Leo had led Salzman to the only clear place in the room, a table near a window that overlooked the lamp-lit city. He seated himself at the matchmaker's side but facing him, attempting by an act of will to suppress the unpleasant tickle in his throat. Salzman eagerly unstrapped his portfolio and removed a loose rubber band from a thin packet of much-handled cards.....When Leo's eyes fell upon the cards, he counted six spread out in Salzman's hand.
"So few?" he asked in disappointment.
"You wouldn't believe me how much cards I got in my office," Salzman replied. "The drawers are already filled to the top, so I keep them now in a barrel, but is every girl good for a new rabbi?"
---Bernard Malamud, "The Magic Barrel" in The Magic Barrel (1958)
In the title story of Bernard Malamud's National Book Award winning collection, a rabbinical student, Leo Finkle, secures the services of a "commercial cupid"--the marriage broker, Pinye Salzman. Salzman cleverly limits his options, initially presenting him with the potential match of "Sophie P." a twenty-four year old widow; "Ruth K." a nineteen year old beauty with a lame foot; and "Lily H." a woman he insists is only twenty-nine (Leo's brief meeting with her confirms that but she is at least thirty-five and "aging rapidly"). Rattled by his date with Lily, who believes him to be a true man of God, Leo gives up on the notion of an arranged marriage. At this point, Salzman offers his a packet of photographs of clients, which Leo leaves unopened for many months. Finally, in a miserable state, he examines the images, and falls in love with one very familiar image. Rushing to Salzman, he asks him to arrange a meeting with this woman. Salzman protests, insisting that this image was left in the packet only by accident. Pressing him, Leo learns that this is a photo of Salzman's daughter--a woman of a very questionable past who is now "dead" to her father. Suspecting that Salzman had been scheming to arrange this match all along, Leo nonetheless falls for the woman, seeing in her weary yet compelling face, his own salvation.
This is a story of immigrant culture but also and more importantly of the nature of love. I am most drawn to the image of the "magic" barrel--referred to only as a barrel in the text, and one that exists only in the imagination. The contrast of the limitless possibilities of the barrel--the thing we think we want--and the slender options that Salzman strategically presents is the locus of fascination for me. The perfect match (people, objects, situations) always resides in the future of the distance---it is always unidentifiable, or inaccessible, or unobtainable. Salzman cleverly creates a match that presents as the match--someone who suggests to Leo what love means: "he examined the face and found it good: good for Leo Finkle. Only such a one could understand him and help him seek whatever he was seeking. She might, perhaps, love him."
Friday, January 29, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Kismet
Kismet. [Turk. kismet, Pers. quismat, a. Aarb. qisma(t) portion, lot, fate, f. qasama to divide.]
Destiny, fate.
1849 E.B. EASTWICK Dry Leaves 46 One day a man related to me a story of Kismat or destiny. 1865 MRS. GASKELL in Cornh. Mag. Feb. 219 It's a pity when these old Saxon houses vanish off the land; but it is 'kismet' with the Hamleys. 1883 F.M.CRAWFORD Mr. Isaccs i. 19 The stars or the fates...or whatever you like to term your kismet.
---Definition courtesy of the Oxofrd English Dictionary
Today's quote is a definition of one of my favorite words--Kismet. As the quotes above suggest, this word of Arabic origin entered the English language in the mid to late 1800s. In English, kismet suggests a kind of magic, good fortune, crossing paths, the perfect alliance of the stars, an overarching order. It has a romantic quality, suggesting that things are "meant to be"--despite all evidence to the contrary.
Destiny, fate.
1849 E.B. EASTWICK Dry Leaves 46 One day a man related to me a story of Kismat or destiny. 1865 MRS. GASKELL in Cornh. Mag. Feb. 219 It's a pity when these old Saxon houses vanish off the land; but it is 'kismet' with the Hamleys. 1883 F.M.CRAWFORD Mr. Isaccs i. 19 The stars or the fates...or whatever you like to term your kismet.
---Definition courtesy of the Oxofrd English Dictionary
Today's quote is a definition of one of my favorite words--Kismet. As the quotes above suggest, this word of Arabic origin entered the English language in the mid to late 1800s. In English, kismet suggests a kind of magic, good fortune, crossing paths, the perfect alliance of the stars, an overarching order. It has a romantic quality, suggesting that things are "meant to be"--despite all evidence to the contrary.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Silence/Stillness
"Tu m'as séduit, O Seigneur, et moi,
Je me suis laissé séduire."
[You have seduced me O Lord,
and I am seduced."]
