THE SIGNAL from David Katznelson
"May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds."--Edward Abbey
Rounding the final corner on Notre Dame De Paris by Victor Hugo, which in America we refer to as Hunchback Of Notre Dame. The real title fits the book much more than the known title, for Quasimodo the Hunchback, while playing a significant part of the plot line, is very much overshadowed by the building itself. Hugo dedicates MUCH MORE of the 600~ pages to talking about the Notre Dame building, its history and lore. At one point there is a sixty page slog detailing the architecture, the significance of the architecture and the importance of the history of the architecture and how it fits into the greater history of Paris.
And yeah, at times dry reading to be sure.
Hugo is a master historian, writing in the 1800s about hundreds of years prior as if he lived it, and makes detailed references on every page that are historically accurate (I have played the wikipedia game while reading). Like all good art, Hugo leaves the reader with a very interesting concept that has really stuck with me. Before books, there was architecture. Architecture was the mode of telling stories, leaving behind histories and theories. Think of the pyramids as a book, with the hieroglyphics telling the stories of the rulers and their era of reign since there was no National Geographic or New York Times the Egyptians could use instead. And I am sure that some of you will see this as totally obvious—and in a way I knew this as well—yet it is the job of the artist, in this case the writer, to remind us of the beauty and significance around us.
Hugo actually goes maybe too far by suggesting that the era of the book ended the era of the building as the holder of human discourse and thought. As he states: “Le livre tuera l’édifice” or “The book will kill the building.”
But I digress: using Notre Dame as the teller of stories—as the book of history left by, and revised by, generations of Parisians—Hugo’s meditations reawaken the perception of beauty and knowledge all around us: the stories the architects tell us of our every day surroundings. Our buildings can be good novels and cheap dime store throw aways, answering questions about the past and, in some cases, like those built by my friend Matt Hollis: glimpses into our future. They are all there waiting to be walked through and read.
And if I am creating a perception that the Notre Dame De Paris a book that is only about architecture, I am doing it a major disservice. Hugo delivers an incredible story that picks up major steam after the first half becoming impossible to put down…and Quasimodo is everything you want him to be as The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
Have a great weekend!
SOUL! Featuring Cicely Tyson, Taj Mahal and Exhuma
I think it might have been my friend Jay Babcock who turned me on to this on-line holding of brilliance: the digitized black arts/culture/political show from the 70s called SOUL! This episode has always been my favorite and after hearing of the death of the great, great Cicely Tyson I went right back and rewatched it. Coming on the heals of their film Sounder, Taj Mahal and Tyson appeared on the show…Tyson with just a jaw-dropping hair style...along with the mysterious but killer psych-tribal music act Exhuma (their records are very much worth a listen, with a lead singer who hints at being from Mars, a few planets closer than Sun Ra). Anyway, the brilliance of Tyson is in full-effect here and the show itself is such a work of art.
Compatible Spirits: Finding Mozart and Chekhov in Their Letters
Chekhov: “Probably owing to my drunken condition the local maidens found me witty and satirical!” Meanwhile, “apparently in obedience to a local custom, the newlyweds kissed every minute, kissing so vehemently that every time their lips made an explosive noise, I had a taste of oversweet raisins in my mouth, and got a spasm in my left calf. … I can’t tell you how much fresh caviar I ate and how much local red wine I drank. It’s a wonder I didn’t burst.”
The Capitol Riot Was Too Dystopian for Even John Carpenter
It’s great to hear from the master of horror about the crazy hard-to-believe-it-is-not-a-horror-movie time we live in. And love this quote about about his beginnings: “I saw a movie in 1956 that changed my life in many ways. It changed my life because it made me want to be a director, and it changed my life because it had the first synthesized musical score, and it was Forbidden Planet—a big space opera. I still love that score. It was just mind-blowing and life-changing for me. I think that’s where it all comes from, and from my desire as a little kid to go, “I want to do that!” And I did.”
Botticelli Portrait Goes for $92 M., Becoming Second-Most Expensive Old Masters Work Ever Auctioned
Do we hang it in the kitchen or the bathroom?
Weekend Listening: THE BROTHERS: ISLEY
Barb and I were in the car with the kids and suddenly it just felt like Isley Brothers time. I was in my twenties when it sunk in that after their initial smash hits, the brothers had an era of releasing records on their own label, T-Neck Records, which might have been the crowning artistic achievement of their seven decade career. The Brothers: Isley is my favorite of a handful of killer releases with one of the best covers ever as well as one of the best opening tracks, Sock It To Me. Like all Isley records, there are the slow soul jams that are not my thing, but if you want to party…if you want to hear one of the greatest vocalists the Earth has witnessed—at his peak—if you want one of the best funk records on the get-down…look no further.
I Stare at a Cormorant
by Tiana Clark
with its waterlogged wings spread open,
drying off on a rock in the middle
of a man-made lake after diving for food
and it makes me think about wonder
and it makes me want to pry and stretch
my shy arms open to the subtle summer
wind slicing through the park, sliding
over my skin like a stream of people
blowing candles out over my feathery
body and it makes me think about my
church when I was a kid, and how I
lifted my hands to Jesus, hoping
for surrender, but often felt nothing,
except for the rush of fervent people wanting
to be delivered from their aching, present
pain, and how that ache changed the smell
in the room to money and how I pinched
my face and especially my eyes tighter,
tighter and reached my hands higher—how
I, like the cormorant, stood in the middle
of the sanctuary so exposed and open
and wanted and wanted so much to grasp
the electric weather rushing through
the drama of it all like a shout
in the believer’s scratchy throat.
I don’t go to church anymore, but today
I woke up early and meditated. I closed
my eyes and focused on a fake seed
in my hand and put my hands over
my heart to shove the intention inside
my chest to blossom—I’m still stumbling
through this life hoping for anyone or
something to save me. I’m still thinking
about the cormorant who disappeared
when I was writing this poem. I was just
looking down and finishing a line
and then I looked back up—gone.
(thank you Barak Zimmerman for this great poem)
