BOOK: "This Body of Death", by Elizabeth George

16th in a series by Elizabeth George, featuring Investigator Thomas Linley, a wealthy Earl who just happens to work in the police department - or maybe it’s Scotland Yard.  His beloved wife, Helen, was killed off in the prior novel, and he is persuaded to return to work in this novel.  Better he should have stayed in bed.

First things first: be prepared to read the most horrifying and gruesome narrative about the abduction, torture, and murder of a 2-year old child - I had to skip over this thread because it was so revolting, coming just after the Newtown shootings, and being a grandmother. The author tries to make us understand how such a dreadful event could happen. OK. I just don't enjoy reading bloody sadistic descriptions of degradation.

The setting is very British, set in scenic Hampshire - slang and vernacular that need to be looked up ( thank goodness for a British dictionary selection on my Kindle). Researching the The New Forest setting helped - thank you Wickipedia. The major storyline involves an ancient treasure, the aching need for romantic love and its fatal consequences. A lost puppy victim is stabbed in a moody cemetery, and the suspects are a varied group: a mentally ill man, her old and new lovers, her fellow lodgers, even her own brother.

The story itself is long and choppy. George withholds information, switches points-of-view as fast as a pony's tail flick, and the Isabelle Ardrey character left me grinding my teeth with her insensitivity and stupidity - I was incredulous that she would be in the running for a superintendent's job as she ineptly directs the murder investigation.

What's interesting is how the disjointedness of the narrative begins to resolve towards the last quarter of this overly -long novel. Then ending is predictable.

Other reviews suggest that this book, the 16th, is suffering from series staleness, as happens more often than not with detective novels. So, forewarned, read only if you're hungry for a Brit murder mystery and can't find anything better.  (Review also published on Amazon.)

As for me, my favorite literary genre, the mystery -what’s to be done here? They should publish “spoilers”, rate the gruesomeness and horror of them for me, so I could just read the dainty Agatha Christie spin-offs and be contented thusly.

ART: Sean Scully

"One might say the passionate colour of immanent desire meets the intellectual resistance of transcendent geometry, resulting in an uneasy balance of forces, a nervous self-containment and a sense of unfinished, burdensome emotional business..." about Sean Scully

...They reveal the unresolvable conflict between the determinate and indeterminate —

Scully is a humanist Old Master in abstract disguise. His paintings have the spiritual depth and universal import of the best Old Master paintings, distilled and coded in modernist abstract terms. In Scully spiritual experience is conveyed through nuance and intensity rather than through iconography and imagery — and with greater effect. For where traditional art mediates spiritual meaning through cultural symbols, so that it becomes more of a learned communication than a lived experience, Scully gives it direct perceptual life, so that it becomes an intensely lived meaning. It loses its dogmatic character and becomes a nuanced process. In much traditional painting the paradox of the best abstract painting is that it gives spiritual immediacy to what is a dead academism. Paradoxically, spirit is no longer an abstract concept in abstract painting, but a concrete sense experience.  - Donald Kuspit

ART: Georgia O'Keeffe Goes to Hawai'i

Georgia O’Keeffe was paid to go to the islands to paint by Dole Pineapple.  She returned with some lovely paintings but no picture of a pineapple, so Dole had one sent to her in New York.  She finally did finish it and the image was used in advertising.

I’m so glad she went there - it is one of my dearest places. The place where I first experienced real comfort, luxury, generosity, and freedom of spirt and body, of cleanliness and soaring open water and sky, of intense green spiked with black lava.  Pineapples, coconuts, macadamia nuts, papaya, kiwi, ginger, maile blossoms - the island fruits of desire and plenty.

FILM: "Anna Karenina"

FILM/BOOK: The Life of Pi

ESSAY: My Autumn Roses

The fall roses are always big and glamorous - the last of this year's bed before I renovate it extensively for spring.

ART: Chuck Webster, Painter: Smile when you see that!

