Thursday, November 19, 2009

"Where are the Vampire Cranks?"

Edward Cullen, century-old high school senior. Kept having to repeat because he never matured. Image found here.

Matthew Yglesias, a smart guy (his liking Harvey Danger notwithstanding) asks the searching questions:

I like vampires, but I’m not a Twilight fan, as evidenced by the fact that it was only yesterday when I learned that instead of burning in the sun and dying like real vampires, Twilight vamps just . . . sparkle in the sunlight. Nonsense. And isn’t the idea of a dude who’s over 100 years old hanging out with a high school student pretty creepy and weird?

That in turn got me thinking about the aging process. Across various fictions, why don’t vampires exhibit more cranky old man characteristics? I’m only 28 and already I feel myself periodically overtaken by a desire to tell the young people all about How It Was Back in the Day. I’ll bore people with tedious stories about the old Monroe Street Giant in Columbia Heights before the fancy new stores opened, or about how there used to not be all this stuff on U Street but The Kingpin was the best bar in DC. Just yesterday, I think, a colleague and I were explaining to the rest of the ThinkProgress team that if the new progressive infrastructure and its blogosphere last for a thousand years, men will stay say the Social Security privatization fight of 2005 was their finest hour. If I ever attain immortality, I fully intend to harangue the young people of the future with nonsense about Voltron and how people think of Harvey Danger as a one-hit wonder but really that whole album’s underrated and had other good songs.

That and, you know, murder people in order to feast on their blood.
I ruefully confess that I am halfway through the Twilight Saga. This is because I have teenage daughters who have also read them. I have also seen the first two High School Musical films because I have daughters.

A syllogism:

I at least feign interest in the things my daughters are interested in.
My daughters are interested in the Twilight saga.
Ergo . . .

Because I respect my reader(s), I feel I should warn you: All this is a roundabout way of saying that on down the road, you may see a Twilight post or two here. A preview: The books are pretty bad all the way around, but they are bad in an interesting way, if a maddening one--that way being that you realize how good they could have been if they weren't so single-minded in their drive to be bad. But on the other hand, their badness may be not a bug but a feature. And there's also the more general question of Why vampires? And why now?

Anyway. You've been warned.

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Saturday, November 14, 2009

Some lobby-cards for Rear Window

Image found here.

This week I showed Rear Window to my Comp II classes as a sort of entree into our short foray into literary analysis--the act of reading literature is, after all, a kind of surveillance of and speculation about language, which activities--surveillance and speculation--are central to Hitchcock's film. Anyway, as a further self-indulgence disguised as something entirely relevant to our class's larger focus on rhetoric, I showed one of my classes some examples of lobby cards for the film from the '50s and from the film's later re-releases, and a couple of contemporary examples by graphic artists done as exercises to show to potential clients. What I told my students is that lobby-cards at their best are implicit arguments about how best to think about the film they promote; thus, they are interpretations of that film. While I genuinely believe that, it's equally true that I became intrigued by the lobby-cards that I ran across while looking for an image to accompany this long-ago post. In particular, I was drawn to their simultaneous constant returning to certain themes and motifs and their subtle but significant variations on them. So, I rounded up a few examples and put them into a Powerpoint program; what follows here are some of the more interesting ones, along with some comments from me and my students.

Regarding the first image, I noted that the images of Miss Torso and Thorwald in the binocular lenses make no sense from the standpoint of physics (though their respective apartments are right across the hall from each other), but they perfectly introduce the film's initial distracted feel--its attention follows Jeff's until he gradually becomes more intent on the goings-on in the Thorwalds' apartment. One of my students mentioned what he called Jeff's "odd" expression; he said that Jeff looks "mean." I don't want to push this idea too hard--it is a drawing, after all--but despite the pleasant-enough smile, it's true that Jeff's overall expression has a tension to it that almost suggests that he's the one up to no good and thus needs watching . . . which, of course, is true in the abstract, given how he whiles away the hours. It's the look of someone enjoying himself while engaged in a dark act--and, as I told the class tonight, I think it's pretty clear that Jeff derives pleasure from his voyeurism and the narratives he constructs from it. Intentionally or not, it's a reminder that at Rear Window's heart is the inescapable fact that, divorced from the particulars of the plot, its central character is engaged in an activity that's awkward (at best) to excuse as harmless.

