Happy New Year!
I assume, gentle reader, that you have gorged on redundant texts, maybe even some podcasts, taking familiar positions on the obvious issues of the day, with the expected emotions proudly displayed . . . “Sounds like radio.” As a friend says, “It’s all ‘the country sucks and the world is dying,’ over and over again.” It’s fulsome. After the holidays one needs to rest up for the football finals. Besides, I want to wish many of you Happy New Year.
Really. You know, happy. Despite everything. I will get back to my terribly important thoughts on the vital issues of the day in due course. This Intermittent Signal is about things that brought me a smile recently. Not as good as a baby dancing, and not even always a nice smile, mind you! But I have been musing on, even trying to cultivate, a sort of angelic laughter, a version of the Southern “bless your sweet heart” delivered from a great height. Sylvan and elven, somehow. The cry of cranes on a winter evening, tinkling down on our foibles and even sins, especially my own.
So, for example: Harvard Crimson on Prepping University Presidents for Congress. There is an enormous amount to say here, almost all of it bad, but the episode is also hilarious. Long ago, I was a young associate at the law firm in question, now called WilmerHale, and I remain in some regards quite fond of the institution. I even remain in some regards fond of Harvard. But sometimes the smartest people and the best lawyers are not . . . Well, bless your sweet heart! We will come back to my grandmother later in the show.
Occasionally somebody sends me work that needs stealing, and I republish it here, especially if I’m feeling lazy. Below is a colloquy with my cousin, the artist Tom Root. I probably should have made it into a podcast, but it is winter and ambient noise is high, to say nothing of the holiday ruckus. Recording will have to wait.
Alternative Moderns (Modern Art/Politics)
Out of the blue, Tom wrote:
"Surely the Great War did much to end the European tradition, at least as reconfigured in the 19th century. But the modernism that Picasso himself had done so much to introduce had just as surely introduced horrors." [Responding to me, in Thanksgiving, Suckling with Picasso, Seen First]
The parallels cannot be missed between early/mid 20th taste for political dictatorship and the worship of those creative geniuses in the arts who broke the forms in order to remake them in their own singular visions--and the celebration of artistic imperiousness in general. I have no idea what to make of those parallels (not much, I'd think) but they are just there to be seen marching together, don't you think? Btw, I'm not tsk-tsking, as I deeply love some of this work and also guess it had to happen--the shedding of the 19th century reconfiguration that you mentioned--but there was clearly an intoxicating whiff of something in the air, the same something, I think.
So, I don't know if we are worse off or better off politically in our own troubled times for having no art to speak of. [Wow.]
Stravinsky's Les Noches (The Wedding) from 1923 is a stunning work that maybe you know. It has all of the elements: the brutality, the breathtaking released force from the breaking the old forms, the severe but gorgeous architecture, the notion of deep sources of uncorrupted folk energy (hmm, what would that look like in a political program?) and this brand new language of straight lines and right angles of the choreography (anti-serpentine line-of-beauty). [Tom’s daughter is a professional ballerina.]
Somewhere there are filmed interviews w/ members of the Royal Ballet (I think) recalling the impossibly demanding and seemingly arbitrary iron rule of original choreographer Bronislava Nijinska (Nijinsky's sister) who oversaw a revival of the piece.
Anyway, if you get the chance, watch the first half anyway to get the flavor. It's one of my very favorite things. (And turn it up!)
I responded:
This is brilliant, and I might use it in a subsequent Intermittent Signal. Thank you.
Thanks also for sending Stravinsky, lots of family at moment but will devote some space. For now:
If we tell Picasso vs. Matisse as a fable about the fate of “the painting” as a cultural focus of North Atlantic society, I would argue that Picasso “won” in the sense that he defined what “the artist” was about, and what/why paintings were significant. [Or used to be.] And in setting off the art market we know today, the certification, commodification of “genius,” which we recognize as brand . . .
There is the question of genius/authority/tyranny, as you say.
One also wonders about the sustainability of a modernism so defined, particularly since it seems kind of dead (“no art to speak of”).
Much of “modern” means “different from how we have been doing it” – the term is inherently parasitic, “post.” An awful lot of Picasso’s reflections on the classical tradition seem to require a really deep knowledge of the tradition. But what if one cannot rely on such knowledge? How then is “modernism” possible?
One possibility, and in contrast, there’s a really big Rothko exhibit in Paris right now – a friend visited – and I’ve seen a bit of Rothko, in New York and, years ago, at the Rothko Chapel at the Menil, in Houston. I’m not sure what the hell to make of this, after a while. Big, ponderous, but if it conveys meaning, it does so because it changes/deepens/draws upon a tradition of [semi worship] standing in front of a painting and having an experience. But it does not require you to know much about art.
