My dad gave me a copy of "The Rape of the Masters", by Roger Kimball which I am trying to read on the train in the evenings. This is a great read and you should run to the store and grab a copy.

A little background first. I am by vocation a lawyer and by avocation a frustrated architectural historian. I am removed from the formal study of art history by about 15 years now. Having read Kimball's book, I'm happy I did not make art history my vocation.

Kimball's point is that art historians have stopped looking at art, stopped doing research in primary sources (like, say, journals written by artists) in favor instead of projecting their own views of politics, gender, racism, bias, and every other popular ideological movement from the last 30 years onto the painting. They stop looking at the art as art and start to call it a text, which they can thus read and search for hidden meanings "written" into the text. It is at once both absurd and disturbing. The effect is to destroy the art and to deny its important cultural weight, to remove from the art of Van Gogh its special character as something important in Western thought, to thus attack Western thought and culture as itself unimportant and, indeed, oppressive. The art becomes a tool in the hands of those who wish to deny the Western heritage and to disclaim it.

You should read this book. The art historians, secure in some of the most prominent sinecures of academia, are consumed by their own interest in seeing vaginsa (spelling intentional to avoid odd searches), some with teeth, castration concerns, fears of anla raep (sp., again), etc. It is remarkable. Kimball illustrates his point by picking ten paintings, including color plates of them, and then fisking the academics who write about these works and the artists who painted them.

The thing is, I happen to agree that art is political, to a certain extent. Not every work of art is a political message but I do believe that artists reflect and are part of their society, that they reflect to some degree the social mores of the time (whether reacting against or in agreement) and that you can understand art through its social context. What you can't do, however, is reach back with your own concerns and forcibly impose them on the art (which ain't a text) in order to distort the image to meet your own needs. That's uncool. And sloppy, no matter how many foot notes you include.

But the thinking and the material Kimball pokes fun at are seductive. It's fun to try to do this, as an intellectual exercise. While riding the train this morning, I tried to engage in this exercise. I envisioned Munch's painting, The Scream, and tried to write about it as if I were a modern art historian. The Scream is about a lot of things. I doubt strongly that it is about any of the things I subscribe to it below in the EXTENDED ENTRY (click away, if you dare). more...

Posted by: Random Penseur at 09:00 AM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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1 That was very impressive, RP! I like how your "random" thoughts were so leading, and how the pseudo-analysis was cloaked in suggestion and insinuation. Bravo! Now please undo it so nobody takes it seriously!

Posted by: GrammarQueen at August 31, 2004 09:08 AM (gDEwS)

2 Hey, you're not so far off! I Googled munch scream patriarchy and here's one of the hits, a paper for Assistant Professor of English Alice den Otter's class in critical theory at Lakehead University in Ontario, on Lacan and the pondering of yellow wallpaper...that's right, yellow wallpaper: Indeed, the disaffection undergone by our narrator is akin to the alienation felt by the subject of post-industrial capital. She describes the form of the yellow wallpaper in terms of reminiscent of the chaos of modern society: It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough constantly to irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide- plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard- of contradictions. (61 The patriarchal symbolic eternally and ubiquitously renders her aggravated and fragmented. Its "isolated columns of fatuity" (621), rob her of any agency, and leave her to "exhaust" herself "trying to distinguish the order" (621). Further, this "interminably grotesque" (622) formation calls to mind Edward Munch's painting "The Scream" in ways it echoes the vicissitudes of modern life… There is a lack of sequence, a defiance of law, that is a constant irritant to a normal mind. The colour is hideous enough, and unreliable enough, and infuriating enough, but the pattern is torturing. You think you have mastered it, but just as you get well under was in following it, it turns a back-somersault and there you are. It slaps you in the face, knocks you down, and tramples upon you. It is like a bad dream. (623) In these various ways the androcentrism of the patriarchal symbolic rob Gilman's protagonist of her autonomy and afflict her subjecthood. However, utmost in Gilman's agenda is exposing the ways in which phallogocentrism posits scripted gender roles which further destroy the independence of our narrator, and, by implication, of all women. And here's some literary theory from honorary research fellow Chris Pawling at Sheffield Hallam U in the UK: One way of responding to such narratives is to locate them within the context of a "postmodern" culture in which, to quote Fredric Jameson, the characteristic feature is a "waning of affect" (10). Jameson develops this point by comparing the aesthetic "depthlessness" of postmodernist art with that of a "high modernist" icon, such as Edvard Munch's painting "The Scream." In Munch's emblem of the "age of anxiety," "the thematics of alienation, anomie, solitude, social fragmentation and isolation" are rendered formally through an "aesthetic of expression" which has disappeared from postmodernism. Munch's painting "presupposes ... some separation within the subject ... of the wordless pain within the monad and the moment in which, often cathartically, that "emotion" is then projected out and externalised, as gesture or cry, as desperate communication and the outward dramatization of feeling" (Jameson 11-12). By contrast, in postmodernist art this "aesthetic of expression" seems to have "vanished away" and we are faced with "a new kind of flatness or depthlessness, a new kind of superficiality in the most literal sense" (Jameson 9). There's more. Rather parodies itself, doesn't it? You may have the makings of a new parlor game – just do a search on Munch and, say, phallogocentrism or monad, and see what surfaces!

