Shaking up the e-Magic 8 Ball (TM)

Shake shake shake....ask again later.

Shake shake shake....all signs point to no.

Shake shake shake....ask again later.

Last Friday, I was at the Blue Nile accompanying a leading scholar of New Orleans music in all its forms. Or, at least, in seven forms. He was taking copious notes, I was dancing with pretty much everyone there. I was a little preoccupied, because my old dance partner (from the competitive circuit days...ah, Columbus, Indianapolis, Orlando, such places we went...) was there but he hadn't seen me. It was all very immature, but you know how it goes. I hadn't really talked to him in awhile and he hadn't really talked to me and so I didn't want to go talk to him first, I wanted him to come find me, blah blah blah.

I'm sure you feel stupider now. Sorry.

So, during the course of the evening, I ran into a guy I'd met two weeks previously (referred to hereafter by the dreadfully clever appellation "Random Guy"...I know, sometimes I'm so sharp I nearly cut myself! Sharp! Cut myself! Ha, ha!), and to whom I'd spoken briefly, much like I speak to everyone I dance with. It's common courtesy. In the course of that earlier conversation, it transpired that he was coming back to Tulane, whence he'd graduated several years ago, to do an MA in History. Naturally, that caused us to play "who do you know" quickly and that was that. He said he was a swing dancer, I said that was nice, and we parted company.

This week, while I was preoccupied with previous-partner-drama (which included, among other things, a girl named Svetlana...the world of ballroom dance is a peculiar one, cognoscenti) Random Guy came and found me and we chatted a little bit about places to go swing dancing in town. I offered to send him some info and gave him my email address. I like to think that the New Orleans dance community can be welcoming...but bear in mind, readers, that this was an informational exchange. He said, we should go dancing sometime. I was noncommittal.

Bearing in mind Random Guy's unwarranted enthusiasm, I was not altogether surprised but was somewhat disappointed to receive the following email yesterday:

Hi Katie,

This is Random Guy from Blue Nile. How are you? Would you like to go out this Saturday night? I'll pick you up at 6:30. We'll go to Applebee's for dinner then see a movie. War of the Worlds is coming out this week. After the movie, we'll head to downtown for some dancing. Sounds good? Please call me at xxx-xxxx. I look forward to seeing you.

Random Guy

Now I have to say, cognoscenti, that I appreciate someone being assertive and
taking charge of a situation, but really. This is a bit much, I think. Let me count the ways.

1. Applebee's. Now really, in a city known for its culinary magnificence, this word should never be uttered by anyone. And lest someone protest that I am being unfair, perhaps he cannot afford Commander's, let me reply that it is more than simple to find relatively inexpensive cuisine that bears no resemblance to an extreme fajita. And what if I happen to be allergic to Applebee's? What if I have strange dietary requirements? What if any number of things? But no, says Friend Stalin, we will eat at Applebee's.
2. War of the Worlds. I have no objection to this movie (other than that it is probably crap, but I do not care because I will watch pretty much anything with moving pictures and sound) on general principles. Rather, I object to the automatic assumption that we will watch a movie. More dictatorship here.
3. The general dictatorial nature of the email. Perhaps it has escaped your notice, cognoscenti, but this email reminds me a little bit of a Red Missive from the Kremlin. He WILL pick me up at 6:30, we WILL eat at Applebee's (shudder), we WILL see a movie, we WILL attend the parade glorifying machine-tooled tanks in Red Square, you get the idea. Screw you, Random Guy! I don't need your attitude! If I am correct, our idiom is "to ask someone on a date," not "to tell someone on a date." The entire scenario (though BG in the extreme) would have been acceptable if he'd said "what do you think about..." or "would you like to do the following..." Mais non. Too bad, then, Comrade, you're on your own.

Now, to be fair, Random Guy doesn't know me from Eve. We talked for maybe twenty minutes total over the entire course of our acquaintance, but even in that short space of time, I do not think I came off as someone who enjoys being bidden. Nor someone who would go to Applebee's. Hell, if given half a chance, I backlead on the floor. That doesn't say "biddable," it says, "pushy." Which Random Guy certainly is, in spades.

Added to the generally Stalinist tone of the email he sent me is the fact that I have company coming into town on Thursday evening and staying until the middle of the day Monday. So even if I wanted to go to the parade in Red Square, I couldn't. I have made plans and have obligations, etc etc etc.

