Now that the long form television as 19th-century meme has official reached its stunning apex (though I still think the Wire is more Zola than Dickens), it seems appropriate to be reminded that the two forms are also classic examples of all that can happen when art and commerce collide: from piracy and fanatical enforcing of spoilers bans to things like this. So, on the off, unbearable to think about possibility that there is to be no season 5, we are left with these thoughts: If this were really the end, and the official end of Don is that he goes off into the sunset with Megan, does this represent a very meta ending about the final triumph of the ultimate pitch? Or better yet, did Weiner set up his negotiating position perfectly: ie make an ending that cannot possibly be the ending, so that he really really really has to be brought back at any price. Of course not: networks don’t care about the deep existential confusion brought about by the possibility that Megan is the last word on Don. Still, 2012 is a long way off; it’s hard not to give way to all the fallacies of fiction ex-grad students like me should be immune to: where are Don and Megan all this time? By 2012, it’ll feel like it’s ready to be 1971, at least.
From Uncategorized
Some Thoughts On Identification and Viewing While Female
So, Daniel Mendelsohn doesn’t like Mad Men. Well, to each their own and all that. It’s a very stylized show, obviously, and I could understand why some people might find it mannered or stilted. I do agree with his assessment of how the show fails on race, and his point about fans being drawn to the shiny surfaces is a fair if obvious one, I suppose, but I don’t think it’s quite right. The Sterling Cooper world has to be attractive enough for Peggy to want to join it but corrupt and hollow enough that her success can’t be purely triumphant. It’s not just that she’s trying to succeed among people who can’t or don’t respect her, it’s that she’s succeeding at a job that is ultimately about nothing – think of the brilliant episode from last season around the award show. Peggy’s hurt that Don gets the credit for her idea, but the sycophantic silliness of the whole procedure make you relieved for her that she didn’t get brought along.
But what I found most interesting about Mendelsohn’s piece was that he seems very bothered by the uniform unlikeable nature of the boys over at SC/SCDP. Sure, the show wants to make a point about sexism, but do they all have to be so sexist all the time?:
the endless succession of leering junior execs and crude jokes and abusive behavior all meant to signal “sexism” doesn’t work—it’s wearying rather than illuminating.
He criticizes the show for inviting us to feel superior to its characters, a criticism I’ve heard before but which really doesn’t make sense to me:
For a drama (or book, or whatever) to invite an audience to feel superior to a less enlightened era even as it teases the regressive urges behind the behaviors associated with that era strikes me as the worst possible offense that can be committed in a creative work set in the past: it’s simultaneously contemptuous and pandering.
But showing both the appeal of the world and being unflinching in its depiction of its injustices is precisely the point. I don’t trust this notion that depicting the sexism of the past has nothing to teach us but how superior we are. The idea that there’s nothing in the show’s sexism viewers can relate to doesn’t seem right. Mendelsohn thinks it’s hypocritical for the show to depict the men around Joan as louts but then show us how good she looks and invite us to leer. But what about a female viewer who is invited to share Joan’s dilemma about the role she plays, and think about the double edged sword of beauty and being leered at? And even when the show does serve to show us how far we’ve come, isn’t this a valid role? Take the scene in the first episode when Peggy goes to the doctor and tries to get the pill. (One of many, may scenes that belies Mendelsohn’s claim that the appeal of the show is how the characters are ‘unpunished’ for what they do – and no, the men don’t go free and clear either, even if the rations are skewed). If they’re anything like me, viewers would leave that scene rushing for their credit cards to make a donation to Planned Parenthood – and is this such a terrible outcome, to feel so sharply what other women went through and feel grateful that we don’t have to?
Mendelsohn gives a sense of where he’s coming from at the end of the essay, when he argues that their real point of view on the show is the kids, and that the appeal to viewers is to see our parent’s lives. There’s certainly a lot to that, although my parents are a little too young for this to be largely the case for me and many of my friends who soak up the show so avidly. He seems relieved to have this point of identification, relieving him from being forced to identify with those unappealing lecherous boys of SC/SCDP. He seems to argue that somehow it’s easier to see as complex the morally compromised figures of The Sopranos or The Wire, but in showing men who are attractive and intelligent to varying degrees and also refract, in their differing ways, the prejudices of the day, Mad Men just wants to rub it in. Well, I for one am glad the show dares to show sexism as the stew in which these characters simmer all the time, not just when it’s topical, because that’s how sexism works. If that makes some viewers uncomfortable because it makes them not want to identify with the protagonists they otherwise would, well, a discomfort in identification is nothing new to lots of viewers, especially those who have the unfortunate habit of viewing while female.
