The Prints of Patrick Caulfield: a Collector’s Appreciation

 

By Skip Martin

 

I think is not uncommon that we do things in life that we did not set out to do. I did not set out to collect Patrick Caulfield’s prints, but many years later I find myself with a small collection that is broadly representative of Caulfield’s 35 years of activity in this field, a period in which 90 editions of his prints were released.

The 17 prints in this show span almost the entire period – going from simple, highly representational works, such as Earthenware (1967) to images of greater complexity, to simple images again, but now slightly more abstract.

They were arranged in Seattle University’s Hedreen Gallery in September 2008 not by date, but rather in an attempt to best please the eye. A book of all of Caulfield’s prints, arranged in order of completion, was available at the reception desk for inspection as was other material about the artist and his work. 

My interest in Caulfield’s prints developed – rather indirectly -- as a result of living in Tokyo for five years during the early 1970s. I was a foreign correspondent for a financial news service and tried to live that life, keeping my possessions to a minimum such that, in theory at any rate, they could all fit in a single taxicab. Sky-high rents and tiny apartments made it relatively easy to stick to that goal. Consequently, I did not buy any works of art.

But I did come to appreciate a certain form of Japanese brush painting. These relatively simple, black and white images seemed very restful amid the non-stop intensity of life in a noisy, densely populated city where everyone appeared to be constantly on the move.

In 1975, I relocated to London, ready to buy a flat and settle into a more comfortable style of life. With the housing market depressed as a result of very high interest rates, I soon found one in Chelsea, just off the King’s Road and not far from Sloan Square where I caught the Underground to reach my office near Fleet Street, then the center of the British newspaper industry.

The flat was reasonably large with rooms on more than one floor, but it was a little like a tunnel in that the only windows were on the two ends. In between lay what seemed like acres of bare wall space.

The low-cost option would have been museum-type posters. But by then, I felt I was ready for a step up to “real” art – in this case what are known as original prints. These are issued in limited editions and are generally numbered and signed by the artist. I was familiar with such work because I’d long been a fan of prints made by artists such as Andy Warhol and Alexander Calder. But that was before I thought I might purchase one.

The route from my flat to Sloan Square took me past a shop displaying a rather eclectic collection of art objects, surely assembled primarily with interior decoration requirements in mind.

It had an extensive window display and one image that caught my eye was a black and white print of a spider plant, or at least some part of such a plant, the remainder obscured by  -- what? Perhaps the top of a table.

It took a couple of months of eying it every day (perhaps I was hoping it would sell and I wouldn’t have to take the plunge) before I finally developed the courage to buy it – already framed and ready to hang.

It was then that I discovered it was a silkscreen print done in 1973 by a British artist named Patrick Caulfield. I had never heard of him.

After living with the print for a while and finding that I liked it a great deal (it was, indeed, a very restful image promoting a sense of cool serenity after a hectic day in the newsroom), I returned to the shop and asked the owner if he had any more – particularly in black and while. He had none and was unable to suggest where any others, if they existed, might be found.

As a financial journalist in London, one reads “The Financial Times” and some months after I purchased Spider Plant, I read a review in the FT of a new edition of Caulfield prints, being published by a gallery called Waddington’s in Cork St., the heart of the London art world. There I met Alan Cristea, who oversaw Waddington’s print operations (and later bought the division, forming Alan Cristea Gallery) and through him, became acquainted with Caulfield’s other work and with the work of a number of contemporary British artists whose prints Waddington’s, and later Alan Cristea Gallery, published or stocked.

Although I didn’t realize it at the time, my life as a collector of prints had begun.

Caulfield, who died in 2005, was a significant member of a loose group of post World War II British artists who re-defined art in England. His work, which consists of paintings as well as prints, resides in the collections of a number of major art institutions.

What is the salient feature of Caulfield’s work with prints?

In my mind these images offer viewers what might be termed a passport to aesthetics – a relatively easy, but at the same time intriguing path to understanding what makes the felicitous arrangement of forms and colors in a defined space satisfying in the sense that one experiences, at a minimum, a sense of pleasure in looking at them, not just once, but repeatedly. That having been accomplished, viewers, through additional consideration, may be able to achieve measures of emotional, spiritual and intellectual satisfaction as well. To one degree or another, I have found all of these over the years.

What follows is my personal appreciation of some of these images – comments that are meant to be provocative as opposed to dispositive.

