Zuky

Visual Art — Singh Twins, "The Greatest"

[ Learn more about the astounding visionary art of the Singh twins. Thanks, Vincent! ]

Satire of the Stupid

[ Image via Diary of an Anxious Black Woman ]

At the risk of beating a dead literary-institution carcass, I want to clarify something about the massive failage of The New Yorker's now-infamous cover.

Not that I'm particularly aggrieved, incited, or surprised by the standard brain-farting and deep mutual butt-sniffing of white liberals of the variety that produce and display The New Yorker. I mean, I worked for years on Wall Street and in corporate media, so I'm tiresomely familiar with the cultural contours of that worldview and the soul-less snickering and self-congratulatory self-absorption at its anxious core. People of color are objects, not subjects, in that conversation; the presence and exhibition of our melanin, but not our voices, is meant to serve as guilt-balm, affirming liberal tolerance and unctuous self-regard.

Most of the criticism I've seen directed at the image has construed the problem as being that only urbane cosmopolitan sophisticates will get it, with commenters hastening to add, "Oh of course I get it, but what about the ignorant yokels? Remember the philistines!" But that's really not how I see it. Because to me, those who claim to get this image are the unsophisticates who lack the cultural and artistic literacy to understand the proper meaning of the word "satire". It's not the same as "sarcasm". That's why we have two different words. (Hint: that last line was sarcastic, not satirical. And I won't even get into the massive popular abuse of the word "ironic".)

See, in my world, the purpose of satire is iconoclasm; by which I mean, the breaking of icons, the exploding of false power centers and false narratives which hold destructive sway over society. The New Yorker cover, despite its intention and despite being sarcastic, is not satire; rather, it is a visualization and manifestation of racist cliches and stereotypes, and thus a propagation and perpetuation of racism. It does not interrogate the validity of those racist stereotypes, but rather accepts and gleefully embraces their marginalizing and dehumanizing power, then implies that it's ludicrous for conservative yahoos to think that the Obamas are those kinds of blacks; the Obamas are good blacks, not scary militant blacks or Muslims; the Obamas do not sport Afros or turbans, they are not reminiscent of dangerous Sixties radicals, no sir, they are down with the program, they are safe for whites.

Aside from the racial insularity from which it emerges, this art fails on purely discursive grounds. You can't fight demeaning portrayals by actualizing them. If a woman is accused in sexist society of being ugly, the appropriate response is not to draw a picture of her looking extremely ugly according to certain patriarchal standards in order to chuckle about it. That doesn't work. The appropriate response is to undermine the entire set of underlying assumptions and beliefs which give potency to sexist slurs.

Perhaps most fundamentally, the piece does not connect with the social realities of blackness, but only with the fears of the white imagination. In so doing, it reaffirms and reanimates those fears and social divisions at a pre-intellectual level, which is where art primarily impacts the psyche. The lives of people with Afros, the lives of people who wear turbans, the actual legacies of the Black Panthers and 60s social justice activists, are all distorted, discarded, and mocked in the service of asserting the palatability of the Democratic nominee to provincial white sensibilities. And there's nothing even remotely cosmopolitan or sophisticated or iconoclastic or hip about that.

So there it is: witness the miseducated dorkiness of The New Yorker, neither funny nor provocative, just another sloppily-dressed comic too cross-eyed drunk to realize how badly he's bombing on stage, because the audience is laughing not at his jokes, but at him.

Weekend Art — The Nature of Water (Inspired by the Philosophies of Bruce Lee)

[ Via One Inch Punch ]

Censored Art From The Underground

Last weekend I got a call from my friend Marcus. "Hey I just got something that I think you'll be interested in seeing," he said with a certain urgency. "Bring some beer and you can check it out." So I did.

It was a DVD he had just picked up: a 2004 release of the 1973 underground classic The Spook Who Sat By The Door, based on the 1969 novel by Sam Greenlee. Marcus said that when he was growing up in Harlem, the novel circulated on the contraband market, having been banned by the government. When the film by Ivan Dixon (soundtrack by Herbie Hancock) hit theaters, it was an overnight success, yet after only a few short weeks it suddenly closed down. Every print of the film mysteriously disappeared.

Fortunately, somebody was thinking: in 2004, the original negatives re-surfaced, after having been hidden in a Hollywood vault for 30 years. Restored and digitized, now it's available on DVD.

As Marcus and I started watching the movie, it was one of those situations where after a while you start going, "Hmmm, yeah, I can kinda see why the authorities might ban this...I mean, this does not feel like safe artistic territory here...oh wow now that's gonna make certain people uncomfortable for sure!" Not banned, mind you, because of violence or sex or language; banned because of impermissible political imagery and ideas.

A word about the author Sam Greenlee: he graduated from the University of Wisconsin in 1952 with a bachelor's in political science, then served two years in the US Army before taking up the study of international relations and becoming one of the first black foreign service officers in the US Information Agency. He took on assignments in Iraq, Pakistan, Indonesia, and Greece. In his own words: "Essentially I was an overseas public relations representative for the United States. Our job was to sell the best image of the United States overseas — basically I lied a lot." In 1965 he quit. Before returning to the US, he spent four months on the Greek island of Mykonos writing his first novel, The Spook Who Sat By The Door. He submitted his manuscript to 40 publishers before landing a small printing press in London.

