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. 

Matthew Klam's Hectic Depiction of a Slice of Society

 Matthew Klam's "The Other Party" in the Dec. 12, 2022, online version of The New Yorker is another example of short fiction as a snapshot in time as opposed to a traditional story with a beginning, middle and end. It's also fiction for our time in that it offers a convincing depiction of a contemporary inter-generational relationship, in this case a father and his teenage daughter in a very white middle-class neighborhood of Washington DC, as evidenced by a reference to Wisconsin Ave. 

Having lived there for 20 years, I know it well.

The wife and mother of the family is present too, but she doesn't loom particular large in the sequence of events. That's because in the pandemic, she has moved her practice into the basement of their house and is depicted as dealing onscreen with an endless stream of patients "in states of dislocation and despair." Having recently lost a job, dad, the chief protagonist, is managing quotidian affairs, 

Publication of the piece is well-timed in that it depicts a hectic pace of events connected with the Christmas season -- a neighborhood party centered on a traditional decorated cookie swap lubricated by a bowl of punch for the older generation and something far less structured, and, given the state of the world, a lot more dangerous for the teenagers.

Dad's method of coping seems to be "go with flow" because there is really no alternative.

Klam's prose style is almost stream of conscious in nature, mostly from the father's point of view.  It's as though readers are seeing and hearing the smallest of developments, as they take place, in exquisite and often colorful detail. The mix becomes increasingly cacophonous as the chief protagonist attempts to deal with the cookies, think about his wife, cope with rapidly changing developments involving his daughter and her friends, and try to absorb and properly relate to a piece of very bad news about a long-time neighbor and friend of his own.

The amount of detail is so rich and the flow of events so fast-paced I personally felt rather exhausted by the time I reached the end of the piece -- and very impressed with Klam's ability to convincingly assemble and depict so much information. 

What the point of all of this?  Hard to say. As I mentioned at the beginning, this is fundamentally a snapshot in time of a certain strata of contemporary society. There is a stab at a conclusion with a somewhat sappy message (although one with which I can identify) -- but the main point seems to be that life is increasingly messy: don't fight it. 

Danielle Dutton's "Wonderful Description" -- of Vulnerability

 A lot of contemporary short fiction seems to take the form of a snapshot in time as opposed to a story -- the latter traditionally having a beginning, middle and end, the end being something that brings all the threads together and ties them up in a neat, satisfying bow. Well, of course there have always been exceptions and especially after Modernism arrived, but I think it is safe to say readers generally expect to know what has happened and why when they reach the end of a piece.

But one might also consider abstract art where the notion often is: "What it means is whatever it means to you." 

Or as I have written previously, the appeal of fiction for an average reader (if there is such a person) may be whether the reader can identify with a character in the piece of writing in question. 

Such thoughts came to mind when I read "My Wonderful Description of Flowers," by Danielle Dutton, in the Nov. 28, 2022 electronic version of The New Yorker. It's basically a snapshot in time in the life of a middle-aged, intellectual woman who seems to find some sort of danger lurking in every corner of her otherwise ordinary life -- ordinary in today's world, Dutton quickly makes clear, by providing her protagonist with a videogame loving, gender non-conforming child who uses the pronoun "their" as opposed to his or her. The subsequent prose is carefully constructed so as to never identify the child by name. 

Well, that's one of several mysteries. The woman's husband, who readers are told never has dreams of any consequence, suddenly dreams his wife has left him. A man the woman may have known in the past persistently seeks to meet her. The woman's husband and child aren't home when they are expected to be and don't respond to calls and texts. All this seemingly happens in a short space of time, although the passage of time is rather vaguely depicted. 

This is a woman whose life appears to be sliding off the rails. Her response: stay on the rails and ride a commuter train past her stop to the end of the line where only one other passenger gets off and, well, there is a bit of a mystery to that person as well. What's out there?  The once-endless prairie, one is told in the usual New Yorker interview. Now more just an idea than a reality. The reassurance of nature, bringing to mind perhaps the philosophy of Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

What will happen to the woman out there as darkness settles in? Not reassurance, but more danger? 

While Dutton says in her interview the story is littered with references to "other texts and media," it basically relies on an age-old literary gimmick to keep readers going: "Something is about to happen: what can it be?"

My guess is that readers who like this story best will be those who can identify with the apparent fragility of Ms. Dutton's protagonist, The attribute that arguably most distinguishes a woman from a man is a sense of vulnerability. That's ever-present in this story.

One last observation: in littering her fiction with references to other works and then, in her books (as opposed to in this short piece of fiction), spelling out the connections in "pages of notes," Dutton is channeling the approach taken by T.S. Eliot in "The Waste Land" -- although initially in his case not by design (the pages of notes that is; not the references themselves.) 

Pacific Northwest Ballet Faces Financial Challenges Ahead

 The other day, my wife and I took our lives in our hands and went to a live performance of the Seattle-based Pacific Northwest Ballet (PNB) for the first time in a couple of years. In times past we had been subscribers and I had been a contributor.

Well, that's an exaggeration of course: we wore masks, had seats where we were unlikely to be breathing much of anyone else's air (there was a decent crowd present, but the large auditorium was far from full) and avoided doing things we used to enjoy -- drinks and some food in the foyer, a post-show Q&A with one of the dancers. 

As live performances of one sort or another have returned, there have been no reports in Seattle of Covid outbreaks at such venues. While we were at the ballet, the Dave Matthews Band was playing in a sold-out arena nearby with no reports of any problems.  But, as a couple of our fully vaccinated family members can attest, Covid remains a significant threat and one senses it is still wise to carefully ration occasions when one is not going to be socially distant, keeping one's priorities straight (family and close friends first) in the process.

The good news: the quality level of PNB's performances remains very high despite a couple of very difficult years including a lengthy stretch of no live performances because of Covid. PNB is one of the few ballet companies in the U.S. with a full orchestra (plus a highly rated school). If the live music ever goes, also-ran status could lie ahead. 

We saw a mixed rep called "The Seasons' Canon" that was a bit of a smorgasbord as mixed reps frequently are: an opening number that served to advertise the company's commitment -- first and foremost it seems these days -- to diversity; then a classic Balanchine offering for the traditionalists, and finally an extravaganza (54 dancers on stage -- how many U.S. ballet companies can do that?) for those who enjoy spectacle -- and "something new" -- first and foremost. The last was a big hit with audiences according to a couple of home-town reviews, neither of which had a single critical word to say about anything.

In my humble opinion, while visually compelling and attractively danced to a version of Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons," what the final piece had to do with "ballet" was far less noticeable than what it didn't. 

I mention all of this because as a contributor in past years, I became curious about how the company was doing financially, prompted in part because of an email I received from PNB's director of development (fund raising) after I purchased my tickets. The email contained a letter from PNB's Artistic Director, Peter Boal, a distinguished former dancer with the New York City Ballet who has now headed PNB for almost a couple of decades -- generally to great critical acclaim.

