Joseph L. Kagle, Jr. Peace Essays

Art Imitates Wrestling

What keeps me sane and on track in the arts because it can become a weird business at times. It is going again to my imaginary friend in literature, Bubba Jay, and discussing the craziness that the world presents and the sanity that sometimes come out of the chaos. Again, my conversations with my friend gives me peace of mind and a good laugh (which always clears the mind and spirit).

Taking a fresh look at something held in low esteem

     Maybe it was the orange extension cord which first caught my eye, there against the green back­drop of the still Brazos. Or maybe it was the silent, hunched form of my friend, Bubba Jay the Third, in his rocking chair. Or maybe it was the message of good vs. evil blaring from the TV before him.

     This image was as striking as Prometheus tied to a rock in punishment for giving fire to man. Even more shocking was what filled the four sides of Bubba's electronic box: WCW, World Championship Wrestling.

     Bubba, in my mind's image, is the quintessential maverick, journeying to Waco's HOT Coliseum to watch tractor pulls, listening to Mozart on his Walk­man. Waco is famous for its mavericks, and Bubba is one of its prime members.

    Now I'd caught Bubba Jay in the act, intently watching the Harlem Heat defeat two members of the NWO, the New World Order — WCW's evil twins.

      He smiled as he saw me.

   "Great stuff, this wrestling. It is the stuff of myth, art, religion and blatant sex. It is the enter­tainment of Everyman and should be re-enacted on the steps of Chartres Cathedral as a sermon on the shifting sands of good and evil."

    "It's junk," I said, shaking my head. "What do you see in this?"

     "I see modern man taking the faces of Chinese gods from the sutras and bringing them to the com­mon man," he said.

      "I see the mask of Sting," he continued, "a soli­tary warrior who flies in from the heavens, dressed in an 18th century coat, a medieval mask of white with black-streaked tears." He was warming to my amazement.

     "I see Orwell's Brave New World in the organiza­tion of the NWO, which is trying to take over the holy land of good in WCW," he said.

     "Can't you see the essence of art in these mini-dramas? East versus West, black versus white, ur­ban versus rural, beauty versus beast, and certain­ly, always, good versus ultimate evil."

     I replied that art in professional wrestling was an idea completely foreign to all that I know.

     "Professional wrestling is based on reality," said Bubba, "just as world religions are based in what happens in daily life.

     "Can't you see the painted figure of Saturn Devouring His Children by Goya, tearing apart his children and eating them, in the bulging muscles of Hulk Hogan? Can’t you see the muscles and face of Michelangelo’s God in the Creation of Adam in Mr. Hogan, or visa versa?"

     "You are serious," I said, shaking my head. "You can see art there?"

         Bubba smiled his Buddha smile.

     "Wasn't the origin of Verdi's operas in the songs of Neapolitan fishermen? Wasn't N'Orleans jazz born in the dimly lit sa­loons and establishments of prostitution? Didn't the song of the bawdy, roving troubadours in the 16th and 17th century tell of simple ‘folk violence and re­demption’? When did art turn up its nose to raw be­ginnings?"

       I was speechless.

     "Isn't each art formed, like the birth of a child, and born in blood, anguish and supreme joy? This is the stuff of the gods," he said. "These are tales to tell to your children. Sir Gwain and the Green Knight, Saint George and the Dragon, the adventures of Hercules, Atlas, Zeus himself. All are material for the wrestling ghostwriter."

     Bubba's words made me sit down right there and watch commercial wrestling with a new eye. It was a fresh look at something which I long had held in low esteem. As usual, Bubba was right, at least in part. Like children, we must on occasion look at things with fresh eyes. So I look at wrestling and find art.