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Monday, August 27, 2012
Font Resize
Friday, August 17, 2012
Margotlog: Rembrandt at the MIA
Margotlog: Rembrandt at the MIA
The advance publicity does not do this exhibit justice: it is a major exhibit of Rembrandt's works from American collections, not just a comparison of a few "authentic" masterworks with many that have come under suspicion.
We saw almost from the first moment that we would learn to tell the difference between Rembrandt's exquisitely deep portrayal of character and the "flatter," more decorative works of students or colleagues. Even the quasi-historical portraits which are really contemporaries done-up in historical dress show Rembrandt's tendency to go to the heart of personality and character. Yet some of the works "under suspicion" are luminous and charming, such as the red-haired young woman in antique, brocade-and-pearl-topped cloak.She seems on fire with youth and promise, from her brilliant, wispy hair, on down.
By the time he was 30, Rembrandt was making very good money in this bourgeois, Protestant society where individual effort and talent, rather than inherited title and wealth elevated one above the mob. By then he had moved to Amsterdam from Leiden, married Saskia whose family had wealth, and was painting portraits of wealthy burghers and their wives. We muse on the difference between 17th century Dutch society and that in Italy where many artists flourished because Catholic churches commissioned monumental works. Not so with Protestant churches. We note that the Christs in many Italian works are beautifully proportioned, with soulful, regular features. Not so many of Rembrandt's burghers and their wives. They wanted a "likeness." These Rembrandt could provide. I find them often rather stiff and boring, but they helped make the artist wealthy.
More compelling is his huge portrayal of Saskia as Minerva, wearing the helmet and shield associated with Athena, the Greek counterpart to the Roman Minerva. She is not beautiful; in fact, her jowly, heavy-lidded face is strongly at variance with her lavish accoutrements and Rembrandt's sumptuous painting. It's a very strange work. And I may not have the proper attitude to rightly interpret it. Let's just say, realism trumps the idealized notion of goddess, or else her beauty is all in the eyes of the painter. Or our standards of female beauty have changed. This we debate afterwards, comparing Penelope Cruz whom we just saw in Woody Allen's "To Rome, with Love," with say, Marilyn Monroe--Marilyn being far more rounded and buxom even than the beautiful (to our eyes) Penelope. (Side note: Woody himself has a major role in this film, and he's way way way past whatever prime he had as a cinematic object. Ruemy-eyed and faltering--it's self-indulgence to the max.)
The exhibit also subtly chronicles Rembrandt's decline in status and wealth, even as his artistic power reaches its zenith. When Saskia dies, leaving him the proceeds of her estate as long as he does not remarry, Rembrandt takes up with first one, then a second mistress, both who work in the household. Years of poor management and mounting debt, plus one suspects a kind of depression, bring him to the edge of financial ruin. Plus, his second and must younger mistress Hendrickje is brought before the church court who charges her with being Rembrandt's "whore" and excommunicating her. (Such a thing would not have happened in the more accepting culture of Catholic Italy, I suspect, where most men from the popes on down indulged in extra-marital affairs. I mention this simply to emphasize another important difference in the ways religion affected artists in Protestant Amsterdam and Catholic Venice, let's say.)
It's in the last room of the exhibit, with the MIA's truly extraordinary "Lucretia," and off to the side, one of Rembrandt's greatest self-portraits in a flat, turban-like hat, that Rembrandt's genius deepens so as to beggar all previous works. His brush-work becomes looser and rougher, heightening the sense of immediacy. This is particularly vivid in "Lucretia," where the tear in the corner of her eye glistens almost as if the paint were still wet, and her blood-soaked chemise is so transparent, it seems to stick to her body. Did he paint this in one sitting, as suggests the Institute's commentary? If so, it must have been a day of agonizing empathy.
The self-portrait flatters only in its intense gaze--the eye more to the light being the "social," observing eye; the one more in shadow, more inward, sadly self-aware. Yet the head is proud, the lips firm, the nose bulbous and warty as in life. I hope to be so aware, and self-confident even in self-recognition amid decline. It is an unforgettable image.
We exit to the etchings, all from the MIA's extraordinary collection of works on paper. Here Rembrandt had far more freedom with subject matter. Here his bravura drawing, the intensity of his observation of character, and his flare for designing large groups for stunning effect make me wish he'd done more large works on canvas.There's "The Night Watch" in Amsterdam. I have to see it again--soon. I don't want to wait too long. Delta Airlines will be happy!
The advance publicity does not do this exhibit justice: it is a major exhibit of Rembrandt's works from American collections, not just a comparison of a few "authentic" masterworks with many that have come under suspicion.
We saw almost from the first moment that we would learn to tell the difference between Rembrandt's exquisitely deep portrayal of character and the "flatter," more decorative works of students or colleagues. Even the quasi-historical portraits which are really contemporaries done-up in historical dress show Rembrandt's tendency to go to the heart of personality and character. Yet some of the works "under suspicion" are luminous and charming, such as the red-haired young woman in antique, brocade-and-pearl-topped cloak.She seems on fire with youth and promise, from her brilliant, wispy hair, on down.
