December 21, 2012
I live in a country full of all kinds of people
A country based on freedom, on the idea that I have an inalienable right to my own belifs, and the right express those beliefs without being persecuted.
I understand this means my next door neighbors, those worshiping in a church down the street, across town, in another state, from another culture, don’t necessarily share my beliefs.
And I by living here I have explicitly agreed to co-exist with all these diverse individuals, groups, cultures, freaks, bozos, ignoramuses, deep and shallow thinkers, those who love and hate me, for whatever reasons.
So I extend respect to all my fellow citizens, and I tolerate them, and expect them to tolerate me, even when I’m irrascible.
By definition then, we are a tolerant nation. This experiment in tolerance has worked quite well, producing the best place to live on the planet. Not just at the moment, but the best place to live as a human being in the entire history of the human race.
Not only am I proud of this, but profoundly humbled. Why am I so lucky? Why is it I was born a white male in the mid-twentieth century in America? What did I do to derserve the life I enjoy, the wonderfu;ly diverse people I share this life with, the unprecedented opportunity to learn from all these people that tolerate me?
At times I have to compromise my beliefs in order to allow others that disagree with me to tell me what they think, why they think what they think. Yes, I have to allow the laws I live under to govern me. Often I grit my teeth at perceived injustices that I think are unnecessary.
And I am humbled in the knowledge that others have to grit their teeth to tolerate me.
All this makes me happy.
I have one simple request. If you do not want to tolerate me; if you disagree with me so much that you think I should conform to your way of thinking; then you should move somewhere else, because you are UnAmerican.
It is UnAmerican to not tolerate me. It is UnAmerican to not take my views into account. It is UnAmerican to not compromise or take me and others who don’t agree with you into account.
If you want to live in a society where you don’t have to compromise (I don’t really think such a society exists) then move somewhere else. I can suggest a couple of communist nations. Or perhaps you can discover a time machine and go to Germany or Italy in 1938. There was quite a society in Espana in the 1400s that might work well for you.
But if you decide America is where you want to live, I welcome you. Just keep always in mind that by living here you agree to compromise, so we can all live a better, more fair, more just, and more fulfilling life together.
September 7, 2012
My small back bowed
A scrap of insight
I watch my faithful friends
Bent and twisted under the burden
Taking comfort in our communion
Feel the weight grow
I do not know
How they rise
It is heavy
To straighten our backs
Every time we shut our eyes
We shrink to our knees
Every time the morning beckons
We beg to know
Like an honest prayer
That goes unanswered
September 5, 2012
Fun facts to consider before voting:
Over the last 50 years Republicans have occupied the White house 27 years, Democrats 23. During that time the US economy has created approximately 46 million jobs during the Democrats time, 23 million during the Republican occupation.
From 1948 to 1973, American worker’s productivity increased by 100%. During this period, the average worker’s hourly compensation ( wage plus benefits) increased by 100%. This period witnessed the largest growth in wealth ever in the history of humanity, as well as the largest expansion of the American middle class. With tax rates higher than current rates.
From 1973 to 2006, the year before the recession officially started, American worker’s productivity increased 80.1%. During this period, American worker’s average hourly compensation increased 10%.
The other 70% of weatlh generated during this period increased the wealth of high-income individuals and corporations, while tax rates went lower and lower, and the middle classs shrank.
The average American worker hasn’t seen a real gain in her or his purchasing power in over a decade. The way Americans have gotten by over the last 4 decades is by putting a second bread winner to work and borrowing more.
The last three recoveries from Recession has been ‘jobless.’ The Stock-Market has recovered; corporations have done well, and the jobs that have been created have been low paying jobs.
Americans work more hours, and spend less time with their families, than anyone else in the developed world, except China.
There is not one example in history that I can find where austerity measures alone stimulated an economy and increased tax revenues. In the one case most commonly cited, Ronald Reagan’s presidency, President Reagan cut taxes in 1981, then, when the deficit soared he raised taxes in 1982. It’s that tax increase that spawned the famous ‘Read my lips, no more taxes,’ statement by Bush Sr.
I suppose the other fact demonstrated here is that people don’t vote based on facts.
That’s one of the ‘flaws’ of Democracy, and one that I am willing to live with. The US experiment in Democracy is a leap of faith, a belief in something like Christian Charity, or the Islamic principle that you have a moral obligation to feed and shelter your fellow traveler.
Will we live up to our religious principles?
Reading Kristen-Paige Madonia's Fingerprints of You, and certain passages strike home.
p.38: Inner voice of Lemon, a 17 year old pregnant girl who has never known her father, who resents her mother for moving her around so much as a child;
I remember our shitty little house with the stained carpet and the worn-out couch waiting for us on the other side of town, and I realized I'd spent most of my childhood being angry at her (Mom) for making us live like that, for not having enough money for us to rent a nicer home, and for refusing to pick a place to settle in.
August 25, 2012
Reading Kristen-Paige Madonia’s Fingerprints of You, and certain passages strike home.
p.38: Inner voice of Lemon, a 17 year old pregnant girl who has never known her father, who resents her mother for moving her around so much as a child;
I remember our shitty little house with the stained carpet and the worn-out couch waiting for us on the other side of town, and I realized I’d spent most of my childhood being angry at her (Mom) for making us live like that, for not having enough money for us to rent a nicer home, and for refusing to pick a place to settle in. (End of Quote)
I have a similar situation in my family now, adult kids struggling with their resentment of moving a lot when they were young, of Mom being married multiple times and having boyfriends, of feeling when they were kids they didn’t have all the fancy stuff their peers had, because Mom bought thrift store Polos, cut the little guy on his horse off and sewed him onto their cheap shirts, because Mom pursued her art instead of a steady job. Mom’s hashed this out with them many times, but somehow it hasn’t been enough, though the kids have their own kids now, beautiful kids, like their parents, who are responsible and capable and articulate and are good people in large part because Mom has always provided for them, still provides for them, is committed to her children and grandchildren as if they were still her vulnerable little tots, which in many ways they are.
