The two best-known works of art from Brazil's most important museum of art have been stolen: Picasso's Portrait of Suzanne Bloch and Cândido Portinari's O Lavrador de Café (The Coffee Worker). Security at the museum was almost nonexistant, and the collection was uninsured.
But here's the bit that casts a ray of light into the dark corners of the pleasures of consumption. This theft, it is being assumed, was engineered by some rich Brazilian art collector (one who must have known about the lack of security). This is apparently not the first time something like this has happened. But the Portinari that was stolen is the single most identifiable painting by a Brazilian artist. Think of it: you now have this work in your possession. The pleasure of owning this work cannot come from private contemplation alone - you must let it be known to others that you possess it.
But who do you let know? And what pleasure accrues from letting it be known? --The pleasure of letting it be known that you are "malandro" enough to have stolen this painting and gotten away with it. --The pleasure of demonstrating that you have the good taste to steal this painting. --The pleasure of demonstrating that you choose companions who will recognize your taste. --The pleasure of demonstrating that you have the power to keep those companions silent. --The pleasure of watching your possession become an open secret among those who matter - and of having knowledge of this open secret become part of the definition of those who matter. --And of course the pleasurable frisson of danger.
The pleasure of consumption then becomes something that can be picked apart only with the help of Veblen, Bourdieu, and Nietzsche. I wonder how much consumption opens wheels within wheels like this - without us bothering to notice?
Michael McIntyre mcintyremichael at mac.com
"Il n'est pas facile d'affranchir ceux qui vénèrent leurs chaînes." --Voltaire