I've always had a thing for elderly people. As I write that, I see that it is a sweeping, somewhat immature statement and, now that I am myself middle-aged, I feel comfortable saying that not all elders are good or kind or wise--and not all warrant love and admiration.
But generally speaking, I've always felt a kinship with my elders and I feel that elders should be afforded respect, the type of respect and dignified care they are given in countries far older than the United States. I think it is the duty of younger people to take care of their elders--it is, in my opinion, the natural order of things. But perhaps I'm old-fashioned, or maybe I have a special appreciation because my parents and grandparents are no longer here to give me the kind of love, support, advice, and comfort only an elder can give.
In any case, I read the other day of two young women--a term I use loosely, as "degenerates" seems more apt--who abused vulnerable Alzheimers' patients, elders they were supposed to be caring for as nursing home aides, in the meanest, most despicable ways: by spitting at them, hitting them, taunting them just for fun, touching them inappropriately, and poking them. It made my heart ache. And it made me really mad.
What will these horrible creatures tell their children, if and when they find men who are willing to bring kids into the world with such vile, cold-hearted excuses for human beings? What will they say when their daughtersask, "Mommy, what did you do when you were a teenger?" I can only imagine the pain and anger of the families of the victims, but thank God no one was hurt or killed. How could anyone do something so cruel? And why? What possible reason could anyone have to be so ruthless?
I hope these two women are punished in a way that will keep this from ever happening to another vulnerable person, but I'm sure they'll receive a slap on the wrist, because today's morals and values are very screwed up. How do they look at their hateful reflections in the mirror, knowing what they did to somebody else's parents and grandparents? I hope they never have to go through the agony of watching an aging parent or grandparent suffer from Alzheimers or any other disease. And I hope that they turn their lives around and develop compassion. It is never too late. Maybe, at some point, they will do some good in the world. If not, Karma will take care of them.
For more about this unspeakable crime, click here:How Can Anyone Be So Cruel?
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Caravaggio: Bad Boy of Baroque
I'm starting to see a pattern here. Actually, I've been seeing this pattern for years, but it always amuses me when I get further confirmation of it: virtually every artist, musician, or painter I admire has, shall we say, issues of some sort. (Of course, most of the human race has issues of some sort, but that's another matter.)
Caravaggio, the Baroque genius and one of the most innovative, talented, technically and artistically proficient painters--and definitely one of my top three or four--of all time, was a rogue, a misfit, a rebel, and a criminal; the bad boy of Baroque.
Unlike many great artists, whose work was not appreciated until years, if not centuries, after their deaths, Caravaggio was much in demand and considered a genius during his lifetime. Like lots of spoiled celebrities of today, he did not handle success or fame well: he spent lavishly, bragged relentlessly, and was conceited, arrogant, and difficult to get along with. He lived hard and died young. But that's where the similarities between him and today's "bad boy" celebrities ends. Caravaggio was immensely gifted, and incredibly influential. His skill, particularly with light and shadows is, in my opinion, unequaled.
He took chances in ways no other artist would have dared. His Death of the Virgin, for instance, which was completed in 1603 (also the year Queen Elizabeth I of England died) and is housed in the Louvre (reason enough to visit France), portrayed the Virgin Mary barefoot, bloated, in rigor mortis, and supposedly modeled after a prostitute with whom Caravaggio was involved--much too realistic (and too vulgar) for the time and for the commission (it was, after all, commissioned by the Church). Still, it is a riveting, disturbing, and emotionally moving painting--and is, of course, infused with dramatic light and shadows.
Even if art is not your thing, Caravaggio is an artist whose subjects--not to mention his techniques, his shadows, light, folds, pleats, creases, and textures--you can look at for ages and never see them the same way twice. He's changed the way I look at art of all kinds.
Caravaggio, the Baroque genius and one of the most innovative, talented, technically and artistically proficient painters--and definitely one of my top three or four--of all time, was a rogue, a misfit, a rebel, and a criminal; the bad boy of Baroque.
Unlike many great artists, whose work was not appreciated until years, if not centuries, after their deaths, Caravaggio was much in demand and considered a genius during his lifetime. Like lots of spoiled celebrities of today, he did not handle success or fame well: he spent lavishly, bragged relentlessly, and was conceited, arrogant, and difficult to get along with. He lived hard and died young. But that's where the similarities between him and today's "bad boy" celebrities ends. Caravaggio was immensely gifted, and incredibly influential. His skill, particularly with light and shadows is, in my opinion, unequaled.
He took chances in ways no other artist would have dared. His Death of the Virgin, for instance, which was completed in 1603 (also the year Queen Elizabeth I of England died) and is housed in the Louvre (reason enough to visit France), portrayed the Virgin Mary barefoot, bloated, in rigor mortis, and supposedly modeled after a prostitute with whom Caravaggio was involved--much too realistic (and too vulgar) for the time and for the commission (it was, after all, commissioned by the Church). Still, it is a riveting, disturbing, and emotionally moving painting--and is, of course, infused with dramatic light and shadows.
