Within A Budding Grove


Earlier, I’d mentioned hints of Albertine’s coming appearance that I hadn’t picked up on the first time I read Within a Budding Grove, but she does appear in the last third or so of the book, though is only named in the last fifth of the novel.

Damn you, Proust, you understand me too well. Reading Within a Budding Grove is like reliving all your adolescent, pre-adolescent, and early college crushes in excruciating detail. First his early crush on Gilberte, the daughter of Swann and Odette, who has no time for the 9780394711829lovesick narrator (who has not yet been named, but will, down the road, be identified as a fellow named ‘Marcel,’ which I’m sure is just a coincidence). Then his more platonic crush on Odette (or, I guess I should now say, Mlle. Swann). In between, though the narrator quickly tamps down such bits of information, lest they interfere with his image of her, lets secondary characters bring up memories of Swann’s earlier pain from the Swann in Love section of Swann’s Way. A sort of Pretty Woman: Ten Years Later. When a man like Swann, marries his courtesan, his whole life will be marked by the knowledge that many of the men in his wider social circle will have effectively once paid his wife for sexual favors at some point in his past.

Later, he goes to Balbec and while it’s not phrased as such, he’s desperate for a girlfriend. He sees girls on the beach and on the boardwalk and invents stories about them, imagines which ones might have glanced at him and might secretly like him (and he, naturally, starts to desire those in turn). He finally meets Albertine, one of a group of girls he sees with comparative frequency and finally engineers a meeting. But he’s not sure she likes him, so sometimes his attentions focus on one of her friends. And then, when she invites him into her room and she’s in her nightgown and he tries to kiss her… she pulls the cord (it’s in a hotel) to summon someone. While there is certainly a whole other novel to be found in what Albertine was thinking, I certainly understand what poor Marcel was thinking and how horrible confused he was.

All the fantasies of confused and sometimes thwarted desire are mapped in precise and painful detail. It’s cringeworthy to read his imagined future events (letter he will receive, meetings he will have – with his responses to these not yet happened, never going to happen incidences prepared to the level of how to dot the ‘i’s) and remember that, god yes, you were once that young and ignorant and embarrassing.

Hemingway En Havana


Hemingway

I’ve read it suggested that Hemingway’s decline can be traced to the Cuban embargo, which denied him access to a spiritual home. Be that as it may, I’m reminded of a contemporary art exhibit I saw years (1999?) in Lyon, France. There was a ladder you climbed onto a platform (the whole resembled a bunk bed from below) and there was a glass table in the shape of the island of Cuba. A recorded voice, in French, saying something like “Hello, Mr Hemingway, how are you?”

‘Call Of The Herald’


I read a surprising amount of Brian Rathbone’s Call of the Herald on my Nook while I was in Thailand before realizing that it was better to stop wasting my time than finish it just for the sake of finishing it. I’d bought it on spec because it was cheap and I thought I remembered reading something good about somewhere.

Well, either I misremembered or else whoever said good thing about it was horribly mistaken.

First of all, I’m pretty sure this is actually YA fiction. Nothing else can justify to the thinly drawn, bland characterizations and lack of a well imagined setting.

So, evil invaders into a peaceful land, blah blah blah, local girl develops super awesome magical powers, blah blah, and I don’t know what next because I didn’t finish it and I don’t care.

‘The End Of The Tour’


A friend and I saw it at the E Street Cinema in downtown (by the way, thank you for taking over the briefly defunct West End Cinema; that was a great place and I hope you keep its DIY, underground aesthetic).

Naturally, before the movie, we talked about David Foster Wallace. I’d read Infinite Jest when it first came out, mostly while working the graveyard shift at a gas station. Later, I read the essays in A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again. A couple of essays published in magazines that I cam across, but that was it for my Wallace reading. And, of course, he had a big influence. But.

I told my friend that I still occasionally picked up A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, but it that exactly true? When was the last time I did that? A year? A decade?

