Thierry Sagnier's Blog, page 49

Critics

Lately I've been doing a lot of reading about Suzanne Valadon and Maurice Utrillo. Both were highly talented artists whose works are found in the best museums and beyond purchase by anyone but the wealthiest collectors. They lived in Montmartre, a Parisian neighborhood known for its Bohemian allure, almost all their lives. Both were miserable and unhappy drunks, which is neither here nor there, and Suzanne was Maurice's mother.  She was never quite sure who the father was. She died in 1938; he died in 1953 and they had what can only be described as a strange relationship.
But that's not what I want to write about, since all relationships are strange in one way or another.
No, what I'm interested in is the critics' fashion of parsing an artist's work--and by artist I mean a writer, dancer, musician, sculptor, the whole gamut of people who cannot but be creative--into meaninglessness.
Look at a painting; read a book. What happens? Your imagination, and the writer’s or painter's creation work together to form an alliance. This pact moves you in a way--you feel joy, sadness, revulsion on occasion, pity perhaps, even lust or envy. You and the artist form a symbiotic entente cordiale. He or she presents their work for your consideration, with the understanding that the artist is powerless over the audience. You, the audience, are willing to make a gift of time to the work. You read, you listen, you watch. In the end, both parties are affected by each other's willingness to devote a small period of life to pleasuring the other. An artist without an audience ceases to exist, and with no art there are no spectators.
The critics want to take this process over by dictating their views--which are assuredly more learned and educated than yours or mine ever will be. An author, critiquing Valadon's Nude Girl Sitting on a Cushion, writes: "...Valadon's intense characterization is translated through the deliberate distortion of certain forms, the importance of which is enhanced by their unexpected size... Most of the time the children's alienation is expressed through reductive images whose effectiveness is enhanced through their simplicity."
Do you know what this means?  I don’t, and I consider myself a relatively intelligent person.  I have no idea what the critic is trying to tell me, other than he or she is the proud owner of a dictionary and a thesaurus. Obviously the author of this paragraph and I are not looking at the same work. I see a small pencil and chalk drawing of a young dispirited nude. It's an evocative and simple work, and I suppose I resent the critic's muddying of what is, all in all, a very basic piece of art.
For the past few years I've spent a lot of time reading the memoires and biographies of some noted painters, and I have yet to find one describing his or her work in the same language as that of the critics. I wish those who write or broadcast opinions on the quality of things such as art, literary works, and society as a whole would do their own thing instead of deconstructing the works of others. That seems like a waste of time, a second-hand way of relating to creativity without adding any creativity of one's own. Maybe it's just that I don't like critics.


 I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.

Internet Promises

I have a spam filter, several, in fact. They are supposed to be effective and protect me---I assume--from former Nigerian Prime Ministers with millions in their portfolios, slick Malaysians dealing in stolen Ferraris, 23-year-old ladies from a former Socialist Republic looking for green card sponsors, and purveyors of koala berry drinks.
This being said, when I first check my email in the morning, there are generally close to three dozen messages. This particular morn, Goober Gary wants to sell me Cialis and Lulu Pino promises success with women if I buy a knock-off Rolex. Edwina Ebenezer says with the product she is selling, I will have sex more than ten times tonight, but she does not say with who (whom?).
I particularly enjoy the fact that the net does not discriminate. There is no ageism or sexism, no racism or religious intolerance. Both Martin Schwartz and Beatrice Lumumba guarantee that I can increase the size and length of my manhood with a month's supply of their rather costly product. It makes me wonder, who told them I have issues with size and girth? Are Martin and Patrice long-standing friends, and if so, where did they meet and why do they both have my email address?
Johanne Judd, overly fond of exclamation points, states, “the science behind our products!! is setting a new standard for healthy!! and effective enlargement!!! and is the most powerful formula!! on the market today!!” I have forwarded Johanne’s announcement to both Martin and Patrice. These people should know each other.
Marguerite Cassidy does not believe in mincing words. "Get Bigger Pennis." Marguerite believes spelling it with two n's will automatically make it bigger.
Freddie Morton, on the other hand, likes to go scientific: "More sexual partners. More orgasms. More pleasure. Choosing your penis enlargement method you should remember that some widely advertised methods are either ineffective or dangerous. Some advertisements are based on lies, lack of medical knowledge or are just frauds. Choose XXX penis enlargement devices to achieve penis size you dream of in a safe and medically approved way." Since the only Freddie I know owns a gay bar in Virginia--and I'm pretty sure he wasn't the Freddie sending me the email--I have doubts about these promises. Plus anyone trying to fool me by advertising larger results with large fonts is not worthy of my trust. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.
And lest I forget, for about a year I received all sorts of ads to make my breasts bigger, fuller, rounder, more satisfying to the touch. I think those came from Steve Martin who once said that if he had breasts, he'd spend all his time playing with them.

