Leave it to my dear friend Terry to provide a germ for rumination: "I have reflected more than once on the unnecessary use of the modifier 'personal' as in 'personal opinion.' Aren't all opinions personal? Same for personal experience; do we have impersonal experiences?"
I love the idea of impersonal experience. It's potentially so au courant, what with "virtual" reality, internet social networking, avatar gaming, and such.
If the experience is impersonal, are we really responsible for its consequences? Impersonal experience could operate on many levels, from burying your head in a PDA rather than engaging with the people around you -- to texting while driving -- to oblivion to the incontrovertible reality of climate change while cruising the highway in an SUV to the mall or in a half ton pick-up to the office. Wall Street's into the con and Main Street's in over its neck in credit. Living at such extremes of distraction and disengagement we cease to participate in the common weal as responsible citizens.
In 1985 Neil Postman bemoaned the decline of critical thinking in Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Television, arguing that goal-oriented thinking through creative ideas is destroyed by the commodification of news, politics and religion, as mediated through television. Hence the demise of rational argument.
Americans have pretty much universally come to be identified as consumers, not citizens, hardly even as people. (The colleges where I work just changed the title of a Biology course from "Nutrition for Today" to "Consumer Nutrition.")
Four years after Postman, Ian Mitroff and Warren Bennis published The Unreality Industry: The Deliberate Manufacturing of Falsehood and What It Is Doing to Our Lives. Their prognosis was even bleaker than Postman's.
By contrast with the technological/entertainment barrage of today, someone way back in the '80s should have warned these guys, "You ain't seen NOTHIN' yet!" The fear-mongering of Glenn Beck and his ilk is designed to appeal to the Tea Party mentality: The medium effectively provides an illusion of "personal" opinion when Tea Partiers are really just regurgitating the bile they've been riled up with through "impersonal" pixilated experiences.
The irony is that a great deal of the appeal of the Tea Party phenomenon lies in people's desire to engage with each other one on one as real flesh and blood individuals. This desire is among the fundamental appeals of religious community -- and also of initiation into the gang, the bowling league, the sorority, the neighborhood bar, the twelve-step program, the Nazi Youth (see Leni Riefenstahl's The Triumph of the Will). Though technological innovation moves us into a more and more impersonal world of isolation, still our quest for genuine human interaction manifests itself for good and for ill.
March 26, 2010
November 28, 2009
Learning to Read with Mrs. Stanley and Francis Holbrook
When I was growing up, in Ardmore, Oklahoma, I felt rather alone in the world, as I'm sure many, perhaps most, children do. I attended a kindergarten in the home of a young Englishwoman who had come to the U.S. as a refugee from WWII, perhaps because she had married a Yank. I'm not sure. When I turned five, she told my parents that I should be in school, but at five, one could not attend public school in Oklahoma, as was probably the case in the 1950s most everywhere in the U.S.
In Ardmore, OK, however, there was a little old lady named Mrs. Stanley. Mrs. Stanley had an established first grade that a friend of my mother's, Carol Saylor, knew of and encouraged my parents to send me to along with her daughter, Sally.
Mrs. Stanley's school was in her bungalow house, classic Arts and Crafts (an architectural designation I would not know until almost twenty years later), the front living room of which had been transformed into a classroom. Mrs. Stanley sat in a rocking chair on raised wooden planks resembling a dais, with a large blackboard above her. She had a long wooden pointer that she used to address the blackboard, and we sat at wooden desks that lifted up for book and paper storage and retained their inkwells from an earlier era.
If one of the children brought Mrs. Stanley an apple, something that little kids still did in the 1950s, she would cut the apple into thin slices for the class to share. To this day, I don't like biting into an apple. I like the apple cut into thin slices.
We children were instructed in spelling bees, standing in line, calling out our answers thus:
ELEPHANT
E
E-L
E-L-E
E-L-E-P-H-A-N-T
ELEPHANT
We also learned to do addition and subtraction.