This poster (image found here) also uses the impossible physics of the differing images in the binocular lenses. Its most striking difference, though, is that instead of an image of Thorwald in the lens, we see his empty, dark apartment window. I like the absence-is-presence feel of that emptiness; we're just as drawn to the fact that we can't see anything as we are by Miss Torso's unself-conscious dancing about in full view of anyone who might happen to look in. Also, as viewers of the film know, there are moments when Jeff is as intrigued by the fact that he can't see anything in that window, as when he can. The blank emptiness of the lobby-card's window also evokes, for me, a blank slate upon which we can write our speculations: exactly what Jeff and Lisa do as they discuss Thorwald.

As with the first poster, my students made note of Jeff's and Lisa's facial expressions. Here, both appear to show concern or even worry (though, because Jeff's mouth is hidden behind the binoculars, his expression is more ambiguous).

Of these first two images, my students preferred this second one more: in addition to not liking Jeff's "mean" expression in the first one, they felt it was visually garish and, strangely, they were put off as well by the fact that it depicts Lisa and Miss Torso as brunettes.

Two more below the fold.

I had not seen this one (found here) before this week, and of the lobby-cards in this post, it may be my favorite because it runs so explicitly against the grain of the film's point of view; indeed, it serves as a commentary, perhaps unfavorable, on Jeff and Lisa's adventures in what Lisa calls "rear-window ethics." It not only places us physically outside Jeff's apartment looking in (the two images above either depict no interior space at all (the first card) or, oddly, place Jeff and Lisa against an exterior wall), it places us so that we're looking at his apartment from the perspective of the Thorwalds' bedroom. The space (and the person occupying that space) they gaze upon becomes, in this image, the perspective from which they now become the object of Thorwald's gaze, via us as his surrogates. Vertigo, indeed.

I feel I've done little if any justice to this fascinating image.

And finally, this image by Mark Malazarte, found here, that he apparently worked up as an example of his work as a graphic designer. It has a '50s jazzy feel to it that I like, in keeping with Franz Waxman's soundtrack, but I also like how the viewer's perspective is pulled back from the window so that we're sitting in darkness. One of my students noticed the one red window in the building across the way and said, "That's Thorwald's apartment."

I don't have any big wind-up for this post. After all, it's a pretty obvious point that because lobby-cards promote the film, they need to convey some sense of the film's characters and/or themes. What's intriguing is how these particular images go about doing that work and, in the case of the third, go far beyond the work of promotion to (I would argue) actively seek to unnerve us just a bit about what this film's central characters are doing.

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Sunday, November 08, 2009

Adventures at the Wichita Art Museum #6: The Wyeths: Three Generations

Andrew Wyeth, Antler Crown (1983). Image found here.

I like Andrew Wyeth's work. Really. I also knew that his father, N. C. Wyeth, was a prominent illustrator during the first half of the 20th century, and I knew that Jaime, Andrew's son, is a well-regarded artist in his own right. So a few weeks ago, when Scruffy and I had wandered more than usual and found ourselves at the Wichita Art Museum gazing at a large outdoor banner announcing this exhibit, I was very excited to see it and grew impatient that my Saturdays (free admission days) would not see fit to clear for me. Yesterday, though, the scheduling clouds parted, and off I went.

I was underwhelmed. I wasn't expecting to see Christina's World yesterday; even so, given the WAM's recent string of intriguing travelling exhibits, I had hopes of seeing a solid collection of paintings. And, well, they were, but in a finally unengaging way. For the most part, these aren't famous paintings, but paintings by famous artists.

