Oh, it gets very dull indeed, but someone has to point out the obvious. Again, and again, and again. I won't even begin to describe the racial elements of the selection. No doubt I've already been strung up on the peg reserved for women such as myself. Shrill and otherwise.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Oh, it gets very dull indeed, but someone has to point out the obvious. Again, and again, and again. I won't even begin to describe the racial elements of the selection. No doubt I've already been strung up on the peg reserved for women such as myself. Shrill and otherwise.
In the last ten years Etgar Keret has published four books of short stories and novellas, two graphic novels and two feature plays. His most recent collection of short stories include The Busdriver Who Wanted to be God (2001, Saint-Martin's Press) and The Nimrod Flipout (2004, Picador). Keret’s books have been awarded the Book Publishers Association Platinum Book Prize for selling more than 40,000 copies. His movie, Skin Deep, won the Israeli Oscar as well as first prize at several international film festivals. Etgar has also received the Prime Ministers Prize for literature and the Ministry of Culture Cinema Prize.Brief and intense, Etgar's stories are empathic snapshots that illuminate with probing intelligence, the hidden truths of life. He is often described as an Israeli Paul Auster, but he’s more Lydia Davis or Sheila Heti with his wide-ranging subject matter, his dead-pan delivery and imaginative turns, with his precise and often unforgiving visual detail. In Crazy Glue, for instance, which takes a central image and uses it to offer a mediation on the delusion and fragmentation of the modern relationship.
I had the pleasure of introducing and interviewing Keret last year in a gallery in Tribeca. We stood beside a model of an atomic bomb that gave an intense smoky vibration to an already electrified room. One of the things that struck me about our conversation was this kind of casual intensity. Yes, a bomb might go off but meanwhile there’s a latte to drink and you know, we’re getting hungry…risks. Big ones. That’s what makes good fiction.
On the other hand, good fiction is often not recognized right away. It takes awhile, as it has with Keret. But now that The New Yorker and The Paris Review have published him, I'm sure he'll be everywhere at once. And rightly so. My two favourite Keret stories are available online: Crazy Glue and Fatso. Hey Canada, Random House is publishing The Nimrod Flipout next year.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Because my Japanese is non-existant I finally had to resort to the net, which quickly enlightened me of course. What I had in my hands was yet another toy geared toward "stress relief". The Hidamari no tami doll (already collectable in that ebay way) doubles as a name card holder (in case you forget who you are after staring dumbly into the nodding head). It is "illuminated by sunlight and provides a comforting motion that is sure to relieve the stresses of your daily life." It is very sweet. And I'm learning to accept gifts more graciously. I'm pleased to add it to the collection on my desk.
The problem with creating a wishlist on amazon is that you have to tell people about it! But there is a box sitting at the front door right now, so you see, perhaps my kick ass list-making has paid off. Say what you want about amazon.com, the wish list is a beautiful thing.
As for Word, I do wish the Mercury Press well. And if they're open to suggestions I would urge a bigger online presence--the pdf is okay, but isn't that problematic in terms of archiving? Looking at Canada from the outside in one gets a skewed, uneven image online. Danforth Review seems to be coming along very well, and now Rabble.ca, but where would you send someone wanting to get a generous, positive and intelligent look into Canada's Arts & Letters online?
Sunday, December 25, 2005
In other royal news, Prince Charles will not change his name, and when he is made king we will have another King Charles on the throne. We can't expect the antics of Charles II.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
It's a beautiful day in NY. Happy Holidays. Off now to find latkes. Tomorrow is Hannuka as well as Christmas.
Chelsea was a ghost town, nary a dog in sight. There was one gallery, Matthew Marks, that I knew I had to catch, so it was the one I called, and yes, they said, they were open until 3. So off I went. As luck would have it (or not depending on one's perspective), it was the only gallery open in Chelsea...at least the only one I found.
The first image you encounter when walking into the gallery is Her, Her, Her and Her, which I found absolutely stunning. Evocative, disturbing, playful and compelling the shot is a series of entries in that most intimate and public places--the bathroom. The white tile-- shiny, sterile and compact--and the gaps in which parts of the self are caught make for powerful contrasts, particuarly given the black and white and the apparent repiitions.
Images of Isabelle Huppert are also very compelling, as are the huge molds, my favourite being one titled "Aretha". However, the Wonderwater: Off Shore books shown on the left, were the real find. Amazing project which I walked out of the gallery with and fully intend to count it as "present to self". One of the best shows of the year for me, and well worth the lonely trek to Chelsea. More on the books in the weeks to come.
Friday, December 23, 2005
The only thing I remember from the 70s King Kong was the awful mixed feelings I had watching Jessica Lange writhing around in the palm of the big ape. It's so pornographic. In this new version what made an impression on me once more was the girl in the palm. But this is no ordinary girl, no, this is a wonderfully empowered, and might I say fearless, girl, who can juggle (literally), even under extreme stress. Naomi Watts is luminous and unforgettable. She has been a stellar performer in a string of movies, but I suspect that like Lange, it's her winning-ape-ways that will catapult her into the stratosphere of superstardom.
The rest of the film is okay, especially if you like video games. The action sequnences had me going for the control button and I haven't played a video game in a very long time. The sequences are effective, but they're over the top: just because you can, doesn't mean you have to. Like the movie within the movie, King Kong doesn't hold together as a script, and given director Peter Jackson's work on the Lord of the Rings, I wonder why he wouldn't have wanted to make it as seamless as he could. But like the Rings, this is a comment on the failure of man--in the character of a charlatan director played by Jack Black--the corruptable nature, the greed, and the hope found in a shining, luminous bit of beauty.
It's hard not to have empathy for Kong, too big, too wild, alone, misunderstood; the world just isn't big enough, or compassionate enough for him. And Anne Darrow, a small (size 4), good thing, having difficulty being seen in NY suddenly becomes very visible. A winning narrative despite its implausible nature, and wonderful, dizzying scenes of a New York long gone.
While King Kong has a video game quality from start to finish, Brokeback Mountain has the feel of a travel documentary with wide, sweeping, panoramas of an edenic world. That the garden should play a backdrop for an illicit love affair between two men is hardly news these days, at least in many parts of the world, but the movie offers us a slice of consciousness that's outside of time and contemporary culture--and not just because the movie is set in the recent past. Poverty, not just economic and cultural, but poverty of imagination is what struck me most about this movie, and it's what genius director Ang Lee explores most fully.
The world presented here, the world in which Ennis Del Mar (Heath Ledger) and Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal) meet and fall in love, is as plain and simple as many small towns that dot the highways from Alberta to Texas. This is a man's world, a man's man's world, with grunts and thrusts, the world of family values and hard work, which usually means that the women are behind the scenes, rarely seen, perhaps heard. And it's a world without a lot of imagination. It's a world that fears imagination as much as the devil. In fact, where Jack Twist is concerned it isn't his sexuality but his imagination that makes him stand out so much.
I've known a few guys like Ennis Del Mar, too, and Ledger does a remarkable job of bringing him to life. Lack of education and lack of imagination give Ennis little room to move. Though the fact that Ennis continues his relationship with Jack is a surprising twist, particularly given the scene in which Ennis' father shows him the murdered homosexual. (Someone please do a study of this. I'm not sure what one would discover if they started to look into the historical records of small towns across America, but I'll bet there are many tales such as this, and I'll bet many of them are also true.)
Lack of choice, lack of imagination, that's what I hope people understand about Brokeback Mountain. The lack of choices for someone like Ennis Del Mar. Where was he going to go? What was he going to do? He might not have fit into his married life, but what life was he going to fit into? What could he do other than be where he was? It's hard to imagine. Jack had imagination, he was able to move outside of the small Wyoming world, but Ennis wasn't able to even imagine himself anywhere else. Sadly, not everyone can move to New York and live happily ever after. And as the recent piece in the New York Times shows, it's still impossible to come out on the range.
The saddest note I can add to this post is that I know a dozen men, and probably half as many women, right now who couldn't sit through this movie. Couldn't. End of story. In fact I wonder if Ennis Del Mar could sit through it.
Now what do you do with that?
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Still, you have to love those 70s boy bands for their kitchy and grandiose orchestrations, their repetitive lyrics, and all that HAIR. Here's a sample of Trooper circa 1978. Now if I could only lay my hands on my high school year book which in fact was signed by all the members of the band.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
But I haven't read this Helen Farish yet... Where is Patience Agabi! I want to read her but there are no poems, no books!
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Monday, December 19, 2005
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
- Monday 7 January 1660/61
This morning, news was brought to me to my bedside, that there had been a great stir in the City this night by the Fanatiques, who had been up and killed six or seven men, but all are fled.1 My Lord Mayor and the whole City had been in arms, above 40,000. To the office, and after that to dinner, where my brother Tom came and dined with me, and after dinner (leaving 12d. with the servants to buy a cake with at night, this day being kept as Twelfth day) Tom and I and my wife to the Theatre, and there saw “The Silent Woman.” Kinaston, the boy; had the good turn to appear in three shapes: first, as a poor woman in ordinary clothes, to please Morose; then in fine clothes, as a gallant, and in them was clearly the prettiest woman in the whole house, and lastly, as a man; and then likewise did appear the handsomest man in the house...
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Hear Brand read: she's a fabulous reader. A multi-talented writer, known as much for her political and documentary work as for her poetry, she is part of a dynamic, urban strand of Canadian women's writing, a strand I hope to trace a little in posts to come. No Language is Neutral is about as essential a Candian poem as anything written in the past two decades. As for Ondaatje, I don't think he needs an introduction, but if you don't know him, you should start with The Collected Works of Billy the Kid, and for a novel, In the Skin of a Lion.
As for Vanity Fair. As an undergraduate it was my exam prep tool of choice. Nothing made me ready for finals more effectively than a latte and the latest American gloss. Admittedly I haven't picked it up in the last decade, but I always did okay in finals...
Monday, December 12, 2005
Bracing for war, but praying for peace,
Using his power so evil will cease:
So much a leader and worthy of trust,
Here stands a man who will do what he must.
St. Mark's Church, 131 E. 10th St.
New York, NY
All events are $8, $7 for students and seniors, $5 for members and begin at 8pm unless otherwise noted. The Poetry Project is located in St. Mark's Church at the corner of 2nd Ave and 10th St in Manhattan.
Kathe Izzo & The True Love Project
(featuring Slink Moss on guitar)
Tuesday, December 13, 7PM
@ Dixon Place (258 Bowery, 2nd Floor—Between Houston & Prince)
Admission is $5 at the Door.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
For the record, Eye Magazine is a Toronto entertainment weekly doing battle with the another big entertainment weekly, Now Magazine. I'm more inclined to be a fan of Now, if only because it at least seems to review local books. This week has a review of the excellent Toronto writer, Alayna Munce, for example. I haven't read When I Was Young and In My Prime yet, but I've read quite a bit of Munce's work over the years and am already a committed fan. I didn't find a book review in Eye, but they've had a recent refit and perhaps that will change.
These weeklies can have a huge impact on local writers and sales. I'm not sure why they don't embrace this for the public service it is. Does Frank McCourt really need a review in Toronto's Now Magazine? I don't think so. But Munce does. As do many other excellent new writers coming up. Georgia Straight, in Vancouver does a great job at this--a review of Anne Fleming's new novel last week. It's a no-brainer people. Review books. Locally. End of story.
And can someone tell me how anyone could cancel Arrested Development? Joshua Ostroff handles the question with as much passion and precision as I dream of people handling poetry reviews...I can get as excited about Erin Moure as I can Buster Bluth...the moves are all there, the hook, the one liners.
Unfortunately, some experimental poets are crashing boors who haven't changed their clothes in three weeks and think John Lennon was shot by Ted Hughes - and some mainstream poets are sherry-swilling chinless wonders who actually want to see a return to fox-hunting and Georgian Verse.--Todd Swift, who brings an unabashed "Toddness" to all things literary
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Friday, December 09, 2005
Shane Rhodes Holding Pattern, NeWest 2002; The Wireless Room NeWest 2000
Two poets I am curious to watch develop. Shane Rhodes I discovered through Greenboathouse, David O’Meara, through Brick Books, who kindly sent me quite a few books when I was reading for Open Field. These two poets impressed me then, and I’ve been on the look out for new work ever since. Though O’Meara is a much more formal and restrained poet, both writers share a similar gift of word choice, and both writers have an erotic sense of the line.
I read Storm Still in the Toronto Public Library, and was impressed, particularly with the sonnets if I recall, but I have only The Vicinity with me now to comment on. It’s a finely crafted book, beautifully edited as most Brick Books are. These lines are razor sharp, and not without wit:
The Safety ElevatorThere’s a high formal tone here, not one I’m usually comfortable with, but witness the cozy beginning of “Letter to Auden”,
(a footnote to Structural Steel)
(The Vicinity 14)
Well then, sir, I thought of you again just recently:These poems reminded me of Ken Babstock’s Mean, only there is a little something more open here, a kind of poetic of revelation still more akin to a pewter rose than a bleeding heart. This may be the formal distance, the buttoned down work ethic, or maybe a little of that Ottawa valley austerity, but there is a similar tone and subject matter as others have noted. There are hard revelations, often self aware, as we see in “Grass”: “I stand alone with ten thousand sorrows,/ Work, eat, sleep. Bills, laundry, traffic. Poor/me…” The self in the wilderness of language, in the wilderness of wild, but I admire O’Meara’s ability to make something of gesture, to delight in it. Even making me appreciate rhyme, as he does, in ”At the Aching-Heart Diner”:
New Year’s ticked in with scant fuss,
The so-called millennium, hyped
To bring disaster—not quite the end of us
(The Vicinity 43)
She will flavour her coffee with both cream and sugarA poem impossible not to read aloud for the pleasure with phrases like “topples the shaker”, but a poem nonetheless that makes me ache for more, more something, more thought? Depth? This is poetry of praise and delight, but it makes me wonder whether that is enough. It’s finely crafted work, not a word out of place, but after all is said and done I’m not left with anything to chew on, anything that will bring me back to the work, nor that I can take away. And this is work I admire from a poet I’m willing to go places with. I want to see where O’Meara goes next. I would love to see him use that formal skill to dig in to something just a little deeper.
And tap on the window as she mentions the weather,
Tossing off sparks when she pulls off her sweater
In contrast, Rhodes is fast and loose, his language ranging and not always as precise, but his mind flits across the page, and I’m refreshed to enter a world peopled with literary figures and plain talk: “Montreal is thesaurus for the lonely”. The Wireless Room has been compared to Robert Kroetsch's Stonehammer Poems in its prairie eroticism, and I can certainly see that, but there is not the sense of whole that Kroetsch seems to achieve so easily—or at least makes it look so easy, even in collections like Excerpts from the Real World (an early favourite of mine).
I like Rhodes best when he’s moving away from linear narrative (which is odd because he does that well, so perhaps this marks a preference of mine more than anything). In any case, here’s a sampling of what I mean. From “Meditation on the Electron”:
Oomph ffhooh sshoooh Heft,Wonderful language, wonderful line-breaks too, and I love that he was able to catch the echo of “paw” that I heard, and hear every time I swing through the line break of “God’s/pause”. At least I get it bounced back in “claw”.
gatherlings. Lift, current spuds.
Ride the up draft valencies,
volt vultures. Up there,
engine heads. Circle, ½ spins,
schizophrenic Heisenburgians, heavers
heaving decimal points like shot-
put. Commas of the dark, God’s
pause, whose claw of precision is
(Wireless Room 46)
The prose poems in Holding Pattern remind me a little of Anne Carson’s Short Talks, which I’ve posted on several times, but they are more prose than poem, and don’t quite rise to the perceptual, or ontological gymnastics that Carson’s do. In the poem about Emily Dickinson for example, I am not surprised to know that she was “fascinated by the moment before death”, but I’m interested to read about it, want to think about how this might have influenced her as a child. But I don’t get that. I don’t get anything more, rather we are shifted to a friend who is frightened in her sleep by a shadow on the ceiling and who lay there “silent, as sweat pooled in the hollows of her body” (Holding Pattern 39).
Still, Rhodes’ work is engaging, and like O’Meara, he’s a poet I’ll give my time to; and like O’Meara, I’m waiting to see what comes next.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Dressed in black, bristling with controlled fury, Mr. Pinter began by explaining the almost unconscious process he uses to write his plays. They start with an image, a word, a phrase, he said; the characters soon become "people with will and an individual sensibility of their own, made out of component parts you are unable to change, manipulate or distort."
"So language in art remains a highly ambiguous transaction," he continued, "a quicksand, a trampoline, a frozen pool which might give way under you, the author, at any time."
But while drama represents "the search for truth," Mr. Pinter said, politics works against truth, surrounding citizens with "a vast tapestry of lies" spun by politicians eager to cling to power.
For the full text.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Monday, December 05, 2005
Sunday, December 04, 2005
I also discovered an excellent essay on the art of reviewing by Sven Birkets here in Book Forum. Thinking about tone and intention are basics, and yet so few take the time, or they take the time inappropriately, within the review itself, making the review about them, not about the book. The other big flaw is agenda. The agenda of the reviewer is often obvious so quickly that one needn't bother continuing, rather just slot the review on whatever side of the so-called-poetry fence, said reviewer is occupying. Not so with Perloff, and this is one of the things I admire about her--this ability to take work on its own terms. She contextualizes, but she really tackles each work individually, carefully, respectfully. This is something I also admire about Ron Silliman, who reads widely and always nails what is exciting about the project before him. I'm still not sure I understand the point of writing about something--particularly poetry--unless it's about building, about creating more understanding and appreciation for the work itself.
One may swipe at projects that seem vast and unwieldly, but it's a practice I embrace hesitantly, and I think it needs to be reserved for occasions, not as a matter of course.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
I felt vindicated in the last few weeks by hearing similar responses to the Mike Kelley enterprise in Chelsea which I expressed frustration over in a recent post. Then this week the Village Voice reviewed Kelley's Day is Done and I felt, echoed my sentiments too:
But even with its considerable drive and cleverness, "Day Is Done" feels strangely empty. Instead of deepening, everything keeps coming back to the fact that all this has been generated by the pictures. By now, Kelley's investigation into stereotypes, however heartfelt, is essentially only generating stereotypical Mike Kelleys. "Day Is Done" is an indisputable tour de force; it is the clearest Kelley has ever been. But it is rooted so deeply in corporate festivalism that Kelley's ideas aren't flowering but only accumulating and repeating.A tour de force? That is disputable. Unless "tour de force" means explosion of testosterone. But love that line about "corporate festivalism", and yes, isn't that the problem? The accumulation of nothing means nothing. However much one might hope, it doesn't turn into something. Not without some thought, some shaping, some heart, some sweat, some effort, something, as in tangible.
On the other hand, ArtNet gives Kelley a great review. Citing layers, ah yes, layers in the installation:
But the pieces in "Day Is Done" gain an added level of complexity through the use of the yearbook pics as seed material. The rhetoric around Kelley’s previous work suggested that he was directly exposing his viewers to the unspeakable desires that percolate below the surface of everyday life.Really? "Ironic intellectualism", "lascivious desires"? I must be missing something because I really couldn't tell whether this review of Kelley's work was supposed to be ironic or serious? The review ends with a line about how kelley has finally made work as good as MTV--tell me this is satire!
In a strange turn I realized that I had not only seen Mike Kelley's work before, but had posted on it. Here, from one of my first Chelsea Round Ups. It's nice to know that I'm consistant, if unschooled in the world of art...
Thursday, December 01, 2005
The Canadian poet Erín Mouré’s new book is so brave, has so much truly lively wit, and is so completely fresh it makes a lot of contemporary American poetry look like dorm furniture from Target: instantly charming and easy to discard.Not just American poetry, Laura Mullen: poetry. So much of it built in a prêt a porter, add a glass of wine and a way you go, sort of way. One can add wine to O Cidadan, of course, but one cannot sit back and let the lazy 'ah', of closure and 'you're fine as you are' lap at one’s feet. This, the final volume in Erin Mouré’s three volume exploration of language, the body, politics and citizenship, is in fact a dense and complex undertaking, but I would argue it is instantly charming as well.
Like Search Procedures and The Frame of the Book, and all of Mouré’s poetry for that matter, O Cidadán is not easy to discard. Nor is it easy to digest—on the whole. But just listen to how she begins: "Georgette thou burstest my deafness/woe to the prosperities of the world". Burstest! Woe? Thrown a little? You American formalists out there, thinking of someone like Julie Sheehan are you? No, this is also Mouré territory. Like Lisa Robertson she casts her line as far back as she does wide. And I want to say that the sense of vertigo one experiences reading her is more intense because she’s doing it without a net, doing it so far on the knife-edge that one sees below oneself the cavernous abyss of mediocre thinking…of relying too heavily on convention. (I want to come back to this, to compare the experience of encountering history, time and theory in the work of Anne Carson, or Lisa Robertson, next to someone like Mouré …).