Most significant to me was the only book that our parents were required to purchase for us. It was a tiny little volume, yet one that transformed my life forever.
The book is a primer -- what a wonderfully old-fashioned word -- of Longfellow's extended poem The Song of Hiawatha.
The book is one of many developed by the educator and early feminist Florence Holbrook.
In Mrs. Stanley's bungalow I memorized:
By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis.
Dark behind it rose the forest,
Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees,
Rose the firs with cones upon them;
Bright before it beat the water,
Beat the clear and sunny water,
Beat the Big-Sea-Water.
The illustration that accompanies these lines and the illustrations that grace the rest of the poem are exquisite. They are full-color plates and, like Longfellow's poem, romantic in their conception, realized just as Edward S. Curtis was exhibiting the first images of his prodigious photographic project. How could Longfellow's rhythmic, idealized fiction not capture the imagination of a five-year-old.
Florence Holbrook, educator and feminist, was also a peace activist. A member of the Chicago Political Equality League and the Chicago Peace Society, she attended The Hague Peace Conference in July 1915 as a delegate to the Women's Congress for Peace and Freedom. She is pictured here, #10. The earliest reference I have found for the peace initiative is to the publication The Advocate for Peace in 1913.
After the tutelage of the seminal figures of Mrs. Stanley and Florence Holbrook combined, I went to public school for second grade -- and shut down. There I was supposed to read "Run, Tip, run." (My Dick and Jane had Tip, not Spot.) The quick fix of the day was the deadening film strip. (Do readers of a certain age remember these?) How could this compete with the exoticism of Hiawatha? My second grade report cards descended to D's.
My parents always insisted that having sent me to Mrs. Stanley's was the greatest mistake they ever made. I have always contended that it was the most blessed turn of events that could ever have befallen me.
Other books created by Florence Holbrook:
The Book of Nature Myths
Cave, Mound and Lake Dwellers (and Other Primitive People)
Dramatic Reader for Lower Grades
Elementary Geography
Every-Day Speller
From Many Lands: A Third Reader
Northland Heroes
Poetry for Schools
'Round the Year in Myth and Song
Why the Crocodile Has a Wide Mouth and Other Nature Myths
In Ardmore, OK, however, there was a little old lady named Mrs. Stanley. Mrs. Stanley had an established first grade that a friend of my mother's, Carol Saylor, knew of and encouraged my parents to send me to along with her daughter, Sally.
Mrs. Stanley's school was in her bungalow house, classic Arts and Crafts (an architectural designation I would not know until almost twenty years later), the front living room of which had been transformed into a classroom. Mrs. Stanley sat in a rocking chair on raised wooden planks resembling a dais, with a large blackboard above her. She had a long wooden pointer that she used to address the blackboard, and we sat at wooden desks that lifted up for book and paper storage and retained their inkwells from an earlier era.
If one of the children brought Mrs. Stanley an apple, something that little kids still did in the 1950s, she would cut the apple into thin slices for the class to share. To this day, I don't like biting into an apple. I like the apple cut into thin slices.
We children were instructed in spelling bees, standing in line, calling out our answers thus:
ELEPHANT
E
E-L
E-L-E
E-L-E-P-H-A-N-T
ELEPHANT
We also learned to do addition and subtraction.
Most significant to me was the only book that our parents were required to purchase for us. It was a tiny little volume, yet one that transformed my life forever.
The book is a primer -- what a wonderfully old-fashioned word -- of Longfellow's extended poem The Song of Hiawatha.
The book is one of many developed by the educator and early feminist Florence Holbrook.
In Mrs. Stanley's bungalow I memorized:
By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis.
Dark behind it rose the forest,
Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees,
Rose the firs with cones upon them;
Bright before it beat the water,
Beat the clear and sunny water,
Beat the Big-Sea-Water.
