The Correspondence Between Paul Claudel and André Gide

(1899-1926)

I went to this book driven by my attraction toward, and interest in, the French intellectual life of the end of the 19^th, and first half of the 20^th century. Yes, this is an intellectual milieu (era and location) that I find very appealing  - thus what I was looking for in this book was to encounter a slice (a living, pulsating slice) of this life, and thus to engage in a vicarious partaking in “the life of the artist”. And I did find this, or a good measure of it; however, what this Claudel-Gide correspondence is (ultimately) about is something else – namely, a spiritual struggle, whose protagonists are the Catholic convert (and artist) Paul Claudel, and the struggling and prideful (intellectual) André Gide; and this is a struggle about Gide’s soul.

I used the word “prideful”, about Gide, and yet by that I do not mean “pridefulness” in his relationship with Claudel; if anything, Gide seemed to generally humble himself, in his relationship with Claudel - humility rooted in his genuine admiration for Claudel the artist, but also in the fact that Claudel played a role of spiritual reference point for Gide (in his searching, in his struggles). “Prideful,” however, does refer to a core part of Gide’s personality – of his spiritual, moral and intellectual being - and this side of Gide will eventually play its part in the undoing of their friendship - of their relationship.

Because their relationship was one of friendship – which might seem surprising, at first, based on the retrospective image that we have of the two; as said, one being the epitomic Catholic convert (prominent socially, artistically, even politically, in early twentieth century France), the other (retrospectively) a flag-bearer of unbelief, and (even) of an inimical relationship to the faith - or at least to the Church.

Inimical, yes, but not to every kind of faith - as Gide will later (famously) become a fellow traveler of the totalitarian Soviet regime...; yes, that ersatz religion of ideology, to which so many subscribed, in the West, under the pale cover of good, progressive, even humanistic intentions.

So I did not find exactly what I went looking for, in this volume of correspondence, but what I did find, and what I did learn, from reading it, did in fact clarify some aspects of what I went looking for (and I will explain what I mean by this in a moment). Yes, there is a lot, in this correspondence, about the daily work in the artist’s workshop; minutia about typesetting, editing, about struggling with publishing houses; about launching (and about failing) publications; about contributing to this or to that magazine; and so on. Yes, I did enjoy this part, just as I enjoyed the behind the scenes information about Claudel’s efforts to balance his diplomatic career (endeavored mostly in far-off China, but also in Poland) with his artistic work (which was more important, of course; but one does need to earn, as well, to support one’s family). There were also interesting bits about their relationship to Pascal, and (partially) Jansenism; it seems to me that Pascal has faded, to a large degree, from our interests, which is why it is striking to discover how important he (and Port-Royal, the center of Jansenism) was for these two protagonists. Some of this minutia also has the inevitable drabness of the daily grind of the working artist (yet not in an unpleasant, but rather in an instructive way, I find); and sometimes the discussion of other artists veers close, perhaps, to gossip, or at least to “politicking” (which does not interest me, but which is informative as a sort of anthropology of the artistic milieu).

And their discussions about other cultural figures of the day, with whom they had personal and intellectual entanglements, were also most welcome, because for me one of the great gains of reading, say, intellectual autobiographies, monographies about a specific era, or collections of correspondence such as this one, is the opportunity to discover new figures, artists and thinkers, with whom I am less, or not at all, familiar. Since often these (new) figures are (intellectually or personally) close and akin to the author whose memoirs I have chosen to read, there is a good chance that they might appeal to me, as well; in any case, this is a good way for them to enter my own intellectual purview (to be looked at, and to be engaged, later); to obtain further “road markers” for one’s own intellectual journey. And the same thing happened here – names I jotted down, people and works that I need to look into.

*

Paul Claudel

But I mentioned that, although I did not find exactly what I started after, I did however find aspects that helped me in that regard, as well. What do I mean by this? Well, the very fact that the “on art and artists” dimension of this correspondence is soon enough taken over, even overwhelmed, by a different theme, namely of the spiritual struggle, reveals certain useful things about the relationship of art to spirituality, for Claudel. What do I mean by this?

Well, not long after reading this volume, I picked up and read Second Thoughts, which is a book of essays (on art and life) by François Mauriac. And what a soothing and liberating encounter that was – in comparison! – for me... And what I mean by this is that I found Mauriac’s approach to the relationship between life and art – and, inevitably, and centrally, faith – much more akin, or suitable, to me, than Claudel’s. Paul Claudel, of whom I am, and have always been, quite fond; but whom I have always found just a bit “heavy,” a tad cumbersome, maybe... in ways that are not easy to explain. And I am not necessarily referring here to his art – although it is reflected in that, as well; but more, I don’t know, in terms of his personality (maybe spirituality). I am talking here about a certain “angularity,” rigidity even; about an embodiment - of an otherwise honest, genuine, deeply devout soul - that I find a tad bit heavier, more burdensome, than I would prefer. To put it differently, it seems to me that Claudel’s artistic “flight” is much more burdened by... well, by other considerations; while, in comparison, Mauriac appears to see and approach everything through art, which in turn endows it (his art) with a kind of inner freedom (which I much prefer). There is, then, a certain "weightiness" to Claudel - which (for lack of a better way of expressing it) is related to how his (genuine, clear) soul manifests itself outwardly - toward others, and in art.  

Let me try to explain this a bit further. Well, it seems to me (but I might be wrong) that Mauriac lives faith through and by being an artist, through art, with an artist’s soul; on the other hand, in Claudel’s case, while his exquisite artistry is very much rooted in and expressive of his faith, the two seem to follow different paths, and to ultimately part ways, overall. To put it differently – art can be seen as the very way of living faith (Mauriac) - or, instead, as a craft, that is put in the service of, that expresses, yet also remains somewhat externally related to, faith (Claudel). Or so it seems to me. But let us not push these distinctions too far, because I also do not think that one can draw too thick of a line of separation, as the artist’s engagement with his artistry fluctuates and takes different shapes, at different times. But there is a difference between the two, I dare say, in this regard; and I do find Mauriac’s way more akin, and more attractive, to me.

But let me also add here, before anyone gets the wrong idea, that I was always, and remain, quite fond of Claudel; and that he is one of the greatest playwrights of the last century, and also one of its major poets. So what I am discussing here is not about the quality of his artistry, but about a specific existential approach, a specific take on the condition of the artist, and on the relationship between art and faith.

*

However, this essay is not intended to be a comparison between Claudel and Mauriac – nor would it be able to endeavor such a thing, based solely on these two books. So, going back to our Claudel-Gide subject, let us pick up the thread of the conversation by continuing our discussion of (what I called) Claudel’s “angularity,” that "heaviness". Well, what do we learn from this book - did Gide also notice this (or does it only exist in my own reading, in my fantasy)? He did, and in this sense I recall a fragment from a Gide journal (which is included in the book) in which he describes (and this is toward the end of their friendship) the aesthetic and psychological impact that Claudel’s physical presence made on him, in one occasion - referring to (and I paraphrase) Claudel’s stoutness, rockiness, to his straight-lined solidity (as he was sitting there, in his armchair). And these remarks are not, in fact, about Claudel’s physicality, are they? No, they seem to be expressions of the way in which the overly-sensitive Gide perceived, then, Claudel’s being.

And my concern is, of course, not with physical angularity, heaviness - but with interior angularity or rigidity. An example of this "rigidity" in action might be the somewhat abrupt way in which Claudel (eventually) handled Gide’s spiritual (and especially moral) struggles. Yes, Claudel was right, in his positions – but his imperative tone, his norms-based suggestions, instructions even, struck me as counterproductive – especially given Gide’s over-sensitive nature. But Claudel did have, I think, a harsh(er), perhaps more volcanic (although I think also a bit melancholic) temperament; and temperament is not something that we can choose, no more than we can skip over our own shadow. (In addition, we always live in a state of “inherent ignorance”, represented by the limits of our understanding or wisdom at the given moment; limits which, by their very nature, are invisible to us, at that moment; and which we sometimes discover later, retrospectively, realizing “how stupid I was!”, or, “how blind we were!”) Thus I am not emitting a judgment on Claudel – of whom I've always been quite fond. To the contrary, it is because I admire Claudel, that I am interested in understanding him better (as an artist, as a man of faith, and as a human being).

So, that Gidean spiritual struggle – what was it about? Why was there a “struggle”? And why was that a theme, a central theme, of their correspondence? Well - God, the faith, and religion being at the center of Claudel’s life (and how could they not be, as what else is there, in ultimate terms?), they naturally became central topics of conversation with Gide, as well. And not because Claudel "pushed" them. No, Gide himself (like many other figures of that time and of that place) was deeply preoccupied with the ideas of faith, God, the Church; he was, as it were, searching, or seeking, struggling - with all this. Furthermore, as mentioned before, Claudel represented for Gide both an admired (genius) artist, and also a spiritual partner of conversation, point of reference, even tentative guide (recall here again Claudel’s very prominent position, in France, at that time, as the emblematic Catholic artist).

