“Gay Icons”

This afternoon we visited the National Portrait Gallery where we saw the “Gay Icons” exhibit. The concept was an interesting one: ten prominent figures named six icons, gay or straight, whose photo portraits were shown. Among the selectors are rock star Elton J. and actor Ian M. Many of the nominees were to be expected: Village People for their unabashed gayness, Gianni V. whose high-end fashion career was tragically cut short, America’s first openly-gay mayor Harvey M., and Martina N. who reigned supreme in women’s tennis.

What I appreciated the most was being reminded of all the great literature that was part of my education. I came across names like Edmund W. who pioneered gay fiction, poetess Audre L. who wrote about being a black lesbian, Virginia W. whose Bloomsbury Group is infamous for its progressive attitudes towards marriage and sexuality, and Walt W. whose “Leaves of Grass” celebrated sensuality as well as New York’s landscape. Whereas the exhibit focuses on their sexuality, these authors’ sexual orientation was never at the forefront of our discussion of their works, for better or for worse. One might argue that ignoring a writer’s sexuality is as big an omission as ignoring their gender, education, nationality and ethnic heritage. In my days of full-time academia I was a vociferous proponent of new historicism, a school of thought which championed looking at literature in its historical, cultural and environmental context. These contexts include the biographical. If anything, the NPG exhibit is a space where visitors can openly discuss icons’ sexuality and the impact it may or may have not had on their careers and success, a conversation possibly deemed politically incorrect in Academia’s ivory towers.

Bayham Summer Party

Today we spent one of the final days of summer at Bayham in Kent.

“Between the Covers” at The Women’s Library

I was recently introduced to The Women’s Library at London’s Metropolitan University where I viewed their current exhibit “Between the Covers: Women’s Magazines and their Readers.” Discourse around women’s issues and concerns in the Western world cannot be had without addressing the mainstream media’s influence on and portrayal of women. The exhibit provides a history of the women’s magazine industry in England, starting with late-17^th century periodicals that served as resources for women to extend their education. With the Industrial Revolution, these periodicals quickly deteriorated to magazines about fashion, food and domestic happiness. Some things never change! I was struck by how “Cosmopolitan” magazine is the most popular women’s magazine in the world, particularly in light of their cover girls and cover lines. Both seem endlessly recycled month to month; the only variations are in the model’s hair colour and the cover lines’ font. The magazine’s popularity would infer that “fun” and “fearless” are the two qualities most women aspire to, but the question remains how much of this ethos is marketed to shape women’s concerns and how much of it is a true reflection of real woman’s values.

Lausanne

In Lausanne, we caught up with my brother and sister-in-law who hosted us for the weekend. We explored the port of Ouchy, visited the Notre-Dame Cathedral and went shopping in the local farmer’s market. After a long walk through Vaud’s vineyards, we took the steamer back to Lausanne before dining at La Suite. Lausanne is beautiful, and it was great to see my brother and his wife settled into their new home.

Geneva

We explored Geneva’s Right Bank where we took a tour of the United Nations (the Human Rights room with its Spanish ceiling was the highlight), strolled through the Botanical Gardens and visited the Red Cross Museum. In the Old Town we saw St. Peter’s Cathedral, the Water Fountain and the Floral Clock before taking the train to Lausanne where we visited my brother and sister-in-law who moved to Switzerland a month ago.

“Whatever”

Since mid-April, I’ve been busy revising my manuscript and am now currently in the throes of figuring out how to market it (which is why some of you may have noticed my reuniting with Facebook). Anyway, in my recent trolling on the Internet, I’ve come across a quote by Elie W. that speaks to me about the cruel yet rampant use of the modern American slang word, “Whatever.”

“Whatever” entered the daily lexicon as an appropriate response to questions we don’t know the answers to, inquiries that uncomfortably stump or stretch us, and situations we find uncomfortable, yet decide it is better not to communicate rather than discuss the matter like adults were intended. Elie W.’s quote (October 1986) points out the crime of indifference, a concept that, to me, underscores the implications of exercising the word “whatever” willy-nilly.

The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.

The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference.

The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference.

And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.