One Fewer Reason to Vote Democratic
Back in 2000 when I was a wee thing, all my friends were voting for Nader. Everywhere I went people were talking about him with lots of excitement; when he drew a full crowd and lots of celebs to Madison Square Garden I was ambivalent about him for lots of reasons, and went back and forth on how I would vote right up until I got into the booth – I even remember reading and thinking about all the ‘swap a vote with swing state’ schemes that were going on. Seems quaint, doesn’t it? Folks who’ve been made to feel embarrassed in retrospect that they voted for Nader can take heart that at the time I was very embarrassed that I didn’t end up voting for him.
One of my roommates at the time wasn’t having it. All her friends were voting for Nader too and I remember the button she was wearing that she also gave me, that’s probably lying around in my collection somewhere. It said, “it’s the Supreme Court, stupid.” Nobody had to tell me or anyone else what it meant: fall in line, vote Democratic, or else Roe gets overturned. I’ve known plenty of people for whom this was a deciding factor in not going third party, or in motivating them to vote when they were otherwise apathetic, as well as otherwise apolitical or centrist women (and men) who felt motivated to vote Democratic because of choice. One of the things that frustrated me about the discussion around What’s the Matter With Kansas and the whole cultural versus economic issues frame is that, aside from drawing artificial distinctions (how is the denial of benefits for one kind of health care to millions of poor women since the Hyde amendment not an economic issue?), it led people to talk as if all the juice was on the prolife side, as if getting rid of the issue (which is difficult and who likes to talk about it anyway?) could be nothing but a boon to Democrats, in spite of the fact that their stand on the issue was being used to keep Democratic voters who had highly legitimate questions about what their party stood for in line.
This week a lot of folks are rightly up in arms about HR3, which has gotten the most attention for its ‘redefining rape’ bullshit, since withdrawn, but is terrible for lots of other reasons too. Nine of its co-sponsers are Democrats, and so when the DCCC sent out a petition attacking Republicans, Sady and others have done a great job calling them out. As many have pointed out, even the existing rape exception is pretty feeble, given the hoops it sets up for anyone who would want to access it. The longstanding existence of the Hyde amendment is yet another example of how successful Republicans have been in washing wielding their ‘taxpayer’s rights’ crap while the rest of us are stuck paying tons more for torture and fail to make more than a peep about it.
Is this the plan of the new Congress – a kind of inversion of Frank’s thesis: vote for tax cuts and get abortion restrictions?
Gornick on Bellow, with assist from Baubie
My beloved Baubie, who passed away on December 15th, was for many years a faculty wife extraordinaire at the University of Chicago. When my grandfather’s department was recruiting new faculty, she would take them and their wives to the CSO or the art institute to show off the city she loved. She would help them find doctors and apartments and synagogues or churches to help them with the move. She nurtured many of his graduate students, some of whom were there at her 90th birthday party so many years later. I’ve thought about her sometimes during one of those endless conversations about the squeeze on academic labor – yes, of course, it’s the switch to part-timers, but is there also not something in the loss of all that free and invisible labor done by the wives? (Of course, many times the part-timers are the wives, but that’s another story.)
Baubie loved the intellectual stimulation of the Hyde Park Community. She was unfailingly warm, in her Minnesota way, about pretty much everyone there. (We once had an argument about her insistence that Milton Friedman was a really nice guy). One time when we were going through some old books, there was a stack of Bellow and I asked if she’d met him. “Oh, sure.” I asked what he was like. “Well, you know,” she said. Of course I didn’t, but I did: that was as close as she would come to saying someone was less than wonderful. “His wife was a doll, though,” she said then. “Well, you know, one of his wives.” God bless Minnesota nice.