By the time he was 30, Rembrandt was making very good money in this bourgeois, Protestant society where individual effort and talent, rather than inherited title and wealth elevated one above the mob. By then he had moved to Amsterdam from Leiden, married Saskia whose family had wealth, and was painting portraits of wealthy burghers and their wives. We muse on the difference between 17th century Dutch society and that in Italy where many artists flourished because Catholic churches commissioned monumental works. Not so with Protestant churches. We note that the Christs in many Italian works are beautifully proportioned, with soulful, regular features. Not so many of Rembrandt's burghers and their wives. They wanted a "likeness." These Rembrandt could provide. I find them often rather stiff and boring, but they helped make the artist wealthy.
More compelling is his huge portrayal of Saskia as Minerva, wearing the helmet and shield associated with Athena, the Greek counterpart to the Roman Minerva. She is not beautiful; in fact, her jowly, heavy-lidded face is strongly at variance with her lavish accoutrements and Rembrandt's sumptuous painting. It's a very strange work. And I may not have the proper attitude to rightly interpret it. Let's just say, realism trumps the idealized notion of goddess, or else her beauty is all in the eyes of the painter. Or our standards of female beauty have changed. This we debate afterwards, comparing Penelope Cruz whom we just saw in Woody Allen's "To Rome, with Love," with say, Marilyn Monroe--Marilyn being far more rounded and buxom even than the beautiful (to our eyes) Penelope. (Side note: Woody himself has a major role in this film, and he's way way way past whatever prime he had as a cinematic object. Ruemy-eyed and faltering--it's self-indulgence to the max.)
The exhibit also subtly chronicles Rembrandt's decline in status and wealth, even as his artistic power reaches its zenith. When Saskia dies, leaving him the proceeds of her estate as long as he does not remarry, Rembrandt takes up with first one, then a second mistress, both who work in the household. Years of poor management and mounting debt, plus one suspects a kind of depression, bring him to the edge of financial ruin. Plus, his second and must younger mistress Hendrickje is brought before the church court who charges her with being Rembrandt's "whore" and excommunicating her. (Such a thing would not have happened in the more accepting culture of Catholic Italy, I suspect, where most men from the popes on down indulged in extra-marital affairs. I mention this simply to emphasize another important difference in the ways religion affected artists in Protestant Amsterdam and Catholic Venice, let's say.)
It's in the last room of the exhibit, with the MIA's truly extraordinary "Lucretia," and off to the side, one of Rembrandt's greatest self-portraits in a flat, turban-like hat, that Rembrandt's genius deepens so as to beggar all previous works. His brush-work becomes looser and rougher, heightening the sense of immediacy. This is particularly vivid in "Lucretia," where the tear in the corner of her eye glistens almost as if the paint were still wet, and her blood-soaked chemise is so transparent, it seems to stick to her body. Did he paint this in one sitting, as suggests the Institute's commentary? If so, it must have been a day of agonizing empathy.
The self-portrait flatters only in its intense gaze--the eye more to the light being the "social," observing eye; the one more in shadow, more inward, sadly self-aware. Yet the head is proud, the lips firm, the nose bulbous and warty as in life. I hope to be so aware, and self-confident even in self-recognition amid decline. It is an unforgettable image.
We exit to the etchings, all from the MIA's extraordinary collection of works on paper. Here Rembrandt had far more freedom with subject matter. Here his bravura drawing, the intensity of his observation of character, and his flare for designing large groups for stunning effect make me wish he'd done more large works on canvas.There's "The Night Watch" in Amsterdam. I have to see it again--soon. I don't want to wait too long. Delta Airlines will be happy!
Monday, August 13, 2012
Margotlog: Delta Wedding
Margotlog: Delta Wedding
Among the top ten novels I listen to on disc over and over, Eudora Welty's Delta Wedding gives me the most sustained pleasure. I admire Welty's long short stories and much shorter novel, "The Optimist's Daughter," which won the Pulitzer Prize. But for repeated pleasure, for sweep and quirky charm, for scene painting and character portraits, for deep immersion in a lost way of life, this American novel compares with Tolstoy.
The Yazoo Delta is north of the Gulf of Mexico, north of Faulkner country, Jackson, Mississippi, and east of Ole Man River. The Scotch descendants who people Shell Mound plantation, with its attendant others, The Grove, and Marmion, are a clan in the truest sense of the word. Nearly every reference in their huge and lively world is contained within their Fairchild clan. At its head are three brothers, two of whom--Denis and George--fought in the "War" (World War One). It is 1923.
The wedding of the title involves Dabney Fairchild, second oldest daughter of this intensely blond, straight-haired, wildly happy and free-spirited clan. Into this world comes an outsider cousin, Laura McRaven, whose mother has just died in Jackson. Her mother was one of the Fairchild sisters--including Tempie, Primrose, Jim Allen--sisters to the luminous brothers Denis who died, George who returned, and Battle who never left because (I assume) he is the head of this huge clan of wife and children, Negroes and cotton fields, overseer and village grocers.
The emotional center of the novel is a female trio: Ellen, the Virginia mother of the clan, Dabney the bride, and "little Laura McRaven," who is 9. We enter the delta on the "Yellow Dog" train, riding "up" from Jackson with Laura. Right away, precise details draw us in: Mr. Doolittle, the conductor, comes through the car and snatches the tickets he's stuck in people's hat brims. Right away we're tossed into a clan so numerous we ride high in a wonderfully springy blanket of names and antics. Children poke straws down "dooddle bug holes." Roxy, the main servant, throws her apron over her head and rushes in, crying "Bird in de house, bird in de house." Ellen gathers up Bluette, her 3 year old, and croons her a dream to put her down for a nap. The dream is of "Momma's little pin she lost." Ellen, so mild, so busy, dreams mistakes in the account books, the exact place where she's lost this little garnet pin, a present from her husband Battle during their courting days.
