I am amazed and appalled that conservatives continue to get mileage out of the idea that we need to change the way Social Security is funded, either by partially privatizing it or by extending the retirement age and minimizing benefits. Social Security is one of the triumphs of the modern, industrial state. As Paul Krugman points out today in the New York Times, it funds itself quite efficiently and is in no danger, either immediately or in the foreseeable future, of running out of money.
So why the hysteria? Krugman says it's all about ideology, that conservatives simply can't countenance the idea that this government program works so well and will consequently have to continue to be funded at a fairly high rate in perpetuity. Somehow, I can't believe this is the whole story. There is a missing piece, something else that the right can't stand that isn't being talked about.
Let me suggest that what they are really afraid of is the thing that probably should, in fact, be done to ensure Social Security's long-term stability, but which they have been very successful at keeping out of the conversation altogether. It is simply this. Tax everyone at a 6.2% rate, regardless of income. Right now, Social Security taxes only come out of the first $106,800 of income. After that, for those making more than $106,800, there is no tax at all. Which means, of course, that this is one of the most regressive of taxes in which those most able to pay actually give a surprisingly small percentage of their income. Someone, for instance, bringing in $500,000 a year, is paying a net percentage of just a little over 1%. Even someone making, say, $200,000, is paying only about 3% of income. This is ridiculous, in any case, but especially when so much hot air is being expended about the Social Security crisis when it would be so easy to make this change, with little or no discomfort for those making more than $106,800.
So why isn't this discussed or seriously considered? I can think of only one reason. Greed. The rich control the conversation about taxes and about funding government programs. They have kept the rest of us poor schmoes in the dark. We should be outraged about this. There should be marches in the street. But because of the hegemony that the privileged hold over the poor and middle classes, hardly a word is breathed about this. It is a reminder to me that the rich had better watch out. A revolution is coming and unless more is done to support the needs of the less well off, there will eventually be a backlash like nothing this country has ever seen.
In the meantime, think of the good that can be done to ensure that Social Security is paid out to all those who both need it and deserve it. That's virtually everyone. A simple and relatively painless change in the way this program is funded would absolutely ensure its long-term solvency. We just have to muster the will to make it happen.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
James Fowler Endargo
He ended his own life at age 52 while suffering from crippling despair. But in the years between his all-American upbringing in Appleton, Wisconsin in the post-World War II era and his descent into a deep and incurable depression in the early-1990s, James Fowler Endargo lived fully and creatively, producing one of the most influential bodies of poetical work in the 20th century.
Poets rarely achieve great fame, but Endargo's particular circumstances - his complete mastery of the short lyrical form, his movie-star looks, his four marriages to beautiful and powerful women, and his knack for self-promotion - resulted in talk show appearances and wide advertising exposure that turned him into a household name and launched him as one of the most recognizable faces of the 1960s. Endargo was a great writer, but even more so he was a winning personality whom the general public found irresistible. His simple, often stark poems appealed to a surprisingly broad swath of the reading public and his face, plastered on buses and billboards everywhere, promoting everything from cigarettes to trench coats, never lost its allure. For many people in the 1960s, he was THE face of poetry and his brief, even abrupt lines spoke for a generation. His hyphenated phrases, declaring war the inseparable companion of peace, hate the necessary concomitant of love, deceit the partner of truth, echoed and reinforced the growing cynicism and hopelessness of his time. No one seemed to understand more clearly than Endargo that the great reforming spirit of the mid-1960s could not be sustained and that it must lead to an angry and selfish backlash. In this sense, he foretold the disorienting tragedies of My Lai, Watergate, and the Iran hostage crisis, and even as he captured the growing despair of this era in his own poetry fell victim to it as well, never fully recovering from a devastating drug habit and a disabling depression that shattered him when he was still only in his early 40s. But even as his creative imagination went dry, his dark, craggy, handsome face continued to bring him wealth, and his poetry readings, often treated like rock concerts, offered him the attention he always craved. Only when things had turned for the worst and he was no longer able to appear in public did his fans finally lose interest in their comely troubadour.
Following a kind of idyllic upbringing in Appleton, Wisconsin from 1939 to 1957, Endargo attended nearby Lawrence University for two years. He studied literature with legendary professor Yando Cling during this period, who in that short time introduced him to most of the important poetry produced in America, beginning with Whitman and Dickinson and continuing to Lowell and Bishop. Even then, Endargo began experimenting with the short lyric poem that became his trademark, writing a few of the poems that would be collected in his first volume of poetry called "A Blue Landmark," published in 1960. In 1959, Endargo moved to New York City and began to write reviews for Commonweal and Dissent. Declaring himself a socialist and then an anarchist, he participated in a series of civil rights demonstrations and appeared on television for the first time as a spokesperson for the beat-inspired group Americans for Holistic Liberation (AHL). His glib, charming manner and physical attractiveness drew interest and support and for many years to come he could be seen on public media promoting a wide range of causes. These early appearances led to an encounter with the fashion model Brook Tamarkin, soon thereafter his first marriage, and not long after that a bitter and very public break-up.
In 1965, when he was 26 years old, Endargo published his second volume of poetry to much acclaim, landing him on the cover of Time. This book entitled "Birding" was a strange and exotic mixture of nature poetry, presumably influenced by his Midwest experiences as a youth and the urban verse that made him famous. "Homing Pigeon" became the best known poem from this collection, with the final lines "rootless, homeless, free" perhaps the most famous he ever wrote, and still often emblazoned on T-shirts and greeting cards.
