Civilisation

"I am standing on the Pont des arts in Paris. On one side of the Seine is the harmonious, reasonable facade of the Institute de France, built as a college in about 1670. On the other bank is the Louvre, built continuously from the Middles Ages to the nineteenth century: classical architecture at its most splendid and assured. Just visible upstream is the Cathedral of Notre Dame - not perhaps the most lovable of cathedrals, but the most rigorously intellectual facade in the whole of Gothic art. The houses that line the banks of the river are also a humane and reasonable solution of what town architecture should be, and in front of them, under the trees, are the open bookstalls where generations of students have found intellectual nourishment and generations of amateurs have indulged in the civilised pastime of book collecting. Across this bridge, for the last one hundred and fifty years, students from the art schools of Paris have hurried to the Louvre to study the works of art that it contains, and then back to their studios to talk and dream of doing something worthy of the great tradition. (...) What is civilization? I don't know. I can't define it in abstract terms - yet. But I think I can recognise it when I see it; and I am looking at it now." [Kenneth Clark, Civilisation, p.1]

Lovely.

KARAWANE

Karawane,

the sound poem by Hugo Ball, one of the Zürich Dadaists.*

And a masterful interpretation of the poem:

A great interpretation; others, such as this one by Trio Exvoco of Switzerland are, by comparison, downright depressing. Among other things, they lack an important - and maybe the essential - dimension of Dada, and of the avant-garde in general: its youth. Youth, both in the sense of young persons, and also, and most importantly, as that age in a person's life that we call youth. The stirring and moving of young age itself... as it "clashes" with society, with the drab, meaningless decorations it puts on its buildings, with the absurd that is intertwined with the everyday life in that society etc.** And youth responds organically, irrationally, and, needless to say, emotionally - by defacing the statues, overturning the garbage bins, and dancing in the fountains on the main square, after leaving the café at 2 am (you can't go mad while hungry; not if you're sane and healthy).***

The above-posted video, however, is quite excellent, and I could note a few aspects of why I think it is so well-done. First, it follows intelligently and almost "puristically" the phonetic value of the words in the poem - in this sound (or phonetic) poem. Furthermore, being set to a tribal drumbeat, it is very much in tone with the (quite important) primitivist dimension of Dada. Third, it was made using technology (Adobe Flash, I guess), and mechanized algorithms for the movement of the visual appearance of the words; thus removing itself, to a significant degree, from the subjective, personal, human dimension, very much in tone with Dada's emphasis on accident, the mass-produced, collage, and modern technology (see Schwitter's Merz, or Duchamp's Fountain). And, finally, it certainly has the inventiveness and randomness and freshness of a movement of the youth. After all, the author is 24 years old.

I do not know if this author, loris10mi (according to his Youtube name), is necessarily aware of all these dimensions - and he does not have to be, of course, given what was discussed above; but he might be, as this seems to have been part of an academic project. In any case, as noted, this might be one of the best interpretations of a Dada poem I have encountered yet.

...

* Dada? You can listen to Richard Huelsenbeck and Tristan Tzara talking about its beginnings - after the fact, of course, and after having been caught (the two of them) in ersatz visions of the world and of art, i.e. ideologies.

** It is not by chance that Dada appeared within the context of World War I, which, like all wars, was a celebration and joyful manifestation of the absurd; WWI perhaps even more so than the rest, given its utter pointlessness and unnecessary quality.

*** The scene with Anita Ekberg and Marcello Mastroianni, at the Fontana di Trevi, in La Dolce Vita, is not all too far removed from this youthful rebellion; but it is much "later" compared to youth itself, and thus, much sadder. As evidence of the similarity, see the very entertaining reaction of this youth from 60's Hungary (which was then under the (imposed) burden of a Communist regime), when watching the same scene from The Sweet Life; this funny and intelligent depiction is from Csinibaba, by Péter Timár, a movie made in the '90s.

Leonard Cohen, in concert

(at the Merriweather Post Pavilion , in Columbia, MD)
His features are sharper now, than the face to which we've grown accustomed. Yet his voice is - surprisingly - full, confident, and strong enough, and he uses it beautifully, even after a year of touring. He hasn't been on the road in about eight years; in fact, not many people expected to see him touring again; but this could very well be his last tour. He traveled the world, last year and this one, and finally got here, to the US. "Democracy is coming, to the USA."

