I have twice already quoted passages from the recent Steve Jobs biography in this blog. Here is a third instance. Isaacson writes that when he was researching the book, he took a tour through Apple's product-design studio, guided by 'Jony' Ive, Jobs' right-hand man on design issues.
On the day of Isaacson's visit, "Ive was overseeing the creation of a new European power plug and connector for the Macintosh. Dozens of foam models, each with the tiniest variation, have been cast and painted for inspection. Some would find it odd that the head of design would fret over something like this, but Jobs got involved as well. Ever since he had a special power supply made for the Apple II, Jobs has cared about not only the engineering but also the design of such parts."
So this passage echoes back to the previous passage I quoted on that Apple II innovation. Still, it is quite different. The switching power supply innovation was functional. It was about controlling heat and the risk a build-up in heat poses to the inner workings of a machine. In the above passage, we are privy to aesthetic evaluations of foam models for electrical plugs.
Sounds odd to me, but then ... I'm not a genius and a multi-billionaire entrepreneur. I'm just a humble scribe.
This point in the book was where I decided it really ought to be reviewed by someone treating it as a novel. I'm still refining that idea.
Showing posts with label aesthetics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label aesthetics. Show all posts
26 January 2012
31 July 2011
William James on Aesthetics
"I remember seeing an English couple sit for more than an hour on a piercing February day in the Academy at Venice before the celebrated 'Assumption' of Titian; and when I, after being chased from room to room by the cold, concluded to get into the sunshine as fast as possible and let the pictures go, but before leaving drew reverently near to them to learn with what superior forms of susceptibility they might be endowed, all I overheard was the woman's voice murmuring: 'What a depracatory expression her face wears! What self-abnegation! How unworthy she feels of the honor she is receiving!" Their honest hearts had been kept warm all the time by a glow of spurious sentiment that would have fairly made old Titian sick."
01 April 2011
Space Opera
In my post March 18 I linked you to a graphic that presents the history of science fiction. Some of you may have noticed the prominence of the expression "Space Opera" in that graphic.
What does that mean? As you might have inferred already, the expression came about on the analogy with "soap opera," and it refers to the more melodramatic sorts of sci-fi. It also refers to the large scale on which a plot works -- a space opera might portray a war between two galaxies, or a multi-generational saga spanning millennia, or both.
The following will give you a feel. This is the opening paragraph of A DEEPNESS IN THE SKY (1999).
"The manhunt extended across more than one hundred light-years and eight centuries. It had always been a secret search, unacknowledged even among some of the participants. In the early years, it had simply been encrypted queries hidden in radio braodcasts. Decades and centuries passed. There were clues, interviews with The Man's fellow-travelers, pointers in a half-dozen contradictory directions: The Man was alone now and heading still farther away; The Man had died before the search ever began; The Man had a war fleet and was coming back upon them."
One hundred light years and eight centuries -- a mere niche in space, a flicker in time, on the scale of space operas. Further, the object of this manhunt is a single man, which tells us something about longevity in the distant future when this is set. Indeed, routinely long lives are a common feature of space operas, not necessarily for any reason more complicated than this: it allows a single protagonist to experience several long-lasting flights hither and yon.
From the above paragraph, reading between the lines just a bit, we can begin to grasp some points about the world to which we've been introduced. There was a war or revolution in the past, and "The Man" was on the losing side, which is why he went into hiding. He continues to be sufficiently dangerous that his sympathizers can with some plausibility claim he has raised a new war fleet. At any rate, the established powers -- his successors -- are looking for him.
We immediately have questions. Should our sympathies be with him or with his pursuers? Is he more like Eichmann in Argentina, or Jean Valjean, condemned over a stolen loaf of bread? Related: what do they plan to do when they find him? Assume he has no warfleet -- assume he is a man living an unremarkable life in an unremarkable place when they find him. What then? Summary execution? A trip "home" (wherever that is) for trial? Something else?
I won't spoil it. If your interest is piqued, the book is here.
That is the meaning of the term "space opera."
What does that mean? As you might have inferred already, the expression came about on the analogy with "soap opera," and it refers to the more melodramatic sorts of sci-fi. It also refers to the large scale on which a plot works -- a space opera might portray a war between two galaxies, or a multi-generational saga spanning millennia, or both.
The following will give you a feel. This is the opening paragraph of A DEEPNESS IN THE SKY (1999).
"The manhunt extended across more than one hundred light-years and eight centuries. It had always been a secret search, unacknowledged even among some of the participants. In the early years, it had simply been encrypted queries hidden in radio braodcasts. Decades and centuries passed. There were clues, interviews with The Man's fellow-travelers, pointers in a half-dozen contradictory directions: The Man was alone now and heading still farther away; The Man had died before the search ever began; The Man had a war fleet and was coming back upon them."
One hundred light years and eight centuries -- a mere niche in space, a flicker in time, on the scale of space operas. Further, the object of this manhunt is a single man, which tells us something about longevity in the distant future when this is set. Indeed, routinely long lives are a common feature of space operas, not necessarily for any reason more complicated than this: it allows a single protagonist to experience several long-lasting flights hither and yon.
From the above paragraph, reading between the lines just a bit, we can begin to grasp some points about the world to which we've been introduced. There was a war or revolution in the past, and "The Man" was on the losing side, which is why he went into hiding. He continues to be sufficiently dangerous that his sympathizers can with some plausibility claim he has raised a new war fleet. At any rate, the established powers -- his successors -- are looking for him.
We immediately have questions. Should our sympathies be with him or with his pursuers? Is he more like Eichmann in Argentina, or Jean Valjean, condemned over a stolen loaf of bread? Related: what do they plan to do when they find him? Assume he has no warfleet -- assume he is a man living an unremarkable life in an unremarkable place when they find him. What then? Summary execution? A trip "home" (wherever that is) for trial? Something else?
I won't spoil it. If your interest is piqued, the book is here.
That is the meaning of the term "space opera."
20 March 2011
More from Moore
A week ago I rambled on about Berlusconi and Woolf, ending up with a famous sentence from G.E. Moore's book on ethics.
Here is bit more of the passage whence that sentence comes.
