In a recent TV interview on the subject of Andy Warhol, whose exhibit at the AGO he curated, David Cronenberg said something to the effect that “To maintain an identity is a creative act, an act of will. Not everyone does it well.” In his view, Warhol created an identity for himself so compelling that he was able to change his existential status from outsider to ultimate insider, becoming the epicenter of a cultural scene.
Personally, I’m one of those people not good at creating and maintaining an identity. I probably didn’t realize that it required the focus and imagination of a novelist – I assumed identity was implicit in one’s actions, beliefs, and psychological organization, but obviously I missed the point. Also, I admit I like to hide rather than self-promote: I think self-mythologizing takes a degree of chutzpah and faith in oneself that I have never managed to achieve, as well as a fairly high comfort level with bulls—. I know people who have tried to build a charismatic persona for themselves: their efforts seemed transparent, and were most likely to elicit contempt than admiration, as one suspects a cavern of emptiness lurks behind the heroic mask. For example, Warhol achieved a remarkable amount of fame and fortune, becoming an icon (excuse that overused and misused term) of twentieth century American culture; but there was also something pathetic and even pathological about him. He was intelligent enough to profit from his weirdness, as well as his undeniable artistic talent – yet who would want to be him? Addendum: After watching the PBS documentary on Andy Warhol (American Masters series) I have to think that not only was he someone obsessed with fame and celebrity, but also was able to consciously exploit this obsession in his art and comment on it as a social phenonmenon, rather than being completely immersed in it and identified with it.
Having read some of the user reviews before going to see Leonard Cohen: I’m Your Man, I was aware that the musical performances in this tribute to the songwriter/poet were uneven. Despite the amateurish nature of this documentary (I found myself longing for a Scorsese or Demme behind the viewfinder), and a couple of truly terrible performances (Nick Cave massacres a couple of Cohen’s songs, while the once-revered Linda Thompson manages to exceed Leonard himself in her off-key croakings), the soulful, moving quality of his songwriting and the honesty of his wry self-evaluation still succeed in coming through. There are some excellent performances in this movie by Rufus Wainwright, Beth Orton, and Teddy Thompson, as well as highly idiosyncratic renditions by Jarvis Cocker, Martha Wainwright and Antony. One of the most powerful perfomances in the film is by Leonard Cohen himself, performing Tower of Song with U2 as his backup band. The Edge speaks sensitively, in one of the many interview cutaways, of his reverence for Cohen, but I personally wish someone would tell Bono to just stick a sock in it – his public pontificating on every possible subject has, at least for me, become truly nauseating. I’ve always been drawn to the darkness and terror of existence in Cohen’s songs – like any bona fide depressive he knows the abyss is one misstep away, and that love is forever blended with despair. It seems that his study of Zen has helped reconcile him to the non-ego affirming nature of reality (“this really isn’t paradise”) – in Jungian terms, it has helped him to individuate, so that, in his 70’s, he appears to be relatively at home in this world, where, according to Thomas Carlyle’s formula, happiness = what you have divided by what you expect.
I am covered with a lovely rash like the one in the picture, thanks to: either an afternoon out in the sun, or, eating raspberries which were probably not organic, or using a popular brand of detergent which includes fabric softener. Purists will say that I shouldn’t use either with three alternatives – I say, let them break out in an itchy red rash which begs to be scratched like a … cat begs for Whiskas!
I’m so very bored that I feel numb all over, as if I’m floating in a pool of warm water. I’ve got the white noise of my computer fans humming in the background, along with some real, stand-up portable fans as the AC doesn’t work very well on really hot days, and different times blinking on my stereo, my phone and my computer. Aside from constantly checking my email, gazing listlessly at the objects on my desk, scratching one leg with the other and blowing my nose, I have little to occupy my mind. A headache is beginning to develop … According to Wikipedia, the philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, steeped in pessimism as he was (if not terminal boredom), used the existence of boredom in an attempt to prove the vanity of human existence, stating: “For if life, in the desire for which our essence and existence consists, possessed in itself a positive value and real content, there would be no such thing as boredom: mere existence would fulfill and satisfy us”. In other words, we would be satisfied with simply breathing in and out, rather than being driven by our desires.
The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada : Tommy Lee Jones doesn’t like it when you beat up or accidently kill illegal Mexican immigrants. He does, however, like Sam Peckinpah and Jim Jarmusch. Old and a bit tired. (I wonder if Lou Dobbs liked this film).
My drains are clogged, I need a plumber
I don’t remember when I first discovered Philip K. Dick, but I think it was back in the ’90s. I must have picked up a copy of Radio Free Albemuth, an alternate, more mainstream version of his visionary novel Valis, published posthumously. Not a SF fan, I must have been drawn to it for its size and price which made it suitable travel reading. I loved PK Dick for his mysticism, his belief in alternate realities (in his case, through Gnosticism, in which knowledge (gnosis) liberates one from the material world , which is posited as evil), and probably, to be honest, his political paranoia and disdain for contemporary (North) American society. I tried as best I could to read my way through as much of the Dick oeuvre as was available (as an SF writer his work was often hard to find outside of specialty shops until his discovery by Hollywood and the republication of some of his major novels & short stories). Saturday afternoon, I decided to go see A Scanner Darkly, the Richard Linklater movie, based on Philip K. Dick’s 1977 anti-drug novel. The film uses an animation technique called roto-scoping to give live actors and real sets a graphic-novellish appearance. The idea was ingenious; the film worked because of its excellent acting performances, and the suitability of the visual technique to its subject matter. I can barely remember reading the book, but the movie seemed to me to be true to its humour and its essence, mostly, although the tragic elements of the story were glossed over (the book was a lament for those damaged by drug experimentation in the ’60s and ’70s, some of whom are listed in the book and just before the closing credits of the film; Dick includes himself under “permanent pancreatic damage”. A Scanner Darkly includes many of Dick’s favorite themes – characters with dual identities, a repressive political system, the presence of interlocking conspiracies, and the belief that the meaning of this debased material existence will become available at a future, more spiritually realized time (this comes in as a brief comment by the nearly brain-dead Fred/Bob as he is working on New-Path’s farm.) Although definately Dick lite, this film is worth a viewing.
I cut my leg this morning while shaving and had my first opportunity to use a liquid Band-Aid, which had the consistency and odour of nail polish – it was just like patching up a run in a pair of pantyhose! I knew all along this was not ‘real’ reality…