What is kitsch, a word we usually translate as “bad taste”? Born in Germany, she came to our country thanks to Gillo Dorfles, who published his most famous work in 1968: “Kitsch, an anthology of bad taste“. It was reissued in the 1990s and now appears for Bompiani in a new, elegant edition that does not seem to have aged at all (apart from perhaps the scholar’s criticism of the Beatles at the time). Dorfles spoke primarily about art (in his essays and those of other scholars whom he just included to look at the phenomenon from many angles) and identified kitsch in the decorative and economic implementation of famous works such as the Eiffel Pepper Mill Towers or the then perhaps most popular Robiolina Gioconda, complete with Leonardo’s masterpiece on the packaging: and of course the replicas of Greek and Roman statues to decorate mansions and mansions, right up to the infamous garden gnomes – which then became pretexts for works of critical-ironic art.
Today, when kitsch is almost normal, we no longer notice it; it is part of our landscape; If anything, it has created the trash, bad taste squared, that dominates communication and entertainment. But where does it begin and where does it end? What is interesting is that Dorfles has already methodically asked himself how and based on which categories one can speak of “bad taste” (who decides that?) and for this reason he referred to this thanks to Hermann Broch, the German writer who Although he did not invent the term (not only him, but also Anna Harendt): for whom bad taste is subjective, but especially in the eyes of those who believe that “from art, we can only draw pleasant, pleasant, sweet impressions ; or even that art serves as a “seasoning”, as “background music”, as decoration, as a status symbol, perhaps as a means of making a good impression in society, and certainly not as a serious, tiring exercise, committed and critical Act …”
Little is said about literature in the book; Dorfles emphasizes the mediocre imitations of writers like Kafka or Beckett, in short, the prevailing epigonism – especially in the 1960s – but prefers to concentrate on “artistic garbage”. It certainly hits the mark, although perhaps with a certain early 20th century aristocratic haughtiness. The years that have passed now prove him right. Kitsch, which for Broch marked “the syrupy waste of the Romantic century,” is still a very good label to describe the century we have just begun. But no longer for garden gnomes.
In this context, it is interesting to re-read in parallel a short essay by Milan Kundera, which appears in “Curtain(Adelphi, 2005), who is also responsible for the idea of syrupy waste, which seems very current to us beyond romanticism. He is obviously also referring to Broch, but adds that kitsch is a very precise term in Central Europe, where it represents the ultimate aesthetic evil, “the rose-colored veil thrown over reality, the immodest display of an ever-restless heart.” , in short, presents a pretty effective image, “the tyranny of the operatic tenors.” He also adds that when translating the word into French, “art de pacotille” (cheap art) was chosen, “which made the reflection incomprehensible” because in this sense “vulgarity” is simply frowned upon (always a very important one for Kundera Theme). in the transalpine culture). All in all, a similar statement applies to Italian: bad taste and vulgarity go hand in hand.
But Kundera doesn’t stop there. In fact, he cites an autobiographical episode in which, having just fled to France from Bohemia, he had a long conversation with an important French writer who helped him greatly. “It was our first meeting in Paris – he writes – and I saw words floating emphatically in the air above us,” “solemn ghosts” like Gulag, homeland, persecution, courage, resistance. To “drive away the kitsch,” he decided to tell a recent anecdote from Prague. More recently, before his exile, he had actually swapped his house and his name with a friend to avoid the attention of the political police. This man, the great seducer that he was, used Kundera’s studio apartment – and the name – for reckless erotic adventures, regardless of the microphones and hidden cameras. And when the writer left forever, the closed apartment and the disappearance of the nameplate from the intercom were an excellent opportunity for the Prague Don Giovanni, who wanted to end many a love story.
However, Kundera himself had to take it upon himself and wrote farewell letters from Paris “to seven women whom I had never seen before” – and who were convinced that they had something to do with him. Fun? No, the French intellectual didn’t appreciate that at all. “We remained friends without ever liking each other,” the author concludes, because “the man who is allergic to kitsch” clashed “with the man who is allergic to vulgarity.” Nowadays kitsch in Dorfle’s sense may really be secondary, who knows, even harmless; but it is undeniable that the tyranny of the operatic tenors wins instead, exactly in the spirit of Kundera. Not without a few hints.