A few months ago I found myself trying to explain to someone why I thought “whatever” is an inappropriate response to a question or challenging situation. I’m afraid that although I was able to articulate that the use of the word “whatever” shuts down any potential for intellectual engagement and dialogue, I wasn’t able to articulate its implications. “Whatever” is used to prematurely stop a conversation one party is motivated to push forward while the other isn’t. However, “whatever” contains a nuance that “let’s move onto a different topic” doesn’t. “Whatever” implies indifference towards the conversation trying to be had and a twin indifference towards the other speaker. The use of the word “whatever” suggests a wide, insurmountable gulf in values and priorities that makes communication between these two parties impossible. And “whatever” betrays the idea that what is important to one party is indifferent to the other. And therein “whatever” becomes a word that articulates the foundation of people’s inability to understand, communication and work through their differences, resulting in catastrophic consequences as Elie W. implies in his quote.

J&J filming in Ldn

Last night we had dinner with J&J at Napket before capping the night off at Cecconi’s. Established patrons of art in Chicago, they are currently directing their energy at shooting a documentary film on A-A artists who were educated and/or spent some or all of their careers in Europe. Their project has taken them to Barcelona, Amsterdam, Paris and now London before they finish off in Rome. It was great to see an old friend from uni and talk about the arts: the classical education of abstract artists, the intellectual implications of deviating from producing realist images versus abstract ones, and the disillusionment AAs harbored towards American culture post-WWII.

“Sammy J in the Forest of Dreams”

What “Waiting for Godot” has in common with “Sammy J in the Forest of Dreams” is that a tree plays a significant role in both shows; apart from this random shared plot device, the two productions couldn’t be more different. “Sammy J in the Forest of Dreams” is a smutty spoof on Disney movies and the Muppets, residing in the same theatre sub-genre of “Avenue Q”. The puppeteer was the mastermind in the show, providing a range of performances that overshadowed that of the eponymous hero, Sammy J.

“Waiting for Godot”

Watching Ian M. and Patrick S. perform in “Waiting for Godot” at the Royal Haymarket Theatre is a unique way of celebrating one’s birthday. Had I not spent a moment or two contemplating my mortality and acknowledging I had moved one year closer to my death, Samuel B.’s play was a quick antidote for any inappropriately anti-existentialist behavior.

Imagine my wicked glee when M, who hadn’t benefitted from an American education thus was never forced to prematurely read “Waiting for Godot” in high school (show me a teenager that actually gets “Godot” and I’ll show you an adolescent whose emotional and intellectual growth wasn’t stunted by an American, public school education), suggested we see the play starring Ian M. and Patrick S., the London theater event of the season. Admittedly, I knew there was little chance that M would enjoy the play without having ever read it. The play is stinted and sparse, as barren of emotion as the tree next to which Vladimir and Estragon wait for the hero that never shows up.

The value we derive from watching “Waiting for Godot” is facing the existential questions that are drowned out by the noise of car traffic, bumping hangers in a department store, and sensationalist news stories on the telly. While we are surrounded by the absurd inventions humans have created to distract ourselves from our impending mortality, the play’s two anti-heros feel the pain of waiting for Godot, he who will give sense to their existence, on a stripped-down stage; we are conscious of how bare it is and that when we take away the restaurants and shops, movie openings and morning news, we are all looking for the same answers Vladimir and Estragon are looking for in their meeting with Godot.

Although the play is not one that theater-goers are meant to enjoy in a traditional sense but rather through the contemplation of one’s mortality (and there is a special relief in accepting we are all here for a limited time), I do have a confession to make: I did see “Waiting for Godot” once long ago and loved the production more than I ever thought possible. I was an undergraduate student who, as luck would have it, picked up a flyer advertising a physical comedy troupe’s production of the show in a small, make-shift theater, a rented room above a seedy, pre-Bloomberg establishment known for its peep shows. Not exactly what Beckett had in mind, but an ironic and postmodern juxtaposition of sorts: “Waiting for Godot,” impassioned with comedic choreography – the actors were almost clown like in their performance which, more than I could have ever thought possible, drove home the essential meaning of the show. A play known for its seriousness and silences made energized and playful, all taking place above a different type of show which takes the most basic conduit for joy and expression of humanity and twists it into one more object of casual consumption, like buying a spare Michelin tire or a bag of potato chips at the local gas station.