Posted by: Mark C N Sullivan at August 31, 2004 10:11 AM (q9XsZ)

3 I don't much care for yellow wall paper myself, come to think of it. It oppresses me. Truly, I'm kind of frightened to hear that I was so close. Maybe I should listen to GQ and pull the whole thing down.

Posted by: RP at August 31, 2004 10:58 AM (LlPKh)

4 Fascinating! Indeed, you have the makings of a fine art critic!

Posted by: Mick at August 31, 2004 01:47 PM (VhRca)

5 jaw drops I cannot believe I dropped into your comments to cite the drearily analyzed-to-death "The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Gilman only to find Mark beat me to it. I loved reading "The Yellow Wallpaper", but then, I read it on my own, because I chose to do so, not because it was an assignment. And not because I had to search for the reasoning behind the story. A friend of mine had to read it in school, however, and was forced to dissect it to death for days, both on paper and in class discussion. She hates the damn thing now. Too bad, I like the story, very much. Well done story of a woman slowly going insane. Creepy as hell. Good post, Random!

Posted by: Amber at August 31, 2004 02:45 PM (zQE5D)

6 I laughed my pants off when I saw "teleological" and "pseudo-sexual". Well done! This reminds me of things I read while in grad school. Ever thought of reentering the academic field as a ghost writer?

Posted by: Mandalei at August 31, 2004 04:10 PM (PibH1)

7 Ok, Mandalei, that would be fun, but where's the money going to come from? Those guys are not exactly flush with cash for the most part, are they? Thanks, Amber and Mick, I'm glad you enjoyed it. It was scary how easily it came out.

Posted by: rp at September 01, 2004 01:23 PM (LlPKh)

8 I've profited very much by reading this short essay (and the Jameson-based comments!) and think you should continue it (if you have time/desire). I would just like to add one short comment, though, on something which I think is often forgotten. The fact is that (and you undoubtedly already know this, but as I say, one forgets) everyone starts out as a woman. Just the other day I was reminded of this in an article in the online version of the L.A. Times, where Susan Brink noted how "The first surge of testosterone happens in the uterus, a few weeks into development, causing an embryo with the XY combination of chromosomes to develop male sex organs." What would seem to be the case, then, or an interesting part of the case, is that, as Shelley thought, we are all artists, which is to say creators of many things, from multinationals to oil paintings. Well, actually, from paintings to multinationals is probably what I mean. Thanks for the analyses on Munch!

Posted by: Bill at October 30, 2005 09:04 AM (1U1pt)

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There is a spot, in Washington Heights, where you can pull your car over and get a great picture of the George Washington Bridge. I tender it here for your pleasure.

Posted by: Random Penseur at 08:29 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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1 You take beautiful photos RP, a talent I lack completely. I love how the break in the clouds is poisition right over the support beams. That is so cool.

