On the Difficulty of Death for Old Ladies

Tony Luciani: Internal Reflection,
 from  Mamma: In the Meantime (2016)
(A series of photos and paintings featuring his 93-year-old mother, Elia.)

The comic actor, Steve Martin, once conceded that he'd never made a great movie. But, he went on to say, he had made several films that contained genuinely great scenes. I think something similar might be said about the verse of Michel Houellebecq; no really great poems, but many that contain genuinely great lines. 

Those critics who characterise his work as callow and clichéd, or dismiss it as insipid and ineffectual, are not so much mistaken as beside the point. For these things, of necessity, belong to a body of work that is bold enough and big enough to incorporate them; a form of writing that affirms what Nietzsche terms a general economy of the whole.

In other words, the secret of really interesting poetry, like Houellebecq's, is not the fact that it contains powerful and original elements, but that it's unafraid to make mistakes and display its weaknesses. Further, it parades intertextual indebtedness with pride and invites readers to hear echoes of other authors.
        

But this post isn't intended to be a defence of Houellebecq as an artist, nor a comprehensive review of his new dual-language selection of poems entitled Unreconciled. Rather, I want simply to indicate how some of Houellebecq's reflections on old women approaching death resonate with my own observations and experience ...

Death is difficult for old ladies who are too rich, says Houellebecq, referring to the kind of women who own antique furniture and wind up in cemeteries: Surrounded by cypresses and plastic shrubs. But, actually, death is often difficult for many women - even those whom he calls the council-flat old / Who imagine till the end that they are loved and wind up at the crematorium: In a little cabinet with a white label.

For many women - particularly mothers - simply refuse to let go and die. Men, as a rule, die sooner and with less fuss, less bitterness; they know when the game is up and they'll be best off out of it, as my father would say. Women - particularly mothers - aim to stay for as long as possible in their sordid bedrooms where they keep little objects tucked in their wardrobes - the insides of which reveal just how cruel and how futile life can be.

On and on these undying women persist; watching TV without quite catching what is said (despite the increased volume) and eating their meals without appetite (despite the added salt); growing older and increasingly feeble in mind and body: You see clearly the nothingness awaiting them / Especially in the morning when they rise, pale, / And moan for their first cup of tea.

In a very moving couple of stanzas, worth quoting in the original French, Houellebecq writes:

Les vieux savant pleurer avec un bruit minime,
Ils oublient les pensées et ils oblient les gestes
Ils ne rient plus beaucoup, et tout ce qui leur reste
Au bout de de quelques mois, avant la phase ultime,

Ce sont quelques paroles, presque tourjours les mêmes:
Merci je n'ai pas faim, mon fils viendra dimanche,
Je sens mes intestins, mon fils viendra quand même.
Et le fils n'est pas là, et leurs mains presque blanches.

This is mostly true and, sadly, often the case. Though, not wanting to be defined as a son by my absence, I'm doing what I can to provide care and ensure my mother doesn't become just another unloved body dying without mystery. It's hard work though; depressing, tiring, frustrating, boring, etc.

But so are many jobs and at least caring affords me the opportunity to listen to the little birds in the garden and read poetry on my birthday ...  


See: Michel Houellebecq, Unreconciled: Poems 1991-2013, trans. Gavin Bowd, (William Heinemann, 2017). All the lines quoted, in full or part, are Bowd's translations from the French and are taken from three untitled poems, pp. 29-33. 

For those interested in the work of Tony Luciani, click here to access his website, or here for information about his exhibition, Mamma: In the Meantime, at the Loch Gallery, Toronto, Canada.

What are Poets for ...?

Hölderlin's question - which became Heidegger's question also - wozu Dichter in dürftiger Zeit? remains, for those of us who are interested in such things, a matter of some urgency. 

For in a time of fake news and a general poverty of thinking - these things characterizing our own destitution - clearly we need to acknowledge the importance of those who have the ability to attend closely and carefully to language and its limits (poets) and those who might theorize such a method of thinking in relation to the world we live in today (philosophers).     