I love the blocky, child-like awkward directional changes, the scratchy canvas colors, the bold black outlines, like a child drawing maps.  The yellows punch and yell, they are aggressive and funny, like stand up comedy.  The sutures look like telephone poles askew in the tempest, kites blow about and anchor forms, a blocky heart bled and was sewed.  Clowns cavorted with blah-blah horns.  And the beautiful necklace on the yellow Nefertiti’s neckline awes with its symbolic beauty.

 From NYT, June 2012, Roberta Smith:

“Chuck Webster’s new panel paintings, seen in his sixth solo exhibition at this gallery, are the best of his career. They are also very much, if not startlingly, little big paintings: they have a strange, irrepressible scale, a largeness that exceeds their size and creates a distinctive, slightly comedic sense of intimacy.

All feature variations on an enclosed, linear, somewhat hieroglyphic motif, usually rendered in thick black lines. Suggesting cave paintings, irregular ziggurats and primitive maps, these variations also strongly evoke the art of Paul Klee, meaning they would seem natural to paintings not much larger than your face. Two works here are almost that small, but the others are five or six feet high and seven or eight across. This is not big by Gagosian standards, and that’s the point. The bigness resides within the paintings, in the three-way tension involving panel size, the drawing of the linear motif and surface textures.

Mr. Webster puts his motif through its paces, milking it for various associations, exploring different figure-ground relationships and adjusting paint handling, color and spatial depth, always guided by a generous, enlarging impulse. In the most memorable work, the black lines are thick, the area within them is white and the surrounding ground is sectioned off in big blocks of red and orange. The whole thing jumps. But each painting is very much its own pictorial being: vulnerable, rambunctious and fully inhabited.

Mr. Webster has debts. Philip Guston, Carroll Dunham and Jonathan Lasker are all rightly cited as precedents in the news release. But Klee’s art is his greatest obligation, which he both honors and updates on the springboard of scale.”

FILM: "Silver Linings Playbook"

Seeing films about beautifuul people who are supposed to be mentally unbalanced requires a certain suspension of belief.  Then, there’s the problem of how uncomfortably they resemble mentally unbalanced family members and friends. 

 How dispiriting it is to see a really dysfunctional working-class family yet again: that awful East Coast gritty old city neighborhood, their lives like sagging wet paper bags, the kitschy sentimental decor of stifling tiny living rooms. And no one really has anything to do.

Well, Russell really does get all that quite right, doesn’t he? 

Oh, the plot. It’s about fanatic team loyalty,  an amateur dance contest,  off-track betting, Philly cheesesteaks and infidelity.  Bradley Cooper, cast in a serious role (supposedly he was fabulous at the Williamstown Playhouse starring as The Elephant Man) jogs in a trash bag (I am trash) and makes wildly funny and boundary-violating remarks frequently.

Jennifer Lawrence seems stunningly convincing as a depressive widow.  I’m not sure she was really smart enough to contrive the device by which she heals Cooper, but it was kind and doomed to fail but it doesn’t.

Her mercy is tender.  I wish the happy ending hadn’t been such a certainty.  But then, they all had to keep living with the the real elephant-in-the-room man, Cooper’s father, played by Robert de Niro, innocently, truly, madly deeply bonkers.  So even though he gets to buy the restaurant he wants, we suspect he will bungle it, and the duration of their victory will be shorter than they think.   

So, the silver lined cloud may have a few more bumps left for the ride after the curtain rings down on the lucky winner/loser victory scene which closes the film: a Sunday afternoon TV family football gathering. All is the same yet all is changed.

MY ARTWORK: 2012 The Flag Series

Black Flag 

 Each of these flags is painted on board.  The series continues as a new monochromatic color for a flag presents itself to me to be painted.

Pink

Red Flag

Brown Flag - fabric, burlap, rice, lentils, newsprint

FILM: "The Master"

Post World War II void and trauma and its re-alienated individuals ironically spawn cults of belief in charismatic hucksters. Quell (quell my pain), on the run, stows away on a boat and is adopted by The Master, who manipulates him with degrading and mindless exercises while encouraging him to brew his potent, potentially lethal, alcohol concoctions.

