stumbling virtue

Art History

   
 Yes she can-can.

I know nothing about art. Really nothing. I mean, I know when I like something, but that's about it. And I'm sorry to say it's not that I haven't had the opportunity to learn about art--actually, the college I went to had a very well-regarded art department. However, to take any of the classes, you had to first take Art 101, a yearlong survey course which was nothing less than a blood sport. The professors who ran the course were a particularly haughty, terrifying bunch; students who signed up to take the class waited in fear to find out which professor's tutorial they had been assigned to. In the end, it didn't matter, though, because they all were harsh, just harsh in different ways. That was just the day-to-day matter of taking the course, though--the midterms and finals in each semester held the entire college hostage. Students dropped pretty much everything else to study for them, and only them. It was considered a badge of honor to spend Friday and Saturday night in the Art History Library or Art Museum, and if you didn't at least try to get locked in to the museum overnight before an exam, well, you basically weren't trying (like that was a tough one for the security guard to crack--a hundred girls all trying to squeeze into corners and behind slim sculptures). Our school was supposed to have a spontaneous, let's celebrate autumn day off each October, but everyone could pretty much pick the date, because the art history professors wouldn't let the administration schedule it on one of their important dates...which was every day, according to them.

I decided I didn't need that kind of trouble, so I never got around to taking Art 101. I still feel somewhat guilty about it, though, so when wandering through the library, I saw a bright red book called, Explosive Acts : Toulouse-Lautrec, Oscar Wilde, Félix Fénẽon and the Art & Anarchy of the Fin de Siècle, by David Sweetman, I thought I had found something that would help fill this tremendous hole in my knowledge. A book about a time period I liked very much, connected with historical events I found interesting--those crazy 19th century anarchists, who couldn't ever really change society because anytime they came close to creating a political movement, someone would say, "Wait! We can't organize--we're anarchists!" And then they'd all scatter. Mix that in with a little art nouveau plus Paris, and you have pure fun, right?

When you pull a book randomly off a shelf, you sometimes experience the joy of finding an unexpected treasure. Other times, though, you just make a mistake. Sweetman's book felt closer to the latter for me.

Confess Yourself to Heaven

How are things going in Denmark, or the nowhere place where our version is set? Not well, right now, but it is that stage of the production where you always feel that way, so I wouldn't get too worried. Yet. I did drive the director crazy this week with a long diatribe about how I fear that we don't have any purpose or distinction or intent in our version. Yes, I'd fire me too, but it would be too annoying to recast, plus I'm the only person with all the drafts of our script. Control the information and you control the world.

I have one terrible fear about our show, though. I won't say exactly what it is, but try this--what do you think is the biggest problem you could have with a production of Hamlet? Yes, that's right. You're very clever.

New Boy

My sister got a new dog. She got him from a rescue group--that's the picture of them meeting when she went to pick him up. He was turned over to the group by a person who was moving and apparently couldn't take him along. So you can see in his face that he looks a bit worried, as if he's thinking, "I've had a lot of upheaval in my life lately and I'm not sure what's happening next." However, he's settled in nicely and is now quite happy.

He is, as you can see, a Pomeranian, like my long-lost beloved Marigold. In fact, my sister has always had Papillons, another small dog, but my nephew met Marigold when he came to visit, fell in love (how could you not?), and made his mom promise that when she got another dog, it would be a Pom. He and the litte dog have hit it off famously, by all accounts.

I'm happy for everyone involved, of course, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little bit jealous, and little bit sad that I am currently without anyone. A dog can be extremely helpful when everything seems adrift. I can only hope for the future, I guess.

Mail Call

 

Madame de Sevigne, champion letter writer.

Perhaps I should have been born in another time, because the form of writing that comes easiest to me is letter-writing. No matter what I'm writing, if I'm really having trouble, I will often try writing it like a letter first. And sometimes I'll leave it that way; two out of the three short stories I've written (obviously I'm not into the short story thing) have been in letter form. The Dread Novel is letter-based (the Dread Novel still languishes unloved, by the way. Welcome to my world, Dread Novel).