If, now, we use this method of absolute isolation, and guard against these errors, it appears that the question we have to answer is far less difficult than the controversies of Ethics might have led us to expect. Indeed, once the meaning of the question is clearly understood, the answer to it, in its main outlines, appears to be so obvious, that it runs the risk of seeming to be a platitude. By far the most valuable things, which we know or can imagine, are certain states of consciousness, which may be roughly described as the pleasures of human intercourse and the enjoyment of beautiful objects. No one, probably, who has asked himself the question, has ever doubted that personal affection and the appreciation of what is beautiful in Art or Nature, are good in themselves; nor, if we consider strictly what things are worth having purely for their own sakes, does it appear probable that any one will think that anything else has nearly so great a value as the things which are included under these two heads. I have myself urged in Chap. III. (§ 50) that the mere existence of what is beautiful does appear to have some intrinsic value; but I regard it as indubitable that Prof. Sidgwick was so far right, in the view there discussed, that such mere existence of what is beautiful has value, so small as to be negligible, in comparison with that which attaches to the consciousness of beauty. This simple truth may, indeed, be said to be universally recognised. What has not been recognised is that it is the ultimate and fundamental truth of Moral Philosophy. That it is only for the sake of these things—in order that as much of them as possible may at some time exist—that any one can be justified in performing any public or private duty; that they are the raison d’être of virtue; that it is they—these complex wholes themselves, and not any constituent or characteristic of them—that form the rational ultimate end of human action and the sole criterion of social progress: these appear to be truths which have been generally overlooked.
Here is bit more of the passage whence that sentence comes.
If, now, we use this method of absolute isolation, and guard against these errors, it appears that the question we have to answer is far less difficult than the controversies of Ethics might have led us to expect. Indeed, once the meaning of the question is clearly understood, the answer to it, in its main outlines, appears to be so obvious, that it runs the risk of seeming to be a platitude. By far the most valuable things, which we know or can imagine, are certain states of consciousness, which may be roughly described as the pleasures of human intercourse and the enjoyment of beautiful objects. No one, probably, who has asked himself the question, has ever doubted that personal affection and the appreciation of what is beautiful in Art or Nature, are good in themselves; nor, if we consider strictly what things are worth having purely for their own sakes, does it appear probable that any one will think that anything else has nearly so great a value as the things which are included under these two heads. I have myself urged in Chap. III. (§ 50) that the mere existence of what is beautiful does appear to have some intrinsic value; but I regard it as indubitable that Prof. Sidgwick was so far right, in the view there discussed, that such mere existence of what is beautiful has value, so small as to be negligible, in comparison with that which attaches to the consciousness of beauty. This simple truth may, indeed, be said to be universally recognised. What has not been recognised is that it is the ultimate and fundamental truth of Moral Philosophy. That it is only for the sake of these things—in order that as much of them as possible may at some time exist—that any one can be justified in performing any public or private duty; that they are the raison d’être of virtue; that it is they—these complex wholes themselves, and not any constituent or characteristic of them—that form the rational ultimate end of human action and the sole criterion of social progress: these appear to be truths which have been generally overlooked.
24 July 2010
Jane Goodall
Jane Goodall has been studying chimpanzees for fifty years now, and The Wall Street Journal this weekend has published an extensive essay in which she reflects on this golden anniversary of her life's work.
As is much of her work, this essay is a rebuke to human chauvanism. Goodall atributes to the chimps such a "human" trait as a sense of wonder, or what one might call in recognition of the writings of Edmund Burke, a sense of the sublime.
After writing of the elaborate rituals of chimpanzees in the magnificent presence of the waterfall in Kakombe Valley, "swaying thythmically from foot to foot, hurling huge rocks, then sitting and watching the water as it falls," she says, "Surely these displays are triggered by a sense of wonder."
Here's the complete essay.
As is much of her work, this essay is a rebuke to human chauvanism. Goodall atributes to the chimps such a "human" trait as a sense of wonder, or what one might call in recognition of the writings of Edmund Burke, a sense of the sublime.
After writing of the elaborate rituals of chimpanzees in the magnificent presence of the waterfall in Kakombe Valley, "swaying thythmically from foot to foot, hurling huge rocks, then sitting and watching the water as it falls," she says, "Surely these displays are triggered by a sense of wonder."
Here's the complete essay.
03 April 2010
Dumbledore watches mumblecore
Mumblecore. That's a new word for me. I'm told (in the course of a movie review in SLATE yesterday) that mumblecore is a filmic style or genre or something. Jessica Grose, reviewing Greenberg, defines it as "ultra-low budget, often-improvised movies about lost twentysomethings."
You live and learn. Here's the piece in question.
What is a bit more surprising to me than the new word is that these ultra-low budget films are said to have their own "aesthetic." On this point, Grose refers me to an even higher authority, A.O. Scott of The New York Times who in fact says a lot about the lead actress in Greenberg, who comes from a mumblecore background, Greta Gerwig.
Its all too deep for me. But thanks for the new word, folks. "Mumblecore" sounds at first blush like a sort of erotic film -- hard core, soft core, mumblecore. But the two authorities to which I've just linked you both tell us that mumblecore entails a quite casual and de-eroticized nudity.
It also sounds like the sort of film that the head of Hogwarts might enjoy, as the headline of this entry suggests, but I suppose that is a purely fortuitous association.
As they say at an even more august institution of higher learning Faber College, "Knowledge is Good."
Don't you despise bloggers who drop words and phrases like "nudity" and "erotic film" into their posts and then into their labels for the post just to boost hits? Yeah, me too.
You live and learn. Here's the piece in question.
What is a bit more surprising to me than the new word is that these ultra-low budget films are said to have their own "aesthetic." On this point, Grose refers me to an even higher authority, A.O. Scott of The New York Times who in fact says a lot about the lead actress in Greenberg, who comes from a mumblecore background, Greta Gerwig.
Its all too deep for me. But thanks for the new word, folks. "Mumblecore" sounds at first blush like a sort of erotic film -- hard core, soft core, mumblecore. But the two authorities to which I've just linked you both tell us that mumblecore entails a quite casual and de-eroticized nudity.
It also sounds like the sort of film that the head of Hogwarts might enjoy, as the headline of this entry suggests, but I suppose that is a purely fortuitous association.
As they say at an even more august institution of higher learning Faber College, "Knowledge is Good."
Don't you despise bloggers who drop words and phrases like "nudity" and "erotic film" into their posts and then into their labels for the post just to boost hits? Yeah, me too.
20 December 2009
Dead-Tree Books
I had hoped to write something about animal language again here, and about how a certain philosophical way of thinking about animal language can help us negotiate our way, in the contemplation of our own verbal behavior, between the upper dogmatism of a Chomskyan rationalism and the lower dogmatism of a Skinnerian positivism. But anything worthwhile along those lines would take more time and effort than I'm prepared to put into it right now, so I'll beg off with a simple observation about the (not entirely unrelated) question of the publication of books.
How long will the dead-tree book publishing industry last, in the face of Amazon's Kindle and other forms of digital competition?
For a sober discussion of the issue go here. But for a more amusing take, I prefer blogger Jeff Matthews.