The illustration that accompanies these lines and the illustrations that grace the rest of the poem are exquisite. They are full-color plates and, like Longfellow's poem, romantic in their conception, realized just as Edward S. Curtis was exhibiting the first images of his prodigious photographic project. How could Longfellow's rhythmic, idealized fiction not capture the imagination of a five-year-old.
Florence Holbrook, educator and feminist, was also a peace activist. A member of the Chicago Political Equality League and the Chicago Peace Society, she attended The Hague Peace Conference in July 1915 as a delegate to the Women's Congress for Peace and Freedom. She is pictured here, #10. The earliest reference I have found for the peace initiative is to the publication The Advocate for Peace in 1913.
After the tutelage of the seminal figures of Mrs. Stanley and Florence Holbrook combined, I went to public school for second grade -- and shut down. There I was supposed to read "Run, Tip, run." (My Dick and Jane had Tip, not Spot.) The quick fix of the day was the deadening film strip. (Do readers of a certain age remember these?) How could this compete with the exoticism of Hiawatha? My second grade report cards descended to D's.
My parents always insisted that having sent me to Mrs. Stanley's was the greatest mistake they ever made. I have always contended that it was the most blessed turn of events that could ever have befallen me.
Other books created by Florence Holbrook:
The Book of Nature Myths
Cave, Mound and Lake Dwellers (and Other Primitive People)
Dramatic Reader for Lower Grades
Elementary Geography
Every-Day Speller
From Many Lands: A Third Reader
Northland Heroes
Poetry for Schools
'Round the Year in Myth and Song
Why the Crocodile Has a Wide Mouth and Other Nature Myths
November 25, 2009
The Tyranny of Turkey
I have eaten the most wonderful wild turkey, but most of my Thanksgivings have been meals of generic, grocery store birds. I just do not like it. It's somewhat okay for leftovers but even then it's rather bland.
I have known people who have turned Thanksgiving on its ear. A friend in graduate school traditionally did corned beef and cabbage; my ex-mother-in-law always did a rare leg of lamb; I am partial to an alternative fowl -- Cornish game hens stuffed with onions, garlic, celery and whatever else. What's the fixation on turkey?
I have, however, established one incontrovertible tradition: cranberry sauce. I grew up with the jellied stuff in the can, which when expelled from its can by opening both ends with a can opener, retains the indentations of said can. As an adult I discovered fresh cranberries and have been in love with them, riffing on the theme ever since.
This year's cranberry sauce is more or less:
Ginger Cranberry Sauce
One bag of fresh cranberries, rinsed.
Boil the cranberries at medium heat in about a cup of unsweetened cranberry juice until they start to pop. (Water will do, but the cranberry juice is a concept I just discovered this year perusing recipes. This deserves a Duh!!)
While the cranberries are still warm add in the zest and the juice of one naval orange, a small handful of dried cranberries so that they will plump, a good tablespoon or more of fresh, coarsely chopped ginger, about a third cup of honey, and a grating of fresh nutmeg. (I wonder if rosemary might be a wonderful addition, too? Just thought of that.)
You still need a little more sweetness to balance off the tart. I like to use an orange marmalade, about a third of a 10 ounce jar. This year I found the French St. Daflour ginger and orange marmalade, the least expensive marmalade in the exclusive grocery.
Once the mixture has cooled, add a douse of Cointreau, an orange liqueur, and some crushed walnuts for texture.
The flavor notes:
Voila!!
I have known people who have turned Thanksgiving on its ear. A friend in graduate school traditionally did corned beef and cabbage; my ex-mother-in-law always did a rare leg of lamb; I am partial to an alternative fowl -- Cornish game hens stuffed with onions, garlic, celery and whatever else. What's the fixation on turkey?
I have, however, established one incontrovertible tradition: cranberry sauce. I grew up with the jellied stuff in the can, which when expelled from its can by opening both ends with a can opener, retains the indentations of said can. As an adult I discovered fresh cranberries and have been in love with them, riffing on the theme ever since.
