GivÂen such a prodiÂgious outÂput, he wiseÂly turned to sciÂence to quanÂtiÂfy his ardor in the reproÂducÂtion above. (His physiÂcian’s scrawl can be difÂfiÂcult to deciÂpher — a tranÂscripÂtion is supÂplied below.)
SALLYBURGER,
If you took THE NUMBER OF SUB-ATOMIC PARTICLES IN THE UNIVERSE and mulÂtiÂplied that numÂber times itself THAT MANY TIMES; and then added the total numÂber of MICRO-SECONDS since the beginÂning of time, times itself; and then added 803—you would STILL have only the tiniÂest fracÂtion of A BILLION-BILLIONTH PER CENT of the amount of love I HAVE FOR YOU.
Love,
your canÂdle partÂner,
the romanÂtic Mr CarÂlin,
your eterÂnal flame
A porÂtion of these sweet nothÂings were colÂlectÂed in The George CarÂlin LetÂters. Its subÂtiÂtle, The PerÂmaÂnent Courtship of SalÂly Wade, was takÂen from the note he left on her comÂputÂer the day he died, two days shy of their 10th anniverÂsary.
David FosÂter WalÂlace was a hyper-anxÂious chronÂiÂcler of the minute details of a cerÂtain kind of upper-midÂdle-class AmerÂiÂcan life. In his hands, it took on someÂtimes lumiÂnous, someÂtimes jaunÂdiced qualÂiÂties. WalÂlace was also someÂthing of a metaÂphysiÂcian: reflecÂtive teacher, wise-beyond-his-years thinker, and (tragÂiÂcalÂly in hindÂsight) quite self-depÂreÂcatÂing litÂerÂary superÂstar. In the latÂter capacÂiÂty, he was often called on to perÂform the duties of a docent, adminÂisÂterÂing comÂmenceÂment speechÂes, for examÂple, which he did for the gradÂuÂatÂing class of KenyÂon in 2005.
He began with a stoÂry: two young fish meet an oldÂer fish, who asks them “How’s the water?” The younger fish look at each othÂer and say, “What the hell is water?” FosÂter WalÂlace explains the stoÂry this way:
The point of the fish stoÂry is mereÂly that the most obviÂous, imporÂtant realÂiÂties are often the ones that are hardÂest to see and talk about. StatÂed as an EngÂlish senÂtence, of course, this is just a banal platÂiÂtude, but the fact is that in the day to day trenchÂes of adult exisÂtence, banal platÂiÂtudes can have a life or death imporÂtance, or so I wish to sugÂgest to you on this dry and loveÂly mornÂing.
In the video above, “This is Water,” The GlosÂsary—“fine purÂveyÂors of stimÂuÂlatÂing videograms”—take an abridged verÂsion of the origÂiÂnal audio recordÂing and set it to a series of provocaÂtive images. In their interÂpreÂtaÂtion, FosÂter Wallace’s speech takes on the kind of midÂdle-class neuÂroÂsis of David Fincher’s realÂizaÂtion of Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club.
It’s a dystopiÂan vision of post-grad life that brings vivid clarÂiÂty to one of my menÂtors’ pieces of advice: “There are two worst things: One, you don’t get a job. Two, you get a job.” Or one could always quote MorÂrisÂsey: “I was lookÂing for a job, and then I found a job. And heavÂen knows I’m misÂerÂable now.” I still haven’t figÂured out what’s worse. I hope some of those KenyÂon grads have.
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Andy StewÂart builds boats with his own hands for life-affirmÂing reaÂsons. It’s a way to make inanÂiÂmate objects come alive, to breathe new life into our world. But StewÂart also enjoys the chalÂlenge of it all. The sea, he tells us, is the “final arbiÂtraÂtor” of your work. Quite deciÂsiveÂly, it tells you whether a boat has been craftÂed with preÂciÂsion, whether every piece of wood conÂtributes to the largÂer hull/whole. If your boat can stand the rigÂorÂous tests of nature and time, you know you’ve masÂtered your craft. The short docÂuÂmenÂtary above, Shaped on all Six Sides, was directÂed by Kat GarÂdiner.
If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newsletÂter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bunÂdled in one email, each day.