I struggled to match my attention to the slow narrative pace, my need for resolution conflicted with my dread about what painful incident would follow next. Editing here skillfully serves the contrasts of character and story. The power struggle between Quell and Dodd remains unresolved by any cathartic event. So those of us who like a car chase or an explosion to create epiphany face a dilemma of plot structure: flawed and tedious or serially nuanced exposition?

Who is master, who is slave? Quell and Dodd are bound homo-erotically, but more completely by their twinned natures (Quell brutish, Dodd magnetized slime), driven by an omnivorous thwarted sexuality which provides the corrupted life energy driving each. The Master and the servant masturbate, go to jail, and lose emotional control in parallel experiences that reveal their cloven natures. Quell achieves a kind of existential freedom when he is expelled and leaves The Master. He continues his sexual questing and alcoholism, we conclude, a drifter until the downward spiral ends. In their quasi heroic and defiant choices, each is becomes nullified and banal.

The film has a fine score (though somewhat post-modern in feel), and beautiful production values, filmed in 70-mm, and lovely cinematography and editing. Would that all films attended to the formal elements of film to deepen the film experience’s visual potential.

Philip Seymour Hoffman has a voice that would seduce the most devoted celibate, and his portrayal of The Master as a kind of uber-Dyonisian-male satyr (the dance scene) is powerful. Joachin Phoenix’s Quell contorts his body into a kind of German expressionist crucifixion carving, hands nearly always placed on the hips, yet twisted in reverse, forcing shoulders forward and shaping his chest into a concave void. In one scene he is required not to blink for an extended time while being “processed” - an excruciating minor torture. (Try it during the scene, and you’ll see what I mean.)

Amy Adams plays his chillingly true believer wife, revealed as a kind of implanted Master in Dodd’s consciousness, and Laura Dern is a swindled cult member. I won’t forget the puzzled look on her face, and despite the lack of comprehension, acceptance of the Master’s word, when she challenges him about a revision of The Inquiry/Process in his second book.

The director, Paul Thomas Anderson, (Boogie Nights, Magnolia, There Will be Blood) is an important contemporary filmmaker, and should be attended to. I leave it to you to declare, “pretentious and boring”, reminding you that I’ve heard that one a lot, and it’s usually coming from those “car crash” enthusiasts I mentioned earlier. Seriously, the problem is art that requires a willed attention: a choice to stay open to the artist’s intention, and a lack of expectation that escapist fantasy will be deeply satisfied. You’re on your own - submitting to the experience but with awareness. Try it sometime.

ART: MOCA Exhibit, World Post-War Abstract Painting

Destroy the Picture: Painting the Void, 1945-1962, MOCA Exhibition - Raging at the Dead Light, the Dark Night

The work in this exhibition is noteworthy for its pioneering use of materials and processes, and the magnitude of its screaming expressive pain.  Paul Schimmel’s last curated exhibit for MOCA before resigning due to conflicts with the new director, Jeffrey Deitch - “contemporary art lite” vs. serious-scholarship approach. So you want to see it for that reason too.  Where’s Schimmel going to go?

 Some of the artists are familiar: Jean Fautrier, Lee Bontecou,  Alberto Burri.  It’s a selected comparative world survey of modern painters who responded to the tragedy of World War II by hacking, burning, cutting, smearing, excavating, rejecting imagery.  The works look vital, angry, direct, shocking:  poignant efforts to heal the broken faith between nation,  citizen, and self.

Lee Bonecue, Alfredo Burri

How could one go on, after the ghastly brutality and horror of world war, nuclear destruction, and monstrous genocide?  Gutai, (“embodiment/making with the/of the body’) the Japanese post-war movement, was particularly painful to view. 

Kazuo Shiraga, painting with his feet

The countries I love for their astonishing aesthetic accomplishments:  France, Italy, Japan - all enemies during World War II.  My memory is longer than it should be. And now they have the ability to transmit their empty souls to me, even though they are at primary fault for that terrible war.  Humanity would not have come to this if real democracy had prevailed.  Alas, only stupidity ruled those days.  Not like today at all, n’est ce-pas?