Even if art is not your thing, Caravaggio is an artist whose subjects--not to mention his techniques, his shadows, light, folds, pleats, creases, and textures--you can look at for ages and never see them the same way twice. He's changed the way I look at art of all kinds.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Fake by Any Other Name
Disingenuous. Phony. Fake. Shallow. Affected. Artificial. Feigned. Put on. Spurious. Call it what you will, but people pretending to be something or someone else—whether that pretending takes the form of relentless name-dropping, keeping up with (or, better yet, one-upping) the Joneses, affecting the accent or dialect of a social class seen as “higher” than one’s own, hobnobbing with a social class or other group in order to raise one’s own “status” in the eyes of others, taking up hobbies or interests in order to impress others, or doing anything to make someone else think of or respond to you in a way that “srtokes” you—has been part of the human condition since the beginning of time.
It’s a ubiquitous part of American life and culture, and though it's often cause for scorn, it looks like it's here to stay. Phoniness is not always about social climbing--sometimes it's about mock social descending, as in the wealthy Harvard Blue Blood who goes about channeling Woody Guthrie or Jack Kerouac in a futile attempt to mimic the life of a creative vagabond; we all know one of those. BoBos in Paradise is a pretty good (if utterly nauseating) account of well-to-do suburbanites who drive Hummers, send their kids—Schyler and Barack--to Montessori schools and tai kwon do lessons, and live in McMansions adorned with “distressed” furniture (oh, that’s right—that was the 90s—now the BoBos have all “gone green,” eschewing fine mahogany and cherry for reclaimed woods, lumber from sustainable forests, and nasty stuff like bamboo, which they wouldn't have given a passing glance to before it was fashionable.)
Pretending isn’t necessarily a bad thing; sometimes, it's even necessary. It has its place in life and, in its broadest sense, it is the basis for art, music, and literature. Fiction, after all, is, by its nature, pretend. Acting is—acting. All art, at its core, is an imitation of life. And, in other ways, there is a point at which affectation becomes something else: fashion or design, for instance. The entire “BoHo chic” concept revolves around the pretend—and very temporary and compartmentalized--lowering of one’s social status or station—but that’s an example of where the lines begin to be blurred. BoHo chic is, after all, fashion. And fashion and style are, at their best, wonderful means of self-expression.
But that's not "fake"--not in the way I mean it. Fake is those who act as a replacement for living, who pretend for the sole purpose of impressing or eliciting envy or jealousy or admiration in or from others—whether friends, relatives, co-workers, or even strangers—to make themselves feel superior.
It's gotten worse. And the media is no help. It takes the very worst aspects of human nature and magnifies them. Isn’t it bad enough that we have to deal with this crap in our own lives, every day? I mean, we all have a friend who’s affected a new accent after “marrying up” (think of Detroit-born Madonna’s British accent, which she “acquired” within five minutes of marrying Guy Ritchie), begun using new lingo after hanging out with a new social group, or moved to an "upwardly mobile" neighborhood, pretending that it was an inadvertent move, yet constantly dropping the hoity-toity name of the town in casual conversation where it’s not pertinent. And who doesn't know someone who hates liver (doesn't everyone?) but ordered foie gras when it was "in," and now that it is "out" is secretly relieved, yet protests the maltreatment of geese as the reason for the change in taste?
I’ve always had very keen radar for that shit, and I avoid it like The Plague—or try to. Sadly, sometimes it’s just not possible, and I can’t keep up with all the new shades of fake, so sometimes I actually fall for it. I feel as if I am drowning in it sometimes. It’s starting to come from places and people I’d never expect. People I thought I knew, places I thought were real. Or am I just out of touch?
I talk about this stuff with my friends sometimes, and most of them hate it too, but they think I take too much to heart. Or else they think I’m just nuts. I see it everywhere, and was prepared to see lots of it at my son’s football games this year, but I was pleasantly surprised—there were very few football moms with baseball caps and diamond earrings trying to look cute in their husbands’ oversized jerseys or their husbands' oversized jackets, with the sleeves dangling (intentionally) a couple inches past their hands. Though I was clueless about what was going on on the field, I actually got to know some really nice people whose lives are all about their kids, not their interior decorators and their dinner parties and their husbands' impossibly demanding careers.
Still, I feel that the phoniness seeps in anyway. I have a friend who was talking recently about friends of hers who are “cougars”—I thought she was talking about a female football team until I found out that the term is FakeSpeak for older women who are on the prowl for younger men and dress and act accordingly. “Why can’t you just call them older women looking for younger guys?” I asked. “If we keep using catch-phrases, pretty soon we’ll have no vocabulary at all.” She rolled her eyes and snorted. “Whatever,” she said. “Okay—now, that one I know!” I said, and we both laughed.
