Sunday, November 13, 2005
Everyone talks about The Unbearable Lightness of Being-- it's one of those novels that's considered a character trait. What I mean is that, if a writer gives his character The Unbearable Lightness as a favorite novel, we're supposed to understand something profound about the character. Anyway, I've finally gotten around to reading it, and I understand the hype. It's beautiful. This symmetrical composition--the same motif appears at the beginning and at the end--may seem "novelistic" to you, and I'm willing to agree, but only on condition that you refrain from reading such notions as "fictive," "fabricated," and "untrue to life" into the word "novelistic." Because human lives are composed in precisely such a fashion.
They are composed like music. Guided by his sense of beauty, an individual transforms a fortuitous occurrence (Beethoven's music, death under a train) into a motif, which then assumes a permanent place in the composition of the individual's life. Anna could have chosen another way to take her life. But the motif of death and the railway station, unforgettably bound to the birth of love, enticed her in her hour of despair with its dark beauty. Without realizing it, the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty even in times of greatest distress.
It is wrong, then, to chide the novel for being fascinated by the mysterious coincidences (like the meeting of Anna, Vronsky, the railway station, and death, or the meeting of Beethoven, Tomas, Tereza, and the cognac), but it is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Today was gorgeous... I took a long walk down around The Mall this afternoon, and it was incredible. I took my parents down there, and they went to the Museum of the American Indian and the Botanical Gardens, while I went to the Hirshhorn.
I love the Hirshhorn. Their "Gyroscope" exhibition of the permanent collection is always changing, and the Fall 2005 presentation recently went up. There was an Ann Hamilton installation piece that is new since the last time I was there; it was pretty amazing. It consisted of a room papered floor to ceiling in probably a thousand little pieces of parchment paper, each covered in writing... snippets of story, little confessonal memoir bits. Each one was attached to the wall by a pushpin at the top, and the paper kind of rustled and fluttered because a fan was set up to blow across the room. The floor was similarly tiled with the pieces, though these were under a layer of beeswax, and couldn't be read. I was just really moved by the whole thing, and spent a significant amount of time in there reading the individual story bits.
I was still thinking about it when I sat down to my computer that night, and so I did a little research about it... the pieces is called Palimpsest. What does that mean? A palimpsest is a manuscript on which an earlier text has been effaced and the vellum or parchment reused for another. It was a common practice, particularly in medieval ecclesiastical circles, to rub out an earlier piece of writing by means of washing or scraping the manuscript, in order to prepare it for a new text. The motive for making palimpsests seems to have been largely economic--reusing parchment was cheaper than preparing new skin. Another motive may have been directed by the desire of Church officials to "convert" pagan Greek script by overlaying it with the word of God.
For poststructuralist literary critics, the palimpsest provides a model for the function of writing. Like Freud's discussion of The Mystic Writing Pad, the palimpsest foregrounds the fact that all writing takes place in the presence of other writings--that it is not people who "speak" language, but language which "speaks" people. Palimpsests subvert the concept of the author as the sole originary source of her work, and thus defer the "meaning" of a work down an endless chain of signification.
That defintion is interesting w/r/t the piece on several levels, but the part about subverting the concept of the author as the sole originator of the work is really apt. We generally think of the artist as the person who "owns" the piece, but in this case, the fact that the building blocks of the installation are the stories of hundreds of other people make it really obvious that the art isn't an isolated creation of one person. At the same time, by conceptualizing and executing the piece, the unattributed stories do in some way belong to the artist... the individual pieces wouldn't have the meaning that they do if they were viewed in isolation. It's as if the author has written her own text over the individual manuscripts, converting the works into a new story. Brilliant!
Knowing this background, I feel like I have to go back and see it again. (Oh-- as an aside, apparently there were also live snails in a jar with some cabbages to eat... I didn't even notice that part, and don't know what to make of it. Maybe on another visit...)
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
In the past 2 days, I've had probably 5 different people forward me Maureen Dowd's Sunday piece from the NYT.
I think she's partly doing the thing that the NYT is wont to do in their social commentary--they see a few instances of something and take it as a broader trend. Did you read the piece she refers to about Ivy League women wanting to be mothers? The reporter interviewed three Yale roommates for that one. I question whether it's really a trend... I talked about it with several friends from college, and we don't think it was at Wellesley. We are certainly concerned about how we're going to balance work and family, but I didn't know many who outright wanted to get married to a rich man and stay home with the kids all day. Maybe Wellesley's not the norm on that one, though.
That said, I think the stuff she says about dating is interesting... she's written a lot in the last year about how men only want passive, unaccomplished women, and she's right that this is a great fear of a lot of my single friends and I.
I was talking to my boss about the article, and she (a very strong, independent woman), assures me that there are a few brave men out there, cause she and her friends are married to some. I guess I haven't been dating the right ones, and I'll have to plod on until find one of these rare creatures.
One paragraph of the essay was scarily spot-on, at least for me, regarding the whole courtship scene. I didn't even realize that I do this until I read it... which I take as some indication that it actually may be a new norm: These days the key to staying cool in the courtship rituals is B.& I., girls say - Busy and Important. "As much as you're waiting for that little envelope to appear on your screen," says Carrie Foster, a 29-year-old publicist in Washington, "you happen to have a lot of stuff to do anyway." If a guy rejects you or turns out to be the essence of evil, you can ratchet up from B.& I. to C.B.B., Can't Be Bothered. In the T.M.I. - Too Much Information - digital age, there can be infinite technological foreplay.
It's not that I'm saying that I'm super-busy when I'm not to play games... I actually *am* busy. But maybe my uber-scheduled nature is a defense mechanism that makes possible rejection easier to handle?
Anyway, I hope it's not as bad as Dowd makes it out to be. Her political commentary always kind of annoys me because she's so hyperbolic, but for once I'm hoping that she's exaggerating to make a point!
As a semi-topical aside, my favorite dating advice is on DC Nites. The goal of the rules is to allow people to do potentially embarrassing things in the least embarrassing way possible. If everyone would just follow them, life could be a lot easier!