Museum art

Another Day, Another Leap Backwards

The image above is quite the statement, no?

I can’t possibly write a post for every new atrocity I see coming from Washington DC or read about these past six days. I, along with most of the people I know, am overwhelmed. Shocked. Disgusted. Infuriated. Flabbergasted. For a few brief hours between Saturday night and Sunday morning, I had some hope. So many women marching together, across the country, across the globe. And then I learned a new phrase, “alternative facts.” Bye, Hope! Give me a call and we’ll do lunch some time. As far as I can tell, alternative facts are what happen when you take a lie, dress it up, add some lipstick and good hairspray, and then shout it over the actual facts.

We have grown used to instant access to unlimited information. Much of the last year has focused on the negatives of this, because much of the information available is untested and untrue; perhaps a kernel of truth popped through a skewed burst of rancid oil and hot air to morph into a flake that looks deceptively soft, but remains hard and undigestible as it travels through the system. Still, having access to information, facts about what’s happening now and what has happened in the past is, to say the least, a good thing. Access to information like: what are our rights? What is climate change? Why did World War I begin? How did Hitler gain so much power, and how were average citizens convinced to engage in atrocities against other human beings? Why have sales of George Orwell’s 1984 shot up? And of course, how did they get the toothpaste in the tube?

I don’t know about you, but I’m really going to miss facts and information when they’re banned. Oh wait, that’s already begun. Who needs the EPA (Environmental Protection Agency) and the information and health protections it offers to citizens? After all, it was created by that radical progressive, Richard Nixon. It will only slow down the slaughter of human beings sure to begin shortly with the repeal of the ACA and cuts to Medicaid and Medicare. Who needs Public Broadcasting? Our children don’t need access to programming that isn’t beholden to corporate sponsors, shows that teach them about their world. Pfft, that nonsense indoctrinates them with crazy ideas, like truth and facts, justice, equality, and humanity. Science (oh, that dirty word). I mean, if children have access to that shit, when they grow up they might want to keep learning, know more, discuss more, research, compare facts, and (shudder) then offer that information to the public. We’ve been promised fast and furious by our new US administration, and they aren’t hesitating to deliver.

Oh! And just in case you think this is merely early bluster, that no one is really going to limit the information available to us, we’ve been offered this gem. Yes, journalists facing felony charges for doing their jobs. Of all the nauseating and horrific things I’ve seen and heard over the past six days, this has to be the most terrifying. Journalism. Journalists. Those whose job it is to observe and report on the political process, make sure the people in office do not exploit us or democracy. Those whose job it is to make facts available to the public. The fourth estate. It’s true that along with serious and investigative journalism, there’s a long history of yellow journalism. True, newspapers, news shows, etc need to attract readers and viewers and show profits or those journalists will lose their jobs. In this day and age of short attention spans and desires for gilded squirrels, that has to make it incredibly difficult for individual journalists to avoid yellow journalism, and/or opining when what we need are straight facts. Also true, 90% of our media outlets are currently owned by only six corporations, which is inherently dangerous.

And with so much information being thrown at us with updates every ten minutes, it can be easy to blow off what’s important. Not make the connections we as citizens should be making, because we’re waiting for the next guy to tell us what those connections are, what we should snicker at and where we should be paying attention. Scotch tape holding the POTUS tie together? Snicker. C’mon, seems like a no-brainer, that our President, his press secretary and his counselor are talking about inaugural crowd sizes, offering “alternative facts” about them as if this is an issue of major import, is one to snicker at. Except it isn’t. That the POTUS and his staff feel the need to lie about something so small (in every sense of the word) and so easily, clearly proven false is in fact extremely important. It tells us what’s important to this new administration (hint, it isn’t us, the citizens of the US), and tells us how little respect they have for the public. It also tells us what type of relationship they intend to have with the press. Whether we love or hate the press, we need them. We always have, we always will. Without a true, free press, there is no democracy.