If you would like to supÂport the misÂsion of Open CulÂture, conÂsidÂer makÂing a donaÂtion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your conÂtriÂbuÂtions will help us conÂtinÂue proÂvidÂing the best free culÂturÂal and eduÂcaÂtionÂal mateÂriÂals to learnÂers everyÂwhere. You can conÂtribute through PayÂPal, PatreÂon, and VenÂmo (@openculture). Thanks!
A couÂple of days ago, Mick FleetÂwood told NPR that a band’s greatÂest hits belong to its fans “to be reinÂterÂpretÂed and creÂate a backÂdrop for parts of their lives.”
With that in mind, who among us has not relatÂed … or yearned for the boyfriend or girlÂfriend that might allow us to relate to Peter Criss’ chart-topÂping “Beth”? The powÂer balÂlad went gold for Criss’ band KISS in 1976, and has reigned as an ear worm on ClasÂsic Rock staÂtions ever since:
Beth, I hear you callÂin’
But I can’t come home right now
Me and the boys are playin’
And we just can’t find the sound.
Close your eyes and visuÂalÂize poor Beth, alone in her negÂligee on that giant bed, the scentÂed canÂdles gutÂterÂing in sad recogÂniÂtion that art always comes first for a soulÂful dude like Pete.
Now open them wide for the alterÂnate and extremeÂly spirÂitÂed take above. This verÂsion gives us Beth’s side, comÂpliÂments of writer Bob WinÂter, direcÂtor BriÂan BilÂlow of AnonyÂmous ConÂtent, and actress LilÂli BirdÂsell, MILF-ing it up to vinÂtage perÂfecÂtion as she jugÂgles the kids and a meatÂloaf in the oven. RockÂstar husÂbands’ salaries aside, BirdÂselÂl’s Beth is the embodÂiÂment of the red-bloodÂed female mulÂtiÂtasker popÂuÂlarÂized by the Enjoli comÂmerÂcial of the same periÂod. The news that her husÂband “can’t” come home right now is met not with a tear, but a hilarÂiÂousÂly flat “What?” (I loved how it took sevÂerÂal repÂeÂtiÂtions for the lyriÂcal hook to regÂisÂter with her.)
I was rootÂing for this Beth to pull a ThelÂma and Louise, loadÂing the twins into the CounÂtry Squire and dumpÂing them at the stuÂdio for their father to deal with. SadÂly, our heroÂine is no match for years of built-up fan interÂpreÂtaÂtions. Guess BetÂty DrapÂer’s not the only pretÂty woman doomed to sip her dinÂner as she stoÂicalÂly ignores both chilÂdren and partÂner’s empÂty plate.
- Ayun HalÂlÂiÂday hasÂn’t even startÂed to think about what’s for dinÂner tonight, so quit askÂing. FolÂlow her at @AyunHalliday
ConÂsidÂerÂing the posÂsiÂbilÂiÂty of a truÂly proÂleÂtarÂiÂan art, the great EngÂlish litÂerÂary critÂic William EmpÂson once wrote, “the reaÂson an EngÂlish audiÂence can enjoy RussÂian proÂpaÂganÂdist films is that the proÂpaÂganÂda is too remote to be annoyÂing.” PerÂhaps this is why AmerÂiÂcan artists and bohemiÂans have so often takÂen to the politÂiÂcal iconogÂraÂphy of far-flung regimes, in ways both romanÂtic and ironÂic. One nation’s tedious socialÂist realÂism is another’s radÂiÂcal exotÂiÂca.
But do U.S. culÂturÂal exports have the same effect? One need only look at the sucÂcess of our most banal brandÂing overÂseas to answer in the affirÂmaÂtive. Yet no one would think to add Abstract ExpresÂsionÂist paintÂing to a list that includes fast food and Walt DisÂney prodÂucts. NevÂerÂtheÂless, the work of such artists as JackÂson PolÂlock, Mark Rothko, and Willem de KoonÂing wound up as part of a secret CIA proÂgram durÂing the height of the Cold War, aimed at proÂmotÂing AmerÂiÂcan ideals abroad.