So what was Gide's struggle about? Well, I would classify these inner conflicts into two categories: on the one hand, there seemed to be the specifically modern conflict between a “Cartesian” approach to reality (in which something is, only inasmuch as I can demonstrate its being; I think, therefore I am - instead of I am, which then allows me to think) - and (the nature and condition of) faith. And, if this was Gide's spiritual-intellectual struggle, there was also another one, of a moral nature, which was related to Gide’s sensuality (which included his homosexuality, and, some say, his ephebo-, even pedo-philia) – all in all, what I would more broadly call his sensuality, or the role and burden of the sensuous within one's self. So, on the one hand, the intellectual-spiritual conflict involving modern rationality and faith; and, on the other, the moral struggle with one’s overbearing sensual drives.

Sadly, both of these will bring their contributions to the radical break which will intervene after decades of intellectual and personal friendship between the two; as on both accounts Gide will take (as said) a proud and stubborn path of radical defiance - and even, at times, of enmity - toward faith (or at least the Church) and (from Claudel’s and from our perspective) toward the truth. And I do not know (nor do I recall if this is ever made clear) which came first: Gide’s turn (away), or Claudel break with him. Overall, I think that these happened more or less at the same time, in parallel - one action responding to and reinforcing the other. One key moment that I do seem to recall is Gide asking to use a Claudel quote as a motto or epigraph for one of his books, which Claudel agreed to, only to be horrified to discover the use (or, rather, misuse) to which that quote was put - the book reflecting the very opposite of what that quote (and Claudel) intended, and stood for. But, all in all, it seems that Gide was already going (down) on a certain route, notwithstanding his conversations with Claudel.

And I mentioned heaviness, and rigidity – and here’s again why; because I do think that, notwithstanding Gide’s doings, even the more egregious ones, Claudel could have remained at least at an arm’s length, or somewhere, removed, but still within Gide’s line of sight - as a possible (because, who knows what can happen?) life line, a secours in a time of desperate need. But take this with a grain of salt - as I am equally quick to note here that some of the things that Gide did (read: wrote) became so egregious (for Claudel), that they became simply unacceptable, and unassumable (for Claudel). And I understand that – just as I understand that expecting from Claudel to be someone else, of a different temperament, personality, personal history - would be nonsensical, an impossibility.

And perhaps their paths were destined to break off from each other, to split... After all, weren’t they just too different? Weren’t they not set on completely different paths? And Gide, after all, made his own decisions - notwithstanding everything, notwithstanding their conversations.

*

But let’s get back to the aforementioned two aspects of the struggle. Regarding the first aspect, Gide seems to have been stuck, indeed, in that Cartesian position that leads to an inability to even understand what faith might be, i.e. to understand faith as a “different” kind of knowing. And, indeed, it is very, very difficult, to even come to grasp the distinctiveness of faith, if one’s criterion of truth, i.e. of accepting what there is, is one’s own powers and ability to demonstrate it. (And isn’t this a very familiar position? – so familiar, that it seems to be the only possible position, the only possible approach to the idea of knowledge, today?)

The Cartesian position – by which I mean, rooted not necessarily in what Descartes thought (who was a believer), but in the ulterior implications of his “cogito ergo sum”.

But, but... am I really the measure of what there is – or, as classical philosophy has affirmed, am I only a guest in a cosmos that is not of my doing and making, an invitee, whose purpose and mission is to acquire, recognize, and pursue the truth that is out there? Am I the truth, and thus its measure - or is reality, what there is, out there, the (measure of) truth? And yes, today many, millions of people encounter these same questions, and find themselves stuck in this struggle, simply by virtue of the fact that in our intellectual and cultural context (which was shaped, to a good degree, by the Enlightenment – by its deep errors as much as by its relative gains) we just do not know of any other means of pursuing the truth... And yet, if this limited I is the criterion of truth – instead of being the pursuer thereof... If we measure a grander reality with a limited instrument, will not the result be a limited (image of) reality? The measure used does determine the results obtained.

But what is the solution? I mentioned the word "pride" – and the word has its due place here. The limiting and centering of our pursuit of the truth in the I carries with it an inherent pridefulness (even if the pursuer does not intend it that way) and stubbornness. What is then the alternative? The alternative is a position of inherent humility - of the pursuit of truth that starts from wonder, from an acknowledgment of one’s inherent ignorance; from knowing that one is not the truth, nor its measure; that Truth is out there, and one is only its pursuer; and thus from the desire to shape oneself according to this Truth - and not vice versa. And this humility also understands – it is forced to – that natural reason has its inherent limits; that just because our intellective powers are finite, it does not mean that the truth is equally finite; thus opening us to other ways of knowing – namely faith, which is not in contradiction, but in continuation of, and in complementarity with, natural reason; rational faith, and faithful reason. (But to have access to this kind of knowledge one needs the humility to at least be open to the fact that, after a certain point, our understanding fails; and to be open to the gift of understanding that one receives, beyond and above the limits of one's own intellective powers; to grace, therefore.)¹

*

The other dimension or kind of struggle, as said, related to Gide’s sexuality; or, more broadly understood, to the tremendous pull and weight and burden of the sensuous within the person. And, in Gide’s case (as evidenced by his life, up to its end), this was not something that he was able or willing to part with, or to fight against – to not allow for it to become the determinant force in his life. (A heavy burden, indeed - and is this struggle any easier today, in this age of mass addiction to, and boundless consumption of, pornography? Another issue, then, from this correspondence – and from his struggles – that is very much of current relevance.)  And in this aspect Gide was equally indecisive, and coy - perpetually oscillating, perpetually pulled in various directions – yet gradually and consistently pursuing, in fact, a chosen path - the path away from Claudel and from what Claudel stood for. (Oh, yes, not all major decisions are taken in one clear moment, through one definite act; many, perhaps most choices, are gradual, incremental - often being a sliding down that is not noticeable in the moment, but whose accumulated effects will become clear in time...)

*

This, then, is the story that emerges from this volume: of two writers of whom we usually think as representing radically different positions on the spiritual-literary spectrum, but who, for many years, were in close intellectual and personal contact, even friendship. And, yes, I did not find exactly what I went looking for, in this book – not entirely. I did learn, however, things about Claudel (some of which I had perceived before, to a degree); things that, together with what I learned later from Mauriac, further clarified certain important aspects about art, faith, and the condition of the artist.

Finally, this volume of correspondence also illuminated some of the dramas which remain also core dramas of our age, of our own existence: one, the difficulty that we face in even beginning to approach faith, let alone comprehend it as a distinct way of knowledge, because of our embeddedness in a Cartesian understanding of the very nature of knowing; and, two, the heavy burden of the sensuous, which is very much a contemporary challenge, as well, and which is related to said Cartesian limitations on our understanding (after all, isn’t “follow your desires” one of the dominant ways of defining living truthfully and meaningfully, today? following your desires, appetites, isn't this proposed today as a "recipe for happiness"? while Plato characterized the same appetites as the unruly, wild horses which, uncontrolled, will devastate the soul?)²

A very instructive reading, then – both for reasons of personal ruminations on art, faith, and the artist – and for additional illuminations on some of our peculiarly modern dilemmas.

***

FOOTNOTES

1. And, to continue this discussion – there is also an opposite type of error, which comes however from the same separation of reason and faith; in this, one "take the side" of a faith that is understood in opposition to reason - a-rational, even ir-rational. And this position has of course its roots (to a good degree) in Luther - and in his distrust, even dismissal, of reason. This approach to faith as the irrational goes counter, however, to the millennium and a half old Tradition that preceded Luther (Tradition that continued after him, as well); a Tradition in which reason and faith are seen as two different (and complementary) forms of human understanding, i.e. of the human pursuit of the same Truth. 

And, lo and behold, Gide was indeed raised as a Huguenot, as a Calvinist (i.e. at this other end of the spectrum) - which might have contributed to his struggle with integrating faith and reason, in the sense of swinging from one end (dismissal of reason, following irrational faith) to the other (dismissal of faith, as irrational, and only trusting what empirical reason can certify). Indeed, the position of equilibrium, the balanced integration of faith and reason, as the "two wings on which the human spirit rises to the contemplation of truth", while harmonious, may be the hardest to hold, especially if one does not have a tradition or an authority to reinforce this position.).

2. See Plato’s discussion of the soul which, like a chariot, is aimless and gets ravaged, when pulled hither and thither, back and forth, right and left, by the uncontrolled, unruly, wild horses of the desires, of our appetites. To the contrary, in the ordered, harmonious soul of the wise person, the higher understanding (nous) takes charge and orders these unruly forces of the appetites (knowing their power and dangerousness), directing them according to what it (the higher understanding) knows to be the Truth.

So why or how is this relevant to us? Do we not live in an age in which “science” (which is supposed to be the pinnacle and also the sole path of knowledge) is meant to be the measure and ruler of everything? To be the most powerful force, governing (in a sense) society? But, then, how come that we are still, society-wide, ravaged by these unruly desires and appetites; how come that, simultaneously with the apparent worship of science, we are also told that the goal of life is to “follow your desires”, that “fulfilling one’s appetites” is so essential that it becomes a "basic right" of the human being? And, implicitly, that chasing one’s appetites is the path to happiness, to truth? So, how can we reconcile these two, apparently opposite things – praising a form of rationality (science), but ultimately being driven by one’s appetites?