I want to think not only about Mouré's use of this heightened language, but the experience of it coupled by her decentered “I”. By the second stanza the center of gravity begins to loosen with the phrase "I am not yet full of thee". Full of thee? A familiar phrase, archaic usage, and yet here’s where the content begins to upend expectation; here’s where formal investigation takes a sharp turn. Suddenly outside--distanced but intimate, as we see in stanza three: " I tasted and did hunger, where/ thou hast touchedst me I did burn/ for peace", the canvas of the poem enlarges well beyond the borders of the lyric I. This poet, it seems, can be “full” of something outside, can burn, for something she might never see. Am I making too much of this?
Beyond this radical shifting of the self outside the poem’s radius, we begin to see the radical nature of Mouré’s line breaks—what they can accomplish beyond sound, and beyond the double-entendre of surface play. Here lyric’s assumptions are flexed; erotic longing morphs into a desire for a global intimacy if you will. By stanza four:
time's subject motional and "form"Here the subject seems to have spiraled open like a Lucy Orta installation, setting us up for the next line, hanging solo "there yet live in my memory the images of such things". Such things?
a code of vinyl
the hearse upon a stationHearse and hearth, stations of a cross? A corpse? The corpse of lanuage a cross to bear? A fear? I first read this as “a feat” which seemed to me an equally wondrous leap, but fear of course, the turn for hearse (or hears) or ear or hearth (or earth). Oh, Georgette... The final stanza's abrupt forewarning (not replicated with as much charm as the typeset version):
a cross upon a fear
an insigne upon a hearth
folioAnd the ground gives way...five letters rearranged the work, the adoration, the parallel, multiple? “After great pain a formal feeling comes”. Who knew that formal could be such a wild and unfamiliar thing? I offer no conclusions here. I have my work cut out for me today.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Monday, November 28, 2005
Another must see is Capote, a gripping tale of moral intrigue. For nearly the entire movie I forgot that I was watching Philip Seymour Hoffman. He only popped up on one or two occasions—one, a crying scene that recalled Magnolia. The town scenes were so slow, but so achingly well crafted that they gave one the illusion they had literally entered into the 1960s. Katherine Keener was a pleasant surprise as Harper Lee and made me hungry for more about the author herself. But the real star was Hoffman of course, and the question of ethics, writing, and “genius”.
One to miss: the latest Pride And Prejudice. What a bore. Some of the supporting cast was good, but the director ought to be roundly pummeled. Blach. When will people learn that a scene, or a line of poetry for that matter, is not imbued with meaning just because its lingered over. Kiera, go watch Capote. The only reason to make it through this is Darcy. Matthew Macfadyen, the young man who plays him was excellent and the only thing that kept me watching. There have been some positive reviews of this in Time Out & elsewhere. Really? Go figure.
One I can’t wait not to see: Rent. Nope. Not even tempted.
One I'm curious about--Johnny Depp playing Rochester, the most notorious rake of all time? Yes, he was great in Before Night Falls, and yes, he did the pirate thing, but this is Rochester, this is John Malcovich territory, can he pull that off? Does he have the depth and grit for that? This is such a juicy role, such a great idea for a film...but Depp? Oh my, am I really giving this much ink to Johnny Depp? What's become of me? Ah, term is nearly done.
The poem is love, is touching all ends simultaneously
The poet is stretched from shore
Reason is as reason does. Consider the event: poematica
poetry being the most unfiltered
of art forms, the most aware
of its own cost super 8 in a line length
redundancy of script notes
if love is deconstruction is it not also decreation?
Can decreation be a kind of making? a new making
Who is Georgette?
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Where, one might ask, are the women? Are there still more men writing than women? I think not. So why are there more men’s voices out in the world than women’s voices? I have my theories. Look to the deletions, the hesitations, the reflective responses…the women are still out there thinking, their voices not quite up for the often bombastic and instantaneous responses. Thanks to rob mclennan, who reminded me of this fact in a post months ago either on the poetics listserv or his blog—I can’t recall—but it was a sharp reminder of the need for our presence. Also Ron Silliman for a constant consideration of these questions.