---Into Great Silence (2005) Dir. Philip Gröning
Philip Gröning's documentary Into Great Silence offers the viewer a rare glimpse into the lives of the monks of the Grand Chartreuse monastery in the French Alps. These monks of the Carthusian order take a vow of silence, devoting themselves to prayer and meditation. The film documents their religious rituals but also their daily work, which is an extension of their meditative and spirtual endeavors. To capture what is remarkable about their devotion would have been nearly impossible within the conventions of the typical documentary film. This film offers no historical information on the monastery, no interviews with those who live there, no musical score. Instead, it presents a minimalist portrayal of its subjects and the spaces they occupy. Close-ups on the monk's faces, on everyday objects, on shifting natural light, and on noises and sounds creates an immersive experience for the viewer, for whom familiar experiences are made strikingly unfamiliar, even wondrous.
I am drawn to the notion of seduction, featured within today's quote. If seduction usually has a sexual connotation, here its meaning suggests the powerful draw of the monk's calling and the role that silence plays in catalyzing this kind of passion. One of the most interesting aspects of the film is the insight if offers into the connection between silence and stillness (silence is translated as stillness within the textual portions of the film). We might think of "noise" as the greatest descriptor for modern activity, commerce, sociability--the endless messages, conversations, information, exchanges, and traffic that mark both the temptation and the enervation of our own existence. Sound is linked to motion. Because we are so distracted--so perpetually in motion-- the kind of seduction that the monks experience is not a possibility for us. Their seduction might even make us a bit envious, if it were not so risky and so courageous. The film gives us three hours in which to vicariously experience this kind of stillness. The monks want to be with God. But to be with one's own self--without the protective armor of daily business and noise--might be frightening enough for the modern viewer. Or maybe, on a good day, enlightening enough.
Je me suis laissé séduire."
[You have seduced me O Lord,
and I am seduced."]
---Into Great Silence (2005) Dir. Philip Gröning
Philip Gröning's documentary Into Great Silence offers the viewer a rare glimpse into the lives of the monks of the Grand Chartreuse monastery in the French Alps. These monks of the Carthusian order take a vow of silence, devoting themselves to prayer and meditation. The film documents their religious rituals but also their daily work, which is an extension of their meditative and spirtual endeavors. To capture what is remarkable about their devotion would have been nearly impossible within the conventions of the typical documentary film. This film offers no historical information on the monastery, no interviews with those who live there, no musical score. Instead, it presents a minimalist portrayal of its subjects and the spaces they occupy. Close-ups on the monk's faces, on everyday objects, on shifting natural light, and on noises and sounds creates an immersive experience for the viewer, for whom familiar experiences are made strikingly unfamiliar, even wondrous.
I am drawn to the notion of seduction, featured within today's quote. If seduction usually has a sexual connotation, here its meaning suggests the powerful draw of the monk's calling and the role that silence plays in catalyzing this kind of passion. One of the most interesting aspects of the film is the insight if offers into the connection between silence and stillness (silence is translated as stillness within the textual portions of the film). We might think of "noise" as the greatest descriptor for modern activity, commerce, sociability--the endless messages, conversations, information, exchanges, and traffic that mark both the temptation and the enervation of our own existence. Sound is linked to motion. Because we are so distracted--so perpetually in motion-- the kind of seduction that the monks experience is not a possibility for us. Their seduction might even make us a bit envious, if it were not so risky and so courageous. The film gives us three hours in which to vicariously experience this kind of stillness. The monks want to be with God. But to be with one's own self--without the protective armor of daily business and noise--might be frightening enough for the modern viewer. Or maybe, on a good day, enlightening enough.
Monday, January 11, 2010
A Play of Light: The Still Life Paintings of Janet Fish
"When people look at realist paintings, they focus on the objects, which I don't think are the subject at all. I think the object is one of the tools, like the paint and the brush. The real subject is the light, movement, and color, and echoes of the objects in one's mind. All those things are part of what I use to make the painting."
--Janet Fish, qtd. in the exhibition pamphlet for "The Art of Janet Fish" (October 2, 2009-January 17, 2009, Naples Museum of Art).
Janet Fish is known for her vibrant and colorful paintings which play with light, shape, and texture. Like still-life, many of her works feature glassworks, foodstuffs, cut flowers, and domestic objects--all rendered in jewel-like colors that she suggests are inspired by her island upbringing. Yet as the curators of this exhibit suggest, Fish is not a "realist" proper, but an artist whose work intersects abstract expressionism with realism to create expansive, bright and "juicy surfaces."