This year's cranberry sauce is more or less:
Ginger Cranberry Sauce
One bag of fresh cranberries, rinsed.
Boil the cranberries at medium heat in about a cup of unsweetened cranberry juice until they start to pop. (Water will do, but the cranberry juice is a concept I just discovered this year perusing recipes. This deserves a Duh!!)
While the cranberries are still warm add in the zest and the juice of one naval orange, a small handful of dried cranberries so that they will plump, a good tablespoon or more of fresh, coarsely chopped ginger, about a third cup of honey, and a grating of fresh nutmeg. (I wonder if rosemary might be a wonderful addition, too? Just thought of that.)
You still need a little more sweetness to balance off the tart. I like to use an orange marmalade, about a third of a 10 ounce jar. This year I found the French St. Daflour ginger and orange marmalade, the least expensive marmalade in the exclusive grocery.
Once the mixture has cooled, add a douse of Cointreau, an orange liqueur, and some crushed walnuts for texture.
The flavor notes:
- cranberry
- orange
- ginger
- with a hint of nutmeg and the crunch of walnuts
Voila!!
November 24, 2009
Table Manners
It gives me some satisfaction that I am not alone in my inability to ignore (certainly not avoid) the incivility of the public world, yet I am saddened by its ubiquity.
Stanley Fish asked readers to add to his list of irritating utterances, some of which he rightly calls "programmatic lying," in his November 16 NYT Opinionator online commentary "Can I Put You on Hold?" The column elicited an outpouring of responses, one subset of which were complaints about the chummy wait staff who have been instructed to introduce themselves at the beginning and intrude throughout the meal.
I was struck, however, that these were among the few posts that received criticism instead of commiseration. Those who were put off by "Hi, my name is Chuck; I'll be your waiter" and "Is everything all right?" were admonished for being overly sensitive at best and downright misanthropic at worst. In defense of the malcontents I would add another question I find annoying. I have an empty glass; the waiter stands over me with a pitcher and asks, "Would you like more water?"
There is often more to the problem than mere chattiness. The questions are (it seems inevitably) asked just as I've put a forkful of food into my mouth. Glasses are set down anywhere on the table instead of to the upper right of the place setting and are set with the hand directed downward, fingers grasping the rim. There's the even more intrusive behaviour of squatting to be at armpit level with the table to jot down the order. On more than one occasion I've had someone come along with a broom and dustpan to sweep the floor under the table where I am dining. At the end of the experience, I'm asked: "How was everything?"
I have learned to dare not respond to this question. In point of fact I am not being asked to respond unless it is in the affirmative, making the query redundant in the first place. Should I mention a single problem with food or service I am met with excuses, justifications, rationalizations that exonerate the restaurant and everyone associated with it while making me the offending presence.
People used to employ non-verbal cues to communicate with wait staff -- and the wait staff used to be trained to read those cues so as to avoid asking unnecessary questions. As long as I am perusing the menu, I am not ready to order. Once I have closed the menu and laid it on the table, I am ready; there is no need to ask, "Do you need more time to look at the menu?" or "Are you ready to order?"
I am finished eating when my knife and fork are inverted side by side on my plate (not while the food-filled fork is traveling to my mouth -- even if it is my last bite), though I would feel more comfortable if my plate were not removed before my companion also finishes eating.
OK, so I'm a snob, but attention to these little actions used to be called "simple good manners." There are some rather obscure rules of etiquette that we need not cling to, and some downright silly ones: Who came up with the idea that one must leave some food on one's plate? But that does not negate the adage: Etiquette tells one which fork to use. Manners tell one what to do when one's neighbor doesn't.
People behave as if manners are a burdensome elitist relic, as if by discarding them we have liberated ourselves. Manners have evolved because they make life easier. Life is hard enough as it is. Why not alleviate some wee bit of the awkwardness of social interaction through the simple thoughtfulness of manners?