To fuel the story, there have to be outsiders and outlaws in the simplest sense: beyond the law of the clan. Some are "teeched" like Cousin Maureen who adds an "l" to every word and has wild outbursts of destruction. Some are outside the Fairchild bounty and extravagance--such as Robie Reeves, once a clerk at Fairchild town grocery, now miraculously married to golden-boy George. (Welty's scene of Robie swimming in her bra and panties, cavorting in golden spray with George, is one of the most beautifully handled evocations of sexual play I've ever read.) Then there's Laura herself--though by birth part of the clan, yet the place where she'll return, i.e. the Jackson of her small family, with only herself and her father, has a seriousness which hovers outside the glow of Shell Mound. Laura, I have to believe, is a stand-in for Welty herself, because she has some of the more intense, self-aware moments in the book, and grows up in Jackson.
The most important outsider, for the plot of the novel, is Troy Flavin, the young overseer who's from the mountains. He's to marry Dabney, and for quite a while, we wonder what she sees in him, except that he's a lone figure on a tall horse, riding the cotton fields. Then, just before the wedding rehearsal, Troy deals with violence among the Negro workers, and we appreciate his nerve and strength. He also loves his little mammy who sends the wedding couple some of her beautiful quilts. How can a little woman "no higher than a grasshopper," he wonders, have sewn those thousands of stitches to make "Snow on the Mountain," and "Hearts and Gizzards." If I'm not smiling through a lot of this book, I'm laughing outright. The love and charm in the writing are infectious.
The only thing that subdues my admiration is Welty's treatment of the Negroes. Set in 1923 and written in 1946, the novel treats race relations gently--there's one scene of violence, and many affectionate portraits of the house servants. Clearly they hold the esteem of the white clan. A few are outsiders, just like some of the whites. Pinchy is "coming through." I have no idea what this means except that Pinchy wanders in the heat, staring blindly ahead of her, unable to work, or talk. Then there's the old nurse Partheenie (I'm guessing on the spelling of these names since I've only heard the book, not read it on the page.) Partheenie brought up first-born Shelly, and now in her regal purple, taller than most others of either race, she carries a dignity that speaks to an ancient clan somewhere else across wide water.
Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, written in 1928, portrays house servants with greater depth and self-awareness. The final section of this novel, devoted to the Negro matriarch Dilsey, is one of the finest portraits ever written of one who superficially has no power, yet through unstinting effort, faith and love keeps her white and black family together. Faulkner grasped a truth about the South which Welty does not entertain which is that the culture rides on the backs of both races and each is noble and fallible and often self-destructive. But Welty is writing pastoral comedy; Faulkner, tragedy. I've recently listened to The Sound and the Fury, and though I marvel at the invention and four sustained voices of its structure, yet I find myself sometimes bored by each section's narrow focus, except for the last, which is Dilsey's. There is no such narrow intensity about Delta Wedding. Its ability to charm, to stretch our thoughts to the stars, remains undiminished.
Among the top ten novels I listen to on disc over and over, Eudora Welty's Delta Wedding gives me the most sustained pleasure. I admire Welty's long short stories and much shorter novel, "The Optimist's Daughter," which won the Pulitzer Prize. But for repeated pleasure, for sweep and quirky charm, for scene painting and character portraits, for deep immersion in a lost way of life, this American novel compares with Tolstoy.
The Yazoo Delta is north of the Gulf of Mexico, north of Faulkner country, Jackson, Mississippi, and east of Ole Man River. The Scotch descendants who people Shell Mound plantation, with its attendant others, The Grove, and Marmion, are a clan in the truest sense of the word. Nearly every reference in their huge and lively world is contained within their Fairchild clan. At its head are three brothers, two of whom--Denis and George--fought in the "War" (World War One). It is 1923.
The wedding of the title involves Dabney Fairchild, second oldest daughter of this intensely blond, straight-haired, wildly happy and free-spirited clan. Into this world comes an outsider cousin, Laura McRaven, whose mother has just died in Jackson. Her mother was one of the Fairchild sisters--including Tempie, Primrose, Jim Allen--sisters to the luminous brothers Denis who died, George who returned, and Battle who never left because (I assume) he is the head of this huge clan of wife and children, Negroes and cotton fields, overseer and village grocers.
The emotional center of the novel is a female trio: Ellen, the Virginia mother of the clan, Dabney the bride, and "little Laura McRaven," who is 9. We enter the delta on the "Yellow Dog" train, riding "up" from Jackson with Laura. Right away, precise details draw us in: Mr. Doolittle, the conductor, comes through the car and snatches the tickets he's stuck in people's hat brims. Right away we're tossed into a clan so numerous we ride high in a wonderfully springy blanket of names and antics. Children poke straws down "dooddle bug holes." Roxy, the main servant, throws her apron over her head and rushes in, crying "Bird in de house, bird in de house." Ellen gathers up Bluette, her 3 year old, and croons her a dream to put her down for a nap. The dream is of "Momma's little pin she lost." Ellen, so mild, so busy, dreams mistakes in the account books, the exact place where she's lost this little garnet pin, a present from her husband Battle during their courting days.