As is well-known, the sensory perception of fragrance is closely linked to memory. A familiar fragrance can prompt a mental journey into one's past. Yet the sensory perception of subtle differences in light similarly draws the mind away from the mundanities of the present and into an alternative dimension. On my first pass through this exhibition--which was sort of like a domestic coral reef---nothing much caught my eye. But on my third pass, as I began to linger over certain paintings, I moved into a more meditative state---developing a keener awareness of the possibilities of the present and a heightened interest in the everyday. The domestic scenery--while exotic--is not unfamiliar.
I was most drawn to one painting, "Cracked Eggs and Milk" (2005) featuring some particularly poignantly rendered cantaloupe-orange glass bowls and raw golden yolks set off in morning light. The preparations of breakfast or brunch (I'm not attuned enough to the subtleties of light to discern the precise hour of the morning that Fish captures but in my mind's eye it is 8 am) appear in freeze-frame---we have no desire to see the ingredients to come together or to watch the meal being consumed. There is an intense feeling of pleasure in the moment-- taking note of it, being in it. It is a very rare experience to linger over anything, to reflect on anything, to be rather than to do--to experience the luxury of time. Fish's art thwarts our desires to get to the end of things. She captures a familiar reality and yet makes it startlingly unfamiliar in its delicate allusion to what we fail to notice and what we take for granted.
--Janet Fish, qtd. in the exhibition pamphlet for "The Art of Janet Fish" (October 2, 2009-January 17, 2009, Naples Museum of Art).
Janet Fish is known for her vibrant and colorful paintings which play with light, shape, and texture. Like still-life, many of her works feature glassworks, foodstuffs, cut flowers, and domestic objects--all rendered in jewel-like colors that she suggests are inspired by her island upbringing. Yet as the curators of this exhibit suggest, Fish is not a "realist" proper, but an artist whose work intersects abstract expressionism with realism to create expansive, bright and "juicy surfaces."
As is well-known, the sensory perception of fragrance is closely linked to memory. A familiar fragrance can prompt a mental journey into one's past. Yet the sensory perception of subtle differences in light similarly draws the mind away from the mundanities of the present and into an alternative dimension. On my first pass through this exhibition--which was sort of like a domestic coral reef---nothing much caught my eye. But on my third pass, as I began to linger over certain paintings, I moved into a more meditative state---developing a keener awareness of the possibilities of the present and a heightened interest in the everyday. The domestic scenery--while exotic--is not unfamiliar.
I was most drawn to one painting, "Cracked Eggs and Milk" (2005) featuring some particularly poignantly rendered cantaloupe-orange glass bowls and raw golden yolks set off in morning light. The preparations of breakfast or brunch (I'm not attuned enough to the subtleties of light to discern the precise hour of the morning that Fish captures but in my mind's eye it is 8 am) appear in freeze-frame---we have no desire to see the ingredients to come together or to watch the meal being consumed. There is an intense feeling of pleasure in the moment-- taking note of it, being in it. It is a very rare experience to linger over anything, to reflect on anything, to be rather than to do--to experience the luxury of time. Fish's art thwarts our desires to get to the end of things. She captures a familiar reality and yet makes it startlingly unfamiliar in its delicate allusion to what we fail to notice and what we take for granted.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Anxiety, Hope: Bruijn's Images
"Ansel Adams once said that the principal attribute required of a good photographer is knowing where to stand. But he and Brynn know that, even standing in the perfect place, the photographer must, in a split second, capture that special moment while also noting a multitude of issues, including light, shadow, composition, shutter speed and focus.
Brynn's photographs are illustrative of her mastery over these complexities. Look, for instance, at her exquisitely eloquent composition Still Waiting. In this image, where the sun is just beginning to push away the night, workers wait in the cold early morning darkness to be selected for that day's field work. Some have already been chosen and are lining up for the bus that will take them to work; those not selected sit huddled while trying to keep warm with coffee or stand with their hoods up and hands jammed into their pockets. The stark dualities of the moment are powerfully captured--the contrast between day and night, work and idleness, inclusion and exclusion, hope and uncertainty. Instead of a dawn ripe with possibilities, Brynn helps us recognize in this metaphorically brilliant image that, for these individuals, each new day begins with the same overwhelming anxiety."
---Michael Culver, Director and Chief Curator, Naples Museum of Art, Exhibition pamphlet for "Images of Hope: Immokalee--Looking Forward, Looking Back, Photography by Brynn Bruijn" on exhibit December 1, 2009--February 7, 2010.
