One of the unforeseen side effects of the internet is that everything is made contemporary. For those seeking to commune with the past, one need go only so far as YouTube to step into 1931 or 1946. Back in November of last year I wrote of how young people delight in dressing up in vintage garb and how they surround themselves with the trappings of a more stylish and elegant time as a response to the ugliness of the present day. I won’t mow over that same territory here. What I would like to consider instead is what happens when those who love the past encounter the ugliness of the past.
It’s difficult for us to fathom that those whose captured images and voices we revere might not be as enlightened as we are. However much we love the art and music they produced—and how present it seems to us—we cannot see ourselves guilty of the foibles that stand out in ghastly relief to their creative works. Sometimes their private humor, however innocent or even affectionate in intent, is so coarse to us as to cross the border into verbal abuse. The inclination of evolved (retro) moderns is to judge, and judge severely.
I recently spent a couple of highly instructive days on Facebook, as I attended what seemed a virtual tribunal of Al Jolson, detailing his crimes against humanity. It was conducted by a very intelligent, knowledgeable, and sincere woman who has spent years publicly cel
