Delights for the Ingenious

After due consideration, I've decided it's time for a change.

That's my way of saying that this blog has moved, and will henceforth be found at:

delightsfortheingenious.blogspot.com/

Hope to see you all there.

Via Blogmeridian (et al) comes a real underdog story. Paul Potts, mobile phone salesman, is competing in Simon Cowell's latest cringe-fest, "Britain's Got Talent", and has won over pretty much everybody (including me, insofar as I feel I need to support anybody in this particular race... better him than arch rival Bessie).

Everybody that is, except for one mean-spirited commentator (and overall pretentious arsehole, by the sound of it) — who's soon set right in the comments section, from tvanrys (who by the name I suspect might actually be Welsh and thus biased) downwards (not that I've read all the comments, mind you) — and the ever-vigilant Swiss newspaper 20 Minuten (so called because that's how long it takes to read — no joke).

20 Minuten (and only the German language edition, oddly enough), claim to have uncovered a "TV-Beschiss" (from German 'bescheißen' meaning, literally, to 'beshit' someone, i.e. to pull s.o.'s leg (a word previously featured on this blog with reference to my last trip to Switzerland, as it happens)). I'm sure the readers of 20 Minuten have gone to work feeling satisfied that yet another instance of media manipulation has been uncovered in a country other than their own, but the fact of the matter is, of course, that there in fact is no story here.

Even a cursory glance at Mr. Potts's Wikipedia page reveals that he has indeed appeared on television before, and that he has in fact participated in a masterclass of Pavarotti's (which I suppose technically might make him a student of his, but there is a subtle difference there somewhere, I'm fairly sure), and even sung in an opera or two at the renowned Bath Opera company, which just so happens to be an amateur company — which would seem to go some way towards vitiating the 20 Minuten's description of him as an "ausgebildeter Opern-Profi", it seems to me.

I mean, give the guy a break. So what if he's not quite up to professional standard — despite having, yes I know it's hard to believe, sung before, in front of people even? He still works at Carphone Warehouse and met his wife on the internet. Who cares if he's picked the only two operatic pieces your average British punter is likely to reward with a standing ovation; "Nessun dorma" from Italia '90 and "Con te partirò (feat. Sarah Brightman)" from every Mother's Day compilation of the last decade? It's a talent show, and a low-brow one at that. He's hardly going to do anything obscure, now is he?

Admittedly, I'm somewhat dubious of his decision to sing "Nessun dorma" again for the final on Sunday. Surely there's a third [p]opera hit he could attempt? "Ridi Pagliaccio", perhaps?

Hmmm. Maybe not. Still, if there are any Queen fans in the audience they might get it, but otherwise it might be ill-advised as a grand finale.

We shall see.

Edit: hey if Michael bloody Bolton(!) can do it... (!!!)

Ahem.

Otherwise, I suppose there's always "Ave Maria" or "O Sole Mio" (both of which Pavarotti appears to have sung with the unlikeliest of candidates, if you check the related videos).

OK, that's quite enough for one evening. G'night.

From the front page of the culture section of today's Politiken, a hilarious image taken at the Rostock protests in the run-up to the G8 meeting.


No comment

Via 3quarksdaily comes a review of Douglas Hofstadter's latest book I Am a Strange Loop, upon which I felt compelled to comment (which is somewhat unusual for me, I must confess). Perhaps because I'm new to this commenting game, and perhaps feel slightly nervous posting comments on the TLS website, it comes across as far more pretentious and snooty than I had intended. Nevertheless, I stand by it. This is indeed a very old story; far from being "science’s last frontier", it seems to me more like one of its first, at least if you admit philosophy as a science, and Hofstadter's book strikes me as more philosophical than scientific.

Leaving Prof. Kriegel's lion example aside for the time being (including his apparent confusion as to the meaning of 'hallucination'), my question is: what's so disconcerting about this idea? What on Earth is the self if not a self-referential loop? Is this not the essence of "Cogito ergo sum"? The self thinks itself into being and through thinking maintains its existence, which also means it cannot un-think itself, until it stops thinking altogether.

Well... I suppose that is the disconcerting part, then, isn't it? That the self should be tied to the body is inherent even in the Christian doctrine of the reunion of soul and body after the Last Judgement, but that presupposes an immortal soul, which this system would appear not to allow for — although, actually, I don't really see why it couldn't...