At first glance, these prints might be seen, in their apparent simplicity, as works of no great consequence.

“Why in the world did you buy that thing? Anyone could make something like that.”

I got a number of comments along those lines years ago as friends first gazed upon what I had purchased.

Time, if nothing else, has shown the error of such views. Caulfield’s bold, distinctive prints easily stand apart. It is very difficult to mistake them for the work of any other artist and hard to find anything similar. We are all familiar with the expression “less is more.” In a similar vein, it may well be more difficult to produce images that are satisfying in their simplicity than impressive in their complexity. 

Caulfield’s images of common objects and familiar interior scenes are first and foremost highly approachable: few if any viewers will find themselves mystified by the artist’s subject matter. So one can move immediately to the treatment of what is depicted and begin to think about why it is satisfying and attractive -- or not if you think otherwise.

For the most part, Caulfield utilizes fields of uniform color contained within precisely defined outlines to depict objects or scenes that have been reduced to essential minimums – ideal material for the silk-screen technique. Devoid of unnecessary embellishments, these images depict essences, giving rise to moods, emotions and memories while at the same time satisfying the eye. But for those who want to go further, there is also considerable intellectual content and a sly sense of humor in a number of these works.

Consider, for instance, the four-print sequence Interior: Morning, Noon, Evening, Night (1971)

 

Monet, perhaps most famously, urged us to consider the idea that objects may not be of any particular color: cathedrals and haystacks change color in different light.

Anyone who has spent time gazing at Puget Sound knows this to be true. Yet our brains, having been told what color something is supposed to be, tend to correct for changes in lighting, resulting in us seeing, for instance, a certain garage door as “white” even though it really isn’t much of the time. In photography, this is known as automatic white balance, or making continuous adjustments within the electronics of a camera to compensate for the changing color of light.

Looking at Caulfield’s Interior series, one can see that, within the bounds of flat color fields, the artist has provided what might be considered accurate, conventional depictions of the color (or absence) of light during the four times of day under consideration. But knowing that surfaces such as window frames and lamp shades will change color as the light changes, Caulfield has rather brazenly chosen the color that in his view best complements the color of the light in question. Nature having cracked the door open, the artist rushes through.

But there is also an implication here that the viewer need not be satisfied with Caulfield’s  choices. Red, blue and yellow are the colors out of which all others are made – when it comes to painting. The same goes for red, blue and green with respect to electronics – the depiction of color on a TV screen. Note that Caufield has provided all four and thereby seems to be saying: “here, I’ve given you the tools to make it anything you want. What color combinations please you?”

That invitation to substitute one’s own choices could be considered humorous as well as intellectually stimulating and aesthetically provocative. And, indeed, a rather sly, intellectual form of humor runs through many of these prints.

Consider Cream Glazed Pot (1979-80), Lamp and Pines (1975), Still Life Ingredients (1976) and, perhaps, Big Sausage (1978).

Note the flecks on the portion of the image representing the background paper in Cream Glazed Pot. A one point, it became fashionable for artists to make their prints on hand-made paper with visible variations in color and texture. Caulfield humorously mocked the trend by simply printing his own “imperfections.”

 

 

 Likewise, when prints were attacked as a lesser form of art because they hadn’t experienced the “hand of the artist” (the printer intervened), some artists responded by adding distinctive, hand-colored elements to each print in a particular edition. Caulfield’s response was to hand-smear the inks used to depict a silk lampshade – once fashionable, now perhaps evocatively garish -- in Lamp and Pines, making each print different, but not obviously so. To turn Andy Warhol on his head, different, but the same.

What about Still Life Ingredients, a print like White Pot (of the same 1976 series) that represents the phase of greater complexity in Caulfield’s work on paper? What one has here are the ingredients of a meal comprising as well the elements of a still live – objects simultaneously fulfilling two roles. Conflating the title amusingly brings this out.

 

Sausages and the like have long been part of “serious” still lifes – one thinks of dark, but lustrous work in oil by the old masters hung in museums – dead fowl, cuts of meat, vegetables, perhaps some flowers, all arrayed on a plain wooden table in a dark room, light falling perfectly from a window, or maybe a lamp or candles, on the scene. What is one to make of Big Sausage, all alone on a splashy backdrop? Surely amusement as well as an appreciation of the esthetic qualities of ordinary objects is the order of the day.

