There is a nice piece by Ortega Y Gasset on this subject in The Dehumanization of Art:
Every work of art awakens different responses: some people like it, others do not; some like it less, others more. No principle is involved: the accident of our individual disposition will decide where we stand. But in the case of modern art the separation occurs on a deeper plane than the mere difference sin individual taste. It is not a matter of the majority of the public not liking the new work and the minority liking it. What happens is that the majority, the mass of the people, does not understand it.In my opinion, the characteristic of contemporary art 'from the soiological point of view' is that it divides the public into these two classes of men: those who undertand it and those who do not. . .
Modern art, evidently, is not for everybody, as was Romantic art, but from the outset is aimed at a special, gifted minority. Hence the irritation it arouses in the majority. When someone does not like a work of art, but has understood it, he feels superior to it and has no room for irritation. But when distate arises from the fact of its not having been understood, then the spectator feels humiliated, with an obscure awareness of his inferiority for which he must compensate by an indignant assertion of himself.
I couldn't see what was so great about Huck Finn until I read Tom Abshur's very good book, Men and the Goddess, and he explained it to me. Huck immediately surpassed d'Artagnan as my favorite fictional character.
I read The Sound and the Fury four times, and I still didn't know what the hell was going on. When I read Falkner's explanation, I was more confused than ever. Then one night at a party at my sister's house, I met a woman, a friend of hers, who taught Falkner in college. I said to her, "You're not leaving here tonight until you tell me what that damn thing is about." For the next hour and a half we sat on the sofa, and she explained it in great detail and answered my questions. Then when I reread it, it was as clear as crystal. (But I was so depressed I wished I'd never found out.) (I am in love with Caddie Compson though. So was Falkner.)
I've got James Joyce's Ulysses in the book case next to me right now. Who knows? Maybe some day I'll tackle that.
It's a good thing The Renaissance didn't depend on me, isn't it?
It's comforting to know that one's coming and departure will be noted no more than the sea's self shall note a pebble into the waters cast. It's a lot more fun being a lazy slob than being responsible for--say--The Renaissance.