After thieves ripped "The Scream" from the wall in Oslo's Munch Museum a week and a half ago, they left behind an intellectual dilemma. Was it ironic or simply apt that masked gunmen had stolen the icon of angst before a roomful of terrorized art-lovers?
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Of course, the crooks most likely were unaware of the cerebral conundrum they were igniting. One Norwegian newspaper suggested the event was more brazen than professional, and all the more embarrassing for that fact. "The complicated part is reaping the profits afterwards," observed the Trondheim daily Adresseavisen, quoted on the BBC News website (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/3591866.stm).
That is assuming that the profits the thieves seek are financial. Their task in that event is indeed complex, because, as many observers noted at the time, fencing an internationally renowned work of art is almost impossible. So, when artworks of this caliber are stolen, critics and art historians drag out the familiar rationales. The thieves want a ransom, usually. But as this goes to print, not a word has been heard from them, which tends to scotch that theory. Another possibility is that they want to make some political point. Several years ago, when another version of "The Scream" was stolen, a group demanded the Norwegian government air an antiabortion statement, but a sting operation netted the painting first.
The most tantalizing motive offered after some art thefts is that a misanthropic millionaire hired the heist so he could hang the painting in his secluded villa solely for his own enjoyment. It would be a particularly twisted soul that wanted "The Scream" looming over his gloomy den. Or perhaps our malevolent moneybags was after the other Munch masterwork, "Madonna"—one account of the theft reported the thieves initially went for it, had some trouble dislodging it, then spotted "The Scream" and took it.
But Norwegian authorities advanced another, novel theory this time. It was possible, they said, that the theft was a display of daring. The thieves were merely showing off, whether to impress some friends or, more sinisterly, to gain admittance to a criminal syndicate. This, at least, would be more sophisticated entrée than the meaningless murder some American gangs demand.
Perhaps by the time you read this the crime will have been solved and the paintings returned, and none of these explanations will have proved true. But it is telling that authorities cited this last possibility.
Certainly the idea of performing an audacious act for esteem is nothing new. Men—and the word is not used in its dated sense of "all humans"—have been doing that for centuries. Not just criminal gangs but all kinds of petty fraternal associations long have demanded that novitiates perform some pointless task to gain membership.
And in fact it could be argued that sport at its essence is nothing more than conspicuous display. At least, this used to be the case in the days before $10 million-a-year utility infielders. And no doubt it still is for some millionaire sportsmen. Witness the unexpected difficulties encountered by our NBA players in the Olympics, where below-the-boards bullying and spectacular slam dunks proved less effective than the outside shooting of some opponents. Not surprisingly, it took members of the women's team to point this out.
Hey, maybe the Munch theft was an event in a baleful underworld Olympics—the Nordic Art Filch.
Whatever the case, it's clear that pointless acts of self-display are on the rise. Graffiti in its most raw form is nothing more: tag, I'm it! This lamentable, city-scarring practice of id-gratification has spread its tentacles around the globe, too. A more respectable analog can be found any evening on the tube, from Fear Factor to The Apprentice. Competitors are assigned useless tasks they must perform in order to win a contest.
You might argue that any game show is the same—what is the purpose, after all, of knowing the 50 state capitals or of being able to complete partially spelled phrases? And The Apprentice, at least, asks its contests to exercise ingenuity as well as cunning. What harm can be found in that?
None, really. It's just that personal-display stunts seem to be on the rise, almost an inevitable byproduct of contemporary life. A Brit comes to Las Vegas to wager his life savings on a roulette table. An American goes to London to hang in a glass box for a month. Thought they wouldn't, they couldn't? Well, they showed you, didn't they?
It's nearly become a staple of the film or television crime drama that the wily serial murderer derives no thrill from killing victims but rather from taunting the police. In actual cases, for instance the Beltway snipers, the criminals are not evil geniuses, just sad souls with complicated relationships and a grab-bag of grudges.
But this could point to a cause. Apologists for graffiti argue that taggers compensate for poverty and marginal status by staining the public realm. Perhaps it is a poverty of another type that drives other kinds of derring-doers. The decline of interior life in a world of braying and bleating media compels some to join its chaotic chorus, if only to confirm their existence.
Maybe that's what the spectral figure on the bridge is trying to tell us, hands clasped to its ears, bellowing.
Chuck Twardy has written about art and architecture for several daily newspapers and for magazines such as Metropolis.