Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Blogger, you're now an archive
For now, at least, I'll be maintaining this blog as an archive, because transferring picture files from one blog program to another turns out to be a hard job. I'll keep checking the archive, too, and trying to repair whatever damage Blogger inflicts in the way of lost formatting. But (for now, at least) all future posts to The Art Part will appear in WordPress at
http://theartpart.jonathanmorse.net/
http://theartpart.jonathanmorse.net/
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Toward a future archaeology
1
"There is little here on family structure or inheritance, but much on sick, sad, short lives. Fleming reveals a society of slow-growing, late-maturing, undernourished people who did not reach full height until well into their twenties, and thus where the numerical dominance of the young placed an even greater burden on the -- few -- full-bodied adults; where one attraction of nucleated villages might be the lord's mill, which met the needs of a society short of adult, full-bodied women; where the seaborne Viking lifestyle did not mean bloodthirsty excitement, but 'bad knees, arthritic shoulders, malformed arms and wrenched wrists'; where an eighth-century twenty-year-old woman died, well fed if not prosperous, horribly disfigured by leprosy, yet not, apparently, ostracized by her community. The town life that drives the book's overall story was an unhealthy, bug- and germ-infested environment, and the much-vaunted rise of the Old English state was supported by ritualized, horrific executions. The coin that enabled taxation, and the aggressive landlords who exploited the opportunities it provided, drove a society of ever deeper inequalities; the only time the stature of the population improved between 400 and 1070 was in the wake of the collapse of Roman power."
-- Pauline Stafford, "Good Teeth, Bad Knees." Review of Britain After Rome: The Fall and Rise, 400 to 1070, by Robin Fleming. TLS 25 March 2011: 13.
2
"At this time, Alabama has the lowest property taxes of any state in the nation. There was a recent increase that raised howls from large landowners, but the rates are still low. Property taxes could be elevated by one-third, and Alabama would remain at the bottom in the nation. Low property taxes translate into meager allocations for schools. The state is just beginning to recognize what this means. An editorial in the Montgomery newspaper told about a man from the state economic-development department who went to Cleveland to talk with a large industrial firm about relocating in Alabama. The official trotted out the glories of cheap labor and low taxes, lures that worked well in the not-so-distant past. The industrialists told the Alabamian that what they looked at most in areas they might move to was the educational system. In today's world, they need educated workers, not muscles. The old days are gone. If they just want low-cost labor, they can go to places overseas that even Alabama can't compete with. Company officials expressed disbelief at Alabama's taxes -- they even snickered. They asked how the schools could be funded with such ridiculous rates."
--Dale Maharidge and Michael Williamson, And Their Children After Them: The Legacy of "Let Us Now Praise Famous Men": James Agee, Walker Evans, and the Rise and Fall of Cotton in the South (1989; New York: Seven Stories Press, 2004) 150-51.
3
Maharidge and Williamson's "at this time" is 1986, when the writer and the photographer retraced the path that James Agee and Walker Evans had taken through rural Alabama fifty years earlier. Fleming and Stafford's time is more than a thousand years ago. Yet which epoch seems more like ours now -- Maharidge's and Williamson's era of school-centered equality or Fleming and Stafford's era of inequality and decline?
4
And a thousand years from now, what will the archaeologists learn from our own excavated bodies?
Friday, April 1, 2011
War wardrobes
Visualize these words crawling up the screen while percussion and low strings fill the darkened room with martial sound.
The words' author is Eliot Weinberger, and their place on the page is a preface (p. xiv) to George Oppen's New Collected Poems (New York: New Directions, 2008). They sound solemn. They aim to find a place in the history of his country and his language for a poet who is only now, years after his death, beginning to be recognized.
But they refuse to enter into an honest reading. They meet a reader's elementary objections by squirming away into technicalities. It's both true and well known, for instance, that Kurt Vonnegut and J. D. Salinger were emotionally scarred for life by their experience as infantrymen in World War II, but neither Vonnegut nor Salinger was a poet.
It's true too that the poets John Ciardi, James Dickey, and Howard Nemerov flew combat missions and the poet Frank O'Hara served on a destroyer that earned sixteen battle stars, but that wasn't ground combat.
However, the poets Kenneth Koch, Anthony Hecht, and Louis Simpson did participate in ground combat, and wrote about it. Simpson was wounded twice. In World War I, the poet-infantrymen Joyce Kilmer and Alan Seeger were killed. After a century, do they endure? Perhaps they do, at least as quoted lines that have made it into folk anonymity: Kilmer's "I think that I shall never see / A poem lovely as a tree"; Seeger's "I have a rendezvous with death / At midnight in some flaming town."
Yet the verse by Oppen that follows Weinberger's evasive prose is as honestly rigorous in its demand on the mind as an accurately perceived shape is in its demand on the eye. It's as scrupulously opposite as it's possible to be from Weinberger's decorative fabulation because it serves a different purpose. If it were modeled on body as it's modeled on language, we'd say it wears its clothes differently. Look:
Oppen . . . had fought and had been seriously wounded as an infantryman in World War II, perhaps the only enduring American poet to participate in ground combat since the Civil War.
