Factory Girl: Don't Waste Your Time

Think of a bowl of rich, creamy chocolate ice cream topped with a heavenly cloud of sweet, homemade, whipped cream. Now, picture a slab of rock-hard, fat-free, imitation-flavored chocolate frozen yogurt with artificial coloring and no sugar added topped with fat-free Reddi-wip. That about sums up the difference between the real Edie Sedgwick and the biopic-cum-parody that is Factory Girl.

Thankfully, I went into it with no expectations. Those kinds of films almost never live up to the hype when the hype is good, and when you're portraying iconic figures, you're practically looking to fail. In this case, the reviews were mixed, though mostly negative, so my only hope was that maybe I'd be pleasantly surprised. I wasn't.

I rarely get a chance--or have the patience--to watch a movie anymore, but I've been sick and wasn't up to writing. I had some time to myself today, and I didn't feel like reading, so I figured, what the hell, so what if I'm two years late? At least I'll get to see some cool Edie clothes. And that was the only good thing I saw. My instincts told me that this was a film I should watch alone, because the only thing as bad as being embarrassed in front of someone else is being embarrassed for someone else in front of someone else, and I just knew that with portrayals of larger-than-life icons like Edie, Warhol, and Dylan in the hands of anyone but world-class actors, I would be cringing. And even though I watched it by myself--I was still cringing. Especially at the Dylan--I mean, "Quinn"--character, over-acted by Hayden Christensen. All I can say is, no wonder Dylan threatened to sue!

Guy Pearce's Warhol was more of an impersonation--almost a parody--than a portrayal, though Sienna Miller did an acceptable job with the flimsy, contrived script she had to work with and the pathetic supporting actor (Jimmy Fallon!) she was paired with. She's pretty and waif-like and-- when made-up with heavy eyeliner and false lashes and decked out in Edie's signature chandeliers, micro-minis, tights, and mid-60s New York society pre-hippie mod--could have passed for Edie. But she lacked the spirit, the spunk, the hipness, and the charisma that transcends mere "prettiness"--it was the je nais sais quoi that made Edie Sedgwick the underground "it girl" of the mid-60s, and the reason a dramatization by someone who wasn't even born when Sedgwick died probably should not have been attempted.

Anyway, no real analysis is needed. Save your money and, even if you can watch it for free, save your time. You can see the real Edie on YouTube, read about her in George Plimpton and Jean Stein's wonderful "oral" bio, and find shelves full of books with gorgeous photos and interesting perspectives. Don't try to live it--or re-live it--through this movie. You can't go home again and your imagination is likely much richer than this poor little film.

Can't Stop Listening to Phil

I know I've written about him recently, but I still can't stop listening to Phil Ochs. He was always there, he was always great, but it's almost like I didn't quite "get it" the first time around.

Maybe it comes with age. Whatever it is, I feel like I've been given a wonderful, very expensive diamond. All I can say is better late than never.

Phil Ochs is the consummate protest singer/songwriter. What's sad is that he's lumped, almost parenthetically, with every other singer/songwriter on the Village scene. And he's different.

I wrote in my earlier post that he was a topical songwriter who was not afraid to be topical, and did not strive to be timeless. Ironically, some of his songs have become timeless, because he was very attuned to human nature. His very best work is on par with Dylan's early work, something I can't believe I'm even writing, but I am, because I believe it's true. "Cops of the World" is such a relevant, biting song--it applies just as much today as it did then. Phil sings it with a crystal tenor and an out-of-tune guitar, and it's mesmerizing. There are many that I love, but two that are particularly captivating are "The Marines Have Landed On the Shores of Santo Domingo"--a very long title, but a poetic, poignant lyric and an eerily beautiful melody--and "When I'm Gone," an eerily prescient pondering that is sad without being maudlin or sentimental.


