Obsessed with Obsession - Millhauser's Dangerous Laughter

I generally have a stack of books beside my bed, in the backseat of my car, in the kitchen, next to the sofa, you name it. There’s usually something in my life waiting to be read. After my recent move I reshuffled the little stacks and decided it was well past time that I read one of my favorite author’s new offerings. I nearly fell over myself to purchase Steven Millhauser’s new collection of short stories. So, it was about time I read it.

I LOVE Millhauser. I love his delicious descriptions and his story lines. I always feel a little dreamy, almost transported, when reading his work. Sort of the way you feel after a really good first date. This collection is no exception. Divided into three parts, it examines the obsession of obsession.

“Vanishing Acts” looks at risk and escape-be it from a “kingdom of forbidden things” or from a relationship with a troubled girl. Lots of people have hailed the “Cat ‘n’ Mouse” story, and it’s not my favorite, but well worth quoting:

“The mouse, dressed in a bathrobe and slippers, is sitting in his plump armchair, reading a book. He is tall and slim. His feet rest on a hassock, and a pair of spectacles rest on the end of his long, whiskered nose. Yellow light from a table lamp pours onto the book and dimly illuminates the cozy brown room. On the wall hang a tilted sampler bearing the words HOME SWEET HOME, an oval photograph of the mouse's mother with her gray hair in a bun, and a reproduction of Seurat's Sunday Afternoon in which all the figures are mice. Near the armchair is a bookcase filled with books, with several titles visible: Martin Cheddarwit, Gouda's Faust, The Memoirs of Anthony Edam, A History of the Medicheese, the sonnets of Shakespaw. As the mouse reads his book, he reaches without looking toward a dish on the table. The dish is empty: his fingers tap about inside it. The mouse rises and goes over to the cupboard, which is empty except for a tin box with the word CHEESE on it. He opens the box and turns it upside down. Into his palm drops a single toothpick. He gives it a melancholy look. Shaking his head, he returns to his chair and takes up his book. In a bubble above his head a picture appears: he is seated at a long table covered with a white tablecloth. He is holding a fork upright in one fist and a knife upright in the other. A mouse butler dressed in tails sets before him a piece of cheese the size of a wedding cake.

From the mousehole emerges a red telescope. The lens looks to the left, then to the right. A hand issues from the end of the telescope and beckons the mouse forward. The mouse steps from the mousehole, collapses the telescope, and thrusts it into his bathrobe pocket.”

There, that should whet your appetite.

One of my favorites is the story of Harlan Crane. The owner of the “Phantoptic Theater” displays paintings so real that spectators insist that their contents move. Millhauser teases us with the tenuous connection between reality and imagination and as usual leaves us with the true reality of mankind.

A nation covered by increasingly larger and larger domes, a city (which closely resembles modern America) which has become not a mall, but an immense hall of entertainment, museums that enumerate the “New Past” with monopoly pieces and badminton rackets, a “microscope of touch” created by Thomas Edison…there is just so, so much to rave about in this book.

As with a fine wine, this book is best savored in little sips and cherished swallows. Reading it all at once may turn out to be a mistake. You may find the bouquet of the stories diminished if you take them all at one sitting. (I believe I’ve worked this particular metaphor to its fruition)

Trust me, it’s certainly worth a read, and I’m glad it moved to the top of my stack of things to read.

Punk Gets Punk'd

Oh the irony. OH the irony.

There is a wonderful article in The Independent today about a war being fought between Malcom McLaren, (the creator of the Sex Pistols) artist Damien Hirst, and a man called Simon Easton. What is this battle; copyright infringement, political differences? Nope. The root of the ballyhoo is an e-commerce scam that one of the most popular modern artists of the decade fell for, hook, line and sinker.

It turns out that last year Damien Hirst bought 80K Pounds worth of punk clothing from Mr. Easton’s Punk Pistol website. The clothes were supposed to be originals of McLaren and Vivienne Westwood’s 1975-79 punk collection.

That’s a lot of torn up t-shirts and bondage pants.

