Reflections on some well loved Poets

Ziggy Olivier wrote this article. He met Dylan Thomas and spent some of his youth drinking whisky with him. He said me: “Everything you may have read about him was true.”

Reflections on some well loved Poets

Approaching my own demise, I was delighted this Christmas to receive from a teenage granddaughter a gift that I will cherish – Richard Burton’s famous reading of Under Milk Wood. More so that she should be aware of the poem and have a liking for it’s hypnotic, entrancing language.
Sensual, beautiful, musical prose with indelible images of people and their behaviour.
Here was rich irony - an ageing man once again enjoying a work in which inevitable death is one of the recurring themes!

I do not have the talent to fully describe my sense of well being as I sipped an ancient Macallan and revisited fond memories from my youth as I listened, with my granddaughter, to the cadence of those words describing our human condition.

Only those who have heard Dylan Thomas reading it himself have known better, for he had a wonderful, rich, appealing voice which enveloped you into his magical world.

‘It is night neddying among the snuggeries of babies.
Look. It is night, dumbly, royally winding through the Coronation cherry trees; going through the graveyard of Bethesda with winds gloved and folded, and dew doffed; tumbling by the Sailors Arms.
Time passes. Listen. Time passes.
Come closer now.
Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night.’

This reminded me of Eliot in the love song of J. Alfred Prufrock

‘The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.’

Eliot did remark, somewhere, words to the effect that young poets imitate and mature poets ‘borrow’ ? I can forgive Dylan for pinching an idea for his poetry transports us into a wonderful world of rich imagery.

In the after glow, once the reading had finished,the moment was almost spoilt when she asked if I could help her with an essay she had to write on the poem and I realised she would be researching reviews by critics who would destroy her blossoming love of such song language as they reduced it to comment such as Edith Sitwell writing of his ‘distorted syntax and religious symbolism.’

Critical essays too often review art entirely in terms of life reminding me of Eliot’s

“I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.”

Why must we bow to academic interpretations of our emotions?

Robert Frost commented that poetry is what gets lost in translation and Eliot firmly believed that poetry communicates before it is understood.

University almost destroyed my love of literature as we sweated over critical essays trying to explain some masterpiece or another.

Like Joyce, Thomas can be almost incomprehensible but any great writer uses language that is different to the way we speak and because of its intense imagery causes our emotions to provide us with a deeper view of life.

Dry intellect is no match for emotion in driving our soul for it is emotion that stirs us to action.

So I discussed with her ways and means for her to say what the poem meant to her. How she understood it was more important than some critic’s view, for I did not want to destroy that magic that had impacted deep into her young soul.

Ultimately, in a small fictional Welsh town called Llareggub, as the long night approaches, you realise that such critic’s voices do indeed mean ‘buggerall’.

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The Elegance of the Art

Doug Stahnke is a sculptor. And this is a wonderful exclusive article he wrote for us.

The Elegance of the Art

Let me begin by first defining some terms as I apply them:

talent – I think there is a simple truth here. You were either born with it or you weren’t. But talent comes in many varieties and categories. Many people have talents they haven’t discovered; or they have discovered them but choose not to pursue them. I believe everybody has some sort of talent. It could be painting, drawing, or sculpting. It could be singing, playing musical instruments, or having a special sense of rhythm. It could be cooking, designing fashions or in architecture. It could be in writing, film making, dramatic acting, comedy or magic. It could be one’s business acumen in financial management, marketing, design engineering or in leading a workforce. It could be very clearly in your dreams. This list could go on ad nausea.

passion – The drive to start, pursue and complete your next creation. An Artist without passion is a hacker.

hacker – One who is experimenting or exploring in an attempt to discover and develop one’s talents. If one’s initial experiment is critiqued as having even a modicum of beauty by even one reviewer, passion may start to grow. The downside is hackers can be very critical of their own work, which can kill their passion. This, in turn, may cause the hacker to bury his talents. Some hackers may create a work and then trash it, showing it to no one.

beauty – Is in the eye of the beholder? Many creations, even though the Artist has completed his work, start out ugly. The work can be transformed into one of beauty when just one person openly opines and says, “Now isn’t that a work of beauty!” If those folks who sloughed it off overheard this comment, they will likely take a second look, another taste, or even ask to hear it again. Then, hopefully a second person will soon chime, “I like it!”, with others hearing the appreciative praise. Then three, four, and five, etc., will follow in the appreciative. A work of Art can be transformed from ugly to beautiful starting with one simple, favorable opinion.

ugly – The reciprocal or opposite of beauty. One unfavorable opinion, openly stated, can negatively influence the acceptance of one’s work in a larger group. This can happen and carry many other opinions down with it.

