Saturday, July 19, 2003
~ invisible pour les yeux ~
Cindy and Stephanie left this morning without saying goodbye. Same with previous workshop leaders: Bill and Nicole last year, Nicole and Jeff the year before.
(As evidence for their departure, left outside our door were the coffeemaker and computer cable that they had borrowed, a few boxes of Cracker Jacks, and spare laundry detergent. I would have liked to have seen them, to thank them for their gifts, a map and a book of New York, and for all they have done these past two weeks.)
On a day-by-day basis, the work of an administrator is invisible, I said to Teresa yesterday. Yes, on a grander scale, you must also provide vision for the institution. But one sign of a successful dean or director is when everything runs smoothly, and no one notices all the work that you do.
12:11 PM
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~ parenting and fostering ~
Who am I to criticize others for the manner in which they show concern for their children? If I believe that Les and Chere's efforts to make our move easier are misguided, what can I know of the worries that a parent feels? "You'll understand when you have children yourself." I do see how having a child has affected my friends: the way they view the future, the world around them.
I have written a doctoral dissertation, but from far retrospect those exertions felt more like excretion, as an oyster would form some kind of pearl around an irritant. Mookie is more a child to me. The jobs that I have chosen, and the travels that I have taken, have for fourteen years been anchored around my concerns for him. But he is a dog child, nobler now in his elder years but still in perpetual puppyhood, and it is unlikely that he will outlive me. Seeing a human infant, who is likely to live longer than you, is the complement, since the future becomes a different place you will cease to inhabit, and you care about it, but no longer directly for your own sake. My book is less of a child, since it is static, and I can neglect (and have neglected) its prosperity.
I have designed courses and taught students, but neither courses nor students fulfill the necessary conditions of parenthood, which I am just now realizing through this piece. A child is produced with labor and continues for years to require your constant care, but then you also must let her go, in recognition that she must know to prosper in your absence.
Under this view, the Monte Sol Workshop, which is ending today, is my child. I hope to see this program continue, even if I am to stop being its director -- what a great measure of success if I can hand over the program to someone else. I would then have created an institution that is truly alive, is able to continue without me. But the very fact of its continuance, illustrating my eventual superfluity, would also, I can well imagine, carry with it some bare twinges of sadness.
10:21 AM
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Friday, July 18, 2003
~ jerked this way and that ~
Tonight Les called to tell Marissa that he had reserved a Ford Windstar for our move from Santa Fe to Manhattan. How curious that he told her instead of me, since I did answer the phone. Meanwhile, we've both been telling him for months that we do not want to take a small van. After all, if we are going to drive anyway, because neither Mookie nor Snowball should fly, we'd might as well take a truck big enough to carry our belongings rather than deal with the expense and inconvenience of movers.
It's not as if I'm inexperienced: I've driven large rental trucks across the country five times, as well as once for a local move. I suppose this is their thinking:- We own a Ford Windstar, so we know it's a good car.
- Also, it has one of the highest safety ratings for a passenger vehicle.
- We are being generous by offering to pay for this rental.
- We are only trying to care for our only daughter.
Here is a different interpretation:- Because they drive a Windstar, so must everyone else with a lick of sense.
- Their lives are ruled by fear, though they fail to exert self-control over more obvious dangers such as high-fat diets, smoking, and lack of exercise.
- They are using money to attempt control over their daughter's life.
- They cannot recognized that their daughter is an adult now, or that her husband is capable of caring for her.
1:13 AM
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~ considering names ~
Joyce and Greg have chosen a name for their newborn son: Benjamin.
This is a superb name -- in fact, it had been my own, privately held, top choice for a boy. For me, the name invokes Benjamin Franklin, one of my heroes. It also reminds me of Ben Widom, my kind and keen undergraduate research advisor.
Well, it turns out Marissa wouldn't have gone for Benjamin anyway, or so she claims. Something about a fellow kindergartener named Benjamin who always told the same story at every Show and Tell, a story about his father catching him when he fell from a roof. I can't believe that would be a deal-breaker for her in choosing a name. We're talking about one little boy that she knew almost a quarter-century ago.