N. C. Wyeth is best known for his work as an illustrator, and so it makes sense that the bulk of his work in the show would be examples of his illustrations. But in looking at them, I was reminded yet again that illustrations are rarely intended to stand alone but are meant to, um, illustrate: they are visualizations of a scene from a text. (Though, that said, his illustrations for Treasure Island, none of which are in this exhibit (but here's an example, originally found here), are justly celebrated on their own terms.) The N. C. Wyeth illustrations on display here are, well, a bit dull--even one depicting two medieval knights engaged in a fight with broadswords. But there were some paintings by him that were more interesting to see--in particular, Eight Bells--because they establish an aesthetic connection between father and son and grandson.

As for the Andrew Wyeths in the exhibition, the one painting I know I had seen before is Antler Crown, seen above, though I don't recall where. The first thing I thought when I saw it yesterday was, "Wow: Georgia O'Keeffe visits New England" (which I meant in a complimentary way). There were a couple of others I very much liked but could not find online images for: The Forge (1984), a rural watercolor winter scene depicting some outbuildings in which Wyeth has let the bare white of the paper stand for the snow, thus lending a painterly, almost abstract quality to his rendering of trees and grasses in the painting's foreground; and Bird House (1997), which shows a flock of birds flying around a barn and some sheds and, dominating the left side of the painting, another bird flying into the space of the painting's extreme foreground, its wings up, its beak open, its claws extended in front of it. I admit to liking my Wyeths with a bit of strangeness and/or menace in them, so these three appealed to me to the point that I'd go back to the show again to see them in particular. The others, though, tended toward skillful but finally less-interesting paintings of the sort Robert Hughes sniffs at.

Yesterday, I was least moved by Jamie Wyeth's paintings; this morning, though, I find myself liking a couple of them more. Warm Halloween, the painting you see here, is in the show, and it manages a jokey-but-creepy vibe that I like, and The Church has a starkness that's appealing to me as well. But I much prefer the other paintings of his that I've seen online while looking for images of those in the show. In them he is clearly his father's son, but he shows himself to have a broader range that the show to its credit tries to convey, but via (in my opinion) pretty dull paintings.

[Aside: All these paintings are from the collection of the Bank of America. Perhaps its ho-hum quality, as I noted here, is due in part to corporate collections' tendency not to offend current/future clients' sensibilities. Snark alert: Would that the Bank of America were more adventurous in their art-buying and less so in their investment practices.]

The show did contain one pleasant surprise: A couple of paintings by Henriette Wyeth, Andrew's older sister, whom I'd not heard of before. Her subjects tend to be portraits and still lifes; some examples (none from the show, alas) are here. They have an formal, elegant calmness to them that I very much like and, ironically (in view of what I'd been saying above), I wish there had been more of in the show.

As you can tell, then, the above hasn't exactly been a ringing endorsement of this exhibition. But the show, in addition to being a brief, substantial augmentation of the WAM's permanent collection's three Wyeth paintings (two by Andrew, one by N. C.), also serves as a good introduction to the work of the most important multigenerational family of American artists since the Peales (Charles Wilson and his sons, Raphaelle and Rembrandt) of the 18th and 19th centuries.

(A friendlier review of this same show is here.)

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Saturday, November 07, 2009

The dangers of reading to children

You read Dr. Seuss books to your three-year-old niece just one too many times over the summer, then in the fall assign a unit on parody to your Intro. to Lit. class . . .

Beware the slippery slope.


“The Love Song of the Cat in the Hat”

(with apologies to T. S. Eliot and Dr. Seuss)


It was evening, October, and we were alone,
Just Sally and me and no one else home.
When there at our door came a rap-a-tat-tat.
It opened and there stood a cat in a hat!

He stood there and stood there and looked ‘round the room,
Unsure of just how, or if, to presume,
But then cleared his throat, and he said, “Ahem!”

“Oh, let us go now, Sally, you, I.
The evening awaits us! Oh me, oh my!
Your mother’s not here? Oh, she will not care.
She will be pleased if you take time to dare!

“We will have time—oh yes, we’ll have time
For me and for you, for questions and rhymes.
My head is not bald, it’s not on a platter.
We three are young, so time’s no great matter.