Of course, this doesn't mean we need poets to simply set the facts straight, nor signal their moral and political idealism by speaking truth to power - a cant phrase coined by Quakers in the 1950s and adopted ever since by would-be warriors of social justice and so-called activists. If I want to hear opinionated idiots express their beliefs, then I can follow them on Twitter.

Poets must never assert anything as all-knowing subjects. And poetry must free itself of any conceited humanism, becoming Machiavellian in its objective purity; sans mélange, cru, vert, dans toute sa force, dans toute son âpreté, as Nietzsche would say. We don't speak such poetry; it speaks us. And, more, it transforms the world; not through noisy direct action, but through silent deferral that opens up the possibility of Newness.

In other words, poets are not there to serve as commentators on world events - verse is not a type of flowery journalism. Their task, rather, is to provide the preliminary conditions necessary for a demonic Event: something that unfolds in time, but which is nevertheless Unzeitgemäße and Unheimlich in the sense that it comes from Outside; something which radially changes our understanding of reality and allows us to scrape off the viscous covering of doxa protecting categories of the present.

Poets, then, still have a profoundly important role to play in this era of despots and crackpots. But, alas, I sometimes think the real question we should be asking is: Wo sind die heuter Dichter?              

Monkey Business (On Human-Chimp Sexuality)

It's commonly assumed that human males are more easily aroused, more promiscuous and more prepared to fuck just about anything, than human females. But the available research data seems to suggest otherwise. Indeed, the evidence indicates that it's women - not men - who are more polymorphously perverse and erotically plastic in their pleasures, including interspecies shenanigans.

In a famous experiment performed by Canadian sexologist Meredith Chivers, for example, women were shown pornographic videos featuring men and women engaged in heterosexual, lesbian and male homosexual activity. They were also shown films, with added sound effects, of polyamorous bonobos vigorously having sex. Chivers wanted to find out if there was a difference between what women think excites them and what actually turns them on; so it was that the women were hooked up to a vaginal photoplethysmograph, to measure any changes in lubrication, blood flow, or vascongestion.

Asked to record their reactions, the predominantly heterosexual women unsurprisingly said that they mainly enjoyed watching the straight sex scenes. But the VPG told a very different story; they were aroused by all of the sex scenes - including the monkey porn. Indeed, whatever their professed sexual orientation, the women showed significant and rapid genital arousal almost no matter what they watched on screen - girl-on-girl action, masturbating men, or apes getting jiggy with it.

Repeating the same experiment with men, however, Chivers obtained very different results. There was not only a much closer correspondence between mind and body (gay and straight men both physically responding in a category specific manner with what they said they found sexually arousing), but, interestingly, none of the men registered even the first stirrings of an erection whilst watching the bonobos bonking. Any expectation that explicit animal sex would speak to the untamed beast within was - in the case of the men at least - sadly mistaken.

Now, Chivers is quick to point out that this doesn't automatically mean that all women are subconsciously lusting after non-human primates, or dreaming of animal lovers. If we were to believe this on the basis of the physiological evidence, then we would also have to believe that they secretly desire to be raped; because the fact is some women are physically excited by extremely violent fantasy and some display signs of genital response (including orgasm) during actual sexual assault.

Chivers argues - convincingly, I feel - that vaginal lubrication evolved as an automatic protective response, to reduce discomfort and protect from injury during penetration; that it was not essentially a sign of sexual arousal or indicative of desire. Thus, what her data reveals is that even the sight of a pygmy chimp with a hard on can stimulate a reaction, so closely do they resemble humans and so anxious are women to reduce the prospect of coital pain.    

But what of the male apes? I hear you ask. If human females can subconsciously find them a sexual possibility (or threat), do they find women at all attractive?

Apparently - and contrary to what the picture above or certain pornographic fantasies, usually involving large gorillas, might suggest - our simian cousins are not exactly lining up to date, rape, or perv on women. Show a male chimp images of a female chimp's genitalia or swollen anal rump and he's interested to the point that he'll even accept a loss of fruit juice in exchange; show him a pornographic picture of a woman and it's no deal - he'll stick with his juice.

Obviously, there are exceptions; that is to say, there are cases of apes in captivity who, when given the chance, like to watch porn on TV. But, for the most part, chimps seem to prefer their own kind. What's more, they tend to have a very strong MILF fixation and consistently prefer older females over younger, inexperienced females (suggesting that the human male preference for younger women is a relatively recent evolutionary development).   


