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Fresh off a farm in east Texas, living halfway around the world with the U.S. Air Force, Bob Hughes fell in love with the Filipino people and became burdened to​.
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He is one of the finest living writers of the English language. A taste for the Augustan age — as the 18th century in English literature used to be called — is very striking in Hughes's essays. In his new book he surveys the original age of Augustus , in ancient Rome, and discusses Juvenal's Satires and the majesty of Virgil. Here is truly a writer on writers, peppering his superb English sentences with lovingly quoted Latin vocabulary. I said this was not a review but it seems I have read, and repeated, enough of Rome to establish that it is Hughes on cracking form: the world's greatest critic on the world's greatest city.

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Read Robert Hughes. He is a fortress against the barbarians. Topics Art and design Jonathan Jones on art. Art History books Rome holidays Robert Hughes blogposts. Reuse this content. Order by newest oldest recommendations. Show 25 25 50 All. Threads collapsed expanded unthreaded.

Loading comments… Trouble loading? Transportation did not stop crime in London or even slow it down. In the contemptuous cohesion of the convicts lay the roots of Australian cohesion and mateship. This cohesion took on a political dimension when - from onward - Irish rebels began to arrive. Tension between the Celt and the Anglo-Saxon would continue to be the dominant issue in Australian society and politics for the next century and a half or more. Rebels other than the Irish who were to see the shores of penal Australia included machine-breaking Luddites; food rioters; the so-called Tolpuddle Martyrs, who tried to form an early trade association; and Canadian farmers and tradesmen who rose against the high Tory legislature in Quebec and Ontario in the 's.

Some Chartists would also be added to this political gene stock of Australian convictism.

But the bulk of the Australian convicts were common or even habitual minor criminals, although one could argue that many assaults on property in the England of the 's, or in Ireland at any time, could be counted as primitive political statements. The life of the convict, as portrayed by Mr. Hughes in a wealth of detail by turns ironic, poignant and horrifying, was often a lottery. Even child convicts began their careers laboring on Government projects. In the ruins of the Tasman Peninsula on the island of Van Diemen's Land now Tasmania , you can see the thumbprints of the child felons of the sinisterly named Point Puer.

Puer is the Latin for boy. As with the Einsatzgruppen of the SS, there were among the British authorities a number of classicists. A step up for the convict was assignment to a free settler. Early Sydney and Van Diemen's Land were entirely penal, but a slow infusion of free settlers began, and an increasing number of convicts finished their sentences, acquired freedom and settled on the spacious land, sometimes becoming pastoral Brahmins.

The former convicts were named Emancipists; the free settlers, Exclusives. Exclusives wanted no association with the criminal foulness of the system, except to call on it for cheap labor and to require it to regulate their convict laborers savagely with the lash.

If the convict behaved well he would receive his ticket of leave, which enabled him to live more or less freely and conduct business in the penal colony. The final deliverance was a full pardon or an expiration of sentence. But few convicts were able, from the enormous distance of New South Wales or Van Diemen's Land, to return to their homelands. So they stayed and fed their memories into the Australian pool of dreams. Their children became ''Currency lads and lasses,'' as distinct from the English-born, the Sterlings.

They were rugged children, forthright, laconic, well fed. Their soul was an outdoor soul. They were patriotic despisers of the British-born martinet. In a spacious land devoted to penal institutions, they became used, contradictorily, to a vast practical freedom. In their birth and in the nature of the country itself lay the ultimate contradiction of the chains their parents had worn.

The irony was that on a continent itself entirely a prison, there had to be places of secondary and even tertiary punishment short of death. In Van Diemen's Land, the place of penultimate punishment this side of the gallows was terrible Macquarie Harbor, an awesome place on the island's wild, wet west coast. Norfolk Island, an exquisite Pacific isle miles from the Australian coast, was used from the beginning for ultimate exile. It was - with a brief respite imposed by the reforming Capt. Alexander Maconochie - a place of breathtaking barbarity. The punishment books of both these penal hells are full of weird Dickensian items.

On Norfolk Island an Irishman named William Riley received lashes for ''Singing a Song'' no doubt a rebel one and 50 for asking a warder for a chew of tobacco. Hughes writes, ''some men would opt for a lifetime at the bottom of the carceral heap by blinding themselves; thus, they reasoned, they would be left alone.

There is at least one eyewitness account of the prisoners' peculiar rite of drawing lots. Reality shortage, induced by an inflated cult of promotion and celebrity, was acute. The sense of civic space began to collapse under the pressure of real estate greed, the fear of crime, the exploding drug market. And then there was AIDS. Not one of these woes was confined to Sodom-on-the-Hudson, although New Yorkers with their appetite for disaster scenarios were apt to talk as though Manhattan were their special laboratory, a sort of Island of Dr.

Moreau in which every kind of deformity was breeding. But social tensions, even plagues, do not in themselves guarantee the decline of a great art center. The difference between then and now is that the pattern of world cultural activity has made the very idea of the single, imperial center obsolete. New York, in other words, remains a center, but not, as its art world used to imagine, the center. Its centrality is based mainly on the market, and the market has nothing to do with cultural vitality. A few years ago a popular neo-Marxist argument held that finesse of taste and connoisseurship were only masks for market activity, genteel ways in which a ravenous commercialism could spin euphemisms about itself.

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Anyone who believed that should look at the art market today. It is now run almost entirely by finance manipulators, fashion victims, and rich ignoramuses. The collector as connoisseur has been squeezed out of it. Connoisseurship is an impediment to its progress—mere dust on the road down which the inflationary march proceeds. And because it has never paid more than lip service to the idea of state patronage of the arts, the United States has no dominant cultural institutions that are not tied into the market. Greenmail, junk bonds, leverage, and the precarious liquidity of an overgeared credit economy transformed the art world into the Art Industry, turnover immense, regulations none.

What was a picture worth? One bid below what someone would pay for it.

And what would that person pay for it? Basically what he or she could borrow. And how much art could dance for how long on that particular pinhead? Nobody had the slightest idea. What is certain is that nobody foresaw the hyperinflation of the market; and that when the bubble bursts, or softly deflates, as bubbles do, nobody will have foreseen that either. Twenty years ago the idea that any work of art made in the past century would sell for a million dollars seemed like science fiction to most people.

Today, when someone pays 5 or 10 million for a modern painting, the event rates no more than a sentence or two in the auction reports of The New York Times.

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To lock it into a market circus is to lock people out of the contemplation of it. This inexorable process tends to collapse the nuances of meaning, and visual experience generally, under the brute weight of price. It is not a compliment to the work. What strip-mining is to nature, the art market has become to culture. Never before have the impulses of art appreciation and collecting been so nakedly harnessed to gratuitous, philistine social display as in the late s, and nowhere more so than in the United States, especially when the Japanese are buying.

Yet the game had losers as well as winners, and by the late s the losers, interestingly enough, were American.

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They were chiefly the American museums, and through the museums the American public. The art market boom has been an unmitigated disaster for the public life of art.

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Thirty even twenty years ago anyone, amateur or expert, could spend an hour or two in a museum without wondering what this Tiepolo, this Rembrandt, this de Kooning might cost at auction. Thanks to the unrelenting propaganda of the art market, this is no longer quite the case; and the imagery of money has been so crudely riveted onto the face of museum-quality art by events outside the museum that its unhappy confusion between price and value may never be resolved.