The island of Salina is composed of two peaks, like Twin Peaks, reminiscent of snow covered virgin boobs. The crystallization process has begun.
The island of Salina is composed of two peaks, like Twin Peaks, reminiscent of snow covered virgin boobs. The crystallization process has begun.
Hiking on an ancient mule path to the Sacra di San Michele, I spent a disproportionate amount of time thinking of this horse named Tiramisu that looked like a mule that I had seen the day before at Castello di Rivoli. He was suspended from what had to be the most beautiful ceiling I had ever seen. Stepping on stones that were like smooth little peaks jabbing into my non-hiking shoes, I kept imagining Tiramisu carrying fat monks (the idea of skinny monks is about as ripe as thinking of skinny bankers) to the monastery all day, every day till he died. But then even after death, he would be stuffed and strung up as contemporary art. The sadness I felt for Tiramisu and for my feet were diametrically opposed to the smiling and friendly Italians I passed on the mule path all wishing me “Buongiorno,””Buonasera” or “Ciao.” I’ve never been greeted by so many Italian smiles. I felt as if walking on the Floating Piers was like being baptized a Lombard, walking this mule path made me an honorary Piedmontese.
At the end of the mule path, I literally emerged from the bushes (like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill emerging from the grave covered in mud into a diner best seen at 1:58) onto a large paved road filled with people who had not suffered to get there like a mule. Just like Uma, I went straight to the bar cafe and bought a bottle of water and a white popsicle.
I kept reading that Turin was the Baroque city which was causing concern. Having defined myself as not liking Rococo a long time ago, I wondered what is Baroque and wasn’t there also Barocco? A few seconds later, I got it all straight with the help of Google and learned Rococo was simply late Baroque (French) and Barroco the Italian word for Baroque. Therefore, Baroque seemed to hold some promise of pleasure. In my pursuit, I found what appeared to be the quintessential essay on the topic by one of my favorite art historians, Erwin Panofsky called “What is Baroque?” For a long time, he used it as his go-to lecture, one of those things you have memorized and rattled off at any speaking engagement.
One phrase he used (in parenthesis no less) stuck with me from the essay and I used it to inform how I could tell a Baroque church from a Renaissance one. Statues or columns that looked “painfully incarcerated” in their little alcoves was Renaissance and any statue that looked as though he was in a state of ecstasy having broke free (along with elements of the the outdoors such as sunbeams or clouds) was Baroque. I had a ball classifying things into the Baroque or Renaissance, thinking to myself ‘darling, you look incarcerated.’ Sadly, when I returned home I realized the Basilica di Santa Maria Ausiliatrice close to my guesthouse was not Renaissance but Neoclassical.
Reading the collected writings of Robert Smithson, I immediately saw to what degree Cyprien Gaillard had become an artist on the foundations laid by Smithson. Gaillard’s video art can almost be viewed as a visualization of Smithson’s art writing. The symmetry of thoughts, words, views on the concept of recycling, visual shapes and sites- you could say that Gaillard had a ekphrastic love affair with Smithson.
Ironically, his unknown star pupil won the Marcel Duchamp Prize… someone Smithson thought was a snobby French alchemist of the worst kind (a one-off artist). Gaillard broke away from Smithson with his incorporation of the aesthetic value of beauty and his collaborations with a musician, Koudlam. I enjoy Smithson’s art writing more than his aesthetic… never had a thing for spirals.
The first romantic image of Berlin from the Journey is the Destination that became the blueprint of my late teens and college years. Photojournalist Dan Eldon holding an ice cream in front of the Pergamon Museum.
Things I forget, then I read again and remember.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
By Dan Eldon
“It’s Monday and time to do my essays for class. Gone are the days of churning out a page and a half on “what I did last summer or over the weekend.” For Wednesday I have due: “Discuss the characteristics of Romanticism, using examples from Goethe, Wordsworth, and Keats” and: “In what ways did Hitler pervert and misrepresent the philosophy of Nietzche?” But for Tuesday, thank God, I can actually write about what I did over the weekend.
Saturday night, was a full moon and I was in a bar in Santa Monica. I had been selling Moroccan belts on Venice Beach all afternoon and afterwards, I ended up in a random and very seedy bar, where I was, by far, the youngest person. The crowd was rough and few of them were without tattoos or denim clothing tailored in the distinct style of 1976. The barman seemed to be of Irish decent because of the way that he greeted me. “Shut the door you daft bastard!”