 

I am sometimes asked to identify my own favorites among these prints. Before answering, let me point to my wife’s favorites: Before answering, let me point to my wife’s favorites: Brown Jug (1981-82) and Dressed Lobster (1986).

 

The latter is interesting in that it was issued in an unusually large edition, un-numbered and initially unsigned. It, along with three prints by other artists issued in similar fashion, were put on sale during a related exhibition at London’s Tate Gallery for roughly $10 apiece. This was in response to criticism that print artists were artificially limiting the size of their editions in order to keep prices high. So here was a chance to have a genuine work of art by one of four very well known artists in Britain for next to nothing.  

 Hardly any of these prints sold. Sometime later, learning that I had purchased one, Alan Cristea asked me to bring it in and Caulfield signed it. Of course it is worth more that way, but it is exactly the same image in either case.

The whole episode raises provocative questions as to just why people buy art.

I agree with my wife that Brown Jug is a very satisfying image – one that we have always displayed prominently in our home. A curved line that at one point transitions into a shadow. A couple of fields of color on a blue background. That’s all it takes to evoke the timeless appeal of earthenware – one of mankind’s first and most enduring endeavors.

This image contains purity, sensuality and a certain pregnancy. And while we know exactly what it is, or at least we think we do, close examination shows it isn’t strictly representational. There are puzzling aspects to this depiction – elements that make the image less of what our brain tells us such a jug would actually look like, but more pleasing from an aesthetic point of view.

My single personal favorite is Black and White Café  (1973). That one, even with the yellow ceiling, and Pipe and Jug (1973) bring me full circle to my first Caulfield purchase. Cool and serene yet evocative of so many experiences, moods and emotions. Art that is part of one’s life.

 

A few final comments: the human figure appears in only three of Caufield’s prints, two of which appeared in the Seattle University  show: The Hermit (1967) and Portrait of a Frenchman (1971).  The latter is a thoroughly compelling yet almost cartoon-like image that seems to go exceptionally well with Black and White Café. The color of light in the window represents the Pernot or Ricard the man has been drinking – evidently for some time as the rather alarming color of his face suggests. The black beret and the Gaulic nose – he’s French without a doubt; no one need tell us. The cut of the coat and that shirt buttoned up under his chin – clearly a workman. And that hint of a little railing behind the seat, a tiny touch that is so classically French. A simple image yet one absolutely packed with information.

 

The Hermit one the other hand, is a puzzle. A salient feature Caulfield’s prints is that he could, and likely did, directly observe the subject matter. But could this be true of the hermit?  It doesn’t seem likely, particularly given the perspective the artist has chosen. This was the second print Caulfield made – about three years after his first  -- and it launched a period of fairly intense output. Yet except for the flat color fields and black outlines, it seems unconnected with everything that followed. Go figure.

Why did I buy The Hermit? I liked the colors. I was decorating a playroom/family room mainly in primary colors – as sort of a tribute to Piet Mondrian and the utopian hopes of the de Stijl school. To me, it seemed to fit right in, although I’m not sure anyone else ever agreed

The Debt Ceiling, the Dollar and American Living Standards

 

By Fowler W. Martin

 Earlier this month, economist Paul Krugman wrote a column for the New York Times on the dollar as a reserve currency and whether that status is threatened. After discussing certain concerns, this was Krugman’s bottom line:

 “In reality, however, the dollar’s role looks pretty secure — with one major caveat. I have no idea what will happen if, as seems all too possible, we end up defaulting on debt payments because a Republican House refuses to raise the debt ceiling. But it’s not likely to be good. Who will trust the currency of a nation that appears to have politically lost its mind?”

In the body of the article, Krugman didn’t mention political stability as a factor underling the dollar’s long-standing preeminent role as a store of value for what amounts to the savings foreign governments accumulate largely because their countries export more than they import. Rather, he pointed to the depth, breath and liquidity of U.S. financial markets, an absence of capital controls, and a reliable legal system.

In my experience as a financial journalist reporting on such matters for many years, those are, indeed, the time-tested explanations for this phenomenon.  Some would add the enormous size of the U.S. economy relative to other nations although that is arguably captured in the nature of U.S. financial markets. Others point to military power: the U.S. is unlikely to suddenly fall victim to an expansionist foreign nation that might (among other things) impose capital controls and change critical laws and the manner in which they are implemented.

I personally would add that the U.S. political system, where to date power has been reliably transferred in a transparent fashion at regular intervals, is a major source of foreign confidence as well.