Lemon again, on p. 93, talking to her friend Emmy as they ride on a Greyhound bus across the country, to San Francisco to find her father;
“I wanted to believe she made the right choice for us,” I told her, “but I just couldn’t help being pissed off. It’s like sometimes I blame her for not making a family out of us, but then sometimes I know it was probably better that way,” I said. “He never came for me, so I figured he was a loser, the kind of guy who couldn’t handle being a real dad.” (End of Quote)
My wife’s son told me he’d reconciled with his father for not being there, that they’d never be friends, but they’d been able to talk about things in a way he couldn’t get his Mom to talk about things, and they’d come to terms. Yet I’ve been there more than once when the kids ganged up on their Mom, telling her how bad she was to them, how awful it was to live in a funky house full of art and artists, in the wrong part of town, how embarrassed they were that their mother made a living cleaning other people’s houses and traveling to art shows to sell her paintings, how she abandoned them when they were teenagers when she got an apartment close by and let her daughter’s boyfriend’s Aunt move into their house for a short while, and Mom apologizing and defending herself, until all any of us were doing was repeating ourselves. It’s hard for me to imagine what else could be said, what words from her could dig up and dissipate feelings that have been shunted aside since childhood.
I haven”t finished Fingerprints of You yet, but I last night I read these passages to my wife, and I told her that I’m guessing Lemon comes to terms with her mother by the end of the novel, that she comes to realize that even her mother’s mistakes were the best she could do, and that part of becoming an adult means accepting responsibility for who you are, giving up the impulse to blame others for your emotions.
My parents always felt guilty for breaking up our home, for the protracted nastiness of the custody battle, for using us kids against the other parent. My sister and I dealt with the divorce in different, often unhealthy ways. My not blaming my parents may be the best thing I ever did for myself.
I hope to finish Fingerprints of You this evening, am anxious to see how Lemon grows up.
July 18, 2012
Attending Robert Boswell’s Fiction for Serious Writer’s Workshop at the Taos Summer Writer’s Conference.
Love Boz’s approach, his insistence that writing be art, not merely craft, that craft underpins art, yes, but when well executed stays in the background of the piece, almost unseen, doing it’s multifarious job, like jesso and scraped layers of paint on canvas.
Increasingly I understand writing as analogous to painting. I look at a recent piece of Peggy’s (my wife, Peggy McGivern,) ‘Indian Pony Dream,’ and the blue-gray shadows defining the pony’s dominant-white body are a turn of phrase with multiple meanings, without too definite a line, and the more powerful for it.
My eyes read over a wavy block of color without noticing the technique, the brushstrokes, showing me withers, ribcage, health and wild beauty standing in high grasses, provoking emotion and imagination, a phrase I can dissect in subsequent readings and analysis, an Alice Munro story offering more pleasure the more I look.
Peggy is experimenting with abstraction, and I, too, am learning how to give myself permission, permission to scrape words from my pages, see what stubbornly persists despite the razor’s edge, despite my habits and previous understanding.
My workshop mates and I are like the ponies flying dreamlike in the sky of the painting, our inner world to make manifest on the canvas and pages of experience, the evolution of memories, a new ingrained habit to use and overcome.
Taos Mountain looms in the background of our pony dreams and inspires us with beauty and novelty. I walk out of a spirited session, my mind galloping somewhere between dreams and realities, and I don’t want to drift down from the sky, even though the high desert beckons, its impossible light on the chamisa, sage, adobe, and my mind nourishing and ecstatically real. How can I maintain this ill-equilibrium, this equine existence reduced to its core?
I will not worry with that. Today I can run with my ponies through the high grass, reaching for the sky.
July 8, 2012
This was in last week’s Taos News, letter to the editor. Life is a work of art here, visual, intellectual, spiritual, all aspects; her I feel life can truly be what you make of it.
My Taos Memory
I recently visited Taos for the celebration of a family member’s life. Her passing was sudden and a shock to us all.
Some of my family and I, who traveled to New Mexico from across the country, stayed at the Hampton Inn. Each morning I would sit in the lobby dnjoying a cup of coffee, but feeling the loss of Sandi.
A very talented gentleman played Native American flute in the lobby each morning. I now know art is not only for the eyes. This man’s artistry took my mind to places it needed to be, a little closer to heaven. The music both calmed and relaxed and I saw why my sister-in-law and brother chose to spend their years together here. The air is clear, the people more than friendly and, as I know now, an incredible source of peace. \
God must love New Mexico.
New Jersey Visitor
June 25, 2012
Below is an email thread between a philosopher, a painter and a writer. Chronologically it starts at the bottom.
“I think paintng is about our most subtle emotional response in our lives, you can paint anything, really, all our feelings.”
The Harwood Museum in Taos currently has an exhibition of Agnes Martin’s abstracts. Several letters are also displayed. Along with the quote above Agnes talks about the process of creating art. Agnes would spend 3 months doing 100 paintings, just to destroy them all. She accepted this as a logical part of the process of creating great art.
It seems that Agnes believes art works both ways, as Dan wants to do. Her intention is not just to paint her feelings, but for us to experience those feeling through our experience of her painting them. Her destroyed paintings may be anaologous to Edmundson’s understanding of the current role of rap, rock-n-roll, and pop music. She excoriates a photographer friend for wasting her talent and the all too short time and opportunities life offers us, by settling for mediocre photography.
