Archive for the ‘art’ Category

Bigger than life means dead

August 24th, 2011

I recently participated in a Facebook discussion about the new Martin Luther King, Jr. National Memorial.  The press clipping that sparked the discussion said that critics of the memorial are upset because it depicts King in a sombre, confrontational stance, and because it was done by a sculptor from China.  The reported criticism seems absurd to me.  It is a curious mythology that would recall King as a nonconfrontational figure.  On the other hand, I think MLK might have had some trouble wrapping his mind around the idea of a 30 foot tall statue of himself on a 4 acre plaza. I don’t think he would have much cared what country the perpetrator was from.

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The Tree of Life

July 3rd, 2011

I saw Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life yesterday, and when I left the theatre, around midnight, and crossed the parking lot, the trees and lights and cars looked more sharply focused, with clearer, more saturated colors, brighter highlights, more richly detailed shadows, than they had before, and everywhere I turned my eyes was full of life and motion, even though there was no wind.  It’s a powerful film.

There is no narrative as such, although there are narrative elements, and much of the central third seems roughly chronological.  There’s a man, Jack, who is now a successful businessman in some major city.  He may be an architect.  He’s having some sort of crisis of identity in his profession.  Much of the film focuses on his life as a boy in Waco, Texas, in the nineteen fifties.  The focal point of view in these sections is Jack’s, mostly, but it is unclear whether we are seeing things as they happened or as he now remembers them.  His mother is idealized.  He was a troubled early adolescent.  (Who isn’t?)  His relationship with his father was and remains troubled.  His father’s relationship with himself and with the mother was troubled.  Jack is the eldest of three brothers.  The middle one, the sensitive, musically creative one, died at the age of nineteen, devastating the mother.   The movie doesn’t tell us how or why he died.   The youngest brother was just sort of there, a mere vague presence, so far as Jack was concerned.  At the end of the movie, Jack experiences some sort of reconciliation with his brother’s death and his father’s emotionally brutal masculinity and other issues residual from his childhood.  He looks up at the cold, glassy skyscrapers he inhabits and smiles, a warm, embracing smile.

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Vote for me!

March 10th, 2011

Yeah, you!  I’m talking to you!

I received an email the other day from the Vermont Arts Council inviting me to nominate a candidate for Vermont Poet Laureate, and I thought, who better than me?  For all of you who agree, follow this link to help me throw my hat in the ring.  You can find everything you need to know to fill out the nomination form right here on this web site.

Poetry doesn’t need to be boring or mystifying or trivial.  It can be about more than some feeling or experience or passing fancy or perception the author had.  It doesn’t have to be a word game.  It can do more than advertise how sensitive or perceptive or humane or smart or verbally adept the author is.   It doesn’t have to come in little bite size pieces that you can read while folding toilet paper.

Poetry can engage the world on all the levels that you do.  It can make statements, tell stories about characters doing things, express points of view and arguments and ideas, contain adventure and excitement and jokes that are actually funny.  It can be so big that it takes hours and days and weeks to read.  It can be so vivid that you don’t want to watch a movie instead.

I want to wrest poetry away from the clammy fingers of the Standard MFA Workshop American Lyric that are clenching it by the throat, squeezing the life out of it.  I am sick of reading award winning poems that tell me in twenty lines or so about some tranche de vie.  Why are you telling me this?  Who cares?  Why should I care?  Why should anybody care?    I am sick of being dazzled by verbal brilliance – it hurts and it’s bad for the eyes.  I am sick of poems that dare me to understand them, like an adolescent with something to prove to himself.

Where are the poems that back an eighteen wheeler up to your head, unload, and leave you with completely rearranged furniture and a new set of tenants?  Who is writing them?  I’ll leave it to you to decide if I’m such a poet, but if you agree with me that this is something poetry needs to do and that too few poets are trying to do it, then VOTE FOR ME!

The deadline for nominations is March 25.

We do art because art is what we do

October 12th, 2010

On VPR last week I heard a reporter ask Vermont film maker and arts promoter Jay Craven to explain how the arts can strengthen a community.  I thought the question was a perfect example of our society’s cluelessness about art and its place in human life.  What surprised me was the lameness of Craven’s answer.  Jay Craven is an accomplished artist with interesting and important things to say, but on this occasion he launched into the conventional thoughtless high-minded mooing you get whenever Americans start talking in public about the role of art: art makes you a better person by opening you to different points of view and making you more perceptive and sensitive and tolerant and blah blah blah.  Well, maybe.  Some art might have that effect upon some people, sometimes.  But is that why we do art?  For its medicinal/therapeutic effect?  Because, like eating spinach or taking echinacea in flu season, it’s good for you?

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