With that in mind, and for what it’s worth, I will maintain a voice here.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
A day at Moma. This installation, by Gary Hill, which I stumbled upon on the way to the restrooms yesterday, was one of the highlights...complete report to come.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Who would have imagined Bartleby on stage? Smushed as I was in a corner, at the edge of the stage with a cold and a lap-full of cough drops and remembering the longish experience of wading through the story I had my concerns about the experiment. But it was for naught. R.L. Lane has adapted Herman Melville's existential 19th-century tale quite ably. The set, the dialogue, the acting, all was quite perfect—and to my surprise, the play passed by with admirable lightness and speed.
The play’s absurdist foundation seemed to me very relevant, and in post-play discussions—and in the The Times review—people suggested adjusting Bartleby’s medication. This thought never occurred to me either during or after the play. The matter with Bartleby is not so simple. And that’s really the beauty of the piece, and this production.
The only flaw I found was in the relationship between Standard and Bartleby. We see that Bartleby awes Standard in some way, and this fact is easily as absurd as Bartleby’s behaviour. This might have suffered from the decision to break in and out of narration. In this way, Standard tells us much of the story. Overall the narration works well, with seamless cuts in and out of action. But telling the audience one is “awed” by Bartleby, and one is “watching” Bartleby, isn’t as powerful as seeing Standard’s transformation. For as much as Bartleby becomes more Bartleby, in some way his presence allows Standard to become more (or less) standard…
An interesting production, worth seeing, particularly for folks interested in the process of adaptation, the play runs through Nov. 27 at the Blue Heron Arts Center, 123 East 24th Street, Manhattan, (212) 868-4444.
At the moment in the interminable dinner when Coetzee baskingCruel? I didn’t think it cruel, but if I thought of meeting Coetzee I would imagine a scene not unlike this…it made me laugh out loud on the subway last night on the way back from Fordham. It was a terrible, bracing night, limos lined up outside of Lincoln Center, lights ablaze, and even after a night of poetry a la Marie Ponsot and Jean Gallagher who just won the Poets Out Loud Prize (or contest, not sure which), I was very cold. Gallagher is a smart poet and I’m looking forward to her book, This Minute. And of course Marie Ponsot remains one of my idols: I aspire to be as engaged as she, well into her 80s and not only still writing and reading, but attending readings any given night of the week.
icily across from you at the faculty table is all at once
there like a fox in a glare, asking
And what are your interests?
his face a glass that has shattered but not yet fallen.
But back to Carson I go...
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Jeff Wall, Photographs 1978-2004 at the Tate Modern
Wall is one of my favourite photographers. He was the first photographer I encountered that broke traditional lines of composition, and the first that included non-glamorous, or rather, did not focus on traditionally beautiful characters. He was also the first photographer I encountered who used light boxes and offered such massive prints—or cibachromes.
There was something shocking about seeing Wall’s realism at the Vancouver Art Gallery in the early 90s. This kind of social commentary, The Storyteller, for instance, has since come to seem commonplace, but at the time, it was positively explosive. Perhaps because while I was at UBC working toward my BFA in creative writing, I was also working with a population of "youths at risk" and saw the underbelly of Vancouver like many seemed not to want to. Wall's photographs were a kind of testimony: yes, there were people sleeping under the bridges in Vancouver; yes, there were addicts shooting up behind the tulip beds on West Hastings and Burrard, and Robson; yes, there were twelve year olds out prostituting; yes, the drug problem in Vancouver was out of control; yes, there was plenty of racism in the city. All of these aspects of the city have no doubt multiplied, though I'm not sure how much awareness has...
Wall’s influence on Canadian photography, particularly the strong school of realism in Vancouver, can’t be underestimated. I’m looking forward to the show that includes not only Wall, but the sons and daughters of Wall. We'll see a more dynamic and innovative Canada that's for sure. Though his influence is by no means constrained by our borders.