At least Joyce and Greg decided not to name their child William. I can't believe that had been one of their final choices. They had also been considering James. How silly. The child has only two uncles on his mother's side, William and James, and those were two of the final six names they had been considering. I'm sorry, I suppose in some families it would be seen as an honor, but I find the naming of a child after a living relative borderline offensive, and it seems to me that the Ashkenazim have a fine tradition regarding this practice. Although she is not Ashkenazi or Jewish, Marissa remains upset that her aunt gave her son the name William without consulting me.
Yet Joyce and Greg had also considered Felix, a name in Greg's family for both a dead grandfather and a living uncle. Honestly, except for Benjamin, Nathaniel was the only other decent choice they had, in my view.
Marissa and I already have one girl's name that we agree on, but we still haven't thought of a single boy's name that we both like. Last night, she rejected all of my new suggestions, including some rather fine ones: Brooklyn (apparently recently born to David Beckham and Posh Spice), Seraph (which she heard as Serif), and Morrison (her own last name). Meanwhile, I rejected her perennial suggestion of Presley Julio, which she invented as a child. After all these years, you'd think she could give it up. Fortunately for me, she told me that Presley has already been taken by Cindy Crawford's son.
We determined that for some reason she really likes the Spanish "j", pronounced "h". Then how about Jerbert or Jerbil, I suggested, completely in jest. Jerbil she immediately dismissed, as not being a real name. But Jerbert, pronounced Herbert, yes, she liked that very much. And also Irn, as in Irn-Bru, one of her favorite soft drinks, orange-flavored and made in Scotland.
12:10 AM
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Thursday, July 17, 2003
~ I think you’ll understand ~
The production on "I Want to Hold Your Hand" is amazing.
Try this: take advantage of the stereo separation of this recording, and listen only to the left channel. You’ll hear an excellently crafted song, with a driving rhythm guitar, tight harmonies, and snazzing snappy drums. That left channel gives you pure pop, the basic heart of the tune.
But now hear the song through the right channel. It’s the same song, yes, but here is there is much more craft. The lead guitar is jagged, snaring us with unexpected fillips and hooks, then soothing us with gently fulfilling chords (And when I touch you I feel happy inside), before breaking apart as it reflects the insistently repeated lyric (I can’t hide, I can’t hide, I can’t hide). The overall sound is sparser, bringing the voices to the fore, emphasizing their desperation. The handclaps are mere background in the left channel, but here and now, even though their syncopation continually catches us off guard, they are often the only rhythm that we are allowed for our body to grab hold of.
It’s not that either channel is more essential than the other. But the musical genius of the Beatles, which would clarify itself in later recordings, is already there in that tension between your left and right ears.
2:38 PM
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~ ohwell whatever nevermind ~
Yesterday we took the Monte Sol Workshop students north of Santa Fe, to El Santuario de Chimayo, Bandelier National Monument, and the Bradbury Science Museum in Los Alamos.
A couple days prior, Daniel and I had discussed the order in which we ought to visit these sites. Because Bandelier and Los Alamos are close together, it made sense to pair those in our travels, and because Bandelier affords the least disruptive opportunity for 31 people to hold a picnic, we figured we should be there in the middle of the day. These considerations reduced the six (three factorial) possible orderings down to two: {Los Alamos, Bandelier, Chimayo} or {Chimayo, Bandelier, Los Alamos}.
Daniel argued we ought to begin at Los Alamos. He reminded me that last summer, when we had started at the more obviously sacred spaces -- the humble Catholic chapel of healing dirt in Chimayo, the deserted Native American kivas and cliff dwellings of Bandelier -- the contrast between those places and the sanitized push-button presentation of the development of the atomic bomb at Los Alamos caused a severe emotional disjuncture for several students. He thought that ending at Los Alamos had left a lingering fallout which swept away the spiritual peacefulness which we had embraced earlier in the day.
I replied that that I saw the students' tears last summer, but had taken that as a successful sign that we had confronted the more sensitive writers among them with the paradoxes that may co-exist in a geographical place. Furthermore, the Bradbury Museum is not so different from the other two, in that it resembles a shrine, to the enormous constructive power of science but also obliquely to the over 200,000 Japanese civilians who died in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Speaking in the way of New Mexicans, who divvy themselves into three broad groups, I said that our Anglo students would naturally identify more strongly with the familiar surroundings of Los Alamos regardless of what order we presented the three sites to them, rather than the Hispanic-infused religion of Chimayo or the Indian ruins at Bandelier -- and that this identification would be all the stronger because they had just studied and seen the play "Copenhagen".