“So let us visit—the places we’ll walk!
We’ll have us no dull Michelangelo talk.
Our games will be fun, and nothing can faze us.
There’s no room today for formula'ed phrases.

“The things we will do, the places we’ll see!
And then we will take us some toast and some tea!
Oh yes, we’ll have tea, and marmalade, ices!
We’ll forcefully force us a moment to crisis!

But we will not die with a dying fall—
Oh, no! All will be worth it, all after all!”

“And that is not all we can do,”
Said the Cat.
“That is not it, at all!”

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Friday, November 06, 2009

Post hoc, ergo propter hoc?

Two days ago, the crows began returning to downtown Wichita.

Today, the words I'm writing are the words you're reading.

Coincidence? Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

Anyway, I think I'm able to begin easing back into posting here more or less regularly. Long story short: The Mrs. is (finally, relievedly) doing better, and I find myself to be present, like, mentally as well as physically at work . . . and that means I have a bit of space for thinking bloggy things.

::looks up at the banner:: I see I have some tidying up to do. This weekend.

Thanks to those of you who have asked after me. Despite my silence, please know that that's not gone unnoticed, or unappreciated.

More later.

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Saturday, September 12, 2009

Virus

My home computer has a nasty, nasty virus that I don't yet have time or money to deal with. So, this blog will be a little under the weather for a bit.

I hope to be back "here" sooner rather than later.

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Friday, September 04, 2009

"Do you have Calvin Coolidge in a can?": Some musing on texts and contexts

Words are of vital importance. Knowing who says or writes them is of vital importance. So also is/are the context(s) within which they are spoken or written--"context" here meaning not just the other words that surround them but also the larger historical circumstances under which they are spoken; if we do not know them, we cannot, in the fullest sense of the word, read anything. Before someone complains that I'm about to head into a kind of Derridian relativism here, I'll just say this by way of a preemptive strike: I believe there are absolute truths to be discovered and affirmed; I also believe they are few and hard to find and, once found, talked about. That which is absolutely true is that which stands up to repeated examinations of its iterations in various texts and contexts. It is that to which people find themselves returning, ever returning.

Here's an example of what I mean by the importance of texts and contexts. My teaching mentor back in my MA days once wrote the following on the board in his Freshman Comp class: "Who said, 'A little rebellion now and then is a good thing'? A) Axl Rose; B) Thomas Jefferson; C) Vladimir Lenin." The correct answer, most of us know, is "B", but my teacher's larger point was to impress on the class that the mouth in whom we put words will shape our attitudes regarding those words because we're not assessing solely the words themselves. Words have meaning for their users and their hearers and readers only because of the circumstances under which they are spoken.

"Coolidge," you are saying. Okay.

Over at Atlantic Avenue, Amy responds to President Obama's upcoming September 8th address to public school kids (which, just to be clear, schools can opt in or out of as they see fit) with this post in which she imagines Calvin Coolidge offering a response to that address. It's clever and well-written, which I find true of just about everything Amy posts. (Full disclosure: Amy and I do not agree on politics, but I believe that she debates in good faith and so genuinely respect her and her opinions; indeed, if I didn't, I wouldn't be writing this post.) What follows is what Amy describes as a preview of Coolidge's address: a collection of actual quotes from Coolidge. Amy's collection appears in full here:

• Duty is not collective; it is personal.

• The chief business of the American people is business. They are profoundly concerned with producing, buying, selling, investing and prospering in the world.

• Industry, thrift and self-control are not sought because they create wealth, but because they create character.

• Collecting more taxes than is absolutely necessary is legalized robbery.

• The men and women of this country who toil are the ones who bear the cost of the government. Every dollar we carelessly waste means that their life will be so much the more meager. Every dollar that we prudently save means that their life will be so much the more abundant. Economy is idealism in its most practical form.

• There is no dignity quite so impressive, and no one independence quite so important, as living within your means.

• Prosperity is only an instrument to be used, not a deity to be worshipped.

• Don't expect to build up the weak by pulling down the strong.