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So there’s a volume of letters of Bellow’s out. As I’ve mentioned before, I love letters and diaries and the ephemera of writers, so I was curious about them. Unfortunately I couldn’t get through the reviews of them I’d seen, as each one began with a long lament about the eclipse of the great masters, how Bellow’s readers were dying out, and on and on. Isn’t after someone’s dead a good time to stop kissing up to them? So I was delighted to see that Vivian Gornick had a piece about the letters in Bookforum. Reading it brought home what should have been obvious: the lamenters weren’t only trying to win Bellow’s favor, they were imitating him:
Then there is the unhappy transformation of his attitude toward the culture in which he found himself. In 1952, he wrote to Lionel Trilling: “Are most novels poor today? Undoubtedly. But . . . things are now what they always were, and to be disappointed in them is extremely shallow. We may not be strong enough to live in the present. But to be disappointed in it! To identify oneself with a better past! No, no!” A decade later he was in the full, relentless cry against “the present” that made his books rise repeatedly to crescendoes of ridiculing bitterness against his own time.
Of course, you could argue he really was just growing wiser with age and able to see the corruptions around him more clearly, or that the world really was just getting worse. But as Gornick outlines, over the course of the letters, the world goes sour in much the same way each woman, and women overall, and friendships, went sour. There’s a difference between being enraged by the world and having contempt for it. Having contempt isn’t critique, it’s a way of rejecting the premises outright, the way Bellow or Roth’s characters accuse women or feminists of doing. As Gornick wrote in The Situation and the Story, being able to imagine the other isn’t a question of political correctness, it’s a necessary function of the literary imagination.
There are a number of reasons why reviewers might glide over this or struggle to frame it in more heroic terms. There’s the natural pull towards canonization, of course, along with a desire to counter criticism deemed ‘political’ – even if it means ignoring the writer’s own obsessions. There’s also a kind of deference that I think is greater for book reviewers than those working in say film, in that reviewers are writers, so you’re writing about someone who does what you do, and within that likely does things that you can’t do, so who are you to say they have become solipsistic, self-justifying, self-pitying or what have you?
Take a sentence from Herzog Gornick quotes, when he says of women, “They eat green salad and drink human blood.” Now, that’s kind of a brilliant sentence. Beautiful, maybe? Is that the right word? But it’s power doesn’t make it ‘true’ in any of the ways a statement like that could be ‘true.’ Yes, yes, it’s Herzog saying it, not Bellow, so you could say, it’s a truth-telling statement about the thought process of a certain kind of betrayed husband. But it’s a truth obtained by absorption in this point of view, not distance. Then, in a letter, we get a sentence like this one:
In a 1984 letter to a former mistress, he says of the fourth wife now leaving him almost exactly what he’d said of the second when she left him: “Where a woman’s warmest sympathies should be there is a gap, something extracted in the earliest years of life which now is not even felt, not recognized as absent.”
A less brilliant sentence this time, its ironies more obvious and bare. Why should we take the laments for the culture any differently? Baubie once asked me, when she was taking a retirement class on Nobel Prize winning authors, why they were all so dark, why weren’t there any who could write about the joys of life. I mumbled something about how much harder that is to express, a wholly insufficient answer, because it’s not just with sexism or cultural decline that literary folks seem especially vulnerable to equating bad news with truth.
There’s always a pleasure in writers with voice and craft, and there’s lots of reasons to read Bellow, to find him compelling. But there may also be moments when one finds it all a bit much, that life is short and art long and that, contrary to popular belief, there are limits to a woman’s masochism, even as a reader. A lovely thing about no longer being a student and no longer twenty-one is the ability to accept this with relief.
On another note, I was delighted to read in her author note that Vivian Gornick is writing a biography of Emma Goldman. I love her autobiographical essays and her book on Stanton, and ever since discovering the unbelievable genius B. Traven, I’ve been itching to learn more about anarchism. It’s not quite Minnesota nice, but at least there will be dancing.
The Idea of Datedness (with Jazz Hands)
This week I went to the ballet. The trip was inspired in part by my rant after seeing Black Swan about how yes, she lost a lot of weight and trained hard, but people who said Natalie Portman looked like a ballet dancer just don’t know what they are talking about, and were doing a real disservice to the amazing artists the film was trying to be about. It also seemed like a kind of Social Network thing: let’s make this world seem even more misogynist world than it is, and kind of condemn, that, but mostly wallow in it, because you know what isn’t misogynist: Hollywood! Not to mention the idea of ‘reinventing Swan Lake by making it visceral!” as some revolutionary statement. What’s next, a visionary theater directory who wants to set Hamlet in Nazi Germany? Zany!