Maybe we’re all just insecure. I know I am sometimes. I try not to be, but I can't help it. And why is that wrong? Or bad? Or weak? Wouldn’t it be better to be able to just say “You know, I really want people to like me, because I like people” than to feign “Oh, this old thing?” while dressed in Gucci and dripping with diamonds? This posturing--no matter how you cut it, it is all about insecurity. And fear. And a desire to be liked. And to be loved. Loving is what it means to be human—so why can’t we all just admit it and stop putting on airs?
Saturday, November 29, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
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.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
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.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
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!
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!
Monday, November 17, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
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?
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?
Monday, November 10, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, November 7, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
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!
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!
Thursday, October 16, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, October 6, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Some Cool Books By Taschen
I've always loved cultural studies, folklore, and history. And I've always been fascinated by artifacts of different eras. Of course, I love the sixties, but I love lots of different decades, centuries, and historical periods.
Some people like reading historical fiction--like the Philippa Gregory books based on the life of Elizabeth I and her court, with intriguing titles such as The Other Boleyn Girl and The Virgin's Lover. These are compelling novels but, as always happens when I read fiction, as soon as there is a lull in the action, my mind wanders and part of me says "This is not real. Somebody sat at a computer and made this up." I am embarrassed to articulate that, but there you go. I so wish I could get into that type of writing--and I do love well-crafted fiction--but sometimes I much prefer to cut to the chase: I like the real thing. I mean, I am somebody who actually enjoys reading the dictionary; I don't just love words, I love etymology and I can get lost in a dictionary for hours.
In terms of pop culture and zeitgeists of different eras, I've always loved written "time capsules"--things like Sears catalogues from various eras, decorating books, fashion guides, etc., and I have quite a few original books from different decades. I enjoy the "as-it-happened" feeling I get from books written or compiled during a particular time, or collections and compilations of actual artifacts, as opposed to a person's musings or recollections. For that, I read memoir and biography.
Taschen has a wonderful series called All American Ads and each phone book-sized volume features a different decade. They are heavy, hard to hold paperbacks--behemoths--but they are completely engrossing. I bought a few of them when they first were published (and, of course, they were later released in abriged versions) and I just don't get tired of them. I have every decade from the twenties through the seventies.
Check them out if you get a chance. They contain original newspaper and print ads for everything from soap and lingerie to cars and furniture.
Some people like reading historical fiction--like the Philippa Gregory books based on the life of Elizabeth I and her court, with intriguing titles such as The Other Boleyn Girl and The Virgin's Lover. These are compelling novels but, as always happens when I read fiction, as soon as there is a lull in the action, my mind wanders and part of me says "This is not real. Somebody sat at a computer and made this up." I am embarrassed to articulate that, but there you go. I so wish I could get into that type of writing--and I do love well-crafted fiction--but sometimes I much prefer to cut to the chase: I like the real thing. I mean, I am somebody who actually enjoys reading the dictionary; I don't just love words, I love etymology and I can get lost in a dictionary for hours.
In terms of pop culture and zeitgeists of different eras, I've always loved written "time capsules"--things like Sears catalogues from various eras, decorating books, fashion guides, etc., and I have quite a few original books from different decades. I enjoy the "as-it-happened" feeling I get from books written or compiled during a particular time, or collections and compilations of actual artifacts, as opposed to a person's musings or recollections. For that, I read memoir and biography.
Taschen has a wonderful series called All American Ads and each phone book-sized volume features a different decade. They are heavy, hard to hold paperbacks--behemoths--but they are completely engrossing. I bought a few of them when they first were published (and, of course, they were later released in abriged versions) and I just don't get tired of them. I have every decade from the twenties through the seventies.
Check them out if you get a chance. They contain original newspaper and print ads for everything from soap and lingerie to cars and furniture.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Mad Men: The 60s on TV
When I first heard about the AMC show Mad Men, I was sort of excited. My friend told me about it after it had been on for a few episodes, and she said "It has your name written all over it." She couldn't wait for me to see it.
I couldn't wait either, since there is rarely anything of interest on TV. Well, I watched it--and I hated it. Absolutely hated it. It is full of cliches and sterotypes and I found it extremely hard to get through. I realized two things: 1) It's difficult, if not impossible, regardless of how much research you've done or how many "experts" you consult, to portray a time and place with accuracy, authenticity--and believability--unless you've lived it and 2) there is a big difference between someone born in 1962 and someone born in 1968.