To fuel the story, there have to be outsiders and outlaws in the simplest sense: beyond the law of the clan. Some are "teeched" like Cousin Maureen who adds an "l" to every word and has wild outbursts of destruction. Some are outside the Fairchild bounty and extravagance--such as Robie Reeves, once a clerk at Fairchild town grocery, now miraculously married to golden-boy George. (Welty's scene of Robie swimming in her bra and panties, cavorting in golden spray with George, is one of the most beautifully handled evocations of sexual play I've ever read.) Then there's Laura herself--though by birth part of the clan, yet the place where she'll return, i.e. the Jackson of her small family, with only herself and her father, has a seriousness which hovers outside the glow of Shell Mound. Laura, I have to believe, is a stand-in for Welty herself, because she has some of the more intense, self-aware moments in the book, and grows up in Jackson.
The most important outsider, for the plot of the novel, is Troy Flavin, the young overseer who's from the mountains. He's to marry Dabney, and for quite a while, we wonder what she sees in him, except that he's a lone figure on a tall horse, riding the cotton fields. Then, just before the wedding rehearsal, Troy deals with violence among the Negro workers, and we appreciate his nerve and strength. He also loves his little mammy who sends the wedding couple some of her beautiful quilts. How can a little woman "no higher than a grasshopper," he wonders, have sewn those thousands of stitches to make "Snow on the Mountain," and "Hearts and Gizzards." If I'm not smiling through a lot of this book, I'm laughing outright. The love and charm in the writing are infectious.
The only thing that subdues my admiration is Welty's treatment of the Negroes. Set in 1923 and written in 1946, the novel treats race relations gently--there's one scene of violence, and many affectionate portraits of the house servants. Clearly they hold the esteem of the white clan. A few are outsiders, just like some of the whites. Pinchy is "coming through." I have no idea what this means except that Pinchy wanders in the heat, staring blindly ahead of her, unable to work, or talk. Then there's the old nurse Partheenie (I'm guessing on the spelling of these names since I've only heard the book, not read it on the page.) Partheenie brought up first-born Shelly, and now in her regal purple, taller than most others of either race, she carries a dignity that speaks to an ancient clan somewhere else across wide water.
Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, written in 1928, portrays house servants with greater depth and self-awareness. The final section of this novel, devoted to the Negro matriarch Dilsey, is one of the finest portraits ever written of one who superficially has no power, yet through unstinting effort, faith and love keeps her white and black family together. Faulkner grasped a truth about the South which Welty does not entertain which is that the culture rides on the backs of both races and each is noble and fallible and often self-destructive. But Welty is writing pastoral comedy; Faulkner, tragedy. I've recently listened to The Sound and the Fury, and though I marvel at the invention and four sustained voices of its structure, yet I find myself sometimes bored by each section's narrow focus, except for the last, which is Dilsey's. There is no such narrow intensity about Delta Wedding. Its ability to charm, to stretch our thoughts to the stars, remains undiminished.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Margotlog: Waste/Waist
Margotlog: Waste/Waist
English is full of such wonderful sound-alike, but mean-different words. And I pounce on them occasionally when like these--waste/waist--they hit a gong in my head.
ITEM: In my walks around the neighborhood--beautiful evenings, balmy as milk, and scented with phlox--I happen upon cars/riders idling. Most recently, an empty car pulled into a driveway near my house--windows open, a gaggle of people sitting a few feet away who kindly apologized for the car blocking my way. I paused in front of them: "Would you mind if I asked you something?" I said. "Why do you have your car running if you're not in it?"
They had the good sense to act a bit shocked that I'd trespass on private behavior (most Americans think the way they drive is private behavior). Then a lovely woman with her arms around a child answered, "If I turn it off, I can't get it started. It stalls."
This was not a lippy brush-off, but it did sound fishy. Yet, who was I to engage about the state of her car repair. OR to question her veracity. "That's too bad," I said, and walked around the spewing car toward home. The other two times I've tried this tactic this summer--once with a huge SUV idling/spewing in front of a house with a woman in the passenger seat, the other in a noon parking lot, windows rolled up, guy behind the wheel, playing with some hand-held device--I've either been brushed off--"OH, he's coming back in a minute!" or--ignored when I knocked on the window.
Idling wastes gas and it also spews CO2 into the environment. Gas wastage is a private matter, but spewing CO2 is public. Global warming affects us all.
ITEM: Here's another spin-off. Many of my mid-level writing students at a mid-level, four-year college which shall remain nameless are single mothers, often African-American, with passels of children. They are often slightly or grossly overweight. They also hold down full-time jobs. When time comes to write their big research paper, they've already had an earful and eyeful on the connection between American corn farming (See the great documentary "King Corn), the corn syrup it produces, and the outrageous amount of fast-food/corn-sweetened colas Americans consume, which feeds this country's epidemic of obesity and diabetes.
I encourage them to begin their papers with a personal depiction of the problem they'll discuss. Often what they show is a frantic life-style, a mother at the wheel of an enormous car pulled into a burger drive-up window, and ordering big and bigger burgers, plus tall tall full-strength colas. The food is relatively cheap, quick, and they can eat it on the run, i.e. meaning there is no physical exercise involved.