And here we come to the impasse. For while Random Guy is obviously less than sophisticated and possessed of the same subtlety one might expect to find in the average blunt instrument, it is nevertheless the case that my phone rings rarely. My social calendar is not what you call busy. It contains virtually no (straight) men. Make that none. The "virtually" is an affectation. So, what to do? Bearing in mind the advice of the great statesman (and traitorous bastard? But who cares...) Talleyrand, I decided I should always leave myself a choice. Hence the email I sent back to Random Guy today:

Random Guy,

I'm afraid I can't - I have house guests coming into town on Thursday night and they'll be staying until Monday. I've already made plans to show them around the city all weekend. Thank you for the email, though; perhaps another time.

Best,

Katie

Notice the clever ommission of any commentary on his tone, attitude, or presumption. I thought that showed some restraint.

Well, what do you think, cognoscenti? I know asking your opinion is an open invitation to be skewered in the comments, but, well - I can always delete them. Which is fair? No. Too bad.

I'd like a MEDIUM coffee, none of your ventigrande here, no sir.

You will be entertained by this.

Hmmhmmhmhmmmm, hmmmhmhmmhmmmmhm

My brain has shut off.

I am organizing and compiling lists of things for my Job, which is a good job* but largely created, I think, for those monkeys who are supposed to be able to type Hamlet.

Anyway, I was trying to think of something interesting to tell you, cognoscenti, and I couldn't.

*Editor's Note: A good job is, by definition, one which is inside and pays more than minimum wage. Roofing, ergo, would not be a good job. There is no requirement that it be interesting.

Why couldn't I? Because my brain isn't available right now, yes it's in today why don't you call back later or perhaps you'd like to leave a message I'm sure it would like to talk to you at its earliest convenience no well as you wish sir thank you for calling have a good afternoon.

Know how you can make a motorboat sound by buzzing your lips? My brain is doing that constantly. It's the cranial equivalent of tuneless humming. I need to find something for it to do, or it's entirely possible that it will leak out of my ears. Drip drip drip onto the industrial blue carpet.

I tried setting it tasks. "Re-memorize third declension Latin adjectives in two terminations," I told it, "you did a damn poor job of that first time out."

Ten minutes later my brain came back with a smug little smile. "Done," it said.

"Really," I said, "I can't spend all day finding things for you to do. Can't you entertain yourself for awhile?"

"Sure, no problem," it assured me, and went right back to tuneless humming, interspersed with the occasional clearing of the throat to let me know it was still there. It's driving me absolutely mad - how am I supposed to do mindless tasks when my brain is constantly tapping me on the shoulder, asking if I've finished yet and have I thought of anything for it to do? "No," I keep telling it, "I'll let you know."

Hmmmmmhmmhmhmhmhmmmhmhmhmhmhmhmmm......

And now for something completely different

A New Orleans moment for those of you not fortunate enough to currently be in the Big Greasy enjoying some Chicken Box, #2 Fried Chicken in New Orleans (Taste Like Yo' Mama's) or any other Big Greasy delicacy like those to be found, say, here....

Commercial for a local restaurant begins, part of a series of short cheap-o commercials from local businesses that can't afford a whole spot. There is a shot of the restaurant, narrated by owner-guy. It ends on a shot of owner-guy with wife and two cute little girls (presumably theirs, but possibly rented for the occasion). The two little girls are aged four and six, blonde, and one expects them to say something that is not this:

OWNER-GUY: Come eat at Local Restaurant.
TWO GIRLS: (in unison) The food's so good you'll want to slap your mama!

Thinking out loud, Part Two

Okay, here we go....

So, whether or not Leonardo was gay is pretty irrelevant, and an impossible question to answer at any rate. What I talk about is what he's saying with his placement of a feminized John next to Christ.

Coming from Florentine society, Leonardo was well-acquainted with an intellectual culture that was fiercely masculine and highly literate and critical. Within these circles, sodomy (not homosexuality - and there isa difference) was a common occurrence, and tended to be, if not condoned, accepted. Sodomy, especially within late medieval and Renaissance Italian culture, very often occurred within a teacher-student relationship. It was centered around a power dynamic not dissimilar from the one found in classical Greece, and no stigma attached to the submissive partner (nor, indeed, much to the dominant partner as long as he did not neglect his duties to a wife, if he had one). Leonardo himself was accused of committing sodomy in 1476 but the charges were dropped due to lack of evidence.

