#I FELT MYSELF- IF POSSIBLE- THE LESS REAL OF THE TWO... -WILLIAM JAMES

[fumifooms]

Man whose favorite animal is stray dogs…... And finds his place and role in giving one a tight collar, being the master being the framing of its whole life, giving it directives and direction. Who despite it ruthlessly releases that dog out to be masterless again, knows it to be a deep wound to inflict. Where being wanted, wanted somewhere, by someone, is the most important thing.

Kainess where just dominating and being dominated in life and agency and control is intimacy. Being acknowledged, your opinion praised or shredded. Being treated as a possession, where ownership is belonging, because the alternative is being alone, or being trash that no one wants. Kainess…….

Quoting Shroomystar: His favorite animals are stray dogs and that's what Ness is to him, an unloved stray dog, but in the end Ness does have a place to go, as loveless as it is— the true stray dog is Kaiser, after all. You were the dog in the end

Men who think of dogs as something pathetic and beneath them that they unconsciously avoid sympathetizing with despite their own proximity to it because it's too vulnerable, themselves being more dog than anyone, I love you....... Kaiser is very explicit about it, he treats other like shit to feel less like shit himself. By making someone else more dog than he is he has to confront his self-loathing less

It's the insulting demeaning emotionality of it, the implication that his feelings and desires have him on a leash, and not the reverse like he'd like to think. It's the dehumanization of it the dehumanization of being a slave to your own humanity & animality and feelings goddddd fuck. You are lower than the dogs you look down on because you have chained yourself and denied your nature, devoted yourself to hating that nature and stampling it, worse than domesticating it, killing the animal- the excitable the joyful the scared the hungry- within you. Until there's only a shell of a human left that's more rabid than the alternative could have ever been. You were the dog in the end... A lost, scared, rabid dog.

I need to become human. I won't be trash, I will be loved, loved, loved.

[p-and-p-admin]

Interview given to The Severus Snape and Hermione Granger Shipping Fan Group.

https://www.facebook.com/groups/199718373383293/

Hello Lariope and welcome to Behind the Quill, it is a pleasure to talk with you.

Many of our group’s members requested you as an interview subject, but amongst more than a dozen stories in the HP universe you are probably best known for Killing Time, Second Life, and Advanced Contemporary Potion Making.

Okay, let’s jump right in. What's the story behind your pen name?  

So, there's a really common plant in my area called Monkey Grass. Most people use it as landscaping filler. I thought it was pretty and asked someone who had some what it was called. She told me that it's technical name is Liriope, which I heard as Lariope. This was around the time that book 6 was released, and it struck me as a very witchy name, particularly as JKR likes flower names. Which Harry Potter character do you identify with the most? Wow. Probably Neville. I'm certainly not as brainy or as confident as Hermione, not as out-there as Luna, not as athletic as Ginny. I'm less angsty than Harry and less apt to charge off in my own direction. And I am certainly not as thoughtless as Ron, not as strict as McGonagall, not as dark as Snape. And if you've read Second Life, you know my feelings about Dumbledore! But I was someone who took some time to come into my own. Often bumbling or nervous, but when my back is to the wall, brave and honorable. So I'm going with Neville. Do you have a favourite genre to read? (not in fic, just in general) 

I love fiction, but honestly, other than Harry Potter, I don't read fantasy! I tend to like "domestic" fiction, as in Anne Tyler, and literary fiction. I also really love Stephen King, oddly enough. Do you have a favourite "classic" novel? 

By classic do you mean like, the literary canon, or just not fanfiction? My top five favorite novels are, in no particular order, The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, It by Stephen King, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon, The Temple of Gold by William Goldman, and The Secret History by Donna Tartt. I'm not big into the classics, which is weird for an English major to say. At what age did you start writing? 

I've been writing all my life. The first time I saw Stand by Me at 11 years old, I rewrote it with a new ending because I could not bear the death of Chris Chambers. I think I've always been interested in working with other people's texts. How did you get into writing fanfiction? 

I loved Harry Potter so intensely. I came to it as an adult at a particularly lonely time in my life. When book 6 was released I read it all in one gulp, and then felt kind of despondent when it was over. I thought of the good old rule of the internet, that if it exists, there is porn of it, so I went looking for what I called "Potterotica," figuring that it would give me an opportunity to read more about the characters I loved. I didn't yet have a concept of fanfiction, let alone fanfiction that wasn't erotica! As I read, I had the persistent feeling that I hadn't yet found exactly the story I was looking for. I kept feeling that I would do this or that differently. Then after the release of book 7, I was tormented by the fate of Snape. I really felt I needed to save him. That I couldn't relax until he'd had some love in his life before his death. I didn't have the sense yet that I could change his fate, only that I needed him to have happiness and love before he died.  I have a Master's Degree in fiction writing, so I decided to just give it a try. My first story was terrible!!! It was called If Memory Serves and was archived only on the Restricted Section. But it definitely forced me to reawaken some skills, and whetted my appetite. What's the best theme you've ever come across in a fic? Is it a theme represented in your own works? 

Hm. I'm not sure how to answer this question. I know that one of the things that I respond most strongly to in fic is a feeling of inevitability--that regardless of how or when, these characters had unfinished business with each other. I hate to use the word destined... but that feeling that there were many points in canon where something minor could have changed which would have changed everything and brought two characters together--and that that could have happened at any point, in any number of ways. I like very much when canon is reimagined or reinterpreted to make that relationship deeper--like reimagining the scene where Snape insults Hermione's teeth to have a totally different meaning in the context of their relationship. I think I am remembering Somigliana's The Traveller being particularly gratifying in that way. Obviously I play with canon a lot in my own work. I like for fanfiction to feel "real" as in, possible in a canonical context. What fandoms are you involved in other than Harry Potter? 

Almost none! I've been fannish all my life, but Harry Potter was the first experience I ever had of "fandoms," that is to say, community built around a narrative. I usually just freaked out over things in private. After HP, I tried very hard to get into the Sherlock fandom, because I had a dear friend from the SS/HG community who was into it, but in the end, I could just never become invested in quite the way I had with Harry Potter. Subsequently, I had children, so I mostly support their fannishness now. If you could make one change to canon, what would it be? Do you have a favourite piece of fanon? 

I wish Snape could live. I really do. He had a lot left to learn and a lot left to give to the world beyond the sacrifice of his own life to the cause. There are certain things I have ultimately accepted as head canon, as far as pieces of fanon are concerned. Honestly, they are so ingrained that I'm having trouble thinking of any! Sometimes when I watch the movies with my kids, I think, but wait, what about?... oh yeah, I forgot that wasn't canon. Do you listen to music when you write or do you prefer quiet? 

I need dead silence to compose, because I hear the words in my head as I write and I can't be distracted from them. But I often pick pieces of music that I listen to obsessively in my downtime when I'm writing a story, that I think of as sort of like theme songs. Falling Slowly by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova was one for Second Life. Table for Glasses by Jimmy Eat World still calls up Dark Santiago for me. What are your favourite fanfictions of all time? 

Oooh. Ok. So I read a lot of Drarry, and I pretty much love everything that Sara's Girl has ever written. Somigliana's work--the Traveller was amazing. All the Best and Brightest Creatures by Wordstrings (Sherlock). I also really loved greywash's Sherlock fic. There was an SSHG that has been long since removed that was called Dear January--I still think of it.  I loved all the epics of my particular time in the SSHG fandom. Mia Madwyn, Subversa, Loten. Are you a plotter or a pantser? How does that affect your writing process? 

Definitely a plotter. I kept pages and pages of working notes and planning points as I was writing Second Life. I always began a chapter with a working document of where I thought the chapter was going, as well as a reread of that portion of canon.  Points of discovery along the way still happened all the time--I'd be in the midst of something I had planned when all of a sudden I'd see some point of connection I hadn't even thought of, and something would open up bigger than I had thought it would be. I remember in particular the end of the Bathilda Bagshot chapter of Second Life, when Snape is running toward James and Lily's house and feeling like time is doubling back on itself--I didn't see that parallel until I was in it.  I think you always have to have room to surprise yourself, even in the thick of your planning. That sense of discovery affects the reader's journey through your work. What is your writing genre of choice? 

Haha, fanfiction is my writing genre of choice. No, I wrote short stories when I was pursuing my degree in fiction, which is kind of hilarious now, as I became sort of known for my long-windedness. Why say 100 words when 10,000 would do? I grew to love the novel during my time in fanfiction. It would be hard to imagine turning back to a shorter form now. But who knows. I always tell myself that once the children are grown I will get back to writing. I was beginning a sort of cross between fantasy and domestic fiction when I had children and I still think the idea has legs. Which of your stories are you most proud of? Why? 

Oh, different ones for different reasons. I think Dark Santiago is the most structurally tight and sound thing I've ever done. Second Life is like a miracle that it even happened, that I was able to control such a behemoth and bring it home. I was terrified the whole way. And weirdly, there's a drabble series that is called The Sins of Severus Snape that I am still really proud of. I think of those like linked poems. A real exercise in being concise for someone who likes to sprawl all over the page. Did it unfold as you imagined it or did you find the unexpected cropped up as you wrote? What did you learn from writing it?  

I think I've pretty much covered those questions in all my ramblings. I knew the general structure, I was happily surprised along the way, and I learned to write novels from writing fanfiction, Second Life in particular. How personal is the story to you, and do you think that made it harder or easier to write? 

There's not a lot of personal parts of the story to me in Second Life. I mean, every character is drawn from me, in a way, just because they come into being informed with my way of looking at and understanding the world and other people. But there isn't a lot in there that echoes my experience. Advanced Contemporary Potion Making was personal, and I think you can feel that in the story. It takes the biggest step away from canon. It wasn't hard to write, but it was hard to live. And now, as I look back, I have a different perspective on my life and on the story itself than I did at the time that I wrote it. What books or authors have influenced you? How do you think that shows in your writing? 

Oh man, Stephen King is all over my writing. I don't think I've ever written a sex scene that didn't have a grain of that scene in the sewers of It inside it. Not because of the child thing--I know that skeeves people out about that scene--but because in it, Beverly discovers the power of sex--sex as a force, a life-giving force, something with teeth. I think that idea shows up a lot in Second Life. I like fiction in which you are very much inside the character's heads, and I think that's apparent in my writing. I think I got that initially from Stephen King, who leaps around inside his different character's heads sometimes in the same paragraph! I also think the theme of unending loyalty, the power of friendship, the triumph of good over evil--those are very Kingian themes that I recognized in Potter and then carried into my own writing. Do people in your everyday life know you write fanfiction? 

Yes. That wasn't always the case. During the time that I was active in the fandom, I was a young elementary school teacher, and I dreaded anyone finding out that I wrote sex scenes with children's book characters. I was very private about my fanfic then, and even a few of my closest real life people did not know. My parents still do not know. My children are teenagers now and into fanfiction in their own right; they know I wrote it, but they don't know my ship or my pen name. My husband has read most of Second Life. I recently started a new job, and during one of those "get to know you" games, I was asked to share something that other people wouldn't guess about me. I said that I had once been a fanfiction writer. How true for you is the notion of "writing for yourself"? 