This isn’t the first time questions have arisen as to whether the dollar should continue to enjoy its privileged position. But when they have, a quick answer has been: “What are the alternatives?” and in that vein, Krugman in his column advanced that notion, citing China’s problematic policies and practices as the prime example.

But the situation may be changing. Earlier this month, Christine Lagarde, head of the European Central Bank and former head of the International Monetary Fund, told the U.S. Council on Foreign Relations that at present, about 60% of international reserves are held in dollars, 20% in the Euro and the remaining 20% in the Chinese renminbi, the yen, the pound sterling, the Canadian dollar, the Australian dollar and a few others.

So alternatives are out there with the Euro having gained the most ground against the dollar during the recent past.

“We are also seeing increased accumulation of gold as an alternative reserve asset, possibly driven by countries much closer geopolitically to China and to India,” she said.

The thrust of Lagarde’s remarks was that the world economy appears to be fragmenting into competing blocs – a development, she said, that “is likely to have first-order implications for central banks.”  That would, of course, include the U.S. Federal Reserve.

In his column, Krugman argued that even if the dollar were to lose its reserve currency status, it wouldn’t matter much. Pointing to other countries – principally Britain – where this has happened, he said non-reserve currencies “do just fine at home, continuing to serve the traditional roles of money: medium of exchange, store of value, unit of account.”

While that statement is perfectly true as far as it goes, it doesn’t go far enough. The balance of payments is a complicated and difficult topic, but in a nutshell, because of very large inflows of capital from foreign governments who want to hold their reserves in dollars, mainly in the form of U.S. government securities – inflows not offset by comparable outflows of capital – the U.S. has not just been enabled, but arguably required, to run significant deficits the trade of goods and services for decades.

Simply put, we have been long living beyond our means by consuming more than we produce. Another way of describing it is that because the dollar is the key reserve currency, our standard of living (in economic terms) has been higher than otherwise would have been the case.

What happens when a limited or non-reserve currency country tries to live beyond its means in similar fashion?  As we have seen on many occasions, a crisis ensues and the country is forced to go to the IMF for capital inflows in the form of loans to offset the outflows of payments resulting from a trade deficit. Generally the IMF requires domestic austerity policies, aimed at cutting consumption and boosting production, as a condition for such hopefully temporary support.  In other words, living standards take a hit in the borrowing nation, which generally causes governments to delay turning to the IMF for as long as possible.

What if foreign governments decide to sell all or a significant part of their holdings of U.S. government securities – securities that help finance U.S. budget deficits?  Interest rates could rise in order to attract other buyers, which, all other things being equal, would also adversely impact U.S. living standards. Or the federal government might be faced with cutting spending and/or raising taxes.

Leaving governments out of picture for a moment, Krugman said foreigners in general “probably hold more than a trillion dollars in U.S. currency, mainly in the form of $100 bills.” To the extent they tried to convert such holdings into other denominations, the Fed, he said, would have to sell off some of its massive securities holdings, but to whom?  If conversions of $100 bills took place as a result of a loss of confidence by foreign government in the dollar’s reserve status, the securities would have to be priced to attract domestic investors away from alternatives. In other words, higher interest rates and presumably less capital for commercial uses.

How important is the latter?  Well, Krugman just had another column celebrating a revival of investment in U.S. manufacturing that in his view stems from recent, very large government spending bills signed by President Biden – the CHIPS Act and the mis-named Inflation Reduction Act.

“Goldman Sachs predicts that the Inflation Reduction Act will involve substantially higher government outlays than was initially projected, but will also induce trillions of dollars in private investment,” Krugman said.  That would mean the government would have to sell more securities at the same time private demand for capital funding was increasing substantially.

Suppose foreign government and private funding were diminishing or “pulling out” as a result of questions over the dollar’s value as a reliable store of value, possibly as a result of a debt-ceiling default? American living standards could be at risk from that direction as well.

The reserve status of the dollar is far from inconsequential.

(During more than 30 years as a financial journalist, Mr. Martin was the Managing Editor of the AP-Dow Jones Economic Report, an international financial newswire, and Washington Bureau Chief of Dow Jones News Services. He currently lives in Seattle in retirement.)

