Sooner or later, it's game over

Sooner or later, it's game over

Last week I was invited to join a panel on the topic "Why Criticism?", at Speedy Grandma, a small gallery in Charoen Krung. Along with a university literature lecturer and a film critic, I was invited as an arts and theatre critic. Before agreeing to participate, I insisted to the organisers that I'm not a critic, and it's unlikely that I will consider myself one anytime soon.

The discussion covered the history of criticism, the influence of critics in film, visual art and theatre, as well as on art production and consumption, and the issue of censorship. What I said was basically a repetition of what I told the gallery: that what I write is not critique but rather the opinion of one person. I'm just doing my job by writing that down. I didn't feel like I had much to contribute to the conversation.

From the other panellists, the audience and the atmosphere of the space, however, I benefited so much.

At one point, I was trying to point out how perhaps there is no difference between my reviews in the paper and Facebook posts by the audience about a piece of art or a play, except for the platform and the "review" tag required for the newspaper publication format. Clearly, many disagreed with the idea — I'm sure many critics out there would find this ridiculous, even insulting, to the profession.

When I finished, one of the panellists suggested that my point presents one true aspect of criticism — its inherent democracy. The existence of criticism signifies equality among people. Criticism belongs to everyone — academics, journalists, panellists, audience members, Facebook users. The list goes on.

I had never thought about that before, and the observation struck me as simple, true and beautiful.

My brothers are musicians, my father an out-and-out businessman. Because of this, my father understandably tends to focus more on financial practicality than the struggle of writing music. I criticised him for this one day, pointing out that he should give more support to my brothers' music, even though their making money is quite out of the picture.

He listened to everything I said, and never became angry. This affirmed my belief that criticism doesn't mean disrespect — in fact it's the other way around. I respect my father as much as I do now because I can criticise him.

The "Why Criticism?" discussion was focused on the arts, but like the incident with my father, I came to realise the audience and the speakers were implicitly engaging in a conversation about a different issue altogether — one far bigger and more serious.

We're now months under the junta's rule, and there's a long time more to come. For Thais, the word "criticism" has acquired new meaning. It's dangerous for the authorities, and temptingly satisfying for some people. From the blocking of political satire banners at an annual football match between Chulalongkorn and Thammasat universities earlier this month to the arrest of four activists from the Resistant Citizen group, which on Valentine's Day organised a mock election to commemorate the Feb 2 poll last year, an ordinary art space had become a special place, one where people could actually breathe.

On the day of the discussion, the audience — high school and university students, critics, artists — felt like a representation of our suppressed society. The eagerness and the energy to resist and question told me the authorities are in the midst of a fight they will eventually lose.

The only way forward is to embrace criticism, not shun it like a coward. This message is for Prime Minister Prayut Chan-o-cha and whoever else thinks expressing an opinion is a crime.


Kaona Pongpipat is writer for the Life section of the Bangkok Post.   

Kaona Pongpipat

Writer for the Life section

Kaona Pongpipat is a writer for the Life section of the Bangkok Post.

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