Mmm. I wrote the stories I wanted to read. Do you know what I mean? I wrote things because that's how I wanted to see them, how I wished they were, and I wrote to my own preferences. But writing in real time, for people who were actually reading and responding--that was crucial to the process. My biggest fear during the writing of Second Life was that I wouldn't finish it, or that I would lose control of it and it would become crap. "Breaking the story," I used to say, and I was terrified of breaking the story. But the fact that there were people experiencing it with me and waiting for it, reacting to it, and giving insightful feedback--that helped keep me very focused and motivated. I never wrote something because I thought it would be appealing to others, but I was so gratified that what I wrote did appeal to others. How important is it for you to interact with your audience? How do you engage with them? Just at the point of publishing? Through social media? 

I had a LiveJournal and although I was not a frequent poster, I read my friends list every day during that time. I read what everyone else was reading and talked about the stories and themes that everyone else was talking about. I made a number very close friends during that time--other authors, people who were reading my stories and commenting. We talked on the phone frequently, and I had a team of beta readers. I went to conventions. I participated in the ss/hg exchange. A lot of those people were my audience, were reading my stories. And many of them became my good friends. I had a policy to answer all reviews when I was writing Second Life, and I did that until I was unable to do it anymore. When I had multiple stories it got much harder. That community changed a lot toward the end of my time in it. People were leaving LiveJournal, and Tumblr was on the rise, which felt like a much bigger pond. AO3 was replacing the smaller archives on which I had really grown as a writer. And once the movies were over and there was no more "fresh canon," people started to drift away. I do think that I might have lasted longer if that tight knit community had stayed in place. It played a big role in my commitment to my work and continued enthusiasm. As a side note, one of the friends I made in the SS/HG community is still my best friend. She is the "aunt" to my children, and we still talk on the phone weekly and visit at least yearly. What is the best advice you've received about writing? 

If you want to write, then write. Make a routine. Write a certain number of words a day. Read them out loud to yourself. You'll hear your own bad habits and improve them.

What do you do when you hit writer's block? 

If I'm already in a project, I will force myself to write a certain number of words per day. I will hold a scene that I'm longing to write out in front of myself like a carrot. Like, if you write this transition part that feels yucky and like you are stuck in it, then you can write the big reunion scene that you know is coming. If I'm not in a project... well, then I don't get through it. I just don't start a new project.  If I need to write a story, as I did during graduate school or during the ss/hg exchange--I would do this thing one of my professors suggested--pick three headlines, words or ideas that have interested you over time and force them into the same story. Dark Santiago was that way. I had the prompt of fortune telling. I added an idea about the way magic works for muggleborns and the ocean town where I was living. Voila: Dark Santiago.   Has anything in real life trickled down into your writing? 

I'm sure it has in ways I can't even see. I remember once talking to a friend on the phone about Second Life as I was writing it, and she pointed out that the fact that I'm a Quaker was informing the story--like my own perspective on war and the horrors of violence were bleeding into the the kind of philosophy of Second Life. Do you have any stories in the works? Can you give us a teaser? 

I don't. I wish I did! I often miss my time in fandom, the spirit of creativity and community, all those ideas just bubbling out in every direction. Any words of encouragement to other writers? 

I don't believe that the end goal of fanfiction is to become a published writer, just as I don't think every guitarist has to have the goal of selling out a stadium, or every golfer has to want to compete in the Masters. I think you can love a thing without making it your livelihood. You become a "real" author the minute someone else reads a story that you wrote. Many of you reading this right now are people who made me an author. It is, as Stephen King once wrote, a kind of telepathy. I thought of something once, in 2008, in the southeast of the US, and you can read it right now wherever you are, and experience the thoughts and feelings I was dreaming up then. It's a wonderful gift, writing. And working among people who are dedicated to improving their craft and talking about stories and ideas--that is just the very best ground for making something that makes YOU proud. Thanks so much for giving us your time.  

Thank you! I am really honored to be asked

[chiseler]

Utopia and Apocalypse: Pynchon’s Populist/Fatalist Cinema

The rhythmic clapping resonates inside these walls, which are hard and glossy as coal: Come-on! Start-the-show! Come-on! Start-the-show! The screen is a dim page spread before us, white and silent. The film has broken, or a projector bulb has burned out. It was difficult even for us, old fans who’ve always been at the movies (haven’t we?) to tell which before the darkness swept in.

--from the last page of Gravity’s Rainbow

To begin with a personal anecdote: Writing my first book (to be published) in the late 1970s, an experimental autobiography titled Moving Places: A Life at the Movies (Harper & Row, 1980), published in French as Mouvements: Une vie au cinéma (P.O.L, 2003), I wanted to include four texts by other authors—two short stories (“In Dreams Begin Responsibilities” by Delmore Schwartz, “The Secret Integration” by Thomas Pynchon) and two essays (“The Carole Lombard in Macy’s Window” by Charles Eckert, “My Life With Kong” by Elliott Stein)—but was prevented from doing so by my editor, who argued that because the book was mine, texts by other authors didn’t belong there. My motives were both pluralistic and populist: a desire both to respect fiction and non-fiction as equal creative partners and to insist that the book was about more than just myself and my own life. Because my book was largely about the creative roles played by the fictions of cinema on the non-fictions of personal lives, the anti-elitist nature of cinema played a crucial part in these transactions.`

In the case of Pynchon’s 1964 story—which twenty years later, in his collection Slow Learner, he would admit was the only early story of his that he still liked—the cinematic relevance to Moving Places could be found in a single fleeting but resonant detail: the momentary bonding of a little white boy named Tim Santora with a black, homeless, alcoholic jazz musician named Carl McAfee in a hotel room when they discover that they’ve both seen Blood Alley (1955), an anticommunist action-adventure with John Wayne and Lauren Bacall, directed by William Wellman. Pynchon mentions only the film’s title, but the complex synergy of this passing moment of mutual recognition between two of its dissimilar viewers represented for me an epiphany, in part because of the irony of such casual camaraderie occurring in relation to a routine example of Manichean Cold War mythology. Moreover, as a right-wing cinematic touchstone, Blood Alley is dialectically complemented in the same story by Tim and his friends categorizing their rebellious schoolboy pranks as Operation Spartacus, inspired by the left-wing Spartacus (1960) of Kirk Douglas, Dalton Trumbo, and Stanley Kubrick.

For better and for worse, all of Pynchon’s fiction partakes of this populism by customarily defining cinema as the cultural air that everyone breathes, or at least the river in which everyone swims and bathes. This is equally apparent in the only Pynchon novel that qualifies as hackwork, Inherent Vice (2009), and the fact that Paul Thomas Anderson’s adaptation of it is also his worst film to date—a hippie remake of Chinatown in the same way that the novel is a hippie remake of Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald—seems logical insofar as it seems to have been written with an eye towards selling the screen rights. As Geoffrey O’Brien observed (while defending this indefensible book and film) in the New York Review of Books (January 3, 2015), “Perhaps the novel really was crying out for such a cinematic transformation, for in its pages people watch movies, remember them, compare events in the ‘real world’ to their plots, re-experience their soundtracks as auditory hallucinations, even work their technical components (the lighting style of cinematographer James Wong Howe, for instance) into aspects of complex conspiratorial schemes.” (Despite a few glancing virtues, such as  Josh Brolin’s Nixonesque performance as "Bigfoot" Bjornsen, Anderson’s film seems just as cynical as its source and infused with the same sort of misplaced would-be nostalgia for the counterculture of the late 60s and early 70s, pitched to a generation that didn’t experience it, as Bertolucci’s Innocents: The Dreamers.)

From The Crying of Lot 49’s evocation of an orgasm in cinematic terms (“She awoke at last to find herself getting laid; she’d come in on a sexual crescendo in progress, like a cut to a scene where the camera’s already moving”) to the magical-surreal guest star appearance of Mickey Rooney in wartime Europe in Gravity’s Rainbow, cinema is invariably a form of lingua franca in Pynchon’s fiction, an expedient form of shorthand, calling up common experiences that seem light years away from the sectarianism of the politique des auteurs. This explains why his novels set in mid-20th century, such as the two just cited, when cinema was still a common currency cutting across classes, age groups, and diverse levels of education, tend to have the greatest number of movie references. In Gravity’s Rainbow—set mostly in war-torn Europe, with a few flashbacks to the east coast U.S. and flash-forwards to the contemporary west coast—this even includes such anachronistic pop ephemera as the 1949 serial King of the Rocket Men and the 1955 Western The Return of Jack Slade (which a character named Waxwing Blodgett is said to have seen at U.S. Army bases during World War 2 no less than twenty-seven times), along with various comic books.

Significantly, “The Secret Integration”, a title evoking both conspiracy and countercultural utopia, is set in the same cozy suburban neighborhood in the Berkshires from which Tyrone Slothrop, the wartime hero or antihero of Gravity’s Rainbow (1973), aka “Rocketman,” springs, with his kid brother and father among the story’s characters. It’s also the same region where Pynchon himself grew up. And Gravity’s Rainbow, Pynchon’s magnum opus and richest work, is by all measures the most film-drenched of his novels in its design as well as its details—so much so that even its blocks of text are separated typographically by what resemble sprocket holes. Unlike, say, Vineland (1990), where cinema figures mostly in terms of imaginary TV reruns (e.g., Woody Allen in Young Kissinger) and diverse cultural appropriations (e.g., a Noir Center shopping mall), or the post-cinematic adventures in cyberspace found in the noirish (and far superior) east-coast companion volume to Inherent Vice, Bleeding Edge (2013), cinema in Gravity’s Rainbow is basically a theatrical event with a social impact, where Fritz Lang’s invention of the rocket countdown as a suspense device (in the 1929 Frau im mond) and the separate “frames” of a rocket’s trajectory are equally relevant and operative factors. There are also passing references to Lang’s Der müde Tod, Die Nibelungen, Dr. Mabuse, der Spieler, and Metropolis—not to mention De Mille’s Cleopatra, Dumbo, Freaks, Son of Frankenstein, White Zombie, at least two Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers musicals, Pabst, and Lubitsch—and the epigraphs introducing the novel’s second and third sections (“You will have the tallest, darkest leading man in Hollywood — Merian C. Cooper to Fay Wray” and “Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas any more…. –Dorothy, arriving in Oz”) are equally steeped in familiar movie mythology.