Posted by: Rachel Ann at August 19, 2004 08:36 AM (8T53U)

2 Thanks, Rachel, but I cannot take responsibility for the placement of the clouds.

Posted by: RP at August 19, 2004 08:46 AM (LlPKh)

3 Thank you for this picture. Ahhh yes. Memories. As a Hick from the Sticks, I visited New York in 2000 for a wedding of a friend. Driving over the George Washington Bridge at 2:00 a.m. I was shocked at the amount of traffic. Bumper-to-bumper at 2:00 a.m.! This truly IS the city that never sleeps! Being dumped off the bridge for construction. "Look! Urban blight!" "Ohmigod. A real, live, breathing NY Hooker!" Blasting Billy Joel's "New York State of Mind" from the rental car's admittedly lousy speakers. I walked into an all-night deli and requested that a group of (very sporting) young men tell me to "F*** OFF!" (Yes, I have no shame.) (They delighted in my soft, southern accent -- that I didn't know I had.) Consuming the BEST DAMNED BAGEL IN THE WORLD. WA state may have the best coffee in the world, but I've never had a bagel that good. As I said, thanks for the memories.

Posted by: Emma at August 19, 2004 03:51 PM (NOZuy)

4 yes...memories... i can hardly wait to see it again... soon - the second week in september i am smiling right now - thanks

Posted by: kbear at August 20, 2004 08:03 AM (IAJcf)

5 Emma, thanks for that wonderful comment. Brought a big smile to my face! Come on home, K!

Posted by: RP at August 20, 2004 05:30 PM (LlPKh)

6 I love the George Washington bridge, when I think of it I remeber freedom and respect. It's just a perfect view of life in newyork.This bridge represents alot!Thanks for reminding me of this wonderful cite RP. Makes me feel great to know somebody still cares!Great picture status I can tell.

Posted by: Shaquanna at February 25, 2005 05:43 PM (WLUGe)

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[Warning: The following was composed primarily between the hours of 2 and 2:30 this morning and I have decided to publish it before I have any coffee.]

No, debasement is tradtionally something you do to currency. In Roman times, if I recall my Roman Law class from law school correctly, to debase currency meant melting a pure metal coin down, adding lead to the melted bit and reminting it in order to make more coins. Lead was a base metal. It had the effect of devaluing the entire currency and causing people to lose confidence in the monetary system. Under Roman Law, I seem to recall it was punishable by death.

Debasement is also something that the clever alchemists at Reuters and the A.P. and other "news agencies" (dig the scare quotes) are doing to the English language. How so? Let's take some examples, one at a time.

Instead of saying terrorist, we hear: rebel; militant; militia; or, my personal favorite, activist.

Terrorist means or meant (all definitions adapted from Dictionary.com): a radical who employs terror as a political weapon; usually organizes with other terrorists in small cells; often uses religion as a cover for terrorist activities.

Rebel means or meant: To refuse allegiance to and oppose by force an established government or ruling authority. To resist or defy an authority or a generally accepted convention.

Militant means or meant: A fighting, warring, or aggressive person or party.
[Middle English, from Old French, from Latin mlitns, mlitant- present participle of mlitre, to serve as a soldier. See militate.]

Militia means or meant:An army composed of ordinary citizens rather than professional soldiers. A military force that is not part of a regular army and is subject to call for service in an emergency. The whole body of physically fit civilians eligible by law for military service.

Activist means or meant: advocating or engaged in activism, n : a militant reformer.

These words, all perfectly good words with their own distinct meanings, are being debased, being melted down in a large Reuters kettle and, weighted down with lead, being reminted and contorted into the shape of the word terrorist. Soon, if not already, they will be read to be mere synonyms of the word, terrorist. And then our language will be rendered poorer and the readers will, if they have not already, begin to lose confidence in the whole system of reporting "news" (sorry about the scare quotes again, I can't help it). Why? Well, if activist is a word you might normally associate with someone trying to unionize apple pickers and then you start seeing it turn up in connection with a fellow who's activities include, say, firing an AK-47 at a school bus full of children, your view of that activity is warped by your perception of what an activist really does, or did before Reuters got ahold of the word. See it enough times and your brain, which is more sensible, will start to substitute the word terrorist for activist or, maybe, you will start to lose the meaning of the word activist which you had fixed in your brain. Everything just sort of melts down. And eventually, you distrust the messenger just as much as the message and you are not sure what anything means any more in any context.

I won't advocate a death sentence for these terribly earnest editors who, in their haste to avoid making some kind of value judgment about the activities of our hypothetical "activist", as the Romans might have, but I am open to suggestions for an appropriate punishment for those who continue to debase and contort this beautiful language and deprive it of all absolute meaning until everything is relative and not one word means anything until they tell you what they want it to mean.