The letter began: "We have a very exciting rep in store for you. This is one you will want to see more than once and one you’ll want to recommend to friends, acquaintances, strangers ... everyone!"

Well -- I did see it more than once, the second time digitally for a modest $35. (Because of union-related issues, the digital version was available for only five days after a week or so of live performances ended, which is unfortunate because PNB's digital-only offerings during the height of the Covid lockdowns attracted viewers from around the U.S. and various foreign countries.)

In any event, I'm sure you got the message from Mr. Boal's letter: PNB badly needs more ticket sales.

To understand what's happening, one has to go back to the last time PNB released an annual report (separate from its annual, required financial statement as a tax-exempt entity). That was before the pandemic, for the company's fiscal year ending June 2019.

"This past year was challenging financially. All of us know art can only exist in concert with wise
financial stewardship. We understand the need to present excellence in all we do, but only with
the practicality of our limited resources. When necessary, we make the hard decisions,
evaluating numbers of staff or dancers, adjusting programs, and seeking your help to build
revenue and enthusiasm."  So said Mr. Boal, observing that his role was more than just that of an artistic director. "At times, I'm the best person to find a strategic expense reduction," he said.

More in the way of explanation was provided by Ellen Walker, who had just finished her fifth year as PNB's Executive Director -- in essence, the company's business manager. 

Looking back over the past year, she noted that various external economic and political events had thrown "a disruptive, negative halo over The Nutcracker sales." (More on the critical importance of The Nutcracker later.)  "Sleeping Beauty" sales were on track to earn back a significant measure of that loss when Seattle's February snowstorms brought the region to a halt."  While that elaborate, expensive, somewhat out-of-date, three-act production (thereafter retired from PNB's repertoire) went on as scheduled, "our expected upside upside from ticket sales evaporated with the weather."

About six months after that fiscal year ended, the Covid pandemic arrived. 

In fiscal 2019, PNB Nutcracker ticket sales were just short of $5.7 million, down about 11% from $6.4 million the previous year.  Why is that such a blow?  Total ticket sales for the year (including Sleeping Beauty) were $11.58 million, meaning The Nutcracker alone accounted for just short of 50% of the total. In the preceding year, they had been slightly over 50%.

In the most recent fiscal year, ended June 2022 (the first year in which the company got back to live performances), Nutcracker ticket sales totaled just under $4.9 million (thanks in part by my two granddaughters attending for the first time, in their cute dresses and face masks), or about 49% of total sales.

While PNB and other ballet companies talk a lot about new productions -- and rightly so (what would choreographers and dancers do without them even if they are often not as memorable as one would hope), PNB might be more accurately called The Pacific Northwest Nutcracker Company. Same goes for many other ballet companies, I am sure. 

In contrast to $11.58 million in total ticker sales in the year ended June 2019, expenses for the company and its performances totaled just under $18.4 million. In other words, ticket sales covered just 63%. If administrative expenses of $2.2 million and fund-raising costs of $1.2 million were thrown in, ticker sales covered only 53% of costs.

Now, let's be fair: by the time fiscal 2019 had rolled around, the company had been in operation for about 48 years, and I suspect the ratios for many of those years were even more challenging. Contributions, by far the most important of which (before government support during the pandemic -- more on that soon) were from individuals. Corporate support -- despite the presence of corporate names everywhere -- have been pathetic, and especially so given Seattle's significant number of hugely profitable companies.

Well, if the last fiscal year before the pandemic appeared to be signaling the need for belt tightening, audience building (PNB with the aid of a significant grant has been trying, but it is clearly and uphill effort [thank goodness for all those little girls with ballerina dreams dancing in their heads]) and a search for additional contributions, the current outlook is perhaps even more dauting. 

Where is Makenzie Scott (the former wife of Jeff Bezos, of Amazon fame) when PNB needs her?  Hopefully waiting in the wings as she continues to rapidly dispose of her divorce-settlement billions. In quasi-Marxian terms, "her" billions are simply the surplus profits Amazon scooped up from American consumers, in large part, one can argue, by eliminating much of its competition through predatory pricing in its early years. Not so much now: the company routinely advises customers products on its website can often be obtained at lower cost elsewhere, but then there is often Amazon's "free" shipping. In other words, customers have been getting "taken" (to use a polite term) both coming and going.

Why does the appearance of an "angel" donor matter more for PNB now than in the past?

Let's take a look at the most recent fiscal year.

PNB got a whopping (relative to its size) $12 million in support from the federal government, little if any of which is likely to be repeated absent new government initiatives. Of the total $8 million constituted an award from the Shuttered Venue Operators Grant (SVOG) fund, a federal Covid relief effort that ceased accepting new applications in Aug. 2021. 

Fortunately, thanks in part to other federal aid, PNB needed only about $3 million of that to help cover fiscal 2022 expenses and the remainder was set aside to help cover expected shortfalls during the next three years or so. 

The other aid was just over $3 million in Paycheck Protection (another Covid relief program) loan forgiveness and just over $1 million in federal tax credits. Tax credits for an entity that pays no federal tax? It's explained somewhere in the financial report, available online, if anyone is really interested.

All of which leaves one wondering -- at a time when Covid still calls for caution. There are huge billboard ads for The Nutcracker in Seattle at present and hopefully the weather and the pandemic will cooperate. In the first half of 2023, the company is again scheduled to perform it's excellent version of "Gisele" and I'm looking forward to seeing it and especially if I can catch my current favorite ballerina -- Angelica Generosa -- in the title role. 

That's it for now, but I may have one or more posts on the company's recent mixed rep, mentioned above. 

"Hinges" by Graham Swift: When Words Have a Role to Play

 Graham Swift, interviewed about his story "Hinges" in the Nov.14, 2022 electronic version of The New Yorker, says it's a story about words and indeed it is.

The tale leads up to the funeral of a father, to be "done" or perhaps "conducted" by a minister unknown to the family before surviving members awkwardly consult with him about the Order of Service and who will say what -- not that anyone really knows what they might say at that point. This makes what is almost always a ritualistic event -- certain words, certain phrases, safe, expected -- even more stilted than might otherwise be the case.

Moreover, it doesn't appear much actually can be said about the deceased father. He spent his working life in a blanket factory in the north of England and apparently much of his subsequent years, with his wife, in a retirement community located in the southern part of the country. Stock homilies -- "he was a family man" -- are about it.

From start to finish, certain words and phrases associated with death and funerals immediately come to the minds of family members and mainly, in this case, to the deceased man's daughter since the story is told from her point of view. There are roles to be played and lines associated with those roles to be spoken.

That's not quite all there is to it, of course. The daughter both wonders why she and others are stuck with some words and she recalls the mother of a childhood friend who wouldn't play the game. This stirs up other memories -- her first crush, on an older man who it appears her mother -- and other women -- might have found sexually attractive as well. Just a hint or perhaps a figment of imagination. But the man, a carpenter who comes to fix a door ("hinges")  also seems to have been a friend of the father, and that for some reason surprises the then-much-younger daughter.  

