TV Husbandry

For a time in my life I thought I'd marry a scientist.  This of course after the phase where I longed to marry a fisherman... a woodcutter... a machinist... to simplify, become a wife in the true sense... to fulfill some biological mandate, cut out the subterfuge and intellectual noise and strip down to what really mattered.  To wake at dawn, fry herring and eggs and pack a hearty lunchpail.. To taste the oceanous salt on my husband's skin, cook his wares and share the damp sheets of his sea-worn exhaustion... inhale the ropy, woody scent of whomever.  

I think it was the Tom Verlaine thing that drew me in like campfire smoke.  The Scientist Writes a Letter, on which Andy Newmark plays the most devastatingly minimal drum-fill.  'I find I have no other lines,' he writes.  Magnetized, I was... over and over I played this track-- the vinyl.  'We men of science---' the confession... and suddenly I understood poetry-- from the mind of someone who could create a universe every time he dreams. The way he would invent-- postulate, discover, turn over brain matter... a man who sleeps with his eyes open, staring through phantom windows, who sees galaxies in a rock. I could hand him something I pick up on the street-- he would explain... he would find me.

For a while I hung around with this research doctor I'd grown up with. He was a narcissistic music fan who held court at gigs and briefly charmed my bandmates with his wide-eyed jargon and exaggerated hand-gestures. They quickly tired of his MO.  He played jazz piano and annoyed his neighbors.  Real musicians do not do this; we are quiet offstage. But he introduced me once.  Where are the scientists, I'd begged?  In their labs... sleeping... dreaming of ways.. of theorems, of methodology. I failed again... Besides, I postulated, In the Beginning was the Word.  That was everything.  I went back to my books and spoke in silent tongues.  

At your highest point, the Devil comes for you.  Fuck the damn Academy awards... and the Grammies.  I cannot get this out of my head... maybe because the Devil is everywhere. In the Procul Harum song, he came from Kansas. He elects himself, he positions and even submits when he must, to re-emerge like smoke.  He is in your bed some nights.  You come for him, try to convince him that even among the wicked, there can be kindnesses.

When a man opens to you-- truly opens-- this is a rare and terrifying thing.  In my father's day, this happened only among the weak, and on battlefields or operating theaters.  In my lifetime, I have had a man pour himself into me as though I were a glass.  These phonographic moments, as I designate them, remain in my architecture like a wedding.  If I monetized them, they might be worth something.  After all, some of these people were important-- from a time when names like Chevrolet stood out-- designations on which you could hang ornaments.  When music mattered-- when the man who turned himself inside out-- well, he was good-- good enough, the way things no longer seem to be.  He met a terrible end-- no one could predict, but his sorrow seemed prescient. 

Time does not heal; it makes things worse. We learn things before we are able to understand and by the time we begin to understand, it's too late.  First there is Church, then Belief.  By that moment, all of us have sinned, and in a secular life this counts. In versions, love becomes pain.  Some pain is unbearable. 

Last week I watched the Anthony Bourdain documentary-- the one which apparently his family did not embrace.  Yes, in between the farmers and typesetters, there were the chefs.  The gentle, doughy ones.  Not Bourdain who was much closer to the husband versions who failed me... but like all tragic figures who come for the Devil first, who beat him at his game, even love was a terrible bloody battle.  This man of knives who could butcher a giant alligator could not manage his heart and took himself down. 

It occurs to me now-- maybe rather than a wife, I have become husbandly... maybe a little tougher, a little wiser (whyser).  Or maybe, like the inevitable theoretical melding of yin and yang, I have become my own 'couple'.  Having failed at the science of husbands, I've become a sort of husband of science myself... the Verlaine version-- writing a sad letter of farewell to myself, perhaps-- confessing regretfully how attractive (in the magnetic sense) indifference can be. 