What's the difference between sodomy and homosexuality? Well, the latter is (currently) understood to be a sexual orientation, in some sense like being right- or left-handed.* Sodomy, on the other hand, is a practice, an act. One does not necessarily entail the other, and in the case of Renaissance Italy, this should be underlined.

*Editor's Note: And we're not going to argue about that, understood? Good.

Dante, in the Commedia, also addresses the issue of sodomy. In Canto XI of Inferno, Virgil describes what he and his charge will encounter in the coming circles:

Violence may be committed against God
when we deny and curse Him in our hearts,
or when we scorn Nature and her bounty.

And so the smallest ring stamps with its seal
both Sodom and Cahors* and those
who scorn Him with their tongues and hearts.

*Editor's Note: Virgil is describing the sins of violence (violence against others, violence against oneself, and violence against God). Those of Sodom are, obviously, sodomites (and not homosexuals as Hollander and others sloppily translate) while those of Cahors (a city in southern France renowned for its financial hijinks) are usurers. Note for R - the guardian to the circles of violence is the Minotaur, who "gnawed himself like someone ruled by wrath" (sé stesso morse, sì come quei cui l'ira dentro fiacca, Inf. XII:14-15).

Dante's condemnation of sodomy, is to say the least, gentle. His old teacher, Ser Brunetto Latini, is in the seventh circle, and recognizing him beneath his burns (the sodomites are tormented by flakes of fire raining down on the desert), cries poignantly, "Are you here, Ser Brunetto?" There is some indication in the canto (innuendo, all of it) that Dante has been Brunetto's pupil in more than classroom settings, and he talks to his old mentor kindly, showing none of the scorn he has heaped upon some of the damned. "I remember well and now lament," says Dante, "the cherished, kind, paternal image of You when, there in the world, from time to time, you taught me how man makes himself immortal. And how much gratitude I owe for that my tongue, while I still live, must give report." (Inf. XV: 82-87) A little further on, Dante meets more sinners, of whom he also has a very high opinion. They, too, unlike most of the souls in Hell, wish Dante well and hope for his deliverance. This is much more characteristic of souls in Purgatory, and - most remarkably - they invoke the stars. "Stelle" is the last word of every canticle and the summation of divinity. They speak to Dante:

"If at other times it costs so little
for you to give clear answers," they replied in turn,
"happy are you to speak so free.

Therefore, so may you escape from these dark regions
to see again the beauty of the starts [e torni a riveder le belle stelle]
when you shall rejoince in saying, 'I was there,'

see that you speak of us to others."
Then they broke their circle and as they fled,
their nimble legs seemed wings.

This is hardly the militant position the History Channel (and other lousy historians) would have you believe that late medieval folk took against sodomy. Nor is it the case that there were two positions (for the Church, against the Church) nor that taking the latter made one a model of tolerance and modernity (see the recent film Kingdom of Heaven for an instance of this, and its not-being-true). Dante's reluctant condemnation of sodomy comes from a realization that it excludes a feminine presence (in his particular case, that of Beatrice) to whom ultimate reverence is due. Furthermore, for Dante, Christianity itself is gendered female, as is Nature, and the exclusion of those two from the love among men does not serve his journey to reach God.

Right, so, I'm sure you're wondering if I'm ever going to get to the point. Well, here it is. I don't think Leonardo's Last Supper communicates the same attitude toward sodomy and the community of men at all. Da Vinci was a member of a homosocial community that was consumed with the pursuit of knowledge and more or less uninterested in women (in all forms except their most, shall we say, serviceable).

So here it is - I wonder if he's presenting Christ and the Apostles as members of a similar community, complete with all the ties and bonds that held Leonardo's contemporaries together. If John is shown in a place of favor, directly to Christ's right hand, well, then, he must be the especially favored apostle. And if John is beautiful and highly sexualized in the manner of a younger partner (his eyes downcast submissively), then that, too, would fit the Florentine paradigm. The Apostles, after all, were all students of their Teacher, so it may have been only natural for Leonardo to depict them thusly. What is unclear is whether or not this is a painting executed with a genuine sincerity, in the recognition of similarities between Christ's band of students and contemporary circles of literati, or if it is an ironic and backhanded commentary on religiosity clothed in the guise of obedience to one's patron and to the Gospels. I would like very much to think that it is the former, if any of this is true at all, because otherwise it would just be snide and nasty. If it is in good faith, it would be a touching and heartfelt comment about how the love between teacher and student, and between men, can bind together those things at the very core of belief. At any rate, it would present a Last Supper with a rather different tenor than the one usually lauded (although, under any reading, the perspective is top-drawer).

