haiku review: brokeback mountain

It's weird to see a movie that makes haiku seem verbose. That being said, I've forced myself to splurge on syllables, to waste words, and have come up with not one but two haiku reactions, sort of an optimistic and a pessimistic view. I leave it to the reader to decide which is which.

As its sadness fades,
This lyrical western tale
Reminds me love sucks.

However much time
Fate hands you for true, deep love
It's never enough.

The film encapsulates itself far more economically than that, in a line that I think I'd like to have tattooed on my arm: "If you can't fix it, you got to stand it."

frank lloyd copyright

In the course of my Christmas shopping I flipped through the Art Institute of Chicago catalog last weekend. I like the selection of items quite a bit.

But I noticed, in the description for the Prairie Sumac tie on page 2, that the text referred to "A window designed by Frank Lloyd Wright® (American, 1867-1959)..." which struck me as rather odd. And it happens again and again, in the Frank Lloyd Wright® Coasters on page 41, and the Butterfly Velvet Scarf on page 21...the dead, overrated architect is apparently a registered trademark.

There's no Charles Rennie Mackintosh®, no Seurat®, no Klee® or Chagall®, and thank goodness.

Registered to whom, I want to know. The Museum? Some foundation? His heirs? Whoever puts the imprimatur of acceptance on officially licensed merchandise?

Don't misunderstand, I'm no bleeding heart pinko, I fully subscribe to the idea that art is commerce by other means. But I still find it strange and off-putting that a human being, even a former one, can be owned as a registered trademark by...someone. In fact, it strikes me as somewhat Frank Lloyd Wrong. And while my fondest wish is to be remembered long after I'm gone, personally I'd prefer it if people think of Joe, and not Joe®.

six degrees

Commuting home from work last night, I listened to a podcast from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The introduction was narrated by Philippe de Montebello, who is of course the head of all the Met, which in my book is up there with Mayor of New York as being one of the finest, loftiest titles imaginable.

The recording was on Van Gogh's drawings (in conjunction with a stellar exhibit of the same currently on view), and featured, reading some of Van Gogh's letters (in translation), none other than "the actor Kevin Bacon." You'll have to imagine Mr. de Montebello's distinctive accent there; if you've never heard him speak, his voice sounds pretty much exactly like you'd expect someone with the middle name "de."

At any rate, all I could think about through the whole thing was how, if you count this recording, it creates a new and very odd set of connections in the game "6 Degrees of You Know Who."

Okay, I did get one other thing out of it: from a letter to Theo, on the motivations and drives of an artist: "One would rather be in the dirtiest place where there is something to draw than at a tea party with charming ladies. Unless one wants to draw ladies."

stiffed

Haven't reviewed anything in a while; unusually this is about something I'm currently reading, Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach. I'm just midway through it, but basically it's wonderful.

Although chock full of fascinating insights into death, the thing that's fascinated me most thus far is her depiction of the process of decomposition. Although haciendas (you'll have to read the book) and carnivorous beetles help, essentially the enzymes and bacteria living inside you right this very second, if not checked by the fact that you're alive would (given some time) pretty much suffice to liquefy you, break you down into your constituent proteins and such, and return you to the world. All except skin and bones and hair, anyway. We contain all that's needed to dismantle us. I find that idea kind of beautiful.

I've been quoting from this book around the office most of this week, to general squirms and discomfort. But my friend Vikram, who grew up in India, has been very interested, or at least far better at humoring me. I suspect he has a different (and possibly better) cultural perspective on death and dying than most non-morbid Americans or Europeans.

From the book: "Life contains these things: leakage and wickage and discharge, pus and snot and slime and gleet. We are biology. We are reminded of this at the beginning and the end, at birth and death. In between we do what we can to forget."