"I don't think I'm alone as a writer in seeing sex and death as a sort of inseparable combo," Swift says in the interview. Sex and death, heath and humor, humor and sex -- a wheel of narrative in Swift's view.

Swift is English and there is a distinctly English sense of understatement to the story. Most American writers in this day and age would exploit the potentially transgressive aspects of the tale to a far greater extent than does Swift. He simply intimates there may be a skeleton of one sort or another in a family closet and leaves it at that. Which families don't have something in their background that perhaps comes to mind because it can't be mentioned at a funeral as opposed to because it can?

The bottom line: this is a story with which a lot of readers can probably identify, English or not,

The Bells of St. Catherine’s

  

The bells of St. Catherine’s are pealing at dawn

Voicing their sorrow for souls who have gone

Sounding their sadness at gray break of day

Grieving the shades, I hear them that way.

 

The bells of St. Catherine’s are singing for joy

Chiming with pleasure, such chords they employ

What could have happened this splendor to cause?

Ceasing my reading, I ponder with pause.

 

The bells of St. Catherine’s an anthem they sound

Hope for the world, the bells have now found

Who could be pulling the ropes so intent?

Sipping my coffee my doubts I relent.

 

The bells of St Catherine’s a clatter they make

One cannot but shudder, not music but ache

Signaling trouble, signaling pain

A dreadful foreboding of nothing to gain.

 

The Bells of St. Catherine’s fell silent this year

Thinking it over the message seems clear

Defilement of nature, men do as they may

But the God of Spinoza will have the last say.

 

 

© 2022 Fowler W Martin

Conflicting Directional Arrows for Lethem's Woketariat

 In my previous post -- Jonathan Lethem, "Narrowing Valley" -- I discussed Lethem's view that he could not write the expected conclusion to his New Yorker short story because to do so, he would have to misappropriate the culture of an Indian, or Native American, and, well, as a member of the woketariat (those for whom prevailing political correctness comes first and foremost), that was impossible.

The story is all about a coming showdown between a white family about to take possession of a patch of desert purchased sight unseen from an anonymous "Realtor" and the Indian who presumably actually owns if -- if "owns" is the right word for Native American land.

So, Lethem simply bailed out as the confrontation neared, leaving his readers rather distinctly short changed, but New Yorker editors, presumably also anxious to be politically correct, apparently impressed and, who knows? even relieved.

No Indian appeared in his story so he could avoid getting into trouble for daring to write about a person with a cultural background other than his own.

Now let's look back a couple of years to a post I wrote in June 2020 on a New York Times article on the work of Wallace Stegner.  It was the first in a Times series on American writers "who show us who we are." Stegner, by the way, was once known as "the Dean of Western Writers."

In the course of discussing Stegner's work, A.O. Scott, the author of the Times article, noted that Stegner's work had been criticized by, among other, Elizabeth Cook-Lynn, a writer and member of the Crow Creek Sioux Tribe, because Stegner failed to significantly address the indigenous peoples of the region or a variety of non-white immigrant groups.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't. 

Perhaps Mr. Lethem, who talked in his New Yorker author interview about making political correctness conundrums "teachable moments" at Pomona College where he is a professor of Creative Writing, could horse that one over. Maybe he could even put it up for a vote and let us know what the students decided.

Johathan Lethem, "Narrowing Valley" and the Woketariat

 At the bottom of the preceding post -- Marisa Silver's "Tiny, Meaningless Things ... " --  I talk about a relatively new class of society: the woketariat. In a nutshell, these are people for whom political correctness trumps other values.

Johathan Lethem, the author of the Oct. 24, 2022 (electronic edition) New Yorker short story "Narrowing Valley" is a professor of creative writing at Pomona College, an award-winning writer and the recipient of a MacArthur Foundation "genius" fellowship.  He's also arguably a member of the wokerati, or the woketariat.

"Narrowing Valley" is a story about an earlier story and it's laced with cultural references, presumably giving it a writerly quality. A potentially dramatic denoument is in the offing, but the tale never gets there. It just ends.  

Therein lies what Lethem suggests may be the real tale: the state of prevailing political correctness and what he clearly feels is his obligaton to toe the line.

The problem is this: the presumably dramatic denouement would involve an Indian, or Native American, man as a key protagonist  -- and for a white male to create such a character would, in Lethem's world, constitute cultural misappropriation.

Just imagine the flap that could ensue,and the possible adverse consequences for Lethem himself, given that cancel cuturse has far less to do with culture than it has to do sociopolitical power and who gets to hold desireable jobs.

In the usual New Yorker author interview, Lethem says he's enmeshed in conversations with students and colleagues on a daily basis as to what is permissible in the current environment. "This story's hesitation, precisely at the limit of a willinness to invent a Native character to advance its cause, is informed by it," he said, adding: "I don't mean that as a defense, but I hope it might be a useful description."

Elsewhere in the intereview, Lethem says: "The tone I struck here -- that of nervous guilty riffing in the treacherous realm of 'appropriation' -- may seem almost to beg a reader's own anxieties into play. Or a readers's condemnation. That risk is one of the subjects of the story, really."

Nominally, this is a tale about a whilte family about to attempt to occupy some desert land purchased from a "Realtor"  sight unseen. But the land has a history and apparently wasn't the "Realtor's" to sell. Rather, it is Native American land and so the story is "headed into crsis" because the white family in question, traveling west in a Winabago, must meet an Indian.

Sounds like an interesting exchange of views, or more likely a clash of some sort, is in the offing, but, alas, no. Lethem simply can't bring himself to "appropriate" the Native American protagonist. So the story ends abruptly (as many New yorker short stories seem to), in a casino -- on Indian land, of course. Ironic -- get it?

Good thing Alfred Uhry was't Lethem or we wouldn't have "Driving Miss Daisy." Altenarively, good thing DuBose Hewward or Ira Gershshwin wasn't Lethem or we wouldn't have "Porgy and Bess." And so forth and so on..

Within "Narrowing Valley," Lethem refers to a white make writer as "another exemplar of the Exhausted Normative."  In other worlds, "please take me out into a pasture and shoot me. Liberate that Pomona creating writing post and award it to someone far more worthy." Hmmm. would the new occupant be able to write a story involving a white male, or does cultural misappropriation go only in one direction?

I will have more to say on wokerati-type issues in due course.

 

Marisa Silver's "Tiny, Meaningless Things" and the Precariat

"She eats less now than she used to, but she hasn’t got used to grocery shopping with that in mind. She watches the women who roam the aisles gripping baskets barely weighted with a single chicken breast, two oranges, a child-sized carton of milk meant for lunchboxes. Walking advertisements for precarity."