Dana was born in 1968; I was born in 1962. Technically, she is a "Gen-Xer" and I am a "young Boomer" (I like the sound of that!) Even though neither of us really is in any position to speak about what it was like "growing up" in the sixties, I have lots of memories that she doesn't have, and vice versa. For instance, I vaguely remember my parents talking about "Bobby being killed" and names like "Jackie" and "Teddy" and words like "Vietnam" and "casualties" were always swirling around--on TV, in the house, everywhere. And I remember hearing about "President Johnson"--I knew that our president was President Johnson as I entered kindergarten. I remember when "Hey Jude" came out and I remember when The Beatles broke up--my brother announced it as if it were the end of the world, and I cried because I thought we'd never see or hear them again--I had no concept of The Beatles as individuals.
Dana's vague early-childhood recollections are of President Nixon resigning and of hearing about a new show called Saturday Night Live. She has no memory of The Smothers Brothers or The Ed Sullivan Show or Red Skelton. When I was six, I watched these shows and my favorite sitcoms were That Girl and Bewitched. When she was the same age, her shows were Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley. Just six years--but a world of difference.
But back to Mad Men. Though, admittedly, I was not yet born or was an infant during the time the show is set, I do remember things like smoking being de rigueur and people calling stereos "Hi-Fi sets"--that lasted throughout the decade. But I am pretty damn sure that not every single person who ever walked into a room chain-smoked and drank martinis constantly. And I am sure that not every office in Manhattan looked exactly like Darren Stevens' office in Bewitched.
(One of my neighbors in South Philly, trying out
the suburban lifestyle in the late 50s-early 60s)
Though the clothing obviously was well-researched, and I know runway models wore some of these fashions, I never met a woman in a shirt-waist dress with crinolines and pumps and a perfect hairdo. I never saw a pillbox hat in person. And I never heard my Mother say to my Father "Spanking is good for a child." I'm not saying these things did not exist, that they didn't happen somewhere, just not in my experience. I know pillbox hats were popular, I just don't think that every woman wore one to every function. And I wonder how many women were making home-cooked breakfasts for their families dressed and made-up to the nines.
I know the show just won a fist full of Emmys, so I obviously am in the huge minority, but, in my opinion, nothing about the show rings true and it just grinds on my nerves. All the characters look like they're uncomfortable in their customes--which look like costumes. Every time there is a scene that shows a TV screen in passing, it is something iconic--like The Ed Sullivan Show or Jackie Kennedy doing a TV interview with John John and Caroline on her lap. There was one episode in which the office got a photocopy machine, and all the secretaries huddled around it like it was something from Mars. It's really fake. I just wanna say "Okay--we get it! It's the early sixties--you made your point!"
The phoniest part of the show, for me, is the language--both verbal and nonverbal. Dialogue is really difficult to get right, and the pace, the flow, the speech patterns, the jargon--everything--is all wrong. People did not speak then the way they do now; expressions that are part of the vernacular now did not exist then. Things like facial expressions and body posturing--subtle but important aspects of any time or place--are totally off the mark. I keep waiting for one of the secretaries to roll her eyes and say "what-ev."
Dana said to me "How could you not like that show? It's the sixties." That statement said a lot about the difference in our ages. I love Dana, so I was gentle when I told her "1960 is not 'the 60s,' Hon!" And 1960 in Mad Men is not 1960 anywhere else.
I couldn't wait either, since there is rarely anything of interest on TV. Well, I watched it--and I hated it. Absolutely hated it. It is full of cliches and sterotypes and I found it extremely hard to get through. I realized two things: 1) It's difficult, if not impossible, regardless of how much research you've done or how many "experts" you consult, to portray a time and place with accuracy, authenticity--and believability--unless you've lived it and 2) there is a big difference between someone born in 1962 and someone born in 1968.
Dana was born in 1968; I was born in 1962. Technically, she is a "Gen-Xer" and I am a "young Boomer" (I like the sound of that!) Even though neither of us really is in any position to speak about what it was like "growing up" in the sixties, I have lots of memories that she doesn't have, and vice versa. For instance, I vaguely remember my parents talking about "Bobby being killed" and names like "Jackie" and "Teddy" and words like "Vietnam" and "casualties" were always swirling around--on TV, in the house, everywhere. And I remember hearing about "President Johnson"--I knew that our president was President Johnson as I entered kindergarten. I remember when "Hey Jude" came out and I remember when The Beatles broke up--my brother announced it as if it were the end of the world, and I cried because I thought we'd never see or hear them again--I had no concept of The Beatles as individuals.
Dana's vague early-childhood recollections are of President Nixon resigning and of hearing about a new show called Saturday Night Live. She has no memory of The Smothers Brothers or The Ed Sullivan Show or Red Skelton. When I was six, I watched these shows and my favorite sitcoms were That Girl and Bewitched. When she was the same age, her shows were Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley. Just six years--but a world of difference.
But back to Mad Men. Though, admittedly, I was not yet born or was an infant during the time the show is set, I do remember things like smoking being de rigueur and people calling stereos "Hi-Fi sets"--that lasted throughout the decade. But I am pretty damn sure that not every single person who ever walked into a room chain-smoked and drank martinis constantly. And I am sure that not every office in Manhattan looked exactly like Darren Stevens' office in Bewitched.