I was late: traffic. The most striking thing, and the first thing that grabbed my attention, was that what was going on was something different from the concerts we know, from what we usually expect. It was the sudden awareness and remembering of the fact that he is a poet, first and foremost. Thus he addressed us - talked to us, recited, told, caressed us; his meaning, the meaning of him being there, on the stage, was to talk to us. As he himself affirmed, many times, Leonard Cohen is, first and foremost, a poet; then, a composer; then, a singer - in descending order of adeptness and comfort. I would add that his poetry is made for, and in, music; that he is a wonderful composer; that his poetic mode of expression, although based on words, is through music. He is, thus, a troubadour, in mind, in spirit, and in voice; this is the type of poetry he writes, this is the type of music he writes; as he writes on love, on things above and below, on loneliness, on encounters. And he doth travel the world. Therefore the night was one of a troubadour, who addressed us, who talked to us, sang to and with us.

As the night progressed, however, and as (some in) the public wanted to react in the familiar ways - the ways of the "show," so did his reactions change, too - slightly, in response. The learned ways of the show, of the concerts we know and usually attend, are that the stage is a self-enclosed world, and what happens in that world serves the functions of the spectacular, of virtuosity, even if containing some conversations between the members of the band; the aim is to generate entertainment that was paid for, by the public; the vague hope is that the reactions from the public might go as far as joining in, in feeling, in presence. But the two sides remain hopelessly apart, one expecting what it paid for - spectacular, entertainment, the other going its learned ways to produce that glimmer and show.

Or, if the concert is a classical one, we have a complex address that is put out there and hangs in the air somewhere between the orchestra and the public; and the hope is that the public will see it, admire it, and, in extra-ordinary occasions, partake of it, in this third object, in-between the orchestra and the public; an object so beautiful, so worked-out, so passionate, even. Yet the communication - it is never direct, between musician and public; in the end, the genre is not of such a nature, that it could actually constitute direct communication; the piece is already written, and it originates from someone else. The musicians execute it, participate in it, live it, even; then deliver it before us, and each of us - we might look at it, some might participate - and beautiful things do happen, that way; but it is a different genre, different from poetry.

But the poet, like Mr Cohen, must speak to you, otherwise he isn't there for the right aim, otherwise he is not, that evening, what he truly is. And so it is, that he is a troubadour. Thus, by virtue of this ongoing conversation, because of the music he made with us and for us, in conversation, his behavior did change slightly, accordingly; as some in the public descended towards the learned ways of the show, at times he (and they, on the stage) became more self-enclosed (yet only passingly); or, instead, he manifested a bit of cabotinage (no such word in English, unfortunately; clownery? second-rate, provincial theater?), of "show," yet even that, ironic, self-mocking, unserious. (The unspoken conversation that went on beneath the words and the songs; the need for show, albeit unspoken, was expressed, and was responded, with show.) But the clown is himself a troubadour; or, rather, the troubadour must be a clown, too, at times, as he sings about love, heartbreak, drunkenness, and laughter - even shrill.

And the band, just like Mr. Cohen, was (composed) of adults. So rare, nowadays, to have music (but it applies to contemporary art in general) that is by grown-ups, for grown-ups (which is not a function of biological age). Mr Cohen's poetry and songs age with him; one has only to listen through the recordings, over the years; and it is a beautiful thing. Years, they are what constitute him - not the moment.

And this was the second thing that I remarked, with gladness and relief: I saw the narrative. The concert had this soothing, healing character, therefore, because it had an underlying narrative. Not stories in songs, since they may be disjointed poetry; not a superimposed theme; but the narrative that was in him, and in some of the members of the band, in the poetry that is made in time, through time, and of time. It had a narrative, because it had time - age. No desperate quest for eternal youth, which is achieved through momentary (and thus despairing) grasps for the spectacular, or the hormonal. Thus the concert was soothing of the fragmentariness of this here American existence.

And what does this age, or narrative, mean, actually? It means something very un-postmodern: a continuity of feeling, an awareness of "the democracy of the dead and of the living" (to use G.K. Chesterton's words), a perspective on the moment that understands it with all that preceded it, and all that follows it. Healing attributes, then, of the ugly, insidious fragmentariness of the strip-mall, virtual, suburban, car-driven existence. The existence of public squares, and of cafés, to which one does not drive, but walks.

