mills

My name is Mills Baker; I write about love, culture, art, religion, mental illness, philosophy, memory, politics and the rather random.

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“I don’t care whether Picasso put out cigarettes on people’s arms. My attitude is that if Picasso took a machine gun and cut down a line of grandmothers, okay, it would not affect my opinion of his art.”

Camille Paglia, quoted to me by Abby and posted because Peter and Petitchou mentioned the issue again on Woody Allen’s birthday.

She does not suggest art exculpates guilt; she suggests that guilt is irrelevant to art’s value. She’s probably correct, but I struggle to discard my childish idea that when we love art we love it partly as an expression of a mind or heart we admire, of an imagination we adore. It is hard to adore the imagination or the heart of someone who machine-guns grandmothers; it is hard not to mistrust its output, however beautiful or formally inventive it is.

But this is a silly, sentimental idea of art that reflects poorly on me; I can admit that.

“Lie detector eyeglasses perfected: Civilization collapses.”

Richard Powers, from heroine Sarah Belfort’s post of some six word stories; also included were:

Longed for him. Got him. Shit.— Margaret Atwood
I’m your future, child. Don’t cry. — Stephen Baxter
LOVELY SPRING WEATHER BUBONIC PLAGUE RAGING.— Evelyn Waugh
Thought I was right. I wasn’t. — Graeme Gibson

There is also the well-known Hemingway effort -“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”- and it seems to me that many fragments of James Ellroy’s prose could be excerpted and stand on their own in the same way.

Tags: literature
Food stamps are being discussed in the news, which means bloggers need related images for their stories; hilariously, they seem often to find my photograph of Jacques-Imo’s door, with its surely tongue-in-cheek announcement that they accept food stamps. I took it while waiting there with Mandalay, Will, and Spencer in May.
Yesterday, Matthew Yglesias used it to illustrate his post on the subject, which I believe means I am officially a world-famous photographer even though Riaz takes vastly better pictures.

Food stamps are being discussed in the news, which means bloggers need related images for their stories; hilariously, they seem often to find my photograph of Jacques-Imo’s door, with its surely tongue-in-cheek announcement that they accept food stamps. I took it while waiting there with Mandalay, Will, and Spencer in May.

Yesterday, Matthew Yglesias used it to illustrate his post on the subject, which I believe means I am officially a world-famous photographer even though Riaz takes vastly better pictures.

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

When the Saints Go Marching In - The Preservation Hall Jazz Band

This mid-1960s recording is a concession to the fact that last night’s victory over the hated Patriots was one I’ll never forget; only the post-Katrina reclamation of the Superdome against the Falcons -also a Monday night game- exceeds it, in my view. If you’re familiar with our team’s history I’m sure you’ll forgive a bit of sentimentality.

I’m trying not to contribute to the hype, but it’s not easy. Previously.

Happy birthday to my the ROLFing, meowing Elle, who I believe was the first dear friend I made through the Internet. I’ve visited her and she’s visited me, and although both trips had elements of disaster they remain fond memories.
I’ll not be more sentimental than this: it’s been one of the best friendships I’ve had.
Enjoy getting older, L, and next year I’ll let Will “Hunky Brewster” Dalto do this since he remembered your birthday first!

Happy birthday to my the ROLFing, meowing Elle, who I believe was the first dear friend I made through the Internet. I’ve visited her and she’s visited me, and although both trips had elements of disaster they remain fond memories.

I’ll not be more sentimental than this: it’s been one of the best friendships I’ve had.

Enjoy getting older, L, and next year I’ll let Will “Hunky Brewster” Dalto do this since he remembered your birthday first!

Tags: elle belle
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

Rapper’s Delight - Sugar Hill Gang

I was under the mistaken impression that this song’s long verse on a disastrous meal was Thanksgiving-themed. My mom is a phenomenal cook, so I suppose I’ll just hope that this doesn’t describe your experience today.

Have you ever went over a friend’s house to eat 
and the food just aint no good?
I mean the macaroni’s soggy the peas are mushed 
and the chicken tastes like wood.
So you try to play it off like you think you can 
by sayin’ that you’re full, 
and then your friend says, “Momma, he’s just being polite, 
he ain’t finished -uh, uh- that’s bull.”
So your heart starts pumpin’ and you think of a lie, 
and you say that you already ate,
and your friend says, “Man, there’s plenty of food,” 
so you pile some more on your plate.
While the stinky food’s steamin’ your mind starts to dreamin’ 
of the moment that it’s time to leave,
and then you look at your plate and your chicken’s slowly rottin’ 
into something that looks like cheese.
So you say, “That’s it, I got to leave this place, 
I dont care what these people think.
I’m just sittin’ here makin myself nauseous 
with this ugly food that stinks.”
So you bust out the door while it’s still closed 
-still sick from the food you ate-
and then you run to the store for quick relief 
from a bottle of Kaopectate…

Happy Thanksgiving!

