Noi, Ragazzi di oggi. Italia 1985
Luis Miguel en vivo 2012
Friday, July 12, 2013
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Excerpt from The Matisse Stories. This excerpt is from the last story in the collection “The Chinese Lobster”.
‘I have had this rather unpleasant letter which I must talk to you
about. It seemed to me important to discuss it informally and in an
unofficial context, so to speak. I don’t know if it will come as
surprise to you.’
Perry Diss reads quickly, and empties his glass of Tiger beer, which is quickly replaced with another by the middle-aged Chinese man.
‘Poor little bitch,’ says Perry Diss. ‘What a horrible state of mind to be in. Whoever gave her the idea that she had any artistic talent ought to be shot.’
Don’t say bitch, Gerda Himmelblau tells him in her head, wincing.
‘Do you remember the occasion she complains of?’
‘Well, in a way I do, in a way. Her account isn’t very recognisable. We did meet last week to discuss her complete lack of progress on his dissertation – she appears indeed to have regressed since she put in her proposal, which I am glad to say I was not responsible for accepting. She has forgotten several of the meagre facts she once knew, or appeared to know, about Matisse. I do not see how she can possibly be given a degree – she is ignorant and lazy and pigheadedly misdirected – and I felt it my duty to tell her so. In my experience, Dr Himmelblau, a ot of harm has been done by misguided kindness to lazy and ignorant students who have been cosseted and nurtured and never told they are not up to scratch.’
‘That may well be the case. But she makes specific allegations – you went to her studio – ‘
‘Oh yes. I went. I am not as brutal as I appear. I did try to give her the benefit of the doubt. That part of her account bears some resemblance to the truth – that is, to what I remember of those very disagreeable events. I did say something about the inarticulacy of painters and so on – you can’t have worked in art schools as long as I have without knowing that some can use words and some can only use materials – it’s interesting how you can’t always predict which.
‘Anyway, I went and looked at her so-called Work. The phraseology is cating. “So-called”. A pantechnicon contemporary term of abuse.’
‘And?’
‘The work is horrible, Dr Himmelblau. It disgusts. It desecrates. Her studio – in which the poor creature also eats and sleeps – is papered with posters of Matisse’s work. La Reve. La Nu rose. La Nu bleu. Grande Robe bleue. La Musique. L’Artiste et son modele. Zorba sur la terrasse. And they have all been smeared and defaced. With what looks like organic matter – blood, Dr Himmelblau, beef stew or faeces – I incline towards the latter since I cannot imagine good daube finding its way into that miserable tenement. Some of the daubings are deliberate reworkings of bodies or faces – changes of outlines – some are like thrown tomatoes – probably are thrown tomatoes – and eggs, yes – and some are great swastikas of shit. It is appalling. It is pathetic.’
‘It is no doubt meant to disgust and desecrate,’ states Dr Himmelblau, neutrally.
‘And what does that matter? How can that excuse it?’ roars Perry Diss, startling the younger Chinese woman, who is lighting the wax lamps under the plate warmer, so that she jumps back.
‘In recent times,’ says Dr Himmelblau, ‘art has traditionally had an element of protest.’
‘Traditional protest, hmph,’ shouts Perry Diss, his neck reddening. ‘Nobody minds protest, I’ve protested in my time, we all have, you aren’t the real thing if you don’t have a go at being shocking, protest is de rigeur, I know. But what I object to here, is the shoddiness, the laziness. It seems to me – forgive me, Dr Himmelblau – but this – this caca offends something I do hold sacred, a word that would make that little bitch snigger, no doubt, but sacred, yes – it seems to me, that if she could have produced worked copies of those – those masterpieces – those shining – never mind – if she could have done some work – understood the blues, and the pinks, and the whites, and the oranges, yes, and the blacks too – and if she could still have brought herself to feel she must – must savage them – then I would have had to feel some respect.’
‘You have to be careful about the word masterpieces,’ murmurs Dr Himmelblau.
‘Oh, I know all that stuff, I know it well. But you have got to listen to me. It can have taken at the maximum half an hour – and there’s no evidence anywhere in the silly girl’s work that she’s ever spent more than that actually looking at a Matisse – she has no accurate memory of one when we talk, none, she amalgamates them all in her mind into one monstrous female corpse bursting with male aggression – she can’t see, can’t you see? And for half an hour’s shit-spreading we must give her a degree?’
‘Matisse,’ says Gerda Himmelblau, ‘would sometimes make a mark, and consider, and put the canvas away for weeks or months until he knew where to put the next mark.’