Endargo's next and most famous collection of poetry published in 1971 was "The Darkness Within." This, too, was showered with critical praise and led to his receiving his only Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. Endargo's work, which was both accessible and topical, directly criticized US involvement in Vietnam, while at the same time attacking many of the youth protest movements of the time as a manifestation of spoiled privilege. Now at the peak of his fame, his marriage to the Hollywood starlet Sheila Blaine, widely covered in the popular press, quickly dissolved into another bitterly contested divorce, leading to a terrible bout with depression from which Endargo never fully recovered. (To be Continued)
Poets rarely achieve great fame, but Endargo's particular circumstances - his complete mastery of the short lyrical form, his movie-star looks, his four marriages to beautiful and powerful women, and his knack for self-promotion - resulted in talk show appearances and wide advertising exposure that turned him into a household name and launched him as one of the most recognizable faces of the 1960s. Endargo was a great writer, but even more so he was a winning personality whom the general public found irresistible. His simple, often stark poems appealed to a surprisingly broad swath of the reading public and his face, plastered on buses and billboards everywhere, promoting everything from cigarettes to trench coats, never lost its allure. For many people in the 1960s, he was THE face of poetry and his brief, even abrupt lines spoke for a generation. His hyphenated phrases, declaring war the inseparable companion of peace, hate the necessary concomitant of love, deceit the partner of truth, echoed and reinforced the growing cynicism and hopelessness of his time. No one seemed to understand more clearly than Endargo that the great reforming spirit of the mid-1960s could not be sustained and that it must lead to an angry and selfish backlash. In this sense, he foretold the disorienting tragedies of My Lai, Watergate, and the Iran hostage crisis, and even as he captured the growing despair of this era in his own poetry fell victim to it as well, never fully recovering from a devastating drug habit and a disabling depression that shattered him when he was still only in his early 40s. But even as his creative imagination went dry, his dark, craggy, handsome face continued to bring him wealth, and his poetry readings, often treated like rock concerts, offered him the attention he always craved. Only when things had turned for the worst and he was no longer able to appear in public did his fans finally lose interest in their comely troubadour.
Following a kind of idyllic upbringing in Appleton, Wisconsin from 1939 to 1957, Endargo attended nearby Lawrence University for two years. He studied literature with legendary professor Yando Cling during this period, who in that short time introduced him to most of the important poetry produced in America, beginning with Whitman and Dickinson and continuing to Lowell and Bishop. Even then, Endargo began experimenting with the short lyric poem that became his trademark, writing a few of the poems that would be collected in his first volume of poetry called "A Blue Landmark," published in 1960. In 1959, Endargo moved to New York City and began to write reviews for Commonweal and Dissent. Declaring himself a socialist and then an anarchist, he participated in a series of civil rights demonstrations and appeared on television for the first time as a spokesperson for the beat-inspired group Americans for Holistic Liberation (AHL). His glib, charming manner and physical attractiveness drew interest and support and for many years to come he could be seen on public media promoting a wide range of causes. These early appearances led to an encounter with the fashion model Brook Tamarkin, soon thereafter his first marriage, and not long after that a bitter and very public break-up.
In 1965, when he was 26 years old, Endargo published his second volume of poetry to much acclaim, landing him on the cover of Time. This book entitled "Birding" was a strange and exotic mixture of nature poetry, presumably influenced by his Midwest experiences as a youth and the urban verse that made him famous. "Homing Pigeon" became the best known poem from this collection, with the final lines "rootless, homeless, free" perhaps the most famous he ever wrote, and still often emblazoned on T-shirts and greeting cards.
Endargo's next and most famous collection of poetry published in 1971 was "The Darkness Within." This, too, was showered with critical praise and led to his receiving his only Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. Endargo's work, which was both accessible and topical, directly criticized US involvement in Vietnam, while at the same time attacking many of the youth protest movements of the time as a manifestation of spoiled privilege. Now at the peak of his fame, his marriage to the Hollywood starlet Sheila Blaine, widely covered in the popular press, quickly dissolved into another bitterly contested divorce, leading to a terrible bout with depression from which Endargo never fully recovered. (To be Continued)
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Why I like Modern Art
The new Matisse exhibit at MoMA, the one called "Radical Invention, 1913-1917," has me thinking once again about why I find modern and contemporary art so satisfying and invigorating. In a way, all art is energizing, as the act of viewing artistic work demands that we focus our attention on the elements that make art so arresting. Those elements include line, color, and shape, but also such things as the arabesque design, which along with line, Matisse believed gave a special vitality to art. These are the things that catch our eye, that wake us up in a sense and that bring to vivid consciousness our craving for aesthetic satisfaction.
But Matisse, more than most artists, brings these feelings to a new height of excitement and creative delight. For me, anyway, this is in part because he was such a master of the line. Karen and I are the proud owners of a Matisse line drawing of a female face that seems incredibly simple, and yet because of Matisse's mastery conveys a sense of humanity that is striking. Hardly a masterpiece, this modest drawing is nevertheless a reminder that Matisse could accomplish a great deal with just a few strong lines. My absolutely favorite example of this ability is the painting that Matisse finished in 1905 that was a portrait of his wife but is often called "The Green Line" because it is marked by a strange green line that cuts across the middle of her face. This line, which seems bizarre and yet works as part of this portrait, divides his subject's face into two sections, one dark, one light; one calm and the other just a bit ominous.