“I am by trade a novelist. It is, I think, a harmless trade, though it is not everywhere considered a respectable one. Novelists put dirty language into the mounths of their characters, and they show these characters fornicating or going to the toilet. Moreover, it is not a useful (original italics) trade, as is that of the carpenter or the pastry cook. The novelist passes the time for you between one useful action and another; he helps to fill the gaps that appear in the serious fabric of living. He is a mere entertainer, a kind of clown….” And later in the same essay: “…an optimistic view of human life is as valid as a pessimistic one. But whose life do we mean- that of the entire race or that of the inconspicuous fragment of it each of us calls ‘myself’? I think I am an optimist about man: I think his race will survive, I think- however slowly or painfully- he will solve his major problems just because he is aware of them. As for myself, all I can say is that I am growing old, my sight is blurring, my teeth always need attention, I cannot eat or drink as much as I once did, I am more and more frequently bored. I cannot remember names, my reason works slowly, I have spasms of envy of the young and of resentment at my own imminent decay. If I had a burning faith in personal survival, this gloom os senescence might be greatly mitigated. But I have lost this faith and am unlikely to recover it. Sometimes I have a desire for immediate annihilation, but the urge to remain alive always supervenes. There are consolations- love, literature, music, the colorful life of the southern city in which I spend much of my time- but these are very fitful.”
Anthony Burgess, in a recent New Yorker essay commenting on the long-term understanding of the movie version of his novel The Clockwork Orange.
Burgess here laments an interpretation of his work, one that obscures and eclipses his art’s ability to evoke the emotions he intended.
Ed emphasizes the importance of art for our lives, our culture, the continued viability of civilization itself. Burgess thinks it will all work out in the end, though he’s not willing to speculate how. Agnes, I think, would have been aghast at Burgesses late-in-life shrugging of his shoulders, of Edmundson’s students’ lack of will. I tend to think Edmundson is right, most people are content to be, are not willing to put out out the effort to attempt to understand. And why should they? Have the philosophers given any definitive answers? Isn’t religion being made a fool by science? Isn’t the experience of visual art more demanding than pop music? (pop music = Kincaid = romance/mystery/thriller novels/movies?)
The three of us are having a conversation about the experience of art. Ed rgihtly points out that we each bring unique cultural baggage not just to the experience, but also to our attempt to understand that experience, and our understanding of the explanation/articulation of that experience. And none of us got very far without invoking someone else’s understanding.
Ala Mode to that is the fact that only a small portion of our brethren ever think about such things, and that we are doing so probably adds to our sense of uniqueness in a perverse manner, even if we profess to advocate the importance of these fundamental experiences for human existence and meaning. Note I didn’t say aesthetic experience wasn’t important to our brethren, only that they didn’t dwell on it or maybe even care about that importance. Pass the hot wings.
I accepted that what I enjoy writing at best will be appreciated by a small audience. After workshopping and finishing my first novel I decided I needed to write a page-turner to get noticed. Maybe after appearing in print more I can then retreat into what is important for me. My rationale is that there are so many people in the world there will always be an audience for even my erudition. But I am failing. My new book languishes as I sit in front of the computer and out comes a poem or a story, as if I had been infectd by the same virus I see inhabiting Peggy. And that’s fine.
I guess my virus is a weak version of Agnes Martin. I’ll take it, and live with the fact no one wants to pay me for it.
From: “Ed Lawry”
To: “Peter Stravlo”
Cc: “Dan Ellis”
Sent: Monday, June 4, 2012 9:56:15 AM
Subject: Re: artist and audience 02, modernists via Kant
Dan and Peter,
Just read this after I posted my latest email. Edmundson says a lot more about the appreciation of art (and says it more entertainingly!) than I did.
The Chronicle Review
June 3, 2012
Can Music Save Your Life?
Tim MacPherson, Cultura, Aurora Photos
By Mark Edmundson
Who hasn’t at least once had the feeling of being remade through music? Who is there who doesn’t date a new phase in life to hearing this or that symphony or song? I heard it—we say—and everything changed. I heard it, and a gate flew open and I walked through. But does music constantly provide revelation—or does it have some other effects, maybe less desirable?
For those of us who teach, the question is especially pressing. Our students tend to spend hours a day plugged into their tunes. Yet, at least in my experience, they are reluctant to talk about music. They’ll talk about sex, they’ll talk about drugs—but rock ‘n’ roll, or whatever else they may be listening to, is off-limits. What’s going on there?
When I first heard Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” in 1965, not long after it came out, I was amazed. At the time, I liked to listen to pop on the radio—the Beatles were fine, the Stones were better. But nothing I’d heard until then prepared me for Dylan’s song. It had all the fluent joy of a pop number, but something else was going on too. This song was about lyrics: language. Dylan wasn’t chanting some truism about being in love or wanting to get free or wasted for the weekend. He had something to say. He was exasperated. He was pissed off. He’d clearly been betrayed by somebody, or a whole nest of somebodies, and he was letting them have it. His words were exuberantly weird and sometimes almost embarrassingly inventive—and I didn’t know what they all meant. “You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat / Who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat.” Chrome horse? Diplomat? What?
I sensed Dylan’s disdain and his fury, but the song suggested way more than it declared. This was a sidewinder of a song—intense and angry, but indirect and riddling too. I tried to hear every line—Dylan’s voice seemed garbled, and our phonograph wasn’t new. I can still see myself with my head cocked to the spindle, eyes clenched, trying to shut out the room around me as I strained to grab the words from the harsh melodious wind of the song. “Ain’t it hard when you discovered that / He really wasn’t where it’s at / After he took from you everything he could steal.”