Internet Promises

I have a spam filter, several, in fact. They are supposed to be effective and protect me---I assume--from former Nigerian Prime Ministers with millions in their portfolios, slick Malaysians dealing in stolen Ferraris, 23-year-old ladies from a former Socialist Republic looking for green card sponsors, and purveyors of koala berry drinks.
This being said, when I first check my email in the morning, there are generally close to three dozen messages. This particular morn, Goober Gary wants to sell me Cialis and Lulu Pino promises success with women if I buy a knock-off Rolex. Edwina Ebenezer says with the product she is selling, I will have sex more than ten times tonight, but she does not say with who (whom?).
I particularly enjoy the fact that the net does not discriminate. There is no ageism or sexism, no racism or religious intolerance. Both Martin Schwartz and Beatrice Lumumba guarantee that I can increase the size and length of my manhood with a month's supply of their rather costly product. It makes me wonder, who told them I have issues with size and girth?  Are Martin and Patrice long-standing friends, and if so, where did they meet and why do they both have my email address?
Johanne Judd, overly fond of exclamation points, states, “the science behind our products!! is setting a new standard for healthy!! and effective enlargement!!! and is the most powerful formula!! on the market today!!” I have forwarded Johanne’s announcement to both Martin and Patrice. These people should know each other.
Marguerite Cassidy does not believe in mincing words. "Get Bigger Pennis." Marguerite believes spelling it with two n's will automatically make it bigger.
Freddie Morton, on the other hand, likes to go scientific: "More sexual partners. More orgasms. More pleasure. Choosing your penis enlargement method you should remember that some widely advertised methods are either ineffective or dangerous. Some advertisements are based on lies, lack of medical knowledge or are just frauds. Choose XXX penis enlargement devices to achieve penis size you dream of in a safe and medically approved way." Since the only Freddie I know owns a gay bar in Virginia--and I'm pretty sure he wasn't the Freddie sending me the email--I have doubts about these promises. Plus anyone trying to fool me by advertising larger results with large fonts is not worthy of my trust. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.
And lest I forget, for about a year I received all sorts of ads to make my breasts bigger, fuller, rounder, more satisfying to the touch. I think those came from Steve Martin who once said that if he had breasts, he'd spend all his time playing with them.

I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.

I Write

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and my stomach churns. I have the impression of hunger but know that’s false; it’s something else, some sort of concern demanding my attention, something physically and emotionally challenging. I fear the cancer will reappear, but worse. I’m worried about finances; my furnace and air conditioning system are on their last leg. The literary agent hasn’t called in weeks and he has three of my books. Nothing is selling.

There are options.

I can get up and write, as I’m doing now. Sometimes it helps. Since writing is on my daily list of Things to Do, I at least get the satisfaction of crossing one item out and moving to the next one. It doesn’t much matter what I write since I generally have three or four projects going simultaneously. It doesn’t matter whether it’s good or not--mostly it isn’t, but that’s not the object. Writing wrests open a small door through which I can crawl, leaving some of my anxieties behind.

I can try to figure out what’s going on. This is generally fruitless. Even in the smallest of lives events supersede each other, and trying to find and follow one strand, one issue, is at best frustrating. It’s rare for me to be successful at identifying my angst, a multi-headed Hydra. Plus, as they say, my head is a bad neighborhood and going there alone is unwise.