Our classical friends can come to our aid here, as well. Yes, we do seem to (at least apparently, or formally) worship (or at least pretend to respect) reason; yes, but this is not the type of reason (or understanding) that, in Plato, leads to the knowledge of the Truth; instead, it is a lower kind of rationality, that Aristotle refers to as techne: instrumental, technical knowledge, which helps us to explain and to manipulate how things work – but which is not able to tell us anything about the why, about meaning and purpose. 

Techne, in other words, does not and can not talk about the Truth; and yet, only the kind of knowledge that can talk about it, that can attain to the Truth (or the Good) can give the human being – the self – a direction. Still, even bringing up the need for this kind of knowledge, the need for asking these questions, about Truth, about the Good, is no longer socially acceptable, kosher, "in polite society", today. So we renounce asking these questions (the most important questions) - and pursuing the (only) answers (that can give direction to our lives). And, then, what remains? 

Well, our selves (just like a chariot) never remain driverless. Just because we fail to, or give up on, putting a driver on the chariot  (a driver that can take us home), it does not mean that the chariot will not be driven (pulled). But, driverless, it will be be pulled - hither and thither - by the unleashed, unruly, wild and self-seeking horses  - namely, our powerful appetites, the desires - pulling the entire chariot (our self) to its destruction.

“Ways of Escape”: A Dialogue on a Train

A: Nice pictures!

B: Thank you! Yes, we just got back from tropical island Z; it was great!

A: Great?

B: Well, yes, we had a good time. I mean, the kids were a bit rowdy, and I was... you know, to be honest, I was in a sort of a foul mood for most of the week; but it was a beautiful place, nevertheless, and overall we enjoyed ourselves - a lot!

A: How come that you went there?

B: What do you mean?

A: What led you to choose tropical island Z – to go there? How have you heard of it, if I may ask?

B: We’ve seen pictures of it, and heard some stories from people who’ve been there... you know?

A: Yes, but, if I may ask - why did you go there (as you could have gone somewhere else)? Or, better yet, why go anywhere?

B: I’m not sure I understand your questions...

A: I’m sorry; it’s just something that preoccupies me... Why go anywhere? Or, why not go somewhere closer to home – some park...?

B: Well, you know, the image of a tropical island... the white sands, the endless blue ocean, a few white clouds scattered over the otherwise clear blue sky, the palm trees - all that... It’s – you know - the ideal image, isn’t it?

A: Yes, “ideal” is a good word for it.

B: What do you mean?

A: That “ideal” is a word that we use to indicate an image that we project of, of...

B: ... of the perfect spot?

A: ... of perfection, rather. You see, that’s what interests me about all this – the reason why I ask; namely, why do we create for ourselves such images, why do we chase such images?

B: I'm not sure that I get what you mean.

A: Well, you said that you saw pictures of this place (I suppose, on social media), and I would say that they probably resonated with something... something in you (sorry to presume, but I assume...)

B: Well, yes, yes! I always wanted to go to one of those places...

A: Who wouldn’t?

B: ... white sands, blue ocean, palm trees – I mean, this is the kind of place that you see in the movies: where people retire, at the end of the heist movie, after having escaped the cops – and then they buy a bar there, and spend their lives on the beach – or?

A: Indeed, indeed – right you are. But... now that you’ve been there, is now – I mean, is that need, that desire for these kinds of a places - is it now... fulfilled?

B: Need? Desire? What do you mean, exactly?

A: Well, like you mentioned – the need or desire that made you “always want to go to one of those places”... (and me as well, by the way; I am no different).

B: Well, it’s a nice place...

A: Yes, but you mentioned “ideal,” and movies... That’s what I am referring to – the apparent need (shared by you, me, and those moviemakers) that drives us all toward such “ideal” places.

B: ...

A: And yes, yes, I know that they’re nice. But, here it is – we go to the pristine beach, to a spectacular waterfall, to the virgin forest, or to the icy-blue mountaintop – and, does that "need" ever cease? Is it ever... fulfilled? Do we ever just go there, and then just... sit and rest, as it were ... accomplished, fulfilled... complete?

B: Ha, ha - well, I can’t say that you are not right, in a way, you know? Truth be said, while I am still living off the sensory memories of the warm days and starry nights spent on the beach (not staying up too late, though, because we had to put the kids to sleep), I know that in a couple of months me and my wife will start thinking about our next destination...

A: Yes, yes, that’s what I mean...

[A seems to be looking for the right words... Brief silence.]

A: Well, you know, the reason why I’m asking... You mentioned that you saw those pictures, of tropical island Z, online somewhere.

B: Yes.

A: My question is, why do we post these kinds of images... – besides the fact that they’re nice (which they are!). What I am referring to is – did you notice that every day we are, I don’t know, bombarded by not just nice images, but news stories, pretty videos, inspirational messages about ... some place, some people, some things, some ways of doing things...

B: ...

A: You know, those news stories about... about how in Finland, for example, they have eliminated homework in their schools, and how that has created the “best educational system ever”; or how in Italy there is this valley where people live to a hundred years, and we wonder about their diet and their lifestyle, and what we could take over from their habits; or how in Japan the transportation minister resigned last year (or was it the year before?) because the trains had a cumulated delay (across the entire year!) of one minute and thirty seconds...

B: ... yes, and?

A: ... or how, according to studies done by some British researchers, this or that country in Scandinavia is considered to be “the happiest” in the world...

B: ... yes, and?

A: Or, or – and I promise that I’ll end with this – how about those videos made by that young Chinese woman, showing us the simple rural life, and how to cook using only simple tools and natural ingredients...

B: And?

A: Well, aren’t these just as much “ideal places” (or ways of being, or of doing things), not unlike your tropical island Z? “Ideal images” that we keep sharing, and reading about – always trying to find – the next one?! (And, my question is - why?)

B: What do you mean?

A: Well, my question is - why this endless stream of stories, images, messages, coming at us every day, all proposing some other place, other life, other country, other way of, I don’t know, being?

B: Because these are models of how to live better, or where to live better, and so on! ...aren’t they?

A: Yes, but once we learned about them - and once we start doing that diet, or after we move to country X in Scandinavia... well, does our search actually end, then? Are we satisfied, fulfilled, finito - done?

B: Well, no; clearly not. In fact, the place where we live right now, in this country – me and my family just moved here a couple of years ago from...

A: But that’s it!... Sorry to interrupt you – but that’s exactly it! That’s what... that’s what’s been keeping me up at night, lately – or, to be honest, for the past couple of years, in fact.

B: Really? What, more precisely?

A: Well, trying to think about, and to actually get to terms with, the fact that we are engaged in this, I don’t know, seemingly endless pursuit, never satisfied by anything that we find. Trying to understand why it is so. What we are chasing. Or, better yet, why we are engaged in this chase – what is driving or chasing us...

B: You mean, why are we always, even if we go to any of these places, still... I mean, why do we remain “hungry” for more?

A: “Hungry”! – “hungry” is a good word! Well, yes, what is this  - as you said - deep “hunger,” or need, or whatever it is, that fuels this endless chase – for some thing or things that seem to always remain just a bit too far, just beyond our reach, just there, around the line of the horizon... So, I’ve been asking this... it's been preoccupying me...

[Pause. They sit in silence, glancing through the window of the compartment at the fields that are rushing past their train.]

A: [breaking the silence] Are you familiar with Graham Greene? The writer?

B: No...  well, I’ve heard the name, but I do not know much about him...

A: A great writer... Anyway, one of the volumes of his memoirs is titled, “Ways of Escape.”

B: “Ways of Escape?” Why, why did he call it that?

A: It’s called that because it chronicles the many ways in which Greene had been running - trying to run away...

B: Running away from what?

A: Away – from his native England, from his wife, from the Western world (the book was written around the middle of the twentieth century – or that’s when those things took place), from... well, at the end of the day, from himself, actually; he was trying to run away from himself, in fact.

B: And (just out of curiosity) where did he try to run away?

A: Well, to the Far East, to various instantiations of the “Third World” (as it was then called) ... but, you know, not just to places, but to things, ideas, persons; for example, to a beautiful Vietnamese mistress, to causes and revolutions, to opium dens... Opium -  what more of a “way of escape” can one even think of!

B: Not very much of a way of escape, I would say; more of a way of self-enslavement.

A: Well, yes, long-term; but, for the moment, I guess it works - as an escape.

B: So... what about it? Why did you bring this up – Graham Greene?

A: Because, while at the end of the day all these “ways of escape” turned out to be futile, fruitless (so, it is kind of sad, his story, overall) – what I do admire about him is the courage to... you know, to look at himself and at his life and at his deeds, to look them “in the eyes,” and to acknowledge - and also to share with us – that these were actually attempts to “escape.”

B: But why was he trying to escape – all those things?