These are all populist allusions, yet the bane of populism as a rightwing curse is another near-constant in Pynchon’s work. The same ambivalence can be felt in the novel’s last two words, “Now everybody���“, at once frightening and comforting in its immediacy and universality. With the possible exception of Mason & Dixon (1997), every Pynchon novel over the past three decades—Vineland, Against the Day (2006), Inherent Vice, and Bleeding Edge—has an attractive, prominent, and sympathetic female character betraying or at least acting against her leftist roots and/or principles by being first drawn erotically towards and then being seduced by a fascistic male. In Bleeding Edge, this even happens to the novel’s earthy protagonist, the middle-aged detective Maxine Tarnow. Given the teasing amount of autobiographical concealment and revelation Pynchon carries on with his public while rigorously avoiding the press, it is tempting to see this recurring theme as a personal obsession grounded in some private psychic wound, and one that points to sadder-but-wiser challenges brought by Pynchon to his own populism, eventually reflecting a certain cynicism about human behavior. It also calls to mind some of the reflections of Luc Moullet (in “Sainte Janet,” Cahiers du cinéma no. 86, août 1958) aroused by Howard Hughes’ and Josef von Sternberg’s Jet Pilot and (more incidentally) by Ayn Rand’s and King Vidor’s The Fountainhead whereby “erotic verve” is tied to a contempt for collectivity—implicitly suggesting that rightwing art may be sexier than leftwing art, especially if the sexual delirium in question has some of the adolescent energy found in, for example, Hughes, Sternberg, Rand, Vidor, Kubrick, Tashlin, Jerry Lewis, and, yes, Pynchon.

One of the most impressive things about Pynchon’s fiction is the way in which it often represents the narrative shapes of individual novels in explicit visual terms. V, his first novel, has two heroes and narrative lines that converge at the bottom point of a V; Gravity’s Rainbow, his second—a V2 in more ways than one—unfolds across an epic skyscape like a rocket’s (linear) ascent and its (scattered) descent; Vineland offers a narrative tangle of lives to rhyme with its crisscrossing vines, and the curving ampersand in the middle of Mason & Dixon suggests another form of digressive tangle between its two male leads; Against the Day, which opens with a balloon flight, seems to follow the curving shape and rotation of the planet.

This compulsive patterning suggests that the sprocket-hole design in Gravity’s Rainbow’s section breaks is more than just a decorative detail. The recurrence of sprockets and film frames carries metaphorical resonance in the novel’s action, so that Franz Pökler, a German rocket engineer allowed by his superiors to see his long-lost daughter (whom he calls his “movie child” because she was conceived the night he and her mother saw a porn film) only once a year, at a children’s village called Zwölfkinder, and can’t even be sure if it’s the same girl each time:

So it has gone for the six years since. A daughter a year, each one about a year older, each time taking up nearly from scratch. The only continuity has been her name, and Zwölfkinder, and Pökler’s love—love something like the persistence of vision, for They have used it to create for him the moving image of a daughter, flashing him only these summertime frames of her, leaving it to him to build the illusion of a single child—what would the time scale matter, a 24th of a second or a year (no more, the engineer thought, than in a wind tunnel, or an oscillograph whose turning drum you can speed or slow at will…)?

***

Cinema, in short, is both delightful and sinister—a utopian dream and an apocalyptic nightmare, a stark juxtaposition reflected in the abrupt shift in the earlier Pynchon passage quoted at the beginning of this essay from present tense to past tense, and from third person to first person. Much the same could be said about the various displacements experienced while moving from the positive to the negative consequences of  populism.

Pynchon’s allegiance to the irreverent vulgarity of kazoos sounding like farts and concomitant Spike Jones parodies seems wholly in keeping with his disdain for David Raksin and Johnny Mercer’s popular song “Laura” and what he perceives as the snobbish elitism  of the Preminger film it derives from, as expressed in his passionate liner notes to the CD compilation “Spiked!: The Music of Spike Jones” a half-century later:

The song had been featured in the 1945 movie of the same name, supposed to evoke the hotsy-totsy social life where all these sophisticated New York City folks had time for faces in the misty light and so forth, not to mention expensive outfits, fancy interiors,witty repartee—a world of pseudos as inviting to…class hostility as fish in a barrel, including a presumed audience fatally unhip enough to still believe in the old prewar fantasies, though surely it was already too late for that, Tin Pan Alley wisdom about life had not stood a chance under the realities of global war, too many people by then knew better.

Consequently, neither art cinema nor auteur cinema figures much in Pynchon’s otherwise hefty lexicon of film culture, aside from a jokey mention of a Bengt Ekerot/Maria Casares Film Festival (actors playing Death in The Seventh Seal and Orphée) held in Los Angeles—and significantly, even the “underground”, 16-millimeter radical political filmmaking in northern California charted in Vineland becomes emblematic of the perceived failure of the 60s counterculture as a whole. This also helps to account for why the paranoia and solipsism found in Jacques Rivette’s Paris nous appartient and Out 1, perhaps the closest equivalents to Pynchon’s own notions of mass conspiracy juxtaposed with solitary despair, are never mentioned in his writing, and the films that are referenced belong almost exclusively to the commercial mainstream, unlike the examples of painting, music, and literature, such as the surrealist painting of Remedios Varo described in detail at the beginning of The Crying of Lot 49,  the importance of Ornette Coleman in V and Anton Webern in Gravity’s Rainbow, or the visible impact of both Jorge Luis Borges and William S. Burroughs on the latter novel. (1) And much of the novel’s supply of movie folklore—e.g., the fatal ambushing of John Dillinger while leaving Chicago’s Biograph theater--is mainstream as well.

Nevertheless, one can find a fairly precise philosophical and metaphysical description of these aforementioned Rivette films in Gravity’s Rainbow: “If there is something comforting -- religious, if you want — about paranoia, there is still also anti-paranoia, where nothing is connected to anything, a condition not many of us can bear for long.” And the white, empty movie screen that appears apocalyptically on the novel’s final page—as white and as blank as the fusion of all the colors in a rainbow—also appears in Rivette’s first feature when a 16-millimeter print of Lang’s Metropolis breaks during the projection of the Tower of Babel sequence.

Is such a physically and metaphysically similar affective climax of a halted film projection foretelling an apocalypse a mere coincidence? It’s impossible to know whether Pynchon might have seen Paris nous appartient during its brief New York run in the early 60s. But even if he hadn’t (or still hasn’t), a bitter sense of betrayed utopian possibilities in that film, in Out 1, and in most of his fiction is hard to overlook. Old fans who’ve always been at the movies (haven’t we?) don’t like to be woken from their dreams.

by Jonathan Rosenbaum

Footnote

For this reason, among others, I’m skeptical about accepting the hypothesis of the otherwise reliable Pynchon critic Richard Poirier that Gravity’s Rainbow’s enigmatic references to “the Kenosha Kid” might allude to Orson Welles, who was born in Kenosha, Wisconsin. Steven C. Weisenburger, in A Gravity’s Rainbow Companion (Athens/London: The University of Georgia Press, 2006), reports more plausibly that “the Kenosha Kid” was a pulp magazine character created by Forbes Parkhill in Western stories published from the 1920s through the 1940s. Once again, Pynchon’s populism trumps—i.e. exceeds—his cinephilia.

[johnminnion]

Down among the dead men

We spent an afternoon drawing in St James’ Garden, the cemetery below Liverpool’s Anglican cathedral. As a subject for drawing, it is full of stone and tree forms and textures, with a restrained colour pallette of grey-greens.

The most significant structure is the mausoleum for William Huskisson, Liverpool’s MP who was fatally injured by Stephenson’s Rocket on the opening day the Liverpool-Manchester Railway.

Above by Prue. A well-observed drawing of the Huskisson, full of interesting mark-making. A pity that the proportions were not quite planned well enough, and so no room for the crucifix at the top.

Here’s the real thing (below, from a different angle). You can see that Prue has made it slimmer, less squat than it actually is.

Jane (two drawings below) has made it even slimmer, which is a shame because the actual mark-making is enjoyable for its freedom and liveliness.

I do believe it is possible to keep the liveliness and freedom AS WELL as doing a bit of careful advance construction. Proportions are critical in a piece of architecture like this, and judging them isn’t as instinctive as you might suppose.

Maria (below) said she felt uncomfortable with St James’s Garden as a drawing venue, but she got dutifully stuck in. I wondered whether she might express in the drawing some of her misgivings about the place, emphasizing brooding shadows for instance. But the airy lightness of the picture seems to dispel anything sinister or threatening about the place.

Eve made this satisfying study in gradations of charcoal (below), getting a nice mix of surface effects.

My first thought was that as a composition it is too static. There is nothing to guide the eye around the picture: no rhythms, no changes of direction,except for the splayed diagonals that focus in on the white gravestone in the centre.

Yet I think it does hold the viewer, in a rather mesmeric way, exactly because of this intense focus on the white gravestone. Lack of dynamism becomes the main feature: what is more static than a grave?

Eve’s second subject (below) was a complete contrast –a gravestone within an arch within an arch, all set at different angles (see photo below). Eve’s rendering of it is rather desultory (she was coffee-deficient) but as a study of abstract shapes it is quite exciting. Some of us were reminded of John Piper.

Here’s the grave in question – from a different angle – and I personally found it such a stimulating subject I went back a day or two later to draw it myself.

[ljones41]

“X-MEN ORIGINS: WOLVERINE” (2009) Review

“X-MEN: WOLVERINE” (2009) Review

I must admit that when I had first learned of Marvel’s plans to release a fourth movie in the ”X-MEN” franchise nearly six years ago, I did not warm to the idea. And when I learned that this fourth movie would focus upon the origins of James Howlett aka Logan aka Wolverine, my wariness deepened.

Fortunately, ”X-MEN ORIGINS: WOLVERINE” eased most of my doubts. It turned out to be a surprisingly entertaining movie. Directed by Gavin Hood, it told the story of how a Canadian mutant named James Howlett (or Logan) became the amnesiac Wolverine first introduced in the 2000 film, ”X-MEN”. The movie not only provided a brief glimpse of his tragic childhood in mid-19th century Canada, which included the deaths of his stepfather; and real father and his relationship with his half-brother, Victor Creed aka Sabertooth, along with an extraordinary title sequence that highlighted the two brothers’ experiences as Canadian mercenaries for the U.S. Army during the Civil War, World War I, World War II and the Vietnam War. But the gist of the film centered around their work as mercenaries for the U.S. Army’s “Team X”, led by military scientist Major William Stryker; and James’ (Logan’s) later conflicts with Victor and Stryker after he left the team.

”X-MEN ORIGINS: WOLVERINE” had received some bad word of mouth before its release at the beginning of May. A rumor circulated that either Marvel or 20th Century-Fox had meddled with director Hood’s finished work. Since I do not know whether this is true or not, all I can do is comment upon what I had seen on the movie screen. And to be honest, I am not a big fan of the Wolverine character . . . despite Hugh Jackman’s portrayal. Yes, he can be very entertaining. But uber-macho types like Logan have never been my forte. But I went ahead saw the movie, anyway.