This same painting also demonstrates Matisse's remarkable and famous use of color. At the time he finished this painting, he was regarded as the leader of the Fauve movement, which was marked by a brilliant and unnatural use of color. In the Green line, the very use of the color green to separate the two parts of his wife's face is startling, but I also think the background colors - the purples, the reds, the sea greens - are both beautiful and an outstanding example of how background color can be used to present a subject more arrestingly. This is only a small example, however, as Matisse's amazing color sense can be experienced repeatedly in so many of his greatest works.
The painting, though, that is part of this special exhibit currently at MoMA and that haunts me relentlessly is "The Piano Lesson," completed in 1916. Others have commented on it extensively and I can't begin to add to what they have said, but this picture of Matisse's son Pierre sitting unhappily at the piano, under the apparent tutelage of a stern teacher and with the late afternoon sun fading rapidly, offers a study in light, mood, color, and line that stops me in my tracks every time I see it. The most shocking thing about it is the way in which Matisse has arranged the room in which Pierre sits at the piano and the manner in which the sun casts shadows, especially on Pierre's face, so that his right eye and much of the right side of his face seems to disappear. That shadowy triangle that effaces Pierre's eye and cheek matches neatly the window opening that receives the lowering sun and the outside greenery and which emphasizes and introduces a series of angled lines echoed by the piano, the metronome and the window's thrown-open shutter. Despite Matisse's great mastery of color, this work is dominated by gray, which establishes the depressing mood of the painting (consider Emily Dickinson's lines "There's a certain Slant of Light,/Winter Afternoons/That oppresses like the Heft/Of Cathedral Tunes -) and that causes the green of the window and the pink of the piano to stand out that much more. While never a cubist, Matisse brilliantly combines his love of line and color with a cubist sensibility that shakes us out of our complacency and makes us want to look and look again with wonder and surprise.
I think exhibits like the one on Matisse at MoMA give us an opportunity to look in penetrating and absorbing ways. Really, they offer us practice at putting our own lives on hold for just a little while and to devote ourselves without thoughts of anything else to the mystery and the magic of the most masterful of human-made creations.
But Matisse, more than most artists, brings these feelings to a new height of excitement and creative delight. For me, anyway, this is in part because he was such a master of the line. Karen and I are the proud owners of a Matisse line drawing of a female face that seems incredibly simple, and yet because of Matisse's mastery conveys a sense of humanity that is striking. Hardly a masterpiece, this modest drawing is nevertheless a reminder that Matisse could accomplish a great deal with just a few strong lines. My absolutely favorite example of this ability is the painting that Matisse finished in 1905 that was a portrait of his wife but is often called "The Green Line" because it is marked by a strange green line that cuts across the middle of her face. This line, which seems bizarre and yet works as part of this portrait, divides his subject's face into two sections, one dark, one light; one calm and the other just a bit ominous.
This same painting also demonstrates Matisse's remarkable and famous use of color. At the time he finished this painting, he was regarded as the leader of the Fauve movement, which was marked by a brilliant and unnatural use of color. In the Green line, the very use of the color green to separate the two parts of his wife's face is startling, but I also think the background colors - the purples, the reds, the sea greens - are both beautiful and an outstanding example of how background color can be used to present a subject more arrestingly. This is only a small example, however, as Matisse's amazing color sense can be experienced repeatedly in so many of his greatest works.
The painting, though, that is part of this special exhibit currently at MoMA and that haunts me relentlessly is "The Piano Lesson," completed in 1916. Others have commented on it extensively and I can't begin to add to what they have said, but this picture of Matisse's son Pierre sitting unhappily at the piano, under the apparent tutelage of a stern teacher and with the late afternoon sun fading rapidly, offers a study in light, mood, color, and line that stops me in my tracks every time I see it. The most shocking thing about it is the way in which Matisse has arranged the room in which Pierre sits at the piano and the manner in which the sun casts shadows, especially on Pierre's face, so that his right eye and much of the right side of his face seems to disappear. That shadowy triangle that effaces Pierre's eye and cheek matches neatly the window opening that receives the lowering sun and the outside greenery and which emphasizes and introduces a series of angled lines echoed by the piano, the metronome and the window's thrown-open shutter. Despite Matisse's great mastery of color, this work is dominated by gray, which establishes the depressing mood of the painting (consider Emily Dickinson's lines "There's a certain Slant of Light,/Winter Afternoons/That oppresses like the Heft/Of Cathedral Tunes -) and that causes the green of the window and the pink of the piano to stand out that much more. While never a cubist, Matisse brilliantly combines his love of line and color with a cubist sensibility that shakes us out of our complacency and makes us want to look and look again with wonder and surprise.