Michael Culver's close reading of this Brynn Bruijn photograph suggests that the technical competence and artistry of the photographer resides in his or her sense of perspective in the physical/geographical as well as the narrative sense of the word. In this exhibition, Bruijn captures the tensions inherent in the lives of the residents of Immokalee, a town of 25,000 whose population "expand[s] to 40,000 during the agricultural season" (Mary George, President and CEO of the Community Foundation of Collier County.) With grossly inadequate housing--with respect to quantity and quality--many of Bruijn's photographs document the physical interiors of impoverishment. Indeed, about half of these families live below the poverty line.
But as Culver acknowledges, Bruijn's perspective also exposes the psychological interiors of Immokalee's citizens, whose struggles, anxieties, and desires are not so easily discerned. Currently on exhibit at the Naples Museum of Art--a mere 30 miles from Immokalee--the discordant environs of wealthy and luxurious Naples throws Bruijn's subject matter into relief. Yet her work evokes deeper thinking more so than pity and elides the simpler dichotomies that we might be inclined to ascribe to it. In this sense, Bruijn's work as a photographer also shifts our perspective as viewers, drawing us in, mandating our reflection on where we reside in relationship to the people featured in these images.
The curation of this exhibition supports this end. For example, one placard informs the visitor that 70% of all vegetables consumed between late October and May are produced in southern Florida. We begin to reflect on what we consume, whether it was touched by the photographic subjects--whether they are a part of us--are actually sustaining us. This is only the beginning of this line of thought, which takes us to an uncomfortable place in which we are prompted to acknowledge the arbitrariness of our own good fortune and (perhaps) the essential insecurity of our own position. Yet, we ultimately turn back in fascination at the subjects themselves whose anxious hope is so painstakingly rendered. "Hope" is not a simplistic term to describe this state, but one that captures what it means to be unsettled---in every sense of the word.
Brynn's photographs are illustrative of her mastery over these complexities. Look, for instance, at her exquisitely eloquent composition Still Waiting. In this image, where the sun is just beginning to push away the night, workers wait in the cold early morning darkness to be selected for that day's field work. Some have already been chosen and are lining up for the bus that will take them to work; those not selected sit huddled while trying to keep warm with coffee or stand with their hoods up and hands jammed into their pockets. The stark dualities of the moment are powerfully captured--the contrast between day and night, work and idleness, inclusion and exclusion, hope and uncertainty. Instead of a dawn ripe with possibilities, Brynn helps us recognize in this metaphorically brilliant image that, for these individuals, each new day begins with the same overwhelming anxiety."
---Michael Culver, Director and Chief Curator, Naples Museum of Art, Exhibition pamphlet for "Images of Hope: Immokalee--Looking Forward, Looking Back, Photography by Brynn Bruijn" on exhibit December 1, 2009--February 7, 2010.
Michael Culver's close reading of this Brynn Bruijn photograph suggests that the technical competence and artistry of the photographer resides in his or her sense of perspective in the physical/geographical as well as the narrative sense of the word. In this exhibition, Bruijn captures the tensions inherent in the lives of the residents of Immokalee, a town of 25,000 whose population "expand[s] to 40,000 during the agricultural season" (Mary George, President and CEO of the Community Foundation of Collier County.) With grossly inadequate housing--with respect to quantity and quality--many of Bruijn's photographs document the physical interiors of impoverishment. Indeed, about half of these families live below the poverty line.
But as Culver acknowledges, Bruijn's perspective also exposes the psychological interiors of Immokalee's citizens, whose struggles, anxieties, and desires are not so easily discerned. Currently on exhibit at the Naples Museum of Art--a mere 30 miles from Immokalee--the discordant environs of wealthy and luxurious Naples throws Bruijn's subject matter into relief. Yet her work evokes deeper thinking more so than pity and elides the simpler dichotomies that we might be inclined to ascribe to it. In this sense, Bruijn's work as a photographer also shifts our perspective as viewers, drawing us in, mandating our reflection on where we reside in relationship to the people featured in these images.
The curation of this exhibition supports this end. For example, one placard informs the visitor that 70% of all vegetables consumed between late October and May are produced in southern Florida. We begin to reflect on what we consume, whether it was touched by the photographic subjects--whether they are a part of us--are actually sustaining us. This is only the beginning of this line of thought, which takes us to an uncomfortable place in which we are prompted to acknowledge the arbitrariness of our own good fortune and (perhaps) the essential insecurity of our own position. Yet, we ultimately turn back in fascination at the subjects themselves whose anxious hope is so painstakingly rendered. "Hope" is not a simplistic term to describe this state, but one that captures what it means to be unsettled---in every sense of the word.
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