One final thought, maybe we should just call the terrorists, freedom fighters, since by and large, they are fighting freedom all over the globe.

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1 these are not the things i think about at 2 am i find it very interesting however, that you do.

Posted by: kbear at August 17, 2004 08:42 AM (IAJcf)

2 I wholeheartedly agree with you, RP. I share your linguistic as well as journalistic/political concerns. On the linguistic front, I have had similar thoughts regarding, for instance, substituting host for hostess (the whole gender-neutral thing is depriving us of an entire category of words!) and impact (as a verb) for affect. Really, I could rant ad nauseum on this topic! Thanks for sharing.

Posted by: GrammarQueen at August 17, 2004 08:49 AM (gDEwS)

3 You're doted with an uncanny power of analysis at two o'clock in the morning. I have a hard time thinking of anything other than the mortgage and car payments, while I toss and turn. Perhaps, in lieu of the death penalty (and as if it were actually up to us!), we could strip the culprits of their press credentials and give them a sound hand-slapping on network TV. That should keep them in line! ;-)

Posted by: Mick at August 17, 2004 09:08 AM (zY+L9)

4 Yup. I find myself writing blogs in my head at 2 am, if I am up. I'm not sure if that makes us dedicated, or very sad

Posted by: Helen at August 17, 2004 10:00 AM (mjc0R)

5 It's very sad. You should wait until 4:00 AM like me. ;-)

Posted by: Jim at August 17, 2004 01:48 PM (IOwam)

6 Well, Helen, Jim, that may explain why we get along so well. GrammarQueen, feel free to spill it out. I'd be curious to read your thoughts on that topic. Kbear and Mick, I just couldn't help myself. I lay there in bed and this post just sort of wrote itself while I couldn't sleep. I think I need a new pillow.

Posted by: RP at August 17, 2004 05:21 PM (LlPKh)

7 What was once called a lie is now called spin.

Posted by: stolypin at August 17, 2004 11:20 PM (RxOy+)

8 Ivan, you should also add the use of the words elections and democracy as applied to places like North Korea.

Posted by: RP at August 18, 2004 08:53 AM (LlPKh)

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AJ Liebling is probably most widely known for his oft-repeated quotation that: ""Freedom of the press is guaranteed only to those who own one". In that regard, we might even consider him the spiritual father of blogs everywhere. If you disagree, just look at all the guest bloggers at the recent Democratic Party Convention where the blogger was elevated to the status of journalist and publisher in one fell swoop. But, that's not why I want to write about him. I want to call him to people's attention because he was a fantastic writer.

This is from a biographical sketch I found on him on the net which also has a nice list of the books he published:

After early schooling in New York City, Liebling wrote in The Wayward Pressman that "I went up to Dartmouth in the fall of 1920, lacking a month of being sixteen". Liebling did not finish his schooling at Dartmouth, claiming they threw him out for missing compulsory chapel attendance. He then enrolled in the Pulitzer School of Journalism at Columbia University and after finishing there, took the job at the Evening Bulletin. After his stint in Providence, Liebling went on to report and write for New Yorker magazine. While employed by New Yorker he served as a war correspondent; filing many stories from Africa, England and Europe. Following the war he returned to regular magazine fare and for many years after he wrote a New Yorker monthly feature called "Wayward Press". Liebling was an avid fan of boxing, horse racing and eating, frequently writing about each. In 1947 Doubleday and Company published Liebling's The Wayward Pressman, a highly quotable collection of his writings from New Yorker and other publications. Liebling's father was employed in New York City's fur district and his mother grew up in San Francisco. Liebling was married to Jean Stafford, a poet.

I am a big fan of Mr. Liebling and am re-reading his wonderful book, Between Meals, describing his time in Paris in 1926-27 when, as a 22 year old, his father gave him the gift of a year of study in the City of Light. The title refers to the fact that Paris, for him, became one long study in eating and drinking and this book is about that and what he did in the time between his meals. It includes time spent boxing and time spent rowing. It is a marvelous memoir.

