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.

Julius and Ethel

I’ve recently become fascinated with—and riveted by—the case of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. And this fascination came about in the most serendipitous (actually, quite ludicrous) way.

Normally, fascination with such a topic would be out of character for me, since, among other things, I’ve never had any real interest in American post-WWII politics/government issues—and what little interest I may have had at one time was squelched by a quick overview (via a PBS special on Nixon) of McCarthyism. And spies? Espionage? My knowledge of espionage begins with Get Smart and ends with James Bond.

So how did I come to the Rosenbergs? Well, it’s kind of embarrassing, but I tend to learn lots of interesting things by stumbling upon them inadvertently, so here it is:

I was looking through some bookmarked websites on my computer and deleting those that I haven’t used in order to declutter and free up some space. One of the bookmarked sites was labeled “Atomic-Age Color Schemes,” and I remembered that, about five years ago, I’d decided to change my letterhead and logo and their colors from a dated, sedated purple with block print to something more “me.” I wanted something hip but not trendy, something subtle but that definitely reflected a certain zeitgeist. Warhol/sixties/Woodstock would have been too pat, too in-your-face.

When it comes to style, color, and design, I have very diverse tastes, which include everything from true primitives and rustic to Victorian to psychedelic, and though I tend toward Old World wood-and-stone (I hate steel-and-glass) and classic earth-and-sun tones, I love some of the classic 1950s design elements: Eames and Noguchi; curvilinear, naturalistic, sleek but not “cold” silhouettes; and gorgeous, inventive, “atomic” color schemes (i.e., teal or turquoise with mustard-brown or black, seafoam green with pale, calamine-lotion pink, etc).

The site I had bookmarked was no longer working, so I Googled “atomic-age color” and, then just “atomic age,” and before I knew it, I’d stumbled on a site about the Rosenbergs. Of course, I’d heard of them and knew—or thought I knew—the basics: They were the couple who were “executed for spying” in the 50s, and they went to the electric chair at Sing Sing, which is located in Ossining, not far from where I live.

But on this site, there was a picture of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg, locked in a passionate embrace and, for the first time, I studied the vaguely familiar photograph. The people in it seemed so in love, so desperate for each other.

I did some reading, and then some more, and just could not pull myself away. I delved deeper into their story and, the deeper I delved, the more questions I had. I was intrigued. One image that really got to me was a photo of Ethel Rosenberg, standing by a sink full of dishes in a housedress and holding a towel. She looked so, for lack of a better word, innocent. I felt an overwhelming sense of pity for this woman, and for the two little boys I’d read she left behind. How could this diminutive, tenement-dwelling housewife and mother have passed secrets of the atomic bomb to the Soviet Union?

I’m on my second book about the Rosenbergs and my first documentary film, Heir to an Execution, by the Rosenbergs’ granddaughter, Ivy Meeropol. Since that documentary was made in 2004, though, it’s been pretty much confirmed and accepted that Julius was, in fact, a spy and, last year, the Rosenberg’s convicted co-conspirator, 92-year-old Morty Sobell, who spent nearly two decades in Alcatraz and other prisons for his part in the crime, “confessed”—after more than half a century of denials—to being a spy himself.

Still, the only real conclusion I’ve come to so far—I still have a lot more reading to do—is that Julius indeed spied for the Soviet Union, but Ethel was sent to the electric chair for three reasons: 1) because her brother, Soviet spy David Greenglass, sold her out to save himself and his lying, spying wife; 2) because the government played to the national hysterical “red scare” and paranoid anti-Communist sentiment of the time; 3) and because President Eisenhower apparently felt that if he spared Ethel merely because she was a wife and mother—the fact that she was most likely innocent of the crime for which she was charged was not an issue—the Soviets would take that as a sign of weakness and consider it a green light to begin using female spies!

According to admitted spy Morty Sobell, Ethel’s only crime was that she was married to Julius. In 1953, apparently, such a crime warranted execution. The fact is, while she may have known of her husband’s activities, all evidence indicates that she took no part in them. And on that day when the 12 FBI men came to their small, humble apartment and arrested Julius—in front of his two little boys, who were listening to The Lone Ranger with their parents—they couldn’t have cared less. They just wanted to get the Commies.

Chilling, compelling, maddening—and very sad.

