Mad About Modi...and Munch and Klimt and Matisse and Chagall...

There are artists I've always loved, in all genres--from Boticelli to Van Gogh, the old standbys I go to when I need some visual stimulation, or solace, or both. Boticelli's angelic faces (my favorite portrait is below), Van Gogh's manic impasto strokes--I love it all.

I've been intrigued by Modigliani for quite some time. It took me a while to appreciate his portraits--particulary since so many of them are of naked women. The ones that weren't nudes seemed simplistic and almost formulaic. But they weren't forgettable--I went back to them, and found a sense of depth that I hadn't experienced initially.

There's an underlying sense of something unsettling in his work that made me want to explore further. It's not unsettling in a repulsive or maddening way--like Georgia O'Keefe (whose thinly veiled representations of female genitalia as flowers just don't do it for me, and who, on the "annoying" meter, ranks one step above Thomas Kincade) or Jackson Pollock, whose work I guess I just don't get; it bores me. Modigliani's work is unsettling in a way that says "there's more here than meets the eye, but you're gonna have to delve."

So I started reading about Modi, and found his life even more interesting than his work. Modigliani, it seems, was a Beatnik nearly a half-century before Kerouac began typing on that now-famous continuous roll of paper. Modi was a bohemian whose life was full of passion and craziness and torment. He died at the age of 35. His grief-sticken lover, nine months pregnant with their second child, jumped out a fifth-floor window and killed herself and their unborn child two days later, leaving their baby daughter an orphan.

I look at his work a lot differently now. It makes such a difference when you know a bit about the life of an artist--it helps you see things you may not have noticed. But there is a fine line between knowing about an artist and having some perspective, and making assumptions and reading into his or her art. It's a fine--and interesting--line.

In the same way, I've been fascinated with the Norwegian artist Edvard Munch (the Poe of painting) even longer, perhaps because I relate to the nostalgie de la boue aspect of his art, with its themes of loss and longing. Of course, I've always been familiar with The Scream, but I've found many of his other sketches and paintings more compelling. Death and the Maiden, The Kiss--some are just so powerful.


And then there is Klimt, the Austrian symbolist painter who, in my opinion, was decades ahead of his time. Klimt can take the most haunting, melancholy aspects of life and render them visually vibrant and beautiful, but he does it in a way that deepens the drearier, more philosophical aspects of mortality and the human condition. He paints almost like a mosaicist and, though some of his work tends toward the erotic--even bordeline perverse--the meticulous detail in itself is worth studying; you can look at The Three Ages of Woman a thousand times, for instance, and never see it the same way twice.


As much as I tend toward the melancholy, for the past year or so, I've become immersed in the colorful work of Matisse, the color master. Seeing his work at MoMA stirred something in me. I know he is considered as significant as Picasso--and honestly, he is leaving Picasso in the dust for me--but I only stumbled upon his work inadvertently, so I am excited that there is a whole new world I haven't yet discovered. To me, his subjects and his composition are almost secondary to his color.

Because of Matisse, I have opened up to Fauvism, which I really am drawn to. Just this past spring, I found out that there is a Matisse stained-glass window at the Union Church of Pocantico Hills, less than 10 minutes away from my house, and that it was his last work of art before his death. I've been wanting to go for months, but it's hard to rally my guys during football season.

I'm also relatively new to Marc Chagall. I'm not a fan of Cubism by anyone, even Picasso--it's one of those things that I just don't "get" so I've stopped trying, and maybe one day it will "get" me--but I do love his themes, symbolism, and color. Chagall, like Matisse, also has a window at Union Church which I'm hoping to see. I love his Fiddler because--well, he's a fiddler!

The Curmudgeonly Beatle

Nobody loves the Beatles more than I do; I've loved them since I was in diapers. There was a time when they could do no wrong, a time when I could tell you minute details, including at what time of day each of them was born, in what hospital, and the names of the delivering obstetricians.

But, as George Harrison astutely observed nearly four decades ago, all things must pass. At one time, the Beatles were untouchable--nobody else even aspired to their status, significance, or fame. But I think their star has dimmed considerably in the public consciousness, which is not a negative thing--just human nature. Aside from the inevitable chinks in the armor--was Sgt. Pepper really the greatest rock album of all time? Has McCartney written one great song since "Let It Be? Doesn't John's Primal Scream-influenced "Mother" seem a little less primal now? Isn't Two Virgins really, really embarrassing?--so much time has passed that things that once seemed so important have become mere footnotes, if not totally irrelevant.

John Lennon's October 9 birthday came and went with nary a mention in the press; a decade ago, it would have garnered a few lines in the dailies, and two decades ago, a paragraph and a photo. Paul McCartney's dating, and nobody cares, though occasionally, a shot of a saggy, baggy, Grecian Formula-ed Sir Macca will make its way onto Page Six. And now that Ringo has milked the All Starr Band tours dry and sung "The No No Song" 30 years longer than what most fans would deem palatable, now that his career retrospective CD and his blip of a TV show has tanked, he's gotten curmudgeonly.