In other words, because of their background and because of our emphasis this summer on "Copenhagen", the students have already been well-established in a given key, say the key of C, and this fundamental tone continually dwells within them. The broken chord of {Chimayo, Bandelier, Los Alamos} would be like an inverted triad, with Chimayo first on E, then Bandelier up the scale on G, and finally Los Alamos on C an octave higher than the original bass. Los Alamos was going to be a return to the tonic note, no matter what we did, so we had might as well come back to it after moving away briefly, in this broken chord analogy.
Somehow my musical imagery convinced Daniel better than my other arguments. But all this careful deliberation, perhaps it was all in vain anyhow. The potential power of this triptych seems to have been lost on some of the students, who carried with them a "Here we are now -- entertain us" attitude. I don't know how they would have observed the connections among these three places, since they seemed more interested in changing radio stations as they were shuttled around in the vans, or wearing headphones and not talking to their companions, or flirting and making jokes, and overall appearing indifferent to their surroundings.
They were at least respectful of the sanctuary in Chimayo. But they regressed as the heat of the day increased, to the extent that a group of them simply lounged on the floor of the museum at Los Alamos. Stephanie had a generous reading of their behavior -- she thought they couldn't bring themselves to confront the emotional impact of the day, and that they were physically exhausted. Maybe. I'm curious to see whether their writing and thinking will shift as a result of this day. I'll ask Stephanie and Cindy about this at lunch, and look forward to the student reading on Friday night.
2:30 PM
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Wednesday, July 16, 2003
~ beauty and wonder, between ~
Last night Pierre Delattre said that wonder is the source for art. Or rather, that he thought beauty is the source for art, but beauty is out of fashion these days, and wonder serves just about as well.
What is the difference between beauty and wonder?
We say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but nevertheless I think the word connotes an emphasis on the external object, and on a property which that object possesses. Wonder, on the other hand, is an internal state, and the emphasis is on personal, subjective experience.
I think there are other differences between beauty and wonder, but I must leave to prepare for our trip around northern New Mexico.
One last thought: is there a word like wonder or beauty which emphasizes neither the subject nor the object, but rather the relationship which dwells between the two, between the perceiver and the perceived?
10:51 AM
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~ episode ~
Pierre Delattre read for the Monte Sol Workshop last night.
I wonder at the coincidences that brought us all together in that room for a shining evening -- incandescent despite the clouds that promised but would not deliver rain to this high desert, glowing despite the smoke from nearby fires of burning chamisa whose grit has settled through our open apartment window across scattered half-packed belongings.
Years ago I read in the Utne Reader selections of his work from Episodes. I immediately bought the book, and Marissa and I would read it in bed, like two children reading bedtime stories to each other. After each one, we would lie together in silence, marveling at these poignant and honest moments from his life. They were like beaded pearls thread together by the experience of a single soul, or the wake of fine mist left by a subatomic particle passing through a cloud chamber, or a scientist in the late 1920's taking a train through Europe and alighting at various stations to discuss quantum theory with his colleagues, or the stations of the cross, or the rosary cradled in my mother's hand as she kneels to pray every morning, every evening, for her doubting son.
He read wonderfully. Simple, revelatory, powerful.
He read from the beginning of his first book, Tales of a Dalai Lama, and from his latest novel, Woman on the Cross. Afterwards, he signed my copy of Episodes, and gave me a copy of that first book.
There is a smudge of something on page xiv. The book opens naturally to the pages he read. The back flap of the dust jacket serves as a bookmark to a chapter he perhaps had intended to read, entitled "The Gasp of Amazement". I treasure these signs for their being unwritten, evidence that his life, well-lived and well-written, once kissed our own.