Here are the lyrics:

There's no place in this world where I'll belong when I'm gone
And I won't know the right from the wrong when I'm gone
And you won't find me singin' on this song when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
And I won't feel the flowing of the time when I'm gone
All the pleasures of love will not be mine when I'm gone
My pen won't pour a lyric line when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
And I won't breathe the bracing air when I'm gone
And I can't even worry 'bout my cares when I'm gone
Won't be asked to do my share when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
And I won't be running from the rain when I'm gone
And I can't even suffer from the pain when I'm gone
Can't say who's to praise and who's to blame when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
Won't see the golden of the sun when I'm gone
And the evenings and the mornings will be one when I'm gone
Can't be singing louder than the guns when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
All my days won't be dances of delight when I'm gone
And the sands will be shifting from my sight when I'm gone
Can't add my name into the fight while I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
And I won't be laughing at the lies when I'm gone
And I can't question how or when or why when I'm gone
Can't live proud enough to die when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
There's no place in this world where I'll belong when I'm gone
And I won't know the right from the wrong when I'm gone
And you won't find me singin' on this song when I'm gone while I'm here
So I guess I'll have to do it
I guess I'll have to do it
Guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

If you have not yet discovered Phil Ochs, drop what you're doing and go to Amazon.com. Buy the album There But For Fortune. Consider it an investment in beauty.

The Mellowing Effects of Time

Today marks 45 years since the assassination of President John Kennedy, and I haven't seen a mention of it anywhere. I don't know what the country was like before Kennedy was killed; I was 15 months old when he died. But I, like everyone my age, had an awareness of Kennedy and his death all through my childhood; it was always there, lurking--which may have something to do with my melancholy nature. It was something younger Baby Boomers were sort of born into, and though we never talked about it ourselves, it was a topic of fascination and intrigue among the adults.

I distinctly remember when, though it seemed as if it were part of "history," JFK's death was still a national obsession. Then again that was a long time ago, too. When I was a kid--even when I was in high school--there was an unspoken feeling sense that America had been wounded. Sort of like the atmosphere that still hangs in the air when you walk downtown in New York--it's been seven years since 9-11, and it has gone from dominating conversation to being mentioned in hushed tones, but America is not yeat healed.













Up until the mid 80s, TV specials, films, and news-broadcast retrospectives dominated the airwaves around the anniversary date. I recall Years of Lightning, Day of Drums, old newsreels, and other programs being on TV in the living room as I helped my Mom prepare the "make-ahead" dishes for Thanksgiving on Wednesday. It seemed sad to me that JFK and Thanksgiving seemed to be so linked. Even through the mid 90s, there was always at least one or two programs on TV around this time of year that had to do with the assassination. It started to fade after Jackie Kennedy's death in 1994, and really petered out with John-John's death in 1997. Now there's nary a mention.

Camelot, it seems, is really over, and John F. Kennedy finally belongs to the ages.

Middle Age Bites!

Okay, I know the fact that looking forward to the dawning of a new day partly because it means a big cup of coffee is a sign that I’m getting older. I accept the fact that the days of my giving up chocolate for a week and losing 10 pounds just like that, or sitting on my boyfriend’s shoulders at a concert on the beach are not just dead, but mummified and fossilized.

But, just how long has it been since those carefree days? This morning, as I waited for my coffee at the deli, I gazed over to a flat-screen TV in the store (they can no longer afford to put napkins on the counter, but they have a plasma TV…but that’s another story).

On the screen was a kindly old man singing the praises of Optimum Voice. Nice to see seniors getting some acting work, I thought. Now, I’ve seen the commercial hundreds of times, but never paid any attention. Today, though, there was something about the ascot-wearing old man’s voice that seemed vaguely familiar, as he facetiously asked, “Is it the way I say ‘Massapequa?’”

Then I realized that the old man with the dense white—not gray, white—hair was Barry Bostwick. Barry Fucking Bostwick! I remember when Barry Bostwick was a moderately foxy b-level/Lifetime actor, good for a little eye candy on a rainy Saturday afternoon when nothing was on TV. I know he was in Rocky Horror, but that’s not how I remember him. I remember him as the sexy villain or the passive-aggressive narcissist or the charming two-timer with the dowdy wife and the gorgeous mistress. He was one of those “older guys”—an occasional guilty pleasure among the scruffy long-haired musicians my friends and I thought were “cute”--with salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes so intense they should have been illegal.

Now he is, in the words of George Carlin, an old fuck!