• Some principles are so constant and so obvious that we do not need to change them, but we need rather to observe them.

• One with the law is a majority.

• Ultimately property rights and personal rights are the same thing.

• If all the folks in the United States would do the few simple things they know they ought to do, most of our big problems would take care of themselves.

• The words of a President have enormous weight and ought not to be used indiscriminately.

• To live under the American Constitution is the greatest political privilege that was ever accorded to the human race.

• Patriotism is easy to understand in America; it means looking out for yourself by looking after your country.

• The nation which forgets its defenders will itself be forgotten.

• You can't know too much, but you can say too much.
Another full disclosure: I don't know a whole lot about Coolidge or his presidency. But so I am honest enough to admit that future reading might change some of what follows. On the other hand, my essential ignorance of Coolidge, I'd argue, is a legitimate thing to bring to the task of reading these quotes. They are, after all, removed from their contexts: I have no idea where or how Amy (or her source(s)) found them, but she presents them here as being worthy of our approval devoid of those contexts. That's not something I can fault too much, seeing as I and everyone reading this does this sort of thing--not, I hasten to add, with the intention of tricking the reader, but as a sort of semaphoric conveying to the reader how we think about certain things. The other reason I can't fault what Amy does here is that, considered here as she presents them, I find myself in greater or lesser agreement with just about every item here--as, I suspect, just about everyone else, independent of their politics, would. The vast, vast majority of Americans express admiration for our Constitution. Personal responsibility is indeed a virtue, most all would say. Industry, thrift, and self-control indeed build character--no question.

So what's the problem? you ask. Well, maybe the problem is with me: Amy's list was not completely devoid of context--she supplied the dates of Coolidge's presidency, 1923-1929--and so as I read this list, I kept matching up Coolidge's words with the events of those years and, perhaps not so surprisingly, the decade after, as I understand them. Thus, as I read the list I kept finding myself saying some variation of "Yeah, but . . . " No matter the virtues inherent in Coolidge's words, it's clearly true that not all businesspeople and investors of his day were acting in accordance with them--and the combination of that fact and the Coolidge administration's desire to hew to these principles even if Wall Street was not was clearly, at the very least, a contributing factor in causing the Great Depression. Knowing this, then, makes some of these quotes seem, shall we say, a bit ominous.

None of this is to say that Coolidge is necessarily wrong for saying these things or that Amy is wrong for admiring them--as I say above, when considered in the abstract there is much wisdom in these statements. It is to say, though, that these work better for us as individuals in guiding our behavior than they do as principles by which to govern a nation filled with people who use their wealth to engage in behavior that, though legal (in the sense of "unregulated"), is less than virtuous, or salutary for the very markets and economy in which they participate and on whose health we all depend.

There's another context I'd like to address quickly: As I mention above, Amy wrote this post in part to critique President Obama's address to public school kids next week. It's fair to ask whether such a thing is appropriate for a President to do; speaking for myself, I say it's appropriate for any President to espouse the importance of education, but (agreeing with Amy here) I'd like to think that's a self-evident truth. Even so, it does no one any harm to state the obvious. At any rate, other conservative types I have read who have been critical of Obama's address have said something along the lines of, "I can't remember another President doing this sort of thing; at the very least, then, we should be suspicious of Obama's doing this."

The kindest thing I can think to say by way of rebuttal is that these folks have short memories:
In 1988, then-President Reagan spoke to students nationwide via C-SPAN telecast. Among other things, he talked about his positions on political issues of the day. Three years later, then-President Bush addressed school kids in a speech broadcast live to school classrooms nationwide. Among other things, he promoted his own administration's education policies. [More details on this here.]

President Obama wants to deliver a message to students next week emphasizing hard work, encouraging young people to do their best in school. The temper tantrum the right is throwing in response only helps reinforce how far gone 21st-century conservatives really are.

[snip]

I can appreciate there's a question of whether the Department of Education erred in the wording of one sentence in the supplementary materials. It's reasonable to think officials should have been more cautious.

