Twenty-five years ago, legendary boxer and American icon Muhammad Ali made a statement—“People don’t want art; they wanna see war”—and it was a shrewd one, not just because it resonated back then, during the tumultuous ’70s, but also because it holds true today: People don’t want art; they wanna see war. It is an axiom evident in our country’s political realm, and in our popular culture, too. Yet nowhere, perhaps, is it more explicit than inside the professional boxing ring, from where Ali himself earned both his popularity and his platform. And for this reason, perhaps nobody embodies and expounds more what Ali meant with his statement than Floyd Mayweather Jr., who put forth another master class in pugilism on December 8, when he fought and beat British hero Ricky Hatton at the MGM Grand for the welterweight championship of the world.
The artist, in short, is someone who creates. Through words, strings, paint, performances—whatever mode of expression demanded of him—he creates something that was not there before and that will endure, or at least has the potential to endure. To this end he will employ any and all of those immortal tools used by the Walt Whitmans, the John Coltranes, the Frank Gehrys to make their respective work last—things such as truth, beauty, rhythm.
Inside the ring, Mayweather is the quintessential artist. His style of boxing is precise, aesthetic and imperturbable, and with it he has now pieced together, including last Saturday’s victory over Hatton, a brilliant amateur career climaxing in a bronze Olympic medal, an undefeated professional record at 39-0 and championship belts in five weight divisions. So many boxing commentators have used the analogy of a perfectly painted portrait to characterize Mayweather’s performances throughout his career that six years ago, after his masterful fight against the great warrior Diego Corrales, they began to call him by a moniker that has neither faded nor been disputed: the pound-for-pound Picasso. It’s as if Mayweather has been in his own world each time he’s stepped into the ring as a pro, always dancing to his own beat, and so dominant has he been in imposing his will that no one to date has been able to disprove the nickname he’s ascribed to himself: the Truth.
But people don’t want art; they wanna see war. Hence, Mayweather has never been a popular fighter in America. That is not despite his talents, but because of them. The people largely seek destruction for entertainment and not its opposite, a finely crafted performance. The masses crowd around ugly brawls, not pretty pictures. In his past dozen fights, Mayweather has only five knockout victories, and none of them was the result of raw aggression or concussive blows, as the fans like to see, but rather, of an accumulation of methodical and accurate punches, such as the way he eventually TKO’d Hatton in the 10th round at the MGM. Mayweather has been too sharp, too intelligent and too slick for his opponents, and so he’s never been forced—or volunteered—to engage in the type of primal toe-to-toe battles that suit the public. That is, on account of his abilities, Mayweather has never had to step into the gladiator’s outfit. Nor thus has he ever experienced the gladiator’s age-old and widespread glory.
And so Mayweather has never been a big draw in America. A prophet is not without honor except in his hometown and among his own people. While this year has been a monumental one for Mayweather—his two fights in 2007 sold out in record time, sold more than a combined 4 million pay-per-view subscriptions, which is a record, and brought Mayweather some $50 million in income, second in sports only to Tiger Woods—his newfound fame and fortune did not derive from his drawing power. No, not at all. Instead, they were the happy consequence of fighting Oscar De La Hoya, whose mythical good looks have made him boxing’s biggest breadwinner for the past decade and a household name, and then Hatton, who is wildly popular on both sides of the Atlantic due to the brutal and relentless style of fighting that earned him the nickname “The Hitman.” Both fighters enjoyed lopsided public support in their respective bouts against Mayweather, even though both fought him in his hometown of Las Vegas.
Those two fights were more than just lucrative competitions: They were cultural events. Yet not only were both made possible by Mayweather’s opposition, but both were also contingent upon those opponents bringing a warlike demeanor into the ring against Mayweather, an artist to his very core. For Hatton, the epitome of a boxing warrior, this was only natural. For De La Hoya, on the other hand, it was forced, and it showed, as he who was unaccustomed to the gladiator’s outfit looked uncomfortable wearing it the entire night he fought Mayweather, and suffered a loss in a bout incommensurate with the hype that had preceded it. Unlike De La Hoya’s movie-star looks and Hatton’s braveheart style, Mayweather’s artistic talent—alone—does not sell tickets, pay-per-view subscriptions or himself as a commodity. People don’t want art; they wanna see war.