Kitschy Coup

Ask any art lover and he or she will tell you that kitsch has taken hold of our culture. There are Van Gogh desk calendars, Frida Kahlo coffee tables, Modigliani lamps and vases. And you know what? A lot of this so-called kitsch is available for purchase at exorbitant prices in the "gift shops" of virtually every major metropolitan art museum in the world.

The definition of kitsch is almost as broad and subjective as the definition of art. What is art? Who's to say? One person's art is another person's kitsch, and vice versa.

But kitsch, in the general and commonly used sense, connotes the bastardization of high art. It's quite a snobby concept, implying, at best, art that can be appreciated and understood for its decorative value, or by the the general public (as opposed to the cultured elite)and, at the worst, low-brow representations of "real art"--i.e., "dumbed down" for the masses.

Are kitsch and pop art similar, then? Well, to paraphrase Bill Clinton, it would depend on how one defines "pop art" and, to extend it even further, how one defines both "pop" and "art." Convoluted? Extremely.

The generally accepted difference between even the best kitsch and the worst pop art is the intended effect. Pop art may be ugly, crude, simplistic, insulting, erratic--but it is not created to elicit a predicted response. For instance, Andy Warhol's Campbell's Soup cans. They're in MoMa. They've become iconic. And, now that they're iconic, they're something else. The very reaction that is elicited by the fact that they're now icons of an era has rendered them kitschy in the eyes of some--yet, when they were first created by Warhol, they were "art" as opposed to "kitsch" because they were created for the sake of creating, not to elicit a particular reaction. Even if you believe that the original Warhol creations are art--as most people, even pop-art naysayers, do--you have to admit that the Warhol Campbell's Soup can refrigerator magnets they sell at the MoMa gift shop are...kitsch. If you're confused, join the club.

I have an appreciation for art, but I also appreciate kitsch, as "defined" above. For instance, when I was last at MoMa, I saw an exhibit that actually made me mad. It was a bent, rusty nail hammered into a broken, splintered two-by-four. I don't remember the name of the "artist." It certainly is not kitsch--but it is, in my opinion, garbage. I have several canvas transfers--Botticelli, Van Gogh, Munch, Modigliani, and even Picasso. The fact that they are inexpensive reproductions of "the real thing" makes them kitsch in the eyes of art snobs, I know. But they make me happy. Like my son's drawings of everything from Hulk Hogan to our dog, Mojo.

By the way, I also have an original abstract painting in brilliant colors of a psychedelic Lab who looks just like Mojo--painted by an unknown (and very talented) Brooklyn artist. I can't help touching it every time I pass it in the living room--it clashes with everything, and that's one of the things I love about it. It makes me smile. Sometimes it makes me laugh. Is it art? It is to me.

I Used to Be Hip--What Happened?

Once upon a time, I was a pretty hip girl. It doesn't seem as if it was all that long ago, either. Since I was always an A student who loved school and a "good girl" who didn't smoke or drink or get high or sleep around, I relied, albeit unconsciously, on a little bit of hipness--an independent mind, a love of all kinds of music and literature, an inner-city background, the ability to get along with and appreciate people of all races and cultures, an attraction to vagabonds and musicians--to keep me from being a total nerd. Had it not been for these qualities, I surely would have been hanging out with the kids who got beaten up by the "cool" kids.

But I never followed the herd, ever--except in the case of religion. I was born into Catholicism, a fancy word for brainwashing, and for most of my childhood and young adulthood, I feared the wrath of God for stupid things like my doubting that Adam and Eve were real people and that God actually made woman from Adam's rib. It took thirty years before I felt confident in the idea that God has more important things to tend to than punishing young girls for doubting the validity of ancient fairytales. But I digress.

Pastels and Sunny Florida: two things that
go against my very core. I was led astray.

As a teenager, I loved makeup and clothes, like most teen girls, but if I had to choose between buying a new blouse or a new album, the album would win every time. I wasn't terribly into trends, except for a while in the early 80s when, at age 19 or 20, I got sucked into Danskins, pastels, leg-warmers, ripped t-shirts, and a Sheena Easton haircut. I even had the "Jane Fonda Workout," and actually went to aerobics classes (two or three times--I hated it; I only went to look at the guys working out) at Socitey Hill Fitness wearing tights and a Danskin, and a headband, just like Olivia Newton John in her "Physical" video. In the same period, I also did the complete opposite, and tried to go punk, buying my entire wardrobe of leopard-print t-shirts, spiked bracelets, and leather and spandex shirts with zig-zag zippers from Zipperhead on South Street in Philly. I saw no point--and had no need--for a bra until I was in my early 20s (wow--those were the days), but that's as wild as I got.