He wore a cowboy hat and an extravagantly dirty apron. The air smelt sweaty and warm and if it had been moving, you could have seen it because it was laden with smoke. A man sat next to me alternately sucking on his beer bottle and a young woman’s face, while on my left side sat an old man nursing a tall glass of Southern Comfort. If I seemed to young for this bar, then this fellow was definitely too old. Noticing my curious stare, the barman leaned over conspiratorially and whispered, “You see him?”
“That’s Ralph Waldo Emerson.”
I was taken aback. Sitting next to me was one of the greatest American thinkers in history. I at least wanted to get an autograph on a cocktail napkin. I turned half way around to listen to his conversation.
“You know what I hate?” He slurred.
The barman grunted and raised his eyebrows while he wiped down the counter
“I hate how in this distribution of functions, the scholar is the delegated intellect. In the right state, he is, Man thinking. In the degenerate state, when the victim of society, he tends to become a mere thinker, or still worse, the parrot of other men’s thinking.”
The bartender tossed his rag into a bucket of slimy water and nodded. “Yes, it’s the blasted recession. “Do you know how much a carton of Marlboro Red’s is these days?”
Emerson exploded, slamming the bar with his wrinkled hand. “That’s not the point! What I’m saying is that man is metamorphosed into many things. The planter, who is man sent out into the field to gather food, is seldom cheered by any idea of the true dignity of his ministry. The tradesman becomes subject only to dollars, the priest becomes form, the attorney, a statute book, the sailor a rope, the mechanic, a machine and you, instead of being man tending bar, you are a half witted bottle of stale Irish Guinness!”
The barman’s eyes narrowed and he slowly took off his hat “Ralph, I think you’ve had enough. It’s time to go.”
Emerson turned to me and demanded, “What the hell are you looking at anyway, junior?” I answered
“I was wondering if you would sign my cocktail napkin for, umm, a friend of mine?”
He sighed. “This makes me sick. Instead of your generation going out and doing your own thinking, there you are still reading shit that I wrote over one hundred and fifty goddammed years ago and repeating it parrot- like without even lifting a finger or a brain cell to update it or add to it.” I could not believe my luck. Things like this only happen around the full moon. I came just to have a beer, and Ralph Waldo Emerson was practically writing my essay for me.
“Let’s get out of here, there’s a place I have to show you.” He tossed a handful of grubby notes onto the counter and slid on his jacket. It was vintage leather Harley Davidson with “The Original American Scholar” written across the back in white letters. He staggered out the door and I followed. The barman was glaring at us and shouted, “Shut the door grandpa!”
Ralph’s bike was around the corner and had a ticket for parking in a disabled zone. “I never pay them,” he said tossing it into to street. “Officially I died in 1837. What are they going to do, dig me up? Fine me?” He roared with laughter as he kicked the big motorcycle into life.
“Are you sure you’re O.K to drive?” I asked.
“It’s O.K, we’ll drive by braille. Every time I doze off, the bumpy reflectors wake me up before we go off the road!”
We were soon on the 10 West going about mach two. A highway patrol car pulled us over but we were quickly on our way after the policeman recognized the name. I have never seen a LAPD officer so apologetic.
I recognized where we were going and in no time, we pulled up in the U.C.L.A car park and were walking towards the library. I could not help noticing his strange 19th century lacy blouse, which contrasted so much with the stout biker boots and jacket. Combined with his silly pinch-nez and old-fashioned glasses, he looked like a cross between Benjamin Frankin and “The Fonz” from “Happy Days.”
The girl at the desk tried to stop him saying that he needed a student I.D card but just said “Don’t worry about it, kitten, and patted her on the backside, quite patronizingly, I thought. He strode into the main hall and hopped onto a table with the agility of a man half his age (and since he is almost 188 years old, it did actually take him a while.) Many students were looking in horror at the old man on the counter, and more and more gathered as the news spread. There was a din from the angry students telling him to get down so they could study. Ralph pulled on old pearl handled Colt 38 out from his jeans and fired it up into the ceiling twice.
The crowd became hushed as bits of wood and plaster fluttered down from where the bullets struck the ceiling. “Listen up, bookworms, books are the best things well used; abused, among the worst. They are for nothing but to inspire. The one thing of value in the world of value is the active soul- the soul, free sovereign, active. This every man is entitled to; this every man contains within him, although in almost all man, obstructed, and as yet, unborn.” The shots must have attracted the campus police and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a squad of SWAT men, clad in black, fanning out along the upper level.