(c) 2023 All Rights Reserved

Chekhov's "Uncle Vanya:" A Play with a Message, or Not

I have recently been taking a Continuing Studies course on the short stories and plays of the Russian writer Anton Chekhov (1860 - 1904). What follows is a couple of things I wrote up for a discussion thread on the play "Uncle Vanya."

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One question that almost always arises is: "Does this play have a message?" (It doesn't have to. Many, many plays have been written as a source of entertainment for a night out, and some serve to illuminate an issue without resolving it -- hopefully with great acting along the way. "Up to you to decide," the author says, leaving one to horse it over with one's companions over a post-theater drink or two.)

If "Uncle Vanya" has a message, it would appear to be that "work" has both value in and of itself and will be rewarded by God. (In view of Chekhov's generally bleak outlook on human existence and his eventual atheism, not to mention the doctor's discovery that much in the way of human endeavor is destroying the earth, one can wonder about that.)

In any event, Yelena is criticized on more than one occasion for not working. When she serves to distract Vanya and the doctor from their work, their lives fall apart and the continued existence of the household is threatened as the crops aren't properly harvested, bills go unpaid, and the necessary paperwork is left undone. And the region's sick are left unattended.

At one point Marina tells Telegin not to pay attention to a shopkeeper who has called him a hanger-on (a terrible insult, it would seem). "Don't pay the least attention to them, master; we are all dependents on God. You and Sonia and all of us. Everyone must work, no one can sit idle."

Most significantly on that front, Sonia -- ever a voice of hope no matter how bleak the outlook (Vanya would have liked to be another Schopenhauer!) -- is given the last word, reinforced by music. "We must live our lives ... We shall work for others without rest, both now and when we are old ... God will have pity on us ..."  And the reward for working steadily in this life will be rest and happiness -- beyond the grave.

Did Chekhov really believe that, and is that really the "take away" one is supposed to get from this play? Or are we to view poor Sonia as the biggest fool of all?

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One can definitely just enjoy the show, as one might any other accomplished artistic creation.

It need not have a message -- at least not one specifically intended by its creator. Asked what a work of art means, the artist may well say (and many have): "It means whatever it means to you."

Early in the English translation that I read, Telegin says a particular scene is "worthy of Aivazovsky's brush," the latter being a Russian painter of considerable renown. (The phrase apparently gained popular currency in the wake of Chekhov's play as a means of labeling something beautiful or of considerable value.)

One can take the view that "Uncle Vanya" in its totality is "worthy of Aivazovsky's brush." Here we see Chekhov's impressive skills in full bloom as he paints a picture of a slice of Russian society. a picture in which playgoers can see themselves or people they know. A certain degree of artistic license enhances or amplifies notable aspects of the scene.

What then to make of Sonia's concluding soliloquy or the doctor's environmental lecture? There is no particular message for playgoers. These are simply aesthetic depictions of the nature of certain people one might encounter and of the role they play in society. Sonia, Marina and perhaps Telegin are recognizeable as the glue that holds things together.

Vanya's repeated attempt to shoot someone, quickly forgiven? An important role of theater is that of a safety valve: an outlet for emotions that can't easily be expressed without dire consequences in real life. Plays like "Vanya" need a dramatic focal point. Whether the action is entirely credible is less important than the emotional impact.

In short: sit back and enjoy the brush strokes -- and the resulting vivid imagery. That's enough.

"Wednesday's Child" Perhaps Better From a Different POV

 In "Wednesday's Child" by Yiyun Li, a short story in the Jan. 16, 2023, on-line version of the New Yorker, Marcie, the nearly 16-year-old daughter of Rosalie, the story's protagonist, commits suicide by lying down across some railway tracks. This occurred just three weeks after Marcie began attending a "highly selective prep school" to which she had apparently been determined to gain admittance.

Marcie had been a precocious child who read challenging books and otherwise apparently walked to her own drum, such as in the manner in which she ate melon. That's about all readers are told about her.

The bulk of the story consists of Rosalie pondering her daughter's death as she travels toward a famous WWI battlefield where as many as one million soldiers died. An analogy for the apparently senseless nature of Marcie's demise?

What's odd about this story is that while her daughter's death is quite naturally a major preoccupation for Rosalie -- recalled here through associations with current events -- Rosalie apparently made no inquiries as to what may have transpired during Marcie's first three weeks in what was probably a pressured school environment. Or if she did, her findings were apparently of insufficient interest to recall or relate. 