[ SOME SPOILAGE AHEAD ]

Here's the commentary which precedes the movie on the DVD release:

Some call this material, let's just say, provocative. Others criticize some of the film's stereotypes based on both gender and race; and rightly so, especially regarding the sexist dimensions. The way I look at it, you might say The Spook is sort of a Dirty Harry or Death Wish movie, except as seen from the other side of the Color Line looking glass. Instead of envisioning a fed-up bigoted gun-slinging white dude blowing away dirty thugs, Greenlee envisions a fed-up bigoted gun-slinging black dude: a CIA agent hired as a token and assigned to work in the copy room for 5 years, who goes on to organize and transform street gangs into viable guerilla forces. Obviously violent uprising in real-life USA isn't a realistic consideration, but what I find noteworthy is the government's real-life ability to suppress fictional depictions of unapproved narratives in a political-spy-thriller novel.

Here's how Greenlee snaps open the novel:

Today the computers would tell Senator Gilbert Hennington about his impending campaign for re-election. The senator knew from experience that the computers did not lie.

He sat separated from his assembled staff by his massive, uncluttered desk, the Washington Monument framed by the window to his rear. They sat alert, competent, loyal and intelligent, with charts, graphs, clipboards and reports at the ready. The senator swept the group with a steely gaze, gave Belinda, his wife and chief aide, a bright smile of confidence, and said:

"All right, team, let's have a rundown, and don't try to sweeten the poison. We all know this is the closest one yet: what I want to know is how close? Tom, kick it off."

"The campaign war chest is in excellent shape, chief: no major defectors."

"Good. I'll look over your detailed breakdown later. Dick?"

"I spent a week on Mad Av with both the PR boys and our ad agency. They both have good presentations ready for your approval, Senator. I think you'll be pleased."

"How do we shape up on TV, Dick? All our ducks in line?"

"Excellent, Senator. You'll be on network television a minimum of three times between now and election day — just about perfect, no danger of overexposure."

"Have you licked the makeup thing yet, Dick?" asked Belinda Hennington. "A small detail but it probably cost one man the presidency. We don't want that to happen to us."

"No sweat, Mrs. Hennington. Max Factor came out with a complete new line right after that fiasco. I think we'll be using 'Graying Temples,' in keeping with our maturity image. As we all know, the youth bit is out nowadays. Fortunately with the senator we can play it either way."

"Good show, Dick," said the senator. "Harry?"

"I've run the results of our polls through the computers, both the IBM 436 and the Remington Rand 1401. Louis Harris gave us a random pattern sampling with peer-group anchorage; Gallup a saturation vertical-syndrome personality study and NORC an ethnic and racial cross-section symbiology. The results check out on both computers, although I'm programming a third as a safety-valve check-out.

"The computers have you winning the election, Senator, but by less than three thousand votes. A small shift and there goes the ball game."

The senator, startled and troubled, glanced nervously toward his wife. She gave him a smile of reassurance.

"Do the computers indicate a possible breakthrough," he asked, "with any of the peer groups? How do we stand with the Jewish vote?"

"You're solid with the Jews, Senator. Where you're in trouble is with the Negroes."

"The Negroes!" exclaimed Senator Hennington. "Why, I have the best voting record on civil rights on Capitol Hill. Just last year I broke the ADA record for correct voting on civil rights with 97.64."

"Our polls reveal a sharp decline just after your speech requesting a moratorium on civil-rights demonstrations. If we can regain most of the lost Negro percentile, Senator, we're home free."

"No use crying about a lack of voter loyalty. This calls for a 'think session.' Perhaps we should have our special assistant on minorities and civil rights sit in; although I'm not sure how helpful he'll prove. Frankly, I'm disappointed by his performance so far."

"Judy," said the senator into his office intercom, "Think session in here. No calls, please, and cancel all morning appointments. And ask Carter Summerfield to join us, will you?"

The senator turned to his wife as they awaited the arrival of Summerfield.

"Belinda, I'm beginning to have serious doubts about Summerfield, he hasn't come up with a fresh idea since he joined us, and I don't expect anything other than tired cliches from him today."

"He's fine in a campaign, Gil, that's where he'll shine. I don't think you ought to rely on him for theory."

"Perhaps you're right. I guess it's not brains we're looking for in him anyway."

"No," she smiled. "That's his least valuable commodity to us."

The senator swiveled his leather-covered chair half-round and gazed out at the Washington Monument.

"This question of the Negro vote could be serious. I never thought I'd ever be in trouble with those people. We have to come up with something which will remind them I'm the best friend they have in Washington, and soon." (p. 1-4)

And with Summerfield's help, they do come up with something: the senator publicly accuses the CIA of racially discriminatory hiring practices and challenges them to hire their first African American agent. The senator gets re-elected; the proposed hiring program swings into motion; and the CIA assembles a class of "the very best of their race", lining up black men in their underwear to check their teeth and test their temperaments. As the program drags on, the agency higher-ups do everything they can to make it impossible for any of the black candidates to pass the screening/testing process; but our protaganist Freeman, the guy who's always reserved and more or less unnoticed in the background, is the one man who makes it through and gets the job.