It wasn't long before I settled back into the comfort zone I'd established at 14 or 15--wearing my brother's ripped army shirts and patchy jeans and suede moccasins, not because they were especially cool, and certainly not because they looked good (they didn't--in my Mother's words, they were "disgraceful;" I looked like a "rag-picker," she said, and periodically would try to throw away one of my tattered shirts or threadbare jeans, only for me to retrieve it from the bottom of the garbage bag, wash it, and wear it the next day) but because they were comfortable and worn--and me. These were the days when my Mother would look at me and slowly shake her head, saying nothing at all. Deep down, though, I know she was glad that I wasn't a prissy little "girly girl." And so was I.


What I want to know is, when did I become middle-aged? It wasn't so long ago that I lived out of an overnight bag--my leather duffel bag always in the trunk of my car, packed and ready to go anywhere at a moment's notice. I'd drive 200 miles at the drop of a hat, go anywhere without a map, without a plan, with no money to speak of, just because I felt like it. It wasn't so long ago that Dana and I would hop in the car, drinking extra-large Dunkin Donuts coffees at midnight, and drive from Philly to New York on a whim on a Sunday night, then get up for work at 7:00 bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. We rented cars and drove through the Deep South, through the Bayous of Louisiana and the Mississippi Delta, sat out on the hood of our car in the middle of the night, in the middle of an empty highway in Helena, Arkansas, looking at the stars, when our friends were doing all-inclusives in Bermuda and the Bahamas and getting mani/pedi combos at the hotel spa. They thought we were nuts; we thought they were missing out.

Now here I am, in bed at 9:00 pm, under the comforter and wearing a flannel nightshirt and heated fleece aromatherapeutic booties, excited, not because I just met Dylan and he was nice to me, but because I actually have at least nine hours of sleep to look forward to, because it's raining and I don't have any commitments this weekend, because I can watch the "Nancy Grace" reruns that I missed during the week and because they put new "Sopranos" episodes on HBO on Demand. I'm not complaining. I mean, I supposed I could do some of that other stuff if I really wanted to. I guess I just don't. I guess I'm content writing and being sort of...domestic. Well, sort of.

What happened?

Love is Free

There are so many incredible charities and non-profit organizations out there, run by and comprising the most selfless people you can imagine. Times are tough for just about everyone, and I can’t think of a person who has cash to spare. Still, times are even tougher for those with nothing.

Even if we can’t donate money, we can still give. Time is free. And so is love. We can offer support. We can show kindness. We can visit the elderly, spend a day working in a soup kitchen, foster—or even just spend a couple of hours or a day with—a shelter animal.

If you do have a few dollars to spare, there are thousands of wonderful programs that could use your donation. One that has really touched my heart—and that can use both donations and volunteers—is The Pajama Program, which provides new, warm pajamas and books to children in the United States and all over the world. Many of these kids have never had a parent tuck them in at night, most have never had anything to call their own. What’s more comforting to a little one than a snuggly pair of PJs and a sweet bedtime story?

I wrote about this organization soon after its inception, and then again about three years ago. I’ve also done “pajama drives” for my local chapter, as have many people I know. My friend did a drive in Philly and donated tons of pajamas to the Philadelphia chapter. It was great.

Please check out their website and help if you can. Or, check out this great site, Charity Navigator, which evaluates and provides comprehensive information on more than 5,000 of the nation’s largest charities.

The Pain Never Stops

It's such a dreary, rainy, raw day. I love these kinds of days usually, though--once in a while, anyway--because I can snuggle up with Michael and Alex and Mojo and my tea and my books and a sweater and all is right with the world.

But today--maybe because of the impending holidays? A dream I had that's still lingering and lurking below the surface?--I feel like I am beating off demons with a stick. The demons are the ones that have hounded me for as long as I can remember: Loss. Grief. Longing. They're always there. Always, always there. No respite, no letup. But sometimes, they hang out in the background, to give me a little breather. Not today.