See: Meredith L. Chivers, Michael C. Seto and Ray Blanchard, 'Gender and Sexual Orientation Differences in Sexual Response to Sexual Activities Versus Gender of Actors in Sexual Films', in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, Vol. 93, No. 6, 1108-1121 (American Psychological Association, 2007). Click here to read online version of this essay. 

Jump! On Defying the Spirit of Gravity (With Reference to the Work of Philippe Halsman)

If there's one thing to which Zarathustra makes himself supremely hostile above all other things, it's der Geist der Schwere - what in English is termed the Spirit of Gravity. 

He prides himself on all that is light-footed and light-hearted in his nature and says that the revaluation of all values begins only when man learns how to love himself and how to fly like a bird, rather than living like a beast of burden weighed down with morality and bad conscience.        

In order to fly, however, man must first learn how to stand upright on his own two feet; and then how to walk, naked and light, before running, dancing, skipping and jumping for joy - no longer taking life seriously and refusing to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

We find some of this Nietzschean defiance of the Spirit of Gravity in the marvellous series of 178 pictures taken by American portrait photographer Philippe Halsman and published collectively in his Jump Book (1959), along with his humorous essay on the aesthetics of jumpology.

Starting in the early 1950s, Halsman asked every celebrity or VIP that he photographed to jump in the air for him. His hope was that he might momentarily glimpse and capture on film the spontaneous and carefree individual beneath the formal, self-conscious public persona.

Amazingly, Halsman not only convinced many of the great comics and movie stars of the period to jump for him, he also persuaded many well-known politicians, scientists, artists and members of the House of Windsor to briefly forget themselves and dare to defy gravity.

Arguably, these are amongst his more arresting images. But, for Zarathustra, there's nothing lovelier than nimble young women with fine ankles. And so, above are Halsman's joyous photos of B.B., Marilyn and Audrey leaping barefoot into the future and the Dionysian imagination ... 

Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, trans. R. J. Hollingdale, (Penguin Books, 1969).

Philippe Halsman's Jump Book, (Damiani, 2015).

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Jumping Grace (A Short Verse in the Manner of Michel Houellebecq)

En sautant Grace -

Visiblement belle

Ravie dans son nouveau soutien-gorge de sport

Indifférente à la gravité.

Jumping Grace -

Conspicuously beautiful

Happy in her new sports bra

Unconcerned with gravity.

Thanks to Gedvile Bunikyte for kind permission to use her photograph. 

Thanks to Simon Solomon, Christian Michel and Sophie Stas for help with the translation (into French); any errors or inadequacies are entirely my own. 

Rilke: Letters on Cézanne (Some Brief Remarks)

Rilke is one of those poets I should probably appreciate more than I do. But, if I'm honest, I find the lyrical intensity and the mysticism of his verse a bit much. Even his Dinggedichte are not quite concrete and thingly enough for me; push comes to shove, I prefer the work of Francis Ponge.

Similarly, Cézanne is an artist I should also admire more than I do; the only modern painter that Lawrence officially endorses - not so much because of his achievement as because of his struggle and his willingness to admit that material objects actually exist. But, if given the choice, I'd rather have a Picasso on the wall.
      

Reading Rilke's Letters on Cézanne, however, has made me want to learn how to love the work of each man more ... 

Rilke wrote the letters to his wife, Clara, during the autumn of 1907, following repeated visits to an exhibition in Paris of paintings by the great French artist, with whom he felt an increasingly powerful sense of kinship. It was such a decisive encounter in terms of impact that, after this date, Rilke often cited Cézanne as the most formative influence on his poetry.

However, as the letters also reveal, Rilke felt dismay as well as delight before the paintings; Cézanne causing him to reflect upon his own inadequacies and shortcomings as an artist. Did he really have what it takes to produce greatness and to devote himself exclusively to his craft? Could he accept the challenge that Cézanne throws down to all those who come after him, which is to know the apple in all its appleyness and smash what Lawrence terms the optical cliché?