"Statuettes of the Virgin Mary sit side by side with wolf-whistling toy mountain marmots. An uneasy alliance if ever there was one."

Having only just discovered Veoh, via www.alluc.org, I present to you: Jesus Camp.

'Tis downloading as we speak, which is good, as I must press on with my Eichendorff presentation, but I'm told this is really good.

“In Detroit and around the world, WrestleMania, a smorgasbord of hairspray, cleavage and monster body slams, remains as popular as ever.”
(Synopsis of this article)

I have always been inclined to agree with Sean Penn's last words in Dead Man Walking that "I think killin's wrong, whether it's me, or y'all, or your government", and so I was pleased to read a cogent, concise, expansion upon that sentiment by Justin E. H. Smith, who occasionally posts over at 3qd, and thought you might be too: here it is.

According to philoclea, the following is the greatest literary passage ever written in any language. I felt it was worth sharing. Guess what it's from.

That whale of Stubb's, so dearly purchased, was duly brought to the
Pequod's side, where all those cutting and hoisting operations
previously detailed, were regularly gone through, even to the baling
of the Heidelburgh Tun, or Case.

While some were occupied with this latter duty, others were employed
in dragging away the larger tubs, so soon as filled with the sperm;
and when the proper time arrived, this same sperm was carefully
manipulated ere going to the try-works, of which anon.

It had cooled and crystallized to such a degree, that when, with
several others, I sat down before a large Constantine's bath of it, I
found it strangely concreted into lumps, here and there rolling about
in the liquid part. It was our business to squeeze these lumps back
into fluid. A sweet and unctuous duty! No wonder that in old times
this sperm was such a favourite cosmetic. Such a clearer! such a
sweetener! such a softener! such a delicious molifier! After
having my hands in it for only a few minutes, my fingers felt like
eels, and began, as it were, to serpentine and spiralise.

As I sat there at my ease, cross-legged on the deck; after the bitter
exertion at the windlass; under a blue tranquil sky; the ship under
indolent sail, and gliding so serenely along; as I bathed my hands
among those soft, gentle globules of infiltrated tissues, woven
almost within the hour; as they richly broke to my fingers, and
discharged all their opulence, like fully ripe grapes their wine; as
I snuffed up that uncontaminated aroma,--literally and truly, like
the smell of spring violets; I declare to you, that for the time I
lived as in a musky meadow; I forgot all about our horrible oath; in
that inexpressible sperm, I washed my hands and my heart of it; I
almost began to credit the old Paracelsan superstition that sperm is
of rare virtue in allaying the heat of anger; while bathing in that
bath, I felt divinely free from all ill-will, or petulance, or
malice, of any sort whatsoever.

Squeeze! squeeze! squeeze! all the morning long; I squeezed that
sperm till I myself almost melted into it; I squeezed that sperm till
a strange sort of insanity came over me; and I found myself
unwittingly squeezing my co-laborers' hands in it, mistaking their
hands for the gentle globules. Such an abounding, affectionate,
friendly, loving feeling did this avocation beget; that at last I was
continually squeezing their hands, and looking up into their eyes
sentimentally; as much as to say,--Oh! my dear fellow beings, why
should we longer cherish any social acerbities, or know the slightest
ill-humor or envy! Come; let us squeeze hands all round; nay, let us
all squeeze ourselves into each other; let us squeeze ourselves
universally into the very milk and sperm of kindness.

Would that I could keep squeezing that sperm for ever! For now,
since by many prolonged, repeated experiences, I have perceived that
in all cases man must eventually lower, or at least shift, his
conceit of attainable felicity; not placing it anywhere in the
intellect or the fancy; but in the wife, the heart, the bed, the
table, the saddle, the fireside, the country; now that I have
perceived all this, I am ready to squeeze case eternally. In
thoughts of the visions of the night, I saw long rows of angels in
paradise, each with his hands in a jar of spermaceti.

TF: ...So I ended up arguing that pseudonymity is a "mode of transgression".

SS: How very antinomian of you.

TF: Why thank you.