Artist – One who creates something, with at least a modicum of passion, and asks someone else, “Well, what do you think?”

critical acclaim – The one person who stated your work had beauty, influenced another to pay money for your creation, while you were still alive. How frequently can you repeat such action? I don’t ever recall meeting an Artist who wished to reach critical acclaim only after they were dead.

media – Whatever stuff the Artist decides to use to create his work.

The Elegance of My Art

I am basically a sculptor. The roots of my talent go back to my childhood. I always liked to make something or build something. If someone else made something, I liked to take it apart to see how he did it. My current work is to sculpt crafts and pieces of furniture; write about what I’ve sculpted, illustrate it, make it into a “Set of Plans”, then sell the Plans through my Website. I call them ePlanSets. I want to have many people, all over the world, build, or sculpt my projects for their own enjoyment, just like I do.

Do I have any passion? It’s either that, or I am just plain nuts. My media is Plastic Pipe and Plastic Pipe Fittings. You know like PVC or ABS Plastic. It’s actually quite an easy media with which to work… for instance it’s much easier than working with wood. All of my designs are totally elegant. You can clearly see the elegance in my Table CenterPiece, my Candle Holders, the furniture in my Master Bedroom Suite, as well as many others.

One of my favorite, critically acclaimed sculptors is Michelangelo. I know, he was also a painter, an engineer and an architect, too. He would often consider himself a hacker because he was so dissatisfied with his work. I remember hearing a Michelangelo quote about his Angel sculpture, “I could see the Angel in the stone. All I had to do was chip away what didn’t belong to her!” Of course, Michelangelo works have all reached quite an enviable level of critical acclaim… even before he died.

Following the magic of Michelangelo, I frequently go to the plastic pipe fittings section, of the plumbing department, in my favorite home improvement store. There, I hold up some fittings, starting with like maybe a toilet flange, and very quietly say to myself, “I can see a lamp!” Or maybe, “I can see a Candle Holder!”

I am still waiting for my own Critical Acclaim to grow. So, what do you think?

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The Emperor’s New Clothes

Ananda Sukarlan is an Indonesian composer and pianist living in Spain. This is an article he wrote for a magazine which has been published a few years ago in Spanish. We are very proud to have the original in English which has never been published anywhere, so this is an exclusive writing for ManuelMarino.com. Read his Blog and visit Jakarta New Year Concert page (he is the founder and director). Also, you can listen to some of his music compositions on YouTube.

The Emperor’s New Clothes

“It is not enough to deface the Mona Lisa because that does not kill the
Mona Lisa. All art of the past must be destroyed.” — (Pierre Boulez)

“I dare suggest that the composer would do himself and his music an immediate
and eventual service by total, resolute and voluntary withdrawal from this
public world to one of private performance and electronic media.“ – (Milton
Babbitt)

“What happened there is (…) the biggest artwork of all times. That spirits
achieve in a single act what we in music cannot dream of, that people rehearse
ten years long like mad, totally fanatical for a concert and then die.
This is the biggest artwork that exists at all in the whole universe…
I couldn’t match it.” (K. Stockhausen, on the 9/11 attack ) . — All quotes
are from The New York Times.

Those three composers are supposedly “great” composers of the 20th century. Their piano works (in fact, ALL their works) were written “for the future” in the 1950s and 60s, when they were (and still are) a tough nut to crack for both the pianist and the audience. Now, if they were indeed “great”, as Chopin or Bach undoubtedly were, why are their works still not in the repertory of most pianists or other instrumentalists ? And why don’t we members of humanity, no matter how “retarded” we are according to those “great” artists, respect them now as we respect Schumann or even their contemporaries such as Shostakovich or Stravinsky ? When is the “future” they were talking about ? Is 2007 not “future” enough for those works created half a century ago?