In the 70s punk fashion first emerged in London on the backs of about 200 people who defined themselves as anti-fashion urban youth. It closely aligned with the punk music movement. The clothes suited the lifestyle of those with limited cash due to unemployment and the general low income school dropouts and students often experience. Punks cut up old clothes from thrift shops, destroyed the fabric and refashioned outfits in a manner then thought a crude construction technique, making garments designed to attract attention. Tattered edges and ripped holes were patched together with ragged stitches and safety pins. McLaren and Westwood were cornerstones of the anti-fashion movement, creating the famous “God Save the Queen” t-shirt that is synonymous with the Sex Pistols and punk movement.

McLaren apparently took one look at Hirst’s collection and damned them as complete forgeries. They were made of fabrics that weren’t even available in the 70s and the stitching was completely different than the style that McLaren and Westwood used. McLaren told the New York Daily News: “I felt terrible, but they were fakes. We simply didn’t make that many. I mean, we literally made these clothes on my kitchen floor. They were each unique.”

Of course Mr. Easton says that they’re not fakes and points out that the Sex and Seditionaires (the boutiques started by McLaren and Westwood) sold their garments via mail order after 1979 and through the Boy shop on London’s Kings Road.

So where’s the rub? Hirst got scammed-that’s his deal-right? Wrong. Apparently, Easton wrote a book about clothes sold through Sex and Seditionares shops and McLaren wrote an introduction for the book-which it turns out, is full of images of the fake clothes from Hirst’s collection. McLaren has approached the books publisher and told them to remove his name and essay from the book.

See the irony? McLaren is now a hugely wealthy man (as is Westwood). The complete opposite of everything they stood for in their angry punk days. They ARE the man. And the man is getting scammed. A scam, I might add, that they would have most certainly rolled on the floor about when they were in their late-teens and early 20’s and have thumbed their noses and thrown a bottle at just for good measure.

I love irony. And of course, Damien Hirst, The Sex Pistols and most of all the jaded and mean British Press. (I’m just glad they don’t have their guns pointed at me.)

An Aladdin's Cave of Stolen Delights in NYC

Sometimes I wish I had absolutely no scruples and was full to the brim with audacity. With these two traits I could wander the world doing as I pleased and having no scruples about who was affected by my actions. Sort of like William M. V. Kingsland of New York City.

Apparently, upon his death it turned out that not only was his name false (his birth name was Melvyn Kohn) but most everything about him was also quite fabricated. One thing is for certain though, he had a heck of an eye for art. The F.B.I. has been flummoxed by the late Mr. Kingsland for the last four years. Upon his death they were called into a small apartment on East 72nd where quite a magnificent art collection resided. Only one problem, there was little if any provenance that much of it actually belonged to Mr. Kingsland and it appears that quite a bit of it was pilfered from private and public collections around Manhattan and the world.

A charming bust by Giacometti was used to prop a door open, while four paintings (two Porters, a Redon and a Kurt Schwitter) turned out to be reported stolen in the 60s. As Agent James Wynne of the F.B.I. began digging deeper in the mystery of the collection he began finding previous owners who were either unaware or unconcerned that their pieces had gone missing. But, the case must be resolved- what happens to all this wonderful booty?

Part of the “collection” has already been sold through Christie’s Auction House, including a 1790 Copley portrait of the Second Earl of Bessborough which turned out to have been pinched from the Fogg Art Museum at Harvard in the 1970s. The gallery owner who purchased the piece got it at quite a deal ($85K) and expected to make somewhere in the neighborhood of $400K on the piece. But because it was stolen he’s out of luck.

Ironically, when New York City hired two auction houses to go through the floor-to-ceiling stacks of sketches, sculptures and paintings two movers made off with two Picasso’s. They were caught (don’t mess with Christies) and sentenced to probation. Kingsland's collection, which came mostly from Manhattan galleries, is considered to be diverse and interesting, but isn't necessarily a find of epic proportions. Still, the Picassos pinched by the movers were worth at least $60,000 total, and other Picassos in the collection were worth about $600,000.

The FBI has posted a portion of the works found in his apartment in hopes that the rightful owners will come forward. Quite an impressive little cache.