I think exhibits like the one on Matisse at MoMA give us an opportunity to look in penetrating and absorbing ways. Really, they offer us practice at putting our own lives on hold for just a little while and to devote ourselves without thoughts of anything else to the mystery and the magic of the most masterful of human-made creations.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Virtues and Limits of Smallness
We have been hearing a great deal about smallness lately. The need for smallness in government, the call to reduce the size of banks and other businesses, the advantages of smaller, more intimate schools, the advisability of keeping our meal portions modest, the value of maintaining smaller, more adaptive organizational teams, and perennially, the need for smallness when it comes to practicing democracy as a way of life. I am a big fan of smallness, particularly when it comes to schools and democracy (more about that later), and I am hardly alone in becoming increasingly impatient with this notion, still widely promoted, that we need banks and investment firms that are too big to fail. Smallness as one of the bases for changing how our society works seems to be everywhere, but it is hardly a new idea. As I have said, I am attracted to smallness, but at the same time, I am aware, even painfully so, of its limitations. As with other recent posts, then, I want to use this space to explore why smallness is such a galvanizing idea, especially now, and why it should also be approached and advocated for with caution.
If you consult a dictionary on smallness, you might be surprised by the variety of both denotations and connotations associated with it. It denotes, of course, less than average size, but also lack of importance or significance, limited influence or scope, and even narrowness in outlook or purpose. It also implies modesty or humility and simplicity and even agility or flexibility, as in a craft that can be easily driven or directed. A small boat, for instance, can easily be turned around, whereas a large one may require a very elaborate and complicated maneuver. Smallness also suggests a decentralized situation in which a relatively few number of people are able to interact with one another, often in a face-to-face manner. Bigness, by contrast, is impersonal and often alienating for people. One of the big problems with large organizations is that when something goes wrong, it is difficult to determine who is responsible. It often can't be discerned who gave the order that led to disaster. In small organizations, on the other hand, there appears to be greater accountability, more oversight, and greater satisfaction in being able to put a name and a position to an action taken. People seem to know where they stand with small enterprises. Very large ones are disorienting and not particularly efficient.
One of the historical figures who has been mentioned a lot lately who was a great foe of bigness in both business and government was the Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis. As Jeffrey Rosen notes in a recent book review, Brandeis, unlike other liberals, opposed bigness, not just in business, but in government as well. He saw bigness as a "curse," and he recognized discerningly that bigness in both business and government often leads to a kind of interlocking directorate between the two, something like what Eisenhower later called "the military-industrial complex," that is not only a waste of resources, but more harmfully, a promoter of "greed, recklessness, and oligarchy." Such bigness, Brandeis contended, leads to imprudence, fraud and self-centered practices that are simply not in the public interest.
Rosen also mentions that Brandeis was committed to judicial restraint and states' rights, but never says anything about how this philosophy might have played out during the Civil Rights Movement where judicial activism and big government were absolutely essential. Here we see one particularly outstanding example of the need for bigness to resist the forces of racism or of regional prejudices. Bigness is often a problem, but it is not always so, and it does seem, for instance, that once again a very large bureaucracy and an activist government are critical if we are to have the kind of environmental reforms needed to address global warming.
Another interesting case of the virtues and limitations of smallness relates to educational reform. A lot of good has been done, for instance, in New York City breaking up very large schools into much smaller ones, or creating small, self-governing units within existing educational behemoths that sometimes enroll as many as 5000 students. These smaller schools report, on the whole, better attendance, higher achievement, and a much stronger connection to parents and to the surrounding community. Of course, smallness does not accomplish these things by itself, but it is a facilitating influence, and many of these changes would be nearly impossible without these reductions in size. At the same time, the Obama administration has been almost universally praised for its efforts to provide federal incentives for educational reform within the states. Many people believe that without these measures and without the accompanying efforts to create national educational standards, change would not happen. This seems to be another case where bigness is necessary to deal with a system that for too long has been mismanaged.
I also want to put in a good word for smallness when it comes to any kind of direct democracy, where each person in a group has an equal claim to voicing her or his view and to having an opportunity to influence the final decision or outcome. By direct democracy here I don't mean a system of government so much as a way of life found in families, schools, interest groups, religious congregations, or community organizations. In such settings, democracy is practiced by people who believe in mutual persuasion as a way to reach decisions. They also believe that dialogue and well thought out arguments, combined with close, respectful listening, and a commitment to understanding other points of view are all essential. People who believe in small-scale democracy strive to hear as much as speak, to understand as much as be understood, to learn from a variety of perspectives at least as much as propose a solution. This process of reciprocal enlightenment is often as important as the product of wise, judicious decisions.
Yet, even as I revere such small-scale democracies, I also know that at the national level there are many times when discussion must come to an end and that it even becomes counter-productive to prolong it, when decisions must be made, often without taking into account every point of view. Such processes must be handled with care, but as I mentioned in an earlier post crisis demands action, and our decision makers at the national level have too often taken too long to achieve resolution about jobs, the environment, and energy that have become self-evident to many of our most rational and well informed citizens. Bigness and activism once again have a highly valued role. Perhaps, by the way, health care reform is our most recent example of the need for a very ambitious, thoroughgoing, and activist set of changes at the federal level. There simply is no way to pull it off without affirming that bigness has its virtues, too.