I can read. That’s the safest route, but it makes me feel wimpy. Why should I have to involve myself in another’s fantasy to rid myself of my own dark ones? No matter—I find a book I’ve read and reread, an old friend, and I open it at random. Updike’s Rabbit works, or something by Earl Thompson, Vance Bourjaili, Balzac or Mauriac. Reading in French seems to helps, perhaps because it’s more demanding. I can skim English, but in French every word demands attention.

I fall asleep, wake a few hours later feeling the same zoo of sensations, but perhaps minus the bears. It’s still dark outside. My cat’s head is inches from mine. His eyes are yellow slits and he wants to be fed. I sit up, say the Serenity Prayer a few times because when days begin like this, I really need to the wisdom to know the difference between the things I can and cannot change. I wait for something to happen but nothing does. I write some more.

After a while the sun begins to rise. I hear the thud of the newspaper thrown on my driveway. There are birds, noisy, raucous, it’s mating season and we’re in an avian frenzy.

The list of Things to Do today grows, small stuff, mostly. I need coffee. I make some; I go back downstairs to my home office.

I write.

I Write

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and my stomach churns. I have the impression of hunger but know that’s false; it’s something else, some sort of concern demanding my attention, something physically and emotionally challenging. I fear the cancer will reappear, but worse. I’m worried about finances; my furnace and air conditioning system are on their last leg. The literary agent hasn’t called in weeks and he has three of my books. Nothing is selling.   There are options.   I can get up and write, as I’m doing now. Sometimes it helps. Since writing is on my daily list of Things to Do, I at least get the satisfaction of crossing one item out and moving to the next one. It doesn’t much matter what I write since I generally have three or four projects going simultaneously. It doesn’t matter whether it’s good or not--mostly it isn’t, but that’s not the object. Writing wrests open a small door through which I can crawl, leaving some of my anxieties behind.   I can try to figure out what’s going on. This is generally fruitless.  Even in the smallest of lives events supersede each other, and trying to find and follow one strand, one issue, is at best frustrating. It’s rare for me to be successful at identifying my angst, a multi-headed Hydra.  Plus, as they say, my head is a bad neighborhood and going there alone is unwise.   I can read. That’s the safest route, but it makes me feel wimpy. Why should I have to involve myself in another’s fantasy to rid myself of my own dark ones? No matter—I find a book I’ve read and reread, an old friend, and I open it at random. Updike’s Rabbit works, or something by Earl Thompson, Vance Bourjaili, Balzac or Mauriac. Reading in French seems to helps, perhaps because it’s more demanding. I can skim English, but in French every word demands attention.   I fall asleep, wake a few hours later feeling the same zoo of sensations, but perhaps minus the bears. It’s still dark outside. My cat’s head is inches from mine. His eyes are yellow slits and he wants to be fed. I sit up, say the Serenity Prayer a few times because when days begin like this, I really need to the wisdom to know the difference between the things I can and cannot change. I wait for something to happen but nothing does. I write some more.   After a while the sun begins to rise. I hear the thud of the newspaper thrown on my driveway. There are birds, noisy, raucous, it’s mating season and we’re in an avian frenzy.   The list of Things to Do today grows, small stuff, mostly. I need coffee. I make some; I go back downstairs to my home office.   I write.    
I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.

Georgia on my Mind

I am scanning my morning Washington Post and the news is not good. Most days there’s at least a hint of the positive on the Post front page: someone saves someone else from a fiery death; an inner city kid makes good opening a lemonade stand in a dangerous neighborhood; a fisherman catches a largemouth bass that has swallowed a diamond engagement ring and he returns said ring to its delighted owner who had given up any hope of ever seeing it again.

Today, nada.

The top stories are Navy reassigns ex-Blue Angels leader, because, like too many high-ranking military, he is facing inquiries into alleged hazing and sexual harassment. I never would have suspected! I once saw the Angels at an air show and was really impressed; nothing in their aerial acrobatics suggested inappropriate behavior.

