Anton Corbijn's first film, Control, had its penultimate evening last night at the Film Forum, and winding our way there through the all-hallowed masses in Greenwich Village, it seemed like a damned appropriate thing to do - notwithstanding the fact that it was actually a birthday event for the plumed blogger. Punk, drugs, suicide, convulsions - what could be more fitting than to be here, while the throngs of devils, clowns and less describably costumed souls meandered the streets and made Sixth Avenue virtually impassable?
It is understandable, though not exactly mandatory, that a noted portrait photographer would break into cinema with a black and white film. The colorlessness is also reminiscent of the two-tone punk aesthetic that Joy Division, I suppose, had something to do with, though I don't think of them as being either specifically two-tone or musically in the center of the punk rock sound. In retrospect they seem very much a part of that late-70's British underground sound, regardless of their predilection for a more spare way of filling the sound space than the gritty 3-chord noise of the Clash or Sex Pistols. But the B/W choice for the film seems to have more to do with the emphasis on spiritual penetration and personae (indeed it occasionally reminded me of the Bergman film Persona) than on punk or new wave clothing styles.
Was it effective? Very. In fact, my guess is that the film would not have been half as powerful in color. There are moments of extremely bare emotion, where every shadow (especially those under the eyes of Sam Riley's Ian Curtis character) counts towards the intimacy of the frame. In an odd way, the film's colorlessness also reminded me a bit of A Hard Day's Night, which has moments, at least, that also resemble a blank stare into the eyes of youths whose extraordinary creative energy only partly masks their troubled souls. Not that I think the soul of the young Paul McCartney was half as troubled as that of Ian Curtis, whose suicide at the age of 23 puts an expectedly somber ending on this bit of musical history. But you know, British band, coming up from the underground club scene, Liverpool accent sounds a lot like Manchester accent... whatever. In any case, Corbijn makes full use of his photographic skills here, setting up virtually every frame in a poetic and meaningful way, using still shots to great effect, and generally giving us a bit of an arthouse experience.
And he gets an extraordinary performance from his actors - the appropriate angst from Curtis, industry-specific deadpan from his band, and an outrageously cocky and very funny managerial sideshow from Tony Kebbell as Rob Gretton. I'm surprised he hasn't received more notice for his performance in this film; his perfectly timed delivery made for some major laugh-out-loud moments as well as serving as a kind of - well, control - on the band's (and the film's) constant tendency to slide off into despair and self-negation. Not that his wit or resourcefulness alone can prevent that, but without it there would have been no film - and possibly no band. Samantha Morton has gotten a lot more recognition for her excellent portrait of Curtis's wife Deborah, whose memoir about him indirectly led to this and other recent attention to the Joy Division episode in British rock. Her plain prettiness and working class innocence makes an excellent foil for the tortured self-indulgence of her ascending rock star husband.
In the end, though, this was a film whose individual aspects are somewhat more impressive than the whole. The film's story line attempts to juxtapose the meteoric rise of Joy Division, at least within the world of underground rock (hmmmm, meteor.... underground rock... must be a way to abuse this metaphor a bit more, but I haven't got the time) with the love triangle between Deborah, Ian and his new flame Annik (Alexandra Maria Lara), and to paint a picture of his decline centering around the emotional difficulty he faced in dealing with his early marriage and fatherhood. Or rather, it tries to negotiate that duality and at the same time throw in his battle with epilepsy and the pressures of fame, touring and all that (see my previous post, "Cinema Rocks"). The key shots are all there, the themes are competently articulated, the acting is good - yet it all seems to come down to an excess of sympathy for someone who largely faced the kinds of difficulties that millions of other young men face without hanging themselves from a ceiling rack. What kills Ian Curtis, according to this film, is quite clearly not the pressure of the rock lifestyle or his drug abuse or epilepsy (though that is strongly emphasized in the film) but his torn heart, which cannot completely abandon Deb or their daughter nor break up with the comely Annik. And that is just a bit too pathetic. Get over it, you want to say - you screwed up having a baby too early, now do the best you can for the wife and child and get on with your life. Also, try to stay off the booze and keep working on finding the right epilepsy medication, like the doctor suggested. Can't handle that? Maybe there's something deeper going on. But the superficial emotional situation is not quite up to the climax of suicide.