That's from Marisa Silver's story "Tiny, Meaningless Things" in the Oct. 24, 2022 print edition of The New Yorker.  It's about a 74-year-old widow who lives by herself after a short-lived second marriage and who has a difficult time connecting with or relating two her adult daughters, and vice versa. 

The Blogger spell checker didn't like the word "precarity" in the paragraph above and probably not without reason.  Although it is a perfectly legitimate word, it's not a word one hears bandied about much. I'm not sure I've ever come across it in a text previously and I read a lot. 

Dictionary.com defines precarity as "a state of existence in which material provision and physiological wellness are adversely affected by a lack of regular or secure income." The Cambridge Dictionary simply calls it "the state of being uncertain or likely to get worse" or, alternatively, "a situation in which someone's job or career is always in danger of being lost." Other definitions are similar if stated in slightly different ways.

While "precarity" pretty much encapsulates the state of affairs in which readers find Evelyn, the protagonist of Ms Silver's well-crafted tale of what it's like to be an elderly woman whose grip on the world is slipping away, there is a problem with using such an unfamiliar term. I remember it more than I remember much else about the story.

Central to the tale is Evelyn's relationship with a young boy who lives with his family in another apartment in the same building. It seems to have developed both as a result of idle curiosity on the part of the boy and because Evelyn is overjoyed to discover someone actually has an interest in her. No surprise: it doesn't end particularly well when, arguably with Evelyn's encouragement the boy begins testing certain boundaries. 

In her New Yorker author interview, Ms Silver says she doesn't know why Scotty, the young boy, did what he did, but that he would probably say "Because I wanted to,"  Well, maybe. Children test boundaries and if Scotty, at age seven, could be candid, he would instead say "Because I could."

If it can be done, it will be done: that is a fundamental aspect of human nature.

But back to precarity: according to an entry in Wikipedia, around the year 2000. a version of the world -- the precariat -- gained currency in the global social justice movement to describe a class of people with no job security and no prospect of regular employment, presumably as a result of the ills of globalization.

This would be a class lower than the proletariat -- a Marxist notion of people with jobs, but exploited by their capitalist employers such that they are unable to reap in full the rewards of the work they do under what is known as the labor theory of value.

More recently, we've also begun hearing about the woketariat, or a class of people devoted to pushing political correctness above all else.  They don't seem to be in jeopardy of much of anything as might be expected given the unassailable moral high ground they perceive themselves to be occupying.

 

"Come Softly to Me:" Ritual in a New Yorker Short Story

“A ritual is a sequence of activities involving gestures, words, actions, or objects, performed according to a set sequence.” So says Wikipedia, adding that rituals are common to all known human societies.

What else? Well, among other things, many cultures have rites associated with death and mourning. And one of the many purposes of ritual is social control – such as keeping a family together when various members may be prone to go off in differing directions or have tensions or conflicts among themselves, one might imagine.

Sticking with Wikipedia, rituals generally involve the recitation of fixed texts, the performance of special music, the manipulation of certain objects and the use of special dresses. They are also typically formal, traditional and invariable. They are often characterized by careful choreography performed by groups.

I mention all of the above because that is what the Oct. 10, 2022 (online edition) New Yorker short story “Come Softly to Me,” by David Gilbert, is all about. In fact, readers will encounter pretty much all of the above in Gilbert’s generally well-drawn tale.

Lots of stories conform to one familiar formula or another. What makes them interesting – absent surprise endings -- is setting, character development and perhaps a subplot or two. In that context, a couple of Gilbert’s characters definitely tend to stick in one’s mind.

But the story, which involves an extended family, has a lot of characters and it can be difficult to follow or understand who is who until well into the piece. And for a fairly long short story, the ending is rather abrupt and unconvincingly mystical, given the participants. But endings are rarely easy: I suppose the hardest part of flying a plane is bringing it in for a satisfactory landing (before the age of computers, that is).

Ben Okri's "The Secret Source" Takes the Easy Way Out

 Ben Okri's short story "The Secret Source" in the Sept. 12, 2022 online version of The New Yorker is an interesting read -- until he gets to the conclusion. There, shifting gears from a disturbingly, all-too-plausible conspiracy theory centering on water shortages, readers are left with a fairy tale non-finish.

In the usual New Yorker author interview, Okri claims the ending is valid because reality is ambiguous. Thus, it's up to the reader to interpret the abrupt, fantasy-world conclusion it in a fashion that is "true for you."

This reminds me of the proverbial tale of attending an exhibition of abstract art with the artist present.  Looking at one piece, someone tells the artist: "I really like it, but what does it mean?"

"It means whatever it means to you," the artist responds.  

If you like that sort of thing, you'll probably like Okri's effort, but to me, he simply takes the easy way out. The story, strongly reminiscent of George Orwell's "1984" in the sense that remote, anonymous government authorities bent on nothing but staying in control have found ways to quash all significant dissent as conditions worsen. And just as in Orwell's story, there are truth seeking protagonists, but too far on the fringes of society to have much clout, and increasingly at risk as they attempt to press ahead.

Okri, in the interview, suggests a number of possibly interpretative routes for the end of his tale. Too bad he didn't use his considerable powers of prose to spin one out. 

Art, Receptivity and Bold Face Names

 The April 24, 2022 issue of "T, The New York Times Stye Magazine," is supposed to be all about creativity, but much of it is little more than a list of Bold Face Names such as one might find in a high school newspaper. Various names one might know from one branch of the arts or another have either been persuaded or paid (I'm not sure which) to offer snippets, or as much as several paragraphs, of advice to young artists, most of whom are probably not readers of "T."

Much of the advice is, well, fairly pedestrian or predictable in nature. Glancing through it, one is tempted to conclude that a person is by nature inclined to the arts, or not. If you are, one way or another -- and it appears there are as many ways as there are artists -- persevere. 

In her introduction, "T's" chief editor, Hanya Yanagihara, made an interesting observation: "art demands a state of receptivity." While it isn't totally clear what she has in mind there -- it seems she's talking about receptivity on the part of the artist herself lest the creative process not work -- I think there is another way of looking at it.

It's a bit like the classic question: does a tree make any noise as it falls in a forest if no one is there to hear it? (I'm sure science would claim to be able to answer that one definitively, but that's not what I have in mind.)  Rather, the question is: if a person creates a work of art and there is no receptivity on the part of the public, is it really art?

All too often, it seems, money is a proxy for validation. If a book, or painting, sells, it's valid. If it doesn't, well perhaps that proves it's "worthless" not just as an article of commerce, but in terms of its aesthetic qualities as well.  Then, of course, there are the storied artists ignored or rejected in their lifetimes, only to be acclaimed after their deaths at which point others manage to reap the monetary rewards. 

"No one's opinion about you or your art should matter more than your own," intones Ms Yanagihara -- a little homily if ever there was one. In one reading, it could be viewed as profound (if commonplace) wisdom. On the other, it could be viewed as another way of believing "it's all about me" -- one of the curses of contemporary life.