The words' author is Eliot Weinberger, and their place on the page is a preface (p. xiv) to George Oppen's New Collected Poems (New York: New Directions, 2008). They sound solemn. They aim to find a place in the history of his country and his language for a poet who is only now, years after his death, beginning to be recognized.
But they refuse to enter into an honest reading. They meet a reader's elementary objections by squirming away into technicalities. It's both true and well known, for instance, that Kurt Vonnegut and J. D. Salinger were emotionally scarred for life by their experience as infantrymen in World War II, but neither Vonnegut nor Salinger was a poet.
It's true too that the poets John Ciardi, James Dickey, and Howard Nemerov flew combat missions and the poet Frank O'Hara served on a destroyer that earned sixteen battle stars, but that wasn't ground combat.
However, the poets Kenneth Koch, Anthony Hecht, and Louis Simpson did participate in ground combat, and wrote about it. Simpson was wounded twice. In World War I, the poet-infantrymen Joyce Kilmer and Alan Seeger were killed. After a century, do they endure? Perhaps they do, at least as quoted lines that have made it into folk anonymity: Kilmer's "I think that I shall never see / A poem lovely as a tree"; Seeger's "I have a rendezvous with death / At midnight in some flaming town."
Yet the verse by Oppen that follows Weinberger's evasive prose is as honestly rigorous in its demand on the mind as an accurately perceived shape is in its demand on the eye. It's as scrupulously opposite as it's possible to be from Weinberger's decorative fabulation because it serves a different purpose. If it were modeled on body as it's modeled on language, we'd say it wears its clothes differently. Look:
Great Photographs from Daguerre to the
Great Depression (Mineola, NY: Dover, 2008),
image 033. Click to enlarge.
Taken just days after the surrender at Appomattox, this photograph by Mathew Brady shows General Robert E. Lee with his son General Custis Lee (left), aide-de-camp to President Davis, and his own aide-de-camp, Lieutanant Colonel Walter Taylor. From its periphery inward, this is a picture of defeat. Colonel Taylor's uniform seems to have been borrowed from somebody else, or perhaps inherited from the dead or found in a nearly empty supply depot. In any case, it is several unsoldierly sizes too large. And perhaps the photographer asked the two aides to move in close and flank the seated figure, but it still seems strange that Custis Lee is almost standing on his father's tiny foot, and his father doesn't seem to notice.
In this image, does Robert E. Lee see anything?
In this image, does Robert E. Lee see anything?
His gaze seems shuttered, closed down. But in "The Lighthouses" (New Collected Poems 256-57) George Oppen saw the way Mathew Brady's lens did:
Such words clothe an armature of clarity purified to the brink of invisibility.
Whereas Weinberger's words are brightly colored, and their color serves a double purpose of textual decoration and extratextual function, like this.
Oppen wrote
("The Students Gather," 296-97)
but Marianne's gesture motivates us toward death, every time it's repeated. It worked for Delacroix and now it works for the propaganda artist Georges Scott. Pour le drapeau, undrape! And the more wordy drapery you had on to begin with, the better. We don't even need to see; all we have to do is wordlessly imagine how it would feel to attain that patriotic nipple.
By cutting it back as far as he could, Oppen reduced the integument of verbality to the minimum amount needed to make sense impression consciously perceptible. It is, literally, the bare minimum. But Weinberger's descending crinoline cries to us, "I cover outlines, but see how moral that makes me. I'm about to kill you. Souscrivez!"
clarity plain glass ray
of darkness ray of light
Such words clothe an armature of clarity purified to the brink of invisibility.
Whereas Weinberger's words are brightly colored, and their color serves a double purpose of textual decoration and extratextual function, like this.
The First World War in Posters, ed. Joseph Darracott
(New York: Dover, 1974), image 42.
Oppen wrote
We are able to liveOnly because some things have been said
Not repeated
Said
("The Students Gather," 296-97)
but Marianne's gesture motivates us toward death, every time it's repeated. It worked for Delacroix and now it works for the propaganda artist Georges Scott. Pour le drapeau, undrape! And the more wordy drapery you had on to begin with, the better. We don't even need to see; all we have to do is wordlessly imagine how it would feel to attain that patriotic nipple.
By cutting it back as far as he could, Oppen reduced the integument of verbality to the minimum amount needed to make sense impression consciously perceptible. It is, literally, the bare minimum. But Weinberger's descending crinoline cries to us, "I cover outlines, but see how moral that makes me. I'm about to kill you. Souscrivez!"
*
Acknowledgment and technical note:
This post owes much of its information to the biographical appendix in Harvey Shapiro's anthology Poets of World War II (New York: Library of America, 2003), with its frontispiece photograph of radio gunner Shapiro beside his B-17.
As reproduced in The First World War in Posters, Scott's "Pour le drapeau" is brown and faded. Above, I've tried to restore it with Photoshop to something like its 1917 state. The reproduction in the book looks like this.
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