‘I know.’
‘Well – the – the shit-spreading may have required the same consideration. As to location of daubs.’
‘Don’t be silly. I can see paintings, you know. I did look to see if there was any wit in where all this detritus was applied. Any visual wit, you know, I know it’s meant to be funny. There wasn’t. It was just slapped on. It was horrible.’
‘It was meant to disturb you. It disturbed you.’
‘Look – Dr Himmelblau – whose side are you on? I’ve read your Mantegna monograph. Mes compliments, it is a chef-d’oeuvre. Have you seen this stuff? Have you for that matter seen Peggi Nollett?’
‘I am not on anyone’s side, Professor Diss. I am the Dean of Women’s Students, and I have received a formal complaint against you, about which I have to take formal action. And that could be, in the present climate, very disturbing for me, for the Department, for the University, and for yourself. I may be exceeding my strict duty in letting you know of this in this informal way. I am very anxious to know what you have to say in answer to her specific charge.
‘And yes, I have seen Peggi Nollett. Frequently. And her work, on one occasion.’
‘Well, then. If you have een her you will know that I can have made no such – no such advances as she describes. Her skin is like a potato and her body is like a decaying potato, in all that great bundle of smocks and vests and knitwear and penitential hangings. Have you seen her legs and arms, Dr Himmelblau? They are bandaged like mummies, they are all swollen with strapping and strings and then they are contained in nasty black greaves and gauntlets of plastic with buckles. You expect some awful yellow ooze to seep oout between the layers, ready to be smeared on La Joie de vivre. And her hair, I do not think her hair can have been washed for some years. It is like a carefully preserved old frying-pan, grease undisturbed by water. You cannot believe I could have brought myself to touch her, Dr Himmelblau?’
‘It is difficult, certainly.’
‘It is impossible. I may have told her that she would be better if she wore fewer layers – I may even, imprudently – thinking, you understand, of potatoes – have said something about letting the air get to her. But I assure you that was as far as it went. I was trying against my instincts to converse with her as a human being. The rest is her horrible fantasy. I hope you will believe me, Dr Himmelblau. You yourelf are about the only almost-witness I can call in my defense.’
‘I do believe you,’ says Gerda Himmelblau, with a little sigh.
‘Then let that be the end of the matter,’ says Perry Diss. ‘Let us enjoy these delicious morsels and talk about something more agreeable than Peggi Nollett. These prawns are as good as I have ever had.’
Perry Diss reads quickly, and empties his glass of Tiger beer, which is quickly replaced with another by the middle-aged Chinese man.
‘Poor little bitch,’ says Perry Diss. ‘What a horrible state of mind to be in. Whoever gave her the idea that she had any artistic talent ought to be shot.’
Don’t say bitch, Gerda Himmelblau tells him in her head, wincing.
‘Do you remember the occasion she complains of?’
‘Well, in a way I do, in a way. Her account isn’t very recognisable. We did meet last week to discuss her complete lack of progress on his dissertation – she appears indeed to have regressed since she put in her proposal, which I am glad to say I was not responsible for accepting. She has forgotten several of the meagre facts she once knew, or appeared to know, about Matisse. I do not see how she can possibly be given a degree – she is ignorant and lazy and pigheadedly misdirected – and I felt it my duty to tell her so. In my experience, Dr Himmelblau, a ot of harm has been done by misguided kindness to lazy and ignorant students who have been cosseted and nurtured and never told they are not up to scratch.’
‘That may well be the case. But she makes specific allegations – you went to her studio – ‘
‘Oh yes. I went. I am not as brutal as I appear. I did try to give her the benefit of the doubt. That part of her account bears some resemblance to the truth – that is, to what I remember of those very disagreeable events. I did say something about the inarticulacy of painters and so on – you can’t have worked in art schools as long as I have without knowing that some can use words and some can only use materials – it’s interesting how you can’t always predict which.
‘Anyway, I went and looked at her so-called Work. The phraseology is cating. “So-called”. A pantechnicon contemporary term of abuse.’
‘And?’
‘The work is horrible, Dr Himmelblau. It disgusts. It desecrates. Her studio – in which the poor creature also eats and sleeps – is papered with posters of Matisse’s work. La Reve. La Nu rose. La Nu bleu. Grande Robe bleue. La Musique. L’Artiste et son modele. Zorba sur la terrasse. And they have all been smeared and defaced. With what looks like organic matter – blood, Dr Himmelblau, beef stew or faeces – I incline towards the latter since I cannot imagine good daube finding its way into that miserable tenement. Some of the daubings are deliberate reworkings of bodies or faces – changes of outlines – some are like thrown tomatoes – probably are thrown tomatoes – and eggs, yes – and some are great swastikas of shit. It is appalling. It is pathetic.’