But that's not what this is about. The administration not only edited the supplementary materials, but has offered to make the text of the address available in advance, just so everyone can see how innocuous it is. It's made no difference. Conservatives don't want school kids to hear a message from their president. Those who claim superiority on American patriotism have decided to throw yet another tantrum over the idea that the president of the United States might encourage young people to do well in schools.

This is what American politics has come to in 2009.
Skepticism of government is a virtue--no question. But surely even fair-minded folks who didn't vote for Obama can see that what's going on here far transcends skepticism. Their disappointment and/or anger over the results of the 2008 election have so blinded them that they have great difficulty remembering the previous eight years, or can only see Ronald Reagan when illuminated by his "Government is the problem" halo, or, most perversely of all, simply refuse to accept the possibility that Obama and his administration and supporters, misguided or mistaken though they may be, genuinely have the best interests and values of the nation--as they understand those interests and values--at heart . . . and that those interests are ones all of us would understand as "American" in nature: that they are governing in good faith and will listen to reasoned and reasonable objections, in other words. I mean, much as I disagreed with the Bush administration, I believed it governed in good faith. Well, okay: I wanted to believe that of them. If I were a Freudian, I'd argue that much of that disappointment and anger is actually a projecting of their feelings about the GOP's abject failure to govern either responsibly (my complaint) or in accordance with its own stated policies regarding fiscal responsibility (the base's complaint). But whatever the case, it's absurd, not to mention dangerous, to behave as though Obama's acts as President so completely run counter to those of previous presidents that their precedents--the context of the office of President--become erased in the resulting critique of his presidency. It's also foolish to ignore another context when wondering, as some do, about the extent to which the Obama administration's actions in the marketplace are some sort of dictatorial consolidation of power: the fact that our nation's economy was and remains in very dire straits--the market, having self-regulated us into this pretty state, lacked the ability to self-regulate us out of it--and, most economists across the political spectrum agreed, only the government was big enough to get us out of those straits or at least make them less dire. Yes: we can quibble about particulars, not all of which I'm all that thrilled about. But the government has taken extraordinary actions because the times required such actions, and immediately. Celebrations of self-reliance and economic sobriety, no matter who's doing the celebrating, weren't sufficient in Coolidge's time, and they weren't and aren't now.

I have some ideas as to why Obama is being criticized by some on the right in the way that he is, but that will have to wait for a while yet. But in the meantime I'd like to direct those curious about what I have to say to this one-sentence statement and really ponder it.

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Friday, August 28, 2009

Actual questions my students asked me on the first day of class

[Now: Updated with answers to said questions!]

We're two weeks deep into the new semester. So far, so good. The classes are full, and most of my students seem to want to be in class. Of course, next week my first set of papers comes in . . .

Anyway. On the first day of class, I tried something that a colleague of mine shared with our department: after I'd talked about the syllabus, I called roll by asking them what brings them to college and invited them to ask me a question. I challenged them a bit by saying that the R's through the Z's would have great questions for me because the A's through the Q's would have already asked all the lame questions. End result: I got lots of really interesting questions from the get-go.

Here are some of them:

"Do you think you could survive by yourself in a wilderness area for a month?" (Once my student said it would be in Alaska in the summer, I said that if I knew enough about the (edible) fauna, I thought I could--I know how to build a solar still and how to build a fire using flint and steel.)

"What animal would you like to be?" (A seal.)

"Do you own a muscle car?" (No.)

"What is the name of your subconscious?" (This was the question that, out of all of them, truly stumped me. I decided that mine doesn't have one, but I described what it looked like; I then described the stereotypical college English prof.)

"Robert Cormier or William Faulkner?" (What do you think?)

"What were you like as a student before college?" (Answered in part here.)

"What would you be doing if you weren't teaching?" (Running a bookstore.)

"What book did you read that made you want to teach English?" (The first prose fiction that really stirred me intellectually as well as emotionally was that part of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man from the beginning to the Christmas dinner scene; the book that made me want to teach, though, was As I Lay Dying.)