His point? Try to think of it as if it were a new idea and consider how insane it would sound. If everyone was using digital screens to read, and accustomed to it, then the idea of creating tree farms (or deforesting continents so we need to rely on tree farms) so that we can produce pulp with expensive machinery so that we can spray ink onto tiny slices of pulp known as "paper" so that we can then market ideas and stories years after they were first conceived, hoping that they have remained topical in the interim ... all this would seem insane.
Yet it doesn't seem insane, because human beings are creatures of habit. We love our dead-tree books like some of us love our old vinyl records, and the transition to the newer ways of reading will take some time.
Ah, and that new book smell. Like the new-car smell, it has its addicts. And the flying buttresses of Gothic architecture offer a ready example of how an arrangement at first adopted for reasons of utility can come to seem valuable in itself, to be beautiful, even when there are other ways of keeping the walls up.
How long will the dead-tree book publishing industry last, in the face of Amazon's Kindle and other forms of digital competition?
For a sober discussion of the issue go here. But for a more amusing take, I prefer blogger Jeff Matthews.
His point? Try to think of it as if it were a new idea and consider how insane it would sound. If everyone was using digital screens to read, and accustomed to it, then the idea of creating tree farms (or deforesting continents so we need to rely on tree farms) so that we can produce pulp with expensive machinery so that we can spray ink onto tiny slices of pulp known as "paper" so that we can then market ideas and stories years after they were first conceived, hoping that they have remained topical in the interim ... all this would seem insane.
Yet it doesn't seem insane, because human beings are creatures of habit. We love our dead-tree books like some of us love our old vinyl records, and the transition to the newer ways of reading will take some time.
Ah, and that new book smell. Like the new-car smell, it has its addicts. And the flying buttresses of Gothic architecture offer a ready example of how an arrangement at first adopted for reasons of utility can come to seem valuable in itself, to be beautiful, even when there are other ways of keeping the walls up.
03 December 2009
The Sense of Beauty (1896)
It comes to mind for no reason except the thought that it has been too long since I've said anything here about either George Santayana or the field of aesthetics. Let us right both wrongs today. Santayana's first book, The Sense of Beauty was also the first major work on aesthetics written in the United States.
What does it tell us? It is remembered chiefly as the source of the definition of beauty as "pleasure objectified," and (although the book says much else of interest) -- let us stay with that. What does that expression mean?
It means, firstly, that "objectified" is not the same as "objective." It is not quite the same as "subjective" either, although "objectified" is a subset of "subjective."
Pleasure, after all, is subjective, and beauty is one specific sort of pleasure. But, secondly, of what sort? Some specific pleasures are called beautiful because they are so closely associated with the external object by which they are caused that, by an act of socially acceptable delusion, we attribute them to that object. "The more remote, interwoven, and inextricable the pleasure is, the more objective it will appear" -- is how Santayana at one point puts it.
A rose scented perfume is not "beautiful," though I may find it pleasant. The perception of the rose itself may give rise to the sense of beauty, because that scent is intermingled with the proximity of flower to thorns, the juxtaposition of red with green, the stubborn particularity of the branching -- all this is interwoven, and no element can be extricated from the whole without loss. So our pleasure in the rose is of the objectified sort. It is ... the sense of beauty.
What does it tell us? It is remembered chiefly as the source of the definition of beauty as "pleasure objectified," and (although the book says much else of interest) -- let us stay with that. What does that expression mean?
It means, firstly, that "objectified" is not the same as "objective." It is not quite the same as "subjective" either, although "objectified" is a subset of "subjective."
Pleasure, after all, is subjective, and beauty is one specific sort of pleasure. But, secondly, of what sort? Some specific pleasures are called beautiful because they are so closely associated with the external object by which they are caused that, by an act of socially acceptable delusion, we attribute them to that object. "The more remote, interwoven, and inextricable the pleasure is, the more objective it will appear" -- is how Santayana at one point puts it.
A rose scented perfume is not "beautiful," though I may find it pleasant. The perception of the rose itself may give rise to the sense of beauty, because that scent is intermingled with the proximity of flower to thorns, the juxtaposition of red with green, the stubborn particularity of the branching -- all this is interwoven, and no element can be extricated from the whole without loss. So our pleasure in the rose is of the objectified sort. It is ... the sense of beauty.
25 September 2009
William Faulkner
It was on this day, September 25, in 1897 that William Faulkner was born.
One of the greatest of US born novelists, Faulkner's most characteristic trope was the simple doggedness of so many of his central characters.
"The jury said 'Guilty' and the judge said 'Life' but he didn't hear them. He wasn't listening." So begins one of Faulkner's greatest novels, The Mansion, the third part of the Snopes trilogy. Although Faulkner is renowned, and oft ridiculed, for byzantine sentences, those two are strikingly simple, and place us directly into a situation we can understand without having read either of the two earlier novels of the trilogy.
The protagonist who has just received a life sentence was thinking about something else? What? or who?
The character, Mink Snopes, is in this fix, has just been sentenced, due to the machinations of Flem Snopes, and he was convinced up to the moment of sentencing, the moment when the novel begins, that the aforesaid Flem would arrive in court at the last minute to save the day.
Of course, Flem has no intention of saving Mink, and Mink's distracted focus on the courtroom door during that hearing at last allows this fact to sink in, and trust turns into a desire for vengeance, a desire that continues to burn and deepen through the coming four decades of imprisonment.
One of the greatest of US born novelists, Faulkner's most characteristic trope was the simple doggedness of so many of his central characters.
"The jury said 'Guilty' and the judge said 'Life' but he didn't hear them. He wasn't listening." So begins one of Faulkner's greatest novels, The Mansion, the third part of the Snopes trilogy. Although Faulkner is renowned, and oft ridiculed, for byzantine sentences, those two are strikingly simple, and place us directly into a situation we can understand without having read either of the two earlier novels of the trilogy.
The protagonist who has just received a life sentence was thinking about something else? What? or who?
The character, Mink Snopes, is in this fix, has just been sentenced, due to the machinations of Flem Snopes, and he was convinced up to the moment of sentencing, the moment when the novel begins, that the aforesaid Flem would arrive in court at the last minute to save the day.
Of course, Flem has no intention of saving Mink, and Mink's distracted focus on the courtroom door during that hearing at last allows this fact to sink in, and trust turns into a desire for vengeance, a desire that continues to burn and deepen through the coming four decades of imprisonment.
27 June 2009
1776
With Independence Day nearing, I've watched the movie 1776 a couple of times in recent days.
The everlasting problem with musical comedy as a form is the moment of transition, when people stop conversing with each other and start singing to and about each other, or break into dance.
Some musicals, like Once or back-in-the-day, Showboat, or about musicals and performances, so the transition is easy to handle. The great song "Bill" in Showboat is sung by a performer offering an audition. Onc a showbiz milieu is established, even transitions that might be trickier seem natural too.