(One of my neighbors in South Philly, trying out
the suburban lifestyle in the late 50s-early 60s)
Though the clothing obviously was well-researched, and I know runway models wore some of these fashions, I never met a woman in a shirt-waist dress with crinolines and pumps and a perfect hairdo. I never saw a pillbox hat in person. And I never heard my Mother say to my Father "Spanking is good for a child." I'm not saying these things did not exist, that they didn't happen somewhere, just not in my experience. I know pillbox hats were popular, I just don't think that every woman wore one to every function. And I wonder how many women were making home-cooked breakfasts for their families dressed and made-up to the nines.
I know the show just won a fist full of Emmys, so I obviously am in the huge minority, but, in my opinion, nothing about the show rings true and it just grinds on my nerves. All the characters look like they're uncomfortable in their customes--which look like costumes. Every time there is a scene that shows a TV screen in passing, it is something iconic--like The Ed Sullivan Show or Jackie Kennedy doing a TV interview with John John and Caroline on her lap. There was one episode in which the office got a photocopy machine, and all the secretaries huddled around it like it was something from Mars. It's really fake. I just wanna say "Okay--we get it! It's the early sixties--you made your point!"
The phoniest part of the show, for me, is the language--both verbal and nonverbal. Dialogue is really difficult to get right, and the pace, the flow, the speech patterns, the jargon--everything--is all wrong. People did not speak then the way they do now; expressions that are part of the vernacular now did not exist then. Things like facial expressions and body posturing--subtle but important aspects of any time or place--are totally off the mark. I keep waiting for one of the secretaries to roll her eyes and say "what-ev."
Dana said to me "How could you not like that show? It's the sixties." That statement said a lot about the difference in our ages. I love Dana, so I was gentle when I told her "1960 is not 'the 60s,' Hon!" And 1960 in Mad Men is not 1960 anywhere else.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Levon Helm Autograph
I don't have many Band autographs at all. I always hated asking people to sign things. I've done it, of course, but not often.
This is one of only two autographs that I have from Levon Helm. The other is on the Time magazine cover featuring The Band in 1970. I suppose "Stay Strong" was Levon's version of "Live Long and Prosper" or "May Your Memory Serve You Breakfast." All very sweet sentiments.
This is one of only two autographs that I have from Levon Helm. The other is on the Time magazine cover featuring The Band in 1970. I suppose "Stay Strong" was Levon's version of "Live Long and Prosper" or "May Your Memory Serve You Breakfast." All very sweet sentiments.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Something Sad
A couple months ago, a woman who lives nearby did something accidentally that led to her arrest on misdemeanor charges and she was ripped apart in the newspapers for endangering her child--which, sadly, she did, albeit unintentionally.
This person, very well-liked in the community, is by all accounts a wonderful, kind-hearted person and a devoted mother. She made a mistake--a careless mistake. Her child was unharmed.
Her kids have suffered so much, not because of people in the neighborhood--who have rallied around the family in support--but at the hands of anonymous "screen names" who know nothing about the family or the situation. There was a news story about the incident, it was on the Internet, and I couldn't believe some of the mean, hateful, judgmental, cold-hearted comments written below the online newspaper story about this person. Then again, there were some kind, supportive ones--which I was glad to see.
I saw her this weekend--I know her only well enough to nod and smile in passing; I didn't even know her name until this happened--at a local event and she was smiling and chatting with others, but something in her looked so sad, so lost. She lifted her hand to brush her hair out of her face, and I noticed a long, deep vertical scar on her wrist.
Again, I don't know her. But I just wanted to give her a hug or do or say something to make her feel better or let her know that others care about her--or something. I can't even imagine the torment she went through, and is still going through, just thinking that she inadvertently put her child in harm's way. I've been thinking about her all day.
It made "There But For Fortune" all the more relevant. I am not trying to sound like Little Mary Sunshine, but I wish people could be kinder and more empathetic.
This person, very well-liked in the community, is by all accounts a wonderful, kind-hearted person and a devoted mother. She made a mistake--a careless mistake. Her child was unharmed.
Her kids have suffered so much, not because of people in the neighborhood--who have rallied around the family in support--but at the hands of anonymous "screen names" who know nothing about the family or the situation. There was a news story about the incident, it was on the Internet, and I couldn't believe some of the mean, hateful, judgmental, cold-hearted comments written below the online newspaper story about this person. Then again, there were some kind, supportive ones--which I was glad to see.
I saw her this weekend--I know her only well enough to nod and smile in passing; I didn't even know her name until this happened--at a local event and she was smiling and chatting with others, but something in her looked so sad, so lost. She lifted her hand to brush her hair out of her face, and I noticed a long, deep vertical scar on her wrist.