Then, Hill panel critical of ex-DHS watchdog. That’s two ‘ex-’ above the fold, never a good sign. At any rate, it seems that (take a deep breath, this is the longest paragraph you will read today,) “The top watchdog for the Department of Homeland Security altered and delayed investigations at the request of senior administration officials, compromising his independent role as an inspector general, according to a new report from a Senate oversight panel.” Well, I never! Such duplicity, right here in Washington, DC!

Moving right along, we find a story about the re-emergence of a troublesome Afghan warlord, and next to that, Students know computers, not the science behind them. Roughly the equivalent of, “Man drives car, does not know how carburetor works.”

Turning to page A-3--there’s rarely anything readable on page A-2--I see a small headline, Law expands right to carry firearm. Uh oh. According to this brief report, Gov. Nathan Deal (R) of Georgia “signed a broad expansion of gun-carrying rights into law Wednesday, allowing legal gun owners to take weapons into bars, churches and government buildings under certain conditions, The measure permits hunters to use silencers and authorizes schools to allow staff members to carry weapons on campus.”

Now that’s news! At long last, the oppressed gun owners of the great state of Georgia will be able to mix weapons and alcohol, weapons and religion, weapons and education, and use silencers! What could go wrong?

I like Georgia. As they say there, there’s a Waffle House within walking distance of every Waffle House. I am wondering if Governor Deal and Wayne LaPierre of the National Rifle Association know each other well. I am thinking this law was probably passed by the same legislators who thought it a good idea to sell beer and wine in gas stations. I am wondering how long a detour I’ll have to make to avoid Georgia the next time I drive to Florida. I am anticipating the sad headlines soon to follow: “Gunman praises God, assaults church, reloads at Dew Drop Inn tavern.”

Is this a great country or what?

Georgia on my Mind

I am scanning my morning Washington Post and the news is not good. Most days there’s at least a hint of the positive on the Post front page: someone saves someone else from a fiery death; an inner city kid makes good opening a lemonade stand in a dangerous neighborhood; a fisherman catches a largemouth bass that has swallowed a diamond engagement ring and he returns said ring to its delighted owner who had given up any hope of ever seeing it again.   Today, nada. The top stories are Navy reassigns ex-Blue Angels leader, because, like too many high-ranking military, he is facing inquiries into alleged hazing and sexual harassment. I never would have suspected!  I once saw the Angels at an air show and was really impressed; nothing in their aerial acrobatics suggested inappropriate behavior. Then, Hill panel critical of ex-DHS watchdog. That’s two ‘ex-’ above the fold, never a good sign. At any rate, it seems that (take a deep breath, this is the longest paragraph you will read today,)  “The top watchdog for the Department of Homeland Security altered and delayed investigations at the request of senior administration officials, compromising his independent role as an inspector general, according to a new report from a Senate oversight panel.” Well, I never! Such duplicity, right here in Washington, DC!  Moving right along, we find a story about the re-emergence of a troublesome Afghan warlord, and next to that, Students know computers, not the science behind them. Roughly the equivalent of, “Man drives car, does not know how carburetor works.” Turning to page A-3--there’s rarely anything readable on page A-2--I see a small headline, Law expands right to carry firearm. Uh oh.  According to this brief report, Gov. Nathan Deal (R) of Georgia “signed a broad expansion of gun-carrying rights into law Wednesday, allowing legal gun owners to take weapons into bars, churches and government buildings under certain conditions, The measure permits hunters to use silencers and authorizes schools to allow staff members to carry weapons on campus.” Now that’s  news! At long last, the oppressed gun owners of the great state of Georgia will be able to mix weapons and alcohol, weapons and religion, weapons and education, anduse silencers!  What could go wrong?

I like Georgia. As they say there, there’s a Waffle House within walking distance of every Waffle House. I am wondering if Governor Deal and Wayne LaPierre of the National Rifle Association know each other well. I am thinking this law was probably passed by the same legislators who thought it a good idea to sell beer and wine in gas stations.  I am wondering how long a detour I’ll have to make to avoid Georgia the next time I drive to Florida. I am anticipating the sad headlines soon to follow: “Gunman praises God, assaults church, reloads at Dew Drop Inn tavern.” Is this a great country or what?I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.

