Glen Hirshberg's Blog - Posts Tagged "inspiration"
Richard Skelton
At this point, having draped it over so many hundreds of my mornings, I'm not sure I can say whether Richard Skelton's skeletal, aching, oceanic music inspires my writing or just accompanies it. What I can say is that the space it creates, the world it evokes--a whistle in the grass, gray light on green water, faces in dark spaces in trees ("How to Like It"-Stephen Dobyns)--is the world in which I go wordpicking. And whatever walks there, walks beside me.
Boursier-Mougenot Installation
Tuesday Round-up of Everything, Week of 6/17, Post 4:
Wandered into the downtown branch of the San Diego Museum of Contemporary Art and stopped dead, in the lobby, for at least fifteen minutes, mesmerized and laughing at the sound and sight of Celeste Boursier-Mougenot's installation of three inflatable backyard swimming pools gently circulating porcelain bowls and saucers, tuned and filled just so, their chimes as they bump randomly together as rich and atmospheric in that place as the bells of Riverside Cathedral on a Westside Sunday morning. Only funnier. Summer officially started for me right there.
This link doesn't begin to give you the sense of it, or the scope. But at least you can get an idea.
Wandered into the downtown branch of the San Diego Museum of Contemporary Art and stopped dead, in the lobby, for at least fifteen minutes, mesmerized and laughing at the sound and sight of Celeste Boursier-Mougenot's installation of three inflatable backyard swimming pools gently circulating porcelain bowls and saucers, tuned and filled just so, their chimes as they bump randomly together as rich and atmospheric in that place as the bells of Riverside Cathedral on a Westside Sunday morning. Only funnier. Summer officially started for me right there.
This link doesn't begin to give you the sense of it, or the scope. But at least you can get an idea.
True Detective vs House of Cards
T.R.U.E. (Tuesday Round-up of Everything), Week of 6/17, Post 2:
Y'all were so, so right about "True Detective," and I apologize it took me so long to listen. I've got this Woody Harrelson thing, which doesn't even compare to my Matthew Mcconaughey thing, and it looked seedy for the sake of seedy...anyway, I'm sorry. The green, gritty light in those cane fields. The birds rising out of the ruins of that church. The wondrous character of Woody's wife. And, yeah, Woody and Matthew. Who knew.
But...
"House of Cards." That...was a joke, right? You were kidding? 'Cause, I mean...in terms of cinematography and imagery, the look is about as enticing and memorable as the Bunker family living room. The people are "Days of Our Lives" flat, not just puppets on strings but faceless puppets on strings. As my fourteen year-old son Sid said, thirty seconds in: "Why IS Kevin Spacy breaking the fourth wall, exactly?" And then there's the dialogue. As when Kevin says the following about his wife--meaning to imply that he admires and cherishes her ruthlessness and viciousness: "I love that woman like a shark loves blood." Which would make her...blood? Would make HIM the...But he was trying to say...
Y'all were so, so right about "True Detective," and I apologize it took me so long to listen. I've got this Woody Harrelson thing, which doesn't even compare to my Matthew Mcconaughey thing, and it looked seedy for the sake of seedy...anyway, I'm sorry. The green, gritty light in those cane fields. The birds rising out of the ruins of that church. The wondrous character of Woody's wife. And, yeah, Woody and Matthew. Who knew.
But...
"House of Cards." That...was a joke, right? You were kidding? 'Cause, I mean...in terms of cinematography and imagery, the look is about as enticing and memorable as the Bunker family living room. The people are "Days of Our Lives" flat, not just puppets on strings but faceless puppets on strings. As my fourteen year-old son Sid said, thirty seconds in: "Why IS Kevin Spacy breaking the fourth wall, exactly?" And then there's the dialogue. As when Kevin says the following about his wife--meaning to imply that he admires and cherishes her ruthlessness and viciousness: "I love that woman like a shark loves blood." Which would make her...blood? Would make HIM the...But he was trying to say...
REM
TRUE (Tuesday Round-up of Everything), Week of 6/17, Post 1:
REM's "Unplugged: 1991-2001" is exactly good enough to remind me how good they once were, no better. Every song I thought I remembered, I still remember. There are a couple ("Find a River"!) that I forgot I remembered. And every song I'd truly forgotten--that is, virtually everything after drummer Bill Berry left except "Electrolite"--I still can't remember, even after hearing it again. Given that Mr. Berry always struck me as more solid than special, it's amazing how deep and wide the gap is between almost everything this band did with him and everything they did without him. Even unplugged, with Berry (in 1991) and his fill-ins (in 2001) tapping congas and cans.
