The Pantheon & On

“This idea arose yesterday because it was Bob Dylan’s eightieth birthday,” I told Bruce, a perpetually denim-clad man who reminds me of Steven Wright if he were in a better mood. “Is Bob the greatest living artist?”

“Ohhhh,” Bruce said, intrigued by one of my time-honored Deeply Subjective Hypotheticals That Have No Real Answer. “I mean, look at his impact. His effect on social consciousness.”

“He’ll be the Shakespeare of four hundred years from now.”

“They’ll sing his songs at campfires. He’ll be the ‘ancient folk artist.’”

“So true. Played Planet Waves in his honor last night. The one with ‘Forever Young’ on it.”

“That’s a great one! ‘Dirge’ is on there too.”

“Who else can even be considered?” I asked semi-rhetorically.

“Hmmm. I know I love the Beatles, but Paul McCartney?”

“Tough to separate him from the band since most of his greatest work was with them. I came up with Jean-Luc Godard, Thomas Pynchon, and Jasper Johns. Maybe Frank Gehry too?” 

“Neil Young’s up there.”

“Sure, but he’d tell you himself that there’s no him without Bob.”

“Yeah. The press gave him such a hard time. He had his different periods where he really challenged himself. The Rolling Thunder Revue, the religious stuff, …”

“His modern day run! The album from last year was great.”

“Have you seen the movie about the Rolling Thunder Revue?”

“Is that the one Scorsese directed?” I asked while inserting Love and Theft into the CD player. “He’s also a contender. Then again, he’s directed two movies about Bob. Dylan’s not writing any songs about him.”

“You should check it out. What was that other movie? I’m Not Here?”  

“The Todd Haynes movie? I’m Not There. Cate Blanchett played him in one part of it. I mainly remember David Cross as Allen Ginsberg.”

“You have a good memory. Who else is getting movies made about them like that?”

“Bingo. I hate to be too Anglo or masculine with my choices, but what other people belong on the shortlist? Maybe Stevie Wonder? He hasn’t released anything of note in thirty years though. Herbie Hancock? What about women? Joni Mitchell?”

“Yeahhh,” Bruce said in his soft voice. “Joni’s up there.”

“Maybe it’s more about who’s the second greatest artist, or even better, the best artist once Bob’s dead.”

“I hate to think about these people dying. To think that they’re flesh and bone like the rest of us, just mere mortals. It’ll destroy me when they go. I almost don’t wanna be here for it.”

“But you know that life takes more than it gives the longer you keep going.”

“Did you see how he sold his catalog?”

“For three hundred million! Good for him!”

As it always does, discussion of Art turned to discussion of Commerce. Bruce and I went on to confer about our mutual love of staying up late and how it feels like you own the night when it’s so peaceful and only you and various bugs and birds are moving about in the dark. Bruce purchased an anthology of songs by Tom Petty, one of Bob’s best-known acolytes, and used his phone to show me his most recent painting featuring a red barn alone in a sun-tinged yellowy field. The primary colors made me happy, prompting him to tell me how people seem to enjoy his more vibrant brushstrokes. After Bruce left, I ate my lunch, a croissant full of turkey, spinach, tarragon, and mustard. It had no significance, and while it’s not like he needed any more glory, I pretended it was in Bob’s honor even though people like Bob stop meaning the same thing without people like Bruce around to chat about them.