But, in any case, the movie made me want to go to the ballet. I complained to my friend that no one wants to go, and he gamely volunteered, so last week I saw a double Jerome Robbins program, “Dances at a Gathering,” originally from 1969, and 1958’s “NY Export: Opus Jazz.” No offense to black block theaters and their folding chairs, but there’s nothing like going to Lincoln Center in the middle of the week. “Dances at a Gathering” is the kind of modern ballet I love best: just enough story: no mythological frufru, no dead virgins, just friends coming together mixing, flirting, pairing off, repairing off, and quietly bidding each other off, all with a classical vocabulary, and gorgeous lines to match the single voice of Chopin’s piano line.
But it was the relatively short “NY Export” that just floored me. My friend joked before hand that he wanted to see jazz hands, and he wasn’t disappointed. Everyone has seen Robbins choreography, since he did West Side Story (along with Peter Pan, Gypsy, Fiddler on the Roof and others), and it always kind of kills me when people joke about the dancing gangs of West Side Story, as if musical theater was supposed to adhere to the Dogma rules of social realism. But it’s not just the jazz hands: everything about this piece screams 1959, as much as the Weber paintings I last wrote about, from the sneakers to the gorgeous Ben Shahn backdrops. People make fun of the obsessive period stuff on Mad Men, but it’s undeniably a huge part of what we love: the illusion of transportation, to which the visual is the best pathway. Nostalgia is dangerous in general, when it’s for a time we never lived in as much as when it’s clearly a proxy for our own childhoods. But it’s also unavoidable, and, taking it with the proper suspicion, we can enjoy it as one of the transporting pleasures of art. I was trying to describe Ben Shahn and all I could think of was the line from Annie Hall, you know the one, “you’re like New York, Jewish, left-wing, liberal, intellectual, Central Park West, Brandies University, the socialist summer camps, and the father with the Ben Shahn drawings,” and of course I’m not that at all, no one could be who isn’t a good thirty years older than me, and even going back that wasn’t really my family, but it’s something to laugh at, and to explain why you like the “dated” more than all the things the hip people have “rediscovered.”
Does Matt Weiner Owe Idelle Weber Royalties?
When I was a budding feminist at Smith College, taking lit courses, Toril Moi’s Sexual/Textual Politics: feminist literary theory was something of a touchstone, laying out a narrative of the stages that feminist criticism had gone through. First there was the “images of women” criticism, looking at how male writers had portrayed women, then there was the discovery phase, when critics discovered or, more often, rediscovered women writers who had been neglected, under-read and misread. (Rediscovered because, often enough, as Jane Tompkins demonstrated about 19th century American fiction, women writers were often, in a reversal of the standard artistic-heroic cliche, well-known in their own time only to be buried later by the condescension of cultural gatekeepers.) Then, there was the phase we were presumably in at the time, and presumably still are: the phase of theory.
The idea of course was that criticism had become more sophisticated, that we didn’t need to do that rediscovery thing anymore. (The images of women stuff was of course often seen as really passe, and “simplistic,” which always struck me as unfair. Someone had to say something about Mailer, and anyone who gets on the cover of Time for doing it must be doing something right.) But the more damaging unstated assumption that I think goes into this is the idea that the rediscovery has been done, that our curriculums and cultural institutions are so multicultural and progressive that they bend over backwards to celebrate women artists, and artists of color. I mean, many of us know that this isn’t true, as the Guerilla Girls brilliantly demonstrated time and time again. But we’re still surprised by what we don’t know.
All of which is to say, before I went to the Brooklyn Museum’s great exhibit on Women and Pop art, I’d never heard of Idelle Weber. Munchkins I, II & III, the yellow and black triptych of silhouetted men going up and down the elevators at MetLife prompted Time Out to write this:
It begs obvious comparison to Mad Men; it’s almost hard to believe it’s a product of 1964 instead of another contemporary, guiltily nostalgic reflection on white-collar conformity.