A: That, I think, is the right question - it’s good that you put it that way; not “where,” not even “what from” – but “why.” Well, I contend that his frantic attempts at escaping are no different than our own attempts at chasing the ideal place, or thing, or person, or manner of doing things – the things that we’ve been talking about. And also that, just like in Greene's case, no matter where we go, and what we try to do... [smiles]

B: What? What are you smiling about?

A: Well, I was just thinking: do we really care about... the transportation system in Japan? Does any of us one just toss and turn, night after night, waking up in a sweat, torn by the crucial question of how to reform the transportation system in our country?

B: Ha, ha, ha... no, clearly not...

A: Because that’s not the point, is it – the transportation system in Japan? That is not the reason why we both heard that news story, a while ago, and paid attention, and remembered it! And the same with the Finnish educational system, and so on, and so on... It’s not what these stories are about, but that they seem to illustrate a country or a place where “things have been solved,” where everything works just fine; again, an “ideal place," only - just another version of it...

B: Yes, I would agree.

A: So, the issue, in fact, is not so much about the “what” or the “where,” but about - what's with this seemingly endless pursuit for things that always seem to leave us ultimately unsatisfied, unfulfilled,  "incomplete." 

B: Ha, ha! “You complete me!”, said Tom Cruise to Renée Zellweger...

A: ...in “Jerry Maguire!” Exactly! And then, of course, the movie ends.

B: But, it turns out (or it would, if the movie would have a sequel) that, well, she did not actually (and eventually) “complete” him...

A: Nor him, her.

B: Indeed. Look, I am married – even, what they might call, “happily married;” but, like you said (and, the more I listen to you, the more I understand what you mean, or so I think), this restless search, truly, never ceases. I mean, we care deeply for each other, me and my wife (even after all these years) - but that chase, as you called it... continues; only now, we do it together. It does not cease... and I wonder why.

A: Me, too, I have been wondering about this, and looking for answers.

B: And, what have you found?

A: Well, some things... How shall I explain... Well, look – if we take all these examples we mentioned – tropical island Z, the Finnish educational reform, or the Japanese transportation system – what do all these things have in common?

B: Well?

A: Well, they all seem to be variations of the same thing...

B: Of the same thing? How? What do you mean?

A: Well, they all seem to be – how shall I put it... “horizontal” things, horizontal “ways of escape.”

B: “Horizontal”?

A: Well, I am trying to express myself as clearly as I can... “horizontal,” meaning variations of the same kind of thing... different places, different times, but always variations of the same... – and always remaining “outside” of us, as it were...

B: “Outside”? How?

A: Think about it: you go to this pristine beach, or to that wonderful waterfall, or to that ancient forest - but, these are just varieties of “places”... Or, you find another way of doing this thing or that thing – but these are just varied ways of “doing things”... Here’s the thing (and I am really struggling here, trying to express my thoughts and feelings as clearly as possible) – while we alternate between locations, methods, reforms, diets – the need always seems to remain the same, unfulfilled.

B: ...

A: So, the “outside” things keep on changing, but our “hunger,” as you called it – remains the same. So, I vary these outside sort of things, on, and on, and on – and, clearly, if the answer or solution would be “outside,” then one of these variations would finally have to work, and the chase would have to end.

B: But it does not end.

A: No, it does not. So, if the external things keep on changing, and yet the need remains the same, I have to ask myself – through all these external variations, what is there that always stays the same? What do I always “take with myself,” wherever I go, whatever I do (while everything outside, from the specific place to the educational policy, changes)?

B: Well?

A: Well, myself – isn’t it? The one constant amid all these places, people, or ways of doing things - is myself; so, given the fact that the “hunger” is the same, never satiated, no matter the external changes, clearly the origin or solution to the question is not in any of the external variations – but is somewhere inside, within myself. This is why I can go to a beautiful spot – and still feel (while nevertheless enjoying the place!) deep down unfulfilled, unsatisfied - even a bit melancholy. So, this is why I called these solutions, these things that we are chasing, “horizontal,” because the cause or source of the chase, its origin, seems to not be on the same plane as these... seems to be of a different nature... in a different direction.

B: Namely?

A: Well, I don't know - perhaps "vertical," or internal, or inner?... I’m trying to find the right words... In any case, of a different kind and nature and direction, than the solutions that we are ceaselessly chasing.

B: ...

A: Well, this need seems to be something deep within us, seemingly (perhaps) at the very foundation of our being. Because – and this was a momentous realization for me, when I understood this – our entire life is defined and driven by this deep need, starting from childhood! This is why we keep chasing, and projecting, and dreaming, throughout our lives – for an ideal place, an ideal person, for something in the future... So, so, if this need seems to be determine and to drive our very existence - if it seems to shape, deep down, our entire life - well, then, if ever there was a question to pose, and to try to answer, then this is it. Namely: what is this deep drive, that shapes our entire existence? What is its origin? Because, if I know what it is, perhaps I can also ...

B: ... get a chance to fill it? to fulfill it?

A: Well, that sounds ambitious... but still, I need to ask! So, yes, indeed - this is the question that's been keeping me up, for the past, I don’t know, maybe couple of years; and what I’ve been reading, asking, talking with people (like you) about,,, trying to understand – if anything, then this!

B: So, what have you found? What have you learned? I am curious! I am genuinely interested, because I agree with your, let’s say, existential diagnosis.

Happy Mondays: The Greatest Hits (4)

Toward the end of the eighties, the well-known British indie band, Happy Mondays, also added a keyboardist / multi-instrumentalist to their line-up, in the person of Bill Bailey. This, however, was not a very successful and long-lasting collaboration - mostly because it never happened.

***

Bill Bailey did, however, happen  (and is still happening); and his keyboard/ guitar/ theremin/ glockenspiel ("Er spielt mit glocken!") skills are very real, as well. The reason why he merits the inclusion in this series of posts is twofold: his narrative comedic style, and his ability to find and to create humor in and through music.

On the first aspect, I would say that in Bailey's case we encounter a combination of attributes not unlike the one that we enjoyed in Dylan Moran's case - wit and intelligence, a fairly well-read and informed mind, and an artistic imagination that is able to roam freely, making connections on the fly, with a special propensity for the surreal and the paradoxical. It is especially this dimension of creativity - not being afraid to go wherever imagination and the feel for the comedic may take you - that sets his narrative comedy apart, and makes it interesting and (let's say) literate. Because, just like in Moran's case, what Bailey is doing is in fact "writing" - but, on the spot, with and for an audience, and through the means of orality. Stand-up comedians are, in fact, writers (most of them) - whether they pick up a pen or a laptop, or not.

The second aspect refers to the way in which Bill Bailey incorporates music as a comedic field, medium and instrument. This means finding the humorous (paradoxical, surprising, incongruous) within music itself, and also being able to express oneself comedically through music. But no, this does not mean some half-baked, three-cord "funny songs;" that would be appalling (unless, of course, it is intentionally stupid). Bill Bailey's musical knowledge and skills are in fact of quite a high level and wide ranging - style-wise, from classical to dub-step; and instrument-wise, from the keyboard to the (aforementioned) theremin (see his special, the Remarkable Guide to the Orchestra, which follows in the very noble and British tradition of Benjamin Britten's The Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra) - which is why his "musical comedy" is also intelligent and interesting.

Now, "Bill Bailey" (which, of course, is not his real name, but a stage name inspired by that famous song) at times also brings other parts of his persona to his comedic work - the persona of the aged hippie, of the nature- and animal-lover (perhaps a bit too much so), of a spiritually interested (with the usual Eastern leanings) but now probably agnostic (or a-religious) bloke - all in all, with all the good and the bad (blind spots, prejudices, some cultural clichés) of his time (born in 1965) and of his place (Brit mainstream culture). But this is where a mature consumer of art should be able to make certain differentiations - between a person's high level artistry (in one domain), and the same person's less than impressive show-up in other domains.

As a side note, it is a peculiar - if understandable - weakness to look at famous people (who are famous because of a particular skill, or simply because of the mechanisms of the market) and to try to see them as life models (fame does not translate to wisdom, and more often than not their private lives are miserable).

So I selected Bill Bailey for this series of posts on excellent comedy - because of his superior, intelligent, and creative comedic artistry. And, since nowadays we have all those commands at our disposal - of Play, Rewind, Fast Forward, Pause, Skip - let us press "Play" for the following bits of baileian comedy:














Speaking of Bill Bailey and Dylan Moran, the two of them (whom I consider to be the two top British - and not only - stand-ups of the 2000s) also worked together in a wonderfully creative, bleak, funny, and smart sitcom (written by Moran & co.), Black Books - which featured the bohemian trio of a misanthropic Irish bookstore owner (Moran), his half-gnomic hippie aid (Bailey), and their perpetually lost and searching, caring yet acerbic woman friend (Tamsin Greig).

Three Scripts by Ingmar Bergman

Through a Glass Darkly; Winter Light; The Silence

The book was translated into English by
Bergman's brother in law, Paul Britten Austin. 