But 1776 doesn't have that crutch. It is about statesmen deliberating on politics, not musicians and stage performers. So an audience not determined to suspend disbelief might be tempted to ask they act so ... stagy?
For the most part, the transitions are handled with great skill. John and Abigauil Adams sing their love duets within what are fantasy sequences taking place, given the logic of the story, only in John's head. That works splendidly. In another scene, Martha Jefferson, who is in Philadelphia in the flesh, explains her husband's romantic appeal to a crusty Puritan and a randy old man alike. "He Plays the Violin," is her tune. You can see a YouTube of a stage performance of the moment here.
But some of the other transitions in this play/movie, alas, don't quite work. In "But Mister Adams," where the members of the committee that i supposed to be drafting a Declaration eachs begs off, the staginess of it just ends up being borderline silly. The ending of the clip, around 6:13, walks boldly past that border.
Here is the relevant clip from the movie. Jefferson has been singled out by process of elimination at about 3:42 in that clip and the really still stuff begins there, with Franklin, Sherman, and Livingstone doing the La-La-La chorus line thing for the Adams/Jefferson exchange.
The everlasting problem with musical comedy as a form is the moment of transition, when people stop conversing with each other and start singing to and about each other, or break into dance.
Some musicals, like Once or back-in-the-day, Showboat, or about musicals and performances, so the transition is easy to handle. The great song "Bill" in Showboat is sung by a performer offering an audition. Onc a showbiz milieu is established, even transitions that might be trickier seem natural too.
But 1776 doesn't have that crutch. It is about statesmen deliberating on politics, not musicians and stage performers. So an audience not determined to suspend disbelief might be tempted to ask they act so ... stagy?
For the most part, the transitions are handled with great skill. John and Abigauil Adams sing their love duets within what are fantasy sequences taking place, given the logic of the story, only in John's head. That works splendidly. In another scene, Martha Jefferson, who is in Philadelphia in the flesh, explains her husband's romantic appeal to a crusty Puritan and a randy old man alike. "He Plays the Violin," is her tune. You can see a YouTube of a stage performance of the moment here.
But some of the other transitions in this play/movie, alas, don't quite work. In "But Mister Adams," where the members of the committee that i supposed to be drafting a Declaration eachs begs off, the staginess of it just ends up being borderline silly. The ending of the clip, around 6:13, walks boldly past that border.
Here is the relevant clip from the movie. Jefferson has been singled out by process of elimination at about 3:42 in that clip and the really still stuff begins there, with Franklin, Sherman, and Livingstone doing the La-La-La chorus line thing for the Adams/Jefferson exchange.
21 March 2009
Truth and knowledge
Recalling the title of this blog, let us do some old-school philosophizing.
By the late 19th century, philosophers had formulated three theories about the nature of truth.
Before I should say any more, I should add: they were all using the word "truth" in a way that contemporary philosophers would not. They all meant, not "truth" specifically, as a property of belief -- but KNOWLEDGE of truth, as the reason why we know truths, when we do.
The three classical theories were these: correspondence, coherence, pragmatism.
According to the correspondence theory, a belief is true when it accurately copies a fact in the world. As Wittgenstein said, in his usual straightforward style, "In order to tell whether a picture is true or false we must compare it with reality."
The correspondence theory carried with it some pretty heavy metaphysical baggage. Suppose I'm looking at a painted portrait of John Smith. If I want to decide whether that's a "true" portrait of John Smith, I can go up to John himself, get a good like at him, then decide whether the likeness is an accurate one.
But even then, we should say that the portrait is either realistic or not. A surrealistic portrait of John Smith, painted say by Salvador Dali, might be as "true" in its own way as anything that can come out of a camera in the noontime sun, but it would be true in a non-copyist way.
Furthermore, that is a very bad metaphor for my efforts to know the world. After all, both the portrait and the man who sat for it are facts outside of my skull -- I have the same kind of access to the one as to the other. An analogy to that sort of comparison gets us nowhere if what is in question is the nature of truth/knowledge about people and paintings both.
The coherence and pragmatic theories of knowledge were both efforts to get rid of the metaphysical baggage of correspondence, or the copy theory. They both said that there is something about some of my experiences, my ideas, my beliefs, etc. that makes them true -- and that something isn't a transcendence of the whole body of my
experience by the way that it relates to itself, the way the parts of it relate to one another.
In the coherence view, error is inconsistency. If I could only get all my beliefs into a single coherent whole, I would know them as true -- or, strictly, I would know them as the whole single shining body of Truth itself.
In the pragmatic view, error is failure. Beliefs guide me through experiences well or poorly, they are valuable when they lead me where I want to go, harmful when they get me lost. Truth, then, is success.
The tendency in Anglo-American philosophy since about the 1930s has been to distinguish sharply between the issue of truth and the issue of knowledge, then to render the notion of truth impoverished. To say "it is true that this computer is working" is just to say, with a little extra emphasis perhaps, that "this computer is working" -- the word "true" provides emphasis, but in terms of strict meaning it's
redundant.
It isn't only pragmatism that needs restatement in order to become comprehensible within contemporary philosophical jargon. It is each of the original three positions. They all turn out, in 21st century terms, to have been more about knowledge -- and even more specifically one's WARRANT for a true belief -- than about truth as such.
The correspondence theory looks backward for warrant, for evidence that the copy derives casually from the thing copied.
The coherence theory looks inward for warrant, and worries whether all parts of a world view cohere.
The pragmatic view would LIKE to look forward -- but since the success or failure of this moment's forward looks is necessarily still unsettled, it adapts by looking backward at earlier instances of successful forward looks, and imitating whatever made them succeed.
By the late 19th century, philosophers had formulated three theories about the nature of truth.
Before I should say any more, I should add: they were all using the word "truth" in a way that contemporary philosophers would not. They all meant, not "truth" specifically, as a property of belief -- but KNOWLEDGE of truth, as the reason why we know truths, when we do.
The three classical theories were these: correspondence, coherence, pragmatism.
According to the correspondence theory, a belief is true when it accurately copies a fact in the world. As Wittgenstein said, in his usual straightforward style, "In order to tell whether a picture is true or false we must compare it with reality."
The correspondence theory carried with it some pretty heavy metaphysical baggage. Suppose I'm looking at a painted portrait of John Smith. If I want to decide whether that's a "true" portrait of John Smith, I can go up to John himself, get a good like at him, then decide whether the likeness is an accurate one.
But even then, we should say that the portrait is either realistic or not. A surrealistic portrait of John Smith, painted say by Salvador Dali, might be as "true" in its own way as anything that can come out of a camera in the noontime sun, but it would be true in a non-copyist way.