The buildup to his latest tantrum started in January, when he had a hissy fit and walked off the set of Regis & Kelly when he was asked to shorten a song. His cantankerous new attitude emerged again just this week when the world's luckiest drummer issued a passive-aggressive plea to fans to stop sending him autograph requests, because after the seemingly arbitrary date of October 20, he will no longer honor them.

In a way, you can't blame Ringo. He's got to be tired. I've always liked Ringo, but have always considered him the token Beatle, knowing that he was a rudimentary drummer with a barely passable voice and a good personality. Yes, he should be thankful that anybody still wants his autograph. But at 68 years old, he's never had a private life. I guess he just wants to be left alone--by fans, at least.

I never thought I'd see the day when the silly, smiling, happy-go-lucky Beatle would become a crotchety old man. But nothing stays the same.

Bryson

When I drove my son to school this morning, it was chilly, gray, and autumnal, perfect weather for Simon & Garfunkel's "America." Alex is always more open-minded and tolerant of my music in the morning, when he's still sleepy, so I figured I could get away with one more day of S&G before he tells me he can't take it anymore. Personally, I think he secretly likes a lot of the music I play, because more often than not, I will later hear him humming a melody that he heard on our morning drives to school.

As we drove the short distance to school, through the winding roads, I reached back to hold his hand for a sec, as I often do, and caught a glimpse of him through the rearview mirror, snuggly in his fleece jacket, looking quietly out the window at the peaking fall colors. "I love you, Baby," I said. "I love you too, Mom-zer," he replied.

I thanked God for him, and said a quiet little prayer for a boy named Bryson McCabe and his parents. I dropped Alex off, watched him walk with his backpack up the school steps, and waited for him to turn back for one more wave, as he does without fail every morning, and thanked God for that wave, too.

As I drove away, with "The Only Living Boy in New York" playing softly, I watched the parade of teens--some giggling, some cracking gum, some with hair still wet from showers, some with acne and braces--heading down Sunnyside Avenue to the adjacent high school. I cracked the window and heard the giggles and teenage chatter and silly banter. And I thought that Bryson would probably be doing this, too, right about now.

But instead, his heartbroken parents were preparing to bury him. I feel so sad and frustrated and mad. How can this be? How can this child's life be over? I never knew him, but I miss him.

The Peculiar Niche of Simon & Garfunkel

Occasionally during the past 20 years or so, whenever I hear a Simon & Garfunkel song, I think about the duo’s peculiar place in the music world, particularly on the sixties scene. Most short bios of the pair describe them as a “sixties folk-rock duo” or something similar. Yet when I think of folk-rock, I never think of Simon & Garfunkel.

There was a time when it seemed their place in pop/rock music history was firmly ensconced, and that they were noted among legends. But I don’t know if that’s the case anymore—I think not. Despite their many hits (“The Sounds of Silence,” “I Am A Rock,” “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” “Scarborough Fair”), their highly recognizable sound, and the fact that their music is so very representative of American East Coast singer/songwriter sound of the late sixties, they were and are, as a unit, a bit of an anomaly. And as such, I think, they have been a bit overlooked.

Part of the reason, I think, is the tendency of our culture to pigeonhole, label, and compartmentalize. It’s hard to do that when something is unique. I mean, who else sounds like Simon & Garfunkel?

Granted, some—many—of their songs are, with the clarity and hindsight of four decades of living, cringe-inducing. “Baby Driver,” for instance, from the Bridge Over Troubled Water album, is blatantly embarrassing, as is “Keep the Customer Satisfied,” and both should be packed away in mothballs if not permanently laid to rest. Then there are songs like the iconic title track and “The Boxer,” a tune I once considered timeless, but now think of as a cerebral pop song. There’s also the sweetly hummable “America” (from the lofty but lovely Bookends) with its majestic drums and hokey interlude, a song I once thought was important but now see as merely nice, and the corny but catchy “Cecilia,” from Bridge, which now seems naïve and dated.

But what about the others? Where do they fit in the legend? Simon & Garfunkel were commissioned to do the soundtrack for The Graduate, a watershed coming-of-age film and one of the most popular and important mainstream releases of the decade, and their aura is all over the movie. Still, Simon & Garfunkel were not, even then, considered part of the scene—they always seemed outside the realm of hip, too square to be cool, yet too talented to be relegated to a lesser status—to that of, say, the Association.

Still, how can songs like “Scarborough Fair” and “Mrs. Robinson” not be permanently—and prominently—woven into the fabric of sixties music and culture? Have you ever seen a film about sixties culture or music that featured Simon & Garfunkel or their songs in any significant way? Why not?

S&G died, in a way, with the sixties—a decade which, in my opinion, did not end in 1969, but in late 1972 or early 73, with the dawning of glam rock and bubblegum. Of course, Paul Simon rekindled the flame in the mid-70s when he became a folk/pop golden boy in the “sensitive guy” vein—sort of like the Alan Alda of pop. There was a time, from about 73 until 77, when Rhymin’ Simon could do no wrong, and had hit after hit—“Kodachrome,” “Me and Julio,” “Still Crazy After All These Years,” “Loves Me Like A Rock,” “Slip Slidin’ Away.” He became an endearing, respected fixture, indelibly linked, as always, to New York, but this time to the Saturday Night Live/laid-back hip crowd. It was almost as if he’d become a different Simon—this one had a first name, Paul—and he held court in the mainstream music world for a number of years.