So what happens next? Auction houses attached to the case have cancelled all sales related to the Kingsland estate. Harvard University is working with the authorities to secure the safe return of the Copley and another piece reported stolen from the university in 1968. The FBI waits for people to come forward to make whatever claim they can of the galleries of work. And the public administrator of the New York office who will end up with the loot from the eventual sale and auction of whatever isn’t claimed? She’s treading carefully. Ethel Griffin is quoted as saying “ We don’t want to destroy the man’s reputation if in fact he acquired these from someone else,” she said. Still, she added, “This one is for the books.”

Indeed.

A Little Ms. Parker for a Monday Afternoon

Ballade at Thirty-five

This, no song of an ingénue,
This, no ballad of innocence;
This, the rhyme of a lady who
Followed ever her natural bents.
This, a solo of sapience,
This, a chantey of sophistry,
This, the sum of experiments, --
I loved them until they loved me.

Decked in garments of sable hue,
Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents,
Wearing shower bouquets of rue,
Walk I ever in penitence.
Oft I roam, as my heart repents,
Through God's acre of memory,
Marking stones, in my reverence,
"I loved them until they loved me."

Pictures pass me in long review,--
Marching columns of dead events.
I was tender, and, often, true;
Ever a prey to coincidence.
Always knew I the consequence;
Always saw what the end would be.
We're as Nature has made us -- hence
I loved them until they loved me.

L'Envoi

Princes, never I'd give offense,
Won't you think of me tenderly?
Here's my strength and my weakness, gents ---
I loved them until they loved me.

***

Ditty for Monday Afternoon- Ballade at Thirty-five

A little Dorthy Parker for a Monday Afternoon

Ballade at Thirty-five

This, no song of an ingénue,
This, no ballad of innocence;
This, the rhyme of a lady who
Followed ever her natural bents.
This, a solo of sapience,
This, a chantey of sophistry,
This, the sum of experiments, --
I loved them until they loved me.

Decked in garments of sable hue,

Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents,
Wearing shower bouquets of rue,

Walk I ever in penitence.

Oft I roam, as my heart repents,

Through God's acre of memory,

Marking stones, in my reverence,

"I loved them until they loved me."

Pictures pass me in long review,--

Marching columns of dead events.

I was tender, and, often, true;

Ever a prey to coincidence.

Always knew I the consequence;

Always saw what the end would be.

We're as Nature has made us -- hence

I loved them until they loved me.

L'Envoi

Princes, never I'd give offense,

Won't you think of me tenderly?

Here's my strength and my weakness, gents ---

I loved them until they loved me.

***

Behold..A Hidden Van Gogh Revealled

Science has given the art world a view at a Van Gogh that was never intended to be seen. Beneath the bright strokes of green, yellow, pink and blue that make up his 1887 landscape titled “Patch of Grass” lies the face of a simple Dutch peasant woman with haunting blue eyes.

A remarkable new X-ray technique, called X-ray fluorescence spectroscopy, which relies on the science of particle acceleration has recovered the hidden image in remarkable detail-even down to the colors Van Gogh used. While researchers were aware of the existence of the portrait, until the development of this new technique technological limitations could only show the outline of the woman. This new technique is able to show the entire painting and differentiates between color pigments, showing not only the distinct strokes but the original colors used.

The painting, owned by the Kroller-Muller Museum in the Netherlands, harkens back to a series of pieces painted by Van Gogh while he lived in the Dutch town of Nuenen. The most famous of his works from this period is his 1885 painting The Potato Eaters.

You may say “Patch of Grass” is quite lovely, but why would Van Gogh cover over his original painting? A fit of anger? A touch of madness? Maybe. But most likely it was his need to recycle canvases because of his poverty. Experts believe that this is not the only of his works hidden beneath another painting. They estimate that around one third of his works were painted over. Scientists, introducing the study in yesterday's Analytical Chemistry journal, said: "Van Gogh would often re-use the canvas of an abandoned painting and paint a new or modified composition on top... Our approach literally opens up new vistas in the non-destructive study of hidden paint layers, which applies to the oeuvre of Van Gogh in particular and to old master paintings in general." (I love that they got to say oeuvre)

They added: "These hidden paintings offer a unique and intimate insight into the genesis of his works. Yet current museum-based imaging tools are unable to properly visualize many of these hidden images." Maybe not any more gentlemen – I would expect that scholars and collectors alike would be more than thrilled to see beneath Van Gogh’s work just for the chance to see if they had literally gotten a two-for-one deal with their purchase.