Rather Rosalie thinks about what may or may not make a good mother and whether she mistakenly allowed her daughter -- and in one instance encouraged her -- to read age-inappropriate books. A version of the familiar female refrain: "It's all my fault." 

Perhaps Rosalie's self-absorption lies behind the untimely death of her daughter to even a greater extent than either she herself or the author of her story realizes. “Any time a child chooses that way out, you have to wonder what the parents did,” Rosalie’s mother at one time told Rosalie. One thinks the word "readers" could easily be substituted for the word "you" in that statement.

Rosalie considers the comment cruel and in line with her mother's streak of such behavior. But at the same time, "Rosalie and Dan (her husband) had received their verdict," or so the narrator would have readers believe, In view of the contents of the story, it's a classic case of tell, don't show. Readers are left with no depiction of the child's upbringing.

After finishing Ms Li's piece, it occurred to me that a story about Marcie, from her point of view, would have been far more interesting than the one I had just finished about Rosalie. Perhaps Ms Li will oblige, or maybe she already has. 

Chekhov's "The Darling:" Controlled Variation Says Saunders

 A "darling" is a beloved person who can do no wrong. One thinks of Peter Pan's friend Wendy. 

Wendy was quite literally a Darling -- that was her last name. The implication, of course, was that she was also a darling in the definitional sense and, as depicted by J.M. Barrie in his stories about Peter Pan, that seems to have been the case. She was indeed a beloved person and except that her difficult father at one point objected to her telling "silly stories" to her younger brothers, she was apparently about as perfect as a girl, and later a woman, can get.

But unlike Chekhof's darling, a woman named Olga Semyonova, or Olenka as she is known to family and friends, Wendy had to make a difficult choice: whether to stay in Neverland with Peter and remain a child forever, or return home and face adulthood with all of its challenges. Olenka, about whose background readers are told little, just drifts through life, falling in love with one male after another and then conforming her life to theirs -- sharing not only their activities but their opinions.

"The Darling" is one of three Chekhov short stories that American author and creative writing instructor Geoge Saunders elucidates in his recent book "A Swim in a Pond in the Rain." The book's look at seven Russian short stories is based on workshop sessions Saunders has conducted with students at Syracuse University over a period of about 20 years.

Olenka, "the daughter of a retired collegiate assessor," is presumably not uneducated. But her fundamental characteristic is that "she was always enamored with someone and could not live otherwise." Physically warm and comfortable, she's otherwise an empty vessel that needs to be filled from some external source and remains over the years unchanged in that respect. 

After first focusing on a French teacher, then on her now-dying father and then an aunt, Olenka as young woman first falls in love with a rather unattractive theater impresario because she feels sorry for him. When he somewhat mysteriously dies on a business trip shortly thereafter, she marries a lumberyard owner and lives happily with him for six years although they are unable to have children. Next comes as an army veterinarian (armies had a lot of horses back then), but he's married so her infatuation is removed and mostly one-sided. Finally, as a mother figure, she loves the now-retired vet's young son, who finds her annoying. 

End of the story.

For Saunders, "The Darling" is a "pattern story" -- a tale in which a basic theme recurs, but each time with slight changes that both give readers pleasure and appear to infer new meaning.  In his book about Russian short stories, he spends a lot of time explaining just how Chekhov went about constructing it.

Readers who like music will probably immediately recognize this technique as theme and variation. It's ever-present, such as when jazz musicians pass around various riffs on a particular melody, but I most enjoy it Handel's vocal music where theme and variation is ever present and with great imagination. Easily approachable in that respect is "Every Valley," the second aria from "Messiah." 

The technique is probably a lot less used in literature, and especially as blatantly as in "The Darling." And not without reason: as the tale proceeded, Olenka seemed came across for me as more caricature than character and, indeed, at one point Saunders admits she can appear to be somewhat robotic.

No matter how good a melody is, it can become boring if it is simply repeated in unchanged form. Likewise, Saunders warns against stories are too static in nature. One or more expectations need to be set at the beginning and resolution comes through a series of what he calls "escalations." In other words, the stakes have to get higher.   

At the end of the day, and in view of the fact that "The Darling" ends without a striking development that proclaims "Resolution!" one can't help wondering what the theme that was subjected to variation was all about.

In Saunders view, Chekov was writing about love, and how it can become a complete absorption for one person as opposed to a form of communication between two. Others, such as Leo Tolstoy ("War and Peace," "Anna Karenina") have tried, Saunders said, to make tale about the nature, or natures, of women. There is, of course, the age-old question: "what do women want?" In Olenka's case, the answer would seem to be "to be a caregiver." 