The answer is simple. Boulez, Babbitt and Stockhausen are (or were) “great”, because they rely on, and receive huge government subsidies and were leaders of a very small but controlling establishment consisting of academics, critics and art politicians. They are “great” according to their colleagues in this group, but not according to musicians and the public. In fact, their “avantgarde” music is mostly written against musicians and the public. It even goes so far as calling the 9/11 event “the greatest artwork” (see Stockhausen’s quote above) , not only creating a work against people, but even more, killing (how can one be more against people ?) them all, “artists” and audience.

In other words, they write music to gain, and only to gain, government subsidy. What Walt Whitman said, that “Para tener grandes poetas, es necesario además grandes audiencias” is not valid anymore for this kind of “art”. In principle, government subsidies are supposed to be given to marginal artistic activities, and the more “minority oriented” that art is, the more it deserves subsidy ; this subsidy has enabled those artists to stay in their ivory towers without making any contributions at all to the public. Which is alright if one doesn’t think of the amount of taxpayers’ money that is used to subsidize those “artistic” works.

Let’s take one example: the IRCAM (Institut de Recherche et Coordination Acoustique Musique) who was built by Pierre Boulez in Paris. It was kitted out with equipment to Boulez’s own specification to compose music for the future. IRCAM also swallowed 80% of the national subsidy for contemporary music of France. It was built at a cost of 90 million francs and thereafter at a cost of 15 million a year to the French taxpayer for its concerts, staff and upkeep. It happened that in 1969 Boulez got Georges Pompidou to build for him a huge high tech underground bunker , beside the site of what was to become the Pompidou Centre. Now, in 2007, shall we look back and reflect on how many masterpieces have been created out of this building ? What I mean by masterpieces are works that the general public recognise as such, like Britten’s War Requiem, Stravinsky’s Symphony of Psalms or, coming from the other continent, Copland’s Third Symphony. I don’t have to answer this question.

When I was living in Holland in the 1990s I had several encounters with “ex”avant-garde turned real composers, such as Toru Takemitsu, John Adams or Louis Andriessen. And it was in Holland that I met for the first time my amazing Spanish composer friends Jesus Rueda or David del Puerto (both winners of Premio Nacional de Musica, in 2004 and 2005 respectively). At that time, they were in a “transitional” period after getting out from the heavy influence of their avantgarde teacher, Paco Guerrero. All of them realized then, that our older colleagues had achieved their goals to “impress” the public by presenting them with uncommunicative works, and certainly they have gained a lot by doing that, but that we the younger generations have to pay for it. There have been composers at every corner of the street ever since, given that avantgarde music was designed to give jobs to many who could not compose in the sense of writing “traditional” music. Good or bad quality is not the criteria anymore. But there are simply not enough subsidy for all of them , whose works sound more or less the same.

Fortunately we are in a state of transition to a more audience-friendly kind of music. The avantgardists had achieved in emptying the concert halls, and now we will have to work harder to gain them back and convince them that the word “contemporary” is not equal to “avantgarde” ; on the contrary, “avantgarde” was a thing very much in the past, and not con (”with”) temporary (our time) anymore.

This situation reminds me of Hans Christian Andersen’s story, about an Emperor who is very fond of clothes. One day came 2 tailors, saying that they can make very special clothes that only good people can see. Naturally the emperor cannot see those clothes, but afraid of being called a bad person, he praises the beauty of the clothes. And if the emperor can see it, everybody in the whole country should do as well. Until comes a very young kid, much too young to be called a bad person, during the festive celebration of those clothes , shouting innocently, “Look, the Emperor is naked!”

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Reading: it’s not for fun anymore

This is a nice article from Isaac Marion. Isaac has been running the online textual variety show, BurningBuilding.com, since 2003. He lives in Seattle, Washington, where he works various mundane jobs while trying to make his writing/music/art career take off.

Reading: it’s not for fun anymore

Recent studies have shown that across the board, in all mediums, Americans are reading for pleasure less than ever before. This isn’t just literature, novels, etc, this is all forms of the written word, including magazines, even the mighty Internet. Yes, that includes blogs. Less than one third of adults reported having read any literature in the past year not required for school or some other assignment.

Hmm.
Brlog…?
Brailg…?
Hmm.

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Portrait

Today we post this exclusive work of Robert Karl Stonjek. It’s an unpublished ‘meditation’ he wrote in the mid 90s.