The Arts section of today’s New York Times reports the theft of two paintings by Picasso. Inevitably, the sub-heading reads: “Two important paintings by Picasso estimated by the police to be worth a total of about $66 million have been stolen from the Left Bank home of his granddaughter Diana Widmaier-Picasso, the authorities announced Wednesday.” The inevitability here refers neither to the specifics of the crime nor to the particular paintings stolen; indeed, neither is addressed in the opening paragraph. Instead, what is deemed most significant about this story is the astronomical monetary value ascribed to the works in question. Nowhere in the article is there any specific reference to the importance of these paintings to the development of art in the twentieth century, or even within Picasso’s oeuvre itself. Admittedly, they are unlikely to have been stolen because of their inherent artistic (as opposed to economic) worth, but what should perhaps be surprising is the apparent lack of correlation between the two, besides the generic importance of the Picasso brand as a whole.

The obsession with how much a work of art costs, as being the only true measure of its worth, is perhaps first and foremost a characteristic of the mass media, but the exchange value of art nevertheless seems to haunt any discourse on the merits or demerits of art in and for society. $66 million may seem reasonable on some level for a pair of Picassos, but take a contemporary artist such as Damien Hirst for example and suddenly the price-tag on his work is more heavily disputed: “Hirst's pickled shark is rotting and needs to be replaced. Should it still be worth £6.5m?” was the headline of an article published last summer in the Daily Telegraph’s arts section. ‘Should it ever have been worth that much?’ seems to be the implicit question, and it doesn't take much to hear the majority of the Telegraph's readership uttering a resounding "NO!" in response. Whilst such concerns are a commonplace in discussions on ‘modern art’, the wholesale dismissal of the Young British Artists (YBAs) by the Stuckists (‘the first remodernist art group’), provides a key to what is at stake in this debate:

Art, to have value, must have meaning and the first person to experience this is its creator. This is why an artist such as Vincent Van Gogh could endure hardships of poverty and obscurity.
It is inconceivable, on the other hand, that anyone would spend 20 years pickling sheep for the sheer love of it. This is because the primary motivation of such work is not its intrinsic worth but its employment as a commodity and for the celebrity status it brings its manufacturer.

Whilst there is undoubtedly some truth in this statement, the reference to the ‘hardships of poverty and obscurity’ which van Gogh was forced to endure for the love of his art nevertheless betokens the Stuckists’ obeisance to the romantic ideal of the poor, hungry artist, eking out a miserable existence, devoted solely to the perfection of his art — a notion of artistic production which came to the fore in the nineteenth century, and found its most paradigmatic expression in the figure of the bohemian artist. There have of course been countless great artists before and since then who suffered little or no hardship during their career, achieved fame and fortune within their lifetime, and are revered as masters in their field; but they lack the mystique of the other, less fortunate figure.

Alfred de Vigny, whose play Chatterton provided an early model for this latter model, was not concerned with the ‘grands écrivains’ of the time; his subject was the ‘starving artist’ type, whose nature was purer and more rare; what defined it was not positive literary accomplishment, but a lack of capacity for anything other than his divine work. Born with feelings so deep and intimate that “ever since childhood they have plunged him into involuntary ecstasies, endless reveries, infinite imaginings,” he could only survive through being cared for by others. The image of the fragile, brilliant youth conjured up by Vigny is a powerful one, and it has lasted to this day, primarily, one suspects, because of the cult of originality to which it caters, and the concomitant aura of authenticity which it exhibits. Untainted by commercial concerns, at odds with the established social norms, this was the road to pure art. Needless to say, Vigny’s insistence on society caring for these individuals in practice served primarily as a vehicle for social critique — it is precisely because of the hardship suffered by artists that their art is considered authentic. State-sponsored art, with very few exceptions, cannot lay claim to that title.

The paradox of this quest for authenticity is that it invariably leads to radical un-originality, in the sense that a particular type or way of life is identified as authentic and those who aim seek to stand out as original, authentic individuals actually just end up copying the ideal type. Bohemia is a prime example of this phenomenon, and indeed, as Seigel points out, the origin of the term ‘Bohemian’ lies in the categorisation of an entire social group as outsiders. Not only does the homogeneity of the group speak against its supposed originality and individuality, but their separation from and disdain for bourgeois society and values is also completely mythical in nature, as two seminal texts from the period demonstrate.