First, I have to say that ”X-MEN ORIGINS: WOLVERINE” was not perfect. One, I never understood why James and Victor had served as mercenaries for the U.S. Army during both World War I and II, since Canada had participated in both wars and at least seven decades had passed between the deaths of John Howlett and Thomas Logan (James’ step-father and father) in 1845 and their participation in World War I in 1917-1918. And two, how did Stryker know that Victor had less chance of surviving the adamantium process than James? Was it ever explained in the movie? I also had problems with two of the characters in the movie, along with Nicholas De Toth and Megan Gill’s editing. But I will discuss those later.

Despite some of the flaws mentioned in the previous paragraph, ”X-MEN ORIGINS: WOLVERINE” turned out to be better than I had expected. The movie took viewers on James Howlett’s emotional journey that started with him as a young boy in 1845 Canadian Northwest Territories, who stumbled upon an unpleasant truth about his parentage in the worst possible way. By the time the movie ended, James (or Logan) had fought in several wars, participated in Team X’s black operations, estranged himself from Victor, fallen in love, experienced loss, acquired his adamantium claws and lost his memories. Several fans had complained that Logan’s character did not seem like the complex loner from ”X-MEN” throughout most of the movie. Instead, he seemed more like the slightly benign team player that had emerged at the end of ”X-MEN 3: THE LAST STAND”. I must admit that these fans have a point. Only . . . I am not complaining. This only tells me that screenwriters David Benioff and Skip Woods had properly done their jobs. If Logan’s character had remained the cynical loner throughout the entire film, I would have been disappointed. One key to good writing is character development. In all of the previous three ”X-MEN”, Logan’s character had developed slowly from the loner to the team player shown at the end of ”THE LAST STAND”. But ”X-MEN ORIGINS: WOLVERINE”is only one movie. And in that single film, the screenwriters, along with Hood and actor Hugh Jackman had to show the audience how James Howlett became that amnesiac loner. The last thing I wanted to see was a one-dimensional portrayal of his character. And I am thankful that I have no reason to complain about Logan’s character arc.

Not only was I impressed by Logan’s character development (which was the gist of the story), I was also impressed by how Hood, Benioff, Woods and Jackman handled Logan’s relationships with Victor and Stryker. I enjoyed how the screenwriters created the con job that both Stryker and Victor had committed against Logan. They had manipulated Logan into volunteering for the adamantium process, so that he could seek revenge against Victor for his girlfriend’s death. What Logan did not know was that he had been nothing more than an experiment – a test run – to see if the process would work for Stryker’s new weapon – a mutant called Weapon XI or Deadpool that had been injected with the abilities of other mutants, including Logan’s healing factor. I feel that Benioff and Woods’ creation of the con job was an imaginative twist to the story . . . and very essential to Logan’s character development.

Speaking of Logan, I must say that Hugh Jackman did an excellent job of conveying Logan’s emotional journey in the film. Thanks to his first-class performance, he took Logan from the loyal, yet wary half-brother of the increasingly violent Victor Creed to the amnesiac mutant who ended up rejecting Remy LaBeau’s help amidst the ashes of Three Mile Island. Mind you, Jackman’s portrayal of Logan has always been first-rate. But since this movie featured a more in-depth look into the character’s development, I feel that it may have featured Jackman’s best performance as aggressive and self-regenerative mutant.

Liev Schreiber seemed equally impressive in his portrayal of Logan’s half-brother, Victor Creed aka Sabertooth. Like Logan, Victor possessed a regenerative healing factor, an aggressive nature and superhuman senses. But Schreiber’s Victor seemed not to have embarked on an emotional journey. Instead, his character seemed to be in some kind of quandary. Not only did Schreiber portray Victor as a more aggressive and violent man than Logan, but he did so with a touch of style that seemed to be lacking in Tyler Mane’s portrayal in the 2000 movie. Schreiber also did a magnificent job in revealing Victor’s conflicted feelings toward the character’s younger half-brother. He loves James, yet at the same time, harbors several resentments toward the younger man – including one toward Logan’s abandonment of Team X and him.

Normally I would pity the actor forced to fill Brian Cox’s shoes in the role of U.S. Army scientist William Stryker. The Scottish actor had given a superb performance in ”X-MEN 2: X-MEN UNITED”. Fortunately, Marvel hired Danny Huston for the role. Not only did he successfully fill Cox’s shoes in my opinion, he managed to put his own stamp on the role. Like Cox, Huston did a great portrayal of Stryker as the soft-spoken, yet ruthless and manipulative military scientist who would do anything to achieve his goals regarding the existence of mutants. But whereas the older Stryker simply wanted to destroy mutants, Huston’s Stryker seemed to desire control over them . . . for his own personal experiments. And Huston . . . was superb.

I felt more than satisfied with most of the movie’s supporting cast. Ryan Reynolds was memorable in his brief role of a wisecracking mercenary with lethal swordsmanship named Wade Wilson. He was both hilarious and chilling as the mutant who eventually became Stryker’s premiere experiment – Weapon XI aka Deadpool. Taylor Kitsch made a charming, yet intense Remy LaBeau, the New Orleans hustler and mutant who had escaped from Stryker’s laboratory on Three Mile Island. Rapper will.i.am made a solid screen debut as the soft spoken teleporter, John Wraith. Dominic Monaghan gave a quiet and poignant performance as Bradley, another member of Stryker’s Team X that happened to be a technopath. Kevin Durand as funny as the super strong Fred Dukes aka Blob, who developed an eating disorder after leaving Team X. Daniel Henney was intense and unforgettable as Team X’s ruthless tracker and marksman, Agent Zero. I enjoyed Tahyna Tozzi’s portrayal of the strong-willed Emma “Frost” so much that I found myself wishing she had been the movie’s leading lady.

Which brings me to Lynn Collins as Kayla Silverfox. I am sure that Ms. Collins is a competent actress. But her performance as Kayla, Logan’s telepathic girlfriend struck me as a bit uninspiring. Oddly enough, she physically reminded me of Evangeline Lilly of ”LOST”. In fact, her portrayal of Kayla damn near came off as flat so much that her acting skills almost seemed as mediocre as Ms. Lilly’s. Considering Ms. Collins’ reputation as an actress, I suspect that screenwriters Benioff and Woods are to blame for the flat portrayal of Kayla, instead of Ms. Collins’ acting skills. Tim Peacock gave a competent, yet unmemorable performance as the younger Scott Summers aka Cyclops – another mutant who became one of Stryker’s prisoners on Three Mile Island and a part of the Weapon XI experiment. If this Cyclops is supposed to be twenty years younger than the one featured in the first three ”X-MEN” films, then I believe that a younger actor should have been cast in this film. Why? I never got the impression that James Marsden’s Cyclops had been somewhere between 34 and 38 in the three previous films.

As I had stated earlier, I was not impressed by Nicholas De Toth and Megan Gill’s editing of the film. At times, it struck me as slightly choppy and amateurish. Only the editing featured in the opening title sequence struck me as impressive. And imaginative. However, Donald McAlpine’s photography and the visual effects supervised by Dean Franklin, Craig Veytia and Mike Rotella struck me as very impressive – especially in the title sequence and the scene featuring Logan and Victor’s fight against Deadpool on Three Mile Island.

In conclusion, I found ”X-MEN ORIGINS: WOLVERINE” to be surprisingly enjoyable. It turned out better than I had expected, despite some flaws. It would probably rank third for me in the ”X-MEN” franchise – somewhere between ”X-MEN 3” and ”X-MEN: FIRST CLASS”. I find this astonishing, considering I did not have any real hopes for this film when it first hit the theaters nearly nine years ago. I realize that many fans of the franchise have low opinions of the film. But you know what? I guess I really do not care.

[hotdogjumpingfrog5]

It’s Strange - Chapter 17

Previous Chapters: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven, Chapter Twelve , Chapter Thirteen, Chapter Fourteen, Chapter Fifteen , Chapter Sixteen

~

February 26th, 1987

As the bell had rang at the end of the day after the losers had said their goodbyes for the day, Bill had sat upon the bleachers while Ben and Beverly had their weekly track meet.

Bill was going to study for history with Ben after school

While sitting on the bleachers watching the track meet, that’s when he remembered; Bill won’t be home when his parents go out on another “date night” of theirs next week on Wednesday since he will be at his weekly speech therapy.

Who will look after Georgie?

Not even his parents bothered to acknowledge or even mention it, they hardly noticed what Bill and Georgie got up to anyways. Were his parents even alive? Or human for that matter? He was certain they were unconscious as hell robots.

Bill usually got Mike to look after Georgie when his parents weren’t there and when Bill wouldn’t be present, but Mike’s grandfather wanted him to stay home and study for a “big test” if he wanted to go to public school

Then he asked the rest of the losers while him and his closest friends were at Eddie’s a few days ago, but they all had something planned, and it was on a school night. But he hasn’t come around to asking Ben or Beverly yet.

Bill watched as Ben and Bev were running on the track together, possibly laughing at something funny that Ben had said.

After about 30 minutes of going over his schoolwork while on the bleachers, the track meet had went by so swiftly when the sound of the coach’s whistle echoed in the gym.

Ben and Bev had walked up to him and grabbed their stuff right next to where Bill was sitting

“H-How was y-your p-p-practice?”

“It was good,” Ben responded, “You still coming to mine?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Guy time, huh?” Bev smirked

“N-No, j-j-just s-s-s-studying.” said Bill

A few moments of silence had rung between the three of them until Bill had decided to ask

“Hey I was w-w-wondering, a-are any of you able t-to l-l-look after G-G-Georgie on W-Wednesday?” Bill asked, “M-Mike and the r-rest of them are b-busy.”

“I would,” said Ben, “But my mom wants me to go to that painting class with her.”

Bill nodded

“I’ll do it.” said Beverly

“That’s great!” Bill smiled, “Th-thanks.”

As the three of them were walking out of the gym onto the from parking lot of Derry High, about to head separate directions soon.

Ben and Beverly stood close to each other while speaking, that track meet must’ve made them closer than ever.

Before they said goodbye to each other, Ben went more closer to Bill

“Y-Y-Yknow,” said Bill, “Y-You two would actually make a g-good c-c-couple.”

They both chuckled, not knowing what to think, but at the same time flattered

“Really?” Ben cocked his head

“J-Just s-saying.” said Bill

“Thanks.” Beverly chuckled, “Well, I guess I’ll see you guys later.”

~

March 5th, 1987

Thursday afternoon during lunch, the AV club had gotten together like they always did, having their weekly discussions. Not even AV class felt like a class, since they were all interested in it for quite a while.

It was now 12:40, only ten minutes before the first warning bell would ring. 

They had finished their meeting quite early this time, not knowing what else to discuss, started talking about different things. 

“Yknow guys,” said Mike, “When we get the day off from school in a few weeks, we should go back to Hawkins Middle School and visit Mr. Clarke again.”

“What if he doesn’t remember us?” says Dustin

“Really Dustin?” Lucas responds, “It’s only been nine months since we left!”