Bob Dylan thinks so, too. Here are the lyrics to his song, Julius and Ethel, recorded in the spring of 1983 at New York’s Power Station:

Now that they are gone, you know, the truth it can be told;
They were sacrificial lambs in the market place sold --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.
Now that they are gone, you know, the truth it can come out;
They were never proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

The people said they were guilty at the time;
Some even said there hadn't a-been any crime --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

People look upon this couple with contempt and doubt,
But they loved each other right up to the time they checked out --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Eisenhower was president, Senator Joe was king;
Long as you didn't say nothing you could say anything --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Now some they blamed the system, some they blamed the man;
Now that it is over, no one knows how it began --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Every kingdom got to fall, even the Third Reich;
Man can do what he pleases but not for as long as he like --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Well, they say they gave the secrets of the atom bomb away;
Like no one else could think of it, it wouldn't be here today --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Someone says the fifties was the age of great romance;
I say that's just a lie, it was when fear had you in a trance --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Looking for Light in All the Wrong Places

I'm looking for a light read. You know, chick-lit. Something along the lines of The Nanny Diaries perhaps, or maybe even a Bridget Jones or an In Her Shoes--something I can put down without a bookmark, pick up whereever, and not miss anything important. Something that won't stay with me for days or weeks, something that won't haunt me, something that won't change my life or challenge my way of thinking. Something that won't break my heart.

Yes, I've been rethinking my reading list. It's getting me down. It's much too heavy. I need to lighten up, I know, at least when it comes to books. That's what I tell myself, but I've been through this before--it'll pass.

Here before me--in my living-room bookcases, sandwiched between Dostoyevsky and Oscar Wilde; in my bedside bookshelf, adjacent to Elie Wiesel's Night and Alice Miller's The Drama of the Gifted Child--are stacked and strewn the remnants of my past futile attempts to "lighten up" my book list.

Let's see...I've got Rachel Ashwell's pastel-infused Shabby Chic--in hardcover, yet--which I bought during my short-lived (and very laughable) "I can do it--I can be a suburban housewife!" period in 2003. Then there's The Bitch in the House, a collection of Erma Bombeck-on-steroids essay-rants written by disgruntled wives, mothers, etc., which I bought the same year, when I'd had enough of the suburban housewife thing and tried to gracefully ease myself out of it. The book's binding has barely a wrinkle and I don't remember a word.

Why do I bother? It never works out, this light-seeking thing. The truth is, when it comes to literary pursuits, darkness is much more compelling, whether truth or fiction. Reading the dark stuff helps me write better, too. Sometimes it makes me angry--and that helps me write. Sometimes it makes me sad--and that is a writing catalyst, too.

So, I'll go back to reading The Lovely Bones and, when I'm finished, I'll tear into The Brother by Sam Roberts, a well-received biography of David Greenglass, the scum-sucking pig whose testimony--largely lies, he admitted, told to save his own ass and that of his atomic spy wife--helped seal the fate of his sister, Ethel Rosenberg, who died in the electric chair in the early '50s. After that, there's a controversial bio of Rasputin that I've got wait-listed.

Dark? Yes. But much more interesting than Bridget Jones's white granny panties.

No Lifeguard On Duty: The Empty Pools Aesthetic

I’ve often delved, here and elsewhere—perhaps in an attempt to arrive at some personal understanding, revelation, or, even someday, catharsis—into the nebulous topic of melancholy. For better or for worse, it’s an indelible part of my psyche.

When I was a young child, I didn’t know that this “thing” was melancholy. But my intuition told me that, most likely, none of my paste-eating first-grade classmates looked at swimming pools in summer, filled with laughing, splashing kids, and shuddered silently at the thought of what they’d look like empty and ice-covered in winter, with the sky darkening and the wind howling around them. When they went to a carnival or a fair, they probably weren’t thinking about the carnies packing up the rides onto trailers and going home to some ramshackle flat in some moth-eaten town where they’d while away the months until next summer.

Well, maybe my friends didn’t go quite that far, but, through the years, I’ve realized that I’m not alone in my inability—or unwillingness, or both—to pop a happy pill and pretend that life’s just a bowl of cherries. Instead, I try to savor life—the light and the shadows. And I've found that many people--even the happy-go-lucky sorts--feel that way, too.

