Ostensibly unwanted

More catching up...

A couple weeks ago my department at work had a holiday luncheon. Afterward there was a "white elephant" gift exchange. For those unfamiliar with the concept, the idea (at least in how it is practiced in this case) is to give items that are intentionally tacky or of questionable desirability. Re-gifting is not only allowable but tacitly encouraged. The way it plays out, in what tends to be given, this turns into something of an ironic exploration of the items that someone put non-ironic effort into producing (and which ended up being sold at the 99 cent store).

The truly incongruous element to the exchange is that when a person has a turn to select a gift, it is allowable to steal what someone else already opened. This suggests that the item in question is at least in some way non-ironically desirable, and negates the "white elephant" aspect (which, by definition, should be something one should not want to get but one should seek to get rid of). I digress.

An item that was not stolen but selected (as the only unopened gift) by the last person to choose this year was a calendar featuring photos of longhorn steer. Or cattle. I forget which is which (one still has its bits and pieces, one doesn't—I know that much… I think). Anyway, it's pictures of the animals for which the University of Texas takes its nickname, one after another, for 16 months (yes, not merely a 12-month extravaganza). In an office in downtown Los Angeles, of course this seems like the sort of thing one would get stuck with but never want.

Days later I saw the calendar on the desk of the person who got it, unwrapped and laid open to the December 2008 page. At first I glanced at it with the appropriate level of ironic appreciation for someone who regularly watches The Soup. The shot featured the animal essentially in profile (that is, showing it from the side), with its head turned to face the camera. Yep, it's a longhorn.


But then I looked at the photo closer.

The animal's body was almost facing directly the late afternoon, nearly setting sun, so the light was coming at it almost horizontally. With the head turned it cast a phenomenal shadow of the head and one long horn against the side of its body. The composition was genuinely impressive. I know only a bit about photography, but I'm certain it's the sort of shot that the photographer was lucky to capture. I've worked a bit with cows as a subject (long story) and I found them to be entirely dismissive to pose suggestions, so I can't imagine the photographer did anything to specifically position the animal thusly; he just happened to push the shutter when finally the animal glanced his way (and cast the shadow).

It was, by any aesthetic criterion I'd use to judge photos, a good picture. Frankly, I'd be very pleased to get a shot that good, regardless of the subject.

And there I was: Appreciating it outside of even the slightest hint of irony. All because I took the time to investigate whether it held genuine value.

The thing is: Its genuine value was always there. I merely failed to see it previously.

I am not being sarcastic. I say that with absolute sincerity. Yes, it's hideously telling that I feel compelled to mention that, as though my audience wouldn't believe me unless I clarified I wasn't winking at them (so to speak).

Now, to address what I suspect some readers may be expecting me to reveal: No, I did not give the calendar. (For the record: I put a box of bendy drinking straws in a gift bag along with a box of crayons—both items I merely had in my desk. I intended them to merely play against the idea of being tacky by being merely unexpected. Don't judge me.) That would give this story a better ending, complete with requisite character development, but as I'm sticking entirely in the realm of sincerity I cannot fabricate details out of convenience.

I don't think I can participate in the exchange next year. Everything otherwise cheesy will hold a hidden quality I never noticed before; I won't be able to find anything, and I'll kind of think less of those who fail to see it.

Well, maybe it won't go that far…

~

And even there I try to put the quaint little ironic spin on the end. That's what deserves a sense of looking down one's nose at, not a calendar featuring majestic (yes, seriously) creatures. (I probably would feel less in awe were I in a position of having to deal with them, but I digress.)

I concede it's an infinitely risible epiphany, but I find myself regarding it as just that: an epiphany. A moment of heretofore unrealized clarity.

When I reflect on it, the best pieces I've written are undoubtedly the ones that eschew irony altogether and identify something worthy of praise rather than something that is easily put down. That's not to say the latter aren't fun, on occasion, but they're not the best ones. Perhaps I really needed to come to a point where I grasped that sometimes one needs to be ironic about being ironic.

The "useless" in "uselessdoug" comes in part from an Oscar Wilde quote (which can be found at the very bottom of the page), which ultimately (in my interpretation) suggests that art is that which exists for its own sake, not for utilitarian purposes. I have given lip service to applauding "art" and anything someone does just because something inside compels him or her to do it, but it took a well crafted picture of an animal to remind me that one only finds art when one is willing to see it.

~

I know I overused "irony" in the post above. Sorry.