The fine arts

I once had a professor, Ph.D. and all, ask me why I chose to live in the Hinterlands, by which he meant southwest Nebraska, a place he deemed marginally improper as it had no live theater to speak of, no coffee shops to host weekly poetry readings, and no art galleries, so far as he knew. 

What makes you stay there, he wondered, bereft of the finer things? Surrounded by nothing but corn and blue-collar rednecks? (OK, I made up the blue-collar rednecks part, but it faithfully captures his tone.)

He left me at a loss for words, at least ones I could utter without jeopardizing my grade in Brit Lit. How odd that someone’s sense of “the finer things” should rest on measures so pithy.

Please understand, I thrive on live theater, espresso-fueled poetry readings and visual expression, but I dispute any definition of “art” that stops there.

Consider a casserole served at a covered-dish dinner in the fellowship hall of a 1960s-era community church. Tater Tots perfectly positioned? Onions, green beans and hamburger in golden proportion with creamy cream of mushroom soup? Art.

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