For this reason Mayweather has reiterated his belief in several interviews that he will never receive the credit he merits while actively fighting. That is accurate. But the reality is that not even retirement will release the floodgates of due adoration. It’s a shame. But such is the lot in life for Mayweather and his kind.
And that’s because the artist has no place in America. He can hardly even survive, often dependant on the subsidization of some charitable patron or agency, or by his own mundane nine-to-five job. He may still live, work and create here—that is of no doubt: Mayweather and his counterparts in literature, paint, architecture and music confirm it—but with rare exceptions he gets little respect. At least in terms of money, which is the only way this country knows to demonstrate respect. And without money the artist possesses no currency in either popular culture or politics, two pillars at the forefront of our country.
The artist historically lies beneath the sphere of popular culture. He digs too deep. At times he might pass through, but he has rarely had the money or good looks to abide in that superficial sphere. Nor does he possess the pugnacious manner with which, in recent years, both hip-hop and reality TV stars have entered that realm of mass popularity. Although he might be ruthless and absolutely amoral in the pursuit of his own respective craft—the way Mayweather himself has risen to the top of boxing’s pound-for-pound hierarchy—the artist could not even fake Simon Cowell’s derisions or 50 Cent’s gangster lyrics. It’s not in his constitution.
In contrast to other countries, like those that sandwich us, in America the artist has no resonance in national politics. Although he has dedicated his life to enhancing his mode of expression—that is, to honing his voice—the artist in America is not summoned to speak on political matters, and on the occasion that he does so anyway, he is not heard. The reason is not complex: The artist stands in direct contrast to the politician. Whereas he by nature seeks to be conciliatory and universal, the politician is polemic and local, and the warlike disposition the politician must possess to win office in America automatically dismisses the artist from having any chance to enter, let alone win. Analytical shows arguing politics on stations like CNN and Fox News bear witness to the fact that the political arena has become an increasingly combative one, and the artist’s forte, discourse, has long been usurped by truculent party propaganda.
It’s true: People don’t want art; they wanna see war. Above all when it comes to sports. None more so than boxing. A sport where war is manifest. Liston, Hearns, Hagler, Duran, Tyson, Gatti, Pacquiao—the warrior stands supreme in the boxing arena, for he has captured the heart of the masses. On account of this historical reality Mayweather’s legacy suffers a peril it does not deserve. The boxer’s ultimate goal is to hit and not be hit—an objective that requires not merely the courage and fortitude necessary just to step into the ring, but also an elite level of skill, finesse and reflexes absent in most men, fighters or not. Ali possessed it early in his career, and he was invincible, winning fight after fight without worry, but rather, with grace and beauty. The historians say as much. Then he refused summons for his service in the United States Army, to participate in a literal war—Vietnam—and when he came back to boxing, Ali found himself in a position similar to Mayweather’s: respected by his peers but unpopular with the people, his legacy as one of the greatest boxers of all time tenuous. But then came the three figurative wars with Joe Frazier, a brutal and relentless fighter like Hatton, from which Ali emerged with the wealth and popularity to carry both cultural and political currency. That is, after his wars with Frazier, he was afforded the platform from which to speak, and to be heard, and it was from this platform that he, without equivocation, made a statement from experience: “People don’t want art; they wanna see war.”
That’s how it was a quarter-century ago, and perhaps that’s how it’s always been. And that’s all right. Because, in the end, the artist is not the one to pity. Any tears should be reserved for those who choose war over art. They are the ones who must suffer their preference.
Joshua Longobardy is a Weekly staff writer.