The flame smoldered, to be rekindled briefly again by a Simon & Garfunkel Concert for Central Park in 1981, which sold a lot of records and garnered a lot of press, but when the dust settled, served only to confuse people. Simon reinvented himself yet again in the late 80s and early 90s with the monstrously successful (and, in my opinion, musically overblown Graceland).

He was hip again, in a Woody Allen un-cool sort of way, palling around with Chevy Chase, marrying Edie Brickell (who had a successful little run with the New Bohemians), and recording pop nuggets like You Can Call Me Al—a perfect vehicle for the MTV/VH-1 age, for which Simon and Chase did a corny video. By 1990, Simon was a musical old shoe—one with diamonds on its soles. I wonder if he’s still got a few more songs in him.

Poetic Justice

Thirteen years ago yesterday, I stood in stunned silence--along with millions of others across the country--as OJ Simpson was acquitted for the murders of Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman. I remember it like it was yesterday: I was in Manhattan, at a music PR company that I was working with at the time on Gramercy Park, with a handfull of other publicists. Somebody announced that the verdict was about to be read and we all huddled around the TV. Just before the verdict was read, I peered down from the sixth-floor window onto Park Avenue; it was emptier than I'd ever seen it.

Within minutes, the verdict was read and, sadly and surprisingly, the reactions in the room were divided totally along racial lines. It was a phenomenon that I'd heard about and witnessed from afar, and witnessed in other times and places, but never did I think I'd witness it among intelligent, open-minded adults. A few seconds after the verdict was read, there was a mix of cheering, honking horns, and cursing on Park Avenue. I wondered if those cheering really believed that Simpson was innocent--and hoped and prayed that they did.

Yesterday, Simpson was convicted on all counts (12 of them, including armed robbery and kidnapping) for his latest cocky, egregious, criminal acts. There was no cheering or cursing in the streets that I know of. And, though nobody will dare even think it out loud, everyone knows that there were at least 14 counts, not 12, of which Simpson was found guilty.

The story has all the components of a Greek tragedy, except that Simpson has more than one tragic flaw. Hubris, though, may be at the top of the heap. Aristotle would have welcomed this case as illustration of his Poetics.

I have a mix of feelings about this. When Simpson was acquitted of murder, I felt that he'd live in his own kind of prison--that he'd become bitter, old before his time, that his friends would leave him, his fortunes would dwindle. I didn't wish it on him, but I thought that, even though he "got off," he'd have to live with himself. But psychopathic narcissists love living with themselves; Simpson seemed to be incapable of feeling guilt, shame, or even sorrow, and immune to any sort of negative ramifications.

Yesterday, for the first time, OJ Simpson looked old and tired. I wish I could have cheered, but I don't have it in me. Though I'm glad that justice is being served, I couldn't be "happy" about someone else's sorrow. Because I thought of his mother, and the hopes she had for her son and the heartbreak she suffered instead. And his children, who will now live with no parents at all. And, of course the people whose lives I believe he took and their families. And ironically, I thought of OJ Simpson and what could have and should have been for a man who once had talent, dreams, and determination, and now, even if deservedly so, has nothing.

Don't Wink at Me, Lady!

If there has ever been an incentive to get out and VOTE, it is the prospect of this chick in the White House. I had to take an extra Prevacid after watching the vice presidential debate. Between the winks and the flirty gestures and the hockey mom comments and the "Joe Six Pack" remark (gag me fucking NOW!!), she still managed to say a whole lotta nothing.

She did have a lot of facts and figures at the ready (many of which were erroneous if not irrelevant) and she spared us from telling us yet again that she can see Russia from her state, but she did not say one damn thing of any substance. We know the American people are "strong" and that this land is "great" and that the American "work force is the greatest in this world." I can hear all of that in a Woody Guthrie song, and at least enjoy the music.

Tell us something we don't know. Tell us how we are going to get out of the mess we're in. Tell us HOW--not just THAT--the McCain administration is going to repair the economy.

This country has enough hockey moms--not that there's anything wrong with hockey moms. In fact, there are many in my own neighborhood--and all of them are smarter than Sarah Palin (take out the "l" and what do you have?) I, for one, don't particularly want a hockey mom in the White House--unless that hockey mom happens know how to run the country. She's not running for the office of president of the PTA at Gladys Wood Elementary School in Anchorage, for which she's clearly under-qualified. She is an actual contender for second in command of this country; I mean, she may have to fill in for the President in a pinch.

Now that Sarah Palin has asked her handlers which newsapers and magazines she reads, so that she can answer the questions of the fluffiest of reporters (Katie Couric?? I wonder how she would have fared against Walter Cronkite), maybe she can work on learning that when she's asked about the state of affairs in Georgia, the question is not referring to what's happening in the Peach State.