This is a horrible syndrome. The documentary movie "King Corn" slyly but effectively shows how devastating to health is the combo of no exercise, inbibing corn-syrup sweetened colas, and corn-fed beef (far higher in fat than grass-fed beef--see the movie to understand why). Yet I understand why it happens, especially with this particular population: the single mothers are desperately trying to better themselves, yet their adult responsibilities stretch across several generations. They are often working full time in relatively low-paying jobs. Their cars are as much their homes as whatever apartment they inhabit. And their lives are so fast-paced they can't "afford" the time to walk to the store. Not to mention that with busing their children likely do not walk to school.
These two bad bad habits circle like noxious whirl-pools:
ITEM: suburbanization and lack of urban mass transit put millions of Americans in their cars for long commutes. These shorten their time at home for cooking decent meals, walking in the evening with their children.
ITEM: Hours spent "in transit" thins a sense of community, not to mention the faceless sameness of so many suburban developments.Think about it: if most families are working far from home, and spend little time in their neighborhoods, they not only gain weight, but they lose a sense of shared fate. CARS FOSTER A SENSE OF UNIQUENESS, SOLITUDE, and IRRESPONSIBILITY. Forgive me. It sounds as though I hate suburbs, though I spent some of my childhood in one-in-the-making outside Charleston, South Carolina. But we had only one car and my father drove it across the long Cooper River Bridge into Charleston every day. I ALWAYS walked to school, from first grade through 12th. And I was not a thin kid. But there were no fast-food joints in the 1950s and early 60s. No colas ever entered our house. To buy a cola my teen friends and I had to walk blocks to the drugstore. At home we ate peanut butter sandwiches--not lowfat but better fat than corn-fed beef burgers. We drank lemonade by the gallons through those long southern summers.
ITEM: During long commutes, cars sit in traffic and idle (unless they're hybrids which blessedly shut off when they're stopped). Thus IDLING BEGINS TO SEEM NORMAL, if normal is defined as a norm, a shared experience, an accomplished fact. You stop being aware of it. It stops being something you might question or change.
The ramifications are probably endless. But consider this last tidbit: In the mid-19th century, sharp-shooters took trains across the prairies. From the trains they shot buffalo in such numbers that this practice essentially helped make the animal disappear from large parts of its range. Here's what I notice: a self-contained, speeding vehicle was used to create enormous environmental damage. The perpetrators came from elsewhere; they were not dependent on or familiar with what they destroyed. And they left immediately as they committed this predation.The sense of using enormous power in a scot-free manner strikes me as quite similar to Americans driving their cars long distances in daily commutes. They "pass through," they do not immediately or obviously suffer the consequences of their behavior. They feel entitled by their speed (despite those traffic jams) and power. They are, as we used to say, "flying high."
EXCEPT that lately those car-riders are beefing up. The "chickens are coming home to roost,"
English is full of such wonderful sound-alike, but mean-different words. And I pounce on them occasionally when like these--waste/waist--they hit a gong in my head.
ITEM: In my walks around the neighborhood--beautiful evenings, balmy as milk, and scented with phlox--I happen upon cars/riders idling. Most recently, an empty car pulled into a driveway near my house--windows open, a gaggle of people sitting a few feet away who kindly apologized for the car blocking my way. I paused in front of them: "Would you mind if I asked you something?" I said. "Why do you have your car running if you're not in it?"
They had the good sense to act a bit shocked that I'd trespass on private behavior (most Americans think the way they drive is private behavior). Then a lovely woman with her arms around a child answered, "If I turn it off, I can't get it started. It stalls."
This was not a lippy brush-off, but it did sound fishy. Yet, who was I to engage about the state of her car repair. OR to question her veracity. "That's too bad," I said, and walked around the spewing car toward home. The other two times I've tried this tactic this summer--once with a huge SUV idling/spewing in front of a house with a woman in the passenger seat, the other in a noon parking lot, windows rolled up, guy behind the wheel, playing with some hand-held device--I've either been brushed off--"OH, he's coming back in a minute!" or--ignored when I knocked on the window.
Idling wastes gas and it also spews CO2 into the environment. Gas wastage is a private matter, but spewing CO2 is public. Global warming affects us all.
ITEM: Here's another spin-off. Many of my mid-level writing students at a mid-level, four-year college which shall remain nameless are single mothers, often African-American, with passels of children. They are often slightly or grossly overweight. They also hold down full-time jobs. When time comes to write their big research paper, they've already had an earful and eyeful on the connection between American corn farming (See the great documentary "King Corn), the corn syrup it produces, and the outrageous amount of fast-food/corn-sweetened colas Americans consume, which feeds this country's epidemic of obesity and diabetes.
I encourage them to begin their papers with a personal depiction of the problem they'll discuss. Often what they show is a frantic life-style, a mother at the wheel of an enormous car pulled into a burger drive-up window, and ordering big and bigger burgers, plus tall tall full-strength colas. The food is relatively cheap, quick, and they can eat it on the run, i.e. meaning there is no physical exercise involved.
This is a horrible syndrome. The documentary movie "King Corn" slyly but effectively shows how devastating to health is the combo of no exercise, inbibing corn-syrup sweetened colas, and corn-fed beef (far higher in fat than grass-fed beef--see the movie to understand why). Yet I understand why it happens, especially with this particular population: the single mothers are desperately trying to better themselves, yet their adult responsibilities stretch across several generations. They are often working full time in relatively low-paying jobs. Their cars are as much their homes as whatever apartment they inhabit. And their lives are so fast-paced they can't "afford" the time to walk to the store. Not to mention that with busing their children likely do not walk to school.