Well, that's it, cognoscenti, thanks for wandering down the garden path with me. I think I'll go look and see if anyone has written on this at all.

Thinking out loud, Part One

So my mom is reading the DaVinci Code.

You'll remember that I, to put it mildly, have some problems with the book - actually, to be perfectly fair, with the way it's been read and received. I think it's written like crap, but so is a lot of mass-market fiction, so that's hardly the end of the world. My biggest problem is the uncritical acceptance of the book as Holy Writ by the under-informed, who then take every opportunity to argue with me - ahem, excuse me, with people - basing their evaluations of Early Christianity and the Church solely on the information contained therein. The failure to differentiate successfully between fiction and non-fiction is yet further evidence that we fail to instill critical reading skills during the educational process.

But enough of that. What I want to write about today is something a little different.*

*Editor's Note: What follows is mostly work-friendly, and if anybody gives you a sidelong glance, just tell them in an aggrieved tone, "It's art! What's wrong with you?" and then shake your head despairingly. It's also about sodomy and sexuality, so if you don't care then scroll through the pictures and wander off. My feelings won't be hurt.

My mom emailed today asking about the figure seated on Christ's left in Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper. As those of you who've read Brown's book will recall, he argues that it is in fact Mary Magdalen, while most art historians believe that it is John (the Apostle and Evangelist, not the Baptist). "He/she looks fairly effeminate," she said, "but then, so does another unbearded figure. Who is it?" I wrote back to her in a fairly disjointed way (shock! amazement!) but I want to develop some of those ideas a little bit more. So, read on (or don't, you contrary monkey, you)...

As you probably know, Leonardo made some questionable fresco decisions and so today, even after restoration, the painting is in pretty terrible shape. You can see it at Santa Maria della Grazie in Milan, but there are a lot of rules about how many people can be in the room at one time, how long you can stay, and the place is climate controlled to the nth degree. Needless to say, it is difficult to get great images, but here's a very restored image of the figure in question:

and a closeup detail of the face (large file size, be patient):

As you can see, the figure (whoever it is), is highly effeminate, with a beardless face, very soft features, and something resembling cleavage. Is it Mary Magdalen then? The evidence would seem to indicate that it is not.

The Last Supper is not the only manifestation of a gender-blurring aesthetic. Nor was Leonardo the only one who was doing it. Remember all Michelangelo's masculine women, who looked as if they'd been on the pro wrestling tour? Well, Leo did sort of the opposite - very effeminate, beautiful men. For example, this guy:

As you can see (from the, ahem, evidence below the waist), it's definitely a man, but, from the waist up, it could be a woman. What's going on with that hair and the very feminized torso (he almost has breasts)? This guy, usually called Angel of the Flesh, is similar to Leonardo's John the Baptist, who makes a similar gesture and is likewise, more than a bit feminized (and has a very seductive expression):

He has the same curly hair and quasi-cleavage that the figure to Christ's left in the Last Supper does. So is that figure Mary (who, while she was at the Last Supper, was busy cleaning feet)? Or John (the Evangelist, not the Baptist)? Well, more evidence points to John, but there are some who maintain that's it's Mary. Which is possible, but that doesn't really jive. See, Leonardo painted the Last Supper on a commission from the Duke of Milan, Ludovico Sforza. Sforza wanted a religious painting, so Leo frescoed it in S. Maria della Grazie in Milan. It seems unlikely that Leonardo would deliberately shake up received knowledge about what happened at the Last Supper (Sforza said, paint it from the Gospels, and the Gospels are quite clear that Mary wasn't seated at the table) when his boss was a pretty conservative guy. But who knows, it could be Mary. The point is, assuming one way or the other is usually dangerous.

Why? Well, take the Good City fresco in Siena. There's a circle of dancers in the lower left (here's a close-up):

For years and years everybody assumed they were women, since they sort of looked girly and wore dresses, etc. Turns out they're men, dancing a sort of civic celebration reserved especially for men, and considered the height of virility and civic pride, called the tripudium. Indeed, if you look closely, you'll see that the backs of their necks are exposed, as are the ankles, and the dresses are a bit short. That would have been incredibly scandalous for women, but fairly standard for men. Add to that, all the rest of Lorenzetti's women either have long loose hair or have it bound back in braids or covered, like good women ought to. Another commission where it didn't pay to shake things up. Not that Lorenzetti was nearly as edgy as Leonardo.