‘It is no doubt meant to disgust and desecrate,’ states Dr Himmelblau, neutrally.
‘And what does that matter? How can that excuse it?’ roars Perry Diss, startling the younger Chinese woman, who is lighting the wax lamps under the plate warmer, so that she jumps back.
‘In recent times,’ says Dr Himmelblau, ‘art has traditionally had an element of protest.’
‘Traditional protest, hmph,’ shouts Perry Diss, his neck reddening. ‘Nobody minds protest, I’ve protested in my time, we all have, you aren’t the real thing if you don’t have a go at being shocking, protest is de rigeur, I know. But what I object to here, is the shoddiness, the laziness. It seems to me – forgive me, Dr Himmelblau – but this – this caca offends something I do hold sacred, a word that would make that little bitch snigger, no doubt, but sacred, yes – it seems to me, that if she could have produced worked copies of those – those masterpieces – those shining – never mind – if she could have done some work – understood the blues, and the pinks, and the whites, and the oranges, yes, and the blacks too – and if she could still have brought herself to feel she must – must savage them – then I would have had to feel some respect.’
‘You have to be careful about the word masterpieces,’ murmurs Dr Himmelblau.
‘Oh, I know all that stuff, I know it well. But you have got to listen to me. It can have taken at the maximum half an hour – and there’s no evidence anywhere in the silly girl’s work that she’s ever spent more than that actually looking at a Matisse – she has no accurate memory of one when we talk, none, she amalgamates them all in her mind into one monstrous female corpse bursting with male aggression – she can’t see, can’t you see? And for half an hour’s shit-spreading we must give her a degree?’
‘Matisse,’ says Gerda Himmelblau, ‘would sometimes make a mark, and consider, and put the canvas away for weeks or months until he knew where to put the next mark.’
‘I know.’
‘Well – the – the shit-spreading may have required the same consideration. As to location of daubs.’
‘Don’t be silly. I can see paintings, you know. I did look to see if there was any wit in where all this detritus was applied. Any visual wit, you know, I know it’s meant to be funny. There wasn’t. It was just slapped on. It was horrible.’
‘It was meant to disturb you. It disturbed you.’
‘Look – Dr Himmelblau – whose side are you on? I’ve read your Mantegna monograph. Mes compliments, it is a chef-d’oeuvre. Have you seen this stuff? Have you for that matter seen Peggi Nollett?’
‘I am not on anyone’s side, Professor Diss. I am the Dean of Women’s Students, and I have received a formal complaint against you, about which I have to take formal action. And that could be, in the present climate, very disturbing for me, for the Department, for the University, and for yourself. I may be exceeding my strict duty in letting you know of this in this informal way. I am very anxious to know what you have to say in answer to her specific charge.
‘And yes, I have seen Peggi Nollett. Frequently. And her work, on one occasion.’
‘Well, then. If you have een her you will know that I can have made no such – no such advances as she describes. Her skin is like a potato and her body is like a decaying potato, in all that great bundle of smocks and vests and knitwear and penitential hangings. Have you seen her legs and arms, Dr Himmelblau? They are bandaged like mummies, they are all swollen with strapping and strings and then they are contained in nasty black greaves and gauntlets of plastic with buckles. You expect some awful yellow ooze to seep oout between the layers, ready to be smeared on La Joie de vivre. And her hair, I do not think her hair can have been washed for some years. It is like a carefully preserved old frying-pan, grease undisturbed by water. You cannot believe I could have brought myself to touch her, Dr Himmelblau?’
‘It is difficult, certainly.’
‘It is impossible. I may have told her that she would be better if she wore fewer layers – I may even, imprudently – thinking, you understand, of potatoes – have said something about letting the air get to her. But I assure you that was as far as it went. I was trying against my instincts to converse with her as a human being. The rest is her horrible fantasy. I hope you will believe me, Dr Himmelblau. You yourelf are about the only almost-witness I can call in my defense.’
‘I do believe you,’ says Gerda Himmelblau, with a little sigh.
‘Then let that be the end of the matter,’ says Perry Diss. ‘Let us enjoy these delicious morsels and talk about something more agreeable than Peggi Nollett. These prawns are as good as I have ever had.’
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