Well, fine, but it still seems to be told as caricature, or too simplistic. Olenka lacks complexity and as such, it's tough to find her of any great interest as an individual. 

At the end of the day, Saunders said that he teaches "The Darling" as "a brisk little primer on just how much organization the story form can bear and will reward," adding that in this instance, he finds Chekov's tale "a beautiful system for presenting a tale of controlled variation."

Now let's see, where did I put my cd of "Messiah" arias and choruses? Talk about a beautify system of controlled variation!

   

An Alternative To Saunder's Sense of Chekhov's "In the Cart"

 Since I am about to take a continuing education course on Anton Chekhov's short stories and plays, I thought I would get a copy of George Saunder's recent book "A Swim in a Pond in the Rain" and see what he had to say about three of them.

Saunders, an award-winning American author, is also a professor of creative writing at Syracuse University where he has taught a course on Russian short stories, in translation, for about 20 years. "A Swim in a Pond ... " is essentially a collection of seven of his workshop sessions and it begins with Chekhov's "In the Cart," published in 1897, one of seven stories that Saunders says are clear, simple and moving, but also meant to challenge, antagonize and outrage -- "and in a complicated way, to console."

He also says that while the stories are for the most part "quiet, domestic and apolitical," they are also resistance literature written at a time when writers could face censorship, or even exile, imprisonment and execution, for anything considered transgressively political. 

In general, the key to success in story writing, Saunders says, is an emotionally moving tale that a reader feels compelled to finish.

While at one point Saunders says he considers terms such as "theme," "plot," "character development" and "structure" not very useful, as he takes readers page by page through "In the Cart," character development is what he mostly talks about.  

We initially encounter the chief protagonist of the story, a woman named Marya Vasilyevna, and discover that she is "unhappy because of the monotony of her life" -- and as a result, "the story has become restless." So says Saunders.

Eleven pages later, after various interactions with her cart driver, with a wealthy, but useless local landowner and with some peasants in a tea-shop, things are going downhill. But a momentary vision of a woman on a passing train reminds Marya of her mother and her much better life as a child, leaving her at least momentarily elated.

The result of all this, says Saunders, is that readers have been taken through the depths of Marya's loneliness to the point where one feels her loneliness as if it is one's own.  

"Over the course of these eleven pages, the blank mind with which you began has been filled with a new friend, Marya, who, if my experience is any indication, will stay with you forever," the professor says. End of the workshop.

In other words, this story is an example of successful character development. The bottom line for Saunders is that Marya, as an individual person, is timeless.

While I can't take issue with anything Saunders has to say, I came away with a completely different reading of what the story was all about. To me, Marya is of no great importance, or particularly memorable as an individual. Rather, her life helps to elucidate the state of Russia at a particular time.

"In a Cart" (that title pretty much says it all) takes place about eight years before the tumultuous if  ultimately unsuccessful Russian Revolution of 1905 and the country, other than wealthy cities such as Moscow and St. Petersburg, is gradually falling to pieces. The cart in which Marya, a schoolmistress, is riding and the terrible roads over which it is traveling exemplify the state of most of the country. The express train that temporarily halts the cart and the sophisticated woman she notices riding on it speak of profound income and opportunity inequalities. A few Russians can ride such trains; most of the rest are stuck in carts -- and stuck in other ways, too.

As the cart bumps along on a damp day in early Spring, some snow still on the ground, readers learn:

-- Marya, originally from a middle-class Moscow family, "could imagine no other future than the school, the road to town and back, and again the school and again the road." [Russia is a country without upward mobility.]

--The mayor of Moscow has just been killed. [An actual event at the time of the story.] 

--The wealthy landowner in his four-horse carriage who encounters the cart drinks heavily and when servicing as an examiner of students at the school, gives nothing but the highest grades because he knows nothing. He could easily have improved the roads, but doesn't. He gives the school globes, which Marya considers of no need. [These students aren't going anywhere.]

Saunders makes much of Marya's thoughts about the wealthy landowner as being handsome despite all his flaws and perhaps a way out of her situation -- and how that helps readers understand her. My sense is that Chekhov added this to the story to help disguise its true nature: a critique of the state of Russian society and thus of the country's rulers. The Marya-landowner relationship, or potential relationship, turns out to be just a bit of wheel spinning by Chekhov. Nothing comes of it -- but it helps cloak the underlying nature of the tale.

