Catastrophic Connoisseur

CW: Casual discussion of catastrophe and a callous disregard for victims of tragedy.

NOTE: This is a dated and fairly tasteless piece of work, but I’m including it because I don’t necessarily feel different today. It’s hard to not feel nihilistic and judgmental when we consider that Sandy Hook didn’t move the needle one bit, and the post-George Floyd America is much the same as before.

Some men just want to watch the world burn. ~ Alfred Pennyworth

Excerpt from the Autobiography of William Forthman, Chapter VI — My Years as a Critic.

My first taste of the bouquet of human suffering occurred with the Columbine shootings on the 20th of April, 1999. A simple black and white photo from the security cameras that displayed two youths with dead eyes exploring the human condition. Something in the pose of the child on the right, leg extended and arm bent, reminded me of a dancer poised to pirouette.

I was so fascinated by this picture that I started hunting down old photographs of catastrophes. History books were a prime source for me; I found Vietnam and the second World War, I found Cambodia and Apartheid. I poured over photos and recordings with a glee that frankly surprised me until I spoke with a sommelier friend of mine. She was explaining the intricacies and bouquets of the different grapes when I realized I was becoming a Connoisseur of Human Suffering.

When I first told Charles Bently — my editor at the time — about my newfound passion, he told me I needed to spend some time off to clear my head. He perhaps thought, as most people still do, that there is something distasteful or even offensive about the devotion I feel towards tragedies. I have never understood this distaste; indeed, Charles would be mortified to know that it was this stretch of vacation that enabled me to explore the catastrophes of the human condition with an intense scrutiny that reassured me I had not simply been deluding myself as to their artistic merit.

I had to defend this view several times during my career, to readers and editors alike. It is a simple argument to make and I welcomely present it whenever the opportunity arises. The definition of art is inexact at the best of times, and so I myself take the initiative to define art as anything which holds both conscious creative form and intentioned content that reveals something truthful about the human condition, either through the message it conveys, or the reaction it elicits from the viewer.

I was always drawn to truth as the purest form of beauty. When someone can take a subject and summon forth from its simple form some fundamental fact about the human condition through little more than a few lines of poetry or rubbings of paint on a canvas, I find myself moved to tears. I have gotten into many discussions with fellow journalists and critics about the artistic value of the news as a result, for is not the truest form of truth a simple fact? When a journalist exposes a corrupt congressperson or delves into the hidden workings of a shadowy gang syndicate, does this not reveal something true and beautiful about ourselves? News stories can elicit strong emotional reactions as potent as any painting or song. I ask you, dear reader, if it is difficult to see how these tragedies are artistry as well, crafted by creative minds in dark basements or war rooms, and causing the most vivid and visceral human reactions imaginable?

September 11th, 2001 was my first real attempt at critiquing a catastrophe, and one that I will never forget. It’s almost cliche now to mention that day when everything changed for America, though it’s curious to note that it was exclusively America which made these changes. I remember I was sitting down to lunch when I first turned on the news, and first witnessed the smokey black plumes that were billowing forth from the proud towers of the world trade center. I stood amazed as I saw the second airplane hit, a silver arrow sparking a beautiful red flower of flame against the flint rock of the towers. It held a piquancy that stirred something within me. I saw the velvet smoke and soft dust sink to the earth as the towers fell, and felt the screams and pain and suffering of the souls lost echo through my chest. The aghast horror I felt at such an act of mindless barbarity was colored by a small sliver of awe. The sheer beauty of it all!

The aftertaste was heady as well — men and women of all nations, creeds, and beliefs joining hands in sympathy and solidarity. A bright and energetic movement forward to rebuild, heal, and overcome; quickly squashed by fear, anger, and a passion for vengeance. Unity was first natural, then expected, then demanded. Victims became aggressors, and bystanders became victims. Due to all of this, 9/11 became the disaster that all of my subsequent tragedies were to be measured against. While I learned that different disasters required different standards to measure against, this particular catastrophe still holds a special place in my heart.

I began to seek out catastrophe; train derailings, mass shootings, the lot. I found myself moved to tears by the beautiful display of the human condition explored through these curious men and women who, had they wielded a paintbrush instead of a gun or clipboard, could have been artists of the highest caliber.

Interviewers often ask, with eyes wide in awe, what was the greatest catastrophe I ever saw. I’m afraid this is a difficult question to answer, as the shear variety of mankind’s experience gives countless flavors and aftertastes to every event. I have always dodged the question whenever it was asked, so I think it only fitting to attempt to answer it now. Columbine was my first taste, and 9/11 my first swallow, so I will not mention them again here, suffice to say they set me on the path I’ve walked for so long.

The BP Oil Spill in the gulf is definitely in my top five. Most catastrophes that involve companies or industries usually result from some bungled management or faulty system in the bureaucracy, and this was no different. There is often panic at the upper echelons that befuddle attempts to fix the problem as well. What surprised me most about the Oil Spill what the slow burn of these qualities that I had never experienced before. The mechanical problems lasted for nearly a hundred days while oil continued to flow into the gulf. BP management pointed fingers, while multiple attempts were made in a frantic and panicked attempt to divert the wrath of an angry public. In other catastrophes, this propagandized mollifying will last for a day, maybe a week at most. The BP Oil Spill aftermath stretched on into December of 2010, culminating in a legal suit that, to the best of my sources’ knowledge, is still being appealed. The weakest part of the disaster was, sadly, the public aftertaste; it simply faded into the background with barely a whimper and without any satisfying conclusion.

Natural disasters have always intrigued me less than manmade disasters, much as I prefer dry white wines to red, but be that as it may, global-south disasters hold a special place in my heart simply due to their inability to leave us. Earthquakes, hurricanes, and epidemics all continue to tear apart the lives of countless people, tickling the tongue with charities throwing money at the region for a few months before everything resets for another disaster.

All in all, I keep returning to catastrophes as there is so much they can teach us as an art form. They highlight the cracks in the facade of our society, and hold a mirror to our darker selves. We can easily turn away from a schlocky horror film, or hack-writer’s attempt at phsycological thriller, and learn nothing. But when we see the death tolls rising, and look deeply into ourselves and how we thrash and bite when our lives are shaken, only to return to our comfortable couches to wait for the next tragedy, then we see ourselves for who we really are, and to reveal that to so many people is a goal that every true artist dreams of.