10:32 AM
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Tuesday, July 15, 2003
~ monitoring the times ~
Sarah sent me an article from today's New York Times which referred to the Bard High School Early College as an inspiration for 150 (not just 70) more similar institutions around the country, including two others in NYC. One quote from Robert Baird with the Woodrow Wilson Foundation caught my attention:They really have to blend the institutions, figure out how the courses mesh and what happens if students don't perform at a certain level. It is very complicated, and it involves not just curriculum and content people, but admissions people and the registrar. That is why it is essential that the president or provost be involved and appoint a key point person. It puts the university on the line if they provide the credit. That new "key point person", in the case of BHSEC, is myself. The task before me is indeed complicated and challenging.
BHSEC receives good press. Last week we were in the Christian Science Monitor.
I have two hands here. On the one, it's good to be recognized. On the other, good reviews can lead to complacency. And as Faulkner has said, it is far better to do, than to read what others think about what's already been done.
2:54 AM
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~ glad tidings ~
Joyce and Greg's little one, Miranda's baby brother, Mom and Dad's first grandson, my new nephew -- I heard him crying on the phone this evening, just now twelve hours to this world. I hope he makes his name be manifest soon.
2:34 AM
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Monday, July 14, 2003
~ how to be, or not to be ~
On Thursday I chatted with an alum who had been in my seminar on Goethe's "Theory of Colors", and it developed that he's an important crew member for the TV show "NYPD Blue". This news didn't completely surprise me, since it had been apparent that he has immense expertise having to see in dark rooms, develop film, and handle color filters.
The reason he revealed the details of his professional background, however, had to do with his contempt for the acting profession, and he wanted to lay his credentials on the table. I've met many actors in my line of work, he said, and every single one of them has been messed up in some way or another. According to him, there's something you have to do, or something about the acting profession that draws certain people, that makes you screwed up. Not a single actor, he continued, could ever explain his or her craft.
He seems an otherwise gentle man, so when he spoke so vehemently, I wondered: could this be true? I myself haven't had much contact with actors since college, when I lived in a residential college for the fine and performing arts. While some actors have been complete emotional train wrecks, I wouldn't have made that particular generalization myself. The players of Theater Grottesco, for example, seem thoughtful about their own work.
But today, I'm beginning to come around a bit. This afternoon the Monte Sol Workshop saw the Santa Fe Stages interpetation of "Copenhagen", and we stayed afterwards for a discussion with the actors.
One audience member after another, including three of us, asked about the relation of science to the play. Was it difficult to understand the theories of the scientists they were portraying? How does the configuration of the stage, and the blocking, reflect the theoretical ideas communicated in the play?
I am sad to report that Brian Murray, who played Niels Bohr, was contemptuous of these questions. He said the play was essentially about human interactions, especially the father-son relationship between Bohr and Heisenberg, and he seemed to think that any other details were secondary or insignificant. His dismissive nature, and his attempt to reduce the script to a single dimension, did not fool any of us, least of all the high school students, who later said that he dodged our questions in a vain attempt to conceal his own lack of preparation for the role. Nevertheless, he carried himself passably well, because he had a fine sense of timing.
Lisa Harrow, who played Margrethe Bohr, was at least apologetic for the shortfalls in her knowledge of the history and the science of these atomic physicists. She had joined the cast only a couple-few weeks before, and it had taken her all she had simply to learn her lines. Indeed, all three of the actors stumbled over lines during this Sunday matinee performance.
Dan Butler understood the importance of learning as much as he could about Werner Heisenberg, whom he was playing, and had read a couple of books on Heisenberg's life. While Murray delivered his lines with a second-nature, avuncular comedic awareness, Butler evoked a wider range of emotions. If he leaned a bit too heavily on varying the volume and intonation of his voice, at least he could make the audience resonate with passion.
Many metaphors in the play and interactions of the characters depend on the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics as well as on descriptions of atomic fission. It was good to see at least one actor recognize this. In this production, the set design and stage direction also took reflected some awareness of the importance of the physics.
This Tony award winning play by Michael Frayn contains some marvelous lines, including one which Heisenberg utters in 1941 about his native Germany:Yes, and it would be another easy mistake to make, to think that one loved one's country less because it happened to be in the wrong. He doesn't mean, and I don't mean: my country, right or wrong. I mean I still love my country, forgiving it for what it does, and hoping for a government which better represents this, the good-hearted and noble American people.
12:06 AM
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