Crucially, Rilke recognises that Cézanne's work is a fundamental turning point - and not only within the history of Western art; Cézanne's oeuvre is a wider cultural and philosophical event that challenges Plato's Idealism. This is why he, Cézanne, is not only impossible for old ladies, but offensive to all those good bourgeois corpses who secretly feared and hated him.      


See: Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters on Cézanne, ed. Clara Rilke, trans. Joel Agee, (North Point Press, 2002).

See also: D. H. Lawrence, 'Introduction to These Paintings', in Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 2004). 

And for an alternative - more empassioned, much better illustrated - reading of the letters, see 'Being Your Work's Bitch' - a blog post on The Musing: click here.

Tyler Shields: Provocateur or Pale Imitator?

Tyler Shields: Self-Portrait (2014)
tylershields.com

According to Andrea Blanch, keen to address criticism of her friend's work from the get-go, the provocateur often receives a bum rap. That is to say, they're often subject to false accusations or unfair judgements; dismissed as a fraud who "peddles in shock or wears the shallow guise of edginess".

But the true provocateur - such as Hollywood's favourite photographer, Tyler Shields - knows how to turn incitement into a fearless form of art that awakens lesser mortals from their mundane slumber and the "consumptive malaise of soul-grinding routine". Provocation, in its highest form, is thus not merely a means of challenging somebody to react; it's also a way of filling them with "passionate exuberance". Provocation is a vitalism; it brings people to life and not simply to the boil.

And so, whilst some of the images produced by Tyler Shields deliberately aim to shock and unsettle, what raises his oeuvre above that of his lesser-skilled contemporaries, is that they also "arrest us with the magnitude of their depth and complexity".

I have to say, with respect to Ms. Blanch, whose own work with a camera far exceeds anything produced by Tyler Shields in my view, this really is so much guff. Unfortunately, Shields - who has what might be termed a healthy ego - buys into this fearless genius nonsense and seems happy to blow his own trumpet when he can't find someone to do it for him. For this is a man who unabashedly places his work not in the world of fashion and celebrity culture, but the tradition of Baroque art - less Terry Richardson and more to do with the transcendental clarity of Caravaggio.

And this is a man who aggressively asserts his ownership of images, threatening prosecution and multi-million dollar fines to anyone who infringes his copyright, despite the fact that, as one commentator has noted, a brief glance at his portfolio "by anyone with even a cursory knowledge of the history of photography would reveal that a high number of his images look an awful lot like those of other photographers".

Now, as a rule, I'm not greatly concerned with notions of originality; all great artists steal, as Picasso said. However, this doesn't mean that all great thieves are artists and what does irritate is to see a powerful image rendered banal. An act of homage or even a playful pastiche should not result simply in an inferior copy or perpetuate a lazy form of nostalgia.

Unfortunately, as art critic Paddy Johnson writes with reference to Tyler's version of the famous Sally Mann photo of a young girl smoking (Candy Cigarette, 1989), Shields often "takes what began as an incredibly haunting photograph and turns it into an art postcard". His re-imaginings disappoint not because they rip-off, but because they devalue and diminish.       


Notes

Andrea Blanch, 'The Fearless Artist', Foreword to Tyler Shields, Provocateur, (Glitterati Inc., 2016). 

Jamie Lee Curtis Taete, 'Is Celebratory Photographer Tyler Shields Inspired, Or Copying Other Artists?', Vice, Jan 15, 2016. Click here to read. The remarks by Paddy Johnson are also found in this article. 

Thanks to Simon Solomon for bringing the work of Tyler Shields to my attention and kindly gifting me a copy of Provocateur. 
 

Miles Aldridge: Supposing Truth to be a Supermodel

Miles Aldridge: 3-D (2010) 
milesaldridge.com

London-born photographer Miles Aldridge is someone whose work I admire immensely; it's so beautifully dark beneath the fluorescent colours and combines so perfectly his obvious obsessions: the great F-words of fashion, film, and fetishised femininity.

Clearly interested in the philosophical question of style, Aldridge playfully explores and experiments with the semiotics of the catwalk, the fatal seduction of cinema and the cultural construction of woman as a revered object within the pornographic imagination.