PS A lovely little movie was released earlier this year called The Invention of Lying, co-written by Ricky Gervais, who also stars. (Gervais conceived the premise for The Office and its offshoots.) The film could as easily been called The Invention of Manners, for both manners and white lies are vehicles of kindness with which we treat others.
Peter Ustinov once wrote, “Love is an act of endless forgiveness, a tender look which becomes a habit.”
Stanley Fish asked readers to add to his list of irritating utterances, some of which he rightly calls "programmatic lying," in his November 16 NYT Opinionator online commentary "Can I Put You on Hold?" The column elicited an outpouring of responses, one subset of which were complaints about the chummy wait staff who have been instructed to introduce themselves at the beginning and intrude throughout the meal.
I was struck, however, that these were among the few posts that received criticism instead of commiseration. Those who were put off by "Hi, my name is Chuck; I'll be your waiter" and "Is everything all right?" were admonished for being overly sensitive at best and downright misanthropic at worst. In defense of the malcontents I would add another question I find annoying. I have an empty glass; the waiter stands over me with a pitcher and asks, "Would you like more water?"
There is often more to the problem than mere chattiness. The questions are (it seems inevitably) asked just as I've put a forkful of food into my mouth. Glasses are set down anywhere on the table instead of to the upper right of the place setting and are set with the hand directed downward, fingers grasping the rim. There's the even more intrusive behaviour of squatting to be at armpit level with the table to jot down the order. On more than one occasion I've had someone come along with a broom and dustpan to sweep the floor under the table where I am dining. At the end of the experience, I'm asked: "How was everything?"
I have learned to dare not respond to this question. In point of fact I am not being asked to respond unless it is in the affirmative, making the query redundant in the first place. Should I mention a single problem with food or service I am met with excuses, justifications, rationalizations that exonerate the restaurant and everyone associated with it while making me the offending presence.
People used to employ non-verbal cues to communicate with wait staff -- and the wait staff used to be trained to read those cues so as to avoid asking unnecessary questions. As long as I am perusing the menu, I am not ready to order. Once I have closed the menu and laid it on the table, I am ready; there is no need to ask, "Do you need more time to look at the menu?" or "Are you ready to order?"
I am finished eating when my knife and fork are inverted side by side on my plate (not while the food-filled fork is traveling to my mouth -- even if it is my last bite), though I would feel more comfortable if my plate were not removed before my companion also finishes eating.
OK, so I'm a snob, but attention to these little actions used to be called "simple good manners." There are some rather obscure rules of etiquette that we need not cling to, and some downright silly ones: Who came up with the idea that one must leave some food on one's plate? But that does not negate the adage: Etiquette tells one which fork to use. Manners tell one what to do when one's neighbor doesn't.
People behave as if manners are a burdensome elitist relic, as if by discarding them we have liberated ourselves. Manners have evolved because they make life easier. Life is hard enough as it is. Why not alleviate some wee bit of the awkwardness of social interaction through the simple thoughtfulness of manners?
PS A lovely little movie was released earlier this year called The Invention of Lying, co-written by Ricky Gervais, who also stars. (Gervais conceived the premise for The Office and its offshoots.) The film could as easily been called The Invention of Manners, for both manners and white lies are vehicles of kindness with which we treat others.
Peter Ustinov once wrote, “Love is an act of endless forgiveness, a tender look which becomes a habit.”
November 19, 2009
A Blog By Any Other Name
I have never been able to keep a successful journal. I've tried, but I'm just no good at it. I make notes but I wouldn't call that a journal.
A journal is something like pseudo praying. I came to that realization one night when I was about 11 or 12, trying to engage in something I would have called prayer at the time. I suddenly understood that I was simply talking to myself. I wasn't doing what I think would be theologically understood as prayer. It wasn't meditative in a religious way; it was just me talking to myself. That's what a journal is. Talking to oneself.