These two bad bad habits circle like noxious whirl-pools:
ITEM: suburbanization and lack of urban mass transit put millions of Americans in their cars for long commutes. These shorten their time at home for cooking decent meals, walking in the evening with their children.
ITEM: Hours spent "in transit" thins a sense of community, not to mention the faceless sameness of so many suburban developments.Think about it: if most families are working far from home, and spend little time in their neighborhoods, they not only gain weight, but they lose a sense of shared fate. CARS FOSTER A SENSE OF UNIQUENESS, SOLITUDE, and IRRESPONSIBILITY. Forgive me. It sounds as though I hate suburbs, though I spent some of my childhood in one-in-the-making outside Charleston, South Carolina. But we had only one car and my father drove it across the long Cooper River Bridge into Charleston every day. I ALWAYS walked to school, from first grade through 12th. And I was not a thin kid. But there were no fast-food joints in the 1950s and early 60s. No colas ever entered our house. To buy a cola my teen friends and I had to walk blocks to the drugstore. At home we ate peanut butter sandwiches--not lowfat but better fat than corn-fed beef burgers. We drank lemonade by the gallons through those long southern summers.
ITEM: During long commutes, cars sit in traffic and idle (unless they're hybrids which blessedly shut off when they're stopped). Thus IDLING BEGINS TO SEEM NORMAL, if normal is defined as a norm, a shared experience, an accomplished fact. You stop being aware of it. It stops being something you might question or change.
The ramifications are probably endless. But consider this last tidbit: In the mid-19th century, sharp-shooters took trains across the prairies. From the trains they shot buffalo in such numbers that this practice essentially helped make the animal disappear from large parts of its range. Here's what I notice: a self-contained, speeding vehicle was used to create enormous environmental damage. The perpetrators came from elsewhere; they were not dependent on or familiar with what they destroyed. And they left immediately as they committed this predation.The sense of using enormous power in a scot-free manner strikes me as quite similar to Americans driving their cars long distances in daily commutes. They "pass through," they do not immediately or obviously suffer the consequences of their behavior. They feel entitled by their speed (despite those traffic jams) and power. They are, as we used to say, "flying high."
EXCEPT that lately those car-riders are beefing up. The "chickens are coming home to roost,"
Monday, August 6, 2012
Margotlog: Archie & Company
Margotlog: Archie & Company
Proud cat, but dead, to give his name to our entire furry tribe, Archie is the only one who ever traveled by car to the North Shore. He's the only one better known (or regarded) up and down the avenue than we, his supposed owners. He's the only one who would be always on the other side of the door, putting into motion Garrison Keillor's song about just such a cat. He's the only who ever attacked a dog--three spaniels walking sedately along the sidewalk. Their owner told us if he ever did that again, he'd report us--to whom remains unclear. We attributed this cat-attack to Archie's mourning the death of Fluffy, queen of the pride and most patient of any cat we ever "owned." She let children dress her up!
Of the cat conglomerate that included Archie, Bart, and Tilly, we now have only Tilly, current matriarch, with middle-cat Maggie, and perennial kitten Julia. Girl cats work better, we've found, Archie being one of the pins holding that conclusion in place. Yes, girl cats don't spray and on the whole seem less insistent on roaming, but they're not as "lovey." That is, not until we met Julia. Girl cats do, however, fall in love with guy humans--case in point, Tilly's childhood affection for Michael. The minute she heard his voice, she'd race to the first floor and begin rubbing against his leg, and looking up with her soulful green eyes. Beautiful kitten with foxy pointed ears and chin, tufted cheeks and orange-white mask to the rest of her turtle-dark body. Even in middle age, she's retained her sleek, long and tall figure with the plume of tail tipped with white. But she's no longer in love with anyone but us, and doesn't climb to the top of the drapes, or rather leap as she did kittenish, from the top of the open piano case.
It's not easy being green, Kermit the Frog used to (and may still) sing on "Sesame Street." Ditto a middle cat. Occasionally in off-moments, I consider writing a children's book called "The Middle Cat." Like a middle kid who's squeezed by bigger bro or sis at one end, and cute baby's antics at the other, Maggie our cat has acquired Fluffy's onetime long-suffering look. If she were ever inclined to be demanding, that's faded from our lack of response. Instead she's staked out her favorite reclining spots--under the coffee table, at the top of the stairs--and she's taught me the one safe place where she can demand to be petted without offending any other critter. It's the food dish in the upstairs bathroom. Few of the other cats eat from that dish. It's Maggie's.
As I approach through the luxuriously carpeted bathroom, to the tile area by the shower, she begins meowing to guide me forward, tail up, until she lowers her head in the crunchy dish and I begin stroking her. The occasional late evening when I'm finishing my stretches and eye soakings on the carpeted bathroom floor, and the other two cats have already retired, Maggie and I play with the semi-hard balls she prefers. Then we have the dark to ourselves. She lies in wait outside the bathroom door to pounce on the rolling mouse that I send her way. There's a scuffle in the dark hall, the mouse bounces down the stairs, and Maggie follows to yowl its capture through the first floor. Then she sounds like a giant cat, queen of the night.