You would think, then, that I should be happy, that I am living in a golden-enough age, with all the correspondence taking place via email. But most people write emails in short bursts, a couple of sentences, or points, with careless sentences and impersonal words; it is expedient, it is information, and that is all. However, I am always overflowing with long twisting sentences, big chunky paragraphs, and ten thousand extraneous asides, and this excess, combined with my speedy typing--more of a curse than a blessing--too often results in lengthy emails that easily overwhelm the poor recipient who just wanted the answer to a simple question. I try to tame myself, but I don't always succeed, and I think I lose more than I gain by my crashing, giant waves of words.

So maybe I do belong elsewhere (elsewhen?), when people used to write multipage letters, to make up for the vast amounts of time it took for one poor letter to get anywhere. You know, the kind of letters that when written by eventually famous people get collected into volumes that betray their wit, wisdom, and insight. Okay, I claim none of those, and the famous part is also proving elusive, but perhaps, given the right time period and place, and the right to luxuriate in lengthy correspondence, I might achieve literary stardom as a belle-lettrist. Like Madame de Sevigne.

On the Waterfront

 

I had a rare reason to go over to the Brooklyn side last week, and thought I'd test out the camera in my new phone. Not bad. I think the fence makes the picture. I love it.

(And by the way, if you haven't seen the movie "On the Waterfront," well, you should.)

The Very Ecstasy of Love

Here's the official art for our production. Nothing wrong with it, I suppose, other than that at first glance I thought it looked like a white chocolate rose from a wedding cake being stabbed by a paper airplane that has been dipped in a raspberry coulis. Then again, if you accuse me of just having chocolate and cake on the brain, I wouldn't be able to argue much.

We haven't rehearsed since last weekend, but start up again tomorrow. I am bursting with ideas, but unfortunately they're too often about other people's characters, so I suppose I should keep my mouth shut unless someone is obviously struggling. I want this to succeed so badly, though, and my worst fear is that we will only dare a little, when I think we need to dare as much as possible. I'd rather have some people hate it then just like it, or think "it's okay," if you know what I mean. Of course the flip side of the potential hate is potential love. If we're as wild as possible, then someone will love it, right? Maybe? Okay.

Identity Crisis

The Chevalier(e) d'Eon's story  makes the big time--anime.

"I almost forgot to tell you that Monsieur d'Eon is a woman."
--The Marquise due Deffand to Horace Walpole.

In 1775, the Chevalier d'Eon, admitted what had been rumored over the last five years--that the former French soldier and longtime diplomat was a woman who had lived her life as a man. The newly so-called Chevaliere d'Eon signed an agreement negotiated with France's new king, Louis XVI that allowed her to return to France from London, where she had been living for years, with a guaranteed pension that would help her start her life over, at age forty-nine, as a woman. D'Eon fought to be allowed to retain her male clothes and soldier's uniform; after all, she had worn male clothes her entire life and was justly proud of her military record. However, Louis insisted that she put on women's clothes, and threatened to put her in prison if she didn't. D'Eon reluctantly agreed to learn to wear dresses and to adopt the manners of a noble woman. She lived in France until 1785, when she moved back to London. The Chevaliere died in 1810. As her body was being prepared for burial, it turned out that d'Eon had one last secret to reveal--that she was, indeed, actually a man after all.

In "Monsieur d'Eon is a Woman," Gary Kates tries to unravel the mystery of why a highly placed noble man in 18th century Europe would choose to live the second half of his life as a woman. It's a puzzle indeed--at any given time in history, men have had more power than women, so by becoming a woman, d'Eon gave up his career and place in society. In fact, he died in London in poverty, his pension swept away in the French Revolution, and his ability to earn a living severely limited because he was seen as a woman. The reasons did not appear to be sexual--d'Eon did not become a woman in order to pursue homosexual relationships, or any kind of relationships. As far as anyone can tell, d'Eon died a virgin. He did not feel like a man trapped in a woman's body and was certainly not a transvestite, as shown by his desperate fight to avoid women's clothes. He hated dressing like a woman, yet put himself through the ordeal of dressing in the huge, heavy dresses with stays of an 18th century woman. So why?

Suit the Action to the Word

I had to add about two-three pages of material back to Hamlet, all at the request of one actor. To be honest, I'm not wild about a number of his changes, but how can I argue when an actor says it doesn't make sense or work for him without these additions? I'd hate to try to make someone perform while feeling lost or uncomfortable. I mean, I'd love to say "let's work on this without some of the extra material and try to solve the problem another way," but I dont' think we can risk fooling around like that. And who am I anyway? Just your humble editor.