Freeman left his suit, shoes, shirt, tie and tooth cap in a bag, with instructions that they be delivered to the storage company that stored the rest of his clothing, records, books and paintings that had no business in his new existence. He would establish a New York base later. He had pondered the danger of leading a double life and decided that the strain of squaredom would have to be eased somehow from time to time. The few days in New York, doing the simple things he had done, had convinced him more than ever that this was important. He might be the CIA Tom in Washington, but for a few days elsewhere he would have to become Freeman again. He did not think that, even if he ran into his CIA colleagues in New York, identification would be a danger; n----rs all look alike to whites, anyway, and no one would connect the New York Freeman with the Freeman who would pioneer integration in one of the most powerful governmental institutions in the United States. (p. 31)

Freeman's disciplined behavior gains him gradual acceptance at the CIA. He is befriended by generals and senators.

The general became genuinely fond of Freeman, and while continuing to use him as a showpiece, began to use him increasingly as an administrative assistant as well. He seldom gave Freeman tasks more difficult than those he might award a reaonably intelligent secretary, but that he requested him to do more than mop the floor was in itself progress of no little degree. Even the most bigoted of the general's friends and colleagues gave him credit for "giving one of them an opportunity." It was as if the general had led the list in a drive for a popular charity. The general knew that Freeman would perform the tasks assigned him painstakingly, painfully and accurately. Freeman, in turns, learned the trick of making an easy job look difficult, a talent he shared with the vast majority of government employees in Washington, regardless of color.

The general began to take him on trips into the field more often, both at home and abroad. In the United States, of course, he would have his secretary inquire as to whether a Negro in their midst might offend anyone. Only a relative number of replies in the affirmative were received, confirming the general's pride in the progress of race relations. Freeman was often used as a liaison between the general and Senator Hennington and their mutual relations improved considerably. The senator would often invite Freeman to lunch in the Senate dining-room. The senator liked to lunch on the Hill with a Negro at least two or three times a month and often would be stuck with one who looked white, a wasted effort in image-making. Nowadays the presence of Negroes in the Senate dining-room seldom evoked any dramatic response from the southern senators, as had been the case early in the senator's career, thus taking much of the drama and pleasure from the adventure, but the senator's reputation as a flaming liberal crusader for human rights remained intact and Freeman made his small contribution, making only one minor faux pas by once requesting a wine in a good French accent. The senator did not notice and Freeman made a mental note that knowing anything at all about wines was not part of his image. The senator, flattered by Freeman's feigned ignorance and naivete, told everyone that Freeman was an extremely intelligent man. (p. 59-60)

It's intriguing to ponder how Greenlee captures and articulates DuBois's theory of dual consciousness via Freeman's double life at the CIA. But then, he turns the usual power dynamic of this racial construction on its head by making "black consciousness" the side of Freeman's psyche which ultimately appropriates from (spies upon) "white consciousness". That alone was probably enough to get it banned.

"Whad'ya think?" Marcus asked me as the final credits rolled.

"That was different," I reflected. "I think responses to this will be, well...varied. We're gonna need another round of beers to go over this."

The Voracious Genius of Xu Beihong

While I was visiting the historic-electric city of Suzhou last month, I was lucky enough to drop into the Suzhou Museum (pictured in my previous post) while they happened to be hosting a major temporary exhibit featuring the art of Xu Beihong (pronounced "SHU bay-HONG").

Now the permanent exhibits at the Suzhou Museum were amazing as well. The Suzhou area began developing agricultural settlements during the Neolithic age around 10,000 BCE, and a distinctly Chinese artistic tradition, featuring bronzes, abraded jade works, sophisticated farming tools, and fine pottery, emerged in the fertile Yangtze River Delta around 5,000 BCE. During the Spring and Autumn period (772-481 BCE) Suzhou was the capital city of the Wu state, and the region subsequently became a haven for cultural literati during the Song, Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties. According to a popular Chinese saying, "Heaven above, Suzhou and Hangzhou below." As you can imagine in a locale with such history (and such archaeological digs), there are plenty of fascinating artifacts worthy of display, study, and much slack-jawed gazing.

Nevertheless, at the end of the day it was the temporary exhibit featuring the hybrid paintings of Xu Beihong that most vividly captured my imagination. I picked up an oversize book full of reproductions of some of his most important pieces, and have been transfixed ever since.

Xu Beihong was a consummate virtuoso of the paint brush who revitalized Chinese painting by integrating European and Chinese techniques and traditions, without diminishing or compromising any of the elements he blended. [ Pictured below: "Six horses", 1939.]

Born in the village of Jitingquiao in Jiangsu province in 1895, the son of an accomplished painter, calligrapher, and professional seal carver, Xu Beihong began formally studying and practicing Chinese painting at the age of 9. When he was 13, a flood devastated his home village and his family was forced to move; during these hard times, father and son began earning a living selling commercial portraits, landscapes, flower and animal paintings, and calligraphy. Xu struggled with poverty and dashed opportunities throughout his youthful years, but he cranked out prodigious amounts of work.

His break came when he was hired by Mingzhi University in 1917. In the inaugural issue of the university's Painting Magazine, Xu published an article entitled "On the Improvement of Chinese Painting" in which he harshly criticized the stranglehold of conservatism on Chinese art, vigorously asserting that "Among world cultural phenomena the decline of Chinese painting is unprecedented." He outlined a 700-year decline in Chinese painting, and he urged modern artists "to preserve those traditional methods which are good, revive those which are moribund, change those which are bad, strengthen those which are weak, and amalgamate those elements of Western painting which can be adopted."