I couldn’t listen to that song enough. I’d liked music before that. I’d liked stuff I’d heard on the radio; I’d even liked the Beethoven and the Mahler that my father played at top volume on Sunday mornings, though I never would have admitted as much to him. But Dylan was different. Other music made me temporarily happy, or tranquil, or energized. But this music made me puzzled. There was something in the grooves that I wasn’t getting. There was something in the mix of the easy, available pop hook and the grating voice and elliptical words that signaled in the direction of experiences I hadn’t had yet, and maybe never would. The song made me feel that life was larger than I had thought and made me want to find out what I was missing.
That song kicked open a door in my mind—to borrow a phrase Bruce Springsteen used to describe his own experience with it. But to be honest, in time that door may have gotten a little rusty from lack of use. Because really, after I heard “Like a Rolling Stone” on the radio and bought the single and listened to it 50 or so times, I put it away. I never went out to cop a Dylan album. I never even thought much about the guy for the next five years.
I went back to what you might call music-as-usual: using music to tune my moods. It was as though I was myself an instrument, and I was playing away, but in a perpetual state of disharmony. I was out of whack with myself, out of tune (at 16, who isn’t?), living in a mash of discordant feelings and thoughts.
I wanted things, a lot of things—but I wasn’t always sure what they were. I wanted a girlfriend, but after a certain point, I didn’t much want any of the girls at school (nor they me). I wanted to be an athlete, but games often bored me, and the school jocks could be hard to take. I wanted to be right with God, but when the time came to go to confession, I often had so many sins on the docket that I despaired of getting them lined up properly before the judgment seat.
So I had a lot of static inside. My inner life resembled what my aged radio—red, the size of a toaster, and badly chipped—emitted when I swirled the dial from one pop station to another. It gave off the sound of chaos and the feel of the crackling void. But soon I arrived safely on the shores of WMEX, and there was Arnie Woo Woo Ginsburg, up until all hours, ready to maître d’ me into the sounds of the Beach Boys, the Beatles, Jan and Dean, the Stones.
Then all of my jarring and jangling emotions went into the radio and came back out making melodious sense. It was a little like what happened when my mother washed my clothes. She’d trudge down to the basement with my raunchy jeans and T-shirts, my stained football pants and jerseys, and an hour or two later, there came my laundry back in pleasant white piles. The football stuff was folded into a mound that looked like a fluffy loaf of just-baked bread.
Of course, some of the songs I listened to were sad, but sadness lies latent in the soul. We are always sad to some degree. The sadness in a Leonard Cohen song or the Beatles’ “Norwegian Wood” was different from the sadness that inhabited my spirit. The musical sadness was melodious: It had a shape, it made sense, it flowed along almost predictable lines. I won’t say that musical sadness exorcized my sorrows, but the music gave my sadness a benign expression. It put my sadness in an attractive box. It let me feel sadness from a distance. I experienced my grief over my younger sister’s death, which had taken place a few years before, but I was able to contemplate that grief at the same time. It’s difficult to express.
Music makes life melodious—assuming that the music has a melody. But life is often jarring. Pop music suggests, by its easy, pleasurable repetitions, that life makes sense. We can pretend, for the duration of a song, that there is harmony in our lives. The music of Beethoven or of Coltrane is also patterned, but the patterns are harder to find. You have to listen closely—you have to have an educated ear. You feel that you’re almost collaborating with the composer when you seek out the subtle echoes and indirect recapitulations. Life makes some sense to Beethoven and Coltrane, but it is a difficult, remote way that is not available to all and that can wink out in an instant.
In Beethoven’s late quartets, the coherence can be unbearably elusive. Is this music all about theme and variation? I once asked my father, hoping to grab his attention in the midst of something by Brahms. All music is theme and variation, he said. But how attenuated that variation can be! We might listen to a piece of music pining for a phrase that will connect us to something we have heard before, something that reveals an overall structure. In Coltrane’s late work, I sometimes can find no consistency of theme, no unity of sound, try as I might. I wonder if his impulse was to turn against sense-making through music and declare life to be incoherent—”a tale told by an idiot,” as the poet says, “full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
Usually, though, music gives harmony to feeling and suggests a sense to life. I wonder: Do we sometimes go to music to hide from our fears that the world makes no sense at all? Do we seek in music’s harmonies a way to stabilize an inner life that is incoherent and strange? Do we use music as a way to soothe ourselves into a kind of torpor, to quell in ourselves what we cannot understand?
Music does sometimes kick a door open inside the mind, but it also sometimes insulates the house, secures it from all wayward feelings and thoughts. And when a song does seem to kick a door open, we frequently listen to it over and over again until it loses its power and all of its passion is spent.
The philosopher Allan Bloom didn’t much care for the effect that music had on his students. He believed that they used music to counterfeit experience, in particular to fabricate joy. He said that music—rock music especially—reproduced in listeners the feelings of triumph that come from completing a great work of art or doing a heroic deed or making a conceptual breakthrough in science or philosophy—or even finding the true love of one’s life. Students, Bloom said, found in rock music a way to fabricate those emotions, and then they often took the logical next step and asked themselves, implicitly, Why bother going further? Why should one actually do the deed and put in all the work leading up to it, when one can have the reward simply by putting on some music or showing up at a concert?
Bloom compared the Dionysian experience of rock music to the experience of drugs: He seems to have had hallucinogens in mind. After a heavy dose of LSD, in which the world becomes a wondrous kaleidoscope of sound and sight and even thought, what can everyday experience possibly offer? It manifests itself as a gray world of sameness and routine, nothing like the Wonderland one has recently left. People who have dabbled with psychedelics often trudge through wearisome lives that never quite meet their expectations.