With a POTUS and administration that wants to isolate us, keep us from engaging with our traditional international allies and reality, wants to tell us any news they don’t like is fake, wants to feed us bullshit on a bun and tell us it’s good ol’ ‘Merican beef; with the GOP in control of the Senate and the House having a collective, waking wet dream of enabling and encouraging them to step on any dissent and take away our freedoms, our health care, our American dream of safe havens, paths to education and upward mobility, equality; with corporations giddy over the opportunity to make themselves more moneymoremoney without having to worry about pesky regulations, safety, or oversight, the only thing we the people have left are facts. Knowledge. Integrity.

So I’m begging all journalists, please, please keep going. Keep digging, keep investigating, keep informing us. The day after the election, I bought subscriptions to the NY Times and the Washington Post. I’m thinking this may have been the wisest investment I’ve ever made. Toto, we may not be in Kansas anymore, but we won’t be easing down this road. We have all been given a load to carry. None more than journalists.

The Line Keeps Moving

We Need to Talk About Kevin is one of my top ten novels, always comes to mind when someone asks for a recommendation.

This morning, as every morning, after my yoga I sat in front of the laptop and started cruising the news. I don’t read any one paper/site cover to cover; I hop around, the HuffPo, The Guardian, New York Times, Politico, and any links popped up overnight on my Facebook feed that catch my eye. And so I saw the headline for this essay in The Guardian, and got excited. (As excited as I get at pre sunrise, only on my second cup of coffee.) I am a huge fan of Lionel Shriver, as evidenced by the photo above. Over the past few years I’ve gotten rid of the majority of my paper books–surprisingly liberating–but I keep a couple of shelves worth, a selection or two or three showcasing authors I worship or individual volumes that have had a huge impact on me, as a person and/or as someone who writes.

When I read the essay, my first thought was, “oh, fuck.” It’s about the author’s response to part of a speech given by Lionel Shriver, about identity, cultural appropriation, what is or isn’t ok for an author to explore through their fiction. When I love an author’s work, I want to be one hundred percent devoted to them in every way. I want them to be the giants I’ve built them up to become in my mind, I want to have faith as I learn more about them that this is someone I’d enjoy having conversations with over tea, coffee, or a glass of wine. Silly, isn’t it? Especially silly when I’m someone who still harbors occasional fantasies of being published (well published!), and yet here I am running this blog: Mrs Fringe of the colorful language, big mouth, strong opinions, and anything but neutral political leanings. I have no doubt there are many who would not enjoy having coffee with me, maybe even some of the same who enjoy my words when they’re fiction. I’m the first to admit not everyone finds my sense of humor charming. General publishing wisdom–common sense, really–dictates that anyone hoping to earn a dollar from strangers shouldn’t do anything to actively offend anyone.

The thing is, I’m a person, first and foremost. That’s what Mrs Fringe is about, being a person who wears many hats, plays many roles; complete with disappointments, laughter, mourning, screw-ups, nonsense, inappropriate thoughts, offensive-to-some language, a desire to be heard and understood, a desire to learn and understand more, a desire to connect with others. Kinda like, oh, say…fiction. And the authors of said fiction. Yes, it’s imaginary characters and made up scenarios, but good fiction, enduring fiction, the kind of fiction Lionel Shriver writes, is uncompromising, unapologetic. She creates characters who are SO real, doesn’t hesitate to use her characters and scenarios to explore who we are as human beings, as a society, to use the mirror of fiction to examine the beauty, pain, and the ugly bits of what it means to be a whole person. Sure it’s uncomfortable, but it’s also riveting. This is the fiction that endures, because people are people–now, fifty years from now, two hundred years ago.

So I’m a person. So, apparently, is Ms. Shriver. And I read the essay, thinking about the author of the essay, her offense at Lionel Shriver’s remarks referencing how easily, too easily, people are offended now, the idea of political correctness. Her offense at the idea that a novelist can accurately and appropriately portray someone whose experience of life is vastly different than their own, i.e.: a white novelist writing a person of color, straight novelist writing LGBTQ characters, etc. Her interpretation of the novelist’s speech as arrogance–maybe it was, because I only have the author’s paraphrasing before she walked out twenty minutes into it, I don’t have enough information to give an informed opinion.