Which would seem to have it exactly backwards: Mad Men is doing a Pop Art commentary on itself every time the camera starts behind Jon Hamm’s head, and it would seem the real anachronism is thinking that artists aren’t capable of critiquing their own age. Weber also had these cubes with the silhouettes on them which were kind of gorgeous, and one of them even had a figure in a slumped, viewed from behind pose. Now if one of those showed up on Draper’s desk, it would be a meta-joke, but it could it also be a parting gift from Cooper, who has plenty of time now to build his collection beyond the Rothko from season 2.
Here’s part of what wikipedia has to say about Weber:
In light of her success, Weber moved to New York to work and to secure a gallery affiliation. Sam Hunter, then curator at MoMA, arranged for her to meet art historian H.W. Janson, who admired Weber’s work but stated that he did not include women painters in his books.[1] Charles Allen, owner of the Allen Gallery, similarly indicated that he did not show women artists.[2] Weber attended an illustration and design class taught by Alexander Liberman at the School of Visual Arts, but when she asked Robert Motherwell if she could audit his class at Hunter College, he responded that married women with children were not permitted to audit classes because they would not continue painting.[3] Weber had married earlier that year. In 1958 her son was born, followed by a daughter in 1964, yet she continued painting.
We think this is an old story, that it’s either too far in the past or too familiar to bother us much. But Weber, like many of the women in the show, is still alive and working, and as the old Guerilla Girls poster said, you could probably buy most of the show for the price of a single Warhol.
AA
Music Corner: Streets of London
Today while working in my office, I was playing my normal Pandora mix station, floating in and out as I moved between varying levels of concentration and spaciness. Then, midway through a song, I was startled upright. My brain stumbled, trying to make sense of what it was hearing, failing at instant recognition but knowing I was hearing something deeply, almost primally familiar. It was that odd sensation seeing someone you’re struggle to place but knew ten or fifteen years ago, a wholly different thing than running into someone you’re struggling to place but met last summer.
Finally I looked at the screen and saw that I was listening to Sinead O’Connor’s version of “Streets of London,” Ralph McTell’s old folk hit. How did I not know she’d recorded this song? McTell’s song was one that my parents had recorded off The Midnight Special, the folk program on Chicago’s WFMT (named of course for the Ledbelly classic), turned into mix cassettes and played during our car trips. They’re probably the songs I’ll remember when I’m senile and have no idea what Lady Gaga, David Foster Wallace or Mad Men ever were or why I or anyone cared. Like a lot of these songs, “Streets of London,” was a sad song by a guy with a plain voice and a guitar, filled with a longing that was probably a strange thing for a kid to have as their formative musical experience.
Sinead’s version, though, is something else. Sinead, of course, is, was, always, Something Else. I’ve been thinking a lot recently about how the late 80s and early 90s were this weirdly open moment, culturally and politically: think Public Enemy, riot grrrls, Backlash on the best-seller list, Spike Lee. Backlash prompted me to go to a women’s college. Musically, though, if I were to be honest, Bikini Kill and such were never really where it was at for me. Sinead on the other hand, was Something Else. (If I were to be very, very honest, Tori Amos was a big part of it too, but that’s another story.)
Now, it’s tempting to write something nostalgic about how I listened to I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got obsessively, and how it understood me perfectly, and all that, but that’s not quite how it went down. It was more like she was someone I was always conscious of, but who was unsettling, and I knew it would be more unsettling to spend too much more time with her. I was an intense person trying to hide; she was an intense person who made one of the best videos of all time by being totally exposed. I remember talking to a friend about the bald head and the closeup, and how brave they were, how beautiful she had to be pull it off, only vaguely sensing how brave and subversive it all was for a twenty-three year old who was already a single mother, already getting heat for her politics, for talking about her abusive childhood, whose debut was full of all the mythic poetry we could want at sixteen but also a song whose sublime horniness we could only begin to appreciate back then, who ended one of the greatest breakup albums of all time with the bare a cappella incantation “I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got” – quite something for sixteen year olds to try to wrap our heads around – but who also put one of the best anti-Thatcher songs in the middle of it.