Firstly, at the beginning of Honoré de Balzac’s famous The Unknown Masterpiece (1845), Poussin, the young neophyte, “beset by poverty”, comes into contact with Frenhofer, the old master, who offers to buy his drawing for a couple of gold pieces. Poussin is reluctant “for the talented youth had a poor man’s pride”, but Porbus, in whose studio the two had met, encourages Poussin to accept the offer, adding that “He has the ransom of two kings in his money bags!” Clearly Frenhofer, as the established, independently wealthy artist, able to devote himself to the perfection of his masterpiece, does not fit the model of the artist we’ve discussed so far. In fact, one might go so far as to suggest that Frenhofer’s Catherine, his ultimate distillation of womanhood, the perfect portrait, which he jealously guards, refusing to show her — his ‘wife’ — to the world, does not even comply with the ideal set forth by the Stuckists. For the ‘intrinsic worth’ or ‘meaning’ of the artwork is negated by its incommunicability.

Strikingly, Frenhofer’s first reaction to Porbus’ and Poussin’s failure to recognise Catherine in the portrait is to berate himself for his wealth as if it had inhibited his artistic worth: “I’m an imbecile then, a madman with neither talent nor ability. Just a rich man who makes no more than what he buys . . . I’ve created nothing!”. Meanwhile, Poussin’s faith in his own artistic potential is galvanised by the sale of his drawing: “Until now I doubted myself, but this morning I believed I can be a great man! You’ll see, Gilette, we’ll be rich, we’ll be happy! There’s gold in these brushes!”. Once more, artistic greatness is merely a means to end the poverty which engendered it.

For Marcel, the artist in Henri Murger’s The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter, there truly is gold in his brushes, or as he says of his ‘Passage of the Red Sea’, which he’s been trying unsuccessfully to submit to the Salon for several years: “When one thinks, there is a hundred crowns’ worth of colour in it, and a million of genius, without reckoning my glorious youth which has become worn as my hat over it [...]”. Unfortunately, when he finally finds a buyer for it, Marcel gets little return on the amount of colour and genius that went into the painting’s production. Its final hanging place, as a sign outside the Jew Médicis’ shop becomes a sign too of the intimate link between art and commerce. Marcel may interpret the customers’ admiration of the new sign as his having reached an audience of ‘real people’ and thus spurned the stuffy and doctrinaire Salon, but as his painting now fulfils a function other than that of a work of art, this is hardly a vindication of his greatness as an artist.

Going back to the article on the decomposition of Hirst’s pickled shark, and the discussion of what constitutes an ‘original’ work of art that follows, we find the following: “[C]onservators had also faced problems with Pierre-Auguste Renoir. The reds he used in his paintings had faded badly because he had used substandard red paint.” If Renoir’s fading reds demonstrate an inability to afford high quality paint, does that serve to enforce or undermine the myth of the ‘starving artist’? Either way it anchors artistic production in the sphere of financial considerations, but it might also enhance the martyrdom of artists in a capitalist world. Certainly, the notion that he might have opted for a cheaper red so that he could enjoy a glass of wine with his mates from time to time is incompatible with the popular/romantic vision of the artist, despite, or indeed perhaps precisely because such an artist has never really existed, and even in those artists who assumed such an identity, it was always primarily performative, and its stage was the modern capitalist market economy.

Guy 2: [sauntering up wearing a "Rutgers Invitational" T-Shirt] Hey what's goin' on?
Guy 1: [seated] Oh hey, what's up? What were you doing at Rutgers?
Guy 2: Oh it's for this golf tournament. [turns to show back of T-shirt] Yeah so for Spring Break we have to go to San Diego.
Girl: [seated] Wow.
Guy 2: [taking a seat] So get a load of this class I'm taking, I can't even believe this is a class. It's called "Clint Eastwood movies".
Guy 1: Wow, so what's that all about.
Guy 2: I dunno, we watch Clint Eastwood movies, and this guy talks about them.
Girl: Who's Clint Eastwood?
Guys 1 & 2: You don't know who Clint Eastwood is?
Guy 2: He directed, like, Million Dollar Baby and Letters from Iwo Jima.
Girl: Oh wait, does he have like really high cheekbones and squints a lot?
Guy 2: There ya go. 'Do you feel lucky?'
Guy 1: [laughs[]
Girl: [uncertain] Wait, is that from a movie?