I want to be offended by her offense. But I’m not. The truth is, she has a point. Could a white male have written Their Eyes were Watching God, given the character of Janie Crawford the same depth, the same enduring honesty created by Zora Neale Hurston? Nope. Could In the Time of Butterflies, by Julia Alvarez, have been written by someone who isn’t Dominican, written in a way that allows the reader to come as close to feeling what it would be like living in the shadow of Trujillo as you feel reading her story of the Mirabel sisters? Nope. If a white author writes a black protagonist, I’m going to be skeptical, I’m going to be wondering about the character being written in a way that is not only not realistic, but wondering about the icky squicky line of that protagonist being written in such a way that it’s lecturing (subtle or not) the reader on how a person of color should be feeling in this imaginary scenario. Will that novelist be able to allow the reader to feel the enduring humanity while preserving the reality of life experiences through they eyes and thoughts of a protagonist who isn’t straight and white?

Lionel Shriver, as far as I could tell from the essay, had a point, too. If we are afraid to examine any but our own narrow viewpoint, so afraid of using the wrong words we stay silent, we will never understand a damned thing, and our worlds will shrink with the novels in front of us, rather than expanding. Female authors have written beautiful, powerful strong male characters and vice versa. What would seventh graders read if Harper Lee hadn’t written To Kill a Mockingbird? What are we teaching these future generations (*cue thinkofthechildren wail*) if they stop reading it because it might be triggering, or offensive to examine our society’s racism–past and present? You know what was amazing to me, about Shriver’s We Need to Talk About Kevin? Reading about her afterwards, and learning she isn’t a parent. My mind was blown. But maybe it shouldn’t have been. Maybe it’s because she isn’t a parent that she was able to take such a hard look at parenthood without turning the mother into a saint or a caricature of a villain (though not necessarily likable).

Would it be the same thing, a white author writing a protagonist who is Black, or Latino, Asian or Indigenous? No, but it also shouldn’t mean limiting characters to only those who experience life the same way the writer does. If it did I’d have to give up even fantasizing about having anything published. I can see it now, the NY Times Best Seller– Mrs Fringe Buys a Slow Cooker.

Cultural appropriation is a real thing, and it’s something we need to be aware of, and sensitive to. Maybe it’s harder for whites to understand because so much of the tradition of white, Christian culture involves the attempt to force it down the throats of everyone else. What the line is, exactly, I’m not sure. At the beginning of this post I referenced yoga. Is it cultural appropriation for me to practice yoga? I’m pretty sure I don’t have that Jane Fonda exercise tape anymore. Or a beta machine to play it on. Nerd Child tells me the Weeping Buddha statuette I have on my desk is cultural appropriation. I don’t know, it makes me feel better to touch it in the early morning, pretend that I really am letting go of any sadness and starting the day with a clean slate.

Mother of God with Child–Kuz’ma Petrov-Vodkin

I saw the above painting recently, wished I could have it hanging in my apartment. I’m far from a religious anything, let alone Russian Orthodox. It’s art, and what makes great art (visual, written, or other) is the creator’s ability to preserve the specific subject while transcending it, offering the reader/observer/listener a world outside of her own while tapping into the common themes we all share.

People don’t change, the human condition has had us exploring the same questions for hundreds of years. Society, though. Society changes. The words and language we use changes. What is acceptable changes. The line of what is or isn’t ok to do and say moves. Sometimes it moves quickly. It behooves all of us to remember this, and if we write, or read, or engage with the world in any way, it behooves us to remember this, like everything else that’s important, involves many shades of gray.

*Follow up: This morning I saw the transcript of Shriver’s full speech in The Guardian. I thought some of my readers might be interested, and as always, invite all to come back and comment here if you read it.

Fundamental

Titian (Tiziano Vecellio) around 1570, “The Flaying of Marsyas”

I was going to do a Part II post of our trip to The Met Breuer, but I’m going to do a bit of navel gazing instead. I’ll use a couple of the photos I took for something else that’s been on my mind. Recently I’ve heard and seen quite a few people referencing the concept of “fundamentally good.” As in, human beings are fundamentally good, love conquers all, good always triumphs over evil, etc. On both small (personal) and large (nations, international) scales. I’m…not so sure of that. Not saying human beings are fundamentally evil, or “bad,” but fundamentally flawed? Maybe. Look at a close up of the face from this painting, close to 500 years old:

Do you recognize it? That stare has been all over the news recently. Here. And it’s been here. Without war, here. No stare, but a story that’s yet to end here. I could go on, find 50 more examples without effort, but you get the point. I know I could just as easily find photos of hope and affirmation, and that’s why I don’t believe we’re fundamentally evil. But flawed? Yes.