“Yeah Dusty, I’m sure we haven’t changed that much.” said Mike, “Besides, we were his favourite students.”

Will nodded

“I think that’s a good idea.” Will responded

Then Dustin and Lucas, of course, agreed as well

The bell had rung for the next class, and they had to say their goodbyes to each other for the afternoon.

Mike had walked Will to his lockers like he normally did, after Will’s bad experiences with Troy and the rest of his greaser gang whenever he went there alone.

Halfway through getting his books out of his locker, Will looked as Mike as he stood there leaning against the lockers.

“Need me to walk with you to class?” Mike asked

Will was still irked at how the party and his family still babied him, even though he’d be 16 this month, but Will was used to it.

“I’m fine, I just got some stuff to do first,” said Will, “You can go without me.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah I’m good.”

“Ok well, I’ll see you later!” said Mike, as he began walking down the hall

Will waved, the turned back to his locker.

Out of the blue, he felt these chills, and it seemed as if the entire hallway has been cleared within that millisecond. Will wasn’t sure why, maybe it was 12:56, a minute after the last warning bell rang. 

He sighed, and only now noticed the red spray paint in his locker that read

ZOMBIE BOY

Will thrusted his fist against the lockers, clearly pissed at whoever kept harassing him like this. 

Though Troy’s gang never admitted it, the party was 98% sure they were the ones behind it.

Will looked around the now empty hall, hoping they weren’t lurking around any corners. 

Troy and James haven’t bothered the party in quite a while, but who else calls him zombie boy? Everyone, I guess.

Will

He turned around, looking everywhere, but everyone was gone to class by now.

It was 1:01 pm, and he was late to his next class, but he didn’t care at this point. Will was more concerned on the graffiti and the voice he heard. 

“M-Mike?” Will called out, regretting letting Mike go off without him

This was weird, nothing like this has happened to him in a long time, not sure if it was real or if he was hearing anything.

He happened to walk close to the source of the sound, which was at the end of the hallway, right next to a fitness room that was only ever used once in a while by PE classes, and a tiny bathroom that was never used.

Tapping could be heard behind the locked door of the fitness room, and the sound of a dumbbell could be heard clanging against the ground, which had startled Will

Will stared in horror, unable to move or make a sound.

“Yknow, it’s a good thing that faggot friend of yours is gone.” said the voice behind the doors, “Now I can finally have you to myself for the first time in a loooooong time.”

The two doors flung open, and nothing but the silhouettes of fitness equipment and items could be seen in the dark, hardly dimmed room.

Step right up, Willy!

Will started shaking his head, thinking he was going crazy.

He saw someone or something lurking in the shadows, appearing to be wearing a ruffly outfit, but Will was not dense enough to think about going through those doors.

“William Byers!” the principal grabbed his shoulder, making Will jump and yelp out in fear

He looked at the principal, then into the fitness room, which the only sound in the room now was the sound of the March wind coming from the vents.

“What are you doing?”

“I-I I don’t know.” Will managed to spit out

“Not only are you late to class,” said the principal, “But the fitness room is off limits.”

He then went in to close the doors, and walked past Will.

“That room is for educational purposes only.” said the principal, “Now get to class.”

“Yes sir.” 

As soon as the principal disappeared down the corner, Will sighed, and looked at those doors again. Now there was nothing but silence.

Will forgot to even mention what he saw, he was just too scared for that to cross his mind.

~

March 14th, 1987

It was now Saturday, and Nancy, Johnathan, Steve, and Emma had gotten together for the weekend, as they tried to do so once every few weeks between college.

They had first went over to Nancy’s, the only person that would be home that night would be Ted, and were glad Karen wasn’t, or else she’d complain about the non-existing racket they were making or make some excuse for the rest of them to head home way too early. 

The four of them were planning on seeing a late film that night, and Hopper was the one who dropped both Eleven and Emma and would be back for Eleven later on.

Now being 8:30, Hopper had come back to pick up Eleven while she hung out with Mike. Even though Eleven had a curfew, she knew it was better than not going out at all. 

The doorbell had rang, and the four of them had went downstairs to answer the door, since Ted could not hear the doorbell between his snores.

“Nancy, get the door.” Ted said groggily 

“Hello guys.” Hopper greeted them, “Ems, it’s time for Eleven to come with me now.”

Emma had ran upstairs to get her, and Eleven and Mike had followed behind as they went downstairs.

“So, how’s Joyce?” Nancy asked

“We’re both doing really well.” Hopper smiled as he looked over at Johnathan

“Sucks you have to go.” Mike said as he gave Eleven a goodbye hug

“You’ve gotten tall, Michael.” Hopper smirked, “And so has Will.”

“I know,” Johnathan laughed, “Soon he’ll be my height.”

“Okay Cathy, when do I tell your mother you’re coming back?” Hopper asked

She looked over at the four and Nancy mouthed “Twelve”

“Uh, around 12?”

Hopper nodded

“Don’t worry,” said Steve, “I’ll be bringing us back.”

“Sounds good,” said Hopper, “Hope you guys have a good night.”

The four of them made their way back upstairs after saying goodbye, and Mike was the one to shut the door behind him after saying goodbye to Eleven.

The sound of his father snorting made him glance over into the living room

“Mike, where’s Nancy?”

“Really dad? You just saw her less than a minute ago.” said Mike

As Mike was about to head back upstairs, Ted stopped him with more questions.

“Oh yeah Mike, where’s Richie?”

“At Eddie’s.” 

“One more question,” said Ted, “Where’s your mother and Holly?”

“I don’t know, out somewhere!”

Meanwhile, as Nancy, Johnathan, Emma, and Steve headed back into Nancy’s room, Johnathan began smiling, and they thought it was weird since he never did so unless he was laughing.

“What is it, Johnathan?” Steve smirked

Johnathan smirked, while glancing over at Emma, and she exchanged a look.

“Seriously what is it?” said Nancy

“Emma, do you want to tell them?” said Johnathan

“Tell them what -” Emma asked, “Oh, right.”

She scratched her head, then broke the news.

“So Eleven’s dad, Hopper, and Joyce are doing well.” Emma announced, “Both of our families will be having dinner together next weekend.”

“Does that mean you and Johnathan are going to be -” Steve paused

“Step-siblings? Probably.” Johnathan smirked

“Oh my god,” said Nancy, “That would be so cool!”

~

Next Chapter: To Be Continued

[limejuicer1862]

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers three options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger or an interview on their most recent book, or a combination of these.

The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Stephen Claughton

grew up in Manchester, read English at Oxford and worked for many years as a civil servant in London. His poems have appeared widely in magazines, both in print and online, and he has recently published two pamphlets: The War with Hannibal (Poetry Salzburg, 2019) and The 3-D Clock (Dempsey and Windle, 2020). He reviews regularly for London Grip and blogs occasionally at www.stephenclaughton.com, where links to his reviews, poems and pamphlets can also be found.

The Interview

1. What inspired you to write poetry?

I can’t remember what originally inspired me. I began writing poems in my early teens, but didn’t really get going until I retired from the Civil Service ten years ago. I like to think that I was held back by lack of time, but really it was a lack of confidence. Poetry was too important to me to risk failing. Then, once I’d reached a certain age, I realised I’d got nothing left to lose. You can’t write without taking risks; you have to accept every time the possibility of failure.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

As an English teacher, my mother was very keen that I should like literature. I remember one wet holiday, when she insisted on reciting part of The Song of Hiawatha to me, but I wasn’t a bookish child and — much to her dismay — resisted her attempt to interest me in it. The 3-D Clock, my pamphlet about her dementia, reflects what always remained a difficult relationship. Poetry — and literature more generally — was something I had to discover for myself, encouraged by some excellent teachers at my school. It was, of course, a great help then to have books in the house. (I read Hiawatha again recently and for the most part I concur with my youthful judgement.)

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

English was my main interest at school and the subject I went on to study at university, so I was aware of the poetic tradition. But it was 20th century poets who first sparked my interest — Eliot, Auden and Dylan Thomas from school anthologies — and then the usual influences on my generation — poets such as Ted Hughes, Thom Gunn, R S Thomas, Philip Larkin, Seamus Heaney and Robert Lowell (all but one of them Faber poets). Robert Graves was also an influence, although I think The White Goddess made more of an impression at that time than the poems themselves.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

I’m ashamed to say that I don’t really have one. In the past, I tended to write when I felt like it, provided nothing more pressing needed doing. It probably explains why I got so little done! These days, although I’m retired, I have a number of other calls on my time — as a town and borough councillor and (before the pandemic lockdown) helping to look after our young grandson. It’s meant that in order to remain seriously committed to writing, I have to be more careful about managing my time. I’ve been surprised by how productive it can be just to sit down and apply yourself, although it can also be very frustrating. I work best in the late morning, late afternoon, or early evening.

5. What motivates you to write?

I can’t really explain the need to write poetry, other than that it’s been a compulsion I’ve had for most of my life. Even when I wasn’t publishing any poems, I was still planning them in my head and producing various, unsatisfactory drafts. There has to be something that sparks a poem off — an idea, a line, an image; I couldn’t write one to order. I’ve recently started reviewing, which is something I do for enjoyment. It helps that I have some say in the books I review and don’t have to work to deadlines. I like to take my time, so that I’m not influenced by any particular mood I’m in — I worry about being fair. Fortunately, I haven’t had to write any unfavourable reviews so far, although I do say what I think works and doesn’t work.

6. What is your work ethic?

Professionally, I used to have a strong work ethic, but when you retire people don’t expect it of you and you don’t expect it of yourself. (Thom Gunn stopped writing poetry after he gave up his academic job — he no longer had the motivation.) I get twitchy, if I haven’t been working on a poem for a bit. I wouldn’t want to write out of a sense of duty, but having started late, there’s always the sense of having to make up for lost time.

7. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today?

I think it’s more in terms of subject matter than style. The War with Hannibal has two poems about Larkin, one occasioned by The Guardian reprinting an old article, “Poet on the 8.15”, and another about Larkin’s famous last words (‘I am going to the inevitable’), which I’d hoped to write as a cento, consisting entirely of lines by Larkin. That didn’t work out, but the poem includes references to several of his poems. Some of my early influences were unhelpful — Eliot in particular. I read him when I was too young to understand what he was doing and just thought that good poetry had to be obscure. It took me a long time to find my way out of that blind alley. I wrote one poem, when I was fourteen, that seemed to come out of nowhere and was highly praised, but after that my teenage career went rapidly downhill. I recently came across one of the poems I was trying to write then, still in the plastic writing case I used to use. It was so awful that I binned the lot without a second thought. ‘Inspissated’ is the only word to describe my style then.

8. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

There’s a long list of poets I admire and I’m always finding people I should have read years ago. Ciaran Carson, who died last year, is an example. Perhaps because of my early tangle with Eliot, I’m most attracted to poets who write accessible poems in a conversational style (though Eliot himself could, of course, adopt a conversational mode). Hugo Williams, in particular, helped me get back on track. Reading about the way he rewrote poems as a whole rather than line by line was an eye-opener. Before that, I’d put poems together in the painstaking, bit-by-bit way of the fictional poets, Gordon Comstock (in Orwell’s Keep the Aspidistra Flying) and Anthony Burgess’s Enderby. Some of my more recent poems have come easily, but a lot have been through multiple drafts — usually to try and make them sound more spontaneous! There’s something of the obsessive-compulsive about me.

Another, less well-known, poet who inspired me was Gareth Reeves. I particularly liked the moving series of poems about his father, the poet and critic James Reeves, gradually losing his sight. It intrigued me that you could convey so much in such a simple-seeming way. Of course, it’s only when you try to do it yourself that you realise how difficult it is. I also like the poems of Reeves’ Oxford contemporary, Grevel Lindop. Both are or were academics and Lindop has written biographies of De Quincey and Charles Williams, as well as producing an edition of The White Goddess.

9. Why do you write, as opposed to doing anything else?

I can’t really explain why I’m compelled to write poetry, except to say that my life would be very empty without it. Poetry is a way of capturing something alive. What you do with it when you’ve caught it is another matter and one that’s always open for debate. For me, it’s principally a way of finding meaning and structure in an increasingly crazy world. Also, I like the concentration that’s required by any kind of writing. The same is true of reading, of course, but writing gives you the prospect of having produced something at the end of it. It’s mostly an unconscious process. The only real control I have is when I’m acting as my own editor. Writing and reviewing have given me a sense, for the first time, of doing something that feels ‘right’.

10. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

I’d say the usual things — practise your craft and read as widely as possible. Like most things, the more you do the better you become at it. As for reading, I’m lucky to be within striking distance of the National Poetry Library, which is an excellent resource, but other libraries are available. Most of all, don’t be afraid of failure. You can’t get anywhere without being prepared to take risks. And lastly, don’t give up: as long as the impulse is there, keep on writing.

11. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

There are a few poems I’ve been working on about my mother’s dementia that didn’t make it in time for The 3-D Clock, although I hope that, when they’re finished, that will be it: I don’t want to keep writing about the same subject. I’m interested in ekphrastic poems. The War with Hannibal has two: one about a watercolour sketch by van Dyck and another about Munch’s “The Night Wanderer”. I’ve written others since and perhaps I’ll have enough for a small collection one day. I’m also toying with the idea of doing a ‘version’ of some incidents from The Aeneid, which I studied at school. And it’s hard these days not to write about the current pandemic, although it may not produce anything useable in my case. I don’t know if anything will come of any of these projects. I depend on poems approaching me rather than me them.

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Stephen Claughton Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.

[alxndre-0001]

Alex’s Literary Reads of 2019 (from the months of June to September)

Caution: Bad, unedited writing ahead. Alex is a lazy person

Being a law student is an exhausting line of self-inflicted harm. Your life becomes an onslaught of reading materials and even more reading materials to catch up to. Now, reading has been second nature to me since I was four years old, so you can just imagine the sheer amount of readings my law professors have given us for me to consider detesting reading. 

I’ve managed to keep my sobriety from purely academic books by inserting novels, short stories and some poetry along the way. In all my four years in law school, this is the only year that I read as much as I wanted to. Mostly, short stories and essays that could be finished in one sitting. I had summer classes and wasn’t able to go home at all since January or February so I kept myself preoccupied by reading leisurely ( I know, gasp! Is that even possible for Alex in this economy?).

So here they are ++ some reviews and thoughts on the books.

1. Delta of Venus by Anais Nin

I read this book at the same time as a friend of mine. It was my first time diving into erotica considered to hold literary merit, the ones I had before were utterly terrible, by the way. But we are talking of Anais Nin anyway, so there’s that. It’s actually a collection of erotic short stories involving different, unconnected characters although a few of them were referenced in other stories. As someone who’s always been fine with sex in plots, this one left me feeling visibly unsettled. I realized how truly romanticized sex can be in popular books (e.g Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy). The outpouring of feminine pleasure on those books was strictly gratuitous and self-indulgent. Delta of Venus was an uncomfortable experience because it fleshed out several discomfiting realities of sex and titillation – violence is often an element of power play in the bedroom, voyeuristic tendencies of everyone, depraved fantasies which are almost immoral in their insistence. 

Of particular impressions were ‘The Hungarian Adventurer’ and ‘Boarding School’ which explored themes of rape, incest, and even bestiality at one point.  It wasn’t the fact of preference that appalled me, it was the simple exposition of the truth – sex is all things good and bad, inexplicable and sensual. I have a problem with how media portrays sex, especially in popular culture which is partial with idealistic notions of sexual roles apparent in concepts like the male gaze and fantasy in porn. You see, these things eventually become damaging. When we glamorize something as common as sex, it either becomes fodder for taboo or fantasy, which incidentally what occurs with conversations of sex. Either it is a subject much condemned for its alleged impurity or a dirty little secret which encourages unrealistic expectations for both sexes. 

Nin’s style of writing borders on the absurd, but it is done intentionally. In one interview, she narrated how a client wanted her to write erotica which was basically porn and just skip the poetry. She refused as any self-respecting and intelligent woman would.  And well, we need to appreciate her for that. If she let the client have his way, then what we’d have is an exaggerated image of sex instead of the unnerving stories of Delta. In a sense, we can consider Delta as a commentary on sex literature which caters to a male audience. The stories were rife with feeling, of emotion, which feminized a genre so overtly masculine, pandering to the male gaze.

There were quite a number of jibes at the male gaze as well with stories like ‘Marianne’ and the ‘The Veiled Woman’. My favorite was when Marianne (Marianne) met a man who felt erotic pleasure by only being looked at, like an object of desire. It appeared to me as a reverse of the male gaze, which often portrayed women as the object of desire, effacing her human qualities to turn her into just a vessel to express lust, infatuation or even love. But here, the object of desire is a man and we are made privy into his thoughts and actions, humanizing him instead of treating him as just an object. 

Overall, Delta of Venus was a fine starter for anyone who wished to know more of Anais Nin. The prose flowed well, even lyrically so, despite sex being a subject which can easily turn stale if not carefully written. 

2. Tales of Mystery and Imagination by Edgar Allan Poe

My first experience with Poe was when I was around nine or ten years old. I was a nosy child when it came to other people’s books and one day I found printed copies of short stories of my cousin’s in his room. One of them was A Tell-Tale Heart.  I still remember feeling on edge as I read the slightly blurred lines in cheap brown paper, it was utterly thrilling. The horror of the story comes less from the almost supernatural obsession of the unnamed character with the eye of the old man. It was more on his slipping attempts of overcoming the inhuman desire to kill the man for his eye. 

There’s always something that fascinates me with horror that is internally driven. More than the hostility of vampires, the looming threats of an apocalypse, the real horror for me lies in the deep recesses of the human heart, that inscrutable machine that throbs inextricably within all of us. And I feel like that’s what always impressed me with Poe. He had the excellent ability to articulate darkness that is motivated by the self and that is a feat for writers. Stephen King, for example, is great at understanding that his monsters are metaphors for his inner demons but he relates them into tangible forms be it demon dogs, telekinetic teenagers to give them an external existence. 

Poe has a clear grasp of fear and all its friends. And though some critics would lend an idea that Poe writes well with supernatural elements, I beg to disagree. He uses, for one, unreliable narrators (Berenice, William Williamson, Fall of the House of Usher). The thing with unreliable narrators is they warp the sense of reality of the stories, an indication to the reader that everything is not what it seems. And if one pays enough attention, then they could ask the all-important question: Is this the real-life or is this just fantasy? If you’re playing with those two possibilities, then you’d be less scared with the supernatural/ external world than the worldview of the narrator. You start to scrutinize him more closely, dog his steps, intimate his intentions, etc like some fixated lover. In doing so, in peering into the mind of another, you stumble into your own inner motivations, your thoughts and who knows you might mirror the darkness the narrator is struggling with? 

And there is the true gift of Poe – he reads everyone like how he reads himself. He doesn’t do this by getting acquainted with thousands of people with innumerable different lives. No, sir. He forces readers to examine themselves and the darkness inherent in men but constantly, through our self-delusion denied as present in others but not in ourselves. I need not belabor that this kind of writer is my favorite, the ones with a very vivid understanding of humanity, no matter how bleak the answers that arrive to them.

I went at liberties with Poe (lol) but some favorites inside the collection of stories are The Case of M. Valdemar, Black Cat, Descent into the Maelstrom and Pit of the Pendulum. My only issue is Poe’s tendency to philosophize in protracted terms that I was afraid I was going to get bored to death ( Domain of Arnheim, The Island of the Fay) with the possible exception of ‘The Colloquy of Monos and Una’ since I like the ideas presented there. 

3. Slapstick! or Lonesome No More by Kurt Vonnegut

I was supposed to start with Kurt Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions or Cat’s Cradle but the only available copy of the writer’s work in the book fair (thanks BBW!!) was this one. It seemed like a light read, a stark contrast from Poe’s grim, verbose collection, so I decided to give it a go. The last time I read a sci-fi novel was Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 ( a real shame since I planned on reading more sci-fi this year). I finished it in less than a day and I wouldn’t say it left me with any remarkable opinion as much as the other books have had on me except that Vonnegut seemed like that fun, carefree uncle in reunions who has an alcohol abuse problem, is unmarried, and eats grapefruit for breakfast.

It’s not a very long novel and Vonnegut kept ending every part with ‘Hi, ho’. There’s a deeper sadness that is thinly veiled in the book as well, yeah slapstick, which reminded me of David Wallace’s Infinite Jest except the latter presents a more serious nod to its humor. 

It tells the story of Wilbur and Eliza, twins who are considered conventionally horrendous and abnormal in physical qualities. They are tall, too tall in fact. But thank god for rich parents who secretly dislike them, that they lived a sheltered existence away from everyone else other than their servants and a doctor who checks them every day. Unbeknownst to the parents and everyone else, the twins are super smart but only if they are allowed to share their intelligence by being close to each other. 

Long story made short, it’s a light read and perhaps a good overview of Vonnegut’s style of writing. I did want to read Slaughterhouse-Five after this one, so maybe that’s a good start. 

4. Dubliners by James Joyce

I’m having a hard time deciding whether this is my favorite out of everything else in this list or not. James Joyce was actually one of the writers I wanted to read very closely and understand his style better. He had such status and influence in modernism, plus the mythic reputations of both Finnegan’s Wake and Ulysses for their wrought complexity and ingenuity in style that I felt drawn to his works.  You should have seen my face when I got a copy of this book at the BBW Fair last August – think of a kid in a candy store for an accurate depiction. 

Let’s cut right down to the chase. What do I really think of this book? To sum up my thoughts about it: If there is a master class for short story writing, Dubliners should be a required reading. I am by no means a writer or journalist but as someone who reads short stories often (more often than novels or poetry) for the last two or three years, Dubliners was a standout. 