It was also a joy to see that he had a true, full band, to accompany him (really accompany him). The old Spanish Gypsy gentleman playing the "bandurria, laud, archilaud and 12 string guitar," with obvious relish and virtuosity, as if in the main square of a village in Spain, drenched in sun and drought (Javier Mas). Sharon Robinson, the aged (wine-like) lady in the backing vocals section , co-composer of some of Cohen's best songs, and duet partner on many other songs. A band surprisingly complete - I expected a trimmed-down, utility-oriented one; but no, they were individual persons, friends and long-time companions, musicians and singers; playing instruments ranging from the laud to the wind synthesizer, from real wind instruments to the Hammond.

An evening of poetry and music, with Leonard Cohen's troupe of wandering clowns, trapeze artists, old beauties and race horses.

[May 11, 2009]

P.S. I just learned that, "Due To Overwhelming Demand Leonard Cohen's Acclaimed 2009 World Tour Returns to North America," this fall, with a few concerts stretching the distance between New York and San Jose.

An antology of empty words (1)

Hollowed. Numbed. Killed. Empty words. Beware of them, they signal falseness. Quite often, the surrounding text itself is just as false and hollow - but not always, certainly. They might be used out of obligation, or for wanting to correspond to certain expectations, whether professional (institutionalized expectations), or personal ("I owe the guy a review," or, "I need to write one but this is so esoteric that I must remain at the level of generalities") .

The wooden language - langue de bois - of today (aujourd'hui):

exciting - we had to use some word expressing enthusiasm; but I don't foresee anyone ever opening a bottle of champagne about this.

a triumph! - appears especially in book reviews; most often about scholarly books; nobody will read this outside the scholars who actually subscribe to the particular theory that drives that niche book.

challenging - we will have to deal with this down the road, and will probably fail, or are already struggling with it, with no end in sight.

mission statements written around verbs that end in “-ing” - written by committee; with an eye to would-be donors; on issues that are fashionable at the moment; generic enough to reflect, but not true enough to express, what we really do, everyday.

vibrant - it exists; is mostly mediocre, but it is there; in any case, it's nothing out of the ordinary; it is.

challenging the assumptions - wide eyes, mouth half open, fists half-clenched; probably it also "shakes the establishment."

intriguing - I really, truly don't know what to say about you or about this thing.

to embrace - we do not know how you do that, but you really have to be open minded when you do it.

community - mostly people who have never met, and will never meet; collective noun describing people that have a particular attribute, or behavior, or who knows what, which for some reason is now useful politically (rhetorically).

What else?

Looking at a painting (more thoughts on understanding)

I remember a discussion I once had with a younger friend. It was about the Impressionist paintings in Chicago, at the Art Institute there. (They do have the largest collection of Impressionists in the world; larger than at any French museum, from what I know. And it seems that this is due to the inspiration of collectors who recognized their value before they were recognized in France; but I am not sure about this.) In any case: the discussion was about learning to "read" these paintings. My (much) younger(er) friend was slightly appalled by the idea that one would need to get acquainted with the language in which they - these painters - communicate. This is somewhat characteristic to a certain ultra-democratic psychology that pervades our way of looking at things - at almost everything: from education, to religion, to art.

Yet nobody would think that you can go perform surgery, without understanding how the human body works. Well, this parallel might be a little forced; let's try something else. Nobody would expect you to go to a non-English-speaking country, and be able to communicate with the people there, in their language, without having tried to learn at least a few words ("Good-morning!" "Where is the railroad station?")

Yet what is happening, in fact, when I am looking at a painting? 


I am trying to communicate. Indirectly, it is a sort of communication with the painter, but that is not the point. In fact, I would rather not know, most of the times, what the painter wrote about things in the world. (Except, for example, in Vasari's case, since he was first and foremost a scholar, then a painter.)

Communicating, here, means trying to enter into communication with the object itself: with the painting. In order to "understand" it? No, I would rather not say that. Understanding can be taken to mean an act of reason, purely; and, although reason does play a role, painting is not about cryptology. It is rather like an encounter, like when I have an encounter with someone with whom, say, I am not talking; but I look at him, at his face, demeanor, even his body, our eyes do meet, too - and we do understand certain things, immediately; and, if I am careful, I might notice that there is also a certain "sensation" to this encounter; that, within, I am experiencing many things, in that moment.

This experience, this sensation, is a mixture of memory, emotions, of the luggage of the day, of set ideas I have about things etc. Memories? Impressions from similar encounters; what I know and think about how people dress; other encounters with people like this tall, brown-haired person; predispositions I have about people with moustaches. Emotions? I do feel a certain way, with regards to every person I meet, although most of these emotions are either at the normal, "social" level, or below the threshold where I become aware of them. The luggage of the day: am I tired? unawares, do I feel uncomfortable, after having walked, in the heat of the city, to this place? did the day have a good start?