In 1919, Xu traveled to Paris, where he studied at the Académie Julian, then at the École Normale Supérieure des Beaux Arts. In 1920, he met Dagnan-Bouveret, the leading figure in avant-garde painting, and became a regular at the French artist's weekend studio gatherings. During this time he worked relentlessly on developing impeccable drawing skills and deeply pondering the subtler meanings in his craft. He went to Berlin in 1921 where he spent time studying at the Berlin Art Academy, and in 1925 he traveled to Singapore to spend time at the Amoy University.

Returning to China in 1927, Xu co-founded the Nanguo Academy of Fine Arts and served as head of its painting department. He became president of the Beiping Academy of Fine Arts in 1929; and in 1943 he organized the Chinese Academy of Fine Arts in Chongqing. During the 1930s and 1940s, he produced numerous large-scale oil canvases inspired by the various Western traditions he had studied while in Europe; he also created numerous pieces using traditional Chinese brushwork which nevertheless displayed a uniquely modern flair. [ Pictured: "Temple on Jizu mountain", 1942; in this piece, the technical brushwork and composition follow the manner of European still-life oils, yet the asymmetrical forms are distinctly Chinese, and the presence of the rooster in the lower corner is firmly rooted in the Chinese landscape tradition of representing a point of sentience as a diminutive presence in a larger setting.]

Perhaps particularly from my perspective as an Asian American, I see tremendous hope and passionate inspiration in the work of Xu Beihong. His work visually manifests a meaningful and mutually-beneficial modern encounter between China and the West. As I see it, there are right ways and wrong ways to fuse and synthesize multiple cultural influences and elements; in my eyes, Xu's work shows us the right way.

And so I've put together a mini-gallery of notable Xu Beihong pieces for your perusal and enjoyment.  See what you see and think and feel. Cheers!

[ Pictured below: "Tian Heng and his 500 retainers", 1930. Thanks, Mom, for your help with translations of curatorial notes! ]

Handscroll — Autumn Riverboating

As I'm staying with my parents in the Homantin district of Kowloon, yesterday my mother took the opportunity to introduce me to a fascinating family heirloom: a handscroll over 20 feet in length, bearing a traditional Chinese ink painting entitled Autumn Riverboating. Painted by my maternal great-great-grandfather, the handscroll was hijacked by an unscrupulous relative and lost for 50 years, before being fortuitously rediscovered by my great-uncle, who gave it to my great-aunt, who gave it to my grandmother, who gave it to my mother.

In Chinese culture, handscroll paintings might be likened to an early form of television: the viewer unrolls about 2 feet of the scroll, then begins rotating both ends of the scroll at the same time, so that the scenery moves by and the painting is appreciated one section at a time. In this manner, the artist exposes the audience to a series of scenes, usually depicting spectacular natural landscapes interspersed with everyday human activity.

A calligraphic inscription at the end of the Autumn Riverboating scroll proclaims that the piece's meandering journey serves to show that art and beauty can be hidden for a time, but are ultimately revealed. A second inscription by an art afficionado and family friend extols the painting's fine brushwork and exquisite composition, and describes what a pleasure it is to bring out the scroll on clear days and linger over its transportive beauty.

Here's a series of details I snapped while poring over the scroll, admiring the rhythm of the landscapes, the variety and elegance of tree and rock shapes, and the diminutive yet harmonious portrayal of human affairs. Thanks to digital technology and the internet, no middle-men will again be able to bury this artwork.

Portrait of Martin

 

[ Thanks, Sly Civilian ]

Friday Joy — Middle Eastern Dance of Asmahan

The cultural authenticity of her dancing is in dispute, but one way or another all I can say is that I'm in total awe of the dazzling flashes and waves and flutters of light streaming off the body of Asmahan as she moves...

Vernal Equinox

Today is first full official day of Spring. The dark stormy days of winter begin to recede into a misty memory of hardship, and the sun's trajectory breaks free of its entanglements in the sky and begins to rise up to warm the Earth in earnest. And what a miserable winter it's been, with more chaos and confusion and heartbreak than I can remember in a long while. It's time to put all that behind us. 

This is a time of rebirth, renewal, growth. This is a time for the emergence of new vitality and the casting off of the hardened crusts of hibernation and death. In personal terms, this is a perfect time to re-create yourself in a new image, to re-invent yourself according to a fresh mold. In the Chinese tradition, you already threw out all your old outdated stuff during New Years festivities, but now is a good time to refresh bedrooms and living rooms and wardrobes with inspiring new items that reflect the new identity you seek to create. These changes don't have to be extravagant; they must only be meaningful and noticable. The old containers of the self no longer feel appropriate, they've become constricting and stale. The chrysalis stirs in its cocoon. The spirit seeks new energy, bright colors, fresh dreams.

For activists, it's a good time to reconsider our projects and re-assess our course. Projects that reek of staleness and energy-drain and death can be abandoned. Projects that offer excitement and passion and hope can be more fully embraced and prioritized. Projects that seem worthwhile but have not yet been taken up due to previous limitations can be considered. The same goes for the people in one's life. Draining or toxic people can be removed from one's orbit, empowering people more fully embraced.

All in all, it's a tremendously exciting time. It's my favorite time of the year (okay, this is an inside joke, because all my friends know that I say this every single season). Sexual energy stirs, and that always gets people fired up to fight for the right to party. And fight we must, because if we don't, there will be no more parties. And that's simply not acceptable.

So to all the good people out there, Happy Spring Equinox! May you feel the warm vernal glow in your heart and in your bones, and may it set your mind on fire with fresh and passionate ideas of progress.