Simen, of the Daily Meh, is one of my favorites; he posted the above photograph and detail, and wrote what follows about it (I highly recommend his review of Crewdson).

Speaking of Kafka, he wrote a cryptic little short story called The Cares of a Family Man (Die Sorge des Hausvaters). It’s really short; you can read it here.
The picture above  is Odradek, Táboritská 8, Prague, 18 July 1994, by Jeff Wall. Wall is known for his large-scale staged photographs, like Gregory Crewdson, though Wall has been doing it for longer. Some of Wall’s pictures are recreations of works by others. In my review of Crewdson’s Beneath the Roses, I included one of Wall’s pictures called A Sudden Gust of Wind, after a print by Hokusai.
Anyway, the amount of time and resources that goes into creating each of these pictures is stunning. Yet when you look at the picture, you may very well miss the little detail in the middle, shown above. That is the point. Huge resources were spent creating the picture; the point is Odradek, whom you might not notice at a glance.
I was reminded of Odradek recently when I came across an excellent Tumblr-user who bears the creature’s name. As I mentioned to her, Odradek was important to a course I took on Kafka which concerned not only his works but also the often-absurd ideas of “Kafkology,” the scholarship that surrounds them.
Kafkology was memorably defined by Kundera in a tautology: “Kafkology is discourse for Kafkologizing Kafka. For replacing Kafka with the Kafkologized Kafka.” By this he meant that the hysterical, bombastic, indefensible ideas of scholars who misunderstood everything about Kafka -on from his executor Max Brod, who thought that his works depicted the horrible torments of hell which meet those who sin!- were never about Kafka at all. Rather, they were about using his powerful, seemingly encoded stories to support whatever the pet interests of said scholars happened to be.
My professor, Franz Kempf, shared with us the views of one addled academic who claimed that “Odradek,” the word, in some language or another, sounded like “Oh, there is dirt there,” which he further took to be a reference to the anus. Thus, the academic asserted in his delightfully serious essay, “The Cares of Family Man” concerns homosexuality and Kafka’s ambivalence about it, his simultaneous desire and discomfort, bourgeois repression of the body, etc. etc. ad absurdum.
I will concede to Simen that there are problems with assessing the meaning of dreams, and Kafka’s sometimes dream-like stories share that quality: anyone can detect in them indictments of whatever they hate, celebration of what they like, images of whatever they can use to build their thick, dry essays and deep, dull monographs.

Simen, of the Daily Meh, is one of my favorites; he posted the above photograph and detail, and wrote what follows about it (I highly recommend his review of Crewdson).

Speaking of Kafka, he wrote a cryptic little short story called The Cares of a Family Man (Die Sorge des Hausvaters). It’s really short; you can read it here.
The picture above is Odradek, Táboritská 8, Prague, 18 July 1994, by Jeff Wall. Wall is known for his large-scale staged photographs, like Gregory Crewdson, though Wall has been doing it for longer. Some of Wall’s pictures are recreations of works by others. In my review of Crewdson’s Beneath the Roses, I included one of Wall’s pictures called A Sudden Gust of Wind, after a print by Hokusai.
Anyway, the amount of time and resources that goes into creating each of these pictures is stunning. Yet when you look at the picture, you may very well miss the little detail in the middle, shown above. That is the point. Huge resources were spent creating the picture; the point is Odradek, whom you might not notice at a glance.

I was reminded of Odradek recently when I came across an excellent Tumblr-user who bears the creature’s name. As I mentioned to her, Odradek was important to a course I took on Kafka which concerned not only his works but also the often-absurd ideas of “Kafkology,” the scholarship that surrounds them.

Kafkology was memorably defined by Kundera in a tautology: “Kafkology is discourse for Kafkologizing Kafka. For replacing Kafka with the Kafkologized Kafka.” By this he meant that the hysterical, bombastic, indefensible ideas of scholars who misunderstood everything about Kafka -on from his executor Max Brod, who thought that his works depicted the horrible torments of hell which meet those who sin!- were never about Kafka at all. Rather, they were about using his powerful, seemingly encoded stories to support whatever the pet interests of said scholars happened to be.

