Category Archives: Literature

The Curatorial Burden

Fall                                                                         Harvest Moon

Markers of having come from a different time, a time faraway, in another century, another millennium: sadness at the thought of Museum, Inc. servicing customers.  This is part of the DNA (get it?), the dynamic something or other, that will transform the MIA into a ship able to sail into the waters of the future.  Having led my share of strategic planning sessions, I know well the fervor and excitement that comes from bracing the winds of change, throwing up the collars for a good dose of reality, navigating dangerous waters all the time watching out for shoals.  The cliche police need to patrol these documents.  Come on.

(picture from

When Kate left Allina for retirement, she was so happy to go.  Why?  Because the practice of medicine had gone, in her career, from a profession focused on patients to an organization focused on management by objective.

In the Atlantic online magazine there is an article about the failure of liberal arts colleges.  That failure the author defines as not teaching entrepreneurship. We’re still stuck, he says, back in the 60’s and 70’s when a college degree meant something.  Now history majors are out of work.  We need, he says, history majors who can be entrepreneurs.

Yes, I admit it.  I bought into the liberal arts idea, that pursuing the intellectual path most interesting to you, most worthy of your passion was what higher education was about.  Still buy it.

Here’s the problem.  Museums, especially art museums, do have a higher calling.  These fragile vessels care for the world’s cultural patrimony/matrimony.  That calling, the curatorial burden we might call it, carries our mutual story forward and ensures that the next generation and the next and the next can pick up the narrative, weave it into their own lives.  That they can react to it and to our reactions.  That they can use it as shoulders to stand own when they take up the paint brush, the chisel, the hunk of clay.

 

This is not a business proposition.  This is a human responsibility, like caring for a family.  Does the family require money?  Of course.  Does money define the organizational structure of a family?  Do we want Family, Inc?  Maybe if your name is Corleone, otherwise probably not.

Medicine is not about numbers of patients seen by the hour.  No, medicine is about the practiced eye, the trained mind, the relationship between one human and another.  Does the practice of medicine require money?  Of course.  Should that mean medicine needs to take on a corporate structure?  Of course not.  When money begins to define the purpose of an organization, that organization has become a business, an Inc.  Fine for making shoes, cereal, cars, widgets.  Not fine for art or medicine or families.

The liberal arts education, whether at college or university, has the same responsibility as the art museum.  It inserts its students into the grand narrative of human history.  As humans we share so much with the humans of the past.  We make the same mistakes, for example.  We wonder about the same imponderable questions.  We struggle to express ourselves through literature, art, music.

Does any of this deny the need for an economy, a place of trade and commerce?  No.  Not at all.  But when the Medici’s made their money what did they do with it?  When the robber barons got their millions what did they do with it?  What’s Bill Gates doing now?  They approach the arts, questions of justice, questions of human suffering.

It is the liberal arts and the arts themselves that frame the questions, have the deep pool of answers, know the roads that lead away from civilization and those that lead toward it.  We can’t abandon these treasures because the business cycle has a predictable rough patch.  We can’t change healing and learning and creation into business models because it’s not their essence.  We will learn this now or later.  History teaches these lessons over and over.

 

A Tip of the Glass to Hermes

Lugnasa                                                          Garlic Planting Moon

I’m within 5 verses of completing Philemon and Baucis.  I will complete it before the Rembrandt exhibition leaves town with its painting of this story from Ovid.  That was my goal though I’ve come up several weeks short because I wanted to circulate my transmission among the docents, but all public tours stopped last week.

When I finish it tonight or tomorrow, I’ll have translated three complete stories from the Metamorphoses:  Diana and Actaeon (Titian exhibit), Philemon and Baucis (Rembrandt exhibit) and Pentheus, one I chose because the story is retold in the Bacchae.  None of my translations are worth sharing much of, if any.  I’m still clumsy and not always accurate, but I moved through 10 verses today, so my speed has improved.

Speed is a goal because the Metamorphoses is long and if I ever hope to translate it, I’ll have to go faster than I have.  It’s divided into 15 books and at some point I’ll shift from a focus only on learning to a focus on translating and learning.  The difference probably being that I’ll work on a long chunk, say a book, then hire Greg or somebody to go through my translation with me.

A commentary useful for advanced students is still a goal, too, and as I translate I plan to do so in a way that will facilitate a commentary.  Pharr’s commentary on Virgil is a good model and one I will have in view the whole time.  BTW I also did another 10 verses in the Aeneid, too.  More practice.  The more I read, the better I get.