As I wrote for Crawdaddy in an essay on nostalgie de la boue, I’ve always had a fascination with—and simultaneous aversion to—images, art, music, and literature that consider the shadows--and often find value and even beauty in the shadows--without actually tipping the scales into the macabre or blatant darkness. For instance, while I love the nuances of Hawthorne and Poe, your standard-fare haunted-house and bloodsucking-vampires fare just don’t do it for me. Similarly, while rich, melancholy melodic and lyrical subtleties in a song like “Rockin’ Chair” stir my soul and make me feel more alive, Goth and death metal leave me cold and strike me as posturing.

Some time after my baby died in 2002, I decided to see a grief counselor. He offered me a little insight, but I had to fight my own battle (or, as my Mother always advised me, to "keep my own counsel."). We did, however, click on a personal level and have remained friends. One day, during the course of regular conversation, we got to talking about art and life and I mentioned to him that even as a kid, I'd found certain imagery—empty swimming pools, water swirling down storm drains, ghost towns, the smell of old books—at once interesting and spooky. I thought it was some soul-baring, outlandish revelation.

He didn’t blink an eye. “It’s very common,” he told me. “It has to do with loss. Childhood loss and fear of loss.” Because I had experienced early traumatic loss, he said, I’d developed a beyond-my-years understanding of the finite and the transitory. Seeing those pools filled and imagining them empty was a child’s way of processing the meaning of loss, the fact that nothing stays the same. Writing it now, it seems like a no-brainer—but then again, I’ve always had to take the circuitous, back-woods route to discover the obvious.

Turns out many, many, many other people have the same fascinations-cum-aversions. Some of these people are artists, writers, musicians, and photographers. Over the years, I’ve done a lot of research and exploration, and have found scores of books and websites dedicated to things like ghost towns, urban decay, and other nostalgie de la boue topics.

Recently I came across a critically acclaimed series of photographs entitled, eerily, No Lifeguard On Duty, by well-known photographer J. Bennett Fitts. The photos are of, of all things, abandoned swimming pools across America. I was amazed at both the glowing media coverage and the "me too!" web comments his work has received. They're creepy, but they touch a nerve. Maybe it's like artistic rubbernecking; on one level, it's repulsive, but you just can't look away.

Check out his pictures at www.jbennettfitts.com and see if you, too, get that sort of sinking feeling in your stomach-- followed by a sense of relief that, in fact, you're not there, you're here--safe--and that they're just photographs.

I'll See You in My Dreams

I had never intended the focus of this blog to be about grief and loss, and that is still not my intention. It just happens that usually, when I am compelled to "free-write," it is because my soul is restless and when my soul is restless, and I feel that I am about to climb out of my skin, it is often because of that nagging, gnawing, lifelong shadow-companion of mine, grief.

Maybe it's because the only ways I really can communicate--or pretend to communicate, or imagine that I am communicating--with those who are gone are 1) to dream about them and 2) to write.

At one point in my life, about 20 years ago, I became receptive to the concept of lucid dreaming--and for a while, it worked. And I can tell you for a fact that lucid dreaming is not bullshit; it is a legit phenomenon. I practiced and was able to "will" my dreams, at least partially. I kept a journal during that time and felt very connected to my psyche. But that was a long time ago. I was more emotionally agile and resilient then, less wounded, less jaded, less resigned to the fate that is mortality.

When I write about it now, the New Agey tone of the language embarrasses me--I think of how I used to go to Garland of Letters on South Street in Philly to by Champa and Patchouli or Woodstock chimes, but cringe when I saw the weekend Buddhists looking for some of the dharma--crystal healing and chakra balancing is not my cup of tea at all. But being able to conjure up a dream about someone I love who's gone--that, to me, was not New Age mumbo-jumbo. It was a real experience; a gift. But it's gone now, just like those I once held and hugged and laughed with, made love with, cradled, cared for--they're phantoms.

In the past 10 years, my once fanciful, once hopeful dreams have given way to nightmares and dull-aching, bottomless-pit dreams of eternal loss--the themes are similar, but the imagery varies: sometimes I'm reaching for my Mother, who's just inches away, but I'm blocked from touching her by an invisible glass wall; sometimes I'm hearing my brother's voice, but it's garbled, as if under water; sometimes I'm placing my baby in a cradle, only to realize upon closer inspection that it's actually a grave; sometimes, I'm holding a telephone receiver, trying to connect to a departed love, excited at the prospect of finally hearing his voice again, only to find that the number's been disconnected or that he's not "at home."

It's fucked up. It's ravaged me. It's taken my youth. It's taken my innocence.

But it's given me things, too. It's given me more compassion. And empathy. And understanding. It's shown me that love does not die--ever.