He continued, “I am not saying don’t read books, but for God’s sake, read them to inspire you, not to be ruled by them. As the Arabian proverb says, “A fly tree looking on a fig tree becometh fruitful.” The next second there was a flash from behind the Balkan History shelf as a sniper sent a round straight into the back of Emerson’s neck, shattering his spine. I screamed and ran towards the body and lay beside him, holding his bloody head in my hands. I looked up at the police with tears in my eyes.
“My God, you don’t know who you’ve just shot.” Emerson’s trembling fingers reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pen. I had produced the cocktail napkin from my pocket to try to stop some of the bleeding. Emerson took it and with his last ounce of dying energy wrote, “The active soul” and signed it.
Then he died. Everyone was sobbing and even the sniper seemed to have a lump in his throat as he chalked the outline of the body onto the carpet and put the .38 into a plastic bag.
This morning I took my jeans out of the dryer and found a shredded cocktail napkin that crumbled like a handful of earth. The last writings of a great man.”
This story was a strange one, weird like fate. In the beginning, Danler’s language injected me with Twitter-mania, that her writing voice had been kept so pure, so untouched by the standard New York Times style although I knew she had gotten an MFA. She was The Paris Review. It was like Gertrude Stein telling Hemingway, you can be a journalist or a writer but you can’t be both. It was like de Botton explaining how Proust’s writing made familiar objects, familiar feelings and tropes seem new again. It was everything I identified with fine writing.
Words came in triplets, and it was all Kerouac but this time, a palate for drugs, sex and wine… Gaumenfreude. Her writing was Kerouac holy but like the protagonist carrying a copy of his book, hard to stomach till the end. It starts with Kerouac but it doesn’t end that way. On the Road was written into the surface text, so you knew that wasn’t where the Real story was. The Real story alluded to another book.
In the beginning, I was living the protagonist, the girl who “came here in a car like everybody else,” I could just see her head popping out the window as she crossed George Washington Bridge, I know mine did. This girl spent Thanksgiving masturbating, watching The Godfather and eating Thai food just like I did at that age.
Then Danler introduces you to a world where the service workers are noble and their knowledge of food and life are aristocratic. It was love at first sight, everything was. Noble grapes. At this moment, the protagonist was as educated/ developed as a single-celled amoeba all of 22, all bounce and potential, latching onto the knowledge that one older woman could give her… about wine, life and the art of paying attention.
The boy between them was a Kierkegaard grad school drop out with polaroids of Berlin and Morocco.
By the end of the novel, I realized I was actually the antagonist, the 36 year-old senior server (without her man-slave or power) but nonetheless, having also constructed my own prison that was not the best restaurant in New York City but Berlin, writing a blog no one reads and going on about an art world I was not apart of yet. For all the girls that start the journey, just like everyone else, there must be tons of women antagonists just like this senior server (wearing Clark Kent glasses with frizzy hair and red lipstick), just like me, not entering the “circle of marriage, children, acquisitions, retirement funds.” Where do all these ladies go? They go to Sicily… homage to The Godfather and as her story shows, they take care of each other- shaping destinies, teaching or by being your favorite guest.
“Her poems that no one read, her apartment that she could never leave, her expertise so niche it was skeletal. She hadn’t made a choice. Someone else had.” Danler
Disillusionment had hit… the Sweetbitter.
‘Corner Door and Doorframe (Installation view),’ 2014-2015,. Robert Gober
Stepping out of the metro at Lido T.I.B.B., I spotted an Asian couple that looked like they were going where I was going and they were. The woman apologized that her Italian had overtaken her knowledge of English so she could now only speak English in aphorisms. On the other hand, her companion had studied at the Kunstakademie Düsseldorf and only spoke German, so I spoke with him and exchanged short English questions with the lady. As artists and teachers, they took me under their wing all throughout the visit.
In a gold leaf building known as the “Haunted House,” I walked into a space that instantly reminded me of a picture. With its light almost faded blue walls and sketches of a lone tree, I thought that picture (If I could have seen the look on my face). As I was thinking this, the lady spoke these words.
Lady: This is famous.
Me: Is it Louise? (she gave me a look)
Lady: This is contemporary art.
Me:… (which contemporary art world are you living in or rather, which one am I)
Later on, still thinking of her riddle on the third floor circling butter in a crib.
Me: Why is it contemporary art?
Lady: Too complicated, Google it.
Story of my life.
A few hours later in the Gallerie d’Italia, drawn to the words Beauty Restored, I took this picture. Being a facade kind of girl, I found myself looking at a corner… unknowingly what I had seen was already showing up in my images.