It's an artistic and a perverse quest for truth, resting upon the quasi-Nietzschean supposition that truth might be a supermodel or a goddess of the silver screen; sacred monsters whose mask-like faces express neither sensitivity nor sincerity; transsexual creatures who, as Baudrillard says, never dazzle because of their talent or intelligence, but because of their remoteness and what we might even describe as their apparent frigidity.

Of course, some critics find Aldridge's work vacuous and a form of conceit; a glossy fantasy that far from subverting the political and social realities of gender, class and consumerism - as is sometimes claimed - merely reinforces these things. But I beg to differ with this analysis. For me, his work matters. And it matters because it demonstrates how what we consume, what we worship, or what we most desire - be it a Birkin bag, a lifestyle, or the attractive stranger sitting across the bar - is never a new object in itself, but is rather an object previously encountered on screen or in the pages of Vogue; i.e. one that has already been assigned meaning within a discursive framework.

In other words, Aldridge's work disconcertingly suggests that it's impossible to know real objects existing outside a frame of reference; reality itself is constituted via representation and staged performance - just like a photo shoot. Those commentators who, like Glenn O'Brien, insist that Aldridge is in the business of constructing dreams, have radically misunderstood what is going on in his work - or underestimated what's at stake. For what Aldridge is doing is far more fundamental; he's using the logic of fashion and his passion for artificiality to rupture the order of referential reason.

And central to this project, as indicated, is the figure of woman as actress, as model, as perfect object; as one who understands the need for cosmetics and defends the right to lie. Not because she wishes to protect or disguise some concealed essence beneath appearances, but because she has no such essence. Again, many critics will protest that by placing the question of woman into the context of fashion and film, it means she becomes fetishized and commodified as an object or image, rather than liberated as a subject. But, even if this is the case, is that so bad? Mightn't a clever woman - who is always a well-dressed woman - use her own emptiness and reification to her own advantage?

Aldridge insists that his models have a blank expression not because they are mindless, but, on the contrary, because they are lost in thought. And, far from feeling on the verge of extinction because they have been transformed into a hollowed-out figure of male fantasy, they exhibit the pale power of seduction and stillness that is particular to those who are soulless; what Walter Benjamin termed the sex appeal of the inorganic.

For me, as for Aldridge, it's on the runway or the movie screen, where woman best stages her refusal of - and resistance to - male power and masculine depth. For although obliged to pout and to pose and embody consumer capitalism's ideals of femininity, luxury and artifice, woman as seductive object remains fundamentally untouchable and inaccessible. She teases her male spectators with a glimpse or the promise of her nakedness, whilst exposing also the truth that they are as fake and as hollow as she (in their desires, emotions and highest values).

Stare long enough into the void, says Nietzsche, and the void begins to stare into you ...

My Three Favourite Witches 3: Samantha (Elizabeth Montgomery)

Elizabeth Montgomery as Samantha in Bewitched 

My three favourite witches are not the Wayward Sisters found in Shakespeare's Macbeth, dressed in filthy robes, performing weird rituals in the fog, prophesying doom, etc. Nor are they the cock-starved, devil-invoking trio of Alex, Jane and Sukie given us by John Updike in his 1984 novel, The Witches of Eastwick.

Rather, the three broomstick-riding women I find most spellbinding are Jennifer, Gillian and Samantha ...

The third of these, Samantha, was played by Elizabeth Montgomery in the hit TV series Bewitched; an American sitcom that ran for eight seasons on ABC from 1964-72.

Created by Sol Saks, the show is about a beautiful, young-looking sorceress who marries an ordinary mortal, Darrin Stephens, played originally by Dick York, then, later, by Dick Sargent. Samantha agrees to lead the conventional life of a suburban, middle-class housewife without calling upon her magical powers - much to the disgust of her Darrin-disapproving mother, Endora, played by the wonderful Agnes Moorehead. As one might expect, mayhem and nose-twitching merriment frequently ensue ...

Comparisons with the 1942 film, I Married a Witch, starring Veronica Lake as Jennifer, are often made - and legitimately so; Saks openly admitting that he drew inspiration from this, as well as the John Van Druten play turned film, Bell, Book and Candle (1958), starring Kim Novak as Gillian, the Greenwich Village witch.