Just so, perhaps music lovers feel alive only when they are plugged in to their tunes: The rest of the time they have only themselves, and they are, in themselves, insufficient.
Bloom is a student of Plato, and his critique of students’ music echoes that philosopher’s and also the later views of Nietzsche. Plato thought that music had a critical educative function. To Plato the soul is, by its nature, split into three parts. There is the rational part, the spirited, and the appetitive. What’s wanted is to bring those parts into harmony, with reason ascendant. And music can do a great deal to stimulate that harmony. Melodious music helps to create a melodious soul. There is need for martial music, for Plato: Warriors must be inspired. What there is no need for is music that sends the soul into ecstasy, that lets appetite usurp reason and so makes a man or woman into a beast.
Nietzsche was a great lover of ecstatic music, at least when he was young. His drug of choice was Wagner, on whom he wrote copiously. Wagner’s music gave him a Dionysian thrill. It took him above the sobrieties of his classical education, churchly background, and tamped-down temperament. But did Wagner visit the same magic on the crowd? Sure, Nietzsche maybe needed to loosen up a bit. But did the already-wallowing common man need to unbind himself further from civilized restraint? In time, Nietzsche thought not. By the end of his life, he was drawn to light opera—Puccini, music of no overwhelming consequence at all.
My students, like Allan Bloom’s, live inside music. Their musical lives may well be their spiritual lives. It is hard to say, because they don’t talk about music very eagerly. In class I can get a conversation going about God with no problem. And students love talking about alcohol and its effects on the human mind and spirit, theirs in particular. A conversation about sex is easy to start and quickly goes way further than I’d imagine—and sometimes further than I want. But try asking about music.
Students listen to it for hours a day. They trot around the university grounds with headphones on; they plug into their tunes when they sit at their computers. Music, usually rap, is the iron-hard heart of their parties. There is surely a competition, at least among English-major types, about who listens to the most recondite bands. Sometimes students name them in discussions: the Fruit Bats, the Shins (now no longer obscure), Fatkid Dodgeball, Pimp the Cat, Full Throttle Aristotle, Disgruntled Sherpa Project. I sometimes make up a few myself and throw them into the mix.
But when I ask what role music plays in their lives or why they listen to what they do, there is silence. When I tell them what Plato had to say about music and that he’d disapprove of almost everything they listen to for being far too raucous, far too stirring, far too close to anarchy, they bristle and tell me that Plato is wrong. I ask them if listening to hard-core rap might influence their attitudes toward sex and money—major themes in rap, of course. They tell me that I’m being silly—which to me is a little like saying that the food you eat has nothing to do with how your body feels and how it functions.
But I speculate, and my speculation is this: Music brings drama to their lives. It makes them feel more vital, vigorous, intense. Because—students tell me this all the time—much of their real life is a mildly toxic combination of boring and stressful. Music turns boredom into drama and anxiety into equanimity. Listening to little-known cool bands puts young people in a club in which they can feel special and singular. It is cool to be a fan of an up-and-coming band—you can look down on others who join the jam too late. My students need the melody and the preciousness that music brings.
For life now is hard. It is as hard for my students as it was for me when I was their age. They are heaped with expectations. They are pressured to perform. Many are majoring in subjects that do not interest them at all. They are in their courses of study to succeed, to secure jobs. They grind away, in econ, say. Their prospects are shaky—they are worried about what is to come.
Does music save their lives? No, it preserves them, much as it did mine. Music allows you to tolerate dullness, muted, icy boredom. Music is a balm—a cortisone spread.
I say this because of the disparity between the wildness and freedom of the music and the lives my students live and want to live. This is the generation of no generation gap. These students are busy cloning their parents. They need music as a world elsewhere, just as I needed mine. And if that is true, no wonder the kids don’t like to talk analytically about their tunes.
Can music still kick open a door in your mind? I’m nearly sure of it. No doubt every day numberless young people—and a few older ones too—have the kind of experience that I did with “Like a Rolling Stone.”
But it’s worth asking what kind of door that song kicked open. What room, exactly, did I enter? Looking back, I guess the song helped me get excited about the possibilities in words. For what made the song different wasn’t its melody. That was wonderful, sure—the organ intro still makes me grin with happy expectation: Something fine is coming soon. But I’d heard other tunes just as gracefully intense. It was the lyrics that got me. I’d read other poetry then, though not much. But I thought poetry was by definition old stuff: moving in its way, but always out of date, a little like those Beethoven symphonies.
In Dylan I saw that music and lyrics could sound contemporary. Someone who listened to “Like a Rolling Stone” 50 times wouldn’t be entirely lost reading “The Waste Land” or even Wallace Stevens’s “Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction.” If you’ve met a “Napoleon in rags,” you might, with a little more effort, be able to reach terms with Stevens’s Canon Aspirin or even Nanzia Nunzio, who provokes Ozymandias to tell him that “the spouse / the bride is never naked,” whatever that means.
The door Dylan kicked open was into the world of words, and eventually, after five or eight years fluttering at the threshold, I made my way inside. In time, I began trying to write as well as to read, and I owe that to Dylan as much as to anyone.
If I’d had a little more musical inclination, the song would have made me want to make some songs of my own. I’d have wanted to bring across my own view of things in musical language as strange and funny as Dylan’s and phrased with his sense of inevitability. In fact, the best thing that hearing music can do for you is make you want to make your own.
I find it close to absurd that some people are musicians and singers and others are silent apostles who never let out a peep, maybe not even in the shower. Music seems like a basic human right, much like the right to prayer and the right to fall in love. Everyone’s got a right to sing his song—though no one should be compelled to listen to it.