How could you not love someone who writes like this about Vodka:

The standard of perfection for vodka (no color, no taste, no smell) was expounded to me long ago by the then Estonian consul-general in New York, and it account perfectly for the drink's rising popularity with those who like their alcohol in conjunction with the reassuring tastes if infancy -- tomato juice, orange juice, chicken broth. It is the ideal intoxicant for the drinker who wants no reminder of how hurt Mother would be if she know what he was doing.

Click below on extended entry for the rest (I put this in bold for my wife, who has problems with the extended entry function and I figure if she does, someone else might).

more...

Posted by: Random Penseur at 10:25 AM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
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I managed, all by myself, to get my mom home from the hospital on Wednesday and to get her comfortably installed back in her own house. She was happy to be back, although, within 5 minutes of sitting down, the phone rang with the news that one of her dearest friends had died that day. She looked quite diminished by the call when she hung up. As I was leaving, she asked me to have my daughter call her when she got up from her nap. I told her I would.

After the girl child's nap, I gave her the phone and ran out to pick my wife up from work (I had her car for the day). The rest of the story is as told to me by my mother.

The Girl Child and her grandmother had a very pleasant chat until GC told her grandmother that she had to go to the bathroom and her grandmother said that she'd call back later. Well, the GC insisted that she could take the phone with her and my mother just sort of tagged along. Until the GC tried to drown my mother by dropping the phone into the toilet bowl.

When my mother called her back, the GC told her:

"Nanna, I am so embarrassed! That has never happened to me before in my whole life!"

The GC told us about the incident when I returned home with the wife and she concluded her narrative with the words, said very solemnly: "It was a very silly thing to do."

Posted by: Random Penseur at 09:44 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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1 I love "whole life" comments from the young, they crack me up everytime.

Posted by: Rachel Ann at August 13, 2004 09:54 AM (+fHyg)

2 That's cute. I like your mother's comment at the end. That's priceless!

Posted by: Mick at August 13, 2004 02:58 PM (zY+L9)

3 At least something funny happened to you after your disasterous week!

Posted by: Hannah at August 14, 2004 09:10 AM (MMJNM)

4 What a wonderful vignette. How sweet AND silly. Bear, too, is learning embarassment and exclamations. Did we skip over the part where you had to fish a phone out of the toilet, clean it, see if it was still working, console GC, and find the funny in the whole thing?

Posted by: Elizabeth at August 16, 2004 04:42 PM (s0bfE)

5 Ah, no. We fished it out, determined that the handheld thing is fried, threw it out, and reached into the bank account and bought a new phone.

Posted by: RP at August 16, 2004 04:55 PM (LlPKh)

6 Oh, didn't need to console GC because we weren't upset or angry. She promised not to do it again and that was that. Also, it was a mighty old phone.

Posted by: RP at August 16, 2004 04:58 PM (LlPKh)

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That's all it costs, I found out today. That's what they charge you to take your friend away. I said that I was going to get my mother from the hospital but there was another problem today as well. And in fact, I will not be able to take my mother home from the hospital until tomorrow. But that's ok, I had other things to do today. See, when I left the office today, I was also going to deal with a medical emergency at my parents' house -- the dog was sick, too.

Well, the dog was more than sick. By the time I got there, she was dead. I find myself curiously reluctant to use the word dead. When I called the vet I told him that the dog had expired and later, when I called someone else, I used the expression, given up the ghost. I kept hesitating over the word, dead, like a mental stutter. But that's what she is all right. There was no question when I walked in that she was gone, that she had departed her body. She was lying on the floor and so terribly and utterly and unchangeably still.

I called the animal hospital and they gave me the name of the pet cemetery to call them to arrange a pick up. I was not going to try to take this dog to my car and drive her there all by myself, she weighed over 80 pounds in life and frankly I was just too sad to do it.

They came to take her and dispose of her for $209.28, including tax. I keep coming back to that number. I guess it provides a prism through which I can focus on the act of dying itself, on the sudden lack of the dog in our lives. I don't think it will make a good point to tell the girl child, but she has to be told something and I am leaning towards honesty here, to tell her that her friend is dead, too. She loved this dog and could say her name before she could say my father's name. Any suggestions about what to tell her?