My medium of communication used to be letter writing, until the advent of email. When email first emerged I would write emails in the same way I would write letters.
An email is supposed to be succinct, not the equivalent of my four page, longhand letters. People would tell me that I shouldn't write long emails. So I continued to write letters that I sent through the mail until typing on a keyboard supplanted my ability to script. Now, I am ashamed to say, unless it is a letter of condolence or a birthday card to a dear friend, I rarely write in longhand. I email.
The blog medium trumps the journal in that it is, in its cyberspace way, personal -- should one wish it to be -- or public -- should one make that choice instead. Or more correctly, not either/or but a combination of the two.
The public aspect of the web log means that, if one has any sense at all, content is consciously censored for the public view, unlike a tell-all private journal. I find that to be a wonderful challenge, for even if no one ever reads a blog, it must be, from my point of view, edited, censored, thoughtfully conceived.
I have used "one" throughout here as a first person singular as opposed to the more commonly used "you." I don't like "you" in English because "you" makes no differentiation between"you" singular and "you" plural. English speakers, depending on their geographic dialect, try to correct for this. In the south, people say "you all" or the elided "y'all." In southwestern Pennsylvania the solution has become "younns" [spoken -- no idea how it should be spelled out].
A journal is something like pseudo praying. I came to that realization one night when I was about 11 or 12, trying to engage in something I would have called prayer at the time. I suddenly understood that I was simply talking to myself. I wasn't doing what I think would be theologically understood as prayer. It wasn't meditative in a religious way; it was just me talking to myself. That's what a journal is. Talking to oneself.
My medium of communication used to be letter writing, until the advent of email. When email first emerged I would write emails in the same way I would write letters.
An email is supposed to be succinct, not the equivalent of my four page, longhand letters. People would tell me that I shouldn't write long emails. So I continued to write letters that I sent through the mail until typing on a keyboard supplanted my ability to script. Now, I am ashamed to say, unless it is a letter of condolence or a birthday card to a dear friend, I rarely write in longhand. I email.
The blog medium trumps the journal in that it is, in its cyberspace way, personal -- should one wish it to be -- or public -- should one make that choice instead. Or more correctly, not either/or but a combination of the two.
The public aspect of the web log means that, if one has any sense at all, content is consciously censored for the public view, unlike a tell-all private journal. I find that to be a wonderful challenge, for even if no one ever reads a blog, it must be, from my point of view, edited, censored, thoughtfully conceived.
I have used "one" throughout here as a first person singular as opposed to the more commonly used "you." I don't like "you" in English because "you" makes no differentiation between"you" singular and "you" plural. English speakers, depending on their geographic dialect, try to correct for this. In the south, people say "you all" or the elided "y'all." In southwestern Pennsylvania the solution has become "younns" [spoken -- no idea how it should be spelled out].
November 13, 2009
Autumn Leaves and the Four Seasons
San Antonio, Texas, has no autumn leaves. There is a city park called Lost Maples some miles out, where people have told me I can crunch through fallen leaves, but one has to drive miles out to do it. My idea of the experience of autumn is that it is simply there as a process of nature, not something I have to drive to witness like a Christmas lights extravaganza.
There is a wonderful song from the 1940s, The Autumn Leaves, originally French. Who knew...
The autumn leaves
Drift by my window
The autumn leaves
Of red and gold.
I see your lips
The summer kisses
The sunburnt hands
I used to hold.
But since I went away
The days grow long
And soon I'll hear
Old winter's song.
But I miss you most of all,
My darling,
When autumn leaves begin to fall.
It is a haunting melody, and even as a child, when I heard it I imagined myself in a New York City apartment with Frank Lloyd Wright-esque corner windows, watching the changing foliage viewed across Central Park.
Raking leaves is a wonderfully exhilarating activity, part of the process of preparing for winter. The part of the cycle that is winter has its place, too. The cold, the snow -- it gives another dimension to the passing of the years.