We do get a bit more, though, and that returns us to one of the film's more commendable features, the on-stage movements of Sam Riley, which more or less perfectly counter-exemplify the title. For Curtis's mock-dancing is so clearly out of control, yet gives you the sense of someone who thinks he is in control, or at least does not quite know that he's out of control, but has in effect so totally merged with both the rhythm and mood of the music he has written that he no longer has much of a self to distinguish from the utterer of the lyrics. This, and its contrast with the normally staid and measured, if someone spaced-out individual off stage, makes for the film's deepest insight into the character and his dilemma; and the epilepsy serves as a kind of metaphor for the inability to separate the ordinary person who ha to deal with the common difficulties of life from the artist and musician who is completely absorbed in the music. So the fits at home remind us that the person is, at bottom, the man on stage, only offstage, and that he cannot control who o what he is even if it means collapse. And when the fits move onstage, and he has to be carried off by band members, this similarly tells us that the cracks in his personal life cannot fail to intrude into the realm of artistic expression.
Finally, then, the movie succeeds in being at least as schizophrenic as its subject was epileptic: succeeding, failing, but succeeding again. If it does not get a perfect score (on the Tomatometer or elsewhere) it is nevertheless likely to be the best biopic we get about this relatively minor band. All in all, a pretty good addition to the annals of rock cinema, and one worth catching if it comes o your town. Especially if it shows on Halloween.
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Parrot Eyes Lost (and Found)
So, where has El Parrotto been these many days? Reading Milton? Not quite. Let's see... He flew the coop? No, parrots don't live in coops, they live on lamposts, silly. Or at least designer cages (Frank Gehry, have I got a project for you!) Maybe the plumed blogger just cur-tailed his efforts? Maybe not. Parrot got into nuclear physics and was eaten by Schroedinger's Cat? No, actually, parrot took wing with Minerva's Owl and did some serious philosophy for awhile. Nothing wrong with that, you know; besides, it's not contagious. (Thank god, if he exists when no one's there to see him.) A couple of conference papers with deadlines, to be specific, one of which I actually met. (Possibly a first.) The other is a work in progress, only now I need a conference to fit the paper instead of the other way around. Oh well, won't be the first time.
We (the ubiquitous editorial We) did a little research on promoting the blog - it's called "reading the Blogger Help screens" - and found that we have seriously ignored much of the advice therein. First is to "publish regular updates". The last H.A. Monk post is dated 3 weeks ago. Baaaaaaadddd...... The next is to post short items that people can actually read and "spare them the 1000 word diatribes". Mr. Monk ('tis I) recently posted a piece on Brice Marden and pasted it into MS Word. After removing all the extraneous bits, he did a word count. It seems that a Parrot rattled off a 3,529-word post - a new world's record! This would be too long even for our philosophy conferences! Veeeeeeerrrryyyy bad!
So how about if we keep this one short? A good idea, since my desk is about four inches deep in articles and reminders about stuff I want to write about; and this post isn't about anything except flying off with an owl and getting lost for three weeks. Which brings me to... Valentine's Day! (And I haven't done a holiday post since Christmas, so I guess I'm due.) Parrot and Owl (by which I will lovingly refer to Parrot's wise Girlfriend) ran off to Duvet for a romantic drink. Other patrons were indulging in the dubious honor of paying $95 per person to lounge around an oversized mattress and eat sushi, or something that looked roughly like it - we never got close enough to the culinary cuddlers to see what they were actually stuffing down... errr, their throats. (Well, there's a correction that didn't fix anything.) Parrot and Owl wisely saved their money and sat at the bar. We each had some variation on a mimosa, consisting of champagne and peach schnappes; I guess it has a name but I don't know it. The thrifty birds (okay, this thrifty bird) ponied up $33.60 for their eight or so ounces of liquour; I mean, for the opportunity to watch their spendthrifty peers get horny over dinner, temporarily thankful for being preserved from the frigid, slushy mess awaiting them beyond. Duvet also sports a large jellyfish tank (SpongeBob, go away!) and plays new agey music to enhance the feeling that this experience is so totally pre-21st century. No surprise that there were tables (yes they have some) available on Valentine's Day.
Duvet's bathroom consists of a large dimly lit room with stalls arranged in a U shape. A napkin valet person sits by a handwash basin in the middle. The stall doors are two way glass, so you can see the valet but (presumably) he can't see you. In this situation I would imagine that most of Duvet's clientele would prefer a woman, but no such forethought on the part of Duvet. Or perhaps that's just why they have a guy there... Owl was wondering, does closing the lock turn on the two-way thing, otherwise you can see inside? Owl was happy she locked the door. Parrot didn't care; he pees with his back to guys all the time. And when Parrot is perched on his lamppost, caution is strongly advised.
