for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so

The past several weeks, I’ve been making use of my Netflix subscription and watching three seasons of Dr. Who. I have an atypical attraction to the British series. When I was a toddler, I watched an episode with Tom Baker on PBS and had such a horrific nightmare it was forbidden. So I stopped watching it. Then, as I got older, it was (even new and refurbished) camp. I was above such things. 

But then, a year or so ago, I was barreling through all sorts of BBC with a friend. Camp was one of our favorite elements, because it elicited laughter and an excuse to talk trash about the Brits whom we both admired. Billie Piper was such a great target. So in between heritage dramas and episodes of Robin Hood, we would watch Dr. Who and its child, Torchwood. Aided significantly by whatever spirit was in our glass, we found great amusement in the camp… and even, to some degree, the story. But at the end of the day, I still didn’t take it seriously. Not any more seriously than I take Robin Hood. Even if they are BBC, they are just an excuse to lose reality for a bit and laugh at the lesser quality.

I’ve spent a lot of time this year evaluating what makes art good. Or bad. What qualifies camp? What qualifies genius? What makes someone want to watch, see, or read an object of creative thought? Is there really a formula?

Or is it all just dumb luck? 

Because here I am a year and half after spending those Fridays and Saturdays with my friend. We don’t even see one another any more, never mind the telly. But, really, nothing is going to shake off my unyielding passion for the Brits. So I go back to the Tardis from the start of the 2005 rebirth. And I am thoroughly and completely besotted. I don’t laugh at Billie Piper any longer. Yeah, no, I actually cried when she got stuck in the parallel universe at the end of season two. I am impressed with the production quality. Yes, some of the aliens are still ridiculous. But the camera angles, the orchestra that performs the score, the completely intoxicating enthusiasm of David Tennant… and the subversive commentary embedded in the stories that on first glance are camp. But really have much more substance than several hours of Masterpiece Theater.

Is it suddenly good? Was I wrong two years ago when I giggled over my cocktail and declared the acting poor and the stories good for nothing but a lark? Or did my emotions shift, locking my observation into a different angle? Because, come on, let’s face it, good has nothing to do with quality. It’s how a piece of art makes us feel. Whether we laugh or cry or want to become part of the story. That is what makes something live and thrive beyond the imagination of the creator. It has to do with how it connects to the observer. Not the formula or rules it employs in the creation.

I have a lot of artists in my life, many of whom I love. I sit in conversations with them evaluating others’ artistic works. And all of them are harsh in their judgments, but equally glowing in praise. But I’m starting to realize, the rules that determine which comment the art receives has less to do with actual quality and more about the emotion that my fellow artist attaches to the creator. Standards are forgiven when one wants to be kind or forgiving of a friend, but are impossible when applied to a rival. Or maybe it has nothing to do with the creator and just the fact that the art itself touches on an emotion that one wants either to prolong or stifle.

Now, look, I’m not saying there shouldn’t be standards. Obviously, I appreciate good grammar. I swoon over excellent syntax. But… I also realize that breaking the rules can sometimes be an art. Hello, Mr. Shakespeare. Or Picasso. Or Russell Davies. Isn’t that part of what art is all about? Looking outside the perimeter?

Even so…in the end, it’s still about what we feel. I doubt you read my words just because I know how to put a sentence together. Although my passion for ellipses may argue my strict attention to that ability. I hope you read this because my writing makes you think a little, but it makes you feel something on the good side of the spectrum, enough to make you want to come back for more.

Hey, maybe in another two years I’ll look back and wonder why I found the Time Lord so compelling in my early thirties. Maybe it’s a need to overcome a childhood fear. Maybe it’s the British accents. Maybe it’s my childhood fascination with time travel. Or maybe, maybe… it’s just what the doctor ordered for this time in my life.