At any rate, the point is that assumptions based on our prejudices or worldviews (women wear dresses and dance in circles, women have long hair, men who paint effeminate women are homosexuals) are dangerous. In addition to all the Magdalen flap, a lot of speculation (some of it scholarly, most of it just gossipy) has swirled around Leonardo's sexuality. Surely, people have said, anybody who painted men like that must have been gay (google it, you'll see what I mean). But this is a bogus question - many social theorists have done a great job of arguing (and, I think, very successfully) that gender and sexuality are in many respects socially constructed. Nor are they constants, but shift with shifting cultural values and practices.*

*Editor's Note: More to come, but this is really long....

Post-(whatever) reading

I. Post-Colonial: Hari Kunzru's The Impressionist

Tired of empire? Wish the mystical and exotic Orient wasn't fetishized? Say "the academy" a lot while you criticize Western hegemony? Well, then this book is for you. Unless you do the last one - people who say "the academy" really get up my nose and are just asking for a brick to the head. But the first two, well, those are all right, I guess.

It's the colonial-era story of a well-born Indian boy (he's an anti-hero as well, a complete jerk, really) who, when it discovered that he is actually the bastard son of an Englishman, is thrown into the streets where he assumes identity after identity in a struggle to survive and find meaning. This is really more a collection of short stories than a novel, I think, and the brilliance of the book is in the supporting characters (many of them British colonial-types and shown to us with a mix of Gilbert-and-Sullivan silliness and sharp cultural critique). As a commentary on colonialism and empire, there's nothing too revolutionary here, but as a highly entertaining read, I strongly recommend it. Especially the tiger-hunting fiasco - fabulous!

II. Post-Modern: Mark Z. Danieleswski's House of Leaves

"An experimental post-modern novel," you ask, "why, what on earth would that look like?" A lot like this (a typical page from the book):

House of Leaves is a book that's insufferably self-aware and too post-modern for its shirt, too post-modern for its shirt, too post-modern, yeah...

A heavily-layered narrative with multiple voices and typefaces for each one, House has at its center a story about what happens when a family moves into a house that's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. It borrows heavily from everyone, and cheerfully skewers academic writing at every opportunity (the treatment of footnotes was hilarious). Like Dante, Danieleswski draws the reader in deeper and deeper, through narrative levels. We meet people in Inferno and scratch our heads, saying, "why is Dido here and not with the suicides?" or some such question and as soon as we do that, Dante's won. We've tacitly admitted his structure of Hell and inhabited it fully, going so far as to question its organization. Somewhat the same thing happened in House: the central account of the house itself comes from a critique written by a madman of a film that never existed and edited by a junkie who tells us straight off that the film isn't real. But I still found myself asking, "but what happened in the next scene of the film?" and then having to step back out and ruefully admit that the author had won again, that I'd forgotten what fictive layer we were in and that the film wasn't real.

It's highly entertaining and a real challenge to read - it's been awhile since I've read a novel so actively. Part of it is physical; you have to keep turning the damn book around and upside down and whatnot. But a lot of it is just solid solid writing - and it proved to me once again that post-modernism is a fun place to visit, but you can't really live there. Because although Dante drags us through Hell with him, Purgatory and Paradise wait at the other end. In House, we stay. Sadly, Danielewski disagrees with Sartre - hell isn't other people, it's complete exposure to yourself. Which is a lot lonelier, to say the least. At any rate, this book is one hell of a conversation piece and a chance to use "post-modern" in a cocktail-party sentence.

III. Post-Prandial: Wolfgang Schivelbusch's Tastes of Paradise (A Social History of Spices, Stimulants, and Intoxicants)

This book lives up to its name, being rather piquant itself. Okay, fine, you caught me - that intro sentence was just an excuse to use piquant. But still....this book rocked.

In the same family of social histories as Mintz's Sweetness and Power: The Place of Sugar in Modern History*, Tastes is more fun and less analysis. More fun-facts for the historically curious - amaze and impress your friends! Which is not to say that it lacks analytical content, only that it's easy to be distracted by the clever writing and fabulous trivia. It was a blast to read, and it would be a great book for an intro course. Someday I want to teach a class where I can assign this book as well as Princesse de Clèves. I have no idea what that course would be, but damn! the reading would be entertaining!

*Editor's Note: I am still reading S&P - this statement is based on the first few chapters. It might pick up.

Well, that's all for now, cognoscenti. Enjoy reading books you don't necessarily have to read!