REM's "Unplugged: 1991-2001" is exactly good enough to remind me how good they once were, no better. Every song I thought I remembered, I still remember. There are a couple ("Find a River"!) that I forgot I remembered. And every song I'd truly forgotten--that is, virtually everything after drummer Bill Berry left except "Electrolite"--I still can't remember, even after hearing it again. Given that Mr. Berry always struck me as more solid than special, it's amazing how deep and wide the gap is between almost everything this band did with him and everything they did without him. Even unplugged, with Berry (in 1991) and his fill-ins (in 2001) tapping congas and cans.
Dean Wareham at the Roxy
TRUE, week of 6/24. Post #5:
Caught Dean Wareham and Britta Phillips at the Roxy, and realized that while they do indeed radiate glamour, it’s not the kind I expected or that they have aspired to. Sure, Dean hardly looks like he’s trying as he leans into his surprisingly lyrical melodies or soars through a guitar solo, but his is the not-having-to-try of someone who never puts down a guitar, can’t stop humming, rather than smug insouciance. And they both smile a lot: at us, the music, each other. By the end, their brand of effortless seemed a product of hard practice—at interplay, at songwriting, at staying in love with staying in love. A lot less Serge Gainsbourg or even Lou Reed, in other words, than Bryan Ferry. And their cover of Joy Division’s “Ceremony” is so buoyant, by the end, that it restores the joy to the riff, sounds remarkably like the racket Ian Curtis might be kicking up, still, if he’d somehow put himself back together after love (or epilepsy, or depression, or whatever it finally was) tore him apart.
Caught Dean Wareham and Britta Phillips at the Roxy, and realized that while they do indeed radiate glamour, it’s not the kind I expected or that they have aspired to. Sure, Dean hardly looks like he’s trying as he leans into his surprisingly lyrical melodies or soars through a guitar solo, but his is the not-having-to-try of someone who never puts down a guitar, can’t stop humming, rather than smug insouciance. And they both smile a lot: at us, the music, each other. By the end, their brand of effortless seemed a product of hard practice—at interplay, at songwriting, at staying in love with staying in love. A lot less Serge Gainsbourg or even Lou Reed, in other words, than Bryan Ferry. And their cover of Joy Division’s “Ceremony” is so buoyant, by the end, that it restores the joy to the riff, sounds remarkably like the racket Ian Curtis might be kicking up, still, if he’d somehow put himself back together after love (or epilepsy, or depression, or whatever it finally was) tore him apart.
"A Game of Clue" by Steven Millhauser
TRUE, week of 6/24, Post #4:
At his dazzling best—as he is in so many of his short and longer stories—Steven Millhauser makes an entirely of-this-time, of-this-country mythology out of the most unlikely materials: the clockmakers and magicians and mad moonlight of fairy tales; a positively Updikean clarity and depth of insight into characters and their foibles, married to a decidedly not-Updikean charity and warmth; the sensualized fever-dreams of adolescents (and not only adolescents), rendered with their perversity but also their sense of wonder and radiance and possibility intact (as in “Clair de Lune,” when a teen who can’t sleep slips out into the suburban summer, works up the nerve to walk past the house of his crush, half-sleepwalks into her backyard…and discovers her playing whiffle ball with two girlfriends in the middle of the night); and a sense of high concept that has much more to do—again—with ghost stories or fairy tales than post-modern meta-gameplaying.
At his least successful—as he generally is, for me, in in his novels—the concepts win.
That, in the end, is the case with “A Game of Clue”, which I read this week. Half the story is a pretty fine depiction of a gently troubled family playing the title game all night on a porch to celebrate a 15 year-old’s birthday. The other, less compelling half details the wanderings and emotional musings of Colonel Mustard, Professor Plum, and the other suspects wandering the dark hallways and billiard rooms of the gameboard. The connections between game pieces and people, in the end, are tenuous, the humor in the concept itself light and repetitive, the meanderings in the mansion clever but aimless.
But even here, there are glimpses of Millhauser's magic. Oh yes. As in this heartbreaking, gorgeous moment when Colonel Mustard slips into the ballroom to continue his brutish seduction of Miss Scarlet: “The Colonel is patient; he appears to be waiting confidently for a sign from her. She asks herself suddenly: have I given him a sign? His eyes hold abysmal promises: come, I will teach you the disillusionment of the body, come, I will teach you the death of roses, the emptiness of orgasms in sun-flooded, loveless rooms.”
At his dazzling best—as he is in so many of his short and longer stories—Steven Millhauser makes an entirely of-this-time, of-this-country mythology out of the most unlikely materials: the clockmakers and magicians and mad moonlight of fairy tales; a positively Updikean clarity and depth of insight into characters and their foibles, married to a decidedly not-Updikean charity and warmth; the sensualized fever-dreams of adolescents (and not only adolescents), rendered with their perversity but also their sense of wonder and radiance and possibility intact (as in “Clair de Lune,” when a teen who can’t sleep slips out into the suburban summer, works up the nerve to walk past the house of his crush, half-sleepwalks into her backyard…and discovers her playing whiffle ball with two girlfriends in the middle of the night); and a sense of high concept that has much more to do—again—with ghost stories or fairy tales than post-modern meta-gameplaying.
At his least successful—as he generally is, for me, in in his novels—the concepts win.
That, in the end, is the case with “A Game of Clue”, which I read this week. Half the story is a pretty fine depiction of a gently troubled family playing the title game all night on a porch to celebrate a 15 year-old’s birthday. The other, less compelling half details the wanderings and emotional musings of Colonel Mustard, Professor Plum, and the other suspects wandering the dark hallways and billiard rooms of the gameboard. The connections between game pieces and people, in the end, are tenuous, the humor in the concept itself light and repetitive, the meanderings in the mansion clever but aimless.
But even here, there are glimpses of Millhauser's magic. Oh yes. As in this heartbreaking, gorgeous moment when Colonel Mustard slips into the ballroom to continue his brutish seduction of Miss Scarlet: “The Colonel is patient; he appears to be waiting confidently for a sign from her. She asks herself suddenly: have I given him a sign? His eyes hold abysmal promises: come, I will teach you the disillusionment of the body, come, I will teach you the death of roses, the emptiness of orgasms in sun-flooded, loveless rooms.”
Night Moves (the new movie, not the old song)
T.R.U.E., week of 6/24, Post #3:
In his review of the new indie-thriller Night Moves, A.O. Scott enthuses about how director Kelly Reichardt’s movies avoid falling into any established genre. That is often NEW YORK TIMES critic-code (although A.O. often knows better) for movie-that-doesn’t-actually-bother-telling-its-story. That, unfortunately, is the case here.
Three characters we don't understand, care about, or believe plot to blow up a dam. They’re commune dwellers, supposedly passionate about ecological concerns, though Reichardt takes great pains to make sure no one actually acts passionate about anything. Scott also praises the way “there is never a lot of talking in a Kelly Reichardt movie.” And it’s true, Reichardt has clearly seized on the idea that good drama is often driven by characters who won't or can't say what they’re thinking.
But in this movie, anyway, I’m less than convinced that she has any idea what her characters ARE thinking. And I certainly don’t.
In his review of the new indie-thriller Night Moves, A.O. Scott enthuses about how director Kelly Reichardt’s movies avoid falling into any established genre. That is often NEW YORK TIMES critic-code (although A.O. often knows better) for movie-that-doesn’t-actually-bother-telling-its-story. That, unfortunately, is the case here.
Three characters we don't understand, care about, or believe plot to blow up a dam. They’re commune dwellers, supposedly passionate about ecological concerns, though Reichardt takes great pains to make sure no one actually acts passionate about anything. Scott also praises the way “there is never a lot of talking in a Kelly Reichardt movie.” And it’s true, Reichardt has clearly seized on the idea that good drama is often driven by characters who won't or can't say what they’re thinking.
But in this movie, anyway, I’m less than convinced that she has any idea what her characters ARE thinking. And I certainly don’t.
THE PIERCES--"TEAM" (Lorde cover)
TRUE, week of 6/24, Post #2:
Hear "Team."