My professor, Franz Kempf, shared with us the views of one addled academic who claimed that “Odradek,” the word, in some language or another, sounded like “Oh, there is dirt there,” which he further took to be a reference to the anus. Thus, the academic asserted in his delightfully serious essay, “The Cares of Family Man” concerns homosexuality and Kafka’s ambivalence about it, his simultaneous desire and discomfort, bourgeois repression of the body, etc. etc. ad absurdum.

I will concede to Simen that there are problems with assessing the meaning of dreams, and Kafka’s sometimes dream-like stories share that quality: anyone can detect in them indictments of whatever they hate, celebration of what they like, images of whatever they can use to build their thick, dry essays and deep, dull monographs.

“But then? No then.”
Franz Kafka in “Description of a Struggle,” quoted by Zadie Smith in an essay forwarded to me by Meaghano; more on the essay itself later.

Not Yet

My friend E., an architect, posted the following extraordinary photo and quote on Corner Lot:

The airplane shows us that the problem well stated finds its solution.  To wish to fly like a bird is to state the problem badly, and Ader’s Bat never left the ground… to search for a means of suspension in the air, and a means of propulsion, was to put the problem properly: in less than ten years the whole world could fly.

The problem of the house has not yet been stated.

- Le Corbusier in Vers une Architecture

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

Village Green Preservation Society - The Kinks

Posted by Filmosophy-founder, master of the mind, and man-about-the-Internet Sometimes a Great Notion; shared mainly for Abs-the-gym-rat.

Arthur Koestler and Mamaine Paget. Koestler’s life was extraordinary; as a journalist, Communist, anti-Communist, Leftist internee under the dying French regime while Hitler invaded, and essayist, he saw as much as anyone the consequences of opinion, of weak morality, of deference to evil.
Koestler was also a wife-abusing rapist whose treatment of women was uniformly brutal: impregnating and abandoning them to dangerous abortions, cowing them and beating them, permitting only sycophancy in them, he repels even if one admires Darkness at Noon.
Julian Barnes, whose own personality emerges from Nothing to be Afraid Of and Flaubert’s Parrot and other works as utterly decent, considered him a friend. In 2000, he and an author of a biography of Koestler fought over the deceased author’s reputation, and in their dispute one encounters again these same questions:

Should deeds (and opinions, which can be a kind of deed) beyond the creative work of an artist or thinker matter in the consideration of that work? Does it matter that Heidegger was a Nazi? Does it matter that Polanski was a rapist? Does it matter that Anderson feels Polanski should not face justice?
If we set an arbitrary point at which we say such things do matter -we forgive Ted Kennedy but not Polanski, or vice versa; we accept Alec Baldwin’s political declarations but not Jon Voight’s; we despise Heidegger for being a Nazi but not Sartre for defending Stalin; there are endless examples- must we accept that all arbitrarily-set limits are equivalently defensible?

These are difficult questions for which I have no answer and in which I lose interest; artists and thinkers are precisely as human as we all are, with the same preponderance of flaws, some unforgivable; what matters to me is the work. Indeed, while most of us do not commit overtly immoral acts it is easy to see how we might be detested. For example: did you vote for Obama? He has increased out use of Predator attack drones vastly; when, years from now, you opine in an interview after your latest book has been released that you loved Obama, the scores of relatives of the innocent collateral damage will loathe you and consider you immoral, and what will you say? Let your handler deal with it! And let’s not think of what our exes and enemies would say of us!
Morality and Aesthetics
But there is something interesting here: I do not think we are merely arguing about whether to, say, boycott Wes Anderson’s movies because we disagree with him. We regularly buy products from companies which do worse than sign petitions! We pay taxes which fund policies with greater negative impact than op-eds or signatures or the odious opinions of some long-dead author!
I think the greater issue is that when a thinker takes a position we consider immoral we begin to doubt the value of their work, a fact I find fascinating. In Heidegger’s case it is perhaps not surprising that we would ponder whether someone who found Hitler reasonable can be trusted to reason -though we might ask Hannah Arendt- but it is notable that we are concerned by Wagner’s anti-Semitism.
What does music have to do with racism? It seems to me that there is a common sense that art or thought of any value must have some moral core, that there is a moral basis to aesthetics without which they lose their value, that creative work implicitly expresses the morality of its creator and loses much of its meaning if said morality is dubious in itself or contradicted by the creator’s behavior.
If painting, photography, philosophy, film, literature, and so on are problematized by their creators’ failed, repudiated, or incoherent moral codes, then we must accept that morality is more integral to art and thought than we ordinarily suppose, particularly in an age of disputed moralities, of negotiable and relative moralities.
Do we restrict the requisite morality of all art to the universal proposals almost all accept: that violence is to be abhorred, that compassion is a virtue? Or do we permit more specific moralities -the morality, say, of feminism, or the “revolutionary morality” of Marxism, or the morality of Christianity- to inform the aesthetic judgement of a work?
That is, are these statements equivalently defensible:

I cannot believe that a man who supports a child-rapist can make movies worth a damn; he lacks compassion, a sense of humanism, and an understanding of justice; everything he makes will be shallow and unfeeling.
I cannot accept that a novel written by a rapist will have any insight into the humanistic concerns of literature; if he cannot feel for his victims, how can he feel for his characters? Everything he writes will be brutally atavistic.
I cannot abide music which promotes extramarital sex sung by someone who has been convicted of un-Christian, immoral acts with children; it is repellant and demonstrates a soulless amorality which places him far from real love.

When do opinions become deeds? When do deeds become universally detestable? When are you comfortable stating that your morality is sufficient to judge another by? When does immorality impugn art’s credibility? Are there aesthetics without morality?

Arthur Koestler and Mamaine Paget. Koestler’s life was extraordinary; as a journalist, Communist, anti-Communist, Leftist internee under the dying French regime while Hitler invaded, and essayist, he saw as much as anyone the consequences of opinion, of weak morality, of deference to evil.

Koestler was also a wife-abusing rapist whose treatment of women was uniformly brutal: impregnating and abandoning them to dangerous abortions, cowing them and beating them, permitting only sycophancy in them, he repels even if one admires Darkness at Noon.

Julian Barnes, whose own personality emerges from Nothing to be Afraid Of and Flaubert’s Parrot and other works as utterly decent, considered him a friend. In 2000, he and an author of a biography of Koestler fought over the deceased author’s reputation, and in their dispute one encounters again these same questions:

  • Should deeds (and opinions, which can be a kind of deed) beyond the creative work of an artist or thinker matter in the consideration of that work? Does it matter that Heidegger was a Nazi? Does it matter that Polanski was a rapist? Does it matter that Anderson feels Polanski should not face justice?
  • If we set an arbitrary point at which we say such things do matter -we forgive Ted Kennedy but not Polanski, or vice versa; we accept Alec Baldwin’s political declarations but not Jon Voight’s; we despise Heidegger for being a Nazi but not Sartre for defending Stalin; there are endless examples- must we accept that all arbitrarily-set limits are equivalently defensible?

These are difficult questions for which I have no answer and in which I lose interest; artists and thinkers are precisely as human as we all are, with the same preponderance of flaws, some unforgivable; what matters to me is the work. Indeed, while most of us do not commit overtly immoral acts it is easy to see how we might be detested. For example: did you vote for Obama? He has increased out use of Predator attack drones vastly; when, years from now, you opine in an interview after your latest book has been released that you loved Obama, the scores of relatives of the innocent collateral damage will loathe you and consider you immoral, and what will you say? Let your handler deal with it! And let’s not think of what our exes and enemies would say of us!

Morality and Aesthetics

But there is something interesting here: I do not think we are merely arguing about whether to, say, boycott Wes Anderson’s movies because we disagree with him. We regularly buy products from companies which do worse than sign petitions! We pay taxes which fund policies with greater negative impact than op-eds or signatures or the odious opinions of some long-dead author!

I think the greater issue is that when a thinker takes a position we consider immoral we begin to doubt the value of their work, a fact I find fascinating. In Heidegger’s case it is perhaps not surprising that we would ponder whether someone who found Hitler reasonable can be trusted to reason -though we might ask Hannah Arendt- but it is notable that we are concerned by Wagner’s anti-Semitism.

What does music have to do with racism? It seems to me that there is a common sense that art or thought of any value must have some moral core, that there is a moral basis to aesthetics without which they lose their value, that creative work implicitly expresses the morality of its creator and loses much of its meaning if said morality is dubious in itself or contradicted by the creator’s behavior.

If painting, photography, philosophy, film, literature, and so on are problematized by their creators’ failed, repudiated, or incoherent moral codes, then we must accept that morality is more integral to art and thought than we ordinarily suppose, particularly in an age of disputed moralities, of negotiable and relative moralities.

Do we restrict the requisite morality of all art to the universal proposals almost all accept: that violence is to be abhorred, that compassion is a virtue? Or do we permit more specific moralities -the morality, say, of feminism, or the “revolutionary morality” of Marxism, or the morality of Christianity- to inform the aesthetic judgement of a work?