I loved this dog. My parents got her from a rescue group. She had been abused but she found love in their house. And she died with someone who loved her sitting next to her and stroking her. Really, that doesn't sound too bad, does it? I think that this is what we all might want at the end if we are given the choice. This woman who was with her told me that the dog knew that she was dying and she kept looking out at the driveway because she was waiting for my parents to come home to be with her. But then she couldn't wait any longer and she sighed and went still.

$209.28 seems like not very much money to measure the worth to you of your friend when they're gone.

When the man arrived from the service, he put the dog into two plastic bags. Rigor had set in very quickly. I had to leave the room when it came time to put her head in the bag. I am finding it hard to write about it now, in fact. She was too heavy for one person to take. I helped carry her out to the truck and I lifted her very gently and the nice man was gentle, too. And then she was gone. A sweet and gentle animal, most of the time.

$209.28 is not much when your heart breaks a little as the plastic bag is closed and the door to the truck thunks shut and your friend is gone. It's amazing what a credit card will buy.

I'm going to go play with my children now. Writing about this did not, in fact, make me feel any better, as I had hoped it would. Instead, I feel the pressure of unshed tears.

Posted by: Random Penseur at 06:11 PM | Comments (11) | Add Comment
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Our newest “look behind the curtain” subject is Le Marquis de Mores, a Frenchman who came to America, married well, moved West in the late 1800's and broke his teeth trying to compete with the meat packers by introducing ranching and meat packing at the source, challenged (maybe) Theodore Roosevelt to a duel, and moved back to France. I will show you how we go from cattle ranching in the Badlands to the Dreyfus Affair in France. After all, that's why I initially found him interesting.

I also found this guy to be fascinating because, after doing a little research, it appears that his story has been sanitized in English sources, including on US Government websites. This is an example of historical revisionism at work where the unsavory bits of this guyÂ’s story have been swept under the rug so as not to scare the children or the animals. Seriously, this fellow may look normal enough for those times on the surface, but when you probe a little deeper, you find a real whack job, lacking only the certification from the professionals to be official and to compete for a world ranking. I elucidate below. more...

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Last night I got home from work and I was cranky and overheated. Cranky because work was less than fulfilling yesterday and overheated because dear, OLD, Metro North had no air conditioning on its train cars last night, at least on my train.

I walked in and was greeted by my daughter gleefully telling me: "I was a pill today, an absolute pill." That set her tone for the remainder of the evening. My wife gave the baths but, due to poor listening skills by my daughter, had to tag out. We do that, the two of us. When it gets to the point where you feel like you are going to lose your patience, you can call out to the other parent, "I'm tagging out" or "you need to tag in" and, like in wrestling, the other parent steps into the ring. It has kept us from losing our minds, this little game. The problem will be when the kids figure it out and start to game us on purpose. But, that's another day, I hope.

After the baths was story time. Story time is a critical time of the day for my daughter. We lead up to it with negotiations concerning the number of stories, the mix of stories (if shorter ones are chosen, can we read more of them), and the selection themselves (because I insist on new ones from time to time). Usually, the boy child could not care less about story time. He has shown no interest in sitting on my lap while I read and when I try, he loudly demands to be set free. Last night was different, though.

The girl child selected three books: "There's a Wocket in my Pocket"; Cecil's Garden" and "Kiss Good Night". I pulled the boy child up since he was within reach and we began with the wocket book. He lasted all of two pages before wanting to get down. So I let him down and continued reading to the girl while keeping watch on the boy with my peripheral vision. He picked up the stethoscope from the girl child's doctor kit, put it around his neck and then, seemingly content, came back and held his arms out to be picked up again. Whereupon he rejoined us for the remainder of the wocket book and seemed to pay close attention to the last two books as well. He didn't reach for them or try to turn or crumple the pages, he just sat there happily as I read with, I must admit, greater animation than usual. I gave a different voice to each character and tried every oratorical flourish I could think of to keep his interest and get him hooked on the experience.

After we finished the three books, I began to rock in the glider chair and he slipped down a little in my lap to lay his little head in the crook of my arm. He was obviously very tired. I told the girl child that her brother was tired and she leaned forward a bit to take a look and then promptly lay down herself across my lap and put her head on his little chest and shoulder.

And we rocked in total peace and tranquility and I didn't want that moment to end for anything. I'd rather be home with them now, honestly, even if the girl child is being a pill.

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