Greed, Part II

So here is a little more on greed because, let’s face it, it is possibly--no, not possibly, let’s be honest. It is without a doubt--the overarching motivation of our times. It permeates the atmosphere, a sort of greyish greasy cloud that has somehow come not only into fashion but into acceptance. Really, I have to say, the greed factor attached to almost everything that affects us, well, it’s disconcerting.

An excellent recent example was the Supreme Court decision to strike down overall political donation caps. Let me quote the New York Times. “The Supreme Court on Wednesday continued its abolition of limits on election spending, striking down a decades-old cap on the total amount any individual can contribute to federal candidates in a two-year election cycle.
“The ruling, issued near the start of a campaign season, will very likely increase the role money plays in American politics.”
In other words, it’s going to become increasingly easy to buy an election and politicians, from aldermen to presidents. You won’t even have to sneak around anymore, or rely on political action committees. No basement pay-offs, like those once given to Vice President Spiro Agnew. It’s now legal to purchase the official of your choice. Openly, I might add.
Reactions to the decision among many Americans have ranged from the frustrated to the outraged, but few people realize this is the natural progression of greed as an ideal. The perfect plutocracy is achieved when leadership goes to the highest bidder.
There’s a slim chance this may not happen. In the last election, Romney spent slightly more on his campaign than did Obama. From January 2011 to November 2012, the Republicans disbursed $992 million versus the Democrats’ $985.7 million and they still lost… But still.
Another good example of truly greedy behavior was General Motor’s decision not to recall more than a two million of its cars despite knowing of a flaw in the ignition system. Thirteen people died because of an electronic switch that GM knew was faulty, and yet the giant corporation made a conscious decision to commit what the Catholics would call a sin of omission. The company decided not to act. A recall would have cut into the profit margin, and gathered bad publicity that might have affected sales.
My friend Ed, an economist of small renown but valued opinions who analyzes the finances of hospitals, believes we’ve already jumped off the cliff. “The trouble,” he says, “is that greedy entities--people or corporation--believe in instant gratification. They don’t plan ahead. GM is a perfect example of this. There is absolutely no doubt that GM will lose more money through vanished sales caused by this scandal, than it would have spent repairing all the vehicles that needed attention. But they got greedy, and they got cowardly. Another aspect of the current culture is that bosses don’t want to hear bad news, so if you want to rise in the ranks and make more money, you don’t handle bad news. You ignore it. It’s truly short term thinking and long-term stupidity.”
Yeah? Really?

Greed. Part II

So here is a little more on greed because, let’s face it, it is possibly--no, not possibly, let’s be honest. It is without a doubt--the overarching motivation of our times. It permeates the atmosphere, a sort of greyish greasy cloud that has somehow come not only into fashion but into acceptance. Really, I have to say, the greed factor attached to almost everything that affects us, well, it’s disconcerting. An excellent recent example was the Supreme Court decision to strike down overall political donation caps. Let me quote the New York Times. “The Supreme Court on Wednesday continued its abolition of limits on election spending, striking down a decades-old cap on the total amount any individual can contribute to federal candidates in a two-year election cycle.“The ruling, issued near the start of a campaign season, will very likely increase the role money plays in American politics.”In other words, it’s going to become increasingly easy to buy an election and politicians, from aldermen to presidents. You won’t even have to sneak around anymore, or rely on political action committees. No basement pay-offs, like those once given to Vice President Spiro Agnew. It’s now legal to purchase the official of your choice. Openly, I might add. Reactions to the decision among many Americans have ranged from the frustrated to the outraged, but few people realize this is the natural progression of greed as an ideal. The perfect plutocracy is achieved when leadership goes to the highest bidder.There’s a slim chance this may not happen. In the last election, Romney spent slightly more on his campaign than did Obama. From January 2011 to November 2012, the Republicans disbursed $992 million versus the Democrats’ $985.7 million and they still lost… But still.Another good example of truly greedy behavior was General Motor’s decision not to recall more than a two million of its cars despite knowing of a flaw in the ignition system.  Thirteen people died because of an electronic switch that GM knew was faulty, and yet the giant corporation made a conscious decision to commit what the Catholics would call a sin of omission. The company decided not to act. A recall would have cut into the profit margin, and gathered bad publicity that might have affected sales.My friend Ed, an economist of small renown but valued opinions who analyzes the finances of hospitals, believes we’ve already jumped off the cliff. “The trouble,” he says, “is that greedy entities--people or corporation--believe in instant gratification. They don’t plan ahead. GM is a perfect example of this.  There is absolutely no doubt that GM will lose more money through vanished sales caused by this scandal, than it would have spent repairing all the vehicles that needed attention. But they got greedy, and they got cowardly.  Another aspect of the current culture is that bosses don’t want to hear bad news, so if you want to rise in the ranks and make more money, you don’t handle bad news.  You ignore it. It’s truly short term thinking and long-term stupidity.” Yeah? Really?      I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.