Next, the lovebirds waltzed over to Francisco's Centro Vasco, a restaurant where the cuisine can hardly be called gourmet, but the seafood can definitely be called gourmand. Specifically, Francisco's serves lobsters of up to 20 lbs; some of the shells they have hanging up are larger than a 6 year old child. On this occasion the staff approached a nearby table with two options for the pot (vat? cauldron?) - a 9 pound monster, and an even more daunting 12 pound behemoth. Natural the big guy was the unlucky one (both were alive). The lovebirds dined on less conspicuous fare - a seafood paella (girlfriend ate the bivalves, I ate the other stuff) and a little 1 1/4 pound crustacean. (Parrot is a Scorpio - crustaceans are his friends. But they taste good too.)
The first time I was at Centro Vasco I noticed the place had one virtue other than lobsters with pituitary cases - an unusually high proportion of women whose only common virtue with a boiled lobster is that they were drop-dead gorgeous. (Hey, this blog is about aesthetics, ain't it?) My second visit was consistent with that experience. Yes, I'm talking about you, Owl, of course... but also birds of some other feathers. I'm not sure if there is a conceptual relationship going on here - lobsters, beautiful women... you figure it out. (And no cheap shots, like "they can be pretty crabby"... even if it's true, IYHO.)
Well, according to MS Word I'm at 878 words, and I haven't gotten to one of the main points yet. Damn. (Maybe Google could put a Word Count feature in the Blogger editor?) Anyway, here it is. Owl got a big bunch of flowers for VD (maybe we should change the initials of this holiday?) to help attract whatever little creatures Owls like to eat. (Do bivalves like flowers, I wonder?) And a box of chocolates from Jacques Torres (Google them; best chocolates in New York, an objective fact). And a wallet from Ferragamo, designed to show the purchaser just how thin your own wallet can become. And Parrot got... no, don't go there. Well, let's put it this way. Owl's 7.1 megapixel Cannon Powershot camera was getting a bit, how do you say, out of fashion, due to the release of a new 7.1 megapixel Cannon Powershot camera. So Owl bought herself the latest greatest 7.1 megapixel Cannon Powershot camera, and Parrot is now the proud owner (or is it borrower? I'm still not quite sure...) of a, you guessed it, 7.1 megapixel Cannon Powershot camera. You may have noticed the paucity of original images in The Parrot's Lamppost. That's because Parrot's only digital camera until now has been his pitiful little Verizon cellphone. This will all be corrected now. Parrot is armed and dangerous. Maybe he will even learn how to download the images. Parrot is very excited. Squawck!
Well, I've tried my best in the last paragraph to be as wordy as possible. Wouldn't want to shock anyone by starting off with an under-1000-word post after such a long absence. Not fair to my audience. Such as it is. Next up: a hit counter! Look for it soon, so I can count how many humans are failing to listen to me. Whatever the hit counter says, just subtract that from 6,000,000,000, and you get a good idea of how widely you are ignored. Amazing what we can do with technology these days. Well, I'm off to take some shots with my new out-of-fashion 7.1 megapixel Cannon Powershot camera. First stop? Maybe Francisco's Centro Vasco? Thanks, Owl! ;-)
We (the ubiquitous editorial We) did a little research on promoting the blog - it's called "reading the Blogger Help screens" - and found that we have seriously ignored much of the advice therein. First is to "publish regular updates". The last H.A. Monk post is dated 3 weeks ago. Baaaaaaadddd...... The next is to post short items that people can actually read and "spare them the 1000 word diatribes". Mr. Monk ('tis I) recently posted a piece on Brice Marden and pasted it into MS Word. After removing all the extraneous bits, he did a word count. It seems that a Parrot rattled off a 3,529-word post - a new world's record! This would be too long even for our philosophy conferences! Veeeeeeerrrryyyy bad!
So how about if we keep this one short? A good idea, since my desk is about four inches deep in articles and reminders about stuff I want to write about; and this post isn't about anything except flying off with an owl and getting lost for three weeks. Which brings me to... Valentine's Day! (And I haven't done a holiday post since Christmas, so I guess I'm due.) Parrot and Owl (by which I will lovingly refer to Parrot's wise Girlfriend) ran off to Duvet for a romantic drink. Other patrons were indulging in the dubious honor of paying $95 per person to lounge around an oversized mattress and eat sushi, or something that looked roughly like it - we never got close enough to the culinary cuddlers to see what they were actually stuffing down... errr, their throats. (Well, there's a correction that didn't fix anything.) Parrot and Owl wisely saved their money and sat at the bar. We each had some variation on a mimosa, consisting of champagne and peach schnappes; I guess it has a name but I don't know it. The thrifty birds (okay, this thrifty bird) ponied up $33.60 for their eight or so ounces of liquour; I mean, for the opportunity to watch their spendthrifty peers get horny over dinner, temporarily thankful for being preserved from the frigid, slushy mess awaiting them beyond. Duvet also sports a large jellyfish tank (SpongeBob, go away!) and plays new agey music to enhance the feeling that this experience is so totally pre-21st century. No surprise that there were tables (yes they have some) available on Valentine's Day.