But it’s all very obvious and familiar, brutal in its own way, as if the painters’ hands and brains had become intellectual stumps, making the art of amputees smearing and raging at a dead light, the dark night.  And the work is still somehow seductively beautiful; that’s what so wrong and disturbing.  This reality makes the work even more powerfully subversive, corrosive, denying and creating a subtle reality about the actual nature of evil.  

Here’s the thing - I don’t think this artistic direction develops much beyond the body/skin/canvas metaphor which depicts its torture and degradation, in a sort of ghastly decorative way.  And then it’s done.  No place else to go.  You can only destroy everything there is to destroy, after all.  

At MOCA you can walk across the lobby after seeing this disturbing group of artworks and sit quietly and mostly alone with eight Mark Rothkos, more of them together than you can find at the Met or MOMA.  They will take you in the other direction:  the Abstract Color Field painting movement, a seeking of spiritual release and transcendence, another kind of loss of self that is an understandable response to war.  

In these works the artist assumes you already Got It; you don’t need assistance to plumb the  dimensions of atrocity.  But you need to go on, to find a way to do that, some neutralizing calm, from which you harvest a release forward.

And one is given beauty in a new formal manner, an innovation that seems a culmination of the intent and direction of the painting movement known as abstraction.  

But I can’t help returning to now, and to Gerhard Richter’ squeegee paintings. A step back, but the only redemptive work from the warrior countries that I find.

The work to the right above is titled “Uncle Rudi”, a photo he painted of his actual relative in his Nazi uniform.  Not hard to for me to imagine the wiping over of his canvas is his wiping out of his history, his memory, his shame, a kind of burial and green graveyard.

BOOK: Kishar Desai, "Witness the Night"

Sometimes I wish I wasn't fascinated by the "who did it?" narratives of crime novels. Along the way, lots of blood, gore, pain is inseparable from violent crime, of course.  Maybe I just ought to solve algebra problems instead. This one contains a ghastly narrative - read this if you have a strong stomach for torture, abuse, and female infanticide. Also, forget your romantic India travel plans. Just in case you aren't paying attention to how truly tragic the plight of women is in most of the world, this novel will forever fix it in your mind, if it doesn't turn you into a raving radicalized feminist. 

Oops, and doesn't that ending seem to suggest that women themselves are complicit, and that attempts at real justice will fail? Is compassion capable of forgetting the past? 

Nonetheless, an interesting, memorable, mostly well written book, singular as a crime novel. A bit repetitive, and it's helpful to Google the Indian terms and vernacular used. Enhances the story considerably - especially knowing that the heroine is considered by her mother to be a Sikh "princess".

First in a series. 

ART: Edgar Payne, Plein-Air Artist

Closing day for this exhibit at the Pasadena Museum of California Art. I’m glad I got there!  The number of Payne artworks in the several rooms is plentiful and straightforwardly arranged to reveal Payne’s progression.  He believed in “seeking the sublime”, and found it it nature.  

His favorite mountain range was the Sierra Nevada, because of the coloration - not just granitic in origin like European Alps, the Sierra Nevada  displays dynamic volcanic activity.  Mineral ledges have eroded to view, and the slopes are precipitous and mountain lakes rest below in scoured out glacial depressions.  

His favorite area was around Big Pine - a part of the Sierra I haven’t visited much.

He also went to Canyon De Chelly, a place John and I went to this April.  It’s really satisfying to view these paintings because I love these places deeply and with great reverence.

He thought seascapes were the measure of an artist - perhaps I agree, and I loved some of his.  His later work, in Europe, of Swiss Alps and Italian boats I found less engaging. He had changed his style for the European mountain pictures, using a heavier impasto on the skies broken by pink fractured triangles, producing a matte, dulled effect.  The boats I just found repetitive - a device for dealing with composition, but still a figurative one.  I wonder if he had experimented with abstraction, what would have happened to his paintings.  Probably too late - he had painted vigorously for many years by that time.

I do know I’ll have to go back and try some more landscapes and some work in the Sierras myself before I’m done here.  I’m already planning a trip to Big PIne!

BOOKS: Louise Penny, Still Life

A sweet-sour “womens” tea cozy genre mystery novel about a Murder in Three Pines village - don’t go shopping for a country home in this town. I warned you.