That is, are these statements equivalently defensible:

  1. I cannot believe that a man who supports a child-rapist can make movies worth a damn; he lacks compassion, a sense of humanism, and an understanding of justice; everything he makes will be shallow and unfeeling.
  2. I cannot accept that a novel written by a rapist will have any insight into the humanistic concerns of literature; if he cannot feel for his victims, how can he feel for his characters? Everything he writes will be brutally atavistic.
  3. I cannot abide music which promotes extramarital sex sung by someone who has been convicted of un-Christian, immoral acts with children; it is repellant and demonstrates a soulless amorality which places him far from real love.

When do opinions become deeds? When do deeds become universally detestable? When are you comfortable stating that your morality is sufficient to judge another by? When does immorality impugn art’s credibility? Are there aesthetics without morality?

“Like the cancer that is that Darjeeling guy… what’s his name? … His completely cancerous approach to using music is basically, “Here’s my iPod on shuffle, and here’s my movie.” The two are just thrown together.”

Will Oldham’s infamous remarks concerning Wes Anderson, in honor of Wes Anderson Week at Filmosophy.

This flyabostic rake Distorte, whom I worry my girlfriend should like more than she likes me, asked the other day whether he ought to read the Cormac McCarthy interview in the WSJ, noting that “there’s a natural curiosity always about artists we love, but is scratching that itch getting you any closer to the art or is it merely a distraction? Could it damage the relationship?”

It certainly can if one isn’t careful, particularly if one prefers to believe that one’s favorite artists are in possession of a moral intelligence and philosophical worldview whose wisdom is intelligible to oneself. It isn’t always so, and it can be a significant problem. I personally think that not only is Will Oldham’s assessment wrong, it is stupid: to say things are “thrown together” is a speculation he cannot defend; he has no idea what connection Anderson perceives or seeks in his combinations of sights and sounds; he has no idea what the intent behind the selections is, and no standing to declare unacceptable Anderson’s aesthetic approach; and to base on such tenuous speculation such a pejorative claim -that he is “cancerous”- is absurd.

Abby introduced me to Will Oldham, and I love his music; but I also think his lyrics betray a self-centeredness that discomfits me, and this quote didn’t help; I wish I hadn’t come across it, especially because such a narrow arrogance about musical and artistic questions is particularly unseemly for a musician.

It is not atypical, though; many artists, possessing (or faking) the confidence to create and submit to the world the works of their fragile selves, consider their aesthetic views authoritative. How could they not? That’s why they create as they do! But surely Oldham has been misunderstood before, and I am surprised he’s not warier of assuming an absence of meaning wherever he doesn’t immediately detect connections.

Fun assignment: compile a list of all the instances in which the opinions or behaviors of artists of whatever sort problematized our enjoyment of their work.

From my photography blog, yesterday:
This is the window behind my computer, fuzzy with dust and its paint chapping like desiccated leather. Today has been very gray; it’s cold, wet, and the plants seem lush.
Gray Saturday, gray Sunday, beautiful Monday. The simple difference between happiness and unhappiness is in whether I am (1) glad that the weather is now beautiful or (2) irritated that it wasn’t when I was free to enjoy it.

From my photography blog, yesterday:

This is the window behind my computer, fuzzy with dust and its paint chapping like desiccated leather. Today has been very gray; it’s cold, wet, and the plants seem lush.

Gray Saturday, gray Sunday, beautiful Monday. The simple difference between happiness and unhappiness is in whether I am (1) glad that the weather is now beautiful or (2) irritated that it wasn’t when I was free to enjoy it.

Tags: photography
“My formula for human greatness is amor fati: that one wants to have nothing different, not forward, not backward, not in all eternity. Not merely to bear the necessary, still less to conceal it—all idealism is mendaciousness before the necessary—but to love it.”

A syphilitic Friedrich Nietzsche in the chapter of Ecce Homo titled “Why I am so Clever,” though I should add that this is an example of an idea -amor fati- not without its value despite the increasing dementia of its author. I came across it again while reading Wikipedia’s brief treatment of Nietzsche’s comments concerning eternal return, which related to the previous post.

That idea is probably familiar to most from Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being, which questions at its outset whether the lightness of an existence that vanishes irretrievably into the past is terrible or fortunate; would it better for everything that happens to happen eternally, so to speak?

It’s worth noting that physicists would dispute the assumptions these questions make about time; the great Unburying the Lead quoted Albert Einstein recently:“For those of us who believe in physics, this separation between past, present and future is only an illusion.”

Update: Nick Barr noted that “the whole syphilis thing is probably untrue,” an assertion which surprised me as the last time I read Nietzsche it seemed fairly widely accepted; much of his lifelong medical trouble is explained by such a diagnosis. But Barr has scholarship on his side, and I thank him for the correction; it appears now to at least be again in dispute, and strong arguments against syphilis have been made.