Then, as everyone knows, there was the Pope thing. I was at my first semester of college at the women’s college Backlash had inspired me to attend. I may have been watching it live, because I remember seeing her do it, and I know it was cut from the episode, although maybe it was on the news or something. I remember my fellow students – certainly an audience inclined to be sympathetic to how her translation of Marley’s anti-racist message into a cry against abuse and its enablers – being mostly embarrassed by it. We were nice girls, we believed in being fair to everyone, and tearing up a religious icon’s picture smacked of nasty things that nasty people did. I remember the discussion being about how she must be crazy, cracking under the fame. I remember my high school boyfriend, a nice Catholic boy, going off on her and me stammering a half-hearted defense. I remember enjoying her next few albums but wishing she wouldn’t have little audio clips of Germaine Greer or speeches about how the potato famine wasn’t really a famine and about “the one true enemy – the Holy Roman Empire” and how Jesus said “I bring not love I bring a sword.” I remember being embarrassed for her when I read some music magazine interview where she said that all the problems in the world were caused by child abuse, because I was in college and I knew the answer to any statement like that was always ButIt’sOfCourseIt’sMoreComplicatedThanThat and then you get to leave it there. Oddly, I don’t remember people steamrolling her CDs, Joe Pesci on the next SNL talking about smacking her, or her getting booed off the stage. Once again his followers did the Prince of Peace proud. (Wikipedia says that even before the pope thing, Old Blue Eyes threatened to smack her for not wanting the national anthem played before a concert. He had a point. I mean, any country that allowed that gangster-enabler to be a paragon is a pretty amazing country, no? The guy is like a walking encyclopedia entry under white privilege.)
In any case, of course it turned out that she was right, that there was a lot that we didn’t know – not just about the church, but about her. At least, I didn’t know until this year that she’d spent time in a Magdalene laundry after being encouraged to shoplift by her troubled and abusive mother. I didn’t know they’d operated that recently. Frank McCourt-style memories of mothers talking about priests don’t get at what she describes in the opening of her editorial response to the Pope’s “apology”:
When I was a child, Ireland was a Catholic theocracy. If a bishop came walking down the street, people would move to make a path for him. If a bishop attended a national sporting event, the team would kneel to kiss his ring. If someone made a mistake, instead of saying, “Nobody’s perfect,” we said, “Ah sure, it could happen to a bishop.”
This made me think about the opening of one of Chris Marker’s films, when he talks about the Old Russia and how the czar’s people would smack someone who didn’t take their hat off and bow, and how whenever you talk about Revolution and the good and bad of it, you have to remember that that’s where it started. And this part made me cry:
We worked in the basement, washing priests’ clothes in sinks with cold water and bars of soap. We studied math and typing. We had limited contact with our families. We earned no wages. One of the nuns, at least, was kind to me and gave me my first guitar.
She doesn’t give the exact dates but it was probably no more than a dozen years from then, from that first guitar from the kind nun, to being discovered and the “Lion and the Cobra” and the breakthrough with “Nothing Compares” and then to that night on SNL. People think artists take on unpopular views because they want attention, that it’s an affectation, that they’re just not serious people like the rest of us and they should shut up and play. And of course there are some where that’s an understandable response. But I think with someone like her, being so public so young, without the ideological training that is the passage through prestigious institutions that other types of public figures go through, you get something real and raw and beautiful, and more often than not, people just don’t know what to do with that. We bitch about the superficiality of popular artists, and then when one isn’t, we freak out at their sincerity. She must be crazy, or else she doesn’t really mean it.
Well she wasn’t, and she did. And I wish it had been her reedy version of “Streets of London” I’d heard on those car trips, because that voice can (almost) make me believe in something like a holy spirit, which she says she believes in in spite of it all, and even if not, it’s a voice I’d like to remember in my senile years.
A Maximal Minimalist
Recently I went to some galleries with a young painter. The galleries didn’t do much for me – how often they don’t – but the afternoon yielded me some framed New Yorker covers I bought on the street. And it yielded me something he said: “Everyone’s a minimalist or a maximalist.”
One of the hardest things when you’re young is knowing what you like. I think the young are often pretentious out of something of a good impulse: they don’t know what they like so they try to like everything, or at least all the right things. We blame universities and over-intellectualizing for taking us away from what we like, from that natural state of love we once had for reading, or looking, or listening, or what have you. And maybe it’s true for some. But for me, at 15, at 20, and sometimes even at 25, the question “Do you like it?” instilled terror. It wasn’t that I didn’t like things, it was just that there seemed to be no pattern, no way to describe it.