Duvet's bathroom consists of a large dimly lit room with stalls arranged in a U shape. A napkin valet person sits by a handwash basin in the middle. The stall doors are two way glass, so you can see the valet but (presumably) he can't see you. In this situation I would imagine that most of Duvet's clientele would prefer a woman, but no such forethought on the part of Duvet. Or perhaps that's just why they have a guy there... Owl was wondering, does closing the lock turn on the two-way thing, otherwise you can see inside? Owl was happy she locked the door. Parrot didn't care; he pees with his back to guys all the time. And when Parrot is perched on his lamppost, caution is strongly advised.
Next, the lovebirds waltzed over to Francisco's Centro Vasco, a restaurant where the cuisine can hardly be called gourmet, but the seafood can definitely be called gourmand. Specifically, Francisco's serves lobsters of up to 20 lbs; some of the shells they have hanging up are larger than a 6 year old child. On this occasion the staff approached a nearby table with two options for the pot (vat? cauldron?) - a 9 pound monster, and an even more daunting 12 pound behemoth. Natural the big guy was the unlucky one (both were alive). The lovebirds dined on less conspicuous fare - a seafood paella (girlfriend ate the bivalves, I ate the other stuff) and a little 1 1/4 pound crustacean. (Parrot is a Scorpio - crustaceans are his friends. But they taste good too.)
The first time I was at Centro Vasco I noticed the place had one virtue other than lobsters with pituitary cases - an unusually high proportion of women whose only common virtue with a boiled lobster is that they were drop-dead gorgeous. (Hey, this blog is about aesthetics, ain't it?) My second visit was consistent with that experience. Yes, I'm talking about you, Owl, of course... but also birds of some other feathers. I'm not sure if there is a conceptual relationship going on here - lobsters, beautiful women... you figure it out. (And no cheap shots, like "they can be pretty crabby"... even if it's true, IYHO.)
Well, according to MS Word I'm at 878 words, and I haven't gotten to one of the main points yet. Damn. (Maybe Google could put a Word Count feature in the Blogger editor?) Anyway, here it is. Owl got a big bunch of flowers for VD (maybe we should change the initials of this holiday?) to help attract whatever little creatures Owls like to eat. (Do bivalves like flowers, I wonder?) And a box of chocolates from Jacques Torres (Google them; best chocolates in New York, an objective fact). And a wallet from Ferragamo, designed to show the purchaser just how thin your own wallet can become. And Parrot got... no, don't go there. Well, let's put it this way. Owl's 7.1 megapixel Cannon Powershot camera was getting a bit, how do you say, out of fashion, due to the release of a new 7.1 megapixel Cannon Powershot camera. So Owl bought herself the latest greatest 7.1 megapixel Cannon Powershot camera, and Parrot is now the proud owner (or is it borrower? I'm still not quite sure...) of a, you guessed it, 7.1 megapixel Cannon Powershot camera. You may have noticed the paucity of original images in The Parrot's Lamppost. That's because Parrot's only digital camera until now has been his pitiful little Verizon cellphone. This will all be corrected now. Parrot is armed and dangerous. Maybe he will even learn how to download the images. Parrot is very excited. Squawck!
Well, I've tried my best in the last paragraph to be as wordy as possible. Wouldn't want to shock anyone by starting off with an under-1000-word post after such a long absence. Not fair to my audience. Such as it is. Next up: a hit counter! Look for it soon, so I can count how many humans are failing to listen to me. Whatever the hit counter says, just subtract that from 6,000,000,000, and you get a good idea of how widely you are ignored. Amazing what we can do with technology these days. Well, I'm off to take some shots with my new out-of-fashion 7.1 megapixel Cannon Powershot camera. First stop? Maybe Francisco's Centro Vasco? Thanks, Owl! ;-)
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
Simple Gifts, or Colorful Squawks for Dreary Holidays
Happy Holidays, everyone. Here's a little holiday wrap-up from Santa Claws, aka the Hannukanary.