While reading these scripts, one is involuntarily - and voluntarily – thinking about, and making comparisons with, the movies themselves. I saw Through a Glass Darkly a few years ago, thus before reading the script; Winter Light I saw many, many years ago, so I re-watched it after reading the script; and The Silence I have never seen before, so I watched it only after reading the script. I chose to read these scripts (this book) for several reasons: out of curiosity; because I like Bergman (and was in the mood for it); because I find reading scripts interesting and useful; and because I have read a Bergman novel (!) years ago, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. So, a combination of these – this much for the reasons. But I kind of forgot all these initial impulses, once I started reading the book itself.

As said, I have read a Bergman novel many years ago, and I remember liking his writing style very much, and finding it very cinematic, and also curt, summary, brisk (bringing to mind Hemingway or F. Scott Fitzgerald – that interwar style of modern American literature – a style that I am very fond of). Browsing through the book (while deciding whether to pick it up and read it) I noticed that these scripts are formatted not quite like the usual scripts, but in a more easy-to-read, almost novel-like format (or like a play, but more fluid than that). Not like the usual movie scripts – as regular scripts follow very hard, formal rules, which makes them a bit awkward to read (as texts). For example, in these Bergman scripts one can find fairly lengthy descriptions of what characters are thinking or feeling, or of actions, which one would not find in a usual film script. So, I guess the genre employed in this book is something in-between a novel and a script (or viceversa) - and all that makes for an even more pleasurable reading experience. By the way, the script for The Silence has the most and the longest of such descriptions (or indications) – and rightly so, because a significant part of that movie’s “message” is conveyed through the presence of silence (and of related states) - expressed through sounds, through images, and through actions. Since dialogue can not “depict” those states and perceptions, one needs to add lengthier descriptions.

This is also why I found the script itself (for The Silence) the least satisfactory and engaging (as a text) - because it works much better as a movie, with images and sounds. Conversely, Through a Glass Darkly worked better for me as a text, not because the movie would be poor in any way, but because reading the script clarified certain things and in fact made the film more intelligible. And, since I am in the process of classifying (or so it seems), I should add that the script for, and the actual movie, Winter Light, were equally satisfactory - that "it" works equally well, in both mediums.

But what does it mean, that "it" - "works well?” Well, I find that a “characteristic” of Bergman’s movies is that they tend to start slow and somewhat underwhelming – and then, as soon as you are into them, that they grip you powerfully; and I found that this characteristic, which I have discovered while watching his movies, is also present and “palpable” and “working” in the texts, as well. Take Through a Glass Darkly, for example; it starts with a fairly inconspicuous scene of four people (two men, a woman, and a teenager) coming out of the sea, somewhere along the gray coasts of Sweden. (The color palette does not help in these three Bergman movies, as they are all variations of an overcast or closed - or wintry – sky, and of a fairly desolate land; or so one perceives them – remember, the movies are black and white; and Through a Glass Darkly actually takes place in the summer!). So, they might start a bit un-engaging - because what would one have in common with a mid-twentieth century middle-class Swedish family, spending time in these fairly desolate seaside environs? But, very soon, you enter into the meat and guts of the dissection of the human soul – and you are gripped; because Bergman’s movies are about that, about relationships and about our tempestuous and passion-filled inner lives.

And this is the thing at which Bergman is indeed best, masterful even – depicting relationships and inner happenings – the truth of existence in that sense – something one can not help but find gripping, and be gripped by. I have never encountered - not yet – any other director who does this as well as Bergman does (although I also have movies within his oeuvre that I do not like - like Fanny and Alexander, or like Saraband; the latter being especially disappointing, since it is supposed to be a sort of a sequel to Scenes from a Marriage, which is a perfect exemplar of Bergman at his best, and which might well be my favorite Bergman film). So it was surprising to see how this characteristics of Bergman’s films – and this foremost Bergmanian skill – of dissecting and presenting human relationships, and the inner happenings of the human soul, are also present and “working” in the scripts, as texts – just as much as on the screen, in the images-cum-audio medium.

But why is this? Why is the same thing effective both in the movie (the image-and-sound medium) and in the text (a different medium) - in Bergman's films? To understand why we should even ask this question, let’s take another example – say, Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev; now, I have not read the script for that movie, nor am I interested in reading it – or, rather, I would be interested, but only on a technical level, of how does one write a script for such a movie (that is, if he actually did use a traditional script). In other words, how could a text, a script, “describe” the poetic sweep of what is presented in Tarkovsky’s movies only through images, movement, camera, sound? The specificity of the medium of cinema is that its main tool of expression is the moving images – to which one ads sound, color etc.; that is what sets it apart, that is what gives it its specificity, that is its language (with its specific powers and limitations).

So what is the specific position (or status) of the word, and of dialogue, in a movie? It is but one component of it - sometimes necessary, but not always; a film is a film because of the moving pictures (with sound); and there have been some exquisite movies that have only used that, the moving images with sound (for example, Into Great Silence). Yes, words are necessary in a specific kind of movies - well, in most types, nowadays; but not in all. So what is then the status of “the word” in Bergman’s movies? Well, if Tarkovsky’s principal mean of expression is the poetic image (images, movement, faces and actions, sounds), in Bergman dialogue (expressing relationships and inner states) is essential (even if as a monologue). And this is not because Bergman would be wordy, or because his films would be “filmed theater plays” (although he also wrote plays), but because his films’ essence is the dissection and unveiling of the deeper realms of the human interiors (heart, soul, mind) - and of the human relationships. And while this can be done – and is done, The Silence comes to mind – through wordless acting, through faces - words, especially by expressing and revealing relationships, are central to what these movies are and do. But, of course, this does not mean, ever, verbosity or cheap loquaciousness; his style is restrained, like his characters (very often) are. (Bergman is no Woody Allen.) But because of the role that dialogue and words play in his movies, both the scripts and the movies work similarly, and in parallel, and we perceive things around similar points in the narrative - both while watching the movie, and while reading the texts (the exception, as said, is The Silence, which works much better as “moving images with sound,” than as text - because we need to perceive “the silence,” whether it is manifested as a street’s cacophonous noise, or as the alien and slightly threatening presence of an unknown building; but all these, we need to see and to hear, and a script can not do justice to these forms of perception).

I mentioned that I really like Bergman’s writing, qua writing (his style). Although these are scripts (or a variety of that genre), the same briskness that I saw used in his novels – get to the point! do not explain too extensively! let actions speak for themselves! let the reader fill out the rest (emotions and images) within himself! – is also a trait of these scripts. But I am repeating myself.

What I did not like, or what I liked less, in these scripts (and movies) were those moments or dialogues (not many, though) which came across as slightly artificial – words that were probably meant to underline something that Bergman wanted us to know, and that were forced in incongruously with the previously built characters and actions. I am referring to moments or words that did not seem to be rooted in, and to follow naturally from, where the given persons were and what they were, and what had gone on before. I include here the concluding words spoken by the boy in Through a Glass Darkly, or the lengthy self-exhibiting diatribe directed by Tomas, the pastor, to Jonas, the farmer, in Winter Light. The latter, for example, would be uncharacteristic for the reserved Pastor Tomas, especially versus a fairly anonymous (in terms of the existing relationship between the two) parishioner. And, in Through a Glass Darkly, those concluding words from Minus... - who talks like that? I guess that my concern is with the groundedness of these episodes in the actual reality of the people, contexts, and actions, as we have come to know them from the film itself - and from our own general understanding of human behavior and of everyday existence (and this groundedness is what I refer to as “realism”).

My answer to this problem is that I think that we should trust the reader (spectator), and his understanding – we do not have to tell him what to understand, but the skill is to shape the action and the characters so that what is to be understood will emerge and will be felt “naturally,” through (and along) the unraveling of the events.

Another technical detail – and related half-question that I would have – regards the fact that the movies themselves (as filmed) follow these scripts very closely (except for very few, very minor deviations); so, I am wondering whether these scripts were (re)written, for publication, after making the movies - or whether Bergman’s movies, as a rule, had to follow their scripts with utmost faithfulness, even strictness. (In other words, this is a question about his directorial style and approach, and about his relationship with the actors.) In any case, I found that the actors followed the attitudes and feelings depicted on paper very faithfully; or, of course, vice versa.

Reading, then, these scripts – or these stories, or these “novelettes” – one finds them gripping and fascinating, mostly for the same reasons that Ingmar Bergman’s movies are thus. A very rewarding reading, therefore.

***

Finally, let me add here a formal or ‘quasi-official’ clarification, namely that these three movies are part of Bergman’s “faith” or “God” trilogy – which one might describe more accurately as stories about the search for, or the lack of, God – or, about spiritual life as experienced in (a fairly desolate) mid-twentieth century Scandinavian country.