Like the best friends or the best partners, the best teachers hold up a mirror. I remember Anna Deveare Smith giving a talk at NYU, and she said, the best thing a teacher did for me was tell me I was funny. One of the most romantic pieces of writing I know is “He and I” by Natalia Ginzburg, which begins “He always feels hot, I always feel cold.”
So, if ten or fifteen years ago, I’d been at a gallery and some had asked, are you a minimalist or a maximalist, I would have gone into a panic. Instead, now, when he said it I said “ah, so that’s what Synecdoche, NY was really about! Catherine Keener and Philip Seymour Hoffman are doomed from the start because she’s a minimalist and he’s a maximalist.”
This week, Poet Laureate Kay Ryan spoke at my school. She was a great reader and performer, and the students loved the way she slowed down her readings of her tight little puzzle poems. At one point she talked about how things like taste are pretty set early on, and read “After Zeno,” which she wrote when she was 19 following her father’s death, years before she started publishing, and which starts:
When he was
I was.
But I still am
and he is still.
Immediately I thought of Lydia Davis, who does something similar in “Grammar Questions,” also about a father: “Now, during the time he is dying, can I say, “this is where he lives”?
So there you would seem to have it: two versions of the minimalist, in poetry and in sort-of prose, which nevertheless aspires to the condition etc. It is perhaps not accidental that in slogging through Infinite Jest (how the maximalists must announce themselves in their titles, as if we couldn’t tell!) I keep thinking, look at all the hidden gems – you could have hundreds of beautiful poems here, if you pulled them out, if only they were fifty words on a page, where people could see them!
But I also think of this, another poet mourning a parent : “towards education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school and learning to be mad, in a dream – what is this life?” And later, this – “The key is in the window, the key is in the sunlight at the window – I have the key – Get married Allen don’t take drugs – the key is in the bars, in the sunlight in the window. Love, your mother’ which is Naomi – “
Which takes me back again to the same question: why not say what happened, why not say her words? What will it be: to say nothing (and everything) of a life, or to say everything (and nothing)?
Long-Ass Mad Men Post, In honor of Carla and not illustrated by a photo of Deborah Lacey
(Lots of spoilers)
As folks who know me know, I’m more than a little Mad Men obsessed. I wrote a whole honest to god essay about Betty Draper (Francis) at the start of the season this summer. I’ve had multiple dreams about the show (more about that later) . More than that, though I think it’s probably permeated my thoughts over a longer period of time, and I’ve had more discussions, with more people, about how they’ve responded to it, often in a deeply personal way, than just about any other work of art in any medium that I can think of. That the thing this is true about happens to be a television show would have bothered me once upon a time, but it doesn’t now.
Sunday, I had some folks over to watch the finale. As it unfolded, we started asking each other, “Is this really happening?” as if we expected Don to reassure us “It will surprise you how much this never happened” and Allison to insist “This really happened.” Which it did: he really proposes to Megan, he really says all those gooey things with that glazed look that we’ve only seen when he was trying to sell furs to Roger in a flashback, things that he referred to in the very first episode as “invented by guys like me to sell you nylons.” When Joan and Peggy shared their conspiratorial cigarettes, I was delighted, not only for a hint of solidarity to conclude this season of the rise of the working woman, but because after the long slog out in California, we finally saw that someone besides us thought this was ridiculous, that we’re allowed to laugh at him.
So, Don. Don Don Don Don. Perhaps this says something about my level of cynicism, but I was more annoyed and angry with Don after this episode than ever before, including when he blacked out and forgot to pick up his kids. The problem is, I don’t know if this is his fault, or the show’s. I don’t know if I hated it, like Amanda did. I do think it was crazy to dump the firm storyline so completely: I’m happy as anyone to see Peggy triumph, but panty hose ain’t going to cut it. Overall, I have this weird trust in the show, that they’re fucking with us on purpose, giving a finale that’s not really a finale, making us wait to see exactly when Don is going to snap out of it. But why did he fall into it in the first place? Does the guy just go crazy every time he goes to California? (As one of my friends mentioned on Sunday, we never really found out what was going on with those international playboy types he ran away to in season two.) I get that it’s kind of a twist from the earlier Don-almost-improves-but-then-runs-away scenarios, running away from a marriage and and running into one are almost the same thing. Exactly how did he get from mourning Anna to this?