Then Ms Yanagihara goes on to assert: "You have to finish at some point. The people who get published aren't necessarily the most brilliant writers. The ones who get published are the ones who complete their work." 

While some clearly recognizable form of completion suitable for an article of commerce is no doubt essential in that context, such isn't the case if commercial success isn't required.

In the case of aesthetics alone, a creative endeavor is finished when the intent of the artist has been realized  -- or if that word calls into question "just who is an artist? -- the intent of the creator. Hopefully the creator will then experience a sense of satisfaction whether "receptivity" rears its head or not.

"Art is created in front of the easel, but it's just as often made while gardening or waiting for the subway or sitting on a park bench," Ms Yanagihara said. If so, there is arguably no need for her issue of Bold Face Names, except, of course, as a vehicle for glossy, expensive ads for Canali suits and Rolex watches. Just the thing for young artists.

Thoughts about the Opera "Blue" You Won't Find Elsewhere

 The most poignant -- and disappointing -- moment for me when attending a recent performance of the contemporary opera "Blue" was near the end when the unnamed Mother gets up out of her seat in what is presumably a church and walks over to stand one last time at the coffin of her son.

"At last, an aria," I thought. This is the moment she is going to actually sing a song -- a musical tour de force through her thoughts and emotions -- highly memorable melodies requiring exemplary vocal technique, in the finest tradition of opera. The sort of thing that leaves one exclaiming in due course:  "wasn't she fabulous!"

But, no, just more of the same bits and pieces of often almost recitative-like vocalization, occasionally soaring with the continuous orchestration into one variety of crescendo or another.

While I'm sure she didn't do it, I can just see Briana Hunter, who sang the role of The Mother, down on her knees, begging librettist and director Tazewell Thompson and composer Jeanine Tesori "please, please, please, let me SING!" My heart goes out to her, as would have those of Handel and Mozart.

But that's where it's at these days in contemporary opera: "Singing? What's that? Some sort of distraction." I can hear Thompson and Tesori dismissing Hunter along those lines.

But what about the rest of "Blue," which I saw in a Seattle Opera production the other day. Widely praised, the almost entirely Black (librettist and performers) piece centers on the story of an angry and idealistic young Black man, the son of a police officer, being killed at what was supposed to be a peaceful demonstration by another officer. He's an only child and beloved by his father despite sociopolitical differences and thus a sometimes tempestuous relationship.

While the race of the officer who kills The Son isn't identified in the program or promotional material, he's identified as white in the lyrics, giving the opera additional currency in the post-George Floyd era. But interestingly, The Father at one point bemoans the fact that his son was killed by one of his "brothers" on the police force. 

Young Black men are not always killed by white officers. Notably, in "Between the World and Me," Ta-Nehisi Coates relates the trauma he experienced when he learned that a man named Prince Jones he had apparently known at Howard University had been killed by a Black police officer in a jurisdiction controlled by Black politicians. And, according to Coates, the officer who supposedly mistook Prince for someone else was sent back to work.

Well, the first half of the opera, which runs for two hours not counting the intermission, is about the risks young men run being born Black in America and the second half opens with news of the death of The Son as a result of police violence, and of course the racial inequities of that in America.

But almost immediately thereafter, the opera changes course in a fashion that none of the reviews that I have read mention. Race relations fall into the background and what comes to the fore is religion -- Christianity in this case. What's at issue in the lengthy segment that follows news of the death is whether the Chruch, and a particular Reverend, can offer the family and eventually their friends any consolation. The message there is at best mixed.

This jumped out at me in part because I had just finished reading "On Consolation," subtitled "finding solace in dark times," by Michael Ignatieff.

His bottom line: "It is not doctrine that consoles us in the end, but people."

Perhaps in that vein, the final scene of the opera takes the form of a flashback to a family dinner at one point during which father, son and mother join hands at the table. Perhaps the audience is led to believe the Mother and Father are consoled more by such memories than by anything else.

"Jazz" by Toni Morrison

 I just finished the novel "Jazz" by Toni Morrison, the Nobel Prize-winning Black American novelist who died in 2019. She viewed the book as one member of a trilogy that began with the much better known "Beloved," which was set in the age of slavery.  In contrast, "Jazz" is set in Harlem in the 1920s, but with flashbacks to very rural Virginia in earlier years.

Briefly, the story is something of a puzzle that, based on reviews and analysis, no one seems to know precisely what Morrison had in mind. In a nutshell, it may be that love based on shared endeavors is stronger than sexual attraction, but not without plenty of trauma along with way. This reminds me of a view expressed explicitly by Thomas Hardy at the end of "Far from the Madding Crowd."

But for students of fiction, the book is interesting in a couple of ways: first for the manner in which Morrison shifts almost stealthily the point of view (POV) around, from individual characters to that of an unnamed and possibly unreliable narrator, and back. Second, there are portions of the writing that are more music to the ear than information to the mind, Jazz-like riffs on the scene, I sometimes thought. These lyrical passages can be rewarding for a patient reader, but not so much for one who isn't. 

Other positives about the book are good character development and a colorful view of life in Harlem when many Blacks were getting along reasonably well one way or the other and enjoying the freedom and excitement of life in a big city. Various atrocities by Whites against Blacks are referenced, but so is color prejudice among Blacks, a theme Morrison touched upon again toward the end of her writing career. 

A New Yorker Story by Claire Keegan That Needed More

 In the usual author interview, Claire Keegan said she wanted to make "So Late in the Day," her Feb. 21, 2022, New Yorker short story, "an exploration of misogyny," But it's more a description of ships passing in the night and a failure to explore what women want.

In a nutshell, the piece is about a man named Cathal who appears to work as a clerk at a Dublin institution that provides financial support to the arts -- near the famous statue of Oscar Wilde on one corner of Marrion Square. Unmarried, and apparently never married, he lives an unremarkable life in a coastal town called Arklow, a lengthy bus ride south of Dublin. 

A couple years earlier, he had met a well-dressed, rather petite woman named Sabine at a conference in Toulouse, only to discover she worked near his office in Dublin and unmarried, lived in a flat with three younger women. The daughter of a French father and an English mother who divorced early in her life, she had grown up in Normandy and spoke English in a fashion that sometimes grated on Cathal.

Nonetheless, after to getting to know her a bit and discovering she liked the countryside, he invited her down to Arklow. Soon she began showing up most weekends and since they appeared to be getting along quite well, Cathal eventually, and in an almost offhand fashion, suggested marriage.

Simone initially dismissed the notion with "a type of chocked laughter" and questions suggestive of incredulity, but three weeks later, "finally relented."