The notion that people have to do our singing for us is, in some ways, a result of the mind-set developed under capitalism with its insistence on the division of labor, which, though it surely has its virtues, we have taken to an absurd degree. It’s amazing that thousands of people will pay a lot of money to go to a concert to watch 10 people on stage have the lions’ share of the fun.
I read recently that every Comanche warrior had his personal song, written for him by the wise man in his tribe, and modified by the singer as the mood arose. The warrior woke up singing it, sang it from time to time during the day, and hummed it when he was going to sleep at night. The song might go on about what a great hunter he was; how many buffalo he’d shot; what a formidable lover he could be; how tall and handsome. It was righteous music.
If music kicks in any door regularly, it’s the door that separates us from making music of our own. Sing, hum, strum, toot. It’s said that when the Diggers, a group of early hippies, were invited to a Saturday night Grateful Dead show and told they could come in gratis, they declined. Saturday night was the night that they toked up, got out their guitars, banjos, and harmonicas—for the more amateur, the pots and pans and clicking spoons—and made their own noise. They had fun.
The ultimate liberation that someone else’s music may provide is the liberation of you—the individual—into your own music, or your own creations, of whatever stripe.
Music can be a pleasure to listen to. But spending your life as a consumer and not a creator is a chump’s bet. Nietzsche said that eventually he judged music by one standard. How fertile did it make him? How much and how well did it inspire him to write? Many of us have been duped by consumer ideology. Consumerism says that life’s greatest pleasures are in consuming, in buying good stuff and enjoying it. But that’s wrong.
Life’s pleasures are in creating things, even if the creations have a few cracks in them. (Even if the creations are nothing but cracks.) If music doesn’t produce music, or something fresh, it’s often a sterile diversion. There’s no one whose company I shun more than that of the Music Geek—someone with catalog-like knowledge and taste like a guillotine, who sits at stiff attention when the tunes play. He is sterility itself.
Take every aspect of his relation to music, reverse it, and good things will come. Music at its best moves you emotionally. But it should also move you from one place to another; it should move you to get off your enjoyment-oriented posterior and do something.
The Music Geek listens only to the best music. He does it all day long, sitting in his Herman Miller Aeron chair, with his Bose headphones on; he wears pads on his eyes; his face is drawn in sublime concentration. He’s like someone who eats only the best food—very picky in all his selections—but then never uses the strength and health he engenders by it.
The Music Geek condescends to everyone else’s taste. I half-believe that, on some level, the Music Geek doesn’t really like music, doesn’t get it, and wants everyone else to join him in his sterile funk.
Can music save your life? My wonderful former teacher, Geoffrey Hartman, said that most reading was vague and lazy, like girl watching. Feminists gave him the bastinado for that, but he was right. Something similar is true about listening to music. Usually it’s about getting your emotions packaged for you, quieting the static inside, fabricating an exciting identity (the gangsta, the hipster) to counteract one’s commitment to a life of secure banality.
Most music listening, like most reading, is passive. It’s about girl watching rather than woman wooing, which is a tougher game. Schopenhauer says that most reading is letting other people think your thoughts for you. I’d add that most music listening is about letting other people feel your feelings for you.
Feel them for yourself, I say. Then shout them out loud. And sing them too. Do it for your own pleasure. It doesn’t matter whether anyone is listening.
Mark Edmundson is a university professor of English at the University of Virginia. He is the author, most recently, of Why Read? (Bloomsbury USA, 2004) and a new book on college teaching and learning, forthcoming from Bloomsbury in 2013.
From: Peter Stravlo
To: Ed Lawry
Cc: Dan Ellis
Sent: Sunday, June 3, 2012 11:26 AM
Subject: Re: artist and audience 02, modernists via Kant
Dan and Ed,
First, I want to read The Mirror and The Lamp. Should help to sort out/clarify my ideas on the experience of art, and I think this will inform the book project I am starting, the story of a US soldier who sneaks recovered art into the US after WWII and uses the illicit proceeds to start the strip-mall movement, roughly based on one of my relatives.
Peggy and I have had many discussions on how to tell the difference between good/bad/better art. Our short answer (I want to call it a definition, but the letters get too far apart) is, Look at a lot of Art.
Obviously this has its limitations, but I think it speaks to our discussion, and I think it and the Kincaid example are instructive. How do we, given attempts to define art in terms of our experience and the neverending need to create, decide what is art and what is not, without resorting to some platitude that might logically incorporate all experience?
One of the purposes of Look at a lot of Art as a method is the suggestion that, if you educate yourself enough, take it seriously enough, you can not only tell the difference between art and not so art, but what might be the better of two pieces of art. But it’s woefully incomplete, arrogant, and limited- though for those novices who are unsure of their evaluative powers in this regard it’s a step up from ‘whatever you like is art,’ and I have found it encourages many people to think more about art and be less self-conscious in their opinions.
I think this type of thinking is in fact behind Kincaid not being accepted as ‘real art,’ despite his work obviously falling within many technical definitions of art. I have relatives that love Kincaid, but also love Peggy’s work, and also scrunch their noses when confronted with abstract art. And I am quite happy to accept that admirers of Kincaid are better off than those content intermigling Wal-Mart hearts with family pictures on their walls.
Dan wants to make the artist’s genius capable of transferring her/his inspiration to the artist, thus salvaging a shared human experience.
I have always insisted the artist’s intention not need to have anything to do with my experience of the work as art; sometimes I seek to understand the artist’s intentions, history, etc., though I also often do not use the recorded explanatory headphones so popular now at exhibits, because I don’t want someone else’s well-worn analytics to corrupt my initial impressions of the work.
I think I have to disagree with you, Dan, that the history of art has somehow accomplished something in terms of learning how to corral the audience’s aesthetic experience. I fear we all bring a too varied or convoluted combination of the four corners of understanding art for that to be a realistice goal.
The understanding that Kant is attempting to justify our aesthetic and moral, etc., experience, vs explain it, I think makes me more comfortable with these discussions overall, and with the many remarks I hear from artists vis a vis their peers’ efforts. Maybe that’s another discussion.
In hopes of a shared aesthetic
From: “Ed Lawry”
To: “Dan Ellis” , firstname.lastname@example.org
Sent: Thursday, May 31, 2012 1:40:25 PM
Subject: Re: artist and audience 02, modernists via Kant
Dan and Peter,
Dan’s post from 5/29 was certainly a huge sweep of comment on the history of art from Courbet through the modernists. There are many parts that could be expanded. I just remind you that Kant’s project (in aesthetics as well as in morality and epistemology) was a task of justification of our experience rather than an explanation of the experience, even though his many suggestions have prompted his readers to understand the justification as an explanation. Kant would have been the first to say that much other empirical psychology would be needed to explain aesthetic experience.
I have always been particularly enamored of the way that the literary critic and theorist , Meyer Abrams, categorizes approaches to art in his book, The Mirror and the Lamp. Written in 1953, it was an attempt to highlight the revolution in the understanding of literature and the literary artist that took place during the flowering of the romantic era (late 18th early 19th century period). Abrams thought that all commentators approached art from one of four perspectives—art work (the objective approach), artist (the expressive approach) audience (the pragmatic approach) and world (the mimetic approach). He insists that for any approach to be robust, it must have some place for the other approaches, but he thinks everybody that tries their hand at a theory has one dominating perspective. Because of this, no single approach can satisfy everyone. But each has its insight.
Roughly speaking, the mimetic theory characterized the understanding of art in the west from the Greeks through the 18th century, and this may have been so because literary arts were the center of attention in such discussion and words tended to make people think of what meaning was contained in them—how what was said was an insight into “Nature” or the world we experience. The romantic revolution reversed the direction and suggested that it was the internal psyche of the artist that was crucial to the understanding of what art was doing. Needless to say, the art of the romantics was dramatically different from the past (think of the difference between Alexander Pope and John Keats). The last half of the 19th century saw a marked rise in pragmatic theories (here we should not underestimate the role of Edgar Allen Poe and his influence on French writers). The modern age, beginning roughly at the start of the 20th century found more and more interest in the objective approach (think of Archibald MacLeish’s famous line, “A poem should not mean, but be.”)
We can find strands of all of the approaches from the start of the history of the west. Even though Plato maintained that poetry was “an imitation” (though a poor one since it was an imitation of the world, which was already an imitation of the forms) he was much concerned by the pragmatic effect of poetry upon its audience and that is why he banished poets from the Republic. And Longinus had much to say about “the sublime” in art. But the point again, is that each approach comes from one of the four “corners” of art understanding.
Now if we think of things on this model, Dan’s comments, in a reaction to an objective approach (art for art’s sake), suggest a lot in common with the expressive approach. He talks sometimes of “intangible motivators” (Art for Your World) sometimes of “primary sensations” (the 5/29 post). These expressions try to locate the initial springs of art in the artist. What these exactly are is obviously difficult to say. However, there are similar “motivators” and/or “sensations” in the audience as well. Sometimes we get descriptions that suggest that the stirrings or inspirations that prompt the artist get somehow embodied in the artwork itself and that they are then made accessible to the audience who then experience them as a form of communication. At the same time, Dan wants also to permit the audience to have “sensations” that might be oblique to the ones the artist wished to communicate, so that there are no “lazy viewer sins.”
Now arise difficulties. If viewers are not to be held to a standard of reception, then what are we to do with the wildly popular artists like Thomas Kinkaid? His name does not appear in lists of best selling artists if you Google that phrase. The “Artworld” chooses to ignore him. But as we know, his pictures (and copies of his pictures) are eagerly bought up all over America, making him one of the most financially successful artists ever. Obviously, the audience is deeply moved by Kinkaid’s work. So then shall we say he must have had primary sensations which he was able to communicate through his work so as to give satisfying emotional experience to his audience? And if so, should he be considered one of the great artists of all and should we study his work in studios and classrooms? Perhaps there are lazy viewer sins after all? And perhaps sin is widespread?
The idea here is that such an issue can help clarify and improve the theory.
From: Dan Ellis
To: email@example.com; Ed Lawry
Sent: Tuesday, May 29, 2012 8:32 AM
Subject: artist and audience 02, modernists via Kant
From the Comfort Inn of Evansville Indiana…
Good Morning Pete and Ed,
Pete, perhaps you recall that before working at PSI I worked at Denver Art Supply. We had a cartoon clipping taped to our cash register that read, “Welcome to the art world. It’s a shady and manipulative place.” Talking about art can be difficult because all borders are porous and all distinctions are blurred. I would be the last person to impose rules into that free for all.
I enjoy the fact that you are reading fiction in order to learn to become less analytical. I started reading Kant in order to sharpen my analytical skills. I jumped into the prefaces and began drowning immediately being out of my depth, but I persevered and by now I have progressed to advanced dog paddling. I agree with you that Kant’s inquiry is helpful when applied to art. This surprising discovery is probably why I stuck it out through the drowning phase.
If I look at the period from the impressionists through the abstract expressionists through the filter of Kant it is easy to see that the accomplishment of modernism was to put the artist back in touch with the primary sensations of the artistic process. (What I have referred to earlier as personal motivators.) By the time that history had brought us around to the realists and the romanticists the artists are trying to create images which the viewer will cognize into language from which they would draw the sentiment that the artist intended. Think of the Stonebreakers by Courbet or the Wanderer Above the Sea Fog by Friedrich. The impressionists stepped away from this toward a more direct emotional response.