If you consult a dictionary on smallness, you might be surprised by the variety of both denotations and connotations associated with it. It denotes, of course, less than average size, but also lack of importance or significance, limited influence or scope, and even narrowness in outlook or purpose. It also implies modesty or humility and simplicity and even agility or flexibility, as in a craft that can be easily driven or directed. A small boat, for instance, can easily be turned around, whereas a large one may require a very elaborate and complicated maneuver. Smallness also suggests a decentralized situation in which a relatively few number of people are able to interact with one another, often in a face-to-face manner. Bigness, by contrast, is impersonal and often alienating for people. One of the big problems with large organizations is that when something goes wrong, it is difficult to determine who is responsible. It often can't be discerned who gave the order that led to disaster. In small organizations, on the other hand, there appears to be greater accountability, more oversight, and greater satisfaction in being able to put a name and a position to an action taken. People seem to know where they stand with small enterprises. Very large ones are disorienting and not particularly efficient.
One of the historical figures who has been mentioned a lot lately who was a great foe of bigness in both business and government was the Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis. As Jeffrey Rosen notes in a recent book review, Brandeis, unlike other liberals, opposed bigness, not just in business, but in government as well. He saw bigness as a "curse," and he recognized discerningly that bigness in both business and government often leads to a kind of interlocking directorate between the two, something like what Eisenhower later called "the military-industrial complex," that is not only a waste of resources, but more harmfully, a promoter of "greed, recklessness, and oligarchy." Such bigness, Brandeis contended, leads to imprudence, fraud and self-centered practices that are simply not in the public interest.
Rosen also mentions that Brandeis was committed to judicial restraint and states' rights, but never says anything about how this philosophy might have played out during the Civil Rights Movement where judicial activism and big government were absolutely essential. Here we see one particularly outstanding example of the need for bigness to resist the forces of racism or of regional prejudices. Bigness is often a problem, but it is not always so, and it does seem, for instance, that once again a very large bureaucracy and an activist government are critical if we are to have the kind of environmental reforms needed to address global warming.
Another interesting case of the virtues and limitations of smallness relates to educational reform. A lot of good has been done, for instance, in New York City breaking up very large schools into much smaller ones, or creating small, self-governing units within existing educational behemoths that sometimes enroll as many as 5000 students. These smaller schools report, on the whole, better attendance, higher achievement, and a much stronger connection to parents and to the surrounding community. Of course, smallness does not accomplish these things by itself, but it is a facilitating influence, and many of these changes would be nearly impossible without these reductions in size. At the same time, the Obama administration has been almost universally praised for its efforts to provide federal incentives for educational reform within the states. Many people believe that without these measures and without the accompanying efforts to create national educational standards, change would not happen. This seems to be another case where bigness is necessary to deal with a system that for too long has been mismanaged.
I also want to put in a good word for smallness when it comes to any kind of direct democracy, where each person in a group has an equal claim to voicing her or his view and to having an opportunity to influence the final decision or outcome. By direct democracy here I don't mean a system of government so much as a way of life found in families, schools, interest groups, religious congregations, or community organizations. In such settings, democracy is practiced by people who believe in mutual persuasion as a way to reach decisions. They also believe that dialogue and well thought out arguments, combined with close, respectful listening, and a commitment to understanding other points of view are all essential. People who believe in small-scale democracy strive to hear as much as speak, to understand as much as be understood, to learn from a variety of perspectives at least as much as propose a solution. This process of reciprocal enlightenment is often as important as the product of wise, judicious decisions.
Yet, even as I revere such small-scale democracies, I also know that at the national level there are many times when discussion must come to an end and that it even becomes counter-productive to prolong it, when decisions must be made, often without taking into account every point of view. Such processes must be handled with care, but as I mentioned in an earlier post crisis demands action, and our decision makers at the national level have too often taken too long to achieve resolution about jobs, the environment, and energy that have become self-evident to many of our most rational and well informed citizens. Bigness and activism once again have a highly valued role. Perhaps, by the way, health care reform is our most recent example of the need for a very ambitious, thoroughgoing, and activist set of changes at the federal level. There simply is no way to pull it off without affirming that bigness has its virtues, too.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
The Eyes Have It
Lately, while riding on the Staten Island Ferry, I have gotten into the habit of using my cell phone camera to snap close-up pictures of one of my eyes. In fact, one of these pictures currently serves as my phone's screen saver. Why have I started doing this? Well, for one thing, this camera takes surprisingly clear and crisp pictures. Even extreme close-ups come out well. But, of course, this comment neatly evades the more pressing issue of what in the world would possess me to occupy my time in such a bizarre way. I'm not sure I know, but I thought I would use this post to try to figure that out.
Like many people, I enjoy experimenting with the camera that comes with my cell phone. I'm always looking for unusual and arresting images. One day I turned this camera on myself and was absolutely appalled by the result. It was one of those pictures taken from just below my jawline, almost looking up into my nose. But the really disgusting aspects were the creases in my chin that appeared so prominently as I bowed my head to look into the camera, and the flat, almost blank expression that appeared on my face. It looked like me sadly enough, but it was a version of myself that skewed toward extreme unattractiveness.
Somehow, this terrible outcome led me to more attempts, including a series of close-ups of my face. There was something about my eyes in those initial close-ups that surprised me, prompting me to pull the camera even closer to myself, so that a number of the pictures that resulted were dominated by one of my eyes, either looking up, to the side, or straight into the camera. Despite what I assume is a low quality camera, these eye pictures were sharp and very blue (my eyes are blue) and rather haunting, quite different really from pictures one usually sees.
