Bucket List, Eigth Wonder of the World, Lipica Pastures

From Peggy McGivern’s solo show ‘Beyond the Iron Curtain,’ verse by Peter Stravlo, Opening Reception March 20, 6-9pm, Abend Gallery, Colfax and York, Denver, CO. Eastern European Folk inspired music by Mark Dudrow and Chipper Thompson
http://abendgallery.com/html_shows/15-peggy-mcgivern-solo/

Bucket List
The day arrived, dawn white as her hair
Split-rail corrals, giddy soaring spirit
Manure loving
Strict anticipation
Training massive
Lipizzaner stable
Muscles stretching intimidate
Trot to cantor and walk and rein hold up not that much!
Buck and fall
Get back in the saddle wobbly legs
Post and knees and power and majesty
Exhausted smile checked off the Bucket List

Eighth Wonder of the World
As if a herd of mythic white horses gallop by, their little babies black so they cannot be missed. It can only be a child’s fantasy of the divine, their manes riding air that cannot keep up, wild eyes gazing out majestically from some heroic epic. They hug each other at full speed, not deigning to touch the earth, flanks flexing beyond any power of muscle, delicate legs that cannot possibly support such lofty expectations in perfect balance, hooves swirling with unearthly grace in a fog of childish conjuring.
The delightful image rests calmly on the eye. It must be impossible, these Lipizzans, royal steeds born black skinned turned magically white for such a vision. The Eighth Wonder of the World.

Lipica Pastures
A most unexpected pleasure
The Slovenian countryside

Invigorating a path to springtime
With imagical odors of decaying soil

Grain-gold humid and
Black as a fresh colt

Leading like a labyrinth to her bucket list
In Lipica pastures

Advertisements

Gypsy Camp, Potato Diggers, and Muddy Fields

From Peggy McGivern’s solo show ‘Beyond the Iron Curtain,’ verse by Peter Stravlo, Opening Reception March 20, 6-9pm, Abend Gallery, Colfax and York, Denver, CO. Eastern Folk inspired music by Mark Dudrow and Chipper Thompson
http://abendgallery.com/html_shows/15-peggy-mcgivern-solo/

Gypsy Camp
There is a man who thinks he knows everything, because he has everything. Gypsies clean the man’s stables and cook his meals for a pittance. Poor gypsies, he thinks, what were their lives before I came along? The man eats bland food and never indulges in wine, afraid if the gypsies realize the extent of his riches they will demand more for their labor. He convinces himself they cannot see him when, while in their camp a short distance away, singing and dancing and playing their music, bouncing their grandchildren on their knees, gorging on spicy food, drinking wine and making love, the man sneaks away to dig up his lock-box and pray over his money. But the gypsies could have stolen his money a thousand times; in fact they have taken some of it, but only what they need to eat and drink and laugh and sing and play and make love.

The Potato Diggers
It is not a burden
Rising with the sun
Digging forks into the dirt
The glances cousin Aleksandr throws our way

It is not a burden
Hoisting endlessly filled sacks
Old Mare baring her teeth each time we approach the wagon
Sister Mika being promised to the butcher

It is not a burden
Clumps the size of river pebbles clinging to our boots
Whispering where is handsome young Achilles today?
Papa watching us crossly

It is not a burden
Giggling like little girls
Old Mare testing her traces against her burden
Carrying more sacks because Mika was not in her bed this morning

It is not a burden
Grandpa snoring over the last morsel of goulash
Mending socks and sacks
Dreaming we could be so brave

Muddy Fields
He photographs a young boy and his father unhooking their wagon and harnessing a single metal plowshare to their stallion. Their women harvest earth’s precious bounty and the plow turns the soil row after row, season after season. A teenage girl in a thick skirt, her legs warm in wool and rubber boots, heaves a bulging bag onto her back, high-steps over the soft clodded earth, and pieces it into the puzzle of the wagon.
He wonders if she will stay or go. It is one thing to romanticize a way of life, to allow old timers to feel better about the way they’ve lived. But what happens when someone tears a knee ligament? Where does a parent turn when a child is born with a deformity? He struggles to remember seeing anyone in the village with a handicap.
The horse and plowman turn at the end of the row. The sun fails to shine through the clouds. He is certain; this simple, self-sustaining life will soon not be possible. They are all in this together, one big village.
The family re-harnesses the horse and somehow gets the plowshare and everyone onto the wagon. He takes another photo, checks it on the digital screen. In an attempt to capture everything he has zoomed so far away he does not recognize what he is witnessing. Maybe it is one of those scenes that needs to be a painting.
(From Peter’s novel The Age of Certainty)

Crossing the Danube, West Coast of the Black Sea, River Runs Through Onesti, Rovinj

From Peggy McGivern’s solo show at Abend Gallery, March 20, 6-9pm, Colfax and York, Denver. Verse by Peter Stravlo, Eastern European inspired folk music by Mark Dudrow and Chipper Thompson. Dracula’s Blood wine.

Crossing the Danube
Each border guard said the other would let us in, but not out.
You cannot drive here, Croatia says.
You cannot park here, Serbia says.
We thought they had settled all this with a war.

Three hours in no-man’s-land before heading to Belgrade, where scattered lights twinkle like failed constellations, a million falling star headlights racing past. We are lost.

Dawn reveals a merry-go-round of smokestacks, exhaust, oppression, overlapping signs like washed out frescoes on concrete walls. For hours it seems no stars are possible.

Exit and return, exit and return; Belgrade means roundabout in a language we do not fathom. Surely it will be no mistake, to cross the Danube into Transylvania. Can we not at least read each other’s palms?

