Oranges Are Not the Only Citrus Fruit (In Praise of Lemons)

Édouard Manet's Lemon (1880) [1]

served on a pewter plate against a lime green background 

(SA/2025)

 

 

The thought suddenly struck me after reading a poem by Frank O'Hara [2] that, just as sardines are not the only little fish in the sea [3], so too is it true that oranges are not the only citrus fruit [4] in the world; even if they are by far the most popular for juicing and thus might be said to enforce the same (repressive) model of normality each breakfast time as a bowl of cereal, or a slice of toast.

 

Ever since a young child, I have refused to accept the status quo or conform to popular opinion and so have long been suspicious of oranges and the role they play within society; much preferring lemons, not only for their colour and shape, but also for their smell and even the sharp sourness and acidic bitterness of their taste [5].

 

Oranges can be refreshingly tangy, it's true, but there's always an underlying sweetness that compromises their zestiness in comparison to the lemon and ultimately ordering un citron pressé - or perhaps even a little moonshine with lemon - is so much more punk rock than asking for a glass of orange juice.  

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Manet's picture - Le citron, oil on canvas (14 x 22 cm) - can be viewed on the the Musée d'Orsay website: click here.

 

[2] The poem I refer to by Frank O'Hara is 'Why I Am Not a Painter' (1956), and can be found in The Selected Poems, ed. Donald Allen (Random House, 1974). It can also be found on poets.org: click here. 

 

[3] See the recently published post on anchovies: click here.

 

[4] Obviously, I'm playing with the title of Jeanette Winterson's 1985 novel - Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit - which she later adapted for a BAFTA-winning television drama (BBC TV, 1990). 

 

[5] The juice of the lemon is about 5-6% citric acid; that's slightly more than lime juice; almost twice as much as grapefruit juice; and five times more than orange juice. It might interest to know that lemons also contain more vitamin C than oranges (whilst obviously lower in sugar).  

 

 

For a sister post on D. H. Lawrence's love of lemons, click here.     

 

Oranges and Sardines: Reflections on Art & Poetry (Not Seafood & Citrus Fruit)

Michael Goldberg: Sardines (1955) 

oil and adhesive tape on canvas (80 3⁄4 x 66 in.) 

Smithsonian American Art Museum

 

 

I. 

 

Frank O'Hara's carefully crafted poem 'Why I Am Not a Painter' [1] continues to amuse readers interested in the ambiguous nature of the relationship that exists between those who, like him, choose to type words on a page and those who, like his friend Mike Goldberg [2], prefer to express themselves with oil on canvas.    

 

Whether this reveals O'Hara's conviction that the pen is not only mightier than the sword, but also the palette and paintbrush, I don't know. And even if this is his belief, like many writers, he secretly wishes he could play with colours rather than words (he lets this slip in a casual aside in the short opening stanza).

 

For the latter can never quite capture the red-yellow essence of orange, even if you produce a whole page of descriptive prose or the most exquisite poetry; a picture, they say, conveys a thousand times more information than the word (in terms of size, shape, and colour of a sardine that's doubtless true). 

 

However, sometimes - even on a canvas - images can become too much, too overwhelming, and a string of eight letters spelling out the word S-A-R-D-I-N-E-S is really all you need; particularly when you understand, as poets and philosophers understand, that no word exists in isolation; that each is connected to every other word in the language via a complex network of shared meanings, etymological roots, grammatical functions, figurative associations, and so on - even if, ironically, no word has any essential connection to the object it represents. 

 

Probably most painters understand this too, which is why they still very often give their pictures a title; particularly the more logocentric amongst them for whom the Word remains the origin and most fundamental expression of reality; titles are rarely given purely for practical reasons. 

 

 

II. 

 

The phrase, oranges and sardines, has now become fixed (one is almost tempted to say a cliché) within the arts, as a phrase referencing poetry and/as painting. 

 

Back in 2008-09, for example, the Hammer Museum [3] held an exhibition curated by Gary Garrels with this title, although, somewhat ironically, it allowed six contemporary abstract artists to reflect philosophically and poetically on their own work - their studio processes, their indebtedness to art history, etc. - without the need to consult any actual philosophers or poets (the show really should have just been called Sardines).  

 

To be honest, I don't mind that so much. Although I'd probably challenge Garrels's slightly ludicrous assertion that "artists look at art with a focus and scrutiny, a criticality and level of engagement that few of us are able to summon with the same intensity" [4]. 

 

I mean, c'mon, I admire greatly those working within the visual arts - and I'm happy to admit that many have "a deep knowledge of art and art history and of the intellectual arguments around art" [5] - but where's the evidence for this particularity of vision? 

 

Having said that, however, I know conceited poets who believe they have a unique sensitivity to language; arrogant philosophers who think they are the only ones who know how to conceptualise ideas; and even affected fashion designers who imagine it is they who are solely responsible for determining our love of cerulean blue.         