The Monkey King

[ via Flight forums ]

La mime existentielle de Jerome Murat

[ Via Uncle Damian, Thanks! ]

Behold the Prince of Peace

[ Image via Skeptical Brotha ]

Image Meme: Eight Things I Find Amazing in Picture Form

Having been tagged by La Belle Dame de Fetch me my axe Ville-sur-mer, I'm pleased to offer a humble 8-image sequence as a small contribution to this exchange.

In the beginning, was it The Word or The Picture? I'm not so sure; in any case, it all begins with (1) The Mind. Works of Chinese calligraphy are sometimes called "Pictures of the Mind", because they encompass both word and feeling, employ both thought and physical movement, appeal to both logic and aesthetics, impact both intellect and intuition. I'm no expert, but I'm especially drawn to the cursive and semi-cursive styles that first flourished during the Tang and Song dynasties. In the development of those styles, the ideals of symmetry and balance transcended a strict rectilineal orientation and expanded to include the subtle rhythms and internal dynamics of the brush's weight, wetness, speed, and curvature. Put another way: cursive script dropped the nasty funk on early script's uptight ass.

1. Sixteen Luohans by Mi Wanzhong

"Sixteen Luohans" (at the Met) refers to a non-dimensional realm inhabited by 16 liberated souls (arhat in Sanskrit) of Chinese legend, who have transcended the world's sorrow. I love this piece both because of what it means and because of the big-ass dramatic strength and detailed delicacy of the strokes.

Calligraphic brushwork evolved into the stylized ink landscapes that most Americans are at least minimally familiar with from restaurant murals and museum literature. Bypassing the discursive intellect, the central goal of Chinese landscape painting is to capture a subtle yet powerful feeling of (2) Stillness amid life's overwhelming, bewildering motion.

2. Sandstorm Day by Don Hong-Oai

Obviously this isn't a painting; it's actually a composite by Don Hong-Oai, who deploys modern photographic techniques in pursuit of the aesthetic and metaphysical ideals of traditional Chinese painting. His works evoke a surreal sense of silence and distance. Critics say Don's montages are far-fetched works of unscientific fantasy. My response: And what? He's not doing Scientific American: Special Chinese Landscape Edition; he's doing his own thing. It's not supposed to be a map of a mountain, it's supposed to be a map to your mind.

Chinese landscapes aren't even all that far-fetched, as far as I'm concerned. I spend a lot of time in nature, and I find that my region is drenched in enough (3) Natural Beauty to put any Chinese landscape artist to shame.

3. Mohonk Mountain Gazebo

 

Mohonk Mountain is about two hours north of where I live, not far from the cute progressive college town of New Paltz, where I spend an occasional weekend hiking, dining, and slugging some seasonal micro-brew while listening to the local kids ramble on in that earnest way about this or that opinion or ambition.

Sometimes I also listen to college kids down in the East Village — preferably at the cramped Momofuku Noodle Bar, where NYU students huddle over plates of pork buns and steaming bowls of (4) Noodle Soup, the most comforting and satisfying food in my gastronomic world. (And just like that, we've moved from exalted states of mind to food for the body.)

4. Momofuku Ramen

Seriously, what could be better than that? The egg gets poached right in the bowl, the noodles remain firm throughout the meal, the barbecue pork is unbelievably succulent, every ingredient is impeccable.

And yet no matter how good your comfort food is, there's no comfort for what's happening in the world. In Buddhism, it's said that the First Noble Truth is: Life is full of heartbreak and dissatisfaction. This doesn't mean you give in to the horrible suffering of it all; it means that even in the worst times, amid the worst pain, you keep your mind clear and focused, you hold yourself together, and you keep fighting the good fight.

The cataclysm of (5) Hurricane Katrina and the (6) War In Iraq aren't, by any means, all that's going wrong in the US. Millions of people silently suffer myriad injustices everyday. But Katrina and Iraq stand out in my mind as emblems of the tragic crimes of the Bush-Cheney years.

5. Photo by Alan Chin

6. Photo by Michael Yon

I haven't given up on either New Orleans or getting US troops out of Iraq. But it's hard not to feel some despair these days when honestly assessing the situation. The future of New Orleans, and the many residents who were scattered to the wind, looks shaky at best.

As for Iraq: It's a killing field. The Lancet study and the unabated violence confirm our worst fears. Riverbend's despair is palpable in her latest post:

There are Iraqi women who have not shed their black mourning robes since 2003 because each time the end of the proper mourning period comes around, some other relative dies and the countdown begins once again.

There's not much one can say in response to that. We just all need to work harder to stop this madness. And that means not only stopping the madness of others, but also stopping the madness within ourselves — by which I mean, overcoming the hateful, destructive parts within our own psyches that contribute to the world's collective mass-hypnotic hysteria.

There are as many ways to accomplish that as there are sentient beings. As the saying goes, there's a drop of (7) Buddha Nature in everyone and everything. It's just a matter of uncovering that drop of nirvana from beneath many geological layers of samsara personality build-up.

7. Tian Tan Monastery on Lantau Island

I first visited the Big Buddha on Lantau Island in Hong Kong while it was still under construction in the early 1990s. I remember hiking in the surrounding hills, stopping for a vegetarian lunch with the monks at Tian Tan monastery. It has since become a major tourist attraction, but that doesn't take anything away from the spectacular sculpture. And the monks are still there serving vegetarian lunches to those who take the time to find out.