Again, I don't know her. But I just wanted to give her a hug or do or say something to make her feel better or let her know that others care about her--or something. I can't even imagine the torment she went through, and is still going through, just thinking that she inadvertently put her child in harm's way. I've been thinking about her all day.
It made "There But For Fortune" all the more relevant. I am not trying to sound like Little Mary Sunshine, but I wish people could be kinder and more empathetic.
15 People I Can Live Without--Now!!
I can tell I'm getting cranky. I didn't fall asleep until after 1:00 am and was up at the ungodly hour of 6:00 am for my son's early-morning football game. I've got the Sunday "blahs" and I just want to curl up with a good book, a blanket, a cup of tea, and Van Morrison. That's my disclaimer for what I'm about to write.
There are some people who have abused their 15 minutes (or 15 years) of fame and have w-a-a-a-y worn out their welcomes in the public arena. I realize that some of these people have already reproduced, but I would respectfully request that those who have not voluntarily remove themselves from the human gene pool NOW; one of each of you is more than enough. If you've already procreated, at least remove yourselves from the airwaves and from media of all kinds. I wish you happiness, good health, and long lives--but please do it out of public view--or at least out of my view; if I never, ever see or hear you again, it will be too soon.
1. Sarah Palin
2. Rosie O'Donnell
3. "Doctor" Phil
4. Rachael Ray
5. Paris Hilton
6. Lindsay Lohan
7. Elizabeth Hasselbeck
8. "Brangelina"--a twofer
9. "TomKat"--another twofer
10. Billy Mays (the guy with the dyed black hair and the obnoxious voice on the OxyClean commercials)
11. John Edward (the "psychic")
12. Alton Brown (from the Food Network)
13. Madonna
14. Donald Trump
15. Bill O'Reilly
Thanks for letting me vent. I feel better now.
There are some people who have abused their 15 minutes (or 15 years) of fame and have w-a-a-a-y worn out their welcomes in the public arena. I realize that some of these people have already reproduced, but I would respectfully request that those who have not voluntarily remove themselves from the human gene pool NOW; one of each of you is more than enough. If you've already procreated, at least remove yourselves from the airwaves and from media of all kinds. I wish you happiness, good health, and long lives--but please do it out of public view--or at least out of my view; if I never, ever see or hear you again, it will be too soon.
1. Sarah Palin
2. Rosie O'Donnell
3. "Doctor" Phil
4. Rachael Ray
5. Paris Hilton
6. Lindsay Lohan
7. Elizabeth Hasselbeck
8. "Brangelina"--a twofer
9. "TomKat"--another twofer
10. Billy Mays (the guy with the dyed black hair and the obnoxious voice on the OxyClean commercials)
11. John Edward (the "psychic")
12. Alton Brown (from the Food Network)
13. Madonna
14. Donald Trump
15. Bill O'Reilly
Thanks for letting me vent. I feel better now.
Phil Ochs
Can't stop listening to Phil Ochs lately. What a pure, passionate voice. It's also great to listen to a topical writer who wasn't afraid to be a topical writer. He did not strive to be timeless. He was in his time, of his time, and a total pioneer of the protest singer/songwriter part of the folk revival, and completely synonymous with the zeitgeist of the 60s.
I love his vibrato tenor, I really like his guitar (he wasn't just a "strummer", but an innovative stylist). And "There But For Fortune" is one of the best songs of its time--or any time, because it is thematic, not just topical, and relevant, even now. Too bad Joan Baez had to cover it; she did the same for that song as she did for "Dixie."
Dave Van Ronk described Ochs so vividly and his sartorial style--or lack thereof--obviously is from the Rick Danko School of Fashion. Van Ronk said that he wore these things that "used to be suits" until they were so threadbare and shiny, you could look in their reflection to shave when Ochs stood still. I thought that was cute and made him all the more vulnerable. I love the fact that he got a gold lame' Nudie suit in the least likely era--in between Hippiedom and Bubblegum.
Ochs descended into mental illness and alcoholism, as so many artistic, sensitive souls have done. Sadly, he was too sensitive for the world as it was and took his own life. Thankfully, we have his songs and his wonderful voice. I hope people continue to discover him.
I love his vibrato tenor, I really like his guitar (he wasn't just a "strummer", but an innovative stylist). And "There But For Fortune" is one of the best songs of its time--or any time, because it is thematic, not just topical, and relevant, even now. Too bad Joan Baez had to cover it; she did the same for that song as she did for "Dixie."
Dave Van Ronk described Ochs so vividly and his sartorial style--or lack thereof--obviously is from the Rick Danko School of Fashion. Van Ronk said that he wore these things that "used to be suits" until they were so threadbare and shiny, you could look in their reflection to shave when Ochs stood still. I thought that was cute and made him all the more vulnerable. I love the fact that he got a gold lame' Nudie suit in the least likely era--in between Hippiedom and Bubblegum.