--Marya wants to get the school janitor, who does nothing but cuff the boys, discharged, "but no one paid any attention to her." The person with such authority can rarely be found and when he is, claims to have no time for whatever needs to be addressed. An inspector has only visited the school once in three years and has no understanding of anything connected with it -- and got his job not because he was qualified, but because of who he knew. The School Board rarely met and no one knew where. Someone with the title of Trustee of the school is half-illiterate, stupid and a friend of the janitor. [So much for the education of rural Russian children.]

--"Marya continues to think of the school and its corrupt administration, and the fact there is no one for her to turn to."

At one point, Sauders talks about how Chekhov keeps describing the road the cart is traveling as getting worse and worse, indicating "a steady degrading situation." That, in my view, is an allegory for the state of Russia in general at the time of the story. 

--Marya had begun to teach school from necessity (her parents died when she was young) and she has little interest in the students themselves -- just getting them past the examinations. "What kind of Russia is this that compels a person to work a job to which she has no calling, and so be reduced by it?" Saunders asks in his commentary. My view: that is exactly what this story is all about; not Marya the individual woman, but Marya the representative of the state of Russia.

-- "Teachers, impecunious physicians, doctor's assistants, for all their terribly hard work, do not even have the comfort of thinking that they are serving an ideal or the people, because their heads are always filled with thoughts of their daily bread, of firewood, of bad roads, of sickness. It is a hard, humdrum existence, and only stolid cart horses like Marya Vasilyena can bear it for long; lively, alert, impressionable people who talk about their calling and about serving the ideal are soon weary of it and give up the work." [With that passage, Chekhov interrupts his narrative for the sake of more critical social commentary. Russia is in such bad shape its best people simply give up.]

--The cart driver claims that when a local school was being built, graft was rampant. Marya tries to dismiss it as nonsense, but Chekhov says no one believed her and thought she was both paid too much and guilty of graft herself. [This is a society where those on the bottom trust no one higher up the social ladder.]

Well that's pretty much it. For me, Chekhov may well have painted a compelling picture of a lonely woman deserving our sympathy -- "an emotionally moving tale," as Saunders put it -- but only to serve a greater purpose: a scathing critique of the prevailing state of Russia at the arrival of the 20th century. Marya, like the cart, is a vehicle upon which the critique rides.

  

"Notions of the Sacred" by Ayşegül Savaş Seems Mistitled

 "Values" is a word frequently tossed about.  Although there can be an overlap, one's values are not the same as one's morals. Values are what one thinks are more important as opposed to less important, or not important at all.

For instance, while it is far from immoral to pull out a cell phone and answer a message at dinner, an important family value might be no electronic devices at the dinner table. 

I bring this up because values seem to loom large in "Notions of the Sacred," a short story by Ayşegül Savaş in the Dec. 26, 2022 electronic edition of The New Yorker.

The story begins with an unnamed protagonist relating how she had entered a new dimension upon learning that she had become pregnant -- almost as though she had become like the Virgin Mary in scenes of the Annunciation. 

She's unmarried and the pregnancy was unintended, the product of a brief affair with a man she would prefer not learn what happened and become upset. "I just wanted to enjoy my new state."

Thus far, it seems what is important to this woman -- what she values -- is her pregnancy and presumably the welfare of the child since she isn't inclined to get an abortion. 

But as time goes by, it becomes increasingly clear that what she actually values most is her lost friendship with a college friend named Zoe -- lost because they had "grown apart over the years," in part as a result of a careless comment one had made. But then one day, after Zoe and her husband had moved to a nearby town, it was Zoe who had gotten back in touch, in part to disclose her own pregnancy.

Eventually, a certain development occurs (I won't totally spoil the story) and it turns out what is most important to Savaş' protagonist is whether Zoe will still like her or not after what has happened. I found it a curious sense of values. Somehow, this woman doesn't appear to have her priorities straight.  

A question along those lines does come up in the usual New Yorker author interview, but Savaş' answer fails to explain why the protagonist considers one thing more important than another. Rather, she ends a somewhat rambling response with a complaint about "the way that the sacred and the body have been commodified in New Age discourse" -- which seems to relate more to the title of the story than to what the tale comes across as being all about.  It's about values in my humble estimation.