It's all downhill from there as they discover they don't actually know each other that well and that Cathal, used to living alone, would prefer to have her more as a possession than as a partner.  Keegan's depiction of that is well done, but what's totally missing from this story is any explanation of why Simone would have agreed to marry Cathal in the first place. She's attracted to the town in which he lives more than to the man himself -- clearly a beta-male to everyone who encounters him in the story.

The addition of some exploration of the age-old question "what do women want?" would have made this a far more interesting tale than the version printed in the magazine. As it stands, while it is easy to agree that Cathal got what he richly deserved, it's a mystery as to why the more sophisticated Simone was content with Cathal as little more than weekends in the country and an escape from those other women, paid for with some uncomplicated, consensual sex and very good dinners after which Cathal, the misogynist, would clean up.

This is "a world where women expect more," Keegan said in the New Yorker author interview. What Simone's actions say about her values in that respect is a bigger question than what Cathal's say about him -- based on Keegan's depiction of the man.

French Jews and Muslims Face Intersectionality Issues

 The New York Times recently reviewed a new play about French Jews that one can see as thematically related to a post I recently wrote about a book called "The Last One." 

The play, "Prayer for the French Republic," by Joshua Harmon, is about a Jewish family agonizing over their identity in the face of what they view as rising antisemitism in France. As the NYT reviewer puts it, "they want to be part of country that may never fully accept them" and after an ugly incident, at least one member of the family wants to move to Israel.  "It's the suitcase or the coffin," he says.

In "The Last One," a young Muslim woman living in a Paris Suburb agonizes over whether she can be fully a French citizen without giving up other parts of what she views as elements of her identity.

Other Muslims living in France are apparently increasingly coming to the conclusion one can't if a Feb. 13, 2022 New York Times Story entitled "The Quiet Flight of Muslims from France" is correct. 

In both the play and the book, the individuals in question are dealing with what is increasingly being called intersectionality. People see themselves as having various strands of identity that insect in certain ways -- sometimes positively, sometimes negatively -- that often fail to comport with a national identity of shared sociopolitical and cultural values. 

There is arguably nothing new about this -- I'm thinking of Leopold Bloom's encounter with "the citizen" -- in James Joyce's "Ulysses" -- but for some reasons these issues seem to be increasingly coming to the fore.

SFMOMA: "An Unexpected Outcome"

 "Though he is not a woman or a person of color, and I understand how that may be an unexpected outcome, I believe he will materially promote the visibility and best interest of those groups based on his past performance." 

So said Pamela L. Joyner, a black woman who co-headed SFMOMA's search committee, which settled on a white male, Christopher Bedford, to head up the museum, yet another American cultural institution troubled by charges of past racism. 

Well, as a Feb. 10, 2022, New York Times story on this development noted, Bedford not long ago made waves as head of the Baltimore Musem of Art by proposing to sell of works by Brice Marden, Christopher Still and Any Warhol to finance acquisitions of art by people of color and to finance staff salary increases. He also at one point announced a year-long commitment to acquire only works by female artists.

Such is the world of American culture at the moment: just who created something is of far greater importance than what exactly got created. To be fair, however, there are few if any objective standards of what makes for a great work of art.  Generally, someone considered an authority in such matters makes a pronouncement, or perhaps the price for which something sells is viewed as a sufficient proxy for its artistic merit.

In any event, despite the fact that by his gender and the color of his skin, Bedford represents the racist, colonialist, patriarchal past that is said to underpin prevailing U.S. social conditions, he's more or less acceptable for his new post.

I say "more or less" because here's what the NYT reported Ford Foundation president Darren Walker had to say: "While I'm disappointed that a diverse candidate wasn't chosen, no museum leader is more committed to diversity than Chris Bedford." In other words, second choice despite certain merits. 

According to the newspaper report, the museum may well have had to settle on Bedford despite his gender and skin-color shortcomings because the job isn't that attractive, and demand is high for qualified women or those of color.

"A person close to the job search who spoke on the condition of anonymity because that person was not authorized to reveal its details, said that the SFMOMA position was not an easy sell to candidates, given San Francisco's comparatively low-profile contemporary art scene and tepid interest in art patronage among Silicon Valley moguls." So the NYT reported.

A Feminist New Yorker Short Story by Lauren Groff

 Lauren Groff's short story "Annunciation" in the Feb 7, 2022 New Yorker is probably about as feminist as it gets, although not so much in terms of third wave "intersectionality." This is a woman-focused story in which men, to the extent they only vaguely appear, are disinterested, ineffectual, distant or in two cases, while no longer present, clearly malevolent. It's a story in which a woman can do a man's work and in which women rely on each other for support. 

Before going further, I need to say that "a clanger" created a hurdle for me at the start.  In her third sentence, Groff describes her unnamed heroine running in the hills above Palo Alto, California, as "the mist falls in starched sheets over the distant hills, the ones that press against the Bay."  I'm very familiar with that region and there are no hills the protagonist can see that "press against the Bay."  The south bay is surrounded by flat lands with big freeways running through them. The hills are well back from the water.  

But most readers probably wouldn't be that familiar with the terrain and I suppose one can write this off to artistic license.  "Annunciation" is a work of fiction after all.

Groff's story begins with a woman graduating from a college in New England. No one in her large family attends and as a result, with little money, she gets into an awkward old car given to her by a grandfather and heads west, ending up in a San Francisco youth hostel.  Although the story ends late in the protagonists' life, that's almost the last readers hear of her original family. At one point, the protagonist's mother does tracks her down, but their reunion is very short-lived. Graff's heroine has no need for her mother.

After the brief stay in San Francisco, the protagonist finds a job down the Peninsula in Redwood City ("Climate best by Government Test," although that isn't mentioned in the story) and takes a low-wage clerical job in a government welfare agency. There she befriends a down-and out co-worker, a victim of domestic violence who lives with a young daughter in a Volkswagen Vanagon -- in one of the wealthiest areas of the U.S. 

Groff's heroine has also found cheap housing close to her job in the compound of a strange, somewhat spooky woman who eventually dies of the law of unintended consequences, sending Groff's heroine on her way. 

The two connections mentioned above -- they seem to fall short of real friendships or relationships -- are described in great detail by Groff, but in the end, neither one goes anywhere. This is not "sisterhood" feminism. 

From here, readers are suddenly taken to a point significantly later in the life of Groff's heroine -- in Italy where readers are told she is now living a life of "grace," fundamentally a Christian concept, but in this case associated with such things as birds singing amid "beauty."

In the interim, readers learn that the woman in question created a family of her own and while it "has become my true north," it is one from which she apparently episodically flees. -- thinking good things about this behavior because she has so far always eventually returned.  No mention of a husband, but she claims to be a mother who "sees her children fully." One wonders if they see it that way, but readers learn nothing of them.

One thing she likes about Italy is that she is surrounded by a thousand Madonnas, with a thousand different faces" (in churches), all unnamed, but wearing "the particular mortal face of a woman the artist loved."  One supposes that's the way she would like to think of herself. 

In the usual New Yorker interview, one learns Groff struggled with versions this story for a decade, apparently because she had no idea where it was supposed to go. Then she made a bet with another writer on who could first write a short story with a happy ending (a rarity readers are told) and voila!

Grace, wherever it came from and for whatever reason Groff's protagonist was worthy of it, is where it's at. And who needs men?

Amen, those of a feminist persuasion might say.

More on the Tension Between Art and Political Correctness

The New York Times rehashed the career of American painter Andrew Wyeth on Feb. 3, 2022, using the transfer of a couple of small islands off the coast of Maine from Wyeth family foundations to Colby College as an excuse. 

 One paragraph in particular jumped out at me.

 "In a 2017 assessment of his paintings of Black people in the Brandywine Valley, the art historian Gwendolyn DuBois Shaw questioned the power imbalance in his representation of race, and also pointed out that in a handful of paintings he had darkened the skin tone of his white model, Helga Testorf, a Chadds Ford neighbor who posed for him in secret for more than a decade." 

 “His nude images of black women embody the power imbalance that characterized interracial interactions in the Brandywine Valley throughout the 20th century,” Shaw wrote in 2017, arguing that the “subordinate positions (of his models) as poor, black and working class enabled the artist to exert a great deal of control over how he imaged them on paper or canvas.” 

 To Ms. Shaw, the New York Times said, the visual representation of race in Wyeth’s work raised the question of how much leeway white artists should have in depicting subjects of another race. Is all fair in the name of art?

 The "power imbalance," and just what leeway artists (presumably not just those who are white) should have in depicting subjects of another race? What's at issue here is political correctness and cultural misappropriation. Sound familiar? 

 One wonders, should we go back through the history of Western art, identifying all the painting where an artist had some sort of "power imbalance" over a subject and/or where he or she depicted someone of a different race or culture and burn them? Or should we continue to evaluate them first and foremost on aesthetic considerations? We are, after all, talking about art.

 To be fair to Ms Shaw, the Times reported that in 2017 "she took pains to note that her work wasn’t intended to injure Wyeth’s reputation, but rather to layer it. "I love Wyeth,' she said. 'I think we can find artists to be complicated and frustrating and disappointing in some ways and still love the work.'" 

 Well, maybe Wyeth also wasn't trying to injure the Blacks depicted in his paintings, just lawyer them.

 I'll leave it up to readers to decide, but these are important issues in the current "cancel culture" mood of certain U.S. sociopolitical actors.

Culture and Identity: "The Last One" by Fatima Daas

Although there is considerable controversy about this, the ancient Greek rhetorician Isocrates (436-338 bce) is credited with advancing the idea that culture can trump other markers of identity.

This was at the time when Philip II of Macedon, not a Greek but a person with Greek leanings partially as a result of three years of early education in Thebes, was about to embark on conquests that, under his son, Alexander the Great, would "Hellenize" much of the then-known world.

"Our city has so far surpassed other men in thought and speech that students of Athens have become the teachers of others, and the city has made the name "Greek" seem to be not that of a people but of a way of thinking, and people are called Greeks because they share in our education rather than in our birth," Isocrates said in one of his writings. 

I mention this because it is an important idea for many modern nation states, in particular -- in this instance -- France, which much like Isocrates in ancient Athens, came to believe French culture superior to most if not all others.

A few years back, for instance, the man then serving as France's Minister of Education, denounced "intersectionality," an outgrowth of the feminist movement, as in conflict with French republican values.

While Kimberley Williams Crenshaw, a Black American feminist, is credited with originating the term in the late 1980s to explain different layers of oppression experienced by women of color, intersectionality has since come to be a way of parsing out what, in the current era, are all-important questions of personal or social identity. According to Wikipedia, this includes such things as race, gender, sex, sexuality, class, ability, nationality, citizenship, religion, and body type.  

One other thing worth noting before continuing: a person's perceived intersectionality can be viewed either in positive or negative terms.

That's a very lengthy introduction to a few comments on a book called "The Last One," which, according to the New York Times, created quite a sensation in France where it was originally published. Written under an assumed name by a young lesbian Muslim woman living in a Paris suburb, the protagonist attempts to sort through her multiple and sometimes conflicting strands of identity both to find her true self and to reconcile those strands of identity with what it means to be French.

"Representation and identity are fraught topics in France, a country that prides itself on a universalist tradition that unites all citizens under a single French identify, regardless of their ethnicity or faith," Julia Webster Ayuso, reviewing the book in The Times, said. That's at least in part because too much focus on individual identity can be seen as a threat to social cohesion, the NYT review noted.

In other words, collective culture trumps individual notions of identity if you are French, more or less along the lines of the notions but forward by Isocrates.

"If you want to be French today, a fully French citizen, you have to give up one of the fragments of your identity," the author of "The Last One," called Fatima Daas, told the NYT.  Perhaps more than one, it might seem.

"The Last One" is apparently divided into a number of chapters, each of which considers one strand of the protagonist's identity. Some, such as her sexual orientation and her Islamic religion, are in conflict with each other as well as, perhaps, with a general cultural overlay. There's arguably nothing particularly new about that, but overall, the book, available in English, is perhaps an illuminating read in our current identify-focused culture. 

"Mockingbird" Fails the Political Correctness Test in Mukilteo

 In late December 2021, "To Kill a Mockingbird" won a New York Times contest for the best work of fiction published over the past 125 years. About a month later, a school board in Mukilteo, Washington voted to remove it from the required reading list for ninth graders,

Mukilteo, for those unfamiliar with it, is a coastal town north of Seattle next door to Everett, Washington, the site of one of Boeing's largest aircraft assembly plants, 

Removing a book from a required reading list is not the same as banning it since individual teachers can still assign it, but it is nonetheless an interesting development and, appropriately, the Mukilteo decision has been widely reported.

According to a report by the Everett HeraldNet, a local news outlet, the book was dropped for several reasons including that it "celebrates white saviorhood," is guilty of "marginalizing characters of color" and it uses "the n-word almost 50 times." 

This is a HUGE topic for anyone interested in fiction and and/or interested in whether, in the current, fraught sociopolitical climate, writers have to exercise self-censorship to avoid getting "cancelled" by the thought police. So what follows is, even more than usual, is meant to be provocative as opposed to dispositive.

First, of course, one has to ask why children are assigned to read works of fiction in school. Is this to familiarize themselves with writing as an art form, and in the process, learn how differing writers deal with differing subject matter in the course of practicing their art?  Or is it an exercise in political correctness, which is to say school children should be assigned books deemed ideologically appropriate for young minds and therefore properly instructive in the prevailing sociopolitical context?

This is, of course, a moving target. Much Young Adult fiction is now celebrated for dealing with topics of sexual identity that would have been deemed highly inappropriate not that long ago.  One could go on and on and especially with respect to themes of violence.

But back to "Mockingbird," a book about which I have had very mixed feelings after the controversial publication of "Go Set a Watchman," essentially the first draft of "Mockingbird," a few years ago. In a nutshell, a very talented editor known as Tay Hohoff worked with Harper Lee for a couple of years, an effort that significantly recast Lee's original conception and made the book vastly more sellable. One can argue the final product was as much a work of commerce as a work of art.

"I was a first-time writer so I did as I was told," Lee said in 1015 -- in the wake of the publication of "Watchman."

Most significantly, the chief character, Atticus Finch, depicted as a bigot in "Watchman," was turned into what the Mukilteo school board viewed as a representative of objectionable "white saviorhood" in "Mockingbird." 

That's interesting on its face. Readers of "Mockingbird" surely know that Finch succeeds in saving no one. At best he is a "savior wannabe," but frankly, not even that. He just believes that in a society established under the rule of law, justice should be applied fairly and equally to everyone. But gosh, he has white skin and is a male -- apparently cis-gender as well -- and we now know that cis-gender white males are responsible for The Patriarchy, slavery, colonialism, a fundamentally racist American Constitution and a systematically racist society and so forth and so on. So out he has to go.

But wait a minute: "Mockingbird" was written about a different era when such notions were not in vogue. It's a story about how a particular family, and a particular community, reacted to a certain situation during a certain period of time. Is that so difficult to understand? Can't a high school child, with a teacher's help, evaluate it in that context? Or does this instead have to be taught as a now all-too-transparent attempt by Lee and her editor to make white America look better than it actually has been -- and to make whites feel better about themselves than they "should." 

Then there is the charge that black characters were "marginalized" and that the "n-word" was used -- at all, or too often? Well, one of the three main characters in "Mockingbird" is black his role in central as opposed to marginal. But, too be fair, he is given more to say in the current Broadway play version of the story than in the book itself, perhaps reflecting such concerns. Interestingly, the Finch family's black maid, Calpurnia, is given more to say in "Watchman" than in the edited version of Lee's story, which is to say "Mockingbird."

But Lee can fairly argue that Tom Robinson, the falsely accused black man Atticus Finch attempts to defend, and Calpurnia were accurately depicted as they would have been during the time period in question. 

As for the "n-word," one hardly knows what to make of this when, walking down a crowded street in New York city, just ahead of a group of black males, one hears the taboo "n-word" in just about every sentence.

Self-Censorship and The Purpose of the Arts

 Back in early December 2021, the New York Times had an article entitled "Writers Tackle the Challenge of Self-Censorship" based on a discussion of the topic sponsored by PEN America, an organization founded in 1922 in support of freedom of expression.

Long considered a basic right in the U.S. as enshrined in the First Amendment to the Constitution, free expression is under threat from both the right and the left at present with writers of all description in the firing line.

This came to mind the other day when I read in the NYT a review of a book called "Authority and Freedom, A defense of the Arts," by Jed Perl. In it, Perl argues art should be freed from the notion that to be valid, it has to address prevailing sociopolitical concerns. 

The reviewer, American composer John Adams, who has had rare success with contemporary opera -- "Nixon in China" and "Doctor Atomic" -- faulted Perl for not giving any examples of art that sacrifices aesthetic authenticity for social relevance. 

"On wonders whether the real reason for his silence here is the now-familiar threat of being cancelled," Adams said. 

I, personally, wouldn't be all that surprised since I have been pondering, in the prevailing cancel-culture, cultural-misappropriation climate, whether I need to change the race of a character in my operetta "Patricia," a work in progress (and one that in all likelihood always will be).

While I personally tend to fall into the "art-for-the-sake-of-art camp," Adams clearly doesn't.

"It's unlikely that 'Authority and Freedom' will change many artists' minds about how they view their work. They will do what they want, and many, if not most, today are ablaze with an intensity not seen since the 1930s to make their art speak truth to power, to heal what they deem the rent in our social fabric," he said.

Perhaps Adams, on his part, can provide some examples of contemporary art that has successfully healed (my emphasis) as opposed to -- say -- addressed "the rent in our social fabric."  

"If you ask them," Adams continued, "they will tell you that art that doesn't address this sense of urgency is not just out of touch with the times, it is irrelevant."

My own sense is that if an artist creates something of exceptional aesthetic value, it will far outlast creations that are first and foremost in touch with the sociopolitical currents of their times although, to be fair, there are examples over the course of history that have successfully hit both targets.

The World of Ballet: Changes Coming to San Francisco

 Today's news: the San Francisco Ballet, the oldest ballet company in the U.S., has selected Tamara Rojo as its first woman artistic director, effective at the end of this year. But, given the long lead time needed for developing programing, just what she has in mind for the company won't be fully evident until the 2023-24 season.

According to a New York Times article, Rojo was rather vague on what that might be, saying only that she was interested in keeping ballet "relevant to a younger audience that sometimes has new values and principles" and that she would be instituting a system of "checks and balances" when it came to casting and dancer evaluations. The latter may be necessary in part because Rojo's husband, Isaac Hernandez, recently rejoined the SF Ballet as a principal dancer, providing Rojo with a built-in conflict of interest. The search committee asked "difficult questions" about that, the NYT said, but not so difficult as to rule Rojo out. 

Rojo also told the NYT that along with focusing on female choreographers, she would bring "new voices to interpret the classics."

In what was probably a foretaste of what is to come on that front, in her current position as head of the English National Ballet (not to be confused with the Royal Ballet), Rojo mounted a reimagined version of "Giselle" created by Akram Khan, a Londoner born to a family from Bangladesh. The choreography was infused with modern dance and Indian dance elements and the story was reset in what has been described as "present-day dystopia."  Instead of peasants, there are disposed migrant workers labeled "the Outcasts" and the underworld is full of "ghosts of factory workers who seek revenge for the wrongs done to them in life" instead of the traditional Willis -- the spirits of maidens betrayed by their lovers dancing in floaty white dresses.

What then will SF ballet audiences see?  Swan Lake set in a Superfund site? Or maybe Coppelia in a highly automated factory with a bunch of out-of-control robots astonishing the visiting children? 

Sunnie Evers, co-chair of the SF Ballet's search committee, told the NYT that the company initially contacted over 200 possible candidates as possible replacements for Helgi Tomasson, who has been the SF Ballet's artistic director since 1985. By last July, when the list had been narrowed down to eight: "we had three people of color and three women in that round," Evers said, adding "there is a lot of talk about ballet being dominated by white men, so I am thrilled we were not."

Well, that's pretty much where it's at these days if one spends much time reading the NYT.  When it comes to the arts, just who created something -- their gender, color and sexual orientation -- is more important than what actually gets created. In the case of Khan's "Giselle," one could argue it was a case of cultural misappropriation, but that is apparently only the case in a reverse situation -- a white artist making use of something stemming from a non-white culture. The Western canon, if not cancelled, is up for grabs.