Furthermore, that is a very bad metaphor for my efforts to know the world. After all, both the portrait and the man who sat for it are facts outside of my skull -- I have the same kind of access to the one as to the other. An analogy to that sort of comparison gets us nowhere if what is in question is the nature of truth/knowledge about people and paintings both.
The coherence and pragmatic theories of knowledge were both efforts to get rid of the metaphysical baggage of correspondence, or the copy theory. They both said that there is something about some of my experiences, my ideas, my beliefs, etc. that makes them true -- and that something isn't a transcendence of the whole body of my
experience by the way that it relates to itself, the way the parts of it relate to one another.
In the coherence view, error is inconsistency. If I could only get all my beliefs into a single coherent whole, I would know them as true -- or, strictly, I would know them as the whole single shining body of Truth itself.
In the pragmatic view, error is failure. Beliefs guide me through experiences well or poorly, they are valuable when they lead me where I want to go, harmful when they get me lost. Truth, then, is success.
The tendency in Anglo-American philosophy since about the 1930s has been to distinguish sharply between the issue of truth and the issue of knowledge, then to render the notion of truth impoverished. To say "it is true that this computer is working" is just to say, with a little extra emphasis perhaps, that "this computer is working" -- the word "true" provides emphasis, but in terms of strict meaning it's
redundant.
It isn't only pragmatism that needs restatement in order to become comprehensible within contemporary philosophical jargon. It is each of the original three positions. They all turn out, in 21st century terms, to have been more about knowledge -- and even more specifically one's WARRANT for a true belief -- than about truth as such.
The correspondence theory looks backward for warrant, for evidence that the copy derives casually from the thing copied.
The coherence theory looks inward for warrant, and worries whether all parts of a world view cohere.
The pragmatic view would LIKE to look forward -- but since the success or failure of this moment's forward looks is necessarily still unsettled, it adapts by looking backward at earlier instances of successful forward looks, and imitating whatever made them succeed.
29 January 2009
John Updike, RIP
John Updike, my favorite novelist, left us this week. I've said something in earlier entries here about the reasons for my admiration. Here's an example: on his novel Seek My Face.
For a man so wonderfully prolific, it is astonishingly difficult to find a sloppy sentence from any keyboard of his.
In TOWARD THE END OF TIME, he writes a sentence that plays with the "first robin of spring" cliche in a manner I find ... well ... intrepid.
"Yesterday," he writes, in the voice of his protagonist, "I spotted my first robin, strutting along the driveway's gravel shoulder in his familiar dusky uniform, gawkily startled into flight by my approach: a stuffy bird, faintly pompous in its portly movements, spoiled by too many songs and poems unaccountably devoted to him."
Now THERE's a man with a way with a cliche! At first you think, "oooh no, first robin of spring! This is going to be like one of those posed pictures of some grinning tourist pretending to hold up the leaning tower of Pisa."
But he is soon taking the picture from an unexpected angle. The robin is in a very particular place, the driveway's gravel shoulder. This isn't nature description, it is a sample of one of the pieces of natue that make it into the regulated spaces of suburbia. Nothing about the "redness" (which never seemed to me properly red) of the robin's breast. Rather, we're reminded of the duskiness of the overall uniform, the creature's propensity for startled gawkiness, etc.
Then we're given some gently unstressed alliteration with the letter "p": "pompous ... portly ... spoiled ... poems" on the way of a shocking bit of anthropomorphism.
Of course we don't believe that the robin is aware of his fame in the cliched songs and poems, but we see the free associations going on in the head of the protagonist to that effect, and to some extent we are drawn to share in them.
Cheers, then, to Updike. I'll miss him.
For a man so wonderfully prolific, it is astonishingly difficult to find a sloppy sentence from any keyboard of his.
In TOWARD THE END OF TIME, he writes a sentence that plays with the "first robin of spring" cliche in a manner I find ... well ... intrepid.
"Yesterday," he writes, in the voice of his protagonist, "I spotted my first robin, strutting along the driveway's gravel shoulder in his familiar dusky uniform, gawkily startled into flight by my approach: a stuffy bird, faintly pompous in its portly movements, spoiled by too many songs and poems unaccountably devoted to him."
Now THERE's a man with a way with a cliche! At first you think, "oooh no, first robin of spring! This is going to be like one of those posed pictures of some grinning tourist pretending to hold up the leaning tower of Pisa."
But he is soon taking the picture from an unexpected angle. The robin is in a very particular place, the driveway's gravel shoulder. This isn't nature description, it is a sample of one of the pieces of natue that make it into the regulated spaces of suburbia. Nothing about the "redness" (which never seemed to me properly red) of the robin's breast. Rather, we're reminded of the duskiness of the overall uniform, the creature's propensity for startled gawkiness, etc.
Then we're given some gently unstressed alliteration with the letter "p": "pompous ... portly ... spoiled ... poems" on the way of a shocking bit of anthropomorphism.
Of course we don't believe that the robin is aware of his fame in the cliched songs and poems, but we see the free associations going on in the head of the protagonist to that effect, and to some extent we are drawn to share in them.
Cheers, then, to Updike. I'll miss him.
20 September 2008
Why Read the Classics?
This is a wonderful passage from the book BEGIN HERE, by Jacques Barzun.
But why, after all, learn to read differently by tackling the classics? The answer is simple: in order to live in a wider world. Wider than what? Wider than the one that comes through the routine of our material lives and through the paper and the factual magazines—Psychology Today, House and Garden, Sports Illustrated; wider also than friends’ and neighbors’ plans and gossip; wider especially than one’s business or profession. For nothing is more narrowing than one’s own shop, and it grows ever more so as one bends the mind and energies to succeed. This is particularly true today, when each profession has become a cluster of specialties continually subdividing. A lawyer is not a jurist, he is a tax lawyer, or a dab at trusts and estates. The work itself is a struggle with a mass of jargon, conventions, and numbers that have no meaning outside the specialty. The whole modern world moves among systems and abstractions superimposed on reality, a vast make-believe, though its results are real enough in one’s life if one does not know and follow these ever-shifting rules of the game.
But why, after all, learn to read differently by tackling the classics? The answer is simple: in order to live in a wider world. Wider than what? Wider than the one that comes through the routine of our material lives and through the paper and the factual magazines—Psychology Today, House and Garden, Sports Illustrated; wider also than friends’ and neighbors’ plans and gossip; wider especially than one’s business or profession. For nothing is more narrowing than one’s own shop, and it grows ever more so as one bends the mind and energies to succeed. This is particularly true today, when each profession has become a cluster of specialties continually subdividing. A lawyer is not a jurist, he is a tax lawyer, or a dab at trusts and estates. The work itself is a struggle with a mass of jargon, conventions, and numbers that have no meaning outside the specialty. The whole modern world moves among systems and abstractions superimposed on reality, a vast make-believe, though its results are real enough in one’s life if one does not know and follow these ever-shifting rules of the game.
