Catching Up: New York City Adventures

In New York, there is always something interesting to the eye.
Ambling through Washington Square, what do I spy?

–On a Saturday in early June, a man playing classical music on a baby grand piano in the middle of the walkway:

Piano Man in Washington Square, quick sketch

Piano Man in Washington Square, quick sketch

“How did he get it here?” I ask an old woman sitting on a bench.  “He trucks it in,” she says.  “But that must cost a fortune,” say I.  “He probably has a special deal with the company,” says she, “he’s here every Sunday.”  But this is Saturday, I don’t say.

Meanwhile, jazz combos are playing at the four corners of the Square’s center.  On the plaza near the arch, the feet of a shirtless man are dancing while his fists punch the air.  I watch, wondering whether he is a mad man, but decide he is a boxer doing his work out in the fresh summer air.

— On Wednesday–same square–I sit on a bench, eating my lunch.  Across the square’s plaza, by the central fountain, one man stands with a video camera at the ready, another with a boom box at his feet and a large sign in his hands reading:  Dance to This Song.  (The song’s refrain, to an upbeat tune, goes:  I’ve got it, you’ve got it too, we’ve got the USA blues…)  As they pass, people respond.  Some, hesitant and self-conscious, just walk to the beat.  Others more extrovert, do a twirl before moving on; three pretty girls dance around for a few minutes, mugging for the camera. And one fellow gives a full performance, for which we all clap.

Washington Square is near New York University and the New School for Social Research, both of which have departments related to the performing arts.  Maybe that’s why people are less inhibited here.  But, I just don’t think you’d see this creative spontaneity in D.C., even near the universities, not even in DuPont Circle.  I think we’re too buttoned up, too concerned whether people will think us silly.  But I’d be happy to be proven wrong–if you’ve got a different perspective, write a comment.  Let me know where, here in D.C., one can find that playful sense of freedom.  Anybody out there?

More adventures tomorrow.

Catching up: 3 Weeks at the New School’s Summer Writers Colony in NYC

 

View of New York from 10th  floor of the New School's Stuyvesant Dormitory opposite Stuyvesant Square.

A view of Stuyvesant Square and midtown New York from 10th floor of the New School’s Stuyvesant Dormitory.

I’ve missed a couple of months–have a lot of catching up to do, right?  Today–a little on June.  I spent the first three weeks, participating in the New School’s Summer Writers Colony (and the last week, catching up on sleep.)  In New York, it was crazy-busy with work to do from morning to night, with only a little time for exploring the city.  The fiction workshop, which I attended, was okay, as were the craft talks, but the two most interesting talks were given by a publicist, Lauren Cerand, and by Josh Getzler, a straight talking agent.  (Personally, although a publicist’s job is to come up with ideas to promote a book once it is sold to a publisher and on its path to publication, I wonder if it would be helpful to one could hire a publicist to help figure out where a book fits in the market before approaching publishers.  I wonder if, for a fee, a good one would take something like that on….)

More catch-up tomorrow.

On Azar Nafisi and a Republic of the Imagination

I recently read Azar Nafisi’s book, The Republic of Imagination, a wonderful book which I highly recommend.  The book presents a unique perspective on what Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, Sinclair Lewis’s Babbitt, Carson McCullers’ The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, and the many works of James Baldwin teach us about our own society–but also, how their universality speaks to other cultures.  Along the way, Nafisi addresses the crucial importance of fiction to our understanding of ourselves, our society, and of how reading fiction broadens our understanding of those of other cultures.  She also addresses the damage “teaching to the test” does by emphasizing knowledge of facts while deliberately excluding the context necessary to analysis those facts.  Ultimately, I think, Nafisi is saying that the conflicts of the world are not between cultures, but between breadth of mind and narrowness.  And that fiction leads one to question, and questioning is what advances mankind and civilization.

At the end of March, I went to hear Nafisi speak at the Freer Gallery here in D.C.  Although I actually took notes, with the passage of a month, I sadly cannot remember the details of her lecture, but am left with only with some lovely shards of the ideas she set forth (based on my notes and, at this distance in time from the lecture, these may be a mixture of quote and paraphrase):

–Of the Freer,  she said that there one leaves all the limitations that life gives you behind–race, gender, religion.  In the museum, all cultures live side by side.

–Here [in the U.S.], we don’t kill or imprison artists; we kill through indifference, just by getting people not to read.

–Imagination is dependent on curiosity, dependent on knowing others, the intimate stranger within you that reading helps you to know.

–Segregation of studies–eg. women’s studies, Islamic studies, etc.– prevents a broader, essential exchange of cultures.  An exchange of cultures is about talking about others, but also about seeing ourselves through the eyes of others.

–Celebrate difference.  But, the celebration is dangerous if you don’t also connect and empathize.  After difference comes connection.

–The only sacred is the profane.  With imagination and ideas, you question everything.