But then I think, maybe this is why it’s a brilliant show, maybe not everyone would react this way, maybe someone like Megan to take care of him is the best he can do, since he’s certainly terrible at being single. And hey, once’s he’s married he’ll have better luck scoring again. (When he’s married to a brunette, will he start cheating with blonds?) I mean, I don’t really think this, I actually want Faye to blackmail his ass. But I imagine how people might have a very different reaction, and how all throughout the California interlude, you’re trying to see what Don is signaling, how deep the self-deception goes, or if an actor thinks of it in terms of self-deception in order to put it forward.
But here’s what I’m thinking about the most: Betty and Carla. Peggy and Joan may be able to reach across the divide, but not these two, not in this life. How absolutely infuriating that Carla finally gets some lines but only when she’s being dispatched from the Francis household and, presumably, the show? In one of my recent Mad Men dreams (yes, there have been more than one), I was pitching a show to Matthew Weiner, saying that he should do an episode that follows Carla home, and shows her teenage son, recently politicized, taking her on for working for someone like Betty. In a Times interview, Weiner defends the lack of black characters by saying that was the reality of advertising at the time, but I don’t buy it: they showed us Peggy’s family, which is anything but part of that world, why not Carla’s? I find it telling that The Wire was so good at showing us black (male) characters, and Mad Men is so so good with white (female) characters, but never the twain presumably can meet, as if we’re all like Peggy and Abe in the bar, arguing about who has it worse, unable to take in more than one injustice or struggle at a time. Then things got really weird: I was looking on IMDB, and Deborah Lacey, the actress who plays Carla, isn’t listed on the full cast list. Just not there. And the only photos I can find of her won’t upload onto the blog. Is the whole internet trying to play some meta-dark joke commentary? Forget one episode: as a commentator on this great post by Sady about Betty’s sad silences puts it, “I want to know about the sadnesses and losses of Carla. That ought to fill up a few seasons. Or a few dozen.” .
My other Mad Men dream? Jon Hamm with a Tom Selleck moustache representing himself in court in his divorce from Megan. It’s going to be a long wait until the next season.
ETA: Here is a great piece by Salamishah Tillet on the show’s “All of the blacks are men, all of the women are white” problem, complete with the photo of Deborah Lacey I can’t upload.
ETA: Finding this picture of what Ida Blankenship really looks like almost makes up for everything.
Poetry Corner
The other day I wrote a long, intemperate post on the subject of Jonathan Franzen. (Short version: I think I know why Freedom is not the Great American whatever, which is, as Frank Norris once wrote, not extinct like the dodo, but mythical like the hippogriff, but I don’t want to read it just to see if I’m right.) Then I thought better of it and deleted it. Then today, I was reading about how Freedom wasn’t nominated for a National Book Award, and I thought, that’s why I deleted it: ultimately you can’t spend your time with things like that. So I looked instead at what was nominated: how great that Patti Smith’s amazing Just Kids is in the mix. And then I noticed that Kathleen Graber was nominated for poetry. I used to teach with Kathleen back at NYU – I didn’t know her very well, but she always had a stack of beautiful books that she’d carry around tied together with a sash or a rope, which I got a kick out of because it made me think about that scene in Rope, but it also because it’s just a beautiful way to carry books. Once in a while we had readings in the program I taught at, and she’d read something just so breathtaking I can remember exactly the lines and how she read them. Stuff like this. So I looked up her new book of poems, the book that got nominated, and it turns out it was inspired by a Joseph Brodsky essay about Marcus Aurelius and that when she was writing it she would alternate between reading his meditations, writing a poem, and cleaning out her garage, inspired by Aurelius stoic injunctions against attachment. File that one away under the practical uses of poetry and philosophy.
So, in such a spirit of detachment, godspeed, Jonathan Franzen. I meant you no harm. I’m sure you and Freedom and the great American whatever will be fine. In the meantime, I’ll be reading The Eternal City.