The novel postulates an inherent merit in suffering, as if suffering entitles one to happiness, as if a universal law of the conservation of suffering holds. If such a law held, then the systematic (though not uniform) increase in the well-being of the world's poor would forebode the attrition of happiness reserved for the after-world---to the chagrin of the novel's characters.
If suffering earns one respect in the eyes of one's enemies---as the novel suggests---then why do not the pursuits of pleasure or of sin do so as well? Whence the asymmetry? Self-inflicted suffering is only excusable if it is an unwelcome by-product of aspiring to happiness or of an error. Otherwise, self-inflicted suffering is cowardice.
Luckily, the novel's characters appear to be more entertained than suffering---which is, perhaps, because the novel has been designed to be approved for all audiences.
17 January 2010
2 January 2010
New York Philharmonic New Year’s Eve Concert with Thomas Hampson
(Avery Fisher Hall, 31 December 2009)
The soloist, Thomas Hampson, keeps a distance between himself, a baritone opera singer, and the characters that he voices. Even when the distance is minimal (as in Cole Porter's "Where is the Life that Late I Led?"), the voice comes across foremost as a musical instrument, only then as an individual.
In symphony orchestras, in contrast to jazz bands, players take no visible initiative in creating the mood; only the conductor innovates. Furthermore, bound by tradition, the conductor innovates minimally, without changing the arrangement. Hence, it may be too much to expect Alan Gilbert to improvise and swing it in every work, but more passion in his interpretations would be admissible. Adherence to the tradition was entirely appropriate, however, in the Yuletide hymn, conducted by Gilbert and sung by all present to conclude the night.
Porter and Gershwin, two of the three featured composers, have become most American by trying not to be such and failing at it. In the programme, their work outshines most of Copeland's, except his song "Simple Gifts."
The soloist, Thomas Hampson, keeps a distance between himself, a baritone opera singer, and the characters that he voices. Even when the distance is minimal (as in Cole Porter's "Where is the Life that Late I Led?"), the voice comes across foremost as a musical instrument, only then as an individual.
In symphony orchestras, in contrast to jazz bands, players take no visible initiative in creating the mood; only the conductor innovates. Furthermore, bound by tradition, the conductor innovates minimally, without changing the arrangement. Hence, it may be too much to expect Alan Gilbert to improvise and swing it in every work, but more passion in his interpretations would be admissible. Adherence to the tradition was entirely appropriate, however, in the Yuletide hymn, conducted by Gilbert and sung by all present to conclude the night.
Porter and Gershwin, two of the three featured composers, have become most American by trying not to be such and failing at it. In the programme, their work outshines most of Copeland's, except his song "Simple Gifts."
Chris Botti
(Blue Note, 1 January 2010)
Excessive percussions often dominate the piano. Intimacy is disturbed by amplification. The last song, "One for My Baby," benefits from being performed by just a piano and a trumpet, without amplification. The evening, however, is redeemed by Chris Botti's gentlemanly solos and duos.
Excessive percussions often dominate the piano. Intimacy is disturbed by amplification. The last song, "One for My Baby," benefits from being performed by just a piano and a trumpet, without amplification. The evening, however, is redeemed by Chris Botti's gentlemanly solos and duos.
Looking In: Robert Frank's The Americans
(The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2 January 2010)
Robert Frank’s “The Americans” is photography of a family man content not to seek beauty, which no longer must be conquered, and capable of pondering ugliness, amid which he does not have to live. It is instructive to see homely faces populate the 1950s. Most other images of that era come from Hollywood, where stars were bred carefully, and extras were aspiring starlets.
The faces of Frank’s subjects, aware of the photographer, reflect as much the photographer’s personality as the subjects’. Photography, like staring, intrudes. In the 1950s—when a typical photographer would have been a middle-aged moustached man with a camera that few could afford, not a teenage Asian girl with an indestructible cell phone—unsolicited photography must have been a greater affront than it is today.
Frank’s photographs do not reveal what is unique about each photographed subject. Perhaps nothing is, consistent with the travelogue’s message of uniform misery. Or perhaps individuality, whose elicitation is an art, has been intentionally omitted from Frank’s photojournalism in order to document what is common to Americans and to understate that which differentiates them.
Most disturbing in Robert Frank’s photographs is neither the poverty nor the estrangement of his subjects, but rather their apparent lack of purpose. Religious symbols do not engage. Funerals, marriages, and family life appear to be more influenced by the past experiences of others than by the freshness of one’s own experience.
Robert Frank’s “The Americans” is photography of a family man content not to seek beauty, which no longer must be conquered, and capable of pondering ugliness, amid which he does not have to live. It is instructive to see homely faces populate the 1950s. Most other images of that era come from Hollywood, where stars were bred carefully, and extras were aspiring starlets.
The faces of Frank’s subjects, aware of the photographer, reflect as much the photographer’s personality as the subjects’. Photography, like staring, intrudes. In the 1950s—when a typical photographer would have been a middle-aged moustached man with a camera that few could afford, not a teenage Asian girl with an indestructible cell phone—unsolicited photography must have been a greater affront than it is today.
Frank’s photographs do not reveal what is unique about each photographed subject. Perhaps nothing is, consistent with the travelogue’s message of uniform misery. Or perhaps individuality, whose elicitation is an art, has been intentionally omitted from Frank’s photojournalism in order to document what is common to Americans and to understate that which differentiates them.
Most disturbing in Robert Frank’s photographs is neither the poverty nor the estrangement of his subjects, but rather their apparent lack of purpose. Religious symbols do not engage. Funerals, marriages, and family life appear to be more influenced by the past experiences of others than by the freshness of one’s own experience.
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