15 May 2008
Hoop Dreams
I finally got around, just recently, to viewing the famous documentary movie "Hoop Dreams."
I enjoy documentaries -- a fact I've mentioned in this blog before.
The underlying challenge is to stay true to fact, while giving the movie structure and focus.
A friend of mine told me that she doesn't generally enjoy documentaries, for roughly this reason -- the true-to-fact part spills out over whatever aesthetic structure is created to contain it, and the devices by which it is contained are rather too transparent for her to enjoy them.
This was the same friend who urged me once to watch "Jesus Camp," so you might take that comment with the flavoring it warrants.
At any rate: Hoop Dreams was a superb movie. As everyone knows, the filmmakers followed two young men in inner-city Chicago, each of whom saw his skills on the basketball court as his way out.
One of the young man had, at first, marked success. He got onto the varsity team of a suburban prep school and looked like he would become a star, going "down state" to the Illinois championships. The other one: well ... he was briefly in the suburban school as wel, but didn't get on to the Varsity team and no financial angel appeared to allow his fimily to keep him there, so it was back to the central-Chicago high school.
There are twists after that, which I won't spill. I recommend that you view Hoop Dreams for yourself -- it isn't hard to obtain -- and that you then resist any temptation to ask yourself whatever hapened to the two young men it portrays after the credits rolled. What happened, happened. Their lives have continued in the ordinary sloppy way. Leave that be. Laissez-faire.
I enjoy documentaries -- a fact I've mentioned in this blog before.
The underlying challenge is to stay true to fact, while giving the movie structure and focus.
A friend of mine told me that she doesn't generally enjoy documentaries, for roughly this reason -- the true-to-fact part spills out over whatever aesthetic structure is created to contain it, and the devices by which it is contained are rather too transparent for her to enjoy them.
This was the same friend who urged me once to watch "Jesus Camp," so you might take that comment with the flavoring it warrants.
At any rate: Hoop Dreams was a superb movie. As everyone knows, the filmmakers followed two young men in inner-city Chicago, each of whom saw his skills on the basketball court as his way out.
One of the young man had, at first, marked success. He got onto the varsity team of a suburban prep school and looked like he would become a star, going "down state" to the Illinois championships. The other one: well ... he was briefly in the suburban school as wel, but didn't get on to the Varsity team and no financial angel appeared to allow his fimily to keep him there, so it was back to the central-Chicago high school.
There are twists after that, which I won't spill. I recommend that you view Hoop Dreams for yourself -- it isn't hard to obtain -- and that you then resist any temptation to ask yourself whatever hapened to the two young men it portrays after the credits rolled. What happened, happened. Their lives have continued in the ordinary sloppy way. Leave that be. Laissez-faire.
07 March 2008
Love and Consequences
Many readers will no doubt remember James Frey, the best-selling memoirist whose work, "A Million Little Pieces," turned out to be a packet of lies, uncovered as such only after Oprah Winfrey made a fool of herself rushing to his defense.
In recent days, two more so-called memoirs have turned out to be as false as Frey's, (or as those of his South Park counterpart, Towlie).
There was Mischa Defonseca, author of "Mischa: A Memoir of the Holocaust Years." This was first published in France (and in French) eleven years ago. It made a huge splash, and was translated into 18 languages. Unfortunately, it was tommyrot. Mischa did have a compelling story to tell, had she only stuck to telling it. Her parents were members of the Belgian resistance and they were killed by the Nazis.
But neither they nor she were Jewish, as her 'memoir' presumes. And she did not, in their absence, revert to a feral condition, which is the gist of the book's plot. She was, rather, taken in by her grandfather and lived out the war in relative comfort.
"She belonged to a very good family and lived in the most beautiful house on the street," an old acquaintance has said.
These lies took time to unravel. But on leap day, February 29, Mischa fessed up.
But even that's not the latest one. And here we return to Oprah. For Ms Winfrey has expressed enthusiasm over LOVE AND CONSEQUENCES, a supposedly autobiographical tale of a gal who grew up running drugs for the gangs in the 'hood, in south central L.A., written by one Margaret B. Jones.
On Tuesday, March 4, the publisher recalled 19,000 copies of the book -- all apparently destined for paper recycling -- as Ms Jones turned out to be Margaret Seltzer, a well-to-do product of the San Fernando Valley, not of southcentral anywhere. Gag me with a spoon.
The title, "Love and Consequences" is a piece of art in itself. Those of us who love the non-fiction memoir as a genre are now doomed to face the consequence of such fraud -- we never know when we're reading one.
Oh times, Oh morals, Oh Oprah!
In recent days, two more so-called memoirs have turned out to be as false as Frey's, (or as those of his South Park counterpart, Towlie).
There was Mischa Defonseca, author of "Mischa: A Memoir of the Holocaust Years." This was first published in France (and in French) eleven years ago. It made a huge splash, and was translated into 18 languages. Unfortunately, it was tommyrot. Mischa did have a compelling story to tell, had she only stuck to telling it. Her parents were members of the Belgian resistance and they were killed by the Nazis.
But neither they nor she were Jewish, as her 'memoir' presumes. And she did not, in their absence, revert to a feral condition, which is the gist of the book's plot. She was, rather, taken in by her grandfather and lived out the war in relative comfort.
"She belonged to a very good family and lived in the most beautiful house on the street," an old acquaintance has said.
These lies took time to unravel. But on leap day, February 29, Mischa fessed up.
But even that's not the latest one. And here we return to Oprah. For Ms Winfrey has expressed enthusiasm over LOVE AND CONSEQUENCES, a supposedly autobiographical tale of a gal who grew up running drugs for the gangs in the 'hood, in south central L.A., written by one Margaret B. Jones.
On Tuesday, March 4, the publisher recalled 19,000 copies of the book -- all apparently destined for paper recycling -- as Ms Jones turned out to be Margaret Seltzer, a well-to-do product of the San Fernando Valley, not of southcentral anywhere. Gag me with a spoon.
The title, "Love and Consequences" is a piece of art in itself. Those of us who love the non-fiction memoir as a genre are now doomed to face the consequence of such fraud -- we never know when we're reading one.
Oh times, Oh morals, Oh Oprah!
24 February 2008
Once around, four acts
I did make it to the Met yesterday.
I was a little taken aback by the one-scene nature of each of the four acts of the opera. I'm more accustomed to the sort of drama that is divided both into acts and into scenes, the difference tactically being just that a change of scenes leaves less time between curtain down and curtain up than does a change of acts!