 

 

 

 

Notes 

 

[1] Frank O'Hara, 'Why I Am Not a Painter', in The Selected Poems, ed. Donald Allen (Random House, 1974). Written in 1956, the poem can be found on poets.org: click here.

 

[2] Michael Goldberg (1924 - 2007) was was an American abstract expressionist, known for both his action paintings and still-lifes. He was a key member of the New York School, an informal group of poets, painters, dancers, and jazz musicians living it large in the 1950s and '60s, drawing inspiration from one another and from earlier avant-garde movements, such as the Surrealists. 

      Frank O'Hara was very much at the centre of this group, before his death, aged 40, in 1966, and Gary Garrels is right to note that he was "not only a poet but also a curator and critic who grounded his critical approach to art not in theory or philosophy, but in a distinct appraisal of the artworks themselves, the cultural situation of the time, and the circumstances of the artists". See note [4] below for a link to the essay by Garrels from which I quote.

 

[3] The Hammer Museum is an art museum and cultural centre, affiliated with UCLA. Founded in 1990 by the entrepreneur-industrialist Armand Hammer to house his personal art collection, the museum has since expanded its scope and now hosts a wide array of free public lectures, readings, concerts, and film screenings.    

 

[4] Gary Garrels, introductory essay to Oranges and Sardines: Conversations on Abstract Painting (Hammer Museum, 2009): click here to read the essay on the Hammer Museum website.    

 

[5] Ibid. 

 

 

Bonus video: Frank O'Hara: Why I Am Not A Painter (Optic Nerve Ltd.): click here. This is one of seven excerpts from the film Frank O'Hara: How Terrible Orange Is/& Life (Colin Still / Optic Nerve, 1995).

 

This post is for the American figurative painter SJ Fuerst who kindly sent me O'Hara's poem. 

 

 

I Don't Know as I Get What D. H. Lawrence is Driving at When He Writes of Bursten Bowels ...

Picasso: Gored Horse (1917) 

Graphite pencil on canvas with ochre primer 

(80.2 x 103.3 cm)

Museu Picasso de Barcelona

 

 

I. 

 

As readers of D. H. Lawrence are very well aware, he loves to write about the mysterious nether region of the human body known as the loins - i.e., that zone of libidinal intensity that lies somewhere between the ribs and the pelvis (or above the legs, but below the waist).

 

In fact, the only thing that excites his imagination more are the bowels ... 

 

 

II. 

 

Unfortunately, a bit like Frank O'Hara, I'm not quite sure I always understand what Lawrence is getting at when he uses this term [1]. On the one hand, it seems to be more than simply an anatomical reference to the gastrointestinal tract; indeed, for Lawrence, the bowels seem to be the seat of human compassion from which the deepest desires also spring. 

 

But, on the other hand, Lawrence likes to base his philosophical understanding of the body in biology where possible. So when he talks about the bowels, he is also referring us to the digestive system and those sausage-like organs known as the intestines or entrails. 

 

And, rather like Kenneth Williams, who described his daily bowel movements obsessively in his diaries, Lawrence seems to be plagued by a fear of things not working properly in this region, as we can see in the novel Kangaroo (1923), for example, when the marsupial-like fascist Ben Cooley is shot several times in his "'bloomin' Kangaroo guts'" [2], as one of his followers says.

 

Richard Somers - the book's Lawrentian avatar - visits Cooley in the hospital and can barely disguise his horror and disgust at the thought of ruptured bowels:

 

"Somers found Kangaroo in bed, very yellow, and thin [...] with haunted, frightened eyes. The room had many flowers, and was perfumed with eau de cologne, but through the perfume came an unpleasant, discernible stench. [...]

      Somers could not detach his mind from the slight, yet pervading sickening smell.

      "'My sewers leak,' said Kangaroo bitterly, as if divining the other's thought." [3]

 

Bruce Steele's explanatory note on this is spot-on:

 

"Jack's angry reaction to his leader's having been shot in the stomach and not killed outright probably reflects the First World War soldier's fear of abdominal wounds. In a pre-biotic age, peritonitis was a common and deadly complication of such wounds. While a ruptured bowel could be stitched, contamination of the abdominal cavity was frequently fatal; it would account for  the 'unpleasant, discernible stench' and Kangaroo's diagnosis 'My sewers leak'. If the sniper had deliberately aimed at his stomach rather than his head - which would probably have killed him instantly - it would have been in the knowledge that the victim would almost certainly die a slow and painful death." [4]

 

Of course, whilst being shot in the stomach can lead to a slow and painful death for a man, being disemboweled by the horns of an angry bull can be an equally horrific (and, arguably, even more obscene) way for an elderly horse to die.

 

And so to Mexico City ...   

 

 

III.

 

There are several disturbing scenes in Lawrence's novel The Plumed Serpent (1926), including the opening one set at the plaza de toros [5] - and I'm not referring to the fact that someone in the crowd thought it funny to throw an orange at the bald spot on Owen's sunburnt head.