He had such a powerful impact on the psyche, but he wasn’t someone I went back to. Certainly, I’m unlikely to read Infinite Jest again, as much because of the time commitment as anything else. But, then again, I’m re-reading Proust. In terms of word count, that’s a bigger commitment.

I’m not sure that Wallace is a ‘young man’s writer,’ but it seems that’s what he was for me.

On another note, the movie has a nice My Dinner with Andre quality, though not half as awesome as My Dinner with Andre because that movie never gets old (rest in peace, Andre Gregory).

‘Sorry, Tree’ By Eileen Myles


Sorry, Tree

I’ve long admired Myles for her essays and poems in magazines and for her role as an poetry advocate/agitator and as a prominent (leading? I don’t know enough to say) figure in queer literature.

But, I’d never before read one of her books. Until now.

First of all, she’s very good. It reads quickly, but I actually read through the book a couple of times because it warrants it (and because it’s a quick read; let’s be honest, I’m not going to casually read War and Peace a second time without a lot thought about the investment I’m making in the project).

A wonderful melancholy thread runs throughout the short (though not broken) lines. A sense of loss of identity from trading New York for California. A fear of drifting from others or of not being able to connect with others like we feel we ought to… sometimes the ‘other’ seems to be a romantic partner (at least once, it’s explicit in that regard), but that also feels relatively unimportant. It is the dissociation that is important. She frequently writes in an almost ‘tough guy’ vernacular, but undercuts it at every turn.

So, very good.

Albertine


One of the pleasures or re-reading Remembrance of Things Past is meeting again scenes which stuck in the mind, but right now, I am fixated on a name that I forgot appeared so early: Albertine.

Less than two hundred pages into the second book, Within a Budding Grove, her name is twice mentioned as the niece of acquaintance of the narrator’s parents. It must her, surely? The Albertine, la prisonniere.

My First Little Salon


I went to my first Little Salon on Tuesday night, at a condo in Parkview (a neighborhood near Columbia Heights that I didn’t even know existed before Google Mapping my directions).

There were some very nice paintings (okay – ‘mixed media,’ but can we just say they were things on canvass with paint and other stuff? because the term ‘mixed media’ makes me think there should be some electronics in there; actually, she was going to bring some music and computer accompaniments, but apparently there was some theft/car break-in thing happening, so that didn’t happen) by a Casey Snyder.

Bellwether Bayou, aka Laura Schwartz played violin and sang – using a loop machine to create a background and plucking her violin like a mandolin as much as she played it (or maybe it’s nothing like a mandolin; I have no music talent and while it might look like similar techniques to me, perhaps I’m just dead wrong).

Then a bit of a short story from a Lily Meyer and up to the roof deck to listen to a New York City based band called Rookin that has a lot of songs based on scraps of things by nineteenth century, Civil War era folks (note to Rookin: Drum Taps was by Whitman, not Melville). And they closed with Amazing Grace and that’s always awesome (the lead singer had one of those soft, fairly high pitched but still masculine voices that goes very well with something like that).

My only complaint is that it would have been nicer had been better half been around (she would have loved it, too).

 

11800502_819281258186308_3019254123280735088_n

‘Deadhouse Gates’


9780765348791

So, I borrowed the second book of Erikson’s Malazan Empire of the Fallen series from my local library. It’s good; it’s rather like Cook’s Black Company, in terms of being a magic heavy, grim sort of military fantasy.

However, even though there are something like eight more books to go, I think I’m done. I’m not sure I really care enough about the characters, which is as much to do with the fact that it’s been too long since I read the first book and my memory’s a little vague. Erikson packs these books with characters and I would have to read them at a pretty good pace to keep everything reasonably fresh in my mind and I’m just not prepared to take that step.

‘Notes Of A Native Son’


9780807006238

I read this collection of James Baldwin essays while visiting the in-laws in Thailand (where do you go when you visit your in-laws? Ohio? Missouri? South Dakota? I go to Thailand, so suck on that). I’m sure that I wrote down some notes somewhere, but heck if I know where I put them.