Oh my. What a strange, haunting, cozy/dark detective series. Cutesey gentrified Quebec village, flakey croissant and lavish bistro dining interludes are juxtaposed with raw revelations of turbulent human emotion and behavior. A benevolent, wise, unjaded superintendent anchoring the investigations. Quirky village inhabitants involved with higher information age self-realization pursuits. Their interior lives and personal relationships are deftly revealed; they are not spared their pains and insecurities despite their "good life" environment. A nasty successful poet is tolerated by her neighbors. Teenage boys throw manure and curses at the gays who run the B&B. A troubled teen lies about his father. Another painter's mother kept snakes in the basement. 

Clara is the touchstone of the village, an artist who gets food in her hair when she eats. We're still supposed to find her charming anyway, and do. Her successful artist husband Peter is brooding and arrogant, I think, and yet she seeks him always. It's she who "solves" the mystery , because she is the princess who can discern the pea beneath the twenty mattresses; she notices an subtle change in her dead friend's last painting which reveals the killer. 

I like the way that art and appearances are written about in this novel particularly well. The author has the unique gift to describe appearances that become visual after the text, not an easy task. The murdered spinster's oeuvre, I imagine to be a fusion of Magritte, Grandma Moses, and James Ensor, based on the description, and it's very engaging and funny, too. 

Canadian vernacular references go undefined but add color. What is a licorice pipe? What would one order from Eaton's Catalog?  

Whimsical, funny, political, and philosophical/poetic author's voice comments are leavened into the chapters as well, making the novel work on narrative and emotional levels. It's not flat, procedural, or distanced. Rather, the reader pulls back from the revelations and human mistakes made, and it's Gamache, kind, avuncular, priest-like, who seems to bless away the pain, not without grieving himself, however. He remains, finally, merely authoritative, a man one doesn’t cross. 

I am going to have to wait a bit before I read the next one, though. The creepy fallout from this novel is going to linger in my memory

.

ART EXHIBIT: Gustav Klimpt at the Getty Museum

The Beethoven Frieze -  The Hostile Forces, 1902

I’ve read a biography of Klimpt which focussed on his erotic nature and its expression, and his mature work - I don’t recall it included so much about his early developmental period of Art Nouveau -historicism-realistic-Academic style.  It is simply, unsurpassingly magnificent.  More lush, more poignant than David, more sympathetic.  What a leap the Vienna Secession truly made into modernity - in some ways more astonishing than the French Moderns; its natural energy was tragically cut by World War I, the flu epidemic, and the economic and political destruction suffered in the ensuing years.  

Klimpt was a decorative graphic designer mural artist with the soul of a German romantic expressionist.  In him, the element of line has an apogee that perhaps hasn’t been matched, though much emulated.  It combines with elegance, modern psychological insights, and a tragic view of humans always suffering, with little respite.

 portrait of a Lady with Cape and Hat, 1897-1898, Gustav Klimt. Black and red crayon. Albertina, Vienna (from Getty website)

One of Klimpt’s early  charcoal works - the elegantly languid, moody and remote Viennese women he loved to draw and paint.

DANCE REVIEW: LA Dance Project Review

DANCE REVIEW

Better curated than choreographed

BY LEWIS SEGAL

   As a choreographer, Benjamin Millepied arguably brings nothing new to the Southern California dance scene beyond the scale of his ambitions. But as a curator he’s made his L.A. Dance Project a unique cultural resource with an inaugural performance dominated by the kind of daring, world-class contemporary revivals that our homegrown companies lack the will or budget to attempt.

   In a three-part program at Walt Disney Concert Hall on Saturday, Millepied’s quasi-local ensemble danced the first performance anywhere of Merce Cunningham’s controversial masterwork “Winterbranch”  (still photo left) since it left the Cunningham company repertory in1976. [Comment:  masterwork?  If you could see it or stand to listen to the extremely loud score - which followed another maddeningly repetitive and naively ageing off-key voice quavering endlessly about Jesus’ blood - ugh - I still can’t get it out of my mind.]  