Julia was petite when we acquired her. Not so much anymore. Fran accuses me of overfeeding, and he's probably right, but it's my "out" when I'm trying to pursue some other game. Julia is lovey as a boy cat: she licks legs and hands, all the way up the arm if allowed. She'll touch noses and lick cheeks if allowed. In the movie, "THe Truth about Cats and Dogs," the charming vet (an actress I can call up to look at but can't remember her name) tells a caller-in to her radio show that it's not a good practice to allow a cat to lick one's entire face. I make Julia stop after one cheek-lick. Lately in our heat, she's taken to squeaky pleas to be let out. Not that she wants to roam; in fact when we have brought her out to sit on a lap as we play Scrabble on the porch, she has sat placidly and not squirmed much.
But with a ribbon tied around her neck, and the other end in my hand, we now take little strolls on the back deck under the petunia/marigold boxes. Yesterday in the relative cool, she flopped down in the sun. Her black fur glistening, it wasn't long before she began to pant. I brought her in.
Occasionally I meet a man with a black girl cat on a collar. They walk together up and down his alley, and a few times even around the block. I'm not sure I will ever do this with Julia, though she's probably tractable enough. Fran would have a fit, and deep in my heart of hearts, I agree. We don't want another outdoor cat--too many vet bills, too much anxiety if the cat doesn't come home. Too much fear someone will "adopt" our adorable Julia.
Proud cat, but dead, to give his name to our entire furry tribe, Archie is the only one who ever traveled by car to the North Shore. He's the only one better known (or regarded) up and down the avenue than we, his supposed owners. He's the only one who would be always on the other side of the door, putting into motion Garrison Keillor's song about just such a cat. He's the only who ever attacked a dog--three spaniels walking sedately along the sidewalk. Their owner told us if he ever did that again, he'd report us--to whom remains unclear. We attributed this cat-attack to Archie's mourning the death of Fluffy, queen of the pride and most patient of any cat we ever "owned." She let children dress her up!
Of the cat conglomerate that included Archie, Bart, and Tilly, we now have only Tilly, current matriarch, with middle-cat Maggie, and perennial kitten Julia. Girl cats work better, we've found, Archie being one of the pins holding that conclusion in place. Yes, girl cats don't spray and on the whole seem less insistent on roaming, but they're not as "lovey." That is, not until we met Julia. Girl cats do, however, fall in love with guy humans--case in point, Tilly's childhood affection for Michael. The minute she heard his voice, she'd race to the first floor and begin rubbing against his leg, and looking up with her soulful green eyes. Beautiful kitten with foxy pointed ears and chin, tufted cheeks and orange-white mask to the rest of her turtle-dark body. Even in middle age, she's retained her sleek, long and tall figure with the plume of tail tipped with white. But she's no longer in love with anyone but us, and doesn't climb to the top of the drapes, or rather leap as she did kittenish, from the top of the open piano case.
It's not easy being green, Kermit the Frog used to (and may still) sing on "Sesame Street." Ditto a middle cat. Occasionally in off-moments, I consider writing a children's book called "The Middle Cat." Like a middle kid who's squeezed by bigger bro or sis at one end, and cute baby's antics at the other, Maggie our cat has acquired Fluffy's onetime long-suffering look. If she were ever inclined to be demanding, that's faded from our lack of response. Instead she's staked out her favorite reclining spots--under the coffee table, at the top of the stairs--and she's taught me the one safe place where she can demand to be petted without offending any other critter. It's the food dish in the upstairs bathroom. Few of the other cats eat from that dish. It's Maggie's.
As I approach through the luxuriously carpeted bathroom, to the tile area by the shower, she begins meowing to guide me forward, tail up, until she lowers her head in the crunchy dish and I begin stroking her. The occasional late evening when I'm finishing my stretches and eye soakings on the carpeted bathroom floor, and the other two cats have already retired, Maggie and I play with the semi-hard balls she prefers. Then we have the dark to ourselves. She lies in wait outside the bathroom door to pounce on the rolling mouse that I send her way. There's a scuffle in the dark hall, the mouse bounces down the stairs, and Maggie follows to yowl its capture through the first floor. Then she sounds like a giant cat, queen of the night.
Julia was petite when we acquired her. Not so much anymore. Fran accuses me of overfeeding, and he's probably right, but it's my "out" when I'm trying to pursue some other game. Julia is lovey as a boy cat: she licks legs and hands, all the way up the arm if allowed. She'll touch noses and lick cheeks if allowed. In the movie, "THe Truth about Cats and Dogs," the charming vet (an actress I can call up to look at but can't remember her name) tells a caller-in to her radio show that it's not a good practice to allow a cat to lick one's entire face. I make Julia stop after one cheek-lick. Lately in our heat, she's taken to squeaky pleas to be let out. Not that she wants to roam; in fact when we have brought her out to sit on a lap as we play Scrabble on the porch, she has sat placidly and not squirmed much.
But with a ribbon tied around her neck, and the other end in my hand, we now take little strolls on the back deck under the petunia/marigold boxes. Yesterday in the relative cool, she flopped down in the sun. Her black fur glistening, it wasn't long before she began to pant. I brought her in.