It smells like Woodstock up here today; that rustic mountain firewood smell is in the air, Thanksgiving is around the corner, and so many of my loves are cold and alone in the ground. I should think of them sitting on clouds in Heaven, right? Smiling, plucking harps, singing with choruses of angels. But no, I am smelling the Frankincense, the church, the stench of roses mixing with formaldehyde. Kissing the stone-cold foreheads one last time, praying they can feel me, knowing they can't. Thanking everyone for coming. And seeing the freshly delved "resting places," taking a peek down to see just how deep they will go. How deep, all alone, they will go. Shuddering, bargaining with God not to make them go there.

How could Edvard Munch have known exactly how I feel?

I can't do the euphemisms today. The imagery is not working. I know the truth, and the truth is fucked up.

Who should I cry for today? Who should my heart ache for most today? They're always there, all of them, breaking my heart, but sometimes, often, it is Mom who holds the top spot, Mom in her cozy pink terrycloth robe, smiling and holding out her arms for me. Sometimes it's Dad in his powder-blue sweater, waving goodbye at the screen door. Sometimes I see my Rachel in her little white outfit and her pink baby blanket. One day it's Greg in his work boots and flannel shirt. Another day it's Rick with his sweet, hearty laugh.

Today, it's everybody, all at once, and it's making my mind hurt, my body sore, but I know this too shall pass--it always does, though for just a few moments or hours. It comes and goes in waves of varying intensity. Some days, though not usually, it is a ripple. Today it is a tidal wave.

So I think I'll go hug my son. I know there's a God because he made Michael and Alex.

Chiaroscuro: Painters of Light

I'm the first to admit that I’m very passionate and, perhaps consequently, extremely opinionated when it comes to music, art, and literature. Personally, I think all people are, whether they admit it or not. And what a boring world this would be if we weren't passionate and opinionated. After all, beauty is in the eyes (and ears) of the beholder. That does not mean that I can’t distance myself and look at things objectively when I need to.

But one of the great things about a blog is that here, I don’t need to! So I’m just going to say it: Thomas Kincade makes me sick!! Is this what passes for art in the age of Celebrity Rehab and Bridezillas?

I know I've talked about my contempt for Kincade before. It's not that I'm out to get him or anything. It's not just that he reminds me of Dr. Phil, or that he's full of himself and self-righteous--all of which is true. Sarah Palin liking his work was just a bonus. One of the reasons I am so anti-Kincade, though, is because he touts himself as “The Painter of Light.” On some level, he has to do that to antagonize people. Or maybe it’s just to antagonize people who love art.

Let me tell you about the real Painters of Light. Foremost among them is Caravaggio, the hyperactive, brilliant Baroque-era Milanese master whose lover was a prostitute and whose passionate nature led him to murder (he received a papal pardon—three days after his death). More than four centuries later, all that is almost incidental.



Caravaggio was undoubtedly a genius. His use of chiaroscuro, a painting technique that gives the illusion of light and dimension by creating distinct shadows and contrasts (it literally translates from Italian as “light-dark”), is probably as close to perfection of the technique as Da Vinci’s use of sfumato (think of the subtle gradations of tone and color—and lack of clear lines—in the Mona Lisa). Chiaroscuro is a technique that is used often--as it has been since the Renaissance--but rarely (if ever) as convincingly or as masterfully as in Caravaggio's work.



Chiaroscuro can be used to achieve a variety of effects. In religious paintings of the 16th and 17th centuries, it sometimes served to "illuminate" holy subjects and to depict a Divine inner light emanating from a Biblical figure, as with, for instance, the Baby Jesus. In other paintings, it simply served to simulate light, like candlelight, firelight, or moonlight, and to cast the primary subject of a painting in the spotlight, so to speak.

Caravaggio's paintings are sometimes religious, sometimes secular, but almost always intense and emotional (see above). Caravaggio was also important in the development of tenebrism, a dramatic or extreme variation of chiaroscuro, which gives the illusion of people and objects coming out of darkness and into light.