1. Ever wish you could have Christmas in July? Well, get a parrot, we're red and green all year! Better to give than to receive? So give someone a parrot; it's better than receiving a California condor, especially if you have pets or small children! Parrot-giving can be thrifty too; you get a nice little Quaker parrot for less than an iPod Nano. It can last for 25-30 years; how long before your Nano is either busted or just soooooo uncool that even your 10 year old kid doesn't want one? The Quaker also compares favorably with seven swans a-swimming ($4,200), six geese a-laying ($300), or four calling birds ($479.96; $432.00 online); though it may cost you more than three French hens ($45; $195 online - I guess you have to get them shipped from Marseilles); two turtle doves ($40; $130 online) or a partridge in a pear tree ($144.99/$211.66 - keep in mind the tree has to be big enough to hold a partridge!). Think I'm making this up? Then you're obviously not familiar with the PNC Christmas Price Index. Foresquawked is forearmed: a Macaw or Amazon is going to cost you bigtime! But no more than a 37-inch flat-screen plasma tv! And parrots won't rot your brain!
2. As I sat there on Christmas Day listening to the pitter-patter of rain on my windowsill, bits of a Christmas song for the era of global warming started to gel:
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
Just like the ones that used to snow
Now there's glaciers missing
And lovers kissing
By tulips instead of mistletoe
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
With every mortgage check I write
Though the heat is off every night
Still my oil bill's high as a kite.
3. My brother the converted evangelical Christian inadvertently convinced me that it was okay to get an evergreen of some sort and decorate it. Not that my Jewish family ever showed much reticence about doing so when I was growing up; and since I married a Christian woman (one who went to church about as much as I attended synagogue) there was every reason to get a tree. Now that we have separated I had to again confront the issue of The Tree. It was therefore fortuitous that my brother reiterated for me the rationale behind his refusal to celebrate Christmas in any way, shape or form: it has nothing to do with the birth of Christ, whose birthday we don't actually know but who was almost certainly not born on Christmas Day; it was adapted from pagan rituals; it has become a crass commercialization of a religious occasion. Rejoice, rejoice, Halleleujah! I can get a tree! I, after all, have no intention of celebrating the birth of Christ (nor condemning it; I just don't get all excited about anyone's 2006th birthday); pagan rituals are the basis of western civilization (even leaving aside the fact that a heap of Christian philosophy is based on the teachings of that eminent pagan, Socrates); and since religion has been the cause of much war and suffering for about 30 centuries, whereas I need some excuse to give my kids presents once in a while, all the better to turn it into an orgy of selflessness (to avoid dirty little words like 'commercialism'). So, tree it was. Now, do you think it would be alright if I hung just that one little figurine of the Vigin Mary....?
4. I lit the Hanukkah candles candles every night for eight nights, as I always do. And I ended up with extra candles in the box, as I always do. It's as simple as this: 2+3+4+5+6+7+8+9=44, that's how many you need, and that's how many you get. I've checked the math each year, and it's the same every time. There are just eight nights, and you have to give your kids a present on each one, after you light the candles. If your kids happen to not be around some of those nights, it doesn't matter: eight nights, eight gifts. Each. Somehow I always end up with extra candles. I'll never understand it.
5. You may have gathered from previous items that the tree in my living room was to be called a "Hanukkah bush". Guess again. Two bushes are enough. We're happy to go with Kislev Conifer, Maccabee Pine, or even Shrub of Judah, but Bushes are O-U-T out!! Okay, maybe we do need a Burning Bush. The Secret Service won't like it, though.
6. I had a brief email exchange with the chief administrator of the agency where I work, regarding the meaning of Christmas. It began with a somewhat glib answer to a glib query, but my answer elicited from him the response that Christmas is "what you make it". Sometimes by not being philosophical it is possible to bring out what is philosophical in others. So - what did you make of it? Or Hanukkah for that matter? My more religious Jewish friends tell me they look forward to the Sabbath because it allows one to turn away from the tribulations of the world and maintain contact with the spiritual side - with God, if you are so inclined. Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, and the High Holy Days in general, even more so. Hanukkah is not among the High Holy Days; it commemorates a victory and a miracle and perhaps other things, but it does not really offer you the opportunity for a more direct communion with the spiritual realm. I tend to think that for all its apparent importance - connection with the Nativity, the Immaculate Conception, the visit of the Three Kings ("you can keep the myrrh...") - Christmas is much the same. If you can indeed make of it what you wish, it cannot be a terribly important religious holiday.