 

Rather, I'm referring to the following incident involving a blindfolded horse ...

 

"The picador pulled his feeble horse round slowly, to face the bull, and slowly he leaned forward and shoved his lance-point into the bull's shoulder. The bull, as if the horse were a great wasp that had stung him deep, suddenly lowered his head in a jerk of surprise and lifted his horns straight up into the horse's abdomen. And without more ado, over went horse and rider, like a tottering monument upset.

      The rider scrambled from under the horse and went running away with his lance. The old horse, in complete dazed amusement, struggled to rise, as if overcome with dumb incomprehension. And the bull, with a red place on his shoulder welling a trickle of dark blood, stood looking round in equally hopeless amazement.

      But the wound was hurting. He saw the queer sight of the horse half reared from the ground, trying to get to its feet. And he smelled blood and bowels.

      So, rather vaguely, as if not quite knowing what he ought to do, the bull once more lowered his head and pushed his sharp, florishing horns in the horse's belly, working them up and down inside there with a vague sort of satisfaction." [6] 

      

As the novel's protagonist Kate Leslie rightly recognises, this shocking spectacle reveals nothing so much as human cowardice and indecency. She turns her face away in disgust. And when she looks again, "it was to see the horse feebly and dazedly walking out of the ring, with a great ball of its own entrails hanging out of its abdomen and swinging reddish against its own legs as it automatically moved". [7] 

 

But the sordid show isn't over: another horse is brought into the bullring so that it may be publicly disemboweled for the amusement of the crowd:

 

"Kate knew what was coming. Before she could look away, the bull had charged on the limping horse from behind [...] the horse was up-ended absurdly, one of the bull's horns between his hind legs and deep in his inside. Down went the horse, collapsing in front, but his rear was still heaved up, with the bull's horn working vigorously up and down inside him, while he lay on his neck all twisted. And a huge heap of bowels coming out. And a nauseous stench." [8] 

 

 

IV. 

 

I've never been (and wouldn't go) to a bullfight, and so would find it difficult (and disturbing) to visually imagine this scene were it not for the fact that Picasso - a lifelong bullfighting enthusiast - produced the image at the top of this post, after attending a bullfight in Barcelona during his stay in the city in 1917.

 

As the anonymous author of a piece describing this work on the Picasso Museum's website rightly notes:    

 

"In contrast to what he had mostly done on previous occasions, here the artist leaves aside the colourful and festive representation of the spectacle of bullfighting to focus his attention [...] on the solitary agony of the disemboweled horse, which collapses until it falls on its knees in a fetal position or prayer posture that has been compared to that of a fossilised crustacean or bird. Picasso manages to transcribe the animal's stabbing pain by means of its outstretched neck and raised head, looking upwards with a fixed gaze, as if asking for mercy to put an end to its cruel agony, once and for all." [9]

 

The author concludes: 

 

"The drama and cruelty of the scene reaches its zenith with the horn that sprouts from the ground and stands threateningly, waiting for the horse to finish collapsing to then finish it off." [10] 

 

I suppose, to end on a slightly more positive note, it might be mentioned that bullfighting was banned in Catalonia several years ago and the the last bullfight in the region took place in September 2011. [11]

 

However, there are still eight countries in the world where this ancient festival of gore still takes place - Spain, France, Portugal, Mexico, Columbia, Venezuela, Peru, and Ecuador - and every year around 180,000 bulls (and 200 horses) are slaughtered in the ring.

 

 

V. 

 

In sum, I might not get what D. H. Lawrence is driving at when he writes of bursten bowels, but I do know: 

 

(i) I wouldn't want to be shot in the stomach ...

 

(ii) I don't like cruelty to animals ...

 

 

Notes

 

[1] See Frank O'Hara, 'I don't know as I get what D. H. Lawrence is driving at', Selected Poems, ed. Mark Ford, (Alfred A. Knopf, 2009), p. 167. The poem can be read online at allpoetry.com: click here. 

 

[2] D. H. Lawrence, Kangaroo, ed. Bruce Steele, (Cambridge Unversity Press, 1994), p. 317.

 

[3] Ibid., pp. 322-323.    

[4] Bruce Steele's explanatory note to 317:12 of D. H. Lawrence's Kangaroo ... p. 406.

[5] In Lawrence's day, the main bullring in Mexico City was the Toreo de la Condesa. This ancient bullring was replaced in 1946 by the monumental Plaza de toros México, an arena that seats over 41,000 people.

[6] D. H. Lawrence, The Plumed Serpent, ed. L. D. Clark, pp. 15-16.

[7] Ibid., p. 16. 

[8] Ibid. 

[9-10] See the text that accompanies Picasso's Gored Horse (1917) on the Museu Picasso de Barcelona website: click here. 

[11] The ban was officially annulled for being unconstitutional by Spain's highest court in October 2016. However, despite the overturning of the ban, no further bullfight has taken place in Catalonia.