With the singular exception of the 2007 song “Boring,” which capitalized on exactly the sense of unacknowledged disenchantment I’ve always suspected lurked behind the shimmering bead-curtain of their harmonies, I’ve always found the Pierces skilled but...well, they said it, I didn't.
But THIS. It’s a terrific song anyway, and at 12 or whatever she is now, Lorde can already write circles around them (not that there's any shame in that—she writes circles around lots of people). And certainly Lorde’s glitch-and-jitter fits her intentions better, marries healthy suspicion of the adult world with a surprisingly hard-bitten and hard-earned optimism, even sweetness.
The Pierces’ version is certainly more adult. I could argue that it's successful because it lays bare the nostalgia--already embedded in Lorde’s music--for a time when she completely believed there were such things as alternate ways forward, totally bought her own grounded optimism not just for herself but for everyone. I could argue that the Pierces add fresh, autumnal hues.
Mostly, though, this is just so flat gorgeous, I stop caring what it’s saying.
Hear "Team."
With the singular exception of the 2007 song “Boring,” which capitalized on exactly the sense of unacknowledged disenchantment I’ve always suspected lurked behind the shimmering bead-curtain of their harmonies, I’ve always found the Pierces skilled but...well, they said it, I didn't.
But THIS. It’s a terrific song anyway, and at 12 or whatever she is now, Lorde can already write circles around them (not that there's any shame in that—she writes circles around lots of people). And certainly Lorde’s glitch-and-jitter fits her intentions better, marries healthy suspicion of the adult world with a surprisingly hard-bitten and hard-earned optimism, even sweetness.
The Pierces’ version is certainly more adult. I could argue that it's successful because it lays bare the nostalgia--already embedded in Lorde’s music--for a time when she completely believed there were such things as alternate ways forward, totally bought her own grounded optimism not just for herself but for everyone. I could argue that the Pierces add fresh, autumnal hues.
Mostly, though, this is just so flat gorgeous, I stop caring what it’s saying.
THE ESCAPE ARTIST
TRUE (that's Tuesday Round-up of Everything), week of 6/24, Post #1:
(in case you missed it and are interested, this is intended as a weekly assemblage of the books and music and whatever else I found in the past week that I found myself talking and thinking about. Comments/dissents/elaborations strongly encouraged. And if you start a T.R.U.E. on your own page or blog, please tag me so I can see what you're on about.)
The Escape Artist, which ran over the past two Sundays on PBS in the States, isn’t Sherlock, or Endeavor, or Lewis, but it’s light-years better than the execrable Broadchurch, in no small part because we’re allowed actually to like—or feel sympathy for, anyway—at least a few of the people in peril. Cartoon villain out of a Batman comic, ludicrous plot. But some snappy dialogue, a bit of atmosphere. And David Tennant actually smiles a couple times, which means my wife is back in love with him, which means she’s happy. And, you know, as long as she’s happy…
(in case you missed it and are interested, this is intended as a weekly assemblage of the books and music and whatever else I found in the past week that I found myself talking and thinking about. Comments/dissents/elaborations strongly encouraged. And if you start a T.R.U.E. on your own page or blog, please tag me so I can see what you're on about.)
The Escape Artist, which ran over the past two Sundays on PBS in the States, isn’t Sherlock, or Endeavor, or Lewis, but it’s light-years better than the execrable Broadchurch, in no small part because we’re allowed actually to like—or feel sympathy for, anyway—at least a few of the people in peril. Cartoon villain out of a Batman comic, ludicrous plot. But some snappy dialogue, a bit of atmosphere. And David Tennant actually smiles a couple times, which means my wife is back in love with him, which means she’s happy. And, you know, as long as she’s happy…
Motherless Music
Perhaps the most enjoyable writing I've gotten a chance to do to bring attention to Motherless Child this summer is crafting a "Book Notes" column for Largehearted Boy (which also happens to be one of my favorite columns on one of the few sites I actually surf by every single day). If you've glanced at Motherless Child, you can probably guess why. The music matters--a lot--in this book. The playlist I crafted is Natalie's and the Whistler's more than mine. It's also full of the songs that got the book written in the first place.
My column runs Friday, July 11th, I believe. I'll post a link when it appears.
My column runs Friday, July 11th, I believe. I'll post a link when it appears.