Dubliners is actually a collection of short stories (hell I’ve only been having collections, is this a pattern? lol). They are set in Ireland mediated through the simplicity of daily life.  I admired the craftsmanship of Joyce in this one, the prose was written so concisely, dispensing with the arduous descriptions that lead nowhere.  

The characters, too, were forged from the circumstances of ordinariness – a dead priest, an abused woman, a boy about to come of age and so on. The characters themselves feel like semblances of a collective consciousness – that of Ireland during a tumultuous time in the  20th century.  In a way, the mundane, individual aspects of a character’s life was a mirror to the social conditions Joyce wanted to portray emphatically in the stories. The style was polished in a way that one is made to occupy the places mentioned in Dublin through the familiarity of an old friend, a returning local into the arms of unchanged memories. There hung in each story, a great atmosphere of nostalgia and I suspect it is because Joyce knows how to excavate sentiments for places which we haven’t even visited or seen but that somehow we recognize as phantoms of our very own lives. 

There is indeed great beauty in the most ordinary things and it takes the eye of an artist to take the uneventful and reveal its exquisiteness. Joyce made me grasp a show of that ability in the days that I pored through his collection. Whatever he intended while writing Dubliners, whether as a mirror of a conflicted Irish society or as a commentary to the social context borne through those times, it is his style that won me over. The plots were as simplistic as possible and there was no way to harness more meaning from the events of a character’s life rather than to take them at face value and coming to the understanding of just how nuanced and visceral our daily lives can be if only we looked hard enough, paid attention enough.

Dubliners reminded me of what I look for most in a book. It really is less of the plot or even it’s overarching theme and more of the style. Language as an art form has always been my standard in saying if a book has taken me in or not.  The great writer, Vladimir Nabokov is similarly convinced that language can elevate a story into an art form. There is artistic merit in a writer’s style just by itself and I would rather read a book with a weak plot but with a sound use of language than a novel plot with a severely exploited and copied style. 

5. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

Perhaps the other strong contender for favorite in this list is Heart of Darkness. To be fair, it was less a book and more of an experience. An experience of what literature can do when it goes beyond style and narration to get to the bottom of the writer’s innermost motivations for writing the book. I ended Heart of Darkness, perplexed and in much quandary. There are only two possible explanations: First either the book was beyond me and my mediocre mind that try as I might, meaning of any sort would only elude me. Second, it was so condensed with significance that reading it once simply didn’t qualify as reading it at all. By the end of maybe two days, I realized it was the latter. For the lack of any other time, I’m going to try and process its entirety with the sum of my reading it only once.

I confess I looked up a video review off YouTube before getting to the book, mostly because classics have a way of being exhaustively discussed without losing their ability to sustain a reader’s interest. In my case, spoilers don’t do any damage or if there is any, of only negligible consequence since I look for other things other than the stream of events.

According to the video review, the book is an example of darkness as a location. To put context to this description, it would be good to tell a bit of the story. This is about an English man named Marlow who went to Congo to take on greener chances in the trade therein and for which the backdrop is meant to replicate the inhuman conditions of the slave trade. Amidst all this is another man named Kurtz, who was quite illustrious as a prodigious ivory trader and who was steeped in so much mystery. Upon arriving at the Congo, Marlow witnesses the cruel treatment of the ‘slaves’ under the supervision of the Europeans. 

[flauntpage]

NBA Summer Vacation: Emotion of the Oceans

There is motion in the SVW ocean and by that I mean an awful lot of dudes are way out in the wild blue yonder this week. A few did it really well—I mean really well, like an impending humanitarian award is on the way well—and a couple should stick to spending the rest of their summers on the dry side, lest they wanna become completely washed in the annals of these hallowed, a-little-sticky-from-aloe-vera-sun-balm halls.

Marc Gasol

Marc Gasol, who just a week ago was keeping tabs on the organic garden he planted in his yard last summer vacation, was out in a dingy rescuing migrants stranded in the Mediterranean. There is no joke here. Marc Gasol spent the last week volunteering with the NGO Proactiva Open Arms and much of that was spent out in the open water recovering the bodies of migrants and helping to bring survivors safely to land. The NBA is a progressive league, it gets talked about a lot, but it is occasionally without due credit given to the players who make it that way.

Rating: Just Marc Gasol, absolutely doing the most.

JaVale McGee

A nice transition into our regularly scheduled tittering and trash talk on the way player’s choose to spend their offseason is JaVale McGee pretending to pick up his daughter’s play phone and totally tear a new one to the would-be caller on the other end.

Rating: 9021UH OH!

James Harden

What’s UP James Harden in a trashy, regular ass tank top, flipping the hang loose hand while laser strobe lights illuminate your face?! Turns out all it takes to set James Harden free is setting him loose on the shores of Ibiza with Real Madrid Captain Sergio Ramos and frankly it’s dumb of all of us that it took this long to figure out!

You’ll be happy my sleuthing skills have peeled back another layer in this euro-rave onion, specifically why is Harden wearing that top, because from Ramos’s own documenting of this night we can see they are not just at some regular party, they are at a FOAM PARTY.

Rating: The big buildup that lasts for close to three minutes before the beat drops and every whistle is blasting and the foam cannon is pilin’ up the suds around you like so many cloud castles in heaven.

Steph Curry

We cut live to Steph Curry now, jumping fully clothed off the top of a boat. While we are not here to judge all selfless actions this summer vacation we are certainly going to judge this one. He doesn’t have trunks? He’s got to do this in what appears to be like, athletic technology warm up pants that probably shrink wrap to your legs once you hit the water?

Rating: Oh (splash) brother.

Dwyane Wade

Wade is in China, and we can only hope it’s because he’s hot on the heels of the Mr. Hyde of SVW, China Klay. In any case, he’s paused on his hunt for a quick round of golf and I am not a fan nor knowledgeable of that sport but could they not get him a taller club?

Rating: Fore out of five.

Manu Ginóbili

Aside from being in Vancouver, this looks like a nice trip for Main Manu and the entire Ginóbili family. I like to think that he’s getting familiar with the places DeMar DeRozan once set foot in before coming to Toronto for the main event, so he will have some skin in the conversation when Deebo brings up all the things he misses about Canada.

Rating: I’ll let my famous saying about Vancouver speak for itself—“Once you’ve sea-n one wall, you’ve seen ‘em all.”

Giannis Antetokounmpo

Oh my goooosh, look at our little gladiator ROMEin’ around, checking off all the sights and staying, considerately to his GF and the general public, low to the ground. My only hope is that we get a shot of Giannis high-fiving Christ in The Last Judgement, on the ceiling of the ol’ Sistine. He’d only really have to stretch on tip toes to do it.

Rating: Watch out, Eternal City, there’s a new cooler, younger, taller, Pope in town.

Lou Williams

Paris continues to be big and so does standing or sitting on some type of plinth. The supposed 6th man of the year (Fred VanVleet was robbed) has chosen either onyx or ebony, could also be a big Bose speaker just flipped around, to stand on and do the funny gag. Look how happy he is.

Rating: 6th man to attempt this gag on this particular day, maybe.

Boban Marjanović

Here’s Boban in a quarry of some kind, stalking toward the camera with his socks pulled high. Wouldn’t it be incredible if he gets really into BMX culture this year and is constantly almost caught wheelie-ing the white hot sides of the L.A. River? The LAPD are stumped, who is this giant shadow racing away every time on a tiny bike, leaving wet tire tracks all the way back to the Staple Center?

Rating: They’ll find some fancy pegs in Lonzo Ball’s locker, L.A. Boban rides again.

Jaylen Brown

Jaylen Brown is in Bali doing tarps off and fanny pack on, doing the kind of nervous smile one does on vacation when someone has pushed you into something you aren’t quite comfortable with. Out of frame I am imagining a pack of monkeys glaring at him with their beady eyes, rubbing their little paws together over what kind of gear they are going to nab off this guy.

Rating: An up-to-date rabies vaccine and one long look at the warnings, I hope.

Mirza Teletović

Ah yes, exactly the scene the Turkish folk poet Yunus Emre was attempting to set in his 13th century banger "Mirza at the Grand Bazaar."

Rating: Gives a whole new meaning to telenovela am I right?

Willy Hernangómez

Here we got a great, extremely contoured shot of Willy’s back as he soaks up the sun in the ancient port city of Cádiz, Spain.

Rating: How sweaty are you getting just looking at this? The answer is extremely.

Tim Hardaway Jr.

Double feature for THJ! What I wouldn’t give to get this in a slow-mo video but you gotta take your summer refreshers where you can get ‘em, folks. This is the exact yin to Willy’s yang (get your god damn minds out of the gutters) up there.

Rating: How quenched are you getting just looking at this? The answer is extremely.

Taj Gibson

Somebody wants to be this summer’s solo banana boat boy! Taj is floatin’ in the ocean off the coast of Pesaro, which is way up on the back side of the top of Italy’s boot, on what looks to be a rescue device but is maybe just some kind of Euro pool floatie more streamlined than the traditional mattress. In case there was any doubt that he’s fully in the Eat portion of his Eat, Pray, Love offseason, here he is giggling and having some spaghetti,

Rating: He’ll be sad when it’s time to say goodbye to this trip.

Malcolm Delaney

The Hawks guard has scooted a little farther south for a break in Miami where he’s getting some assistance getting on, or else a chauffeured ride on, this jet-ski. No reason to be out here having fun but not being safe.

Rating: As the SVW rhyme goes—“A ski on land, hold a friend’s hand. A ski on the water, let’s not repeat Sean Kingston’s mistakes.”

Sam Dekker

Double Dekker’s just the latest to be captivated this offseason by the Greek Islands, but this dude’s on ‘em for his honeymoon. One thing’s for sure, I’ve never felt less cool than when I realized Sam Dekker and I have the same style of jumping off things into pristine waters, that is, somehow bunched way the hell up in our bodies and plugging our noses like little loser babies. Congratulations, Sam!

Rating: Enjoy all that water up your nose while Sam and I breathe easily from ours!

Matthew Dellavedova

Here we have my and summer’s natural enemy, Matthew Dellavedova, holding onto a hammerhead shark with his eyes squeezed shut, praying for the photo to get taken so he can put it down. You know what, Delly? Why even pick it up in the first place? How would you like it if someone was hanging onto you by the butt and the back and lofting you high above your home? Come to think of it that must be what dunking feels like, but without the debilitating terror because the ball is not a misunderstood creature. Not that you would know what it feels like to do that.

Rating: I won’t.

Cameron Payne

Wherever Payne is—and he looks as confused about it as I am—he should stay there as long as possible, in that exact same shirt, wearing those exact same steampunk shades, squinting off into the exact same middle distance, because lord knows what’s happening to and for the Bulls this season.

Rating: If thou gaze long into an infinity pool, the infinity pool will also gaze into thee.