So it appears that one of my German 101 students this semester is related to the people who run 3quarksdaily. This is perhaps not at all remarkable, but that blog is certainly both enjoyable and informative, and I would urge anyone who has not yet discovered it to join the ranks of illustrious readers (Pinker, Dawkins, Byrne, etc.). Why, only this morning I read a hilarious comment on Dan Brown, which has put me in a good mood for the day, so thank you J. M. Tyree.

Edit: and thank you Anthony Lane... twice the fun.

Despite, as far as I am aware, never actually having tasted instant noodles in any shape or form, I am inclined to agree with the author of this 'appreciation' of Momofuko "Mr. Noodle" Ando, recently deceased, that it is reassuring in some ways that they should have been invented by a single person. In fact, until now it had probably not consciously occurred to me that the time of individual, independent 'invention', the kind where a person's name lives on in the product or item they have invented, has probably passed. Everything is depersonalised, fragmented, outsourced, and companies, not people, are the 'individuals' of our age.

Still, none of this means that I'm going to run out and buy Cup Noodles for lunch today, or any other day, even in the unlikely event that the British Library cafeteria serve such a thing.

What is it with using poncy names for basic foodstuffs just to be able to charge an arm and a leg for them? You know what I mean? Like cheese and onion crisps that claim to be "mature cheddar and spring onion" crisps, or my favourite, "malt vinegar and sea salt" for salt 'n' vinegar. In the British Library; had a sandwich for lunch. It was labelled as follows: "Chicken, sun blush tomato and tarragon mayonnaise, £3.00". I'm surprised they couldn't have come up with a more impressive sounding name for their poultry. I mean, was it free-range, at least? Or why not call it by its real name: Gallus gallus domesticus? Or rather, the meat thereof. As accompaniment I had a banana (labelled: fresh fruit, 55p) and tap-water. To compensate I was forced to purchase a reassuringly prosaic "medium filter coffee" and a non-denominational "cookie" from the cafeteria downstairs for £2.60 altogether.

Edit: on a tangentially related note, I came upon this just now whilst trying to think of an appropriately poncy thing to call a spade, and was, quite naturally, appalled at the following:

Rosalie Maggio, in The Bias-Free Word-Finder, writes: "The expression ['to call a spade a spade'] is associated with a racial slur and is to be avoided", and recommends using "to speak plainly" or other alternatives instead. In another entry, she writes: "Although by definition and derivation 'niggardly' and 'nigger' are completely unrelated, 'niggardly' is too close for comfort to a word with profoundly negative associations. Use instead one of the many available alternatives: stingy, miserly, parsimonious..." Beard and Cerf, in The Official Politically Correct Handbook, p. 123, report that an administrator at the University of California at Santa Cruz campaigned for the banning of such phrases as "a chink in his armor" and "a nip in the air", because "chink" and "nip" are also derogatory terms for "Chinese person" and "Japanese person" respectively. In the late 1970s in the U.S., a boycott of the (now defunct) Sambo's restaurant chain was organized, even though the name "Sambo's" was a combination of the names of its two founders and did not come from the offensive word for dark-skinned person.

They can't be serious, surely? This must be some sort of joke? Even if Maggio, Beard, and Cerf don't think so, then please let Mr. Israel appreciate the absurdity of their comments. Please?

I mean, forgive me for being snooty and élitist or whatever, but I find it utterly and profoundly unacceptable to suggest that one ought to bowdlerise the English language in such a moronic manner purely for fear of offending those ignorant and dim-witted enough to think that 'a chink in his armour' might somehow be offensive to Chinese people! Naturally George Formby's 'famous Mr. Wu' is a different matter. And as for calling spades something other than spades: what is one to use to tend one's garden in this brave new world, I wonder? And I suppose we shall have to ban playing cards until a suitable alternative to the offending suit (of cards, not armour) is found as well?

Pshaw!

http://www.unphotographable.com/

Here's an interesting website I stumbled upon today whilst looking for something else. I may have something to say about it later, but for the time being, I'll just let it speak for itself.