"What is the most interesting place you've ever visited?" (I told the class that I'm not what I would consider well travelled; given that, I told them, "Mexico City.")

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Saturday, August 15, 2009

Does Art still matter? I mean, really matter?

These words heard by Socrates in his dream ["Practice music, Socrates!" in Phaedo] are the only indication that he ever experienced any uneasiness about the limits of his logical universe. He may have asked himself: "Have I been too ready to view what was unintelligible to me as being devoid of meaning? Perhaps there is a realm of wisdom, after all, from which the logician is excluded? Perhaps art must be seen as the necessary complement of rational discourse?" --Nietzsche, "The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music" XIV

It’s hard to describe — it’s like a thought that’s also a feeling. One wouldn’t want to make too much of it, or to pretend that it’s any sort of equitable balance [between Centre Court at Wimbledon and religion]; that would be grotesque. But the truth is that whatever deity, entity, energy, or random genetic flux produces sick children also produced Roger Federer, and just look at him down there. Look at that. --David Foster Wallace, "Roger Federer as Religious Experience," n. 17

Picasso, Painter and Model. Drawing. Image found here.

After a fair amount of looking online for a date for this image, I finally cried "Uncle." I think it's from the '30s; but in truth, as I was reminded during my search, it's in a way appropriate that I didn't find one: this theme of the artist at work (or, in more abstract language, the dynamic between artist and subject) is one that Picasso returned to again and again--or, better put, seems never to have put aside--throughout his career. But Picasso of course is by no means the first or only artist to use his/her art to meditate on that dynamic. Nor do only painters do it: in fact, the drawing above and some others you can see at the blog where I found this one were inspired by Honoré de Balzac's short story, "The Unknown Masterpiece." It's the story of a painter who seeks to render a beautiful woman with absolute fidelity to her appearance but ends up instead with a painting whose description makes clear that Balzac is describing a non-representational painting before such things even existed.

It's ironic to think about Balzac, co-founder of literary realism that he was, telling a story whose point winds up being the impossibility of genuine realism in art (and yes, I know that's an oxymoron). But is that not the message of all art? Even postmodernism's big message--beware the Grand Narrative--requires of us a sort of suspicion-driven hyper-acceptance of rationality that leads, as Nietzsche so eloquently and presciently argued by implication, to cultural fragmentation (in "The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music," Nietzsche declaims, "Only a horizon ringed by myths can unify a culture.")--yet, oddly (perversely?), the most compelling postmodern novels are about people at least seeking (though, true, not always finding) some overarching order in a world that in various ways rejects transcendence. People need Grand Narratives, or else all ends up having the same value--which is to say, all becomes valueless. Including art--even the act of making art, as it turns out.

All the above is not quite where I started this morning, in case you were wondering.

My starting place was "Generations" by Jed Perl, The New Republic's art critic. In this meaty review essay, Perl surveys four recent shows of modern and contemporary art and their respective curators' positioning of their contents relative to recent art history and to traditional media, and the role(s) of museums and the marketplace in all that. That's a lot of territory, but if anyone's at all interested in such things, it's well worth your time. Perl's not shy about expressing his opinions; those who value the notion of an artist's attentiveness to and engagement with (though not necessarily slavish worship of) the artistic past will like what he has to say here. Anyway, one of the shows reviewed is a retrospective of Picasso's late work, which, though not always successful, nevertheless shows this man, his place in art history long ago secure, still painting as though painting itself matters.

From Perl's essay:
In his later years the idea of painting, reflected in countless canvases and drawings and prints of the artist at work at his easel, was among Picasso's abiding subjects. And in one of the grandest etchings in the Gagosian show, he invokes Balzac's story "The Unknown Masterpiece," about a seventeenth-century master who labors for years on a portrait of a beautiful woman but ends up with what amounts to an abstraction. This tale of the mysteries of tradition was admired by Cezanne, and was illustrated by Picasso in the 1920s, and would later fascinate de Kooning. In this etching, the confrontation between the artist and the model is complicated by the presence of another naked woman and another older man who, like the artist himself, is in the elegant garb of a Baroque gentleman. There is even an owl perched on top of the easel. The print becomes an allegory of seeing and understanding, with the two gentlemen, one with a paintbrush and one with a scroll, suggesting art and literature, or perhaps the contemplative life of the artist and the active life of the diplomat (which is how the figure is identified in the catalogue).