   Abstract Expressionism at its most extreme, this1964 sextet remains oppressive in its pervasive darkness punctuated by occasional, random flashes of blinding light; in its silence shattered by a deafening, abrasive score (La Monte Young’s “2 sounds”); in its movement concept: all human activity — individual or collective — collapsing helplessly to the ground….The original production evoked the Holocaust to some observers… I do really want to see the dancers, not struggle to perceive their movements; I could only react by emotionally, aurally, and visually shutting down while this piece was performed.  What about Kronos Quartet “Black Angels”?   That’s tough enough for anyone’s apocolypse scenario, you think?

   If this seminal act of movement theater couldn’t display L.A. Dance Project’s technical prowess, ( because no one could see it, or the costumes touted as Rauschenberg’s “design” - what, he went shopping to Target and bought exercise clothes?   William Forsythe’s innovative 1993 “Quintett” certainly could and did, marred only by a sound system that reduced to mush the vital orchestral component of Gavin Bryars’ “Jesus’ Blood Never Failed Me Yet.”

   Against Bryars’ evolving, deepening sonorities, Forsythe turned classical ballet inside out: warping it, twisting it, adding infusions of sports movement, ordinary (pedestrian) action, gestural accents, even shake-that-booty pop dance — but never overloading it or making the dancers into faceless instruments.

... What’s more, the logistics of dance at Disney Hall served “Quintett” brilliantly, putting the audience in the same space as the dancers and helping all the choreographic components pop out with great immediacy.  I disliked the seeming inability to attempt lighting beyond placement of a few studio-type spotlights.

   Millepied capitalized on that immediacy in the premiere of his “Moving Parts” to a violin, organ and clarinet score by Nico Muhly, played live above the stage. music was fresh, living corrollary to the dancing

   But here, unfortunately, his very, very ordinary choreography was continually upstaged and eclipsed by the exemplary dancing and the cleverness of the staging.

   Yes, it was fun to watch the dancers manipulate Christopher Wool’s portable calligraphic scenic panels, reframing the performance dynamically many different ways.  Not so fun, they looked clunky and inserted - couldn’t Wool come up with anything more imaginative than just large canvasses, really now?  Furthermore, they looked like dated graphic design inspired by Stephen Heller or a student project at Art Center.  I liked the dancing but without toe shoes modern dance just doesn’t get the elegance or movements possible in dance, lifts almost always look clunky - can’t anyone do them?  And can’t white dancers jump?  Or is it just that white choreographers can’t create leaps and jumps as part of expressive movement vocabularies?    Nonetheless, I saw exquisite dancers and fascinating, sometimes difficult work that deserves to be in the repertoire of a truly modern company, especially the Forsythe work, which was  truly marvelous.     But the choreography itself had scarcely any movement invention to recommend it, except possibly in the second art during a throwaway cluster maneuver and a more developed duet for Lugo and Nathan Makolandra.

   Not wholly romantic, or competitive or out for gymnastic display, that duet was all over the map expressively — like most of the Millepied choreography that local audiences have seen — and ended with the dancers quizzically backing away as if silently asking the same question that some of us were asking: What was it that just happened ?

   You might argue that L.A. Dance Project is a New York company that had an extensive international tour booked about the time its local identity was signed and sealed with Music Center funding... Perhaps it will also become Lyon Dance Project or Sadler’s Wells Dance Project in its partnerships with foreign entities...  Besides the dancers mentioned, the Project personnel included Amanda Wells and Julia Eichten, plus musicians Phil O’Connor, Lisa Liu and Muhly.

BOOK REVIEWJack Reacher #14: 61 Hours

My 14th Jack Reacher novel!

I am enthralled with this series of mystery novels - I’ve been reading them for about 3 weeks straight through - kept me in suspense every time.  I love the vigilante justice Jack administers to the bad guys whom he finds like flies to honey.

In this novel, drug dealers discover a stash of WWII amphetamines buried in a deep underground bunker and seemingly forgotten.  It’s cold, very cold - the landscape is always a metaphor for Jack’s existential purity and isolation.  He doesn’t get laid in this novel-the first time this doesn’t occur.  (He usually slides into bed with one of the characters in an understated, adult consensual act of lonely coupling.)  Only a telephone flirtation.