 

For People Who Love Quotes, But Not People

Lugnasa                                                                                Garlic Planting Moon

When faced with someone else’s incomprehensible slang:

“Well, well, well, well. If it isn’t fat, stinking billygoat Billy-Boy in poison. How art thou, thy globby bottle of cheap, stinking chip-oil? Come and get one in the yarbles, if you have any yarbles, you eunuch jelly thou.” – A Clockwork Orange, Anthony Burgess

To liven up a dull conversation:

“If your brains were dynamite there wouldn’t be enough to blow your hat off.” – Timequake, Kurt Vonnegut

For telling someone to get lost, but nicely:

“I desire that we be better strangers.” – As You Like It, William Shakespeare

For when someone is quite below your notice, and you want to let them know:

“He is simply a hole in the air.” – The Lion and the Unicorn, George Orwell

For dispelling any illusions:

“Don’t fool yourself, my dear. You’re much worse than a bitch. You’re a saint. Which shows why saints are dangerous and undesirable.” – The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand

For disagreements over Magic cards/games of Dungeons and Dragons/cosplay:

“The man is as useless as nipples on a breastplate.” – A Feast for Crows, George R.R. Martin

For morons (read: everybody):

“I told him he didn’t even care if a girl kept all her kings in the back row or not, and the reason he didn’t care was because he was a goddam stupid moron. He hated it when you called him a moron. All morons hate it when you call them a moron.” – The Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger

When only the juiciest alliteration will do (or when cursing out children): 

“You blithering idiot! … You festering gumboil! You fleabitten fungus! … You bursting blister! You moth-eaten maggot!” – Matilda, Roald Dahl

For someone who thinks they’re better than you:

“This liberal doxy must be impaled upon the member of a particularly large stallion!” – A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole Continue reading For People Who Love Quotes, But Not People

Tyger, Tyger’s Dying Light

Beltane                                                  New Lily Moon

Finished Tiger by John Valliant.  It has so many great lines.  Hope dies last.  Russian proverb.  The only other warm blooded animal that rivals humans in total numbers?  Chickens.  The native people tell me I’m now marked by the tiger, Yuri Trush.  Trush is the dominant figure in the book who survived a direct assault by a tiger.  The story of that tiger and its death is the strong lineament of the book.

Because the tiger is an apex predator in the eco-systems it inhabits, the health of the tiger population serves as a, perhaps the, key indicator of the health of that eco-system. If the tiger population is healthy, then the prey species are healthy as are the complex network of plants and other animals that depend on these two, predator and prey, for their survival.  The sad news is that the apex apex predator, humans, has begun to push its competitors out of existence in the wild and that includes tigers.

A good book, well written and provocative.

Audacity

Beltane                                                Garlic Moon

Here there be giants.  Fin de siecle Europe.  We’ve not recovered yet from the explosion of ideas that erupted there:  quantum mechanics, relativity, Marxism, symbolists, dada, surrealism, the airplane, electricity, lights, antibiotics, cubism, expressionism, fauvism, psychoanalysis, world war.

Just finished watching A Dangerous Method with Vigo Mortennsen as Freud, Michael Fassbender as Jung and Keira Knightley as Sabina Spielrein.  To my taste Cronenberg’s focus on Jung’s mistress tilted the film away from the revolutionary work Freud and Jung had created.  But, perhaps my approach would lead more to documentary.

Still, what I got was a clear sense of the frisson between them and the astonishing, breath-taking really, courage it took to think the thoughts and engage in the work they did.  That’s what led me back to the fin de siecle.

There were radicals alive.  It must have been in the water.  Seeing visions.  Looking inside the mind.  Down inside the atom.  How to lift humankind into the air.  How to cure disease.

The audacity and daring inspires me, makes me want to tread as far out on the pier as I can go, to risk falling into the void, the abyss.  To see.  To feel.  To embrace.

Searching for Ovid

Beltane                                    Garlic Moon

Ovid on the third phase:  At times it is folly to hasten at other times, to delay. The wise do everything in its proper time.

Searching for Ovid.  Gone now.  2000 years ago.  An unhappy man, yet he went on, did not stop, wrote, lived.

Of course, his statue is here.  He looks suitably serious, dignified, the man some Romanians take as their first national poet.  But what of the man, not bronze?

If I limit myself to the Roman mosaic, the material objects in the museum, the remains of the wall across from Hotel Class, the ruins of the homes and the butcher shop, the promontory views from the high coastline overlooking the Pontus Euxinus, the Marea Negra; if I image Ovid carrying a small oil lamp to light his way and his night, drinking from the glass vessels in the museum, turning a cynical educated Roman eye towards depictions of gods and goddesses; getting water from the clay and lead pipes also on display, walking over those intricate mosaics while looking out at the sea, a slave stigiling off his sweat and dirt with the small curved tool I saw here, then I have begun to see him.

To populate this place in the very early 1st century a.c.e., to get the small things right and the people and the matters under consideration, I wonder how much that would take, how much research?  A lot, I imagine.  Still, it would be worth it, if the time was available.  Why?  Oh, for the same reason, evoking 2012 Bucresti is worth it.  Because we’re strange creatures, but often the same and we can reach across time and space to be with each other.  That’s a gift and it makes us more.

A Thought, A Sigh

Beltane                                                                            Beltane Moon

All day.  A thought comes.  A sigh, hoping to delve into, oh, say, renaissance humanism.  Dive in and just stay there until all there is to absorb crawls inside my skin and remains.  Or, maybe Romania.  Wondering just how the Slavic countries ended up north and south of Romania-Hungary-Austria.  Here’s another part of the world about which I know almost nothing.