In painting, I started to write a snarky piece on the dumbing down of MoMA. It’s largely organized by now orthodox NYT categories and perspectives. It has become haute bourgeois, sort of, celebrating pet “transgressions.” (That said, there is still lots of brilliance.) Have not gotten around to that essay. But as I suggest but don’t develop here, there is a real sense in which MoMA is not modern. Which is fine, “modern” isn’t ipso facto “good,” and certainly not the only good. But a bit of false consciousness.
And then there is this Bellini & Georgioni 1500 as Birth of Our Understanding of Painting.
We wrote about the concept of “modern” a lot in Getting Through Security – it’s huge looming and unarticulated issue in anthropology, which was sort of defined as the recording of the premodern before it succumbed to the modern. So now, how to deal with the modern? What the hell is modern? To say nothing of “progressive.”
One is forced to speculate what would have happened to the culture if Matisse had won? In other words, leaned into an educated bourgeoisie? Robert Hughes seems to have asked that, en passant, as it must be. Maybe such a “modern” tradition in painting would have just been an extension of the 19th century reconfiguration? But maybe one could imagine contemporary life that saw itself as sweet? Matisse on decoration? Was that a way forward that we did not take, but might have? Would that contemporary seem richer, less banal, than ours?
Anyway, enough note taking, musing – thanks again.
* * *
You are right about the Stravinsky. It’s kind of scary, actually, in hindsight. Not just the straight lines, but the piling of bodies.
No, I didn’t know it. Should have. Thanks.
Tom wrote:
I haven't looked at a Rothko with much intention. I would like to see the show, but am on guard a bit about the too-willing sentimentality of such experiences: the big white museum temple with those evenly spaced monolith-like images--of course I'm going to have an experience--but what is it? Christo is the same way--the experience becomes about me and openness and possibilities and whatever and it's intoxicating--Rothko and the curator working together to give me this thing. But what do I have afterwards? Is anything meaty there? It's a religious experience w/ no religion and nothing really too interesting artistically. I'd rather see messy de Koonings that do not attempt to leapfrog the physical experience of paint and hand.
But of course I would be moved by the show. We are all moved by things bigger than we are and by repetition...like Stonehenge and Abu Simbel.
That's Alex Katz's trick: Make the most inane representations really, really big and make them impossibly smooth and cool and put them in a warmly lit white museum room and those dumb images overwhelm and force a kind of respect. But these are pretty basic tools of the artist, and, yes, powerful ones, but I'm getting weary of the trick. Motherwell started this, I think. It's a bit like watching a giant grizzly eat a giant salmon on an IMAX screen--it forces an experience that is not exactly about the salmon and bear, but more about the screen and me.
Anyway, I'd better get to work.
* * *
You really opened up a lot of topics there, you know. The tradition will be sustained by artists in obscurity or at court. It's been going since the caves and no one will listen to Danto in 50 years.
* * *
I'm more worried about democracy than art.
I responded:
My, not getting a lot of (your) work done, are we? 😊 Sitting by stove. Drove into lake effect event last night, big adventure. I’d forgotten how impressive it is – I leave the school bone dry, get almost home, and the roads are really dangerous.
Yeah, I know, a lot of questions. I too am confident people will still make two dimensional images, as you say, have been doing so since the caves. But what they think they are doing – the tradition in which they think they are participating – has a history. As do the ways in which people see, appreciate, experience, etc. So I said the tradition “so defined,” here exemplified by Picasso, both for artistic practice but also for a public/audience. And it was clear that painting once meant things, for the US, or the French, republics in ways that they don’t, now. Which you also said (“are we better off . . . “). And as a cultural critic, looking at broader meanings, I find that shift in the role of “art” in our collective “we” fascinating.
[If we are sliding into an authoritarian moment, we seem to be doing so without significant input from art, which nobody takes all that seriously. But maybe you don’t need art if you have algorithms.]
You may well be right about Motherwell starting a trend. Specific attribution would be an interesting historical question. I think you are right about Rothko. Christo just seems completely banal to me, though I confess a fondness for “Floating Islands.” But turning back to your comment about de Kooning – the presence of the hand, the physical difficulty of making a painting. (And one sees that in Picasso, too, of course.). Not sure what to call the trend. Anti-technique? Works by scale, repetition, color, framing (this IS ART, so now emote), etc.
IF that is right, maybe the trend took off because it did not rely on an audience that understood drawing? I confess that I don’t really understand drawing, but my strong sense is that drawing was a part of elite and even middle class education for generations. But after the age of mechanical reproduction, as it were, the image is not seen as a product of an individual’s work, and much of the audience has no feel/experience for the kind of work it takes. So – to be charitable, as one should – maybe what Motherwell’s line is trying to do is find some way to do paintings that are legible, even moving, to people who are not sensitive to painting, certainly not in the sense of physical act, and probably not even in the sense that I am, of having seen/read/talked/thought a lot about paintings.
Democracy. Yeah.
Tom responded.
I define "work" as being at the studio, not the house, so I'm good.