Clovis, NM

It was in the second half of the 1600s that Marquis Auguste Coriolan de Lagardiére (or Augustus Coriolanus, Marquis de Lagardiére), together with a company of about 30-40 men, stopped in a fairly unremarkable spot on the staked plains region of what would later be known as the southwestern United States. Tired and dusty after a fairly long haul, they made a fire, drank some wine, ate some dried meat, and went to sleep – and woke up the next day to the realization of the fact that they were being surveyed, from afar, by a small group of natives (Indians) - who left soon thereafter. They had rested along the banks (if one could call them that) of the mostly dried-out Blackwater river (although they did not call it by that name; in fact, for them it did not have a name, nor did they think that it deserved a name, given its meager appearance). That day the Marquis, together with about half of his men, continued the journey, leaving behind 15-20 men, some of whom were sick or had minor injuries, and others with orders to set up a base to which the Marquis and his retinue could return, after having explored further down south. But the Marquis never returned, nor did the men who left with him; those left behind, however, befriending some of the natives (including some of those who had surveyed them during their first night there), were helped to discover a better place to camp, with more grass for grazing, with fresh water (which was scarce all around), and with better opportunities for hunting. This camp became a settlement that was first known by the full name of its “founder,” Auguste Coriolan Marquis de Lagardiére, but then, for some reason, only as Coriolanus / Coriolá – the latter version being used by the Spanish-speaking peasants who also settled there. But the core of the population, those who gave the town its identity and its name, were still the descendants of the Frenchmen from the Marquis’ original retinue. And these people continued to speak French (although they learned, of course, some of the local tongues, as well), and in fact the town used French in most of its official dealings, and in the local school, as well - because, as hard as that is to believe, they did not lose contact with the “homeland;” or, mostly, with the French colonial territories of North America (although even “Louisiana”, that large swath in the middle of the continent, running from north to south, on the left and right of the Mississippi river, which was at a certain point claimed and partially controlled by France, was quite far off). Nonetheless, they managed to stay in contact with “France,” and even to receive some material support (such as books printed in French) and some French people (some clergy, perhaps a teacher here and there, some women, and, of course, some adventure-loving Frenchmen). Thus, the French connection was never broken, nor was the town entirely forgotten by the people in France (or, at least at the royal court in Paris, where they were still listed in the books as a kind of French territory or claim). And all this will become very important later, during the time of the French Revolution.

But before we get to that point, another important moment in the history of the place needs to be discussed, namely when, after the French and Indian War, the territories in North America that used to be under French control, were transferred to Spain's authority. Although the exercise of this authority was quite patchy (as in the case of most European claims on this continent), it so happens that the place we are discussing fell in the way of a Spanish aristocrat’s expedition for new territories, namely in the path of Barón Miguel Cardozo de Salazar, who rode into town one August evening with a retinue of heavily armed men. Long story short, part of them remained there, while the Barón left in order to discover (and claim) other places; unlike the Marquis de Lagardiére. he did return (for a while), before leaving definitively (and disappointedly) for Spain. A part of his men, therefore, together with their wives and households (those who had such things had brought them up from further down south), settled in what they now called (in honor of their “founder,” and clearly in spite of the local French people) “Cardozo”. And so it happened that for some fifty years thereafter the place bore two names, which were used competingly by the two dominant populations, the French (or, rather, francophones) and the Spanish (as in, those related to the original adventuring party from Spain). At the same time, some the simple Spanish-speaking peasants (unrelated to Spain proper) who lived in the area settled the issue by simply referring to the place as “Plano” (perhaps because it is located in the flat high plains?).

What is important here, however, is that the two dominant socio-cultural groups, the French and the Spaniards (to put it simply, because the so-called “French” were only culturally that, since most of them had been born from intermarriages with locals - and soon enough the same was true for the descendants of the original “Spanish” soldiers) still defined themselves in relation to their original European, aristocratic origins (and to their “founders”). And, as it happens in such cases, what had been a natural, lived condition originally (that is, being part of the retinue of a nobleman, and living in an aristocratic, feudal society), became sublimated culturally, embellished, and transformed into a gold-letter tradition that functioned more like an emblem of the given group, than as a social reality. But perhaps it is exactly the fact that there existed two rival social and cultural factions, the “French” and the “Spaniards,” that contributed to the survival of these aristocratic identities, traditions, and cultural frames of reference (as one’s identity is never stronger, and more ardently affirmed, than when it is challenged by a rival identity). And the ways in which these identities were affirmed and maintained were manifold – from keeping alive the memory of the “founders” (for example, by unveiling a portrait of the Marquis de Lagardiére in the house of a prosperous French landowner; or by purchasing an icon for the local Catholic church, which included a depiction of Barón Cardozo de Salazar, kneeling and looking at the Virgin and Child,  as a “donor”  - although it was in fact the current Spaniards who had commissioned and paid for the painting, and who were thus the “donors”), to other practices cultivating this "aristocratic" culture (or, what they felt as pertaining to, or expressing, such a culture). One of these practices was the development among the “Spanish” population of a real cult of Miguel de Cervantes - or, rather, of his hero, Don Quixote – as, ironically enough, representing said aristocratic culture. A “Cervantes club” or parlor was thus formed, which functioned somewhat like today’s cultural or heritage-keeping associations. Although there was no similar club on the French side, in the local school the French language and culture were still being taught and propagated – so perhaps that functioned as the equivalent of such a cultural association.

The next important moment in the history of the town was, as mentioned, during the time of the French Revolution (1790s) – and here, the fact that the ties with la patrie were never entirely broken played a crucial role, namely at the point during those turbulent years when the court and the aristocracy in France were in a febrile search for external allies, support, and ways of escape. As is known, during the harshest and bloodiest persecutions many noble families – and not only – escaped from France to aristocratic England; some of them, however, also went to North America – and it was a descendant of the Marquis de Lagardiére who remembered at that point that there existed in those savage North American lands a settlement that bore (or used to bear) the name of his great-great-great-...grandfather; and thus he took his household and moved, after an adventurous and dangerous trip that lasted about eight months, to  - what? – Coriolá? Cardozo? or just Plano? This move – which represented a lifeline for the Marquis and for his family – was also a boon for the local “French” people, who saw their claims and aristocratic “identity” thus confirmed, reaffirmed, and – they felt – definitively instated.

But another interesting – and crucial - development also took place, as a consequence of the Marquis' arrival and settlement in this town. What is this about? Well, we did not mention earlier the fact that the “original founder,” the Marquis de Lagardiére, was actually a Huguenot, and that part of the determination that fueled his bold ventures in North America (and the reason why he was accompanied by such a large retinue) was that he himself was in the process of escaping the anti-Huguenot policies and sentiment prevalent then in France. His later descendant, however - Louis Marie de Lagardiére, who was in fact a descendant of the original Marquis’ brother – was a fervent Catholic, even more so as he was escaping a regime that persecuted with equal viciousness royals, aristocrats, and the Catholic Church (clergy and believers). His religious affiliation had become thus something assumed both personally, culturally, socially and, why not, politically – and thus a defining trait for him and for his family (who were, therefore, proudly French, aristocrats, and Catholics). However, they had landed in a place where the division between the “French” and the “Spanish” groups also represented the dividing line between Protestants (namely the French, who were Calvinists) and Catholics (the Spaniards). So, although the Marquis, as a French aristocrat, was a boon for the local French population, he did not share their religion, but practiced the religion of the other faction, of the Spaniards.

But this potential source of tension or conflict became, surprisingly, a way of bridging the gap between the two distinct (and long-separated) communities; suffice it to say that the first time that the Marquis, his wife, their two daughters and their baby boy made their appearance in the (mostly Spaniard-frequented) Catholic church, it caused quite an upheaval – but also a kind of a pleasant surprise and relief for the Spanish. (By the way, I know that we are not saying much about the other local populations – the Spanish-speaking peasants, or Mexicans, as they would soon call themselves; or those of Native American origin; or the not-so-many English-speaking inhabitants; I know, but the reason for that is that the socially, culturally and economically dominant - and relevant for the town's identity - communities were the two I mentioned.) During the six months preceding their appearance in church, the Marquis and his family have been having the local priest say mass at their home; after a while, however, they decided that this could not go on any longer – the wife and the girls insisting that they missed going to church on Sundays, and being able to attend daily mass. But, for all the courageousness of the Marquis' initial gesture, how do we get from simply attending mass, to “building bridges between the communities"?

Well, one must remember that in France at this time French history (and French identity) was being re-written and re-thought, with the intention of brushing over (or even erasing) the feudal and Catholic dimensions of that tradition. In response, those opposing these developments accentuated and emphasized exactly those elements of French history that reinforced these aspects; and among these was, of course, the figure of Charlemagne, the great French Catholic emperor – and of Clovis, the first Catholic king of the Franks. Meanwhile, as Spain’s influence was dwindling in North America (and also in Central and South America), and as the new independent state of Mexico was being formed (and will in fact soon form), the local “Spaniards” (i.e. those descended from, and affiliated culturally with, continental Spain) felt somewhat under siege and insecure about their future. This is then the context in which Marquis Louis Marie de Lagardiére‘s aristocratic and Catholic identity came as a boon – for both communities. Thus, although some of the Spanish protested, the Marquis was nevertheless invited, soon after his church visit, to the “Cervantes” parlor, to give a speech on “The State of Politics and of the Faith on the European Continent.” After the speech, although he did not alleviate everyone’s suspicions, a noticeable change of heart and of mood took place among the Spaniards, who now realized that they might have some new allies not only in the Marquis’ family, but also among the local “French” population - at least in what regards their shared aristocratic and ancien régime identity.

