Planet: A Wandering Deity

Perhaps Descartes was on to something when he questioned if God deceives us or not. Of course, Descartes concludes that God can be nothing of the sorts, nor anything less than absolutely benevolent, but this is beside the point. It isn't unprecedented to find instances in which God deceives people: He hardens the Pharaoh's heart to pursue the Jews across the desert, He says: "Hey, don't eat from that tree" and expects no one to do so, et cetera. Certainly the Hebrew God is a trickster of sorts, conniving, manipulating, and, like His chosen people, a vagabond: He wanders in and out of the Garden, and He wanders with the Jews across the deserts (something most gods didn't do, i.e. they stay in one place). Likewise, God seems to wander in and out of perception, logic, and nature: an erring deity, like a planet: a wandering deity in the sky.

Most people who deny the existence of God arrive at such a belief because they believe the whole idea of God is preposterous and a logical and rational absurdity, but this conclusion is an error of petty human reasoning. The existence of God is completely acceptable, if not inevitable in logic. Anselm's Ontological Argument is probably one of the most convincing logical arguments for the existence of God: that because nothing greater than God can be thought of, and it is greater to exist than to not exist, and God is by definition that great, then that than which nothing greater can be thought (God) must exist. Perfect, flawless reasoning. Then there is the empirical arguments of Aquinas, and the numerous arguments from creation (i.e. there is something rather than nothing, therefore something created it). All are wonderful logical proofs of God's existence.

What? That doesn't prove that God actually exists! No shit. Existence in logic is not the same as existence in nature (i.e. actuality, reality). Since when has logic ever actually coincided with nature? Does a straight line actually exist in nature? Mathematicians spend a lot of time with something that doesn't exist in nature. Do truly good things actually exist? Find anything "good" and a flaw will be found in it. Is there such thing as a pure friendship? All relationships are unequal, and someone will always take more than the other receives, which isn't a very nice relationship. Such is the way of the world: the logical and the natural do not coincide.

Thus the existence of God is absolutely a logical and rational conclusion to come to, which, in fact, seems inevitable to come to given the Ontological Argument, or even the Hebrew and Sumerian idea of El-Elyon (God Most High, which supposes there are other gods that the El-Elyon is superior to). But this does not prove that God exists in reality.

It is an error of human reasoning and understanding to say that the idea or any logical proof of God is absurd. God reigns supreme in logic and reasoning. God does not, however, seem to reign at all in nature. In fact given that the straight line does not exist in nature, nor a perfect circle, or a truly good thing, then it seems reasonable to conclude that God cannot actually exist in nature, and that in physical reality it would be absurd for God to exist at all.

Logically God cannot exist in nature, but, of course like all logic, this conclusion, too, may be an error of human reasoning.

Once again God wanders in and out of reasoning and existence, just has God has always done. God gives us reason to believe and to doubt His existence. Perhaps that is the only essence of God anyone has left. This is not to say that we cannot know God in some way (with this writing I know "God" (however one may define such a term - a little bit better). To say we cannot know God is, in the words of Hume, to be "an atheist and not know it."

Art is Dead Part 3: Architecture is Dead

Art is Dead Part 1
Art is Dead Part 2

I've known a number of people, friends, professors, fellow peers, even some journalists say that the profession of architecture is dying. They're almost correct. Architecture is dead. I've heard a number of accusations for why architects are a dying breed, and why architecture seems to get crummier over the years. Among the speculations are: contractors gaining all the power (so become a contractor if you want power), the economy, LEED, the demand of knowledge required for the ARE, separation of architect and engineer and interior designer (i.e. separation of disciplines), et cetera. Perhaps these are factors, but they compare nothing to the two main factors to the death of architecture: the death of beauty in architecture, and the birth of hubris.

After Gropius made his modification to Vitruvius' so-called three points of architecture (functional utility, structural stability, and charming beauty), in which Gropius stated: utilitas + firmitas = venustas. This ultimately left the notions of charm, delight, and beauty on the back-burner of architectural theory and practice ever since. Architects used to say that everyone knows something is beautiful or ugly when they see it, and so notions of what creates the healthiest beauty in architecture was the primary focus of theory. For instance, Alberti discusses what is appropriate to a building (what Vitruvius called decorum): certainly the Corinthian Order is the most beautiful of all the Orders of Architecture, but it is inappropriate to use the Corinthian on a rustic farm house. But a church, a house of God, all architects ranging from Alberti to Ledoux agreed that there was never enough ornament or beautiful things that could be added to make it suitable for its purpose.

Beauty was often, if not almost entirely attached to the discipline of being appropriate for the most healthy beauty. But the idea that beauty is simply known and recognized by all was indeed quite a presumptuous statement. It is what Kant would have called "metaphysical", "a priori" and should be left out of the discussion. So architects then resorted to tradition for beauty and focused on other realms of practice: fireproofing, use of steel, standardization, civic structures, et cetera. Henri Labrouste's work is probably one of the finest selection of examples of leaving beauty to tradition (i.e. to pre-established forms and proportions) and focusing on something like fireproofing. Robert Mills is another fantastic example of this in America.

But God had the audacity to go die on us, and suddenly with Modernist figures like Gropius, Breuer, Le Corbusier, van der Rohe, Loos, et cetera began to focus on form and function, utility, standardization, industrialization, and taking advantage of new structural capabilities (i.e. skyscraper technology). Suddenly a new idea opened up, which if beauty had never been abolished, would have prevented such hubris: the aspiration to create a universal architecture... whatever that means.

The audacity to think there was, is or could be a universal architecture is hubris that inevitably led to Pruit Igoe, and Pruit Igoe is the finest example of why not everyone deserves the same thing. The notion that everyone is equal on all levels is absolute foolishness: to say that all are or can be equally intelligent, capable, skillful, beautiful, economically endowed, politically powerful, et cetera is pure hogwash. Certain everyone should be respected for the qualities of their place in society and the contributions they make, but to say everyone is equal is myopic, if not completely blind. Men and women are physiologically unequal, as well as mentally and emotionally unequal in how their cognitive processes function, but each's differences should be respected, because the world is not singular; the working men/women have their own skills that society cannot function without, and they should be respective for them; the academics have their own skills and knowledge that they should be respected for; and so forth - but in no way are any of them equal. To think everyone is equal is what has led to the DIY age: everyone thinks they're a photographer when they take a picture of their food, everyone thinks they're a philosopher, an artist, a theologian, a politician, a handyman, et cetera... which has inevitably led to an era of some of the worst political agendas and policies in history, some of the shittiest art, and the most poorly founded philosophy we may ever have the disadvantage to know.

As such, not everyone deserves the same architecture: this was previously at the heart of the discussion of beauty since the Greeks up until the Modernists. Thinking everyone is equal led to the desire to do the same thing for everyone rich and poor alike, powerful and weak alike, mentally and physically powerful alike. The same principles that built some of Le Corbusier's finest works are the same principles that built Yamasaki's Pruit Igoe (same architect of the World Trade Centers). Since when does the world's most significant and powerful economic center deserve to be built under the same principles as a low-income housing project? It is not only irresponsible, but inappropriate. To forget what is appropriate and inappropriate in architecture, what is beautiful to the project, created a crisis that no one has been able to solve since.

The demolition of Pruit Igoe is often considered to be the death of Modernism. It demonstrated that architecture as a social vehicