Things I Didn't Know: A Memoir

There are a number of literate reviews here. I have no desire to compete with them. I will just say this is a thoroughly enjoyable book. Hughes writes in an informal style that mixes mate speak with with a passionate and articulate love of art. He is relatively honest and frank about his life without descending into the tasteless. He is an elitist but not a snob. As one who lived through the sixties I think he describes the decade in an accurate if somewhat withering way. If you are looking for a book that is well written and generally a joy to read I would highly recommend this.

I arrived at this autobiography as a fan of "The Fatal Shore" and "Culture of Complaint", and having no recollection of having read any of Mr. Hughes' art criticism (or much of anybody else's, either). Therefore, I was satisfied picking up some interesting observations and historical perspective along the way, due to his recollections of the art scene and waves of names, many of whom meant nothing to me. Two points stand out regarding culture: Hughes certainly thinks little of the 1960s, except for missing the unspoiled travel destinations, and he certainly thinks little of Australia, even for an ex-pat. I was left wondering how much of that distaste was for a lack of cultural sophistication in Australia and how much was personal baggage and other factors. Hughes is quite frank throughout, not afraid to jab anyone in sight, including himself on many occasions for being guilty of immaturity, stupidity, laziness, rudeness and many other qualities. Of course, there is no shortage of self-praise, either. Some reviewers complain about his "elitism", a standard accusation against Hughes. That seems almost inescapable in an art critic, and the level here did not bother me at all, other than the disdain for Australia. The opening chapter on Hughes' near-fatal accident is excellent. Another highlight is his early years through his Catholic education and his blunt explanation about how the threads were pulled and he fell from faith. What could have been too mean-spirited was softened by genuine respect for the educators and priests who made a positive difference. Another powerful, but brief, topic was his disastrous first marriage. My, what an entertaining mess. The autobiography ends in 1970 when Hughes arrives in America to be the in-house critic for Time, back when Time (as Hughes himself admits) had far more importance than it does today. That's a fair stopping point, given the coverage of his car accident. Another few chapters on life in America and beyond could easily have made the book too long, and perhaps the opportunities for fresh insights and stories weren't there. After all, relative middle age usually isn't all that entertaining.

'Things I didn't Know' finds Bob Hughes straightening his record. Immediately we've returned to the north-west of Australia's outback for Bob's account of his near fatal crash. Whatever his bias, I welcomed the candour of his recovery trail and crucial recollections that were not reported in the media which Hughes feels has targeted him as an insufferable snob. We move to very early Bob, family and schooling, for an understanding of how his aesthetic elitism developed. The curious fact of his mother's pioneering role in establishing the now thriving Thredbo ski resort in the 1950s was a minor revelation. If Bob wasn't always the self-centered guy he presents, we have only his word for it as he stutters and gropes towards maturity in the 1960s. Once he's stepped out of Australia the imaginative germ in his prose, the delicious anecdotes from London and Italy, is a constant pleasure, often side-splittingly funny. These are effortlessly introduced so that names-dropping, an irritation with much celebrity writing, is inoffensive. Included are those who shaped what Bob did get to know. He does this with genuine appreciation, indicating that his plimsol line may sit lower in the waves since the episode in the north-west and the suicide of his son. I loved the image of drunken Augustus John going down on a drinking chum one night. When rebuffed, a chastened John apologetically mumbles that he'd mistaken his friend for his own daughter! Hughes doesn't seem to have done much parenting of his son, or not significantly more than his drug-addled, sexually rampant first wife(now dead and unable to respond to Hughes's bitterness). Although now happily ensconced with his third wife, this volume concludes as he settles into respectability in New York as Time magazine's art oracle. Like Bobby Dylan's,'Chronicles' whose coming of age parallels Hughes's 60s, one anticipates there's more in the auto-biographical barrel to be spent. While it's sad to note his continuing disdain for Australian artists other than his familiars from the 60s, his commendation of the fabulous Robert Crumb was gratifying. Though hobbling towards his senior years, Hughes's prose has lost none of its dash or refreshing metaphors. For more on art visit>rodmoss.com

This book starts with a car accident, in 1999 on Australia's Great North Highway, that almost ended Robert Hughes life. Miraculously, he survived but ended up with many pins and screws to keep his mangled body together. What happened afterwards is a good illustration of Hughes' lifelong reputation of brashness and elitism. Hughes was prosecuted for dangerous driving because he was driving on the wrong side of the road. But because the three men in the other vehicle were on drugs and later tried to blackmail him the case was dismissed. After the trial, Hughes went on to call the other party "low-life scum," and also managed to defame the prosecutors. The prosecutors were not happy and decided to sue. And they won. The Australian press was elated that this world-famous art critic had been taken down a notch, not only because he was an elitist, but because he had left Australia to become, well, a world-famous art critic. This memoir begins in Sydney were Hughes was born and educated, and ends in 1970, when he is leaving London for New York where he would become Time Magazine's art critic for the next 30 years. While attending the University of Sydney he was a cartoonist for the Sydney Observer. When the Observer's art critic vacated the position, the editors, recognizing Hughes' talents, asked him take the job, which he did. Although he loved the work, he felt he needed more experience so he went to Italy, where he worked under the tutelage of Alan Moorhead, and then later to London. I have read many of Hughes pieces for Time Magazine that were written between 1970 and 2000, but have to admit I was underwhelmed, for I'm not an art history enthusiast. His most impressive works were, in my opinion, The Fatal Shore (a history of Australia) and The Culture of Complaint (a study of modern crybabyism). Hughes is a consumate prose stylist who wears his learning lightly (at least in Time Magazine). He is not overburdened with theory and uses an occasional combatative obscenity to remind you that he has not lost touch with the vernacular. However, Hughes defiantly admits he's an elitist but qualifies it by saying it is "in the cultural but emphatically not in the social sense". As an art critic, this is understandable, there can be no egalitarianism in art. As he himself puts it: "his job is to distinguish the good from the second rate." This attitude was no doubt formed or reaffirmed when he lived in London during the swinging, drug-taking Sixties. He had the misfortune of marrying a women who embodied all of its excesses. The phony egalitarianism and pseudo revoltionary chic of the art scene turned out to be drivel that pointed to nothing but itself. This was a very dark, but formative, period for Hughes that didn't end until he left for America. The outcome of writing this memoir was not clear in the beginning, but the impulse was. There were certain loose ends that always lingered in his mind. Writing this book was an attempt to e

So here we finally have Robbie Huge's autobio, and it turns out that a little corner of Julian Schnabel's intuition works after all. Only a very little corner though, since Robbie is more tie-er than tie-ee, not to mention decidely heterosexual too (big surprise, twice). But, other than that amusing but very minor revelation, how was the book? As a major Hughes fan (I even own a copy of Heaven and Hell, which was published when I was - I think - five years old) I was a little disappointed in some of it, and for reasons that in retrospect are not too surprising. Hughes has been described as the last pre-Freudian intellectual, and introspection is clearly not really his strong point. His writing about himself sometimes has the dynamic of a magnet brought too close to a similar pole - it is always veering off to tell you interesting stuff about art, or Ignatius Loyola, or whatever, instead of about him. Confession is clearly not an effortless Hughes mode - there is an underlying note of bloodyminded determination (already there in the title). On the up-side, bloody-minded is a natural Hughes mode - you pays your money... The sum is a series of sketches that does not - quite - gather itself, I felt, into a single integrated personality. This meshes, and is perhaps explained by, his interesting admission to an essential lack of interest in fiction. On the other hand, maybe the effect is intended, since it does produce a vigourous, rough hewn but artful effect. Anyway, the bit I was most disappointed in was the first chapter, which describes his famous unpleasantness a few years ago in Australia. The episode is well told, but the prose has a definite 'tv-narrative to camera' feel - it is laced with unnecessary and faintly bogus, adjectives: we are, for instance, informed that Cervantes is incomparable. First, how does he know if he doesn't read fiction (and DonQ is fairly hard work even if you do read fiction - 'but rewarding', I hear my hypothetical TV avatar add). Second, we, the small set of natural readers for this book, are subscribers to the New Yorker and the NYRB, not subscribers to Time-Warner cable, and all of us, without exception, are aware that Cervantes is 'incomparable'. we may not have heard of the 'Hypnorotomachia Poliphili', which crops up later, when the style settles. (Actually, not only do I know quite a lot about the Hypno. Poli., but I can put a hand on plates from my desk - this makes me feel embarassingly smug.) Nevertheless, I am now eagerly looking forward to part two, in which I hope to meet Julian, Jeff, and all the gang, who must surely be waiting just off stage. In the meantime, I was amused, even startled, to find, as I was shelving this first volume after finishing it, that it landed right beside Barry Humphries. P.S., one thing I was left wondering about is where Hughes got the word 'agrestic', which he uses here several times as a term of strong approval. I only know one other person who was fond of