Occasionally I meet a man with a black girl cat on a collar. They walk together up and down his alley, and a few times even around the block. I'm not sure I will ever do this with Julia, though she's probably tractable enough. Fran would have a fit, and deep in my heart of hearts, I agree. We don't want another outdoor cat--too many vet bills, too much anxiety if the cat doesn't come home. Too much fear someone will "adopt" our adorable Julia.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Margotlog:Hemingway's Mr. Death
Margotlog: Hemingway's Mr. Death
Hemingway courted death all his adult life, from severe wounds as an 18-yera-old ambulance driver in World War I, Italy, through his work as a journalist in the Spanish Civil War, to heroic journalism, winning him a Bronze Star during World War II. Mr. Death appears in almost every one of his novels, from glorification of Spanish bullfighters in the ring, to the final battle between The Old Man and the Sea at the end of Hemingway's life. I've read and admired A Moveable Feast, his essays about Paris during the 20s, written after the fact, but I've shied away from rereading Hemingway's fiction, not wanting to replace my earlier blurred impressions with present clarity. Too macho and gory for me, I thought. How wrong I was.
For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940) depicts a young American dynamitist, Robert Jordan, who joins a Spanish partisan group to fight the Facists during the Spanish Civil War. Written after Hemingway's own participation in the Spanish war, it breathes with psychological intensity. Robert Jordan is not only a brave and sensitive young man, but is immersed in a partisan group of great psychological complexity. Here I have been shocked out of my previous dismissal: the conflict between the exhausted leader, Pablo, and his wise, stalwart, rough mistress Pilar is as crucial to the dynamics of the story as is Robert Jordan's falling in love with the Maria, or as Robert Jordan's bravery in blowing up the bridge. Watching the two partisans and Jordan negotiate edging Pablo out of the leadership role creates great war drama of a Shakespearean sort: Think"Macbeth." Though Pilar has none of Lady Macbeth's grisley conniving.
One of the most compelling scenes occurs in an initial lull, just after Robert Jordan and Maria have become lovers, instigated by Pilar. As they cross and recross a high meadow after conferring with a comrade, Pilar expresses in biting honesty her loss of youth, love, beauty. She does not want to take Maria's place in the sack of love, but to live by association, and to admire and protect what is beautiful, vibrant, and vulnerable. Pilar is as much at the heart of the novel as is Robert Jordan. So much for my notion of Hemingway's incapacity to portray women.
I won't say any more about the plot because it is beautifully, intricately executed, and I want you to experience it for yourself. But the intensity of the style--that bears comment. The style is full of Hemingway's famous short, declarative sentences, many linked by "and." It is full of repetition of an incantatory, lyrical sort, which takes you deeper and deeper into the mysteries of how thought, sensation, and emotion, recast and examined again and again, can create an unforgettable, pulsating moment. Sometimes the intensity was too much to bear. I had to turn off the CD player and wait for another day to hear how Robert Jordan would continue, turning over the moments of love, memory, despair, and heroism.This is a very autobiographical novel: young Hemingway was wounded in the legs during World War I, and spent 6 months in a Milan hospital. So also young Robert Jordan is wounded. The pain is redeemed. It is a beautiful story.
Hemingway courted death all his adult life, from severe wounds as an 18-yera-old ambulance driver in World War I, Italy, through his work as a journalist in the Spanish Civil War, to heroic journalism, winning him a Bronze Star during World War II. Mr. Death appears in almost every one of his novels, from glorification of Spanish bullfighters in the ring, to the final battle between The Old Man and the Sea at the end of Hemingway's life. I've read and admired A Moveable Feast, his essays about Paris during the 20s, written after the fact, but I've shied away from rereading Hemingway's fiction, not wanting to replace my earlier blurred impressions with present clarity. Too macho and gory for me, I thought. How wrong I was.
For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940) depicts a young American dynamitist, Robert Jordan, who joins a Spanish partisan group to fight the Facists during the Spanish Civil War. Written after Hemingway's own participation in the Spanish war, it breathes with psychological intensity. Robert Jordan is not only a brave and sensitive young man, but is immersed in a partisan group of great psychological complexity. Here I have been shocked out of my previous dismissal: the conflict between the exhausted leader, Pablo, and his wise, stalwart, rough mistress Pilar is as crucial to the dynamics of the story as is Robert Jordan's falling in love with the Maria, or as Robert Jordan's bravery in blowing up the bridge. Watching the two partisans and Jordan negotiate edging Pablo out of the leadership role creates great war drama of a Shakespearean sort: Think"Macbeth." Though Pilar has none of Lady Macbeth's grisley conniving.
One of the most compelling scenes occurs in an initial lull, just after Robert Jordan and Maria have become lovers, instigated by Pilar. As they cross and recross a high meadow after conferring with a comrade, Pilar expresses in biting honesty her loss of youth, love, beauty. She does not want to take Maria's place in the sack of love, but to live by association, and to admire and protect what is beautiful, vibrant, and vulnerable. Pilar is as much at the heart of the novel as is Robert Jordan. So much for my notion of Hemingway's incapacity to portray women.
I won't say any more about the plot because it is beautifully, intricately executed, and I want you to experience it for yourself. But the intensity of the style--that bears comment. The style is full of Hemingway's famous short, declarative sentences, many linked by "and." It is full of repetition of an incantatory, lyrical sort, which takes you deeper and deeper into the mysteries of how thought, sensation, and emotion, recast and examined again and again, can create an unforgettable, pulsating moment. Sometimes the intensity was too much to bear. I had to turn off the CD player and wait for another day to hear how Robert Jordan would continue, turning over the moments of love, memory, despair, and heroism.This is a very autobiographical novel: young Hemingway was wounded in the legs during World War I, and spent 6 months in a Milan hospital. So also young Robert Jordan is wounded. The pain is redeemed. It is a beautiful story.
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