Rembrandt was a master of chiaroscuro and was also, of course, a master--some would say the master--of portraiture. I prefer Caravaggio to Rembrandt when it comes to his use of chiaroscuro, but that's just a matter of personal taste. If you look at a Rembrandt painting, though, particularly of elderly people, you will see that every detail of the skin seems illuminated. You can almost feel the flesh in a Rembrandt portrait. A young person with fresh, dewy skin and rosy cheeks may be a pleasure to paint, but an elder, with wrinkles and crevices and other interesting features, must be so much more of a challenge. And Rembrandt did it better than anyone. Check out his self-portraits--he must have had an incredibly secure sense of self to paint himself, as he did, both in youth and in old age.





Then there is Vermeer. Everybody knows Vermeer now because of Girl With a Pearl Earring, aka, the "Mona Lisa of the North." The fact that the book and movie made people who'd never heard of the Baroque Dutch Master delve deeper into his work is wonderful. I love Vermeer, not just because of the gorgeous colors--particularly the rich blues; he used pure, gorgeous pigments like lapis lazauli--but because they emimnate warmth. They are drenched in light--natural, glowing, warm, soft light. He also portrays people of his time doing simple, everyday things. My very favorite Vermeer painting--and one of my favorite paintings overall--is The Milkmaid, circ. 1658. Look at the beautiful, vibrant colors, the look of serenity on the milkmaid's face, the simplicity and tranquility of the scene--though it is mundane. I just love it.



Chiaroscuro is something we, today, take for granted, which is understandable: for us, it's always been here. A good way to appreciate chiaroscuro is to look at paintings that came before--look at the flatness, the way figures and people seem to be suspended in space. Then look at paintings that use chiaroscuro--and really think about how the effects were achieved--painstakingly, stroke by stroke. Our tendency is to look at the finished product, as if it were a photograph. And if you look at paintings that way, you're sure to be disappointed. Try to imagine a time before technology; put yourself in that place, if you can, and you will have a better appreciation for the incredible talent and skill needed to pull off this technique.

The First Surrealist?

I love discovering new music, literature, and art—especially when it’s old, or when it’s a known or even celebrated work or artist that somehow escaped me in the past. I remember how excited I was the first time I read Joyce Carol Oates and Anne Sexton—years after I “should” have, probably, considering the fact that I’d been an English major in college and never even heard of Oates. I felt the same way when I discovered the art of Caravaggio and Jan van Eyck; it was a mixture of excitement and disappointment, as in “how could I possibly have missed this?”


An artist I’ve become fascinated with—though I can’t say I love (or even particularly like) his work—is Giuseppe Arcimboldo. The Italian mannerist was a student of Da Vinci’s, and it shows. His technique is brilliant, his talent undeniable. I don’t know how he’s perceived in the art world, but among the general public, I’d say he’s relatively obscure (though his works hang in the Louvre). I'm sure anyone schooled in the art of the Renaissance who happens to read this will laugh--and you should!

Arcimboldo's paintings are incredibly detailed, and in terms of context, content, etc., I think he was way ahead of his time—more than five centuries ahead of his time. His portraits of people are “made” entirely of plants, animals, fruits, vegetables, and trees. His paintings have universal themes and one-word names; for instance, his allegorical and/or symbolic depictions of the four seasons and elements (i.e., "Water," "Earth").

Because a fish is a fish, a crab is a crab, and an apple is an apple, regardless of the century in which it’s portrayed, Arcimboldo’s paintings have a timeless—even contemporary—quality. LSD in the Reanissance? Apparently so! None of my friends has heard of this man; all to whom I’ve shown his work have been intrigued, perplexed, impressed, and/or amused.

Personally, I think Arcimboldo is ripe for a comeback. All it will take is some deep-pocketed Hollywood producer to think this artist is a master—or, more likely, smell an untapped money-making niche—so he can make a big-budget flick about him, go on a PR tour for the cause, pretend to be an expert, and tell the rest of us lowly commoners about the unsung master of the Renaissance we’ve all been missing.

If you're a producer or director and you're not quite sure if Arcimboldo's marketable enough, consider this: he was also the hottest party planner of his day, planning shindigs for the Milanese upper crust. Too bad he wasn't English; since Hollywood thinks all Americans like our culture spoon-fed to us in corny, rhyming sound-bites, you could call him the Elizabethan Era David Tutera.

In the meantime, check out some of his humorous and mildly disturbing pieces.