By isolating my eyes in this way, I seemed to be peering more deeply into myself, or at least viewing a side of myself that doesn't come across as clearly as when my entire face is in the frame. What I saw was altogether too serious, too intense, too penetrating, and, in a way, too frightened. All of this especially came across as I viewed and reviewed an extended series of these pictures. It was almost as if my eye was a window to my soul and what I was seeing was disconcerting, a person on the edge, unsettled, uncertain, but also alert to new possibilities, and eager to experiment. But it was the tentativeness of that eye, that not-quite-sure-what's-going-to-happen-next aspect that threw me a bit, even as I was intrigued by it.
Eyes are fascinating in this way. I have long been a fan of self-portraits of all kinds and of those painted by Rembrandt, in particular. Rembrandt began painting himself when he was a young man and a prospering artist and continued to do so periodically for the rest of his life, even as his mastery of his art reached new heights while his economic fortunes took a nose dive. These works, more than 40 in all (and this omits the many etchings and sketches), are among the most powerful and haunting in the history of art, not least because of his skill in capturing his own aging eyes. His eyes as a young man are confident, self-assured, even a bit arrogant. As an old man, they are undeniably sad, but also knowing, fully lived-in eyes that reflect both the weariness of a long, often difficult life and the wisdom that comes from successfully withstanding adversity. They are the eyes of a fully realized human being who despite great success and accomplishment, tends to accentuate the disappointments and the regrets, and who portrays himself, anyway, as more exhausted than exhilarated, more worn down than looking up or ahead. Yet, somehow, these portraits, as a whole, are also a study in persistence and of a person who, though battered, remains true to himself and to his art.
What do Rembrandt's self-portraits have to do with my own efforts to capture my eyes with my cell phone? Not sure really. For one thing, my photographs are an amateurish capturing of my eyes as they really are, whereas Rembrandt brings an authentic artistic genius to his perspective on himself. His self-portraits are not merely a documentary record of his face, but a brilliant re-imagining of who he is and what he is becoming. But I think there is something about taking time to look ourselves literally in the eye to help us get a better view at who we are and what we are feeling that has some value. We often talk about self-reflection and developing a balanced sense of self-awareness, but we rarely, if ever, suggest that we look ourselves in the eye to gauge our state of mind, to take stock of who we are. I'm not sure I feel so strongly about this that I would recommend it to others, and admit it may lead to self-absorption and narcissism, but I would still say give it a try. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll get a glimpse, however modest, into your very own true self.
Like many people, I enjoy experimenting with the camera that comes with my cell phone. I'm always looking for unusual and arresting images. One day I turned this camera on myself and was absolutely appalled by the result. It was one of those pictures taken from just below my jawline, almost looking up into my nose. But the really disgusting aspects were the creases in my chin that appeared so prominently as I bowed my head to look into the camera, and the flat, almost blank expression that appeared on my face. It looked like me sadly enough, but it was a version of myself that skewed toward extreme unattractiveness.
Somehow, this terrible outcome led me to more attempts, including a series of close-ups of my face. There was something about my eyes in those initial close-ups that surprised me, prompting me to pull the camera even closer to myself, so that a number of the pictures that resulted were dominated by one of my eyes, either looking up, to the side, or straight into the camera. Despite what I assume is a low quality camera, these eye pictures were sharp and very blue (my eyes are blue) and rather haunting, quite different really from pictures one usually sees.
By isolating my eyes in this way, I seemed to be peering more deeply into myself, or at least viewing a side of myself that doesn't come across as clearly as when my entire face is in the frame. What I saw was altogether too serious, too intense, too penetrating, and, in a way, too frightened. All of this especially came across as I viewed and reviewed an extended series of these pictures. It was almost as if my eye was a window to my soul and what I was seeing was disconcerting, a person on the edge, unsettled, uncertain, but also alert to new possibilities, and eager to experiment. But it was the tentativeness of that eye, that not-quite-sure-what's-going-to-happen-next aspect that threw me a bit, even as I was intrigued by it.
Eyes are fascinating in this way. I have long been a fan of self-portraits of all kinds and of those painted by Rembrandt, in particular. Rembrandt began painting himself when he was a young man and a prospering artist and continued to do so periodically for the rest of his life, even as his mastery of his art reached new heights while his economic fortunes took a nose dive. These works, more than 40 in all (and this omits the many etchings and sketches), are among the most powerful and haunting in the history of art, not least because of his skill in capturing his own aging eyes. His eyes as a young man are confident, self-assured, even a bit arrogant. As an old man, they are undeniably sad, but also knowing, fully lived-in eyes that reflect both the weariness of a long, often difficult life and the wisdom that comes from successfully withstanding adversity. They are the eyes of a fully realized human being who despite great success and accomplishment, tends to accentuate the disappointments and the regrets, and who portrays himself, anyway, as more exhausted than exhilarated, more worn down than looking up or ahead. Yet, somehow, these portraits, as a whole, are also a study in persistence and of a person who, though battered, remains true to himself and to his art.
