Art and the Absinthe Drinker

There is something about the supposedly mystical qualities of the mind-altering substances of yore, particularly absinthe, that’s intriguing. Intriguing, that is, in the slightly forbidden way that allows you to imagine it, wonder about it, romanticize it, observe it from afar—and then slam a book closed with a shudder, just as you sense that if you turn one more page you’ll have gone too far.


I’ve often found myself mesmerized by the great volumes written and the art produced by writers and artists under the influence of absinthe. So much has been written about absinthe and its effects, its iron grip on those who were seduced by its charms, or sought refuge in is delicate green poison—hence, the feminine personification of it as “The Green Fairy” or “The Green Muse,” suggesting an imaginary femme fatale, a powerful, other-worldy force and inspiration. Some of the greatest painters in history—Picasso, Van Gogh, Toulouse Lautrec, Modigliani, Manet, Degas, and others—have represented—and/or been inspired by or created under the influence of, for better or for worse, The Green Fairy. Oddly, many of their paintings have portrayed absinthe’s “victim” as female.

Some of the world’s most celebrated literary figures—Oscar Wilde, Rimbaud and his lover, the fin de siècle poet Verlaine, Hemingway—have famously drunk absinthe, some to their detriment; some have been brought to their knees, others completely ruined by its ill effects. Whether muse or demon—or both—absinthe holds an important and mythical place in art and culture.

Why the mystique? Does absinthe deserve all the hype? The sad fact is that, however fashionable absinthe--banned in this country for decades until recently--has become, it has, in the past, driven people to ruin. But with the passage of decades and even centuries, these "ruined" writers and artists and philosophers and visionaries now belong to the ages; their pain no longer affects us personally. Their legacies have endured in spite of their personal torment and it is possible to separate the art from the artist. And suffering and art, as we know, seem to go hand in hand.


Let's be honest about the appeal of absinthe to 21st-century art lovers. There's no shame in liking the sinuous melody with which “L’absinthe” rolls off the tongue or being enchanted by the elixir's beautiful luminescent green color, reminiscent of jade. There is a certain fantastical charm to the notion of a Victorian absintheur, an eloquence—and elegance—to the “absinthe ritual,” to the Pontarlier-style absinthe glass and bistro spoon and fountain and sugar cube. And it’s easy to look at it that way—after all, there is a cushion--the cushion of time--between Edwardian and Victorian absinthe drinkers and us.

Time is a healer, and so is art. When we see the absinthe drinkers in the paintings here, we don't see the illness and suffering, the vomiting, the jitters, the tears, the lost fortunes, the broken marriages of those in the throes of addiction--we see the beauty of a Picasso or a Manet or a Degas. But if you linger just a bit and look a little deeper, you will see the pain of addiction--look at the lost expressions on the faces, the lonliness, the despair. Absinthe drinker or crack addict? It's just a question of semantics.

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A Painting That Says It All

This is how I feel today. Thank you, Edvard Munch, for portraying so vividly and accurately what no words could every convey:

Bad Parenting 101: The "Balloon Boy" Hoax

I’m lucky. Despite a youth fraught with loss and emotional upheaval, brought about by forces and situations beyond my control, I was blessed with parents who lived for their children. Who loved their children unconditionally and whose personal wants and needs took a backseat to the welfare of their kids. Whose mission in life was to ensure that they raised children who would be strong, honest, moral, safe, and secure. Who’d never ask their kids to do something they knew was wrong.

My family was the quintessential “we didn’t have money, but we had love” family. Our love for each other was—and is—passionate and boundless. My parents punished us when we misbehaved and, on those occasions, it truly did hurt them “more than it hurt us”—so much so that I remember actually feeling sorry for my father once when I was sent to my room after dinner for the evening. I could see the veiled look of turmoil on his face as he said “no dessert or television tonight,” but he stuck to his guns, knowing that it was teaching me a lesson—that it was helping me to learn about consequences.

My parents’ love and the strong foundation they gave me have seen me through some tough times. When I’m faced with a dilemma, I try to imagine what they would do, and it helps, though they are gone. Their love and strength have also made me savor all the goodness in my life. They were and are my role models.

What would I have done, what kind of person would I be if my parents hadn’t been the people they were? If they hadn’t taught by example and by lessons? I believe that, in general, people are inherently good, that we are born with at least a basic innate sense of human decency, compassion, and instinctive knowledge of right and wrong.

But the power our parents wield, just by virtue of being our parents, supersedes everything else—what we learn in school, in church, from our friends—at least when we are very young. So I can’t help but worry about children like poor little Falcon Heene.

The six-year-old, known now (though I hope the moniker doesn’t last) as the “balloon boy” after his media-whore father, Richard (and, likely, his mother, Mayumi) staged an elaborate hoax in which Falcon was reported to have vanished into a giant helium balloon, and his two brothers have suffered at the hands of their parents who are, simply put, irresponsible, reprehensible, selfish, thoughtless assholes. How will this little boy’s life be shaped by these creatures and what they’ve put him through?

The parents—at least the father—will likely do some brief jail time. The mother, who at the very least was aware of her husband’s antics and, more likely, colluded with him, may or may not. In any case, it is the children—particularly Falcon—who will suffer the humiliation, rage, and confusion of having parents who’ve taught them how to lie and cheat in order to get what they want.

Falcon will be teased and taunted relentlessly by classmates and peers, maybe even strangers who recognize his name, for years to come. He may seek psychological therapy. He may look for answers—or solace—in drugs, alcohol, or worse. He may eventually turn his anger to someone else—like a girlfriend or a spouse—or he may turn it inward.

Unless he has other—better, stronger—role models around him, and perhaps even if he does, he may perpetuate his parents’ legacy by replicating it with his own children.

What this father did—and what this mother either allowed to happen or actively participated in—is despicable. Their child was so scared—scared to tell the truth, scared to go against his father—that he became sick and vomited twice on national TV. The parents may serve some time, yes. They may have to pay restitution. More than likely, they’ll get a slap on the wrist. It is their children who will pay for their selfishness and stupidity for a long time to come.

All for what? So another sick, pathetic narcissist could have a shot at 15 minutes of fame.