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It's always struck me as odd that "modernism"- the mandatory artistic creed for most of the past century- has actually meant so many and often contradictory things. "Modern" literature - I remember not long ago some pompous poster on rabt going on about the "post-World War I consensus" (meaning of course the bourgeois novel)- seems to be obsessed with "realism" (preferably of course gritty)- and the Literati seem always to prefer petty, miserable stories about the petty, miserable little lives of petty, miserable little people in petty, miserable little suburbs. Whereas over the same period visual art, of course, has been running screaming away from anything resembling realism, and the 'serious' musical world utterly rejected tonality, realism's aural analogue. How bizarre! How can what is purported to be the same intellectual movement denounce la phantaste as childish, yet praise Paul Klee to the skies?
I suspect a very great deal of it has to do with snobbery. Nothing that peasants and philistines might enjoy can possibly be any good.
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