We might not talk, therefore, but we have already communicated, in the sense that I, at least, have encountered him.

The parallel with watching a painting might be a bit limp, but it works in the sense that what I get from the encounter, is a function of my whole being; which is to say - my experience: past, and the present of that moment. All the things that make up my life, my experience, I have them in me: it is the language I have learned from the moment I was born; and thank God we all have this aptitude of "developing" in this manner. With a radically different experience - say, if I would have been born in China, or in India, or just in Canada, my "language" which I would bring to understanding this other person (and note that we are not talking about verbal communication) would surely be different. And what if I would have been raised by a pack of wolves (it has happened)? Think about what Yuja Wang said about her trying to get acquainted with the universe (language) of Liszt's works. Then why would it be so shocking (in this democratic, democratizing mode of thinking) that the encounter is richer, if one's language, one's whole being, is more acutely in syntony with the object/person it encounters. In syntony: which means emotions, feelings, impressions, memories, all the elements with which we encounter and make sense of the world.

There seem to be two extremes, here; like in many other occasions, they seem to be related, somehow.

On the one end is the attitude that, in order to be able to encounter an object of art, one needs to have the information that would "solve" it, decipher it. This is a truly dangerous attitude, the one that I would say raises the greatest obstacles to most of the people, to encountering any good thing. This is the fear of being unprepared, intellectually. Yet this is not an intellectual encounter; or, not first and foremost. At its core, one could say that this is an emotional experience. It is an emotion like the emotion of meeting someone - be it a stranger, someone you've known for a long time etc. At the core of it, what one has to do (and this is what I do) is become attentive to oneself. While you encounter that object, start focusing and be attentive, notice, what is going on with you, inside you; try to be attentive to the emotions, images, the memories this brings; because this, in fact, is your encounter with that painting (or whatever it is), at its core.

Painting is not Sudoku: it is not a puzzle, a quiz, to be deciphered, solved; although, of course, there are plenty of paintings that have all sorts of intellectual games, symbols, allusions,quotations, embedded throughout (Medieval painting, or Byzantine icons are good examples of that). So good for you if you get those symbols, allusions. But painting - or art - is not a puzzle, because it is not meant to have only one correct (valid) solution. I would say that this attitude, this fear of "being wrong," of not getting "the correct answer," is one of the greatest obstacles in the reception of art. (This is also why people have to be told that this and this is by a big name, say, Michelangelo. That "guarantee of quality" is a way of bypassing the fear of "not getting it right." This is also why there is such a thing as snobbery, which is the same thing.)

At the other extreme, is the democratist idea - that it is all one, that all have equal access, to everything. Yet the same person will not say that we all encounter all the people in the same way. He would not say that we do not make friends, more easily, with certain people, than with others. That, beyond the meeting of temperaments, it does not matter if we actually speak the language the other person speaks.

At the core of what I am trying to convey is that the encounter with an object of art - just like the encounter with any object - is, first, a universal endowment, of being able to encounter what surrounds us (and I am not talking only visually, of course). Second, that it is a personal event, in which all the dimensions of our being are involved, from emotions to reason; and is a function of all that we are, from what we think about the world, to what we have "learned" from the world. And third, if you will: that we can always do something about these events, since our luggage of "instruments" - emotions, experiences, thoughts - that we bring to these encounters is shapedcontinuously, even during the encounter itself, if we give ourselves some time, and become attentive to what is going on within us.

So how about those Impressionists? It does not hurt to speak their language, since what they expressed was very consciously expressed in a certain way. Reading the Song of Songs is not the same with reading Paul's epistles, although Paul does get poetic quite often. In any case, it is not the same as reading the (proverbial) phone book, which nobody does, since there is Google (hence it has become "proverbial" to do that). They are both in English. But there is a serious difference of language.

P.S. I found that - well, my own way of encountering abstract painting is by doing just that - becoming attentive to myself, focusing on what I am experiencing - the memories that come to mind, my feelings thoughts etc. The more "abstract" they are, the more subjective they are, the more directly related the most (verbally) inexpressible dimensions of the self of the painter - hence their abstract nature. (This is not universally true, of course; the programmatic dimensions take the forefront in so much of contemporary painting; unfortunately in so many cases this becomes sheer ideology, "political message"... terrible, barren, drab.) In any case, this remains my preferred, "personal" manner of encountering contemporary abstract painting.