I recently read Hollywood Bablyon, a brilliant catalogue of trash (drugs, sex and suicide) from early Hollywood. It mentioned someone, can’t remember who, whose diaries were released after death, which contained explicit description of her sexual affair and activities. After one was publicised, I think, no more were released because they were classified as ‘pornography’, and this began the press’s obsession with censoring stories and details in regards to a categorisation of ‘porn’.
Now I am going to very simplistically rebuff this decision (way back when, so what is my aim with this exactly? Nevermind…) by arguing that this particular star’s personal accounts, and subsequent personal accounts by others, are in no way pornography as they are nothing more than writings of life. How can something be branded as ‘pornography’ rather than, say, ‘legitimate writings’ if it is not even trying to intend itself as ‘art’ in the first place? Pornography, as excluded from art, can only be so if is in competition with it (this, actually, I have much problem with too, but I’ve already written an essay on it and been entirely uninterested, so I will leave it there). Diary writings are in an entirely different realm of text, and of published culture.
I hate censors.
And I love Kenneth Anger.