But in an opera, or at least this one, each act obeys within itself the classical unities of time, place, action. Though there are narrative gaps (huge ones) between them.
I was also surprised by the fact that the cast of each act came out to take a bow after the curtain closed on that one, rather than simply saving the curtain calls for the whole cast for the end. Well, conventions are what they are.
I won't speak of Manon Lescaut as an opera, beyond the little bit of canned-erudition I included in yesterday's entry here. Beyond that, I'll link you to a synopsis.
I will say, though, that I love seeing "understudy" slips in a program, especially with regard to the leading roles. It means some one is getting a break -- a chance to star for which he/she had prepared without any firm expectation -- without even perhaps daring to hope (since that would mean hoping for the illness of a lead, and who could do that?).
At the performance last night, Maria Gavrilova sang the title role, replacing Karita Mattila.
Richard Bernstein also fell ill. He had been singing the role of the captain of the ship that transports prisoners from France to Louisiana. That role fell last night to Keith Miller.
I can't say that the role of the Captain stood out for me. But Manon of course did! and I can say that Ms Gavrilova has a wonderful voice -- and that it's hard to imagine her performance being bettered. The crucial business in which she taunts her older lover with a mirror came off especially well, I think.
I don't see myself becoming an aficionado but I'm glad I went. Even the detour through the streets of the borough of Queens on the way home was instructive.
I was a little taken aback by the one-scene nature of each of the four acts of the opera. I'm more accustomed to the sort of drama that is divided both into acts and into scenes, the difference tactically being just that a change of scenes leaves less time between curtain down and curtain up than does a change of acts!
But in an opera, or at least this one, each act obeys within itself the classical unities of time, place, action. Though there are narrative gaps (huge ones) between them.
I was also surprised by the fact that the cast of each act came out to take a bow after the curtain closed on that one, rather than simply saving the curtain calls for the whole cast for the end. Well, conventions are what they are.
I won't speak of Manon Lescaut as an opera, beyond the little bit of canned-erudition I included in yesterday's entry here. Beyond that, I'll link you to a synopsis.
I will say, though, that I love seeing "understudy" slips in a program, especially with regard to the leading roles. It means some one is getting a break -- a chance to star for which he/she had prepared without any firm expectation -- without even perhaps daring to hope (since that would mean hoping for the illness of a lead, and who could do that?).
At the performance last night, Maria Gavrilova sang the title role, replacing Karita Mattila.
Richard Bernstein also fell ill. He had been singing the role of the captain of the ship that transports prisoners from France to Louisiana. That role fell last night to Keith Miller.
I can't say that the role of the Captain stood out for me. But Manon of course did! and I can say that Ms Gavrilova has a wonderful voice -- and that it's hard to imagine her performance being bettered. The crucial business in which she taunts her older lover with a mirror came off especially well, I think.
I don't see myself becoming an aficionado but I'm glad I went. Even the detour through the streets of the borough of Queens on the way home was instructive.
23 February 2008
Puccini
I'll be travelling to NYC later today, to see a performance of Manon Lescaut in the evening.
Manon was the third opera composed by Giacomo Antonio Domenico Michele Secondo Maria Puccini (now THERE's a name) -- and the first of his to make a big splash at the time, or become a regular in the canon since.
So indulge me while I reflect on Puccini. What about those first two operas, the ones that preceded his fame? The first was Le Villi (1884), about forest spirits or faeries. The second Edgar (1889), about a young man of that name struggling to choose between his chaste home town girlfriend and an exotic gypsy. The two female participants in the triangle are named Fidelia and Tigrana respectively. Now there's an unsubtle bit of naming.
Manon came along in 1893. One fascinating fact about this opera to a wordsmith like myself: it had five librettists. The publisher (Giulio Ricordi) also contributed to the libretto, as did Puccini himself. None of their seven names appear on the title page of the original score.
Puccini wrote nine operas thereafter: including such repertoire pillars as Tosca, Madama Butterfly, and Turandot. Turandot was his final work, left incomplete at his death in November 1924.
There was, one might say, an operatic quality to Puccini's life. In 1909, his wife accused their maid of having an affair with him. The maid subsequently committed suicide, and her family sued the Puccinis. In an opera, of course, there would have been a duel, not a lawsuit. Still, it seems an appropriate scandal.
Manon was the third opera composed by Giacomo Antonio Domenico Michele Secondo Maria Puccini (now THERE's a name) -- and the first of his to make a big splash at the time, or become a regular in the canon since.
So indulge me while I reflect on Puccini. What about those first two operas, the ones that preceded his fame? The first was Le Villi (1884), about forest spirits or faeries. The second Edgar (1889), about a young man of that name struggling to choose between his chaste home town girlfriend and an exotic gypsy. The two female participants in the triangle are named Fidelia and Tigrana respectively. Now there's an unsubtle bit of naming.
Manon came along in 1893. One fascinating fact about this opera to a wordsmith like myself: it had five librettists. The publisher (Giulio Ricordi) also contributed to the libretto, as did Puccini himself. None of their seven names appear on the title page of the original score.
Puccini wrote nine operas thereafter: including such repertoire pillars as Tosca, Madama Butterfly, and Turandot. Turandot was his final work, left incomplete at his death in November 1924.
There was, one might say, an operatic quality to Puccini's life. In 1909, his wife accused their maid of having an affair with him. The maid subsequently committed suicide, and her family sued the Puccinis. In an opera, of course, there would have been a duel, not a lawsuit. Still, it seems an appropriate scandal.
20 January 2008
American Pastoral
I finally broke down and bought a Philip Roth novel.
I keep hearing how wonderful he is. All I can say in reply is that I read "Portnoy's Complaint" once, and was underwhelmed by it. But I figured I owed him (Roth, not Portnoy) another chance.
Also, my uncle and aunt (bless them) got me a coupon for use at any Barnes & Noble as a Christmas gift this year. I used most of the value of the card to buy a non-fiction book on a subject that of course holds some interest for me but that will be unlikely to warm up any entries in this blog. So I inferred I should cut loose and use the remainder of it for something more literary.
So ... Roth it was. I bought a paperback copy of AMERICAN PASTORAL, a novel published eleven years ago.
I was the managing editor of a journal of political polemics at that time, and I edited a rave review of this book. [To be frank, I took a passage in a letter from a friend and turned it into a review with a little editing, but ... hey ... let's just say I edited it.]