The artists themÂselves were comÂpleteÂly unaware that their work was being used as proÂpaÂganÂda. On what agents called a “long leash,” they parÂticÂiÂpatÂed in sevÂerÂal exhiÂbiÂtions secretÂly orgaÂnized by the CIA, such as “The New AmerÂiÂcan PaintÂing” (see catÂaÂlog covÂer at top), which visÂitÂed major EuroÂpean cities in 1958–59 and includÂed such modÂern primÂiÂtive works as surÂreÂalÂist William Baziotes’ 1947 Dwarf (below) and 1951’s TourÂnaÂment by Adolph GotÂtlieb above.
Of course what seems most bizarre about this turn of events is that avant-garde art in AmerÂiÂca has nevÂer been much appreÂciÂatÂed by the averÂage citÂiÂzen, to put it mildÂly. AmerÂiÂcan Main Streets harÂbor underÂcurÂrents of disÂtrust or outÂright hatred for out-there, art-world experÂiÂmenÂtaÂtion, a trend that filÂters upward and periÂodÂiÂcalÂly erupts in conÂtroÂverÂsies over ConÂgresÂsionÂal fundÂing for the arts. A 1995 IndeÂpenÂdent artiÂcle on the CIA’s role in proÂmotÂing Abstract ExpresÂsionÂism describes these attiÂtudes durÂing the Cold War periÂod:
In the 1950s and 1960s… the great majorÂiÂty of AmerÂiÂcans disÂliked or even despised modÂern art—President TruÂman summed up the popÂuÂlar view when he said: “If that’s art, then I’m a HotÂtenÂtot.” As for the artists themÂselves, many were ex- comÂmuÂnists bareÂly acceptÂable in the AmerÂiÂca of the McCarthyite era, and cerÂtainÂly not the sort of peoÂple norÂmalÂly likeÂly to receive US govÂernÂment backÂing.
Why, then, did they receive such backÂing? One short answer:
This philisÂtinÂism, comÂbined with Joseph McCarthy’s hysÂterÂiÂcal denunÂciÂaÂtions of all that was avant-garde or unorthoÂdox, was deeply embarÂrassÂing. It disÂcredÂitÂed the idea that AmerÂiÂca was a sophisÂtiÂcatÂed, culÂturÂalÂly rich democÂraÂcy.
The one-way relaÂtionÂship between modÂernist painters and the CIA—only recentÂly conÂfirmed by forÂmer case offiÂcer DonÂald Jameson—supposedly enabled the agency to make the work of SoviÂet SocialÂist RealÂists appear, in Jameson’s words, “even more stylÂized and more rigid and conÂfined than it was.” (See Evdokiya Usikova’s 1959 Lenin with VilÂlagers below, for examÂple). For a longer explaÂnaÂtion, read the full artiÂcle at The IndeÂpenÂdent. It’s the kind of stoÂry Don DeLilÂlo would cook up.
William EmpÂson goes on to say that “a Tory audiÂence subÂjectÂed to Tory proÂpaÂganÂda of the same intenÂsiÂty” as RussÂian imports, “would be extremeÂly bored.” If he is corÂrect, it’s likeÂly that the averÂage true believÂer socialÂist in Europe was already bored silÂly by SoviÂet-approved art. What surÂprisÂes in these revÂeÂlaÂtions is that the avant-garde works that so radÂiÂcalÂly altered the AmerÂiÂcan art world and enraged the averÂage conÂgressÂman and taxÂpayÂer were co-optÂed and colÂlectÂed by suave U.S. intelÂliÂgence offiÂcers like so many ShepÂard Fairey posters.
The relaÂtionÂship of movie star to critÂic isn’t always as parÂaÂsitic and fraught as you might imagÂine. WitÂness TilÂda SwinÂton bouncÂing around the VirÂginia TheÂater in ChamÂpaign IlliÂnois, urgÂing audiÂence memÂbers to get up and dance in honÂor of the late Roger Ebert. (He gave high praise to SwinÂton’s 2009 film Julia, one of the offerÂings in this year’s EbertÂfest.)
