked before the world.

This commentator, an artist all his life — save a four-year stint as a Naval officer in World War II — never felt the pull to be part of the crowd. The crowd spends a great deal of its earthly substance in self-explanation. “You don’t know the real me” is the song of the masses. The artist, on the other hand says, “If you observe me, I’ll show you exactly who I am — and all that I am.”

French writer Jean Cocteau, whom I met many years ago when we appeared together on a program at the Théâtre des Champs Élysées in Paris said, “An artist cannot explain his art any more than a plant can discuss horticulture.” The artist, in a profound sense, is the sum and substance of his own art.

The greatest annoyance to the artist is not the “rowdy fan,” but the dilettante. The dilettante imagines himself to be privy to the special aesthetics that propel the artist. The dilettante may even assume that he is the alter ego of the artist.

As a matter of fact, the dilettante is further from the psyche of the artist than is the simplest fan. For the fan is honest as to who he is while, to the artist, the dilettante is by definition a fake, a phony.

Parvenus, arrivistes and dilettantes are often highly visible as they hover around the boards of art museums and performing arts organizations. These bloodless copies of real artists long to be in the milieu of the artists whom they try vainly to emulate: people who disdain them as nuisances, which they often are, of course.

In the canteens of every European opera house chat coffee-drinking dilettantes, invited by someone active on the stage or behind it.

Leading singers hear snatches of conversation about a “Tosca” done at this or that opera house, a stint as a chorus singer in this or that “Traviata,” or of carrying a spear in this or that “Aida.”

Have you ever chatted with a mechanic while he was working on your car? Did you throw in words like “calipers” and “voltage regulators”? An auto-dilettante such as I am had best sit in a corner and read a newspaper until the car is ready!

The arts have social connotations that make them fair game for every nouveau riche. True artists and true financial experts usually don’t speak the same language. An artist’s success is artistic. A dilettante is often a financial success who has no or little talent for “success” in the arts. His influence is, however, important.

Commonly, most artists are sadly not reciprocally titillated when in the presence of experts in real estate or stock speculation.

Are real artists generally less interested in material things than are most other people? And, if so, why?

True, the artist is concerned primarily with things that no one can buy. He obeys a compulsion to perfect a God-given talent. He and his art are inseparable, ergo the artist’s quest is at heart, self-perfection.

Failure, if it comes, can be complete and self-destructive.

The rich person, who hopes to “control” the lives of artists through the power of money, may well be enjoying himself, but he may be wasting both his time and his lucre.

About Roney: Harvard’42—Distinguished Prof, em.—UCF 2004 Fla. Alliance for the Arts Award (assisted by beautiful wife Joy Roney)