As I type, there are about 1300 people, asylum seekers, including 50 children, being held in detention sites off the coast of Australia, in Nauru and Manus Island. Naturally, many horrific photos have recently come out of there. Crimes against humanity. Feeling smug, Americans? Don’t. And a little history.

A few months back, Donald Trump said he could look Syrian children (refugees) in the face and tell them they can’t come here. Because safety. And possibility, and terrorists. I’m certain I’ve read this story before. Oh gee, Trump has no compassion for others but a hyuuuuge sense of otherness. Yawn. Trump, his beliefs, his greed, not the issue. The issue is how many, and how many in positions of power and authority, support him and his ideas. How many voted for him, and will vote for him in November.

Is this current election cycle truly shocking, when we pull our heads out of the sand and look at history, both recent and ancient? Is the photo of 5 year old Omran Daqneesh (the little boy in the first link) truly shocking? Is it shocking to see the headlines about last week’s disastrous flooding in Louisiana are focused on which politicians (and political wannabes) have gone to visit and when, whether or not the displaced are getting first page coverage or third?

It is our human flaws that allow these things to occur. It is our human flaws that make us interesting. It is our human flaws that prompt us to strive for more, for better. But it’s our denial of these fundamental flaws, our insistence on not only closing our eyes but obscuring our vision and differences that keep us stuck, repeating history.

Anton Raphael Mengs, 1775, “Portrait of Mariana de Silva y Sarmiento, Duquesa de Huescar”

Picture This

Exhibition at the Met Breuer

Museum Day, brought to you by Mrs Fringe and Art Child. A great thing about living here in the city is that there’s no pressure when it comes to museums, not a big deal to plan, and no feeling of obligation to see it all in one day. I’ve been intending to get to this exhibit for three months. Now that it ends in a week and a half, I finally made it over there, and want to go again before it’s gone. There is The Met Breuer, a new annex? outpost? of The Met, in the building that used to house the Whitney. Anyway, I loved the idea of this exhibit, unfinished works of art, both intentional and unintentional, and there was a section of works intended to be interactive with the viewer. I’m not sure if this exhibit will be traveling, but if so, go see it!

Yes, for someone who is not a visual artist, I love art, but this whole show spoke to me. Maybe it’s that as both a reader and writer of words, I prefer when stories and characters leave some room for me to think, inject my own imagination. Not in a choose-your-own-adventure sort of way, but in terms of not needing to know every physical detail of characters, not needing (or wanting) every ending to be neatly wrapped in a perfect, glossy ribbon.

Many wonderful quotes scattered throughout, this was one of my favorites.

I, of course, took way too many photos, so even paring down will likely make two posts out of this excursion, so as not to crash everyone’s computers or put my readers into a pixellated stupor. Some of the works gave me a creative charge, exciting, while others had me tearing up.

I loved this idea, and the variety of ways artists captured it.

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I cut off her name, oops. Janine Antoni.

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This next one, on the surface, is the type of painting that might often have me squint and hurry past, because it’s so “in your face” there seems no room to think. But something in this held me for quite a while, really spoke to me, if you want to be frou-frou about it. Actually, my immediate thought was, “oh God, it’s Mrs Fringe!” If, yanno, I was blond, blue eyed, and possessed the ability to pick up a gun.

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Next we came to this series, which is where Art Child wanted to sit and sketch.

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I had no idea why, but honestly, I was ready to sit down and continue thinking about the Lassnig painting. I took a few shorts of the panels, and Art Child asked if I had gotten the face. Again, no clue what she was referring to, it all looked like drips to me, so I handed her the camera.

I’ll be damned. This is why she’s the artist. See the eyes?

While it was very interesting to be able to “see” the process of some of the works and artists, there’s also something…uncomfortably intimate about seeing some of these works in progress, from some of the greatest and most enduring artists. But that is art, no? To make you uncomfortable enough to think and feel.