What do Rembrandt's self-portraits have to do with my own efforts to capture my eyes with my cell phone? Not sure really. For one thing, my photographs are an amateurish capturing of my eyes as they really are, whereas Rembrandt brings an authentic artistic genius to his perspective on himself. His self-portraits are not merely a documentary record of his face, but a brilliant re-imagining of who he is and what he is becoming. But I think there is something about taking time to look ourselves literally in the eye to help us get a better view at who we are and what we are feeling that has some value. We often talk about self-reflection and developing a balanced sense of self-awareness, but we rarely, if ever, suggest that we look ourselves in the eye to gauge our state of mind, to take stock of who we are. I'm not sure I feel so strongly about this that I would recommend it to others, and admit it may lead to self-absorption and narcissism, but I would still say give it a try. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll get a glimpse, however modest, into your very own true self.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
What David Brooks Didn't Say
This has been a good week for New York Times columnist David Brooks. For his July 6th op-ed, he skillfully casts doubt on the confident claims of the "Demand Siders" who insist that now is the time to spend more public money, not less. A fiscal conservative, Brooks argues convincingly this is a largely untested assertion. Also, this week he is profiled in New York Magazine as one of America's most brilliant pundits and for maintaining his popularity among both liberals and conservatives. Of course, he is hated by many in both groups, but it is surprising, as well, how much bipartisan support he continues to enjoy.
So it is with some hesitancy and trepidation that I take issue with Mr. Brooks' remarks, particularly given the dark forecast inserted into the New York Magazine piece that the U.S. is in danger of becoming Greece. In his column, Mr. Brooks concludes that while we must be fiscally cautious, it is foolish to save money, for instance, by curtailing unemployment insurance or depriving the states of much needed revenue to maintain basic services. I was glad to read that, but I don't think he goes far enough. Of course, if we're going to become Greece (and after all he has access to all these highly knowledgeable informants), then forget it, all bets are off. But, assuming reasonably enough that we are not going the way of the Hellenes, at least not any time soon, I want to make a couple of largely non-economic arguments for doing more than just extending unemployment insurance or helping the states balance their budgets with "race to the top" type competitions.
We desperately need an ambitious and comprehensive public jobs program. Bob Herbert has been talking about this for months, but I am appalled that his lone cries have been ignored. First, unemployment does terrible damage to people, to families, to communities, to individual and collective self-esteem. When the market economy is this troubled and shows so little sign of recovering any time soon, government must step in to make up the difference. God knows, there are sound economic reasons for doing this, but I think restoring the well being of people thrown out of work is the most important reason for doing something right away. It is the right thing to do and it will not only help the unemployed directly, it is very likely, too, to improve the overall economic picture as a whole.
But, here is the part that really bugs me. We could put millions back to work while also repairing our crumbling national infrastructure! All those bridges and roads and schools that are falling apart could be repaired and rebuilt by an army of government-employed workers. What a great way to use stimulus money! This is the capital formation we need. Like the WPA in the 1930s, such programs have a long-term and untold impact on the overall strength of the economy. We could put people back to work and help our long-term chances for ensuring economic growth.
So why aren't we doing this? I honestly believe that in addition to the usual political reasons, it stems from a lack of imagination. It is the inability to envision how much of a difference such a dramatic jobs program could make. But it does demand a leap of faith, the kind FDR became famous for. A massive jobs program is risky. It could fuel inflation and it could even make things worse long term. But the good that would be done in the short run for innocent people damaged by this terrible economy and the likelihood that in the long run great good would be accomplished, makes this our best bet for now. I urge President Obama and the Congress to take note. An ambitious jobs program targeting the faltering infrastructure will yield some immediate good, no matter what else happens. But the longer we wait to take action, the greater the damage done to everyday people. As in the darkest days of the New Deal, the same mantra applies: "We need action and we need it right now." Or, as Rahm Emanuel said during the presidential campaign, "you never want to let a national crisis go to waste." If action isn't taken soon, we will be doing just that.
So it is with some hesitancy and trepidation that I take issue with Mr. Brooks' remarks, particularly given the dark forecast inserted into the New York Magazine piece that the U.S. is in danger of becoming Greece. In his column, Mr. Brooks concludes that while we must be fiscally cautious, it is foolish to save money, for instance, by curtailing unemployment insurance or depriving the states of much needed revenue to maintain basic services. I was glad to read that, but I don't think he goes far enough. Of course, if we're going to become Greece (and after all he has access to all these highly knowledgeable informants), then forget it, all bets are off. But, assuming reasonably enough that we are not going the way of the Hellenes, at least not any time soon, I want to make a couple of largely non-economic arguments for doing more than just extending unemployment insurance or helping the states balance their budgets with "race to the top" type competitions.
We desperately need an ambitious and comprehensive public jobs program. Bob Herbert has been talking about this for months, but I am appalled that his lone cries have been ignored. First, unemployment does terrible damage to people, to families, to communities, to individual and collective self-esteem. When the market economy is this troubled and shows so little sign of recovering any time soon, government must step in to make up the difference. God knows, there are sound economic reasons for doing this, but I think restoring the well being of people thrown out of work is the most important reason for doing something right away. It is the right thing to do and it will not only help the unemployed directly, it is very likely, too, to improve the overall economic picture as a whole.
But, here is the part that really bugs me. We could put millions back to work while also repairing our crumbling national infrastructure! All those bridges and roads and schools that are falling apart could be repaired and rebuilt by an army of government-employed workers. What a great way to use stimulus money! This is the capital formation we need. Like the WPA in the 1930s, such programs have a long-term and untold impact on the overall strength of the economy. We could put people back to work and help our long-term chances for ensuring economic growth.