Early on, Roth (or, rather, Nathan Zuckerman, the famous author who serves as the first-person narrator) recounts the plot of a novel he read as a boy called THE KID FROM TOMKINSVILLE -- a novel about baseball and a particular baseball player. We can't credit Roth with the plot. There really was such a book:
http://brothersjudd.com/index.cfm/fuseaction/reviews.detail/book_id/127/Kid%20from%20Tom.htm
Yet the way Roth writes about the book, its illustrations, and Nathan's reactions to reading that book as a kid is a thing of beauty itself.
Here's just a bit:
"The drawings seemed conceived out of the dark austerities of Depression America. Every ten pages or so, to succinctly depict a dramatic physical moment in the story -- 'He was able to put a little steam in it,' 'It was over the fence,' 'Razzle limped to the dugout' -- there is a blackish, ink-heavy rendering of a scrawny, shadow-faced ballplayer starkly silhouetted on a blank page, isolated, like the world's most lonesome soul, from both nature and man, or set in a stippled simulation of ballpark grass, dragging beneath him the skinny statuette of a wormlike shadow."
You gotta love it.
I keep hearing how wonderful he is. All I can say in reply is that I read "Portnoy's Complaint" once, and was underwhelmed by it. But I figured I owed him (Roth, not Portnoy) another chance.
Also, my uncle and aunt (bless them) got me a coupon for use at any Barnes & Noble as a Christmas gift this year. I used most of the value of the card to buy a non-fiction book on a subject that of course holds some interest for me but that will be unlikely to warm up any entries in this blog. So I inferred I should cut loose and use the remainder of it for something more literary.
So ... Roth it was. I bought a paperback copy of AMERICAN PASTORAL, a novel published eleven years ago.
I was the managing editor of a journal of political polemics at that time, and I edited a rave review of this book. [To be frank, I took a passage in a letter from a friend and turned it into a review with a little editing, but ... hey ... let's just say I edited it.]
Early on, Roth (or, rather, Nathan Zuckerman, the famous author who serves as the first-person narrator) recounts the plot of a novel he read as a boy called THE KID FROM TOMKINSVILLE -- a novel about baseball and a particular baseball player. We can't credit Roth with the plot. There really was such a book:
http://brothersjudd.com/index.cfm/fuseaction/reviews.detail/book_id/127/Kid%20from%20Tom.htm
Yet the way Roth writes about the book, its illustrations, and Nathan's reactions to reading that book as a kid is a thing of beauty itself.
Here's just a bit:
"The drawings seemed conceived out of the dark austerities of Depression America. Every ten pages or so, to succinctly depict a dramatic physical moment in the story -- 'He was able to put a little steam in it,' 'It was over the fence,' 'Razzle limped to the dugout' -- there is a blackish, ink-heavy rendering of a scrawny, shadow-faced ballplayer starkly silhouetted on a blank page, isolated, like the world's most lonesome soul, from both nature and man, or set in a stippled simulation of ballpark grass, dragging beneath him the skinny statuette of a wormlike shadow."
You gotta love it.
21 December 2007
"My Kid Could Paint That!"
The headline of this entry is also the title of a new documentary film by Amir Bar-Lev.
Sounds fascinating. (It isn't playing anywhere in my area, so this is very much a hearsay blog entry.)
The movie concerns the Olmstead family, celebrity, and the whole idea of a prodigy. Are we as a public too eager for the next child genius, the next Mozart?
Maria Olmstead, the 4-year-old painter at the heart of this documentary, was a media sensation. Jane Pauley introduced a segment about her, "The hottest new phenomenon to hit the art scene is a painter who arrives at the gallery in a car seat."
Then came 60 Minutes, with an expose, suggesting that her father was actually doing the work, and the searchlight turned ugly.
Then, in turn, came Mr. Bar-Lev, who seems to have begun work on this movie with the idea that Maria really was a genius/prodigy, that he could prove it, thus rebuking 60 Minutes and chilvarously rescuing the Olmsteads.
Things didn't work out as he had hoped, though. I understand the over-all tone of the movie is one of ambivalence.
But finally, as I indicated above, Maria isn't really its subject. We are. The idea of the "prodigy" and our eagerness to celebrate, then to tear down the "imposter" when our expectations aren't quite met -- that's the subject.
Sounds fascinating. (It isn't playing anywhere in my area, so this is very much a hearsay blog entry.)
The movie concerns the Olmstead family, celebrity, and the whole idea of a prodigy. Are we as a public too eager for the next child genius, the next Mozart?
Maria Olmstead, the 4-year-old painter at the heart of this documentary, was a media sensation. Jane Pauley introduced a segment about her, "The hottest new phenomenon to hit the art scene is a painter who arrives at the gallery in a car seat."
Then came 60 Minutes, with an expose, suggesting that her father was actually doing the work, and the searchlight turned ugly.
Then, in turn, came Mr. Bar-Lev, who seems to have begun work on this movie with the idea that Maria really was a genius/prodigy, that he could prove it, thus rebuking 60 Minutes and chilvarously rescuing the Olmsteads.
Things didn't work out as he had hoped, though. I understand the over-all tone of the movie is one of ambivalence.
But finally, as I indicated above, Maria isn't really its subject. We are. The idea of the "prodigy" and our eagerness to celebrate, then to tear down the "imposter" when our expectations aren't quite met -- that's the subject.
03 October 2007
Meta-Painting
If the title to this blog entry doesn't make you yawn, if you think there might be something brilliant or original in the idea of a "painting about painting," then this story might suit you:
http://www.canada.com/theprovince/news/story.html?id=ac31b57d-8804-4189-81ed-77f78acb49f6.
But if it DOES make you yawn, consider this instead. In an episode of The Simpsons, the bartender Moe re-models his bar to appeal to the fashionable crowd. Along with other odd furnishing in the new Moes's, there's a television set hanging from the wall that shows an unblinking eye.
Homer asks Moe, "What's with the eye?" setting up the following brilliant dialog.
Moe: "Its' a pomo thing."
Homer: (Baffled expression on face) "Pomo?"
Moe: "Post-modern"
Homer is now silent, the baffled expression remains, Moe breaks the silence.
Moe: "Weird for the sake of weird."
Homer: "Ahhhhh!"
http://www.canada.com/theprovince/news/story.html?id=ac31b57d-8804-4189-81ed-77f78acb49f6.
But if it DOES make you yawn, consider this instead. In an episode of The Simpsons, the bartender Moe re-models his bar to appeal to the fashionable crowd. Along with other odd furnishing in the new Moes's, there's a television set hanging from the wall that shows an unblinking eye.
Homer asks Moe, "What's with the eye?" setting up the following brilliant dialog.
Moe: "Its' a pomo thing."
Homer: (Baffled expression on face) "Pomo?"
Moe: "Post-modern"
Homer is now silent, the baffled expression remains, Moe breaks the silence.
Moe: "Weird for the sake of weird."
Homer: "Ahhhhh!"
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