Soon thereafter, at the Marquis’ initiative and under his leadership a new parlor was established, named “Clovis”, which was open to both communities (!), being designed to appeal both to the French (Clovis being one of the major figures of French history, and representing a period long before the Reformation) and to the Spaniards (Clovis as a Catholic, ancien régime monarch). Furthermore, the Marquis arranged for some of the meetings to take place in the refectory of the Catholic church, alternating with meetings and soirées held in the shade of the trees of the now-expanding orchard situated on the Marquis' property. Although not all “Spaniards” joined or attended the new club, it was regularly and most pleasurably attended both by the French and by the Spanish, and thus it enjoyed a great success. Overall, the Marquis soon became a most beloved figure both for the French (for whom he represented France, aristocracy, the ancien régime, and their very founder) and for most of the Spaniards (for the reasons explained above, and also because he reminded them of their own ardently Catholic founder, Barón de Salazar).

In 1828 the Marquis died, aged 65, leaving behind six children (three born in North America), a second wife (a Spanish Catholic woman! - the first wife, whom he had loved very much, dying eight years after their arrival, after a brief but severe illness), and a general population – “French” and “Spanish”  - for whom he had become a guiding light and a pillar of the community. As mentioned, at this point the place still bore several names - mostly referred to as Coriolá-Cardoso by outsiders and neutrals – but now the grieving town decided to settle the matter, once and for all, renaming it in honor of their beloved deceased Marquis. However, since they could not name it (again) Lagardiére, and given that “Clovis” had become the “meeting ground” for both groups, and a source of renewal for their (shared) aristocratic and European identity - and also honoring in this manner the decisive impact that the Marquis had on the life of the town - they decided to rename the place “Clovis” (thus affirming, once and for all, that this town’s identity was European, aristocratic, and – broadly speaking – Christian).

Of course, many things happened in the two centuries that followed after the town received its new name of “Clovis”. Among the more noteworthy events that one could perhaps mention was the arrival of a small group of French aristocrats (of a different kind, most of them being liberals and Freemasons) during the 1830s-1840s, who were also the last “immigrants” from either France or Spain. After that, other groups also settled, but in smaller numbers – mostly Mexicans and Anglos, but also some Irishmen and Germans. Of course, as time passed, fewer and fewer people spoke French or continental Spanish – so that by 1920 there were only English-language schools in town (while the Mexican children learned their language at home or at church).

But what is the situation today? Well, even today certain things remain – one still has the Cervantes Club (for a short while called the Don Quixote Club, but that did not really catch); although the Clovis parlor stopped meeting soon after the death of the Marquis, the Clovis “spirit”, and the name of the town, obviously survived; there is a small garden dedicated to the Lagardiére family, where there are always fresh flowers; and, importantly, other clubs and associations have formed, disbanded, and re-formed, over time, all with the goal of maintaining and cultivating this European, aristocratic, and (now very broadly) Christian identity (for example, one such association was, I kid you not, the “Medieval Knights of Clovis”). One can notice, therefore, in various places in Clovis, buildings constructed or adapted so as to reflect this identity, and where clubs meet or events are held in keeping with these traditions (such as the short-lived Renaissance Festival) – even if, as said, nobody speaks French anymore, and those who speak Spanish are in fact the local Mexican-Americans.

However, these remain the defining traits of the place – and that is quite something, given the fact that Clovis, NM is located in the heart of the rural, agricultural region of the dusty staked plains (“llano estacado”) of the Southwestern United States (not far from the border with Texas).

The seat of the Cervantes Club today; also a medieval-themed restaurant.

This granary was used for the Renaissance (later Medieval) Festival
(as a venue & for "capture the castle" competitions) 

           

This water tank is owned by the Lagardiére Water Co.
(the name is painted on the opposite side, facing the railways)

This was built (adapted) for a short-lived (re)incarnation of the "Clovis parlor";
now it serves as the meeting place for a French-affiliated Freemason club

***

This, then, is the alternate history of Clovis, New Mexico.

Bric-à-brac for January 2020

1. The World's Oldest Olive Tree
... as far as we know, is located in the village of Ano Vouves in Crete (Greece), and is about 3000 years old (or more). Durable and enduring as all olive trees are (which is why they have been cultivated for thousands of years throughout the Mediterranean), this tree continues to produce fruit - and to live. (You can learn more about the Vouvos tree on this blog and in this article.)

In the video below you can see some drone-filmed images of the tree, with its ancient, contorted, and now mostly hollowed-out trunk. Looking at it, and thinking about it - and learning that is used to be surrounded, millennia ago, by a cemetery - brings to mind the sun-scorched ages of man in the Mediterranean, the lives and the societies that surrounded - and used - this tree, the length of time that preceded us - days that were not shorter nor longer than ours; a "present," then, that was equally a "present time," as is our own "present;" in short, duration, or, in fact, human duration (always the same, and always equally oblivious of its own past).

In any case, enjoy:



And, since you asked about the process of making olive oil out of the fruits of the tree, here is a primer that presents both the traditional and the modern methods of production.



2. The Aftermath of Le Corbusier
Le Corbusier is, of course, the father figure of a school of architecture and urban planning that represents, in many ways, the quintessentially Modern vision - namely, the idea of designing and implementing ("on" human beings) a masterplan for their lives that is guided by (purportedly) the most "enlightened" and "humanist" ideals, but which is also far removed from, and even disdainful of, the lived messiness of human existence, of its floral diversity, gregarious needs - and of its actual history.

It does have a certain charm, or so I find, this "brave" vision of a new future, which combines hopefulness (i.e. naive idealism) and hubris, reflecting that typically Modern combination of half-digested Enlightenment ideas with the promise and enticing power of the empirical sciences (that we will "measure" the world and take complete control of it - Die Vermessung der Welt, the French encyclopedists). Of course, from similar hubristic-yet-well-intended metanarratives resulted also the catastrophic ideologies of the twentieth century...

Part of Le Corbusier's philosophy was the creation of "machines for living" that were designed (in total disregard for architectural traditions, heritage, and context, but) following rationalist and utilitarian principles - pure and angular geometric forms, made mostly using exposed concrete, and following rational rules about what the human beings want and need. In other words, a top-down vision about designing human habitation that rejects all things "organic" and messy, and aims for pure rationality (rationalism, in fact) and utility (utilitarianism, in fact). If this does not sound all too friendly or appealing, well, perhaps you have to be taught how to live (by these buildings). (At the other end of the pendulum swing, but perhaps with quite a few similarities, would be Gaudi, whose "organicist" architecture isn't terribly "human," either; just as the jungle is the not the friend of man.)

I would note here that I do find Brutalism, as an architectural style, to have its own charm, in isolated exemplars and reduced quantities. In other words, I would not say the same thing about the aforementioned principles of urban planning, nor of habitations made entirely of Brutalist buildings, streets and squares. (Of course, this idea of teaching people how to live, and of forcibly re-making the world, still holds appeal - the remains of the days of Modernity.)

But, as much as we want to re-make existence based on pure, rational, measurable principles (all for the "higher good"), life takes over, life flows beyond the human-set bounds; it turns out that we will not measure, categorize and put in neat boxes the entire world, all of existence; it seems, then, that time and life win, and win, over and over again. It does not help either that concrete is an ugly construction material, especially when affected by said passing of time and by the elements.

One of the major projects in which Le Corbusier was involved, which gave him relatively free reign both in urban and in architectural design, was the planned city of Chandigarh, the capital of the Indian states of Punjab and Haryana (a planned city like Brasilia, the capital of Brazil). (See more info on Chandigarh here - but do watch the video, as it is more instructive than the text itself - and one has to see it.)

Given what was said above, I find the video below quite poetic; it is of a building in Chandigarh, and, if modernist architecture is inherently futuristic, this video seems to express a post-apocalyptic version  - and also the organic denouement - of said vision. Quite ironic and quite poetic, I find.




3. Sport & the Arts
At the commemoration of 70 years since the dropping of the atomic bomb on Nagasaki, the local football team, V-Varen Nagasaki (playing in J-League's second division) launched a dedicated “Pray for Peace” kit that featured an origami crane (a symbol of peace) and an image of Seibo Kitamura’s Peace Statue (statue located in Nagasaki's Peace Park, and which is meant to symbolize both the atomic threat and the mercy and peace of God).

Here are the jerseys:

UK Soccer Shop

On the brighter side of the same topic of sport & the arts (and, in fact, of football and the arts), some creative minds decided to start awarding the Fallon d'Floor award (the name is a spoof on the prestigious Ballon d'Or award), for the best "dive" (faking a foul, and following that with a spectacular fall) of the year. Although such dives can indeed be artistic, that is not the aspect that brought this issue under this sport & the arts heading, but the fact that in 2014 the same creative minds spiced up the awards by creating mock film posters for each dive (also spoofing in the process the titles of major movies).