The de rigeur torture component has to do with legs being sawed off as punishment for insulting the unusually diminutive bad guy.  

The betrayer is the chief of police, Hooker, who gets what he deserves, via Jack's inimitable justice system.

And the denoument is fantastic-an explosion in the cavern that mimics a missile-silo accident which Jack survives.

BOOK REVIEW:Jack Reacher: Worth Dying For #15

 Jack Reacher # 15 - Worth Dying For

A bloody, ghastly, story - perhaps the darkest of all the Reachers, and one you’d like to forget, except that it expands the paradigms of of possible evil that Jack ultimately avenges.

The Duncan family “owns” the farm country in the Dakotas in this Reacher novel - their terrible secret is that they smuggle Thai girl children and women for the sex trade, keeping one for themselves.  This one is dark and truly repulsive, as Jack discovers an old barn with the remains of about 60 children, used over many years by the nasty Duncans.  Jack and Dorothy, mother of one of the dead children, run down and over the Duncan family in farm trucks, satisfyingly wreaking vengeance on punishment upon the unspeakable evils committed.

The landscape is flat and revealing, cut only by highways and  lonely homesteads, filled with cornfields.  A drunken doctor redeems himself and a battered wife gets away.  

Jack doesn’t get laid, but seeks to go to Virginia to meet a woman he met on the phone who helped him solve the mystery.  

Why I love these novels:

suspense, closely worked details and specific information, strong mood/landscape metaphors, perfect American existential character creation, sardonic humour, and sadistic revenge fantasies get satisfied - Jack is truly The Grim Reaper.  

Tom Cruise is going to play Reacher in an upcoming film.

This has got to be a ludicrous proposition on the face of it - JR is six-five and blonde, more like a Liam Neeson than the short, stumpy, cocky Tom Cruise we know and sort of still like because of Top Gun.  JR is much more an early Clint Eastwood/Dirty Harry kind of guy - what Tom will do with this task?  I hope to be surprised, but it seems laughable, except to Lee Child who’ll make a lot of money for his careful years of deeply plotted suspenseful stories.

BOOK REVIEW: Jack Reacher # 13: Gone Tomorrow

Jack Reacher #13

Jack spots a woman on the NY subway at 2:00AM he identifies as a potential suicide bomber. She kills herself in front of him after he tries to intervene.  Then he has to make it right when he concludes that she did it because she was afraid of him.

ART: MOMA Favorites

Don't know this artist, but this is suspended from the ceiling and I found it very witty - Home Sweet Home is a dream for Americans today.

ALBERTO BOETTI: The Maps Series

I have loved these from the first time I saw them, love them with lyric fervor, before I thought about the implications - that there’s no way to stop “it”...only partial restraints work part of the time, but always yield to time - a kind of economic model of over-determined causation which is our real and existential condition.  

Afgan tribal women weave the rugs and hangings Boetti designs, but communications being what they are - the final product contain alterations of design made by the women in the process of their work - more of this color yarn is available, what color did he intend?  So one weaving has a black field of ocean, another pink, astonishingly beautiful, the 

Each country’s borders are defined by a partial section of its flag, suggesting power, conflict, border struggles, and a harmony of diversity- the controls of politics produce the form of design, the design of form.  

And there’s a plenitude, a fullness, combined with floating - a decorative border encloses the generous scale of the artwork, delighting in the folk energy of the decorative,  the sustained life force of human expressive possibility.

These Boettis are 100 combinations of digitally possible arrangements of black and white squares, with much randomness integral to the design concept.

Sol Lewitt, MOMA

Ideas about doing more work with maps - just don’t come up with any concept or artistic response other than a sort of decoupage low relief approach that looks decorative.

I was so moved by the tenderness and physicality of this small sculpture - if one had never been a mother, one would still know and yearn to hold the baby forever close, forever young, in everlasting arms, to know the joy and gratitude of being a part of the great power of Creation, to accept the yoke of care that grows ever outward to Oneness.