7. Perhaps this is why the protectors of the Christian faith have looked the other way while the gods of Capital and Credit have turned the holiday into a phantasmagoria of playthings and ice shows and gluttony. In the city, at least, the season is certainly more conducive to a closer walk with Bing Crosby than with Jesus, Judah, or God. Between the piped-in carols, the piped-out carols, the lighting competitions, the creche competitions, the streetcorner Santas and the moose-sized menorahs, it is probably the most difficult time of year to get in touch with whatever spiritual energy Judaism or Christianity have to offer. Didn't Jesus allegedly throw the moneylenders out of the temple? But how are we going to pay for Playstation 3's without our credit cards? I've got it: put ATM's in churches, at least that's just to access your own money. Usually.
8. New Year's Day: finally, a great day to celebrate! First, the previous year was undoubtedly shitty, glad it's over. If you doubt that, tell me a single day last year when you looked at the newspaper and said, "Wow, look at the news, most of it's good." Okay, maybe Wednesday, Novemeber 8. Name another day... Second, the Christmas season is over! (See previous paragraph.) Third, Hanukkah is over! Whew, no more gifts. I did get them each eight, didn't I? I think so...
9. New Year's Resolutions:
a. Get all the books out of boxes and onto shelves.
b. Make about 20 more shelves.
c. Start getting to work on time.
d. Only make about a dozen more shelves. In my spare time.
e. Get rid of some books to make space for other things.
f. Don't try to sell them, just throw both of them out.
g. But if you do try to sell them get a good price.
h. Read all the books you already have and meant to read last year.
i. This year keep a list of all the books you want to read. No, on second thought, better not. (See h. above.)
j. Get rid of some of those old records that you never listen to anyway.
k. Which old records that I never listen to, huh? Oh, that one; well, okay, maybe that one.
l. Spend your time making music and philosophy and not writing blogs.
m. Right...
n. Stop reading Wittgenstein, you're starting to ask yourself questions.
o. What's wrong with that?
10. This New Year's Day was particularly special for me. Rain, who cares. My companion and I spent Sunday in New Hope, PA, just looking at shops and picking up little things, and then went out and spent and ate way too much for dinner. Then we came back to our bed and breakfast, on a little farm where the owners raise and train thoroughbred horses. (Five or six of these stately creatures greeted us through windows in the main office before the innkeeper showed up to check us in.) At midnight we watched the ball drop, of course. As always, I missed Guy Lombardo, who I never liked when he was around, but it was a family tradition: cheese, paté, champagne, Guy Lombardo. Nobody else missed him, as far as I could tell. Anyway, we hit the sack, still stuffed, and did not quite make breakfast at 10:00, when our very accommodating innkeepers had offered to serve it. When we finally made our way to the breakfast room, we entered a beautifully situated parlor, where the light that poured in was so much more stunning for all the gray outside. Just yards away we watched a small brook calmly overrunning its banks into the pasture, the brown water gushing past one bridge, then another, beautiful and proud for all its murkiness. Inside were two small breakfast tables set for the only two guests this morning. Occupying much of the rest of the large, strangely brilliant room were framed pictures, stacked here and there. I thought they were lithographs, but they turned out to be products of a more modern process, called "giclee prints", which are essentially very high resolution digital prints made with archival inks. The images were stunning: highly complex abstract figuration, in glorious color (the Parrot approves!) with black ink outlines. Klee, Miro, and Kandinsky came to mind, but there was no question of imitation here: as I looked through the dozens of vivid images lying framed, on floor and tables and couches, nothing could have come through more forcefully than the presence of a unique hand and an extremely serious mind. The artist, I soon learned from the prints, was named Luc Sonnet, and the owner informed me that he was in the next room. I made his acquaintance shortly thereafter, and it was an exhiliarating experience for both of us. As it turns out - and I can hardly say I was shocked given the impression of extraordinary significance that emanated from his works - he is a philosopher by training, having studied with several illustrious pundits at MIT, Yale and elsewhere. We talked of philosophy a little, but spirituality more, as that is the nature of his work. He also described to me events in which he creates live art at musical performances; you can experience one for yourself here. I have met quite a few other philosophers who are in the plastic or musical arts; often they have something to say about art through philosophy, but I have rarely met one who has expressed so deep a feeling for the philosophical underpinning of his artwork. We did not get into detail; I am looking forward to learning more. But I already feel that being on his plane for just a few moments has helped me reconnect with the spiritual side of my own work in music, poetry, photography. (He says he is a photographer too but I have not had the opportunity to see this side of his art yet; I expect to do so soon.) This was, finally, a Hanukkah gift and New Year's resolution in one package, a bit of inspiration and motivation from a kindred spirit. So the year begins on a a high note.