This magnificent print is about the capacity of painting to contain everything: wisdom and absurdity, sex and ideas, the public and the private. It was done in May 1968, when I imagine Douglas Eklund [whom Perl writes about elsewhere in his essay] thinks painting was in the wilderness, waiting for the Pictures Generation to tell everybody what to do next. The truth is that painting was never in the wilderness.
It was my (ultimately) failed search for the described etching that led me to the one you see at the beginning of this post, but this one is in its own way another version of the described one. In fact, Perl's description of Picasso's painting reminded me as well of Vermeer's The Art of Painting (click the image to enlarge it)--especially in its implicit claim that painting is the grandest of all the arts in its ability to contain all the other arts. But so also did Wagner make such claims for music, as did Nietzsche on his behalf, and Joyce for the novel. Artists have been making such boasts since, probably, there has been Art. But, it seems, no more. Events in the 20th century combined to take the wind out of art's sails, to the point that when Julian Schnabel went around in the '80s saying things like, "I'm the closest thing to Picasso that you'll see in this *#@ life," people got upset not because it wasn't true (and it wasn't/isn't) but because, well, How dare any artist be so declarative of his worth?

At least he wasn't making any declarations about Art's importance! How gauche that would have been.

But some contemporary artists understand--and argue for--Art's importance in the face of our culture's existential abyss. David Foster Wallace does, or did, as I noted here on the occasion of his death almost (already?) a year ago. Poets and musicians speak to this all the time as well. But do visual artists speak these days in more or other than purely conceptual terms about what they are trying to accomplish via their art?

Do they ever speak of the work of Art?

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Wednesday, August 12, 2009

In which the Meridian briefly plays Col. Kurtz

"He's out there operating without any decent restraint, totally beyond the pale of any acceptable human conduct." Image found here.

The above is how I characterized myself yesterday at our department meeting as the sole full-time English instructor at my school's teaching site at McConnell AFB. (Some context is here.) My school's organization is a bit strange: we have several campuses, but they have, relatively speaking, little administrative autonomy, even though one of those branch campuses actually serves more students than even the central campus. Yet, it's the central campus that has ultimate authority in determining things like the look and much of the content of the syllabus, what text(s) we use, how many and what kinds of papers we assign, the fact that we must have some sort of graded activity on the last day of class, etc. My self-characterization aside, though, I'm actually observant of these guidelines: there are good reasons for them, even if those reasons have little or nothing to do with me. The maintaining of order in the ranks is not solely a military good.

Yes: it's get-ready-for-school week for us at my place of employ. I confess to feeling a bit adrift for the past couple of days: glad to be back but, for various reasons, not fully "present" at our meetings. Fortunately, nothing is so radically different this fall that I have needed to be fully present. Moreover, you'll be happy to know I've not been broadcasting meditations on snails crawling on razorblades . . . or, um, you know, doing other stuff that would cause my department to terminate my command with extreme prejudice.

To hear some students tell it, though, you'd think I have some of their peers' heads on stakes outside my office . . .

In some ways, actually, I'm the negative image of the good colonel: whereas most of my colleagues, to put it politely, can find better uses for their time than to drive out to the main campus (for me, a 60-mile round trip) for two days of meetings, I actually like going to them; they provide almost all of the very rare occasions that I get to see my other colleagues in the department over the course of the year. I like to think I'm good at what I do, but I'm also smart enough to know there's more than one way to be a good teacher. So, these meetings give me the chance to learn from my colleagues and/but also be reminded that my methods have not (yet) become "unsound."

So: I'm off to write syllabi. I should be back "here" in a day or so. In the meantime, here's a very nice mash-up of scenes from Apocalypse Now and Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day:

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