Of course, no human-made work of art can ultimately compare with the Creator's own handiwork. As the autumn season gets into full swing, and we just begin to contemplate the approach of winter, I thought I'd leave you with an image of (8) Perfection.

8. Snowflake

They tumble from the sky by the billions, and the cliche is true: no two are alike. Each tiny mandala of water and light is a fresh doorway into the mind of the Creator.

The Metropolitan Opera: Tan Dun and Zhang Yimou's The First Emperor

According to the New York Times, "the Great Wall of China [is] built and torn down on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera for Zhang Yimou’s production of Tan Dun’s highly anticipated new opera, 'The First Emperor,' which opens on Dec. 21." I'm looking forward to seeing it:

Among its challenges in staging this opera, the Met is working with a predominantly Chinese, non-English-speaking production team, headed by Mr. Zhang, China’s best-known filmmaker (“Raise the Red Lantern,” “Hero,” “House of Flying Daggers”). Mr. Zhang says he is no fan of Western opera productions. His theatrical visions, as for the only other opera he has directed, nearly a decade ago, are large and bright enough to fill Beijing’s Forbidden City, the foot of a mountain or an Olympic stadium.

“It’s on a pretty big scale, even for our stage,” said Joe Clark, the Met’s technical director, who has overseen the company’s production side — scenery, lights, sound, special effects, wigs, costumes, makeup, stage maintenance, carpentry and electric shops — since 1980. “It’s like ‘Hero,’ in that instead of 10 of something, there’s a hundred of them, all of which must work in perfect coordination.”

Mr. Tan wrote the music for Mr. Zhang’s “Hero,” to which “The First Emperor” is a prequel. [...]

What arose on the Met stage this summer was different.

About 250 plywood rectangular blocks, some as long as three feet, are each suspended from two ropes. In the final scene they become the building blocks of the Great Wall. Throughout the opera the blocks will be shifted, pushed, pulled, lifted and flipped, sometimes by the 90 members of the chorus and the 40 dancers, to create different scenes.

The simulated stones hover above and beside an enormous black aluminum stairway, 36 steps high and resembling an enormous grandstand, which occupies the length and breadth of the stage throughout the opera. Most of the action takes place on the steps, which can become transparent, creating two visible worlds, one atop the structure and another beneath it.

Amid all this abstraction appear magnificent, historically authentic props, like a painted-lacquer bed, on which a sex scene takes place (while dancers writhe beneath the steps), and a huge Chinese carpet fit for the feet of the imperial family. The emperor’s umbrella-shaded chariot looks like the bronze version unearthed along with the thousands of terra-cotta soldiers near Qin Shi Huangdi’s tomb in Xian.

But it was the unexpected effect of the hundreds of hanging ropes — seven miles long when laid end to end — that seemed to evince the most delight from the dozen or so people watching the tech rehearsals. (“We finally got enough rope to hang ourselves,” Mr. Clark quoted one stagehand as saying.)

“The ropes create an atmosphere I’ve never seen before,” said Mr. Schuler, the lighting designer. “They offer a palette to work on.” [...]

Must opera change to be embraced by a new, global generation? Mr. Zhang and Mr. Tan think so.

“I believe we can attract a younger generation from both sides of the world,” Mr. Zhang said earlier this year in a meeting at the Met. “The visual part, the stage elements, are very important to them.”

Mr. Tan, who was interpreting for him, inserted a long measure of East-West harmony: “As artists, we really hope through the visual and the musical contact, the American people and the Chinese people can be good brothers, and so it will be good for the people and good for opera. It’s much better than the sports context, because sports is competitive — fighting — but opera is unity and harmony.”

Well, yes, if you don’t pay attention to the story of “The First Emperor,” which includes betrayal, self-mutilation and mass murder.

Banksy Strikes Again: The Disney War on Terror

Upon entering Banksy's website, the first words you see are: "If you want an audience — start a fight".

Banksy has an audience. His unique brand of guerilla art picks fights with the powerful and the corrupt. He blends constantly surprising, innovative street theater with a razor-sharp political wit and a refined visual sensibilitity, creating what I consider to be the most powerfully subversive art being produced today.

I've been a Banksy fan ever since he cemented a 20-foot bronze sculpture weighing three-and-a-half tons in a public square in London, depicting Justice as a stripper in a thong. In his latest public oeuvre, he has installed a life-size replica of a Guantanamo Bay detainee, wearing an orange jumpsuit and a black hood over his head, in the fake landscape of the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad ride at Disneyland.

From BAGnewsNotes:

Done well, irony is endlessly robust.  I'd be writing until the bars in Barcelona opened in the morning (serving up all those pasteles and croissants) to provide you a fuller list of associations.  Instead, here are a few that strike me right off:

-- Obviously, America has made a full return to prairie justice.

-- The scene bears witness to the refashioning of "American progress."  At one time, the locomotive ushered in a new era of American capacity and vision.  Apparently, the (so-named) war on (undefined) terrorism has come to symbolize our bold leap into modernity.

--  Are the Gitmo detainees simply prisoners, or -- like the doll behind the fence -- are they actually a perverse amusement attraction? (And, because the photo puts the viewer inside with him, are the American people -- along with the reporters who document this political theatre every day-- trapped inside, as well?)

-- Love the cross.  Is that a warning to the evil doers about where they'll end up, or is just part of the mission statement?