We had kind of a workshop day where we just talked a lot, which was fine with me. Tomorrow we start blocking. On that note, I'd like to mention one of my favorite things about the play, which is that great moment when Horatio gets a note from Hamlet explaining that while he was on his way to England his ship was attacked by pirates, but never fear, he escaped and he's back in Denmark. I love this because it's so, "uhhh...what?" I mean, pirates? I can't help but picture Shakespeare sitting there struggling over how to get Hamlet back to Denmark and finally shrugging, and thinking to himself, "You know, I'll just throw something out there for now, how about pirates? Then I can move on and come back and fix this later." But luckily it doesn't get changed and instead we end up with what I consider one of the more charmingly inexplicable moments in English theater. Thanks, Will.

Futility Manifesto

I am increasingly fascinated by the jobs for which it appears I am not qualified. These include:

• Dog walker (having walked your own dog apparently doesn't count as experience);
• Maid/Housekeeper (they want professional experience and references; this is a terrible waste, as even my mom says I clean really well);
• Junior Art Buyer (okay, it was a stretch but I thought it sounded interesting);
• Assistant to an "established author" (no doubt he felt threatened! yeah, right...);
• Research and content collector for museum of the human body (they probably gave this one to someone boringly obvious, like a person with a background in physiology or something dull like that);
• Administrative Assistant (I think my distaste for these jobs shows through in my cover letters. It's hard to sound enthusiastic about the prospect of filing and opening mail. Sigh.).

Of course, that leaves us with the bigger question of what exactly am I qualified to do? I'm an excellent speller. Is there a pro spelling bee circuit?

Murder Most Foul

 

A very guilty Richard Robinson sneaks away from the freshly murdered--and quite modest, it appears--Helen Jewett. A rendition by an artist without a taste for the racy.

In the early moring of April 10, 1836, Rosina Townsend, the owner of a brothel on Thomas Street in New York City, let in a late-arriving guest who was expected by one of her women. Noticing a lamp missing from a room, and already on alert from a call she had ignored a few hours earlier by a man who wanted to be let out of the house--the doors were locked both inside and outside and the women were supposed to let out their clients on their own--Rosina inspected the house. On the second floor, she found that Helen Jewett's door was unlocked. When she opened it, she found Helen's bed on fire; Helen was already dead from three sharp axe blows to her head. The fire brigade and police were called. After the fire was put out, the police tracked down Frank Rivers, the last client Helen had seen that night. His real name was Richard P. Robinson and he was a clerk who lived at a boarding house not far away. The police questioned him about an axe and a man's cloak found at the scene, but Robinson said they didn't belong to him. After questioning his roommate, Robinson was brought back to Rosina's house and shown Helen Jewett's half-burned body. He betrayed no emotion and denied the crime. After reviewing the evidence, Robinson was arrested for the murder of Helen Jewett.

The crime and eventual trial were a sensation for the penny press, creating new papers almost overnight. Helen was portrayed as a beautiful, sensitive soul with talent and brains beyond her station--the contents of her room included works by Byron and literary magazines. Robinson, still in his teens, was constantly referred to as a "poor" or "innocent boy," who was protected by swarms of other young clerks who viewed him as a representative of their class who had been falsely accused by nothing more than the word of a few whores. At the trial, Robinson was defended by one of New York's top lawyers, who had been hired by his employer, a prominent merchant. The defense--aided by a seemingly friendly judge--soundly outperformed the inexperienced DA, and Robinson was acquitted. Robinson eventually left town and built a completely new life for himself in Texas. No one else was ever charged in Jewett's murder, but her case lived on in fiction and nonfiction as people continued to speculate about the events of that April night.

That's the bare bones of the story. Patricia Cline Cohen, in "The Murder of Helen Jewett," gives us so much more. The extent of Cohen's research and detective work can't be overestimated. She uncovers the real identity of Jewett and her real story, which had been woefully obscured by many layers of fiction and half-truths. She details the tempestuous relationship of Robinson and Jewett, gives background on the lives of New York prostitutes and clerks, tells about the changing moral climate from the 18th century to the mid-nineteenth century, and explains the American legal process in the 1830s. Want to know how many of the type of axe that was used to kill Jewett were sold in New York in 1836? That would be 2500. No stone, it seems, was left unturned by Cohen. The facts are always fascinating, if perhaps occasionally a little overwhelming.