Later, watching Kate, seeing her sinking back into a life without paid work, a sense of relaxation, of being at home.  At last.

Looking at the Google art.  A kris.  A southeast Asia blade with a wavy, not straight edge.  Indonesia.  Again, a country with a population comparable to the US and lots of islands, but, again, not much is in my head about it.  A little.  Bali.  Krakatoa.  Suharto.  My god, it has 17508 islands.

Lyndon Johnson.  In the first volume of Robert Caro’s four volume (so far) biography.  He dominates, pushes, acts out against his parents.  The hill country of texas.  A difficult place, a trap for the unwary.  Most of the people who lived there.

The dogs.  At the vet.  18 years to the same vet.  Many dogs, all panting, all nervous.  Rigel, Vega and Kona today.  Rigel and Vega, sweet dogs.  Kona more aloof.  A grand dame.

Irrigation overhead busted in the southern vegetable garden.  Pulled loose from the pcv that feeds it water.  Have to fix it.  Plant more collards and beets.  I’ve touched most of the plants here, memories.  Buying them at Green Barn.  Digging a spot for them.  Pouring water on them.  Over the years, 18, lots of plants, thousands.  One at a time.  In the soil.  Maybe pick it up and move it or divide it.  That sense of a deep, long connection.

Dream of the Red Chamber.  Chinese literature, the third classic of the four major ones.  Romance of the Three Kingdoms.  Monkeys Journey to the West. Sinking into the rhythms of another culture.  Reading it on the Kindle.  Odd juxtaposition of past and present.

original by Ivan Walsh)

Now, tired.  Smelling the lilacs Kate brought me.  Thinking of sleep.

 

 

The Wide World and Beyond

Imbolc                                                  Woodpecker Moon

A friend, who, like me, recently turned 65, said to me, “I just realized there’s so much to learn.  For example, I don’t know anything about China.”  This is an intelligent, well-read guy.  Hard to imagine someone waking up to the amount of things they don’t know at age 65, but I guess this is a true instance of better late than never.

For some reason this makes me recall those little orange biographies that used to sit in the library, though whether the public or school, I don’t recall.  Not too long, they offered a quick glimpse into famous american’s lives.  The content has either been absorbed or long forgotten, but the world they opened up, a world of people and places I had never experienced, remains.

I mention them because there were so many side streets on the boulevard of learning, some of which I knew well, most poorly, but they were in my consciousness from a very young age.

Another guy, also a friend, said recently that he’d decided if he hasn’t learned it now, he doesn’t need it.  Following that thought he went on to say that he was “giving up introspection.”  In the ensuing explanation it turned out he was really throwing away self-help books, other peoples ways.

In fact, what he was doing was allowing himself to start introspection.  Only when we go into ourselves without a guide, no training wheels, just you and the you you carry along, can we begin to make progress.  The Delphic Oracle said it best, “Know thyself.”

I’ve read people recently who say this is a bad idea, though I forget the arguments right now, but I’ve found it a very good idea.  A project still underway here at chez Ellis.

 

 

Novels and Fiction

Imbolc                                                              Woodpecker Moon

Starting Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom.  Kate read it a couple of weeks ago and liked it.  I picked it up along with a couple of others after reading David Wallace’s last, Pale King.  Trying to catch up on at least some of today’s fiction.  I tend to read fantasy, horror and classics, skipping over literary novels of the current day.  Don’t know why, just always have.

When I began writing, I never had any ambition to write so-called literary fiction.  Not that I don’t admire it.  I do.   I haven’t particularly enjoyed Russo, but I like Richard Ford, David Lodge and Dom Delillo among several others.  I liked the Rabbit novels, too.  Still, that sort of writing doesn’t appeal to me.

When my imagination goes to work, it veers off toward magic, the Celtic faery faith, fantasy in the mold of Tolkien and horror like H.P. Lovecraft.  Again, don’t know why, just does.  My work does have a structural base in myth and legend, ancient religions, so I’m never in the modern American fetish with realism.

The closest I could imagine coming to realism would be magic realism and I’ve not yet written anything like that either, though Jorge Borge is one of my literary idols.

Fiction needs solid, clear prose, an exciting premise, narrative flow.  The fictive dream, as John Gardener calls it, must be coherent and internally consistent, but it does not need to anchor itself in the here and now.  Hardly.

Pale King

Winter                                          New (Garden Planning) Moon

Began reading Pale King last night.  David Wallace’s last, unfinished work, his editor organized it with permission of Wallace’s widow.  It’s the first work I’ve read of Wallace’s though not the first one I’ve bought.  I also own Infinite Jest, his breakout book, but never started it.  His prose is, well, wonderful.

Observations, close observations, fly so fast and thick it seems he could not have spent time writing for he must have spent his entire day with his eyes wide, notebook in hand, seeing, hearing, tasting, feeling.

This book has an improbable setting, the IRS in Peoria, Illinois, and will, I’m told, illuminate  boredom.  Though I’ve not read him before I’ll now read back into him.  He was called the greatest mind of this generation of writers.  I believe it.