So why aren't we doing this? I honestly believe that in addition to the usual political reasons, it stems from a lack of imagination. It is the inability to envision how much of a difference such a dramatic jobs program could make. But it does demand a leap of faith, the kind FDR became famous for. A massive jobs program is risky. It could fuel inflation and it could even make things worse long term. But the good that would be done in the short run for innocent people damaged by this terrible economy and the likelihood that in the long run great good would be accomplished, makes this our best bet for now. I urge President Obama and the Congress to take note. An ambitious jobs program targeting the faltering infrastructure will yield some immediate good, no matter what else happens. But the longer we wait to take action, the greater the damage done to everyday people. As in the darkest days of the New Deal, the same mantra applies: "We need action and we need it right now." Or, as Rahm Emanuel said during the presidential campaign, "you never want to let a national crisis go to waste." If action isn't taken soon, we will be doing just that.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Final Daily Post
This blog has now come full circle. Begun on July 4, 2009 as a site for one New York settler to share his passion for the City, today it concludes as a daily reflection on life in New York City. For those few of you interested, however, this is the not the end of this blog, only the end of a daily recounting of my New York life. Thethirdnewyork will continue with posts that occur on a roughly weekly basis, usually appearing on Sunday or Monday morning.
It has been an incredibly worthwhile experience to write these posts every day. It has given me a place to express myself, to pour out my thoughts, in the end, about a multitude of subjects, but always with New York City at least in the background, and more often than not, at center stage. The fact that his blog has covered such a wide range of subjects is fitting as New York remains, above all, the place that is most like that great Long Island and Brooklyn poet Walt Whitman: it contains multitudes. It is, as I have said quite a few times before, inexhaustible.
For this last post, I had thought of writing about Central Park or about the theater, two things that make New York so special for me, but, as important as these things are to so many New Yorkers, that didn't seem quite encompassing enough. They are key dimensions of New York but not New York itself. No, this final appreciation has to focus on New York's inexhaustibility, on the fact that it remains the world's single, greatest microcosm. There is more diversity here in almost every realm of human experience than any other place in the world. Ultimately, it is New York's sheer variety, its unbelievable mix of rich and poor, disciplined and casual, creative and conventional, sports-obsessed and sports-averse, art-oriented and art-clueless, the performative and the observational, the ever-busy and the stubbornly inactive, that makes New York such an exciting, bizarre, and endlessly interesting place.
Perhaps it is best summed up by what an elderly lady said to me the other day as we stood at a street corner, me with my trusty bicycle beside me, she with her walker that doubles as a shopping cart in front of her. We were chatting about the beauty of the morning and she noted something about a play she had dearly loved but couldn't recall the title of. I tried to help but my prompts only confused her more. Finally, she resigned herself to not remembering, but then brightened and added, "but this is New York after all. It will be back. It has to be and I will see it and enjoy it all over again."
Well, yes, of course, I thought. New York is the city of second, third, and even fourth acts, both literally and figuratively. If it has happened here, it will happen again, you can count on that. And if it has been part of human experience, however wonderful or terrible, it has probably happened here before and will again. That is New York's blessing and its curse, its source of wonder and the fact that it is shunned by so many non-New Yorkers. For me, though, all of this just makes it that much more remarkable. To the extent that any life is an education, there is no greater school than New York. I am proud and delighted to be its willing and appreciative student.
It has been an incredibly worthwhile experience to write these posts every day. It has given me a place to express myself, to pour out my thoughts, in the end, about a multitude of subjects, but always with New York City at least in the background, and more often than not, at center stage. The fact that his blog has covered such a wide range of subjects is fitting as New York remains, above all, the place that is most like that great Long Island and Brooklyn poet Walt Whitman: it contains multitudes. It is, as I have said quite a few times before, inexhaustible.
For this last post, I had thought of writing about Central Park or about the theater, two things that make New York so special for me, but, as important as these things are to so many New Yorkers, that didn't seem quite encompassing enough. They are key dimensions of New York but not New York itself. No, this final appreciation has to focus on New York's inexhaustibility, on the fact that it remains the world's single, greatest microcosm. There is more diversity here in almost every realm of human experience than any other place in the world. Ultimately, it is New York's sheer variety, its unbelievable mix of rich and poor, disciplined and casual, creative and conventional, sports-obsessed and sports-averse, art-oriented and art-clueless, the performative and the observational, the ever-busy and the stubbornly inactive, that makes New York such an exciting, bizarre, and endlessly interesting place.
Perhaps it is best summed up by what an elderly lady said to me the other day as we stood at a street corner, me with my trusty bicycle beside me, she with her walker that doubles as a shopping cart in front of her. We were chatting about the beauty of the morning and she noted something about a play she had dearly loved but couldn't recall the title of. I tried to help but my prompts only confused her more. Finally, she resigned herself to not remembering, but then brightened and added, "but this is New York after all. It will be back. It has to be and I will see it and enjoy it all over again."
Well, yes, of course, I thought. New York is the city of second, third, and even fourth acts, both literally and figuratively. If it has happened here, it will happen again, you can count on that. And if it has been part of human experience, however wonderful or terrible, it has probably happened here before and will again. That is New York's blessing and its curse, its source of wonder and the fact that it is shunned by so many non-New Yorkers. For me, though, all of this just makes it that much more remarkable. To the extent that any life is an education, there is no greater school than New York. I am proud and delighted to be its willing and appreciative student.
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