PriÂor to leapÂing into the audiÂence to the strains of BarÂry White’s “You’re the First, the Last, My EveryÂthing”, the actress decreed parÂticÂiÂpaÂtion was mandaÂtoÂry, no voyeurism allowed. With Ebert’s widÂow, Chaz, bustÂing some seriÂous moves in supÂport, most of the 1500 attenÂdees seemed conÂtent to split the difÂferÂence, cheerÂfulÂly clapÂping along in their seats (though check out the grim “how long ’til we’re released from this hell” faces of the couÂple in the balÂcony at the 4:10 mark).
RememÂber White Men Can’t Jump? One is temptÂed to tack on “or dance,” watchÂing the few game souls who truÂly threw themÂselves into the spirÂit of the thing. No shame in that. It was, in SwinÂton’s words, a “spirÂiÂtuÂal serÂvice”, not a talÂent conÂtest. SureÂly the biggest winÂners are the ones beamÂing breathÂlessÂly from the stage at song’s end. (HonÂorÂable menÂtion to anyÂone who’s inspired to nevÂer again let a fear of embarÂrassÂment lead to inacÂtion.)
Few of us posÂsess the physÂiÂcal strength and even steeÂlÂiÂer will to folÂlow in the handÂprints of proÂfesÂsionÂal balÂancer Jaakko TenÂhunen, but most of us have othÂer projects that could benÂeÂfit from the sort of relentÂless deterÂmiÂnaÂtion he brings to his work. “Effort, not comÂfort, is what gives the most tanÂgiÂble sense of satÂisÂfacÂtion,” he remarks in the voiceover above, as the camÂera capÂtures him supÂportÂing his entire body weight on a sinÂgle palm, his face intense but not at all anguished. Reduce this eleÂgant phiÂlosÂoÂphy to the far punchiÂer “just do it,” and you stand to sell a lot of shoes.
As TenÂhunen knows firstÂhand, this sort of effortÂful purÂsuit depends on disÂciÂpline and daiÂly pracÂtice. Patience is also key, as sucÂcess is cumuÂlaÂtive, and difÂfiÂcult to meaÂsure in the earÂly stages.
The stripped down aesÂthetÂic of his perÂforÂmance does not necÂesÂsarÂiÂly make what he does look easy, so much as worthÂwhile. If you are a fledgÂling hand balÂancer, you may well find it disÂcourÂagÂing, but for those of us strivÂing to see othÂer goals through to comÂpleÂtion, Tehunen proÂvides a bracÂing visuÂal metaphor.
Ayun HalÂlÂiÂday will be at tabling at the BrookÂlyn ZineÂfest this SunÂday. ImmeÂdiÂateÂly thereÂafter catch her perÂformÂing the ComÂplete HisÂtoÂry of her long runÂning zine, the East VilÂlage Inky… in song, as part of BrookÂlyn Brain Frame.
Would you take advice from William S BurÂroughs? What if it were filÂtered through the humanÂisÂtic senÂsiÂbilÂiÂties of PatÂti Smith? AddressÂing the crowd at last sumÂmer’s Louisiana LitÂerÂaÂture FesÂtiÂval at the Louisiana MuseÂum of ModÂern Art, the punk poetÂess shared some good counÂsel laid on her in her youth by the BeatÂ’s highÂest priest. Build a good name, he told her, and make sure everyÂthing you creÂate stays true to it, until evenÂtuÂalÂly that name becomes its own curÂrenÂcy.
It cerÂtainÂly worked out well for her, though Smith is quick to give solace to those toilÂing in obscuÂriÂty. It’s conÂceivÂable that one as relentÂlessÂly creÂative as she would occaÂsionÂalÂly feel the sting of indifÂferÂence. It’s also welÂcome when someÂone in her posiÂtion acknowlÂedges how fanÂtasÂtic it is to have one’s work embraced by the peoÂple. (And she’s got a choice snarl for the knee jerks who equate popÂuÂlarÂiÂty with sellÂing out.)
An old soul from the outÂset, the seaÂsoned Smith has teen spirÂit to spare when it comes to the democÂraÂtizÂing posÂsiÂbilÂiÂties of the InterÂnet. It’s here, she preÂdicts, that those with the metÂtle to keep at their creÂative work will find the recogÂniÂtion their good names deserve.
- Ayun HalÂlÂiÂday doesÂn’t brush her hair much either. FolÂlow her @AyunHalliday
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