Ochs descended into mental illness and alcoholism, as so many artistic, sensitive souls have done. Sadly, he was too sensitive for the world as it was and took his own life. Thankfully, we have his songs and his wonderful voice. I hope people continue to discover him.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Some Bios and Memoirs I've Read Recently
I love well-written biographies and memoirs. Memoirs, especially, can really give you a sense of time and place, even if the author is unknown. I really like good bios of musicians, artists, and writers, particularly intimate portraits (as opposed to just chronological, "career" bios). Here are some bios and memoirs I'v read recently, and my thoughts on each of them.
1. Jimi Hendrix: The Intimate Story of a Betrayed Musical Legend by Sharon Lawrence
A well-written, mostly credible, albeit not terribly exciting, read. It gives a good glimpse of Hendrix as a person in and of his time--but since the book was published in 2006, it also has the added benefit of hindsight. I must say that, having worked with artists who I've also considered friends, I find it hard to believe that, after nearly 40 years, Lawrence's detailed recall of the events and conversations is completely accurate. I know that writers sometimes take poetic license, but the dialogue just flows too freely to have been drawn from memory. It's a worthwhile read if you're a fan of Hendrix. For me, the bloom is off the Hendrix rose--kind of been there, done that, and I never fell for the super hype to begin with--but I'd recommend it for the unique perspective. Rating: B-
2. A Freewheelin' Time: A Memoir of Greenwich Village in the Sixties by Suze Rotolo
This was a bit of a disappointment for me but, in fairness to Suze, it may be because my expectations were so very high that it could not have met them. When I found out, well over a year ago, that she was penning a memoir, I was really excited. I always liked Suze because I felt that she never sold out Dylan--or herself. And, unlike many of the "I was there" people who've written books about musicians, Suze really was there--at the beginning, and in a very real way. She's intelligent, well-read, an artist and teacher in her own right.
That makes this book doubly disappointing. I was expecting to really feel the zeitgeist of the Village in that era--and, instead what I felt, just a bit, was a woman who needs the money and decided to ride the Dylan train while it's still on the tracks. It's good for what it is--I mean, it can only be so bad, because Suze Rotolo lived the scene, and even if she were just reporting, that in itself would be pretty exciting. Otherwise, though, I found it lightweight, and you can feel Dylan speaking to Suze as she writes with trepidation. "Now, now Suze--don't embarrass me. You know what I like and don't like. Don't reveal anything."
Were it not for Suze's intelligence and zest for life, this would have been the American folk version of Pattie Boyd's Wonderful Tonight. Like Pattie, Suze remains very real and likable--for me, at least. And there are enough tidbits about the Greenwich Village of the day and enough dropping of eminent names to keep someone interested in that era ploughing through with interest. Rating: B
3. Wonderful Tonight: George Harrison, Eric Clapton, and Me by Pattie Boyd
When I was a kid, Pattie Boyd was like a living, breathing Barbie doll to me. At the age of 8 or 9, my friends and I used to "play London"--in which we all put on very bad, South Philly-infused British accents, wore "play dress-up" high heels, and pretended we were mods on Carnaby Street or, alternately, Beatle wives. Of course, this was in the early 70s, not the 60s, but even then we knew the previous decade had been something special. We used to fight each other to be Pattie because she was the prettiest--and the coolest.
I always had an affection for Pattie, and thought she'd been unfairly pissed on by her two husbands. So when I heard that Pattie was finally writing a book, I was thrilled, to say the least. I felt like a 9-year-old. My best friend couldn't wait, either--we were literally counting the weeks "three more weeks," "one more week." Childish, I know. When I finally had the book in hand, I set out to devour it. I did in a couple of hours--and, had I not re-read parts of it, I could have done it quicker.
