299. GLUM
On the other hand,
glum was the word
for Elmira. The only
thing worthwhile
there, really, for me,
was the art department
at Elmira College.
Along with Gandy
Brodie - who at
that time had a year
or two residency.
It was somehow
reassuring to have
someone to talk with
had, at the very least,
some idea of the
shared experience we
both understood. He
represented New York
City, for a moment
anyway. I never knew
how often he went
back or forth, or how
- we weren't close
enough that information
like that was shared.
No big deal. Distances
remained, but he was
cool. I kind of wished
it was more of a
'guy-talk' thing,
between two
people exchanging
tales, but it always
stayed more on
an art-of-that-moment
basis. He had the
little Elmira College
art studio franchise
thing down good -
if we did talk it
was about Art.
The subject, what
we were doing,
how come, by
what means. I
guess, in retrospect,
I can just fault him
for not being more
forthcoming too
or for not recognizing
the 'me' before him,
but whatever. That's
how it went : he
really was from
a different day
than I was, and
the shared
experiences
didn't overlap.
Those old
beatnik-era guys
were never cut out
to be teachers or
conversationalists
anyway, and I knew
that. Occasionally
he had another
fairly famous New
York City poet
guy, named
Kenneth Koch,
Same era, they
shared a bunch of
stuff. He gave a
reading one time
too at the college.
A Saturday night
thing, maybe 40
people tops. I went;
hadn't ever heard
the guy before.
He made sure
we all knew he
pronounced his
name as Coke,
not Koch, like
you'd figure -
same as a NY
Mayor later on.
I found out I
wasn't a fan
of his work,
read or recited.
Sort of like
Billy Collins,
later on, his
stuff was
just too glib
and trying to
be humorous
or light and
all. I sensed
nothing and
knew I needed
the missing
gravitas for it
to have any
value. I hate
lightness. And
then he died -
Gandy Brodie,
I mean, not
Kenneth Koch.
I knew at that
point the doors
of that 'other'
era were
closing.
I can't even
remember if
he was still
there when
he died, or
if it was later.
-
One of the items
which suffuse
friendships are
the moments
of informal talk.
When two people
talk about the
road, or what
they've seen
coming or going
(it was a 5-hour
journey, back and
forth to NYC,
with plenty to
see), but one
of the problems
with academic
crap is that it
stays at just that.
There's always
an 'understood'
master-student
relationship, or
whatever it is,
that has an
underlying
politicization
that always
undercuts any
friendship. You
never get
someone like
him, at my
level, to talk
about sewers,
or drainage,
or a car, or
even a woman.
The sort of
relationship
current doesn't
allow for that.
Yet, they say,
that's how
you're supposed
to learn. Go
figure. I'd much
rather be able
to talk to
someone about
mud and grime
and nails and
hammers, say,
than about the
'incidentals of
the subterranean
microcosm
which undermines
the symbolic
language of a
surrealist
painting in
light of
modern-day
aesthetics.'
See what
I mean.
-
At that same
time too, I
was studying,
a bit, the work
and writings
of Martin Buber.
He had this
thing about
the various
sorts of
relationships
that humans
and with each
other, and with
God, etc. He
called them
things like
'I and Thou'
or 'I and I'
relationships;
stuff like that.
Distinctions
of engaging
the world, how
we DO engage
the world and
then how,
because of it,
we get underway
with our own
selves and the
relationships
between our
'Humanness'
and others, and
God - all that.
It's a bit heavy,
or maybe just
random, but it
can be enough
to really pull
a person down,
like some old
feet-in-the-concrete
stuff. Tough sledding.
There was one thing
I had learned from
my piano-lesson
work, and it
always stuck
with me. Buber
too. It was
that it always
easier - way
easier and way
more natural -
playing your
own stuff. Music,
I'm talking. That
seemed quite
apparent immediately
- it's easier to
'memorize', easier
to play, isn't picked
and labored, and
you have a far
greater total
command and
recall of the
entire thing -
because it's
yours. It came
through you.
So it's always
an easier thing
to do the
authentic and
not labor over
or worry over
the derivative
stuff. That's
why Art is so
authentic and
rich, and has
so many avenues
and styles and
ways of being
- I tried getting
this 'theory' of
mine across to
Gandy Brodie
more than once,
but it always
ran up against
the wall of, like,
an 'I-Thou' thing.
He had the superior
role and I, as
underling, couldn't
really possibly
have a theory
worth him or his
time, No matter, I
just forged onward
- BECAUSE in
Art it's ALWAYS
your own; it's
fresh and authentic.
NO one - unless
you're some, old,
academic-studio
formula painter
copying and
mimicking - in
Art is copying
or duplicating
another. Whereas
in music, every
recital is another
Bach or Beethoven.
Scriabin, or Liszt, or
whatever. There's
nothing 'wrong'
with that - it takes
plenty of talent and
skill and a real
reservoir of
knowledge and
practice. But it's
still someone else's
work. Yes, of
course, you can
'make it our own'
by adding your
own fillips and
style and
interpretations.
But it's not the
same. It's still
another's box
that you have
to fit into. So
much for that.
Gandy Brodie
was gone, and
we'd never really
connected any
dots. Too bad.
-
Well, anyway,
if you want a
surprise I guess
what you need
to do is return
to places of
your youth to
see them again.
Things simply
deteriorate; it's
somehow a law
of the natural
world - and
cheap, under-funded
urban places prove
that point well.
Elmira got smashed
- as I've written
in other places -
by the flood in
June of '72. Hurricane
Agnes. Believe me,
it was nothing to
write home about
before that, but
the flood and all
the undermining
of its waters
really kicked
this place in
the ass. Knocked
it down abut 5
rungs - meaning,
man, it was
subterranean;
man, it was beat,
gone, destroyed,
over. There wasn't
any coming back,
and of course the
only reasonable
way of continuation
was by having the
Government do
it for you. The
Army Core of
Engineers (a
really hated bunch)
came through and
re-designed and
re-routed lots of
things; waterways
and drainage, idle
land put aside for
overflows and parks,
walkways along the
water. They even
put a freaking Samuel
Clemens Memorial
Highway right
through the center
of town. It was all
meant to work, but
it never really did.
Maybe it was
good for outsiders
and people just
seeing it fresh,
but the big and
usual thing
they all did
was let the
state come in
and make like
Art Center stuff,
concert halls
(named, of
course, after
Samuel Clemens
- Mr. Mark Twain,
whom Elmira
claimed and
treasured, by
burial site if
nothing else).
When that crap
starts happening,
you know it's over -
the outsiders come
in with their measuring
sticks and big ideas,
and the next thing
you know you've
got parking lots
and white lines for
1600 cars, in
addition to the
junk they built.
Which, they
figure, works
out to one
parking spot
for every 17
people in town,
which amortizes
out to 4,248
people per year
at an average
concert schedule
of one per month
at 40 bucks a head
on Fridays of the
full moon, blah,
blah, clipboard.
Yeah, it's like
that, and they
leave you,
supposedly,
a new, revitalized
town. Run for
the hills, I say...
and I did.
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