None of that happens here, making this time of the year, for me at least, entirely bizarre. No transitions. How does one prepare for Thanksgiving with no autumn leaves? How anticipate the Christmas season without a hint of cold or snow?
Until I lived here I had no idea the degree to which my memory is integrally tied into the changing of the seasons. Something magical happened when there were autumn leaves, or when snow was on the ground, or when the snowdrops pushed their blossoms up from under that white blanket, or when the lilacs bloomed or peonies were overrun with ants that would be the catalyst for their flowering.
When did this or that happen in the monotony of this climate. I have no frame of reference. I long for the seasons -- all four of them.
There is a wonderful song from the 1940s, The Autumn Leaves, originally French. Who knew...
The autumn leaves
Drift by my window
The autumn leaves
Of red and gold.
I see your lips
The summer kisses
The sunburnt hands
I used to hold.
But since I went away
The days grow long
And soon I'll hear
Old winter's song.
But I miss you most of all,
My darling,
When autumn leaves begin to fall.
It is a haunting melody, and even as a child, when I heard it I imagined myself in a New York City apartment with Frank Lloyd Wright-esque corner windows, watching the changing foliage viewed across Central Park.
Raking leaves is a wonderfully exhilarating activity, part of the process of preparing for winter. The part of the cycle that is winter has its place, too. The cold, the snow -- it gives another dimension to the passing of the years.
None of that happens here, making this time of the year, for me at least, entirely bizarre. No transitions. How does one prepare for Thanksgiving with no autumn leaves? How anticipate the Christmas season without a hint of cold or snow?
Until I lived here I had no idea the degree to which my memory is integrally tied into the changing of the seasons. Something magical happened when there were autumn leaves, or when snow was on the ground, or when the snowdrops pushed their blossoms up from under that white blanket, or when the lilacs bloomed or peonies were overrun with ants that would be the catalyst for their flowering.
When did this or that happen in the monotony of this climate. I have no frame of reference. I long for the seasons -- all four of them.
November 11, 2009
Hands
When asked what physical attribute I like most about myself, I inevitably reply that I admire my hands.
At this age my hands are somewhat arthritic and not as expressive as they used to be. Yet I still find pleasure in them. I speak as much with my hands as I do with words and always have. And I always watch the hands of others -- especially of artists.
In the mid-seventies I took a photograph of my friend Terry Salzmann's hands hammering to create one of her folded copper bowls. The photograph was the graphic for her MFA graduate exhibition announcement and a print hangs on my wall today. In that photograph is the bowl she made that she gave to me more than a decade later. I love it because it is hers, but also because it is a work of art -- not a bowl one could ever use for anything, but a purely gratuitous expression of the creative imagination.
One of my favorite novels is Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio. I have taught it many times, I am so in love with it.
The first chapter of the 1947 novel, following the introduction "Book of the Grotesques" [for we are all grotesques], is about Wing Biddlebaum. Wing has settled in Winesburg in an attempt to escape the fact that he has been found out, not so much as gay but as "one of those men in whom the force that creates life is diffused, not centralised." A boy has gone "forth to tell his dreams as facts." And that is the undoing of Adolph Myers who becomes known as Wing Biddlebaum in his exile. With little said, Anderson communicates the anxieties of Wing's nervous hands, hands that led to the false accusations that have made him seek asylum and anonymity in Winesburg.
All of the residents of Winesburg have secrets, betrayals and griefs; yet all are saved by the grace of their humanity.
I consider the central chapter of the novel to be "Tandy." It is more about the mysterious stranger who arrives in Winesburg, and stays at Tom Hard's hotel, than it is about Hard's daughter, Tandy.
The stranger says, "I am a lover and have not found my thing to love. That is a big point if you know enough to realize what I mean." The child Tandy is, for him, "the quality of being strong to be loved." He goes on, "Be brave enough to dare to be loved. Be something more than man or woman. Be Tandy." And then he disappears as the mysterious stranger typically does.