The following versions of the avant-garde kept pushing their expectations further into a more direct expression of the primary sensations that make up this need to create which Pete identifies as belonging to the true artist. Some, such as the surrealists wanted to derail the viewer’s intellect hoping to reveal to them their own primary sensations. Others, the dadas for instance set out to destroy the conventions that they thought were restricting them. Still others such as Matisse took the rout of seducing us with pleasant frankness. Personally Matisse works for me. All were attempting to be in touch with and put the viewer in tough with their primary sensations. The abstract expressionists were the inevitable conclusion to this process and their pinnacle achievement was to demonstrate that a work of art is a thing in itself, not a derivative object ala Plato.
These modernists did much needed work. Their goals have been achieved. Artists have been reintroduced to those primary sensations – what the art world calls inspiration – as the subject of art. Now the expectation is for the artist to launch from their inspiration into an image that can directly communicate that inspiration to the viewer. This transaction does require a willingness to receive on the part of the viewer. The viewer expects a willingness to give from the artist.
Kant’s search for a priori experience is similar to the modernist search for primary sensations, though I do not recall anyone using that language. What the modernists found however was not a priori knowledge ala Kant, but rather pre—cognate sensation. By channeling these sensations into image and the formal elements of art (line, proportion, etc.) artists are able to keep these sensations pre—cognate and express them more directly to the viewer. A good work of art must be personal from the artist, and it is successful as it is able to communicate these primary sensations to the viewer.
I’m out of time God bless all y’all
. Have fun D.E.
June 17, 2012
For ten and one half years, a vision has haunted me: your stepdad on his deathbed at St Francis Hospital, I sitting at his side; your sister and her husband standing over him, placing their hands on him and praying aloud and speaking in tongues as they pressesd their convictions on my defenseless husband… while I wept but did not prevent or stop it. He writhed and moaned, the only method available to him to protest and defend himself. I know I should not have allowed it, should have stopped it, but…. Well, you know that, until his lung surgery and my brother’s call to her, your sister and I had not spoken for months. I was weak when he needed my strength most.
I do not want you or my brother or anyone else to have to protect me in a similar situation. It would be nearly impossible for you to do. My fear of alienationg my daughter now is exceeded only by my fear of being stripped of my last vestige of dignity while dying. I addresssed this letter to both of you in order to assure her that you, too, have been apprised of my wished in this matter.
Two pages later.
Med don’t seem to do as well as women when widowed. I think it’s because they can’t let their guard down enought to form really intimate friendships. Women do. but men seem to feel they have to be tough and macho with each other, have to compete in everything. Women have since they were girls giggled together and exchanged secrets and wept on each other’s shoulders. Some of the saddest moments I can remember were those times when my husband literally wept tears over not having a close male friend. I tried to make him understand that a friendship cannot be based on on person being the ‘better’ or ‘higher’ than the other; that a freindship has to be based on mutual respect and love, not competition. There can be no ‘one-upmanship’ in a friendship. He heard me, but it just wasn’t in him. And he suffered for it. He loved my having deep friendships with women… and I think seeing those friendships made the contrast more poignant for him.
Tow more pages.
You know, my mother and I had a love-hate relationship that I’ve only tried to understand in the past several years from her viewpoint. While she was loving and there for us, and did a darned good job of raising and keeping her family (her and the kids, I mean) together, there was always a distance she maintained… with me, anyway. I remember when she was dying. I wished so much she could bring herself to tell me how she felt… not physically, but mentally and emotionally. But she couldn’t. I think, even in her dying, she felt compelled to protect us. She never acknowledged the word ‘cancer.’ I felt that, if she could just share her feelings with someone…me, of course… she might not feel so alone. Of course, I haven’t experienced what she was experiencing and realize that, no matter what, it was her experience. That no amount of ‘sharing’ it could ease it for her. We can’t share someone’s dying. Oh, I don’t know. But I do know that she seldom discussed with me her inner thoughts, beefore or during her last ordeal. Oh, there was one time I remember: she had come out to spend the evening with you and your sister and me. After you were in bed, she began to talk about me and my older brother’s father… for the first time in her life. “I’ve always loved him,” she said as she paced the family room floor. I was stunned to think that she carried that sad longing for thirty years and through three more (at the time) marriages.
Paragraph One- I had to walk out of the room after she died, after I told my relatives she didn’t want to be prayed over. They did it anyway.
Paragraph Two- The next sentence: “I’ve always admired your lifelong ability to form close friendships, honey. Of course, I’m not privy to your private moments with those friends, so I suppose I don’t really know how deep they are. I’ve always felt you and ____ had that sort of friendship.” She was right, but it’s the only one, except good friendships I’ve had with women. And the one close male friendship is possible because, despite my inner competitiveness, we don’t compete, never have. Just not what he does, and it allows space for a beautiful friendship.
Paragraph Three- Mom’s father abandoned the family when Mom was a few months old. They were living in a barn, Mom sleeping in the bottom drawer of a dresser. One time Mom and her brother located their Father and arranged a meeting. She didn’t show, and as far as I could ever tell, never regretted it.
Mom didn’t repeat my Grandmother’s mistake. Over three years of her failing health we spent countless hours and days together, stripping our feelings naked, without any fear of a question, without any hesitatiion to confront our frailties and mistakes. Death, love, hate, sexual abuse, abandonment, jealousy, nothing was off limits. I’ve never met anyone so brave. Thank you, Mom. You continue to teach and inspire me.