1. Ever wish you could have Christmas in July? Well, get a parrot, we're red and green all year! Better to give than to receive? So give someone a parrot; it's better than receiving a California condor, especially if you have pets or small children! Parrot-giving can be thrifty too; you get a nice little Quaker parrot for less than an iPod Nano. It can last for 25-30 years; how long before your Nano is either busted or just soooooo uncool that even your 10 year old kid doesn't want one? The Quaker also compares favorably with seven swans a-swimming ($4,200), six geese a-laying ($300), or four calling birds ($479.96; $432.00 online); though it may cost you more than three French hens ($45; $195 online - I guess you have to get them shipped from Marseilles); two turtle doves ($40; $130 online) or a partridge in a pear tree ($144.99/$211.66 - keep in mind the tree has to be big enough to hold a partridge!). Think I'm making this up? Then you're obviously not familiar with the PNC Christmas Price Index. Foresquawked is forearmed: a Macaw or Amazon is going to cost you bigtime! But no more than a 37-inch flat-screen plasma tv! And parrots won't rot your brain!
2. As I sat there on Christmas Day listening to the pitter-patter of rain on my windowsill, bits of a Christmas song for the era of global warming started to gel:
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
Just like the ones that used to snow
Now there's glaciers missing
And lovers kissing
By tulips instead of mistletoe
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
With every mortgage check I write
Though the heat is off every night
Still my oil bill's high as a kite.
3. My brother the converted evangelical Christian inadvertently convinced me that it was okay to get an evergreen of some sort and decorate it. Not that my Jewish family ever showed much reticence about doing so when I was growing up; and since I married a Christian woman (one who went to church about as much as I attended synagogue) there was every reason to get a tree. Now that we have separated I had to again confront the issue of The Tree. It was therefore fortuitous that my brother reiterated for me the rationale behind his refusal to celebrate Christmas in any way, shape or form: it has nothing to do with the birth of Christ, whose birthday we don't actually know but who was almost certainly not born on Christmas Day; it was adapted from pagan rituals; it has become a crass commercialization of a religious occasion. Rejoice, rejoice, Halleleujah! I can get a tree! I, after all, have no intention of celebrating the birth of Christ (nor condemning it; I just don't get all excited about anyone's 2006th birthday); pagan rituals are the basis of western civilization (even leaving aside the fact that a heap of Christian philosophy is based on the teachings of that eminent pagan, Socrates); and since religion has been the cause of much war and suffering for about 30 centuries, whereas I need some excuse to give my kids presents once in a while, all the better to turn it into an orgy of selflessness (to avoid dirty little words like 'commercialism'). So, tree it was. Now, do you think it would be alright if I hung just that one little figurine of the Vigin Mary....?
4. I lit the Hanukkah candles candles every night for eight nights, as I always do. And I ended up with extra candles in the box, as I always do. It's as simple as this: 2+3+4+5+6+7+8+9=44, that's how many you need, and that's how many you get. I've checked the math each year, and it's the same every time. There are just eight nights, and you have to give your kids a present on each one, after you light the candles. If your kids happen to not be around some of those nights, it doesn't matter: eight nights, eight gifts. Each. Somehow I always end up with extra candles. I'll never understand it.
5. You may have gathered from previous items that the tree in my living room was to be called a "Hanukkah bush". Guess again. Two bushes are enough. We're happy to go with Kislev Conifer, Maccabee Pine, or even Shrub of Judah, but Bushes are O-U-T out!! Okay, maybe we do need a Burning Bush. The Secret Service won't like it, though.
6. I had a brief email exchange with the chief administrator of the agency where I work, regarding the meaning of Christmas. It began with a somewhat glib answer to a glib query, but my answer elicited from him the response that Christmas is "what you make it". Sometimes by not being philosophical it is possible to bring out what is philosophical in others. So - what did you make of it? Or Hanukkah for that matter? My more religious Jewish friends tell me they look forward to the Sabbath because it allows one to turn away from the tribulations of the world and maintain contact with the spiritual side - with God, if you are so inclined. Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, and the High Holy Days in general, even more so. Hanukkah is not among the High Holy Days; it commemorates a victory and a miracle and perhaps other things, but it does not really offer you the opportunity for a more direct communion with the spiritual realm. I tend to think that for all its apparent importance - connection with the Nativity, the Immaculate Conception, the visit of the Three Kings ("you can keep the myrrh...") - Christmas is much the same. If you can indeed make of it what you wish, it cannot be a terribly important religious holiday.