My Ghetto Gym

I have been going to the gym since last November. I dutifully trudge on the elliptical for about 20 minutes, then I lift weights. I estimated that yesterday I lifted a total of 35,000 pounds in about half-an-hour, which I think is pretty impressive for a guy my age.

I go to what friends have called a ghetto gym. It’s in a refurbished warehouse and has several dozen machines whose workings I have not yet fathomed. Its cleanliness is impeccable and insured by a small, round Latino man who may have been born with a canister vacuum on his back. I suspect he gets a better daily workout than do most of the gym’s clients.

Seventeen large TVs hang from the ceiling, most of them showing ads for Dutch Master Cleaner, Ultra See-In-The-Dark Sunglasses and car title loan companies. Most gym-goers have earbuds in, but I don’t. I sort of like trying to guess what’s happening on the screen, and most times I think I’m wrong. Sometimes, though, there’s breaking news, and when that happens, a brief video of the story will appear as if on a tape loop. This morning, someone apparently hit a home run and was mobbed by a crowd of fans. The same clip was repeated nine times in 12 minutes. I am not sure what this means.

Here is what my gym does not have: a sauna or steam room; tennis courts, a swimming pool, rowing machines, kettlebells, and complimentary anything including towels. This is a bring-your-stuff gym. Nor does it have the sort of über attractive people you see in gym ads; although there are a couple of massively built up, short guys with lots of tattoos, I have yet to see one of those model-types that is tanned, buffed, and completely free of body hair. I think the models may use the gyms downtown that cost a couple of hundred bucks a month. Mine’s only $10 a month, which gets me the machines, a drinking fountain, and the friendly face of Larry, a retired Verizon employee who runs the morning shift. My gym is a haven for palish middle-aged men and women with a few too many pounds, and a French pastry chef who, every time I talk with him, obsesses about the weather.

Along with my gym attendance, I have started drinking a lot of water, some 64 ounces a day, not counting coffee or soda, which is OK as I don’t drink the latter. I have also eschewed refined sugar and flour, bagels, most red meats, artificial sweeteners and pastries, while trying to eat more green stuff. I have drawn the line at quinoa and kale, in any form.

In spite of all these efforts and sacrifices, I can’t help but notice that I am not getting younger, nor becoming buffer or wrinkle free. My abs remain more barrel-like than six-packish. But I feel better. The ghetto gym is working a slow but inexorable miracle. I neither need nor want the far more expensive places, with their implicit promises of age reversal and surgery-free sag removal. Going to my ghetto gym makes me happier and, perhaps, more sociable. The pastry chef is a pleasant person with whom I get to chat in my native language, and he is happy now that spring is in the offing. I have passed some sort of test, and now the vacuum cleaner man no longer runs over my feet with his linoleum-polishing cart. Larry at the front desk logs me in without my even asking. I’m just another older grey-haired guy trying (without much success, I must admit) to lose a few pounds. And damn, I lifted 35,000 pounds yesterday!