Whiskey On The Cocks, er, Rocks

Are us writers and other artists any better than the bigwig ad departments?

R. W. Watkins

Locate a copy of the latest issue of Time Magazine, specifically, the July 16^th (‘How Do We Get Addicted’) edition. Relax, abandon your ethnocentrically biased preconceptions and reactionary skepticism, and let your eyes casually examine the photo-illustration in the foreground of the cover.

Locate a copy of the latest issue of Time Magazine, specifically, the July 16^th (‘How Do We Get Addicted’) edition. Relax, abandon your ethnocentrically biased preconceptions and reactionary skepticism, and let your eyes casually examine the photo-illustration in the foreground of the cover.

In the contrived image, a man lies flat on his back, having been crushed or overcome by a gigantic whiskey-on-the-rocks, the base of the glass extending from the man's neck to his knees. Two of the three ice cubes in the glass form an obvious life-size phallus—the middle cube constituting the head, the bottom cube representing the shaft. The third and topmost cube takes the form of an axe blade slicing into the phallic head on an upward angle—the faint outline of a wooden helve, flush with the eye in the top of the blade, can be seen. As the blade penetrates, semen spurts forth from the urethra—the fluid represented by the left side of the top ice cube as it intersects with the phallic head on a perspective; globs of discharged semen can be witnessed on the portion of the top cube that is above the surface of the whiskey. Within the ice cubes, one can discern other, smaller embedded phalluses, as well as (at least) two skulls: one with a spear protruding from its left eye socket at the left edge of the middle cube, and a larger, ghostlier one with its mouth agape in the bottom cube—visible in a semi-profile position when the magazine is tipped horizontally so that the overcome man appears upside down. There are several vaginal representations present throughout the image, too, the most notable being the two formed by the lower edge and ‘corners’ of the bottom ice cube; both feature gaping labia (the vagina on the left in particular), clitoris and clitoral hood. If one is of the fundamentalist Christian persuasion, and feels that all this genitalia and pointless mortality is simply too overbearing, then despair not, for a genuinely inspirational moment is also available at one's glance. In the middle cube, when the magazine is tipped horizontally so that the stricken man appears to be standing, Jesus can be seen carrying the burden of the cross in all his slumping agony, as Mary—to his left, in dark robe and white head scarf—looks on, a bright glowing patch of yellow light above her head—possibly suggestive of the ascension and departed tomb. Still holding the magazine horizontally to one's right, a blonde woman appears to perform fellatio on a darkhaired (bearded?) man in the corner of the cube, above and slightly to the left of Mary's head. There also appears to be hidden images or words in the man's crumpled trouser legs—‘666’ being vaguely discernable in his left leg (which is, for no logical reason involving posture, approximately four inches shorter than his right, suggesting impotence or castration!) when one inverts the cover. And, as one would expect by now, numerous minute SEXes are visible throughout the image, particularly within the ice cubes.

All in all, this has to be the most flagrant display of subliminal embedding I've seen in several years—and I've been lying awatch for instances of this deceitful advertising phenomenon since I discovered the work of Wilson Bryan Key and Vance Packard in ninth grade, over twenty years ago.

What should us writers and other artists make of this? Are we given to any better? Is this commercial work—credited to one Arthur Hochstein—comparable in any way to the output of numerous novelists, poets, playwrights, short fictionists, cartoonists, painters, sculptors, etc. down through the ages, who have chosen to utilise symbolism and other techniques in order to enhance theme or enable higher levels of awareness on the part of readers?

The aforementioned Wilson Bryan Key has devoted considerable portions of his five books (including one revised title) outlining the symbolism, ‘special effects’, and, in some cases, outright embedding techniques used by visual artists, ranging from Fifteenth Century proto-surrealist Hieronymus Bosch to Seventeenth Century baroque master Rembrandt to Twentieth Century photographer Yousuf Karsh. In the literary world, short fiction is awash with representation; an entire doctorate dissertation could be devoted to Christian symbolism in James Joyce's Araby alone. Many of my all-time favourite novels that I grew up on—George Orwell's Animal Farm, Albert Camus's La Peste (The Plague), Laird Koenig's The Little Girl Who Lives Down The Lane, Margaret Atwood's Surfacing—can be interpreted as symbolic accounts of everything from the rise and debasement of Eastern European communism to the plight of Jews in Nazi Europe or biblical Egypt to the threat of American consumer culture in Canada. Some of the more alternative rock recordings over the years have featured symbolic or intentionally vague song lyrics to rival just about anything found in the print medium (e.g., the Last Supper/Resurrection segment from The Doors' ‘When The Music's Over’; or the subtle references to Ballardian ‘autoerotica’ and consensual paedophilia on the first Sugar Cubes record), to say nothing of sound effects embedded beneath the usual level of conscious perception—some producers are known to enhance master tapes with anything from coital pants to Satanic chants! Classic films by directors such as Alfred Hitchcock and Federico Fellini make extensive use of symbolism in developing theme and suspense; while contemporary cinema by David Lynch functions like a virtual Pandora's Box of cultural and psychological deja vu, making thematic and visual references to a wide range of (often) idiosyncratic fictional and/or cognitive sources. (Watch for a forthcoming essay by Yours Truly regarding Lynch's Blue Velvet and its possible plot origins).

So, to iterate, are us writers and other artists given to any better? Should our (supposedly) serious work be scrutinised and perhaps castigated by the same criteria I've employed in examining this Time cover? Or, inversely, should strictly commercial works like Mr. Hochstein's be taken more seriously, given their obvious complexities and ingenius dynamics? Where do we draw the fine line between well-intentioned fine art and shamelessly exploitative commercial composition? (Keep in mind that the most ‘serious’ of artists do fetch exorbitantly high prices, sell millions of copies or tickets, influence culture and government, etc.)

I've written this brief expositive essay not to provide answers or proffer guidelines, but to promote discussion. From where I stand, not enough discourse has taken place on this contentious issue, possibly owing to it being too much of a thematic hot potato, not to be touched with a dialectic ten-foot pole. Whatever the case, the connexion between fine art and blatantly commercial art in regards to subliminal dynamics has been documented now for several decades; it's high time that some intelligent exchange and theoretical extrapolation occurred. Let the debating begin.

Last update : 17-07-2007 20:27

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