Portrait

I had been instructed to ‘just sit’ under this particular tree. I don’t think he had decided on this particular tree beforehand, we just wandered about in the bush for a while, then into a clearing whereupon he said “this is definitely the right one, I can feel it. Can you?” I could, I was sure I could. I nodded.

I was instructed to just wander around, or sit if I wished, or sleep, or just do as I please. I was told not to wander to far, and if I had to urinate to do it over toward a particular bush that was pointed out to me. I was to just be there, that was the important thing - to be there all night. He would be back in the morning with his assistant. Some of my friends had insisted on coming along to watch.

I was told that there was a man in the bush, me, and by morning there should be just plants and animals. It all seemed to make sense. There was a kind of logic to it, but one can’t really explain what it is.

I stayed awake all night. The tiredness I experienced from the ordeal of a freezing night under a tree wondering what I really should be doing had caused some minor hallucinations - I seemed to see things out of the corners of my eyes but couldn’t make out just what they were. I thought “maybe I’m just tired”.

The assistant arrived first and quietly began placing plastic sheets on the ground. On one of them he set up the artist’s equipment, then he left.

About half an hour later, just as the sun began to appear, the assistant led in my two friends who were instructed, in a whisper, to sit on the plastic sheet and remain absolutely silent. I’d say the assistant is in his mid forties, the old artist could be any age between 50 and 75. He is so agile yet has a face that shows age. When he speaks he seems to be just as aware of the immediate future as the past, as if he does not travel along a thread of time as we do but swims in a pool of it.

When he arrived he did not come over to me but wandered over to a tree and asked it how my night had been. Upon reflection I remember that he was chatting to various bushes and flowers as well, asking them about me and whether or not we got along. My friends watched as if they shared a single eye between them.

The assistant quietly gave me instructions as the artist wandered about, gently moving me out of the way on one occasion, then instructing me to stay still at which point the artist walked straight into me, as if I were invisible to him. The artist announced that there was enough of my nature in the surrounding bush for him to work with. He squatted in front of one of the sheets of paper (there may have been a canvas there as well, I’m not sure). He proceeded to work with pastels, drawing the bush as it had been effected by me (the bush captures the spirit - the artist captures the bush).

After a couple of hours the deed was done and the assistant called us all over. He asked me what the significance of various items in the painting were. He seemed to have captured one of the odd wispy things I thought I saw during the night, almost as I had seen it - vague, just out of sight.

“You can’t draw someone’s spirit” he told me, “but I can draw the effect your spirit has on living things. During the night, they absorb as you radiate. During the daytime the flow of energy is reversed. At the right moment there is no difference between the two: there is a fulcrum, a crossing over point. All I have to do is capture the bush on paper, as it captured your spirit through the night, and we have a portrait of your spirit.”

I can never tire of looking at that drawing. As I stand before it I am gradually able to distinguish between a person looking at some depiction of bushland, and my spirit peering into its’ own reflection!!

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The true rewards for being human

This is another writing gem, from Jeff Doak, Application Developer for Sprint Nextel. He currently resides in Rome, NY, and has interests in music, nature, lifetime learning, programming. Lives with wife, three kids, cat, hermit crab, and fish. Check his “neglected” website.

The true rewards for being human

Fall – my favorite time of year. Here in the Northeast U.S. it is a beautiful time of year. The snow is falling today, but not sticking. The wind has a chill to it, but not harsh. It is a great time for daydreaming and self reflection.

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Every journey an adventure

Rob Mitchell is a singer/songwriter from Nashville, TN. He has played songs around Nashville and appeared at the Bluebird Cafe. Musical influences are James Taylor, Jim Croce, Jimmy Buffett and John Denver. Rob is not a writer but what he wrote for us is a real writing gem:

Every journey an adventure

Today the weather in Nashville is brisk. I woke to a chilly wind from the North whisking it’s way accross the dairy farm behind my home. Our dog is still curled deep in the cedar chips inside of her dog house as I fill her bowl with water. She stirs and looks at me with a bareful look. I think she wanted to sleep late too!

I notice my steps are short and stiff. The ache is evident in my thighs. Last night was the second of my new nightly routine of running. One mans quest to regain lost youth and health. As I walk back inside I make a mental note to learn to welcome the pain as that is my benchmark of progress. I’ll now cook breakfast for the kids and let my wife sleep late. She deserves the break.

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