Mirror, Mirror

Many years ago in college I wrote a paper about mirrors in art.  The first painting I remembered from childhood was the Comtesse d'Haussonville portrait at the Frick.  I had a postcard-- a little booklet about Ingres.  The paper began by observing Ingres' masterful aesthetic device of showing both sides of a subject, then went on to the obvious allegorical and then philosophical meanings. I think it culminated in an enthusiastic analysis of the spectacular Manet of the barmaid at the Folies Bergère, where the mirror subsumes the subject, posing questions about reality, illusion-- the reflected audience becoming the real subject. Manet was ill when he painted this, and the cloud of death and disillusionment perhaps shadowed him as he worked. 

In ancient times gods and men had to rely on the glassy surfaces of water to show them their reflection. Wealthy noblemen and women owned polished stones and metals they used to admire themselves, and painted portraits were important.  Narcissistic aristocrats surrounded themselves with these, often tweaked to suit an image more than a likeness.  Common people had less opportunity for vanity. 

There's hardly a bathroom in this city without an installed mirror. Many women have a dedicated vanity table with lights and magnification for applying make-up.  Selfies and phone apps offer plenty of opportunities to become intimate with one's own face, and to adjust and edit-- to improve.  I rarely use a mobile phone.  I'm often a little shocked to see a photo someone has surreptitiously taken of me onstage or the random shots my son sneaks in while I am cooking Thanksgiving dinner or meeting him on the Brooklyn waterfront.  

My relationship with mirrors has changed.  I avoid, evade, ignore, disregard.  I neither shop for clothing nor try much on from my closet, but rely on a recycled pile of the garment-equivalent of comfort food.  Well aware I have long passed my physiological prime, I sometimes wonder if any of us actually seize the instant at which we are at our 'best'.. the moment where relatives stop and remark 'How beautiful you've grown', at which we blush and wave them away; the humble among us shun photos.  

When gyms became popular, most of them were fitted with mirrors. While I avoid at all costs, there are those that stare at these as though the reflected image is a competitor.  Ballet classes were an opportunity, as a girl, to analyze my technique in a context. To mimic one's fellow dancers in exact unison was our goal, and there was a certain satisfaction in its perfection.  We became one of a whole-- feathers of a bird or branches of a moving tree.  It was athletic and graceful... we sacrificed our individuality for a higher purpose.  

I remember, writing my paper, researching the medieval concept of the mirror reflecting one's soul, and  struggling with the idea that God made man in His image.  Did that mean that we were the mirrors of the Divine, or perhaps a terrible experiment?  Why do mirrors show us things in reverse?  In the end, I had to limit my assignment and think I wound up simply discussing Ingres.

Recently, a little overwhelmed by the posted mirrors and vanities of social media, I tried to make sense of what this culture has produced. The extreme narcissism, the glutted corridors of information make it harder and harder to actually 'see'.  I suppose I could improve my face with some kind of cosmetic treatment, but I'm not particularly featuring my image, in my late 60's.  Like my old guitars, the scars and lines and the aged bodies-- well, they have a story to tell.  They sing reliably when I pick them up. 

But what are they saying, all these gig announcements and pet portraits-- the endless postings and clippings and waving families-- the beach-sunsets, plates of food and newborn babies?  That we are becoming less and less in the humongous ratio of moments here... that we are invisible and shrouded by a pandemic culture that stole our momentum and took away our relevance?  That we are desperate to remain present, to prove our own existence?  When journals and reviews were published as print, the material was limited.  There was competition and only the chosen few could be seen.  In the present, digital notebooks have infinite space and allow an infinite number of poems-- of songs and albums and little films of our daily lives. Storage clouds relieve our devices of some volume... but where do the visuals stop?  What might be the version of vanity for a blind man? 

Miles away a horrific war has eclipsed the covid culture and created a global tragedy.  It belongs to us-- not as a label for our own narcissism and vanity activities, but it should look back at us from every reflecting surface in our daily lives.  When I was a girl I had a magic mirror that reflected only itself... as though I were a vampire and had no image at all.   The horrid realities of war steal not just faces but families, homes, cities... dreams.  

In 1989 December 1 was designated the Day Without Art as a kind of memorial and reminder of the scourge of AIDS.  I wish we could organize a day-- a month-- without social media and vanity postings-- a day without mirrors, so that we can look into ourselves and find, rather than an airbrushed likeness-- some wisdom, some compassion... the face of someone else who maybe has no voice.