From BBC News:

The hooded figure was placed inside the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad ride at the California theme park last weekend. It is understood to have remained in place for 90 minutes before the ride was closed down and the figure removed. A spokeswoman for Banksy said the stunt was intended to highlight the plight of terror suspects at the controversial detention centre in Cuba.

Banksy is notorious for his secretive and subversive stunts - such as sneaking doctored versions of classic paintings into major art galleries. In 2005, he embarrassed the British Museum by planting a hoax cave painting of a man pushing a supermarket trolley, which he said went unnoticed for three days. Last week, he smuggled 500 "alternative" versions of Paris Hilton's album into record shops around the UK. The artist replaced Hilton's songs with his own remixes, which were given titles such as Why am I Famous?, What Have I Done? and What Am I For? He also changed the artwork to show the US socialite topless and with a dog's head.

Last year, Banksy weighed in on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict by spray-painting evocative graffiti images on the "security fence" that encloses Palestinians in the occupied territories. From the Guardian:

Israel describes it as a vital security barrier, while the UN says it's illegal. But as far as the guerrilla graffiti artist Banksy is concerned, the 425-mile long barrier that separates Israel from the Palestinian territories is a vast concrete canvas too tempting to resist. [...]

Packing his stencils and spray cans, he went to the Middle East to share his vision with those living on the Palestinian side. His visit is recorded in the nine stencilled pictures, some surreal, some poignant, he left on the gigantic barrier. His latest work was on his website yesterday, labelled "holiday snaps".

Although the paintings themselves are not overtly political, his feelings about the wall are apparent from his statement: "The Israeli government is building a wall surrounding the occupied Palestinian territories. It stands three times the height of the Berlin Wall and will eventually run for over 700km - the distance from London to Zurich. The wall is illegal under international law and essentially turns Palestine into the world's largest open prison."

But he concedes: "It also makes it the ultimate activity holiday destination for graffiti writers."

One of the pictures shows two gleeful children with bucket and spade standing beneath a hole in the wall that opens on to a vista of a tropical paradise. In another, he has transformed the wall into a cosy sitting room complete with two enormous armchairs and a window that frames an alpine landscape.

Other pictures show a little boy kneeling at the foot of a rope ladder that snakes to the top of the wall and the silhouette of a girl rising through the air clutching balloons.

Blackface Joe: Five Grievances

UPDATE (2006-09-21 06:55EST): The latest: The Color Line and the Perceptual Gulf and A Chasm Illuminated.

UPDATE (2006-10-03 16:14EST): Still more Zukiness at An Uncanny (Media Tactic) Resemblance and A Chasm Accentuated.

Here are 5 problems I have with Blackface Joe:

(1) Visual Impact: Tell me honestly, if you empty your mind and look at the picture fresh, as most people will, who's the first target of visual mockery? Black folks or Lieberman? I'd argue that the image's raw, visual, stereotypical mockery of blacks handily outweighs any secondary intellectualizations that might be layered on top. Now I'm sure some white Americans view the stylized humiliation and emasculation of African Americans, and other people of color, as a yawn-worthy cultural norm, easily overlooked in the service of an important liberal political campaign. But I'm not down with that. I think progressives should energetically analyze and criticize linguistic, conceptual, and visual constructions which reinforce the cultural norms of white supremacy. This isn't "political correctness"; white supremacy isn't a fabrication of the "PC police" or any humorless leftist conspiracy. Political correctness never lynched anybody; human beings who emerged from a white supremacist culture did, and do. Crying PC is a scant excuse for the intellectual and spiritual laziness that underlies privilege. Blackface is only funny if lynching is funny. I'll welcome that day; but we're not there yet.

(2) Crossed Metaphor: The central satirical point of Blackface Joe is to highlight the fakeness of Lieberman's overtures to black voters. In other words: Lieberman's attempts to portray himself as a civil rights champion are as fake as the make-up on a blackface minstrel. Here's the metaphorical problem: Minstrels applied make-up in order to mock African Americans, whereas Lieberman's act is meant to appeal to African Americans (get it? blackface is for white consumption only). Lieberman's attempts might exude a clueless "old white dude" stiffness about them, but it's not blackface, any more than Lamont's overtures are. I think the metaphor gets its own internal logic crossed and badly misses the mark, leaving only the decontextualized visual impact as the persistent message.

(3) Imprecise Framing: As usual, Bill Clinton's presence creates more confusion than clarity. He's the "white" foil, arm in arm with Lieberman's blackface. The superimposed sunglasses appear to be an effort to make him more "ethnic" or "soulful" (a la Blues Brothers), but that's where I get lost. What exactly are we to gather from this extended metaphor? Bill Clinton is Joe Lieberman's soulful slave master? I don't even know what that means. So what are we supposed to resent: Joe's fakeness or Bill's being a slave master? Again, the metaphor's essential sloppiness leaves the viewer with little more than the raw fact of the visual impact. It's hard to avoid the feeling that Clinton has been spared the blackface treatment simply because the artist holds Clinton in higher esteem than Lieberman. In this sense, blackface becomes a cheap slander, like drawing a mustache on a girl; and as surely as the mustache on the girl is intended to make her ugly and ridiculous, the blackface on Lieberman appears intended to do the same.