But I decided to write a bit about it anyway because Baldwin is having a bit of a moment. This past weekend we celebrated what would have been his ninety-first birthday. And Ta-Nehisi Coates new book is earning him some very flattering comparisons to Baldwin (I haven’t read his book, Between the World and Me, but I love his essays in The Atlantic).

First of all, there’s Baldwin’s Protest Novel essay. It’s sort of the elephant in the room isn’t it? But I’m going to defend Wright against him, because I don’t think Baldwin gives Bigger Thomas enough credit for being a three dimensional character; he’s not a character able to express himself very well or even understand himself, but he’s not the cardboard cutout that Baldwin suggests. But, of course, does Baldwin really believe that or was it a deliberately Oedipal move against the older writer?

Beyond that, his writing about his father was heartbreaking and tender, a masterpiece of what it means to love a difficult man, an abusive man.

Finally, a reminder of my own privilege to be white and heterosexual and have the wonderful luxury of not having to think about race if I don’t want to.

Bangkok MOCA & ‘Thawan Duchanee, Modern Buddhist Artist’


9786162150562

The efforts to visit the Bangkok Museum of Contemporary Art were surprisingly arduous and I only finally managed to visit it on my next to last day in Thailand.

It was designed by a wealthy businessman, who seeded it with much of his personal collection, including a portrait of his favorite actress. Apparently, the museum was also designed as a tool of seduction and contains a room containing nothing by paintings of scenes from the actress’ most famous movie (this includes a couple of paintings of topless scenes from the movie). There is also a series of paintings of a woman in various symbolically spiritual poses and forms. The woman’s face looks a lot like that actress and the woman is also topless in every painting. It’s definitely art – and good art, a that – and it’s not even very erotic, but it reads like someone said to an artist, “I need some paintings – some fine art that will last the years. It needs to be your masterpiece! One more thing – its needs to have boobs. Lots of boobs.”

By the little coffee/snack place in the museum, was a wall of signed portraits of people like Andy Lau and… actually, there were very few pictures of men. Mostly they were signed pictures of famously beautiful models and actresses, about seventy-five percent of them western.

Once you get beyond that, though, I really liked. You could see these artists influenced by Western artists, particularly surrealists. But those artists were in turn influenced by Asian art, whether directly or indirectly (as through antecedents, like Klimt). So it’s almost a case of Asian artists being influenced by earlier traditions in Asian art, but mediated through the work of 20th century Western artists.

There was a room called the Richard Green Room, actually, it was two rooms, with nineteenth and early twentieth century genre paintings, mainly pictures of people in either eighteen century dress or sort of a fanciful version of Greco-Roman dress (the latter looked a lot like some of my favorite Pre-Raphaelite paintings). There were some wonderful painting and I enjoyed the room immensely, but what on God’s green earth was the motivation behind exhibiting them in a museum devoted to contemporary Thai art?

Apparently, Richard Green is a gallery owner, specializing in those sort of paintings. I reckon those were loaned to the museum, which also makes it free advertising for the gallery and which makes it ethically dubious (most museums would not engage in this kind of thing – exhibiting painting that are simultaneously available for purchase).

They had a large exhibit by Thawan Duchanee, Thailand’s most famous living artist.

When I first saw the exhibition, I wasn’t thrilled by him. Partly, it was the curation. He did a lot of painting in black paint on either white canvass or a saturated red canvass and in a couple of galleries, the walls were painted totally red. The saturation was too much. Bad design.

I did buy a book about him called Thawan Duchanee, Modern Buddhist Artist. First of all, caveat emptor: author Russell Marcus is neither an art historian nor an erudite amateur with a keen eye for art. He’s more of a fan boy. But, it did give me an opportunity, as I read it over several days, to revisit him and get a slightly better than understanding of what Duchanee was trying to accomplish. Certainly, he aims to be very traditionally Thai, in many ways, which hampered by ability to appreciate him at first.

I’ve made it sound horrible, but it was actually pretty wonderful and I would go again. But keep an open mind and a sense of humor.

He're
A sculpture of Dali painting. Loved it.