I'm thinking Motherwell because he was early w/ the extreme simplicity + size thing, evoking the numinous or whatever. I like those paintings okay, but they sure take up a lot of wall space. I'm guessing he was the kind to use both chair arms in theater seating. Christo is banal to me, too, but I know I would have loved experiencing “The Gates” even as I rolled my eyes at others for experiencing them in exactly the same way, the I'm-having-an-experience-in-the-park-and-I-see-life-for-a-piercing-moment-as-a-glorious-unity way.
I know you meant this tradition, Renaissance-on. I made an evasive move. Sorry. I went looking for allies in the caves – maybe not allies, just mates – but I love those guys' work. What you say is really interesting – esp. about drawing and the uninitiated, etc. It's too thoughtful for me to engage w/ my flip midday mind, but it’s so perceptive.
* * *
Ok, maybe not ha-ha funny, but I did smile many times, reading and writing this over a few days. Isn’t that what intellectual life is supposed to be about? That’s probably too narrow. Certainly thinking is routinely hard, often unpleasant, sometimes sad. But we should just as certainly feel blessed when joys arise.
Peas and Prosperity
My paternal grandmother, from Alabama, made black eyed peas for New Year’s Day. “Peas for prosperity” she said. Every single year. Even if you only had a bite. I’m not sure why peas were supposed to bring prosperity, it was just so.
Once committed to the peas, Grandmama went on to make the entire meal, well more or less, “soul food,” to round things out. So, there would be ham, collard greens, and cornbread, usually made in cast iron molds in the shape of ears of corn. Clever. Years later I asked after the molds. They had been neglected, rusted, and sometime after her death were thrown out. Pity. There was usually a fruit salad, usually a “Waldorf” salad (apples, walnuts, celery, mayo, bit of citrus) which isn’t exactly traditional, except it was with her.
So now I too make black eyed peas, pretty much every year, even if not everybody eats them. Picky moderns.
The day before I rinse and sort the peas, then soak them overnight in a big pot. It’s good for rituals to have steps, and to take some time. This year I didn’t get around to cooking until the afternoon – family errands – so the peas got a really good long soak. Drain and rinse again, then fresh water in a big pot.
Don’t tell Grandmama, but I kind of went Southwest with these peas. To the pot I added:
-- the last bits of the Christmas ham, peppery and cloves and winter spices, saved for the purpose.
-- maybe half of what turned out to be a bizarrely strong onion.
-- some chopped fresh garlic.
-- some dried chipotles. I ground them up in a mortar. Using a mortar and pestle, literally stone age technology, is almost as satisfying as having, and using, good knives.
I was in a hurry by this point, and a little heavy handed. Use chipotles in stages, they vary a lot. Especially if you are also grinding the seeds, which can be truly hot.
-- cumin, oregano, dried cilantro, black pepper unless it was white, and a touch of salt.
Simmer for a few hours, baby.
The peas came out a bit too spicy, a fine excuse for sour cream and/or cheese. Some chopped fresh onions or cilantro would have been nice, but I didn’t have that, or think of it.
I drank some good strong beer, watched snatches of a bad football game over my son’s shoulder, and kept cooking. This is what it is about, I would think in the wee hours, sipping a decent vintage cava as it was going flat and writing, texts pinging, the household variously sleeping or out reveling, rocketry in the cul-de-sac.
I kept dinner in line with Grandmama’s theme, more or less. Pork chops, in ginger and black pepper, fried in the wok and finished on the grill. Should have made corn bread, but instead slow roasted some new potatoes, also on grill, halved, tossed with lots of ground rosemary, olive oil, bit of pepper. I really wanted collards or mustard greens, served with vinegar suffused with peppers. Sop up the pot likker with the cornbread. But I’m the only taker for real greens, so I cooked a bit of onion, carrot and tomato down to make a sort of ragout/broth, and sautéed a lot of fresh spinach in that. Was excellent mixed with the spicy peas and some sour cream.
One day maybe I’ll write a book about cooking. Not exactly a cookbook, although there will be lots of “here’s what I made, and now you know how to, too.” As my brother once truly said, cookbooks should be read in bed. In this algorithmic age, I don’t think we need many more recipes, more instructions. Instead, conversation, drinking, thinking, and a bit of music. As above, something like that. We need experiences, ways to feel our worlds, unmediated by digits. Existentialism 2.0, I call it sometimes. And more importantly still, cooking gives us a chance to take care, and so to express love. As many people, mostly women, have known forever, but some things must always be learned anew, now more than ever, maybe.
A Parable
I recently wrote about the sense that something “modern,” or perhaps “the Enlightened liberal project,” might be ending, and that this posed terrible dangers (wars), but also, perhaps, hope. In response, a friend sent me this, near perfect:
“In my junior year three of us college boys went to discuss The Communist Manifesto in a prison with two real Communists, one of whom had been a university professor. We took ourselves seriously and he was not condescending. His daughter was a friend of my sister and my wife to be, and they all went to a school ran by German nuns.
Keep the faith.”
On that ecumenical note, I wish you, all of us, all the best for 2024.
— David A. Westbrook