It will be interesting to see how, now that they have made these discoveries these hidden gems will be exhibited. And, to see what other hidden treasure lies beneath the long dead masters canvases.

Oh Vincent, this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.

A Serious Lady

Jane Bowles fascinates me. Her stern, unsmiling face in pictures by VanVetchen. Her circle of admirers. Her brief but impactful career.

While her entire list of work consists of one novel, one play and six short stories she was lauded by literary greats such as Tennessee Williams, John Ashbery and Truman Capote. She was considered a “writer’s writer” and yet, she is nearly unknown to the general populous.

Her book Two Serious Ladies, published in 1943 was met with mostly odd and uncomprehending reviews, and while she made several frustrating attempts, Jane never finished another book. The critics weren’t much kinder to one play that appeared on Broadway in 1953. In the Summer House was lauded by some and completely misunderstood by others – much like Jane herself.

While I find her a fascinating author, and have enjoyed her work, I must admit that her life and the circle of companions she travelled in just as much if not more fascinating. I first stumbled upon Bowles when I was reading “The February House” a few years ago. Once of my favorite non-fiction books, it tells the story of a period of time just before WWII in Brooklyn. A group of artists, including Gypsy Rose Lee, Carson McCullers, Paul & Jane Bowles, W.H. Auden and George Davis took up residence at 7 Middagh Street, a shabby brownstone, and busied themselves with creativity while playing host to a cavalcade of interesting folks from the children of Thomas Mann to Salvador Dali (who almost died in their study during a botched experiment with a diving suit) and his sullen wife Gala.

Jane married Paul Bowles in 1938. To be strictly honest, as one never knows what goes on behind another’s door, it seems to have been more a marriage of convenience, though they appear to have truly cared for each other. Jane was homosexual and the two lived fairly separate sexual lives. Paul was a well known classical composer, and Jane worked with him on several pieces while living in New York together and then in Tangiers, where Paul lived through much of the 1950s.

Jane’s life as an author was very brief; she always experienced difficulty writing, but by the 1950s things were made worse by alcohol and prescription drugs. Some blame her writers block on jealously of her husband Paul-who began writing after editing her book. Rumor had it that she felt that Paul had stolen her glory, but this isn’t a widely accepted belief.

In 1957 Jane suffered a major stroke at the age of just 39. The stroke left her with impaired vision and acute aphasia. While she tried to overcome the challenges of her impairments, she was unable to complete any more work after the stroke. Just ten years later, her mental and physical health had deteriorated to the point that Paul was forced to place her in a psychiatric hospital in their then home of Malaga, Spain. A year later she was moved to the Clinica de los Angeles in Malaga. She was released in 1968 and returned for a few months to her home in Tangier, where she visited her favorite bar (the Pergola) every day. Sadly, she had to be placed back into care in 1968 and stayed in a convent hospital until her death in May of 1973.

She Once Held an Apple - The Venus De Milo

The sculpture of Venus or Aphrodite stands in state in Paris's Louvre, mesmerisingly beautiful despite her broken form. She was discovered by a Greek peasant named Yorgos Kentrotas in 1820, on the island of Milos, broken into two large pieces, an apple in her left hand.

As soon as French naval officers recognized the historical significance of the ancient sculpture, they set about hauling the marble bulk off the island. A fight broke out as Venus was dragged across rocks to a waiting ship and both arms were broken off. The exhausted sailors refused to retrace their steps and search for the body parts, so the goddess's left arm remained cut off at the shoulder and her right at breast level.

The controversial plinth was initially found to fit perfectly as part of the statue, but after it was translated and dated, the embarrassed experts who had publicized the statue as a possible original work by the artist Praxiteles dismissed it as another later addition to the statue. The inscription read: "...(Alex)andros son of Menides, citizen of Antioch on the Maeander made this (statue)...".

The inscribed plinth would have moved the dating of the statue from the Classical Age to the Hellenistic Age because of the style of lettering and the mention of the ancient city of Antioch on the Maeander, which did not exist at the time Praxiteles lived.

So many "Oop's" for one magnificient sculpture.