Here are a couple of examples, and you can find more at this link. Regarding the first poster, a bit of context: it makes reference to the incident at the World Cup when Argentinian player Luis Suárez (whose most recognizable physical characteristic is a significant overbite) bit (!) Italian defender Giorgio Chiellini on the shoulder (!!), and then pretended that it was the Italian player who actually hit him in the teeth (!!!) with the shoulder (and I ran out of exclamation signs).

4. Morricone on the Streets, courtesy of Italo Vegliante
... and featuring a variety of instruments (or instrument sounds). The esteemed street artist featured in the video, signor Italo Vegliante, besides being a minor (Internet) celebrity today, was an Italian B-movies star (in the 80s), and is, most obviously, a talented musician / guitarist / entertainer.

The Theban Plays, by Sophocles

Antigone; Oedipus Tyrannos; Oedipus at Colonus

It is interesting to note that, while the chronological order of the events (if we take these three plays as part of one overarching story, of the Theban royal family - of Oedipus and of his daughter Antigone) would be Oedipus Tyrannos, Oedipus at Colonus, and then Antigone, the order in which these different moments or themes were treated by Sophocles during his lifetime was, in fact, Antigone first, then sometime later Oedipus Tyrannos, and (I think toward the end of his life) Oedipus at Colonus.

Amazon  - I like this translation

And now to the plays. Why is one still surprised to “discover” how “contemporary” any true artist (of any age or period) is and “sounds" to our "modern" experience? It is indeed somewhat frustrating to still catch oneself being (if ever so slightly) “surprised” by such a "discovery." As if the human experience would not be the same, both in its highest and in its lowest aspects, throughout human time! And as if those who came before us would have been in any ways more “naive” or "innocently ignorant" (now these are some infuriating prejudices)! 

At such moments of apparent “discovery" and "surprise” about the "modernity" of an author I like to remind my students - for example - of the sheer, bone-on-bone brutality of the hand-to-hand combat that was typical of most wars, throughout history, before modernity; and also how in the “ancient times” the outcome of a conquest was usually the general massacre of all adult males, and the enslavement of all women and children – and the complete burning down of the given city. I remind them of these when we discuss Socrates, for example, informing them also that Socrates was a recognized and honored veteran of such wars, and thus that “philosopher” did not mean (and does not mean, or should not mean) some ivory-tower, impractical, aloof, removed from reality fuddy-duddy; if anyone knew brute reality, and human nature at its worse, then it was Socrates. 

Well, all this is to say that one should not be surprised to find hints and indications about some of the most perverse aspects of human nature, in Sophocles - aspects that we might feel are only transparent to a specifically modern awareness; and one should not be "surprised" to find in Sophocles expressions of emotions and dilemmas that are all too familiar to us “moderns." But perhaps one of the explanations for such modern biases (notice also that the adjective “modern” is implicitly understood as having a positive connotation... oh, my!) is that in terms of style art was indeed more bound to certain restraints (regarding expression) and to stricter coordinates of form, before contemporaneity. This formality of style, then, and this restraint of vocabulary, for example, did not mean however - in the case of the true artists - that their vision was dimmer, that they did not see, know, and express (through their specific means) the worse, most monstrous, and best, of the human condition. Furthermore, now that we have loosened or got rid of most or all formal bounds and expressive restraints, does that mean that we have "better" (or even more truthful) art? Well, it is enough to look around, to realize that that is not the case.

The Theban plays, then, deal (among others things) with some eternal conundrums which, being unchanging, i.e. belonging to the human condition qua human condition, are also "modern" ones. One such persistent dilemma of the human condition also determines the main conflict in Antigone, and it is the clash between one's duty to the “invisible” (or, let’s say, transcendent) norms or truth, and the interests and norms of the visible (surrounding) society. In a satisfactory fashion, Antigone ends with the transcendent (eternal) truth being justified – not before and not without wreaking havoc on all those involved - on all sides.

Wreaking havoc - indeed, another thing that stands out from these plays is the intensity of the passions, of the action, of the conflicts described. We need to remind ourselves that these are indeed “plays,” that they were written to be performed, and not as literary works designed for private, silent reading. Writing for public performance, the dramatist needs to know how to grab the attention, and how to stir the emotions, of the audience – and Sophocles knows indeed how to do all this, and does it very, very effectively; no wonder that he won so many theatrical competitions. The other aspect to be noted is how fast and intense is the action in these plays: it keeps moving, it keeps going; well, as said, the playwright does need to take and to keep hold of the audience’s attention and involvement. Oedipus at Colonus might be slightly “slower,” in this sense – but it is by no means "slow," and the action really picks up once Creon makes his appearance. (At the same time, I found the same play, Oedipus at Colonus, to be among the most rewarding  of the three, due to the richness of its dialogue.)

However, due to its powerful theme (the aforementioned clash between the order of Truth, and the “civic” or political order) and also to its strong central character, Antigone might be my overall favorite, among the three plays. Also in Antigone one can find a wonderful little dialogue between Creon and his son, Haemon - which moves from a somewhat formal exchange, exhibiting all the necessary codes of filial respect, to a conversation laced with irony, a biting and furious exchange that, again, sounds so truthful and (that dreaded word!) “modern” in the way it depicts the frustration of the young with what appear to be the slow, old (and, in this case, wrong) ways of the parent. An exchange that could be part, in its gist, of Death of a Salesman.

Oedipus Tyrannos is for me the play that seems “most remote,” specifically because of the “fated mechanisms” at play: the way in which the wheels of the gods, impersonal, it seems, shape the overall action. On the other hand, this play is maybe the most action-packed of all; the conflict starts right away, and it really helps that Oedipus is such a strong and violent (in his passions) character – he does drive the conflict.

In fact, each of these plays has a central protagonist whose character is defined by violence (of emotions, passions), rashness (of decisions, impulses), and arrogance (haughtiness). In this sense it is interesting that, if Creon comes across as the voice of balanced reason in Oedipus Tyrannos (as opposed to the rash and haughty Oedipus), in Oedipus at Colonus the relationship will be reversed (at least to a degree), Creon being the violent one, while Oedipus less so; meanwhile, in Antigone Creon is simply the "bad guy," with all the corresponding negative traits. Yet one could not say that Oedipus is entirely changed, even in Oedipus at Colonus; his volcanic temperament subsists, underneath, and it manifests itself at occasions, in small fits and starts, but it is much tempered and slowed down by Oedipus's blindness, old age, and (presumably) the sufferings and humiliations he'd endured.

As a general note, perhaps the main reason why these plays leave one with the impression of having encountered outstanding, memorable works of art is their inner unity and balance. This has to do, among others, with the author’s economy of means – by which I am referring to how the length and pacing of the action fits the story to be told (don’t say more, and don’t say less, than what the story absolutely needs!). This briskness, which does not fall into heedless rushing along because it fits the inner logic of the action of the story – and, in fact and overall, the harmony between the form and the content  - is indeed why you leave the texts knowing that these are full, well-rounded, complete works of art. (Compare this with Aristophanes’ “all over the place” style, at least in The Clouds - which reminds me of what happens in some of Adam Sandler’s movies.)        

Speaking of briskness, amusingly enough there are several instances in which characters either announce that “I will have to be short in my speech, for once,” or ask their interlocutor “to be short in what they have to say, this time;” for me, it is as if Sophocles is giving himself leeway, allowing himself the “foreshortening” of the speeches; because, indeed, some of the speeches do have a tendency to be a bit too baroque, too rich and lengthy (mostly, perhaps, in Oedipus at Colonus).

But the intensity of the passions driving the protagonists; the strong characters; the fierceness of the conflicts; the implicit (but also explicit) violence (although most of the physical violence happens off-stage); Sophocles’ undoubtable technical skills as a playwright; and, overall and foremostly, the aforementioned harmony of form and content - all these contribute to making these plays memorable and thoroughly engaging - and to making us desire to see them staged as well. 

Indeed, reading these plays one itches to go to an amphitheater and to see them being brought to life – but in their original form and intent. Or, one would also be interested in seeing them in a contemporary staging – but hopefully not in a needlessly “modernized” one.

Happy Mondays: The Greatest Hits (3)

Very few people know about the “French period” of the UK band Happy Mondays, which was the avantgarde phase of their work. Indeed, very few people know about it, because there is no such thing.

The absurdist stylings of Rémi Gaillard

One of the things that I admire about Rémi Gaillard is the courage with which he takes his craft “to the brink.” I am referring to the courage with which he takes what lies at the heart of the comical (namely, the paradox or the clash between what seems to be and what actually is) to its utmost. This is why the absurd is comical (e.g. the absurd theatre of Eugène Ionesco) - because it exposes and it narrates this paradox, or at least one of its dimensions.

I also like how committed, faithful and earnest Rémi Gaillard is in following the central idea of the gag. “What if?”, he asks - and then he does it, with hilarious results. There is an anarchic and riotous quality to his act, that is also very engaging.

But does not the act veer sometime almost into cruelty? Perhaps, and those are not his best moments.

But when it works, when all the right elements line up, the paradox made visible creates laughter. When it all works, then what he does becomes an artistic act – artistic by virtue of this inner consistency with the idea.