Pattie came off sounding like a whiny, clueless, somewhat shallow airhead--seems like nary a page goes by when she's not "in tears"--not to mention the doormat of all doormats. There was nothing really new, no revelations, no insight--just a lot of retellings of the dinner parties and drugs and vacations and excess. Nice to have in the bathroom--you can read it in one visit. Rating: C
4. The Mayor of MacDougal Street by Dave Van Ronk and Elijah Wald
Skip Suze Rotolo's welter-weight tome and opt for this instead. Dave Van Ronk not only was there in the midst of the Greenwich Village folk revival--he helped create it. He was on the scene before Dylan, before Phil Ochs, before Tom Paxton, before Eric. He was a true pioneer, a great acoustic blues player (and a walking musical encyclopedia), and a fine songwriter/crafter. It is written in a straightforward, punchy, conversational style--with no wasted words. Sadly, Van Ronk died before the book was completed. Elijah Wald finished it, and did a great job, but he admits that it did not turn out the way it had been planned--to give a broader perspective of the scene with other points of view. Still, I consider this book a must for anyone interested in the folk era of the early 60s. Rating: A-
5. Mr. Tambourine Man: The Life and Legacy of The Byrds' Gene Clark by John Einarson
I love this book. I think it is impeccably researched, very well-written in a conversational style with lots of information, first-hand quotes, and anecdotes. It is a great insight into Gene Clark and what I especially like is that the author, while obviously an admirer of Clark's, does not treat him gingerly or put him up on a pedestal, yet he addresses the hard issues (drugs, alchhol, demons) with integrity and empathy, neither evading them nor sensationalizing them. He could have easily humiliated Gene, but chose instead to honor him in a very honest, believable, compelling way. Rating: A
6. Edie: American Girl by Jean Stein with George Plimpton
This is an "oral biography" with many, many voices, none of which are similar. At first, I thought it was going to be a chaotic hodge-podge, but it is a totally compelling read. If you know nothing about Edie Sedgwick, this is a great place to start. I love it and just could not--and still can't--put it down. The format is deceptively simple; it took a lot of great editing to make such a cohesive read. You feel as if you're living it all with her, yet somehow, you're at a safe distance. Rating: A
7. Modigliani: A Life by Jeffrey Meyers
Like many artistic geniuses, Modi was tormented, addicted and, ultimately, tragic. But he had a vulnerability and a wildness that was very appealing--two generations before The Beats, he embodied everything The Beat Generation spoon-fed to the mainstream over the next two. This is worthy of a read if you have any interest in Modi; the artist's story is compelling enough to shine through the somewhat stodgy, pedantic prose. Rating: B-
Friday, September 19, 2008
A Sweet Memory of Eric
After my baby Rachel died in the late summer of 2002, I was mentally, if not physically, close to catatonic for months. Somehow, with my husband's help, I was able to carve out enough strength to maintain a sense of calm and normalcy for my son. But on the inside, I was slowly dying.
I really don't remember much about that year. I remember Eric Andersen calling me one day to ask if I would write a revised bio for him. I had not spoken to Eric for quite a while--since shortly after Rick died--and he had no idea what had happened. When I told him, he was extremely sweet and sympathetic and encouraged me to talk about her. He asked me her name, and said it was a beatiful name. That was so important to me--just the fact that someone asked her name; she wasn't just "the baby."
After a long talk, I ended up crying and Eric said there was a way to heal. "Write your way out of it," he said. And I never forgot his words. "When you get really sad, just write. Write and it will help you."
I thought it had been at least a year after Rachel's death that Eric had called me. But today I found this book on my shelf, as I was looking for some books to lend to a friend who is very interested in The Beats. I remembered that Eric had written a piece in this book, The Rolling Stone Book of The Beats, and I opened the book to search the table of contents. And I found Eric's sweet salutation--dated October, 2002. Eric is not the touchy-feely warm and fuzzy type, but he's sensitive. "Sweet" for Eric is not mushy; it's just kind. Had a friend not asked for these Beat books, I may not have seen this signature ever again.
Until I saw this book today, I'd totally forgotten that he'd sent it to me after we talked. He knew I loved the Beat poets, and he'd encouraged me to go back and read them. Eric and I always had that Beat connection--he's the only person I knew personally who really understood and was touched by their raw passion the same way I was.
He sent this to me and, since I wasn't ready at the time, I apparently just put it on the shelf. I'm so glad I found it--and I can't wait to finally read it.
I really don't remember much about that year. I remember Eric Andersen calling me one day to ask if I would write a revised bio for him. I had not spoken to Eric for quite a while--since shortly after Rick died--and he had no idea what had happened. When I told him, he was extremely sweet and sympathetic and encouraged me to talk about her. He asked me her name, and said it was a beatiful name. That was so important to me--just the fact that someone asked her name; she wasn't just "the baby."
After a long talk, I ended up crying and Eric said there was a way to heal. "Write your way out of it," he said. And I never forgot his words. "When you get really sad, just write. Write and it will help you."
I thought it had been at least a year after Rachel's death that Eric had called me. But today I found this book on my shelf, as I was looking for some books to lend to a friend who is very interested in The Beats. I remembered that Eric had written a piece in this book, The Rolling Stone Book of The Beats, and I opened the book to search the table of contents. And I found Eric's sweet salutation--dated October, 2002. Eric is not the touchy-feely warm and fuzzy type, but he's sensitive. "Sweet" for Eric is not mushy; it's just kind. Had a friend not asked for these Beat books, I may not have seen this signature ever again.
Until I saw this book today, I'd totally forgotten that he'd sent it to me after we talked. He knew I loved the Beat poets, and he'd encouraged me to go back and read them. Eric and I always had that Beat connection--he's the only person I knew personally who really understood and was touched by their raw passion the same way I was.
He sent this to me and, since I wasn't ready at the time, I apparently just put it on the shelf. I'm so glad I found it--and I can't wait to finally read it.
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