7. Perhaps this is why the protectors of the Christian faith have looked the other way while the gods of Capital and Credit have turned the holiday into a phantasmagoria of playthings and ice shows and gluttony. In the city, at least, the season is certainly more conducive to a closer walk with Bing Crosby than with Jesus, Judah, or God. Between the piped-in carols, the piped-out carols, the lighting competitions, the creche competitions, the streetcorner Santas and the moose-sized menorahs, it is probably the most difficult time of year to get in touch with whatever spiritual energy Judaism or Christianity have to offer. Didn't Jesus allegedly throw the moneylenders out of the temple? But how are we going to pay for Playstation 3's without our credit cards? I've got it: put ATM's in churches, at least that's just to access your own money. Usually.
8. New Year's Day: finally, a great day to celebrate! First, the previous year was undoubtedly shitty, glad it's over. If you doubt that, tell me a single day last year when you looked at the newspaper and said, "Wow, look at the news, most of it's good." Okay, maybe Wednesday, Novemeber 8. Name another day... Second, the Christmas season is over! (See previous paragraph.) Third, Hanukkah is over! Whew, no more gifts. I did get them each eight, didn't I? I think so...
9. New Year's Resolutions:
a. Get all the books out of boxes and onto shelves.
b. Make about 20 more shelves.
c. Start getting to work on time.
d. Only make about a dozen more shelves. In my spare time.
e. Get rid of some books to make space for other things.
f. Don't try to sell them, just throw both of them out.
g. But if you do try to sell them get a good price.
h. Read all the books you already have and meant to read last year.
i. This year keep a list of all the books you want to read. No, on second thought, better not. (See h. above.)
j. Get rid of some of those old records that you never listen to anyway.
k. Which old records that I never listen to, huh? Oh, that one; well, okay, maybe that one.
l. Spend your time making music and philosophy and not writing blogs.
m. Right...
n. Stop reading Wittgenstein, you're starting to ask yourself questions.
o. What's wrong with that?
10. This New Year's Day was particularly special for me. Rain, who cares. My companion and I spent Sunday in New Hope, PA, just looking at shops and picking up little things, and then went out and spent and ate way too much for dinner. Then we came back to our bed and breakfast, on a little farm where the owners raise and train thoroughbred horses. (Five or six of these stately creatures greeted us through windows in the main office before the innkeeper showed up to check us in.) At midnight we watched the ball drop, of course. As always, I missed Guy Lombardo, who I never liked when he was around, but it was a family tradition: cheese, paté, champagne, Guy Lombardo. Nobody else missed him, as far as I could tell. Anyway, we hit the sack, still stuffed, and did not quite make breakfast at 10:00, when our very accommodating innkeepers had offered to serve it. When we finally made our way to the breakfast room, we entered a beautifully situated parlor, where the light that poured in was so much more stunning for all the gray outside. Just yards away we watched a small brook calmly overrunning its banks into the pasture, the brown water gushing past one bridge, then another, beautiful and proud for all its murkiness. Inside were two small breakfast tables set for the only two guests this morning. Occupying much of the rest of the large, strangely brilliant room were framed pictures, stacked here and there. I thought they were lithographs, but they turned out to be products of a more modern process, called "giclee prints", which are essentially very high resolution digital prints made with archival inks. The images were stunning: highly complex abstract figuration, in glorious color (the Parrot approves!) with black ink outlines. Klee, Miro, and Kandinsky came to mind, but there was no question of imitation here: as I looked through the dozens of vivid images lying framed, on floor and tables and couches, nothing could have come through more forcefully than the presence of a unique hand and an extremely serious mind. The artist, I soon learned from the prints, was named Luc Sonnet, and the owner informed me that he was in the next room. I made his acquaintance shortly thereafter, and it was an exhiliarating experience for both of us. As it turns out - and I can hardly say I was shocked given the impression of extraordinary significance that emanated from his works - he is a philosopher by training, having studied with several illustrious pundits at MIT, Yale and elsewhere. We talked of philosophy a little, but spirituality more, as that is the nature of his work. He also described to me events in which he creates live art at musical performances; you can experience one for yourself here. I have met quite a few other philosophers who are in the plastic or musical arts; often they have something to say about art through philosophy, but I have rarely met one who has expressed so deep a feeling for the philosophical underpinning of his artwork. We did not get into detail; I am looking forward to learning more. But I already feel that being on his plane for just a few moments has helped me reconnect with the spiritual side of my own work in music, poetry, photography. (He says he is a photographer too but I have not had the opportunity to see this side of his art yet; I expect to do so soon.) This was, finally, a Hanukkah gift and New Year's resolution in one package, a bit of inspiration and motivation from a kindred spirit. So the year begins on a a high note.
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