West Coast of the Black Sea
Feel every angle of the world
Catapulted like languages
Shadows and rooflines
Between Asia and Europe

Taste salty wind
Stinging
A vulnerable cheek
Of indeterminate color

Hear waves of thought
Mingling together
Through straits
Of millennia

See Greek-marbled blue-green
Slavic-jeweled red
Gold Persian myths
Mosaic as Byzantium

Witness galleons, cruise ships, and dreadnoughts
Crashing into dachas
Tourists and religions
On the West Coast of the Black Sea

River Runs Through Onesti
Find a little boat and let us take a fairytale trip
We’ll fall out of the Cuic mountains
Down the Trotus River
Float by exotic oases of history and imagination
Open your eyes
Shhh… the beauty of places so hidden
No one but us will know

Rectangles, triangles, rhombus ribbons and almost perfect circles
Turkish and Gypsy and Greek and Magyar and Serb and Slav
Not quite white, or red or green or yellow
But blue and sienna and ochre and browns of all flavors
Shaped like the people of Ottoman bridges and Greek statues
Welcoming our flotilla of one
With plates of mittitei and pârjoale and you must have a cup of tuica
And another before we flow tipsy into the Siret and start all over again

Rovinj
We like our boundaries, right angles snapped together in overlapping simplicity along an artificial shoreline
Raw sienna and yellow-clay Legos with blue-squares and shadowy reliable passages

Solid little rooms vetted by generations
Miniature green savannahs and forests, contained in comfortable garden beds
Things we can stand on, lean against, grasp, walk around

But be careful, waves form and foam and dissipate
Like reflections in a mirror threatening to swallow, distort, reveal, wash away our beach head
We listen to rhythmic crashing, and imagine standing, leaning, grasping, walking around
As if abstract form meant permanence

Milk Delivery, Chicken Feed, and New Laying Hen

From Peggy McGivern’s Beyond the Iron Curtain, verse by Peter Stravlo, Opening Reception March 20, 6-9pm, Abend Gallery, Colfax and York, Denver, CO. Eastern Folk inspired music by Mark Dudrow and Chipper Thompson

Milk Delivery
Wagon rolling on truck tires
Traces of nostalgia
Mother’s milk at your doorstep
The oldest profession

Personalized service
Hand hewn more collectible
Stonewalling for generations
Offspring replenishing

Hands are a unit of measurement
Distance a measurement of time
Progress a unit of distance
Time a measurement of progress

‘If I were a rich man,’ from Fiddler on the Roof

Peggy recently re-worked Milk Delivery. The image is essentially the same, but she was never happy with the tone of the colors, and I believe she now feels the pallet is truer to her vision. I always loved this piece, it was hanging in our Taos house. I hope it doesn’t sell.

Chicken Feed
It does not cost much to make a game of it, this serious business of feeding
Skip like chicks playing Follow the Leader
Sing the rhythmic pecking of Ring-Around-the-Rosie
Fling Chicken Feed from cockscombed fingers like a magician conjuring money out of thin air
Simon Says cockle-doodle-doo
We all fall down

New Laying Hen
More than a distant cousin having a new baby I love it when Mama has that wrinkled grin. Make sure the coop is warm, it says, and I will bake you a loaf of bread, one that tickles your nose before you open the door. My favorite is fresh yokes sitting high and rounder than a haystack, the whites like a clear skinned girl sizzling in the pan. Maybe in a few weeks Mama will surprise me with a new pair of shoes bought with money from the eggs.

Coming Into Transylvania; Those Silly Trees; Romanian Haystacks

From Peggy McGivern’s Beyond the Iron Curtain, verse by Peter Stravlo, Opening Reception March 20, 5-8pm, Abend Gallery, Colfax and York, Denver, CO. Eastern Folk inspired music by Mark Dudrow and Chipper Thomps

Coming into Transylvania
Tulip heads mounted on trunks of trees
Like vampires in a wagon of novel
Ideas darkening the road
For tourists seeking an infamous castle
In the depths of titillating fears
Where three seductive sister brides drink the blood
Of our gypsy imagination
24 x 48“, Oil

Those Silly Trees
Unusual shapes are disconcerting
Tones slightly different than your comfort zone
Walking under thin branches makes you skittish
Brittle sticks swaying wide and leafless over your head
So open your eyes, your ears, let the foreign air seep into your pores
Step by step, a few blocks, pause to take in the view, reminiscent of a childhood memory
You think the dining room walls would look great in those colors
Now you are in stride
A breeze plays with the branches
Their song stuck in your head
Those Silly Trees will flourish in your backyard

Romanian Haystacks
I want to lose myself in the billowing white clouds, how easy it should be they call to me so.
Scramble up haystacks like a child- surely I do not weigh too much in my imagination- into fairytale
golden-straw towers hosting dreamy trampoline slumber parties overlooking the promised land-scape
so perfect it must be real, with gingerbread houses and sugar-tree cookies and sailboats swimming in
the sky, roller-coaster buggies drawn by merry-go-round horses through almond tasting wind laughing
a meringue patchwork never daring to go gray.

A Philosopher, Painter, and Writer Walk Into A Bar

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.”
Agnes Martin
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.

Pete

——————————————————————————–

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.

Ed
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

Pete

——————————————————————————–
From: “Ed Lawry”
To: “Dan Ellis” , pstravlo@comcast.net
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.
Blessings,
Ed

——————————————————————————–
From: Dan Ellis
To: pstravlo@comcast.net; 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.