Wall's newer work is powerful, though in an entirely different way. In the photograph above, the view of the Vancouver harbour from an apartment (most likely on Wall Street in the city's east end) characterizes the ever-clashing worlds in the shimmering city. However, without the glaring social context, it lacks the power of the earlier work, or even other, newer work, such as the pieces on view recently at the Marian Goodman Gallery. The new work, and even some of the older work, did not seem nearly so shocking to me, now more than a decade into my relationship with Wall--and in the world of reality TV etc.. But it did to the New Yorker I was looking at them with. And through his eyes once more it seemed that someone had lifted the lid off of the dirty secret of my youth: Vancouver is a land of splendor, but not all is splendid, and certainly the splendor is not for all.
Monday, November 21, 2005
At the entrance to Prospect Park, and I suppose a much more dramatic version of Columbus Circle, Grand Army Plaza is, as the name suggests, grand. However, historians point out that the plaza is grander even than Olmsted and Vaux might have been comfortable with. The triumphal arc, a Civil War Memorial and added some 30 years after the park’s completion. I decided to photograph it in the last few weeks because I realized that no one talks about it, nor does anyone seem to go there. I walk by once a week and this week was the first time I noticed anyone walking by it. Someone was in fact photographing it.
Not surprising I suppose, since the plaza is entirely surrounded by traffic: the plaza itself a kind of fountain entirely surrounded by rushing metal and lights. The prospect must have seemed delicious in 1932 when the version of the fountain we see today, was erected.
The Bailey Fountain, which currently stands in Grand Army Plaza, was built in 1932 by architect Edgerton Swarthout and sculptor Eugene Savage. The Fountain's construction was funded by Brooklyn-based financier and philanthropist Frank Bailey (1865-1953), who wanted to build a memorial to his wife Mary Louise. It features an elaborate grouping of allegorical and mythical figures, including Neptune, god of water, and a pair of female nudes representing Wisdom and Felicity.Rumour has it that I live on a street that was once a soldier’s footpath and that at the corner was a garrison. Around the other corner there used to be a bar named The Teepee, and on my block once lived the largest Native American population outside of a reservation. The Mohawks who built the skyline took the subway home here, it would seem.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Saturday, November 19, 2005
In survival dreams I am bullet-proof, running, I resemble a cave, I go through myself. I tell myself that I exist, but basically: ha! There is no bone in my arm, no maharajah playing god in the hallway, no dark toothpick in the thigh…These poems have as much bite as the world they depict; they are as hard-boiled as the women they present. Here, from Mary:
The midwife baptized the babyI love this narrator and would have went more places with her. That may be my only quibble, more please, more story, more bigger. In an interview with This Magazine Adamson says she is writing a novel set in the early part of the twentieth century in the town of Frank—famous for the mountain slide that buried it. I have long been fascinated by that event myself, and can’t wait to see what she does with it.
with a cup of melted snow.
she said, “He won’t last,”
and he didn’t.
Bramer’s Refrigerator Memory contains some wonderfully, and as Prairie Fire points out, deceptively simple, prose poems. One of my all time favourites—which I had dog-eared in Grain Magazine where I first read it—is “Our Prosthesis”, winner of 2003’s prose poem contest:
On Saturday night I hid his prosthetic arm. He was drunk, it was easy, when he tried to run after me he stumbled, fell, hit his head on the corner of the coffee table. I was drunk too, sad, acting stupidly. Earlier that night he had been flirting with my sister and I felt neglected and negligible next to her in her pink sweater. I didn’t like the way he kept touching her with his false limb; I didn’t like the way she kept giggling at the strange feel of the plastic. I had paid for his prosthesis, after all, so perhaps this explains my possessiveness. When we got home we kept drinking. Before bed I started undressing him: his socks, his pants, his underwear, his sweater, his shirt, his arm. He came after me and fell. His forehead bled all over the carpet. I hid his arm in the basement. Dressed his wound. Put him to bed. Showered. Made tea. I read The Idiot until deep into the night. My sister doesn’t even know who Dostoyevsky is.Deceptively simple, and highly readable, Bramer’s third book is a pocketful of joy with sufficient dark shadows and flickers of light in places most of us don’t want to venture into. Smart, too. Did I mention smart? Finally, Quill and Quire and I agree on something…
That was the gift of the French. They gave Americans a language they did not need. It was like the Statue of Liberty. Nobody needs French theory.From Questions for Jean Baudrillard in the Sunday NY Times Magazine, or Baudrillard’s application for American citizenship, part 4, or French Theorists do French Theorists, the musical…