[ UPDATE (2006-09-26 22:45EST): Darkblack has offered this explanation: "Clinton's black, opaque glasses signify that he is 'blind' to how he is being used, as I made clear at FDL over a month ago. A side effect here is that he, in real life, no longer suffers that 'affliction'." I don't know about you, but the mere presence of dark shades doesn't make Clinton look blind to me. Furthermore, I seriously doubt Clinton was "blind" to what Lieberman was doing; he's a slick operative who understands the political game as well as anyone. Basically, even with darkblack's clarification, I believe the image suffers from Imprecise Framing.]

(4) Gratuitous Invocation: Of course, there are instances when it makes complete sense for a fearless artist to invoke explosive, culturally-loaded imagery in the service of an ambitious artistic objective. But my feeling is that the offensiveness of the material should be justified by the loftiness of the artistic enterprise. In other words, I think you can justifiably satirize the Bible if you're writing "The Last Temptation of Christ"; you can justifiably satirize the Koran if you're writing "The Satanic Verses"; but in the case of Blackface Joe, the argument for risky satire is, shall we say, less clear. The upside just doesn't live up to the downside. From a story-telling perspective, the shock value overwhelms any intended plot development. Obviously this is a subjective measure, but it's part of my frank explanation; realistically I could have let this image slide if it accomplished something more; but it didn't. That makes its offensive imagery gratuitous.

In fairness to the PC-haters and other erstwhile champions of controversial imagery, I should note that on one level they're right: cultural expression should not be policed in any way. I don't mean to suggest that offensive imagery should be censored. As far as I'm concerned, you should say and publish any damn thing you choose. And then I'll say and publish any damn thing I choose about what you said. Don't blame me if your own foolishness sticks to you. Free speech means freedom to speak like an idiot, I suppose. Free speech isn't at issue in this discussion; the substantive meaning and value of a specific image is.

(5) Flippant Defense: The last thing that rubbed me the wrong way about the whole Blackface Joe episode was the cavalier lack of contrition from its originators. I don't for a moment believe that either Jane Hamsher or darkblack are racists; I'm just pissed that they don't get what's so wrong about what they did. Jane's apology came straight out of the "asshole boyfriend non-apology" book of patronizing dismissals: "I apologize that you're upset, though if you're upset you're probably my political enemy". Wow, that brush-off makes Arianna's Clooney-triggered soul-searching look positively spiritual.

Thankfully, the bottom line remains: Lamont won. But as long as Lamont's supporters, and other progressives, refuse to confront the uncomfortable implications of Blackface Joe, the progressive vehicle won't be firing on all cylinders.

Portrait of Cindy

Via Common Dreams, Robert Shetterly is a Maine-based writer and artist whose acrylic-on-panel series Americans Who Tell the Truth combines, with simple elegance, the human portraits and powerful words of great Americans. His most recent subject is Cindy Sheehan, and here's what he has to say about it in an essay called "Painting Cindy":

Several weeks ago Cindy Sheehan came to Maine to speak at the WERU Full Circle Fair. My partner Gail & I had the privilege & honor of having Cindy stay with us. I had been in touch with her by email for months about painting her portrait. So, I was not expecting some of her characteristics: the high sweet voice contrasting with the toughness of her words – like sugary icing on a cake of steel; her gentle, calm, humorous manner encasing an absolute determination to hammer meaning and justice out of the unnecessary death of her son Casey in Iraq. She was self-conscious & apprehensive about my desire to paint her portrait, though, saying she’s never seen a good picture of herself. But she told me that when she looked at the other people in the Americans Who Tell The Truth portrait series, saw what company she was joining, she wept with humility and gratitude.

Painting a portrait is a curious business. You might think that getting the likeness is the hard thing. It’s not. After one has been painting for awhile, it’s not really that difficult to reproduce the correct slope of the eyes, the idiosyncratic architecture of a nose, the subtle topography of that crevice between the nose & the upper lip or at the corners of the mouth. The challenge is not to accept a likeness that coarsens the individual or caricatures her, that merely is emblematic of the person the way the word "tree" is emblematic of a real, living, particular oak. An artist wants to capture something of the complex emotions and real character of the subject. That "something" which conveys respect for and honors her struggles, determination, and courage. Grief and anger and love.

After Cindy left Maine, she drove to Rhode Island and back to Massachusetts for speaking engagements, then headed for Dallas to speak at the Veterans for Peace Conference. I was already at work on her portrait, working from photos I had taken of her as she stood by a window in our living room, the left side of her face lighted, the right in shadow. From the road she emailed me when she heard the news that 20 U.S. soldiers from Cleveland had been killed in two days in Iraq. Her anguish was intense. Something had to be done. Something to stop this war. Something to stop families from having to go through what she was going through. It was at that point that she decided to go to Crawford & demand that Bush talk with her. I already had painted her sharp, blue eyes to the point that they were looking back at me from the canvas, talking to me about the fierceness of her quest, the eyelids red from weeping, grey-blue and ochre circles underneath from exhaustion, and an inchoate knowledge taking shape – the knowledge that Cindy already had, but that I was learning as I painted and tried to understand the look in those eyes: the knowledge that she could not be intimidated or diverted, that the spin doctors and hate-mongers could belittle and disparage her to no avail. The eyes had no fear. They had a clarity of purpose that was at once sad, defiant, and calm. It reminded me of the look in Fannie Lou Hamer’s eyes when she said, "But if I fall, I’ll fall five feet, four inches forward in the fight for freedom. I’m not backing off."

Subversive Comic Strips

The Boondocks by Aaron McGruder

Slowpoke by Jen Sorensen

This Modern World by Tom Tomorrow