For me, Tandy is not the girl per se. Rather she is a concept of self realization. Not in the sense of egoism or narcissism but of the self reliance that comes with a belief in one's self and what that holds for future potential. And that is what the rest of the novel is about, hope for youth to transform the future.
It has always been one of my favorite novels within the canon of American literature -- a novel about the self-made possibilities of the central character Tom Willard who has been nurtured amongst the community of his small town upbringing. They are human in their grotesqueries -- and loving and well-wishing in spite of their human frailties. He wishes to break away into the broader sensibility of an urban adulthood, and in the closing scene of the novel the entire cast of Winesburg sees him off.
Tom is the diametric opposite of Gatsby, who has manufacured his self-image in the quest for his fantasy of Daisy. Greil Marcus has called these grotesques, which he finds personified in American folkloric story and song, the characters of "the old, weird America."
I can only hope that in some backwater, someone like me is still making Winesburg, Ohio required reading in an obscure American literature class.
At this age my hands are somewhat arthritic and not as expressive as they used to be. Yet I still find pleasure in them. I speak as much with my hands as I do with words and always have. And I always watch the hands of others -- especially of artists.
In the mid-seventies I took a photograph of my friend Terry Salzmann's hands hammering to create one of her folded copper bowls. The photograph was the graphic for her MFA graduate exhibition announcement and a print hangs on my wall today. In that photograph is the bowl she made that she gave to me more than a decade later. I love it because it is hers, but also because it is a work of art -- not a bowl one could ever use for anything, but a purely gratuitous expression of the creative imagination.
One of my favorite novels is Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio. I have taught it many times, I am so in love with it.
The first chapter of the 1947 novel, following the introduction "Book of the Grotesques" [for we are all grotesques], is about Wing Biddlebaum. Wing has settled in Winesburg in an attempt to escape the fact that he has been found out, not so much as gay but as "one of those men in whom the force that creates life is diffused, not centralised." A boy has gone "forth to tell his dreams as facts." And that is the undoing of Adolph Myers who becomes known as Wing Biddlebaum in his exile. With little said, Anderson communicates the anxieties of Wing's nervous hands, hands that led to the false accusations that have made him seek asylum and anonymity in Winesburg.
All of the residents of Winesburg have secrets, betrayals and griefs; yet all are saved by the grace of their humanity.
I consider the central chapter of the novel to be "Tandy." It is more about the mysterious stranger who arrives in Winesburg, and stays at Tom Hard's hotel, than it is about Hard's daughter, Tandy.
The stranger says, "I am a lover and have not found my thing to love. That is a big point if you know enough to realize what I mean." The child Tandy is, for him, "the quality of being strong to be loved." He goes on, "Be brave enough to dare to be loved. Be something more than man or woman. Be Tandy." And then he disappears as the mysterious stranger typically does.
For me, Tandy is not the girl per se. Rather she is a concept of self realization. Not in the sense of egoism or narcissism but of the self reliance that comes with a belief in one's self and what that holds for future potential. And that is what the rest of the novel is about, hope for youth to transform the future.
It has always been one of my favorite novels within the canon of American literature -- a novel about the self-made possibilities of the central character Tom Willard who has been nurtured amongst the community of his small town upbringing. They are human in their grotesqueries -- and loving and well-wishing in spite of their human frailties. He wishes to break away into the broader sensibility of an urban adulthood, and in the closing scene of the novel the entire cast of Winesburg sees him off.
Tom is the diametric opposite of Gatsby, who has manufacured his self-image in the quest for his fantasy of Daisy. Greil Marcus has called these grotesques, which he finds personified in American folkloric story and song, the characters of "the old, weird America."
I can only hope that in some backwater, someone like me is still making Winesburg, Ohio required reading in an obscure American literature class.
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