Marco Belinelli

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but I can’t help picturing Bellinelli fluttering out this big, Turkish beach towel for two in a place called “Fliper & Chiller” on the Balearic Islands as the same welcoming gesture he will make to my eternal guy DeMar DeRozan this season back in San Antonio. Belli I’ve never needed you more.

Rating: Sobbing. But this beach looks nice.

John Wall

Like catching someone mid-sneeze, blowing out birthday candles, or the second they start to hurl going down the last huge hill on a roller coaster, the moment this photo was taken it became Summer Vacation For John Wall.

Rating: Extremely end of July.

NBA Summer Vacation: Emotion of the Oceans published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: Marsden Hartley’s Maine: His Own Private Germany

Marsden Hartley, “Log Jam, Penobscot Bay” (1940–41), oil on hardboard (masonite), 30 1/16 x 40 15/16 inches, Detroit Institute of Arts, Gift of Robert H. Tannahill (all images courtesy the Metropolitan Museum of Art)

Marsden Hartley’s Maine, accompanying an exhibition at the Met Breuer, is as tantalizing for what it omits as for the insights it offers into Hartley’s creative intelligence. Focusing almost exclusively on works made in Maine — early and late land- and seascapes and some figure paintings, with few works from the intervening decades — the show offers a mainline dose of Hartley’s characteristic landscape motifs — most importantly, mountains — and approach to composition.

Whether employing the vibrant “stitched” brushwork of the early paintings or the interlocking, blocky and sinuous forms of the later works, Hartley layers elements to lock in the mass of a mountainside, a logjam pileup, or crashing waves between more or less narrow registers of sky above a rocky shore, lake, or valley below. There is a sense of compression, of barely contained energy, in many of his best works, both landscapes and figures, though he is also able to convey serenity, if only that of a sleeping volcano.

The exhibition most obviously neglects the paintings Hartley made between early 1913 and the end of 1915 while he was visiting and living in Germany. Those works culminate with the remarkable “war motif” paintings done in Berlin, which include the Metropolitan Museum’s masterpiece, “Portrait of a German Officer” (1914), a memorial to Hartley’s beloved friend, possibly lover, Lieutenant Karl von Freyburg, killed in battle in October 1914. These powerful and original syntheses of Synthetic Cubism and Expressionism — enlivened by his encounters with Robert Delaunay, in Paris, and, with the Blaue Reiter group in and around Munich, including Wassily Kandinsky, Gabriele Münter, August Macke, and Franz Marc — founded Hartley’s reputation as a modernist innovator. But they also cast into the shadows Hartley’s notionally more traditional mountain and ocean views, as they dominated assessments of his achievement from shortly after his death, in 1943, until the 1980 Whitney Museum retrospective that reignited interest in his wider career.

Marsden Hartley, “The Wave” (1940-1941), oil on masonite-type hardboard 30 1/4 x 40 7/8 inches, Worcester Art Museum

The exhibition’s publication, Marsden Hartley’s Maine, is effectively an extension of the catalogue accompanying Hartley’s 2003 retrospective at Hartford’s Wadsworth Atheneum, organized by Elizabeth Mankin Kornhauser. Two of the present book’s three principal essayists, art historian Donna M. Cassidy and Met curator Randall R. Griffey, contributed to the Wadsworth catalogue, in which the late Maine landscapes are represented sparsely, though their importance is noted. Kornhauser might have been commissioning the present book when she wrote, “One of the most prolific and successful periods of [Hartley’s] career, his last eight years in Maine, requires focused attention and new thinking. Little concern has been paid to his working methods and materials despite the fact that he is acknowledged to have been a brilliant colorist and an adroit painter.” Besides examining in-depth both the early and late Maine periods, the present book includes a fine essay on materials and techniques, based on careful examination of a dozen works, which shows a surprising continuity in composition and methods across Hartley’s career.

The show feels like a regional museum production, and it is a collaboration between the Met and the art museum at Colby College in Waterville, Maine. But the book also is redolent of regionalism of a different sort, the type that dominated American art in the later 1930s, in response to which Hartley promoted himself, in 1937, as “the painter from Maine.” Visitors to the exhibition are likely to come away with the uncomplicated idea that Hartley was what he advertised himself to be, and the book in part promotes this, opening with a chronology which mentions little about Hartley’s career aside from Maine-related aspects.

Marsden Hartley, “The Silence of High Noon–Midsummer” (ca. 1907–08), oil on canvas, 30 1/2 x 30 1/2 inches, collection of Jan T. and Marica Vilcek, Promised Gift to The Vilcek Foundation

Yet, like its hero, the book is conflicted about the identification of the artist with Maine. Following the chronology, there is an unusual three-author “Introduction” by the book’s main essayists, Cassidy, Griffey, and Colby Museum curator Elizabeth Finch. On the one hand, they buy into Hartley’s late career metamorphosis into a Maine native; on the other — in a more muted voice — they acknowledge the ambition and careerism that prompted Hartley, with a blithe disregard of his own history, to embrace a state where he never established a home, actually or emotionally, after abandoning the place as a young artist. Griffey is most forthcoming in his critical assessment of Hartley. The “reassuring narrative” of the artist fulfilling his destiny by returning to his native Maine woods in the shadow of Mt. Katahdin, Griffey writes, “has served as a frame through which many have interpreted Hartley’s late career as coming full circle” from his early Maine work. “However, a more critical assessment of his public identity as the painter from Maine reveals it to have been a gradual, indirect, even strategic process marked by contradiction and ambivalence as much as by profound connection and spiritual revelation.”

The intertwined issues of “authentic” American culture, homosexuality, and primitivism play out spectacularly during Hartley’s halcyon years in Berlin and they return in the 1930s. Besides nativism, that era is known for a resurgence of homosexual repression. (Thomas Hart Benton, the leading Regionalist, was notorious for his anti-gay diatribes.) It was a period of tremendous tension in the art world. Hartley’s supporter William Carlos Williams witnessed it and wrote, “two cultural elements were left battling for supremacy, one looking toward Europe, necessitous but retrograde in its tendency — though not wholly so by any means — and the other forward-looking but under a shadow from the first. They constituted two great bands of effort, which it would take a Titan to bring together and weld into one again.”

Marsden Hartley, “Madawaska—Acadian Light-Heavy” (1940), oil on hardboard (masonite), 40 x 30 inches, the Art Institute of Chicago. Bequest of A. James Speyer, 1987.249

Champion of “the American grain,” Williams means “forward-looking” toward America, but the footloose, cosmopolitan, homosexual Hartley had to be a Janus, looking both ways, and he needed to assume multiple masks to fit the role of the hardy, hyper-masculine Maine painter. Setting aside careerist calculation, Hartley did also subscribe to some degree (as did Williams and their friend Ezra Pound) to the racist and populist impulses behind the Regionalism.

Hartley was enthralled by Germany when he first visited — Berlin was then famous for its liberal attitude toward homosexuality, which was widespread in the military and the court of pageantry-loving Kaiser Wilhelm, who is thought to have been bisexual. Hartley wrote his financial backer and dealer, Alfred Stieglitz, that he “lived rather gayly in the Berlin fashion — with all that implies.” Germany felt like home — perhaps the only place in his adult life that could make that claim. In 1933, while staying in Bavaria, he wrote an autobiography, unpublished until 1996, in which he stated, “A week in Berlin made me feel that one had come home — and it is easy to see what four years of constant living there has done. I always feel I am coming home when I get into Germany, quite as I used to feel when I crossed the line of the State of Maine at South Berwick — I always knew I was in New England.”

Hartley was smitten from the first. Accordingly, this critically acute artist could be willfully blind to the political implications of situations he encountered, for example, German militarism. “Of course the military system is accountable for many things,” he wrote in a letter to Rockwell Kent, “and to some this military element is objectionable—but it stimulates my child’s love for the public spectacle — and such wonderful specimens of health these men are — thousands all so blond and radiant.”

In the 1920s Hartley spent considerable time in Europe; in the 1933 text he recalls a 1922 visit to Florence. “But I knew nothing of Fascismo then — and little about it now — save that being in Germany or Bavaria at the moment and seeming somehow to look like a native — is it my fine green plush hat — I bought in Paris in 1913 — and never found a real place to wear it until this year? Or is it my mountain cape, or is it both? But I get the N.S.D.A.P. salute” — the Hitler salute —“very often and never know quite what to do — because in quite the same way I never can cross myself in a Catholic Church and I frequently go in them — especially in Europe.” Art historian Gail Levin, in the catalogue for a show of Hartley’s Bavarian work, reports that at one point, the artist had the idea of asking a Nazi friend to introduce him to Hitler, who, according to Hartley, was “from all accounts” a “nice person, and, of course having wanted to be an artist, he likes artists.”

Marsden Hartley, “City Point, Vinalhaven” (1937–38), oil on commercially prepared paperboard (academy board), 18 1/4 x 24 3/8 inches, Colby College Museum of Art, Waterville, Gift of the Alex Katz Foundation, 2008.214

Hartley’s strange combination of ambition, vanity, erotic attraction, and childlike naiveté underlies his response to Dürer’s famous self-portrait at the age of 28, painted in 1500, which Hartley saw in 1933, descending from the mountains to visit Munich’s Alte Pinakothek. He said of Dürer that he seemed “to have all that the eye can have, he saw things exactly as they were, he knew how to convey that impression. … I would like to make a painting of a mountain and have it have all that this portrait has ….”

His comments on the Dürer suggest that he understood the late landscapes to be conceptual self-portraits, with landscape elements standing in for personal qualities, just as the insignia, banners, helmet, and initials of the painting “Portrait of a German Officer” stand in for his lost lover. But he took the idea of symbolic portraits (a concept he shared with the circle of artists he knew in the teens, including Marcel Duchamp, Francis Picabia, and Charles Demuth) and naturalized it, rooting the symbolic portrait in his own memory and experience, not in publicly shared motifs.

Like his regionalist sentiments, the bold primitivism of Hartley’s work is largely a construction. In his first German period, he was already signifying “nativeness” in an embarrassingly flatfooted way, drawing on clichéd American Indian motifs for his odd Amerika series, painted in Berlin at a time when he had never encountered Native Americans. In later work he graduates to styles signifying primitiveness and authenticity, assimilated from artists as different as the untutored John Kane, Georges Rouault, and perhaps Max Beckmann. But as in his German masterpieces, he always had a powerful ability to synthesize style, technique, politics, and desire, subordinating them to a unique vision, his own private Maine. Or Germany.

Marsden Hartley’s Maine continues at the Met Breuer (945 Madison Avenue, Upper East Side, Manhattan) through June 18.

The exhibition’s catalogue is published by the Metropolitan Museum of Art and is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

The post Marsden Hartley’s Maine: His Own Private Germany appeared first on Hyperallergic.

from Hyperallergic http://ift.tt/2ozvPjs via IFTTT