 

 

 

A FEW EXAMPLES–USE OF ACTION IN PRESENTING SETTING– VLADIMIR PIŠTALO’S TESLA: A PORTRAIT WITH MASKS

My full review of Vladimir Pištalo’s novel, Tesla, a Portrait with Masks, a novel, appeared in the Washington Independent Review of Books on February 10th.  That review was written to advise the prospective reader.  Here, I want–for my own edification and for that of fellow writers–to examine a small, particular aspect of how Pištalo writes.  Specifically, I want to take note, very briefly, of the vibrant way in which Pištalo presents setting.

Rather than merely describe buildings or scenery, Pištalo makes his settings come alive through action.  Everything is in motion.  For example, when describing the World Expo of 1893, he gives us a few sentences of straight description:  “The lake mirrored the images of palaces.  Gondolas skated across the rippling water.  The wind undulated the plumes of the fountains.” (p.217) Even those three sentences are active.  But this is followed by sentences such as “…The Maharaja of Kapurthala exhibited his spectacular mustache–the sight of which made twenty women faint.  Princess Eulalia of Spain took Harun al-Rashid walks across Chicago and even smoked in public.  The Ferris wheel, propelled by sighs, rotated on the largest axle in the world.” (p.217)

But Pištalo’s real sense of motion comes in the next paragraph:

“The masses rolled in through the gates on the Midway.  Ladies sweated underneath their corsets.  Those sweating ladies had traveled a long way from their boring farms where the howling wind and sputtering oil lamps kept them company.  For the first time in their lives, in the World of Light they could see Eastman’s camera, Benz’s automobile, Krupp’s cannons, the zipper, chewing gum, and the electric kitchen.  While they sighed wistfully, their children dragged them toward a Venus de Milo sculpted in chocolate.  Shrill voices resounded everywhere.
‘Let’s see the lion tamer!’
‘Let’s go to the Lapland and the Algerian villages!’
‘Let’s go to Buffalo Bill’s circus!’
‘Let’s take a balloon ride!’
‘Let’s do it all!'” (p.218)

 He gives us the sense of place, of wonder, of excitement by succinctly contrasting the Expo with what visitors have left behind, by listing the wonders they see, and most importantly–by dialogue–the excited demands of the children who want to go off in all directions at once, ending with “Let’s do it all!”  The image of ladies entering, sweating under their corsets, gives one a sense of crowds, without actually stating it.  “Shrill voices sounded everywhere.”

Pištalo presents the setting of New York in the 1920s:

“The youth of Europe were dead.
‘That’s boring!’
‘Let’s dance!'”
Hair and skirts became two feet shorter.  The music of jangled pianos and pouty clarinets rang out.  Young people leaped and threw their legs sideways.  Beads bounced over women’s breasts…On the silver screen, people split their pants and threw pies at each other in jerky movements.  Even the squirrels in Central Park moved in the strobe-like fashion of silent films.” (page 375.)

There is a huge feeling of frenetic motion here that captures the spirit of the ’20s.  Contrast that with this passage introducing the 1930s, which–despite the end of prohibition–captures it’s heaviness and its slower pace:

“The lapels of the coats were turned up.  Hats pushed against hats on the streets.  Prohibition was finally over.  ‘No more thirst!” the winners celebrated.  Inside quiet bars, martinis and cocktails glowed like yellow and red lamps.  Ashtrays brimmed with rouged cigarette butts.  Someone played the piano in a sly manner.  The sounds dripped…Sappy movies started to idealize the tenements…” (p.408)

There are also two descriptions of scenery, each seen from a moving train, which Pištalo uses to effect.  The first, when Tesla is a child on a train from Gospic to Vienna, going off to school with his friend Mojo:

“Nikola and Mojo were glued to the window as they tried to catch the lay of the land.
‘Look at that little house.’
‘The railway guard lives there,’ Mojo explained.
The little house, a horse tied to the fense, and the chickens in the yard flashed by and were replaced by other scenes.
‘It’s really foggy in these parts.’
‘Look at the castle.’
People disembarked at stations…
Hanging pots of geraniums swayed in the breeze in front of station buildings.  Railroad men hit the car wheels with long-handled hammers and listened to the clang.  Uniformed dispatchers raised their signs to signal the train’s departure.  The sound of their whistles pierced the mouse-gray afternoon.” (p.36)

Contrast this with his train trip from New York to Wydencliffe:
“The elevated train rumbled two stories about the ground.
The inquisitive traveler stared at other people’s windows.  Like a moth, he peeped into lit-up rooms from the darkness.
In one room, a hairy man with curlers on his chest, soundlessly, shouted into the distorted face of a woman.
In another room, a ballerina hooked her thumbs against her collar bones.  A pirouette transformed her into a white smudge.
In a third room, St. Jerome hugged the lion…
Rows of golden windows…
Ah,the rows of golden windows whipped through deserted streets.
When the windows trickled away, Tesla became bored…” (p.345-346)

These have been just a few random notes on Pištalo’s use of action to present setting that might be useful for other writers to try out in their own work..