The theme that unites all of these works is that love is stronger than witchcraft and can overcome all difficulties and forms of prejudice, such as a mixed marriage often encounters. But it's also about a formidable woman having to voluntarily surrender or restrict her powers in order to fit in with a world run by men; even when these men may often be idiots. Thus, beneath the romantic comedy and apparent fondness for witches, one detects a familiar sexism and deep-rooted fear and hatred of witches.      
          
Even the lovely Samantha is viewed with suspicion by male wiccaphobes; she may appear to be as nice as milk and claim to act in the name of love and loyalty to her husband, but she remains a witch first and foremost - and can thus never be a truly good wife to poor Darrin.

For what is a witch? A witch, according to D. H. Lawrence, is a woman - lesbian at heart - who intrinsically rejects creative union with (and subordination to) any man; a diabolical creature who emits waves of silent destruction that undermine the spiritual authority of the phallocratic order; a woman who deserves to be consigned to the flames.

Obviously, I reject and condemn such violent misogyny and wiccaphobia, whatever its source; be it Lawrence speaking, or Bible-bashing televangelist Pat Robertson. I love Samantha and her occult subversion of cultural stereotypes concerning sex and society.

And I also have huge respect and affection for Elizabeth Montgomery, who, throughout her career, was involved in various forms of political activism (she was one of the first celebrities to support gay rights, for example, and was often outspoken on feminist issues). She fully deserves her star on Hollywood Blvd. and her bronze statue, erected, fittingly, in Salem, Massachusetts, shortly after her death in 1995.   


To read part 1 of this post on Jennifer (Veronica Lake), click here.
To read part 2 of this post on Gillian (Kim Novak), click here.

My Three Favourite Witches 2: Gillian (Kim Novak)

Kim Novak as Gillian Holroyd 

(with Pyewacket the Cat)

My three favourite witches are not the Wayward Sisters found in Shakespeare's Macbeth, dressed in filthy robes, performing weird rituals in the fog, prophesying doom, etc. Nor are they the cock-starved, devil-invoking trio of Alex, Jane and Sukie given us by John Updike in his 1984 novel, The Witches of Eastwick.

Rather, the three broomstick-riding women I find most spellbinding are Jennifer, Gillian and Samantha ...

The second of these, Gillian Holroyd, the free-spirited, Greenwich Village witch with a penchant for going barefoot, was played by Kim Novak in the 1958 romantic comedy Bell, Book and Candle (dir. Richard Quine). The male lead in the film was taken by James Stewart, playing Shep Henderson, the handsome (but much older) next door neighbour upon whom Gillian casts a love spell. 

Unfortunately, things backfire and she eventually falls in love with Shep; problematic for a witch as this (apparently) means the loss of her magical powers. However, rather like Jennifer in I Married a Witch (1942), played by Veronica Lake, Gillian decides this is a price worth paying; that love is stronger than witchcraft - or, at any rate, more valuable, more vital. She chooses fulfilment as a married woman, over the lonely and frustrated life of a spinster-witch.        

Interestingly however, her feline familiar, Pyewacket, is unimpressed with this caving in and conforming to a conventional mix of romantic idealism and sexism; when Gillian opts for love, he puts his nose in the air, turns tail, and leaves her to her new, all-too-human life.

Novak is an interesting woman: of Czech descent, she began as a model before establishing a career as an actress. Studio bosses initially hoped that she would be a new Rita Hayworth or Marilyn Monroe, but Novak had no interest in being typecast. Indeed, despite her success, by the mid-1960s she was fed-up with the Hollywood lifestyle. Rarely acting after 1966 (and preferring TV projects to cinematic ones), Novak chose to concentrate on her first love, the visual arts, often writing poetry to accompany her pictures.

Now in her eighties, she continues to create work as a photographer, poet and painter. But it's as a seductive (slightly scary) on-screen witch, humming that infernal tune and stroking her pussy, that I, like many wiccaphiles, most fondly think of her. 


To read part 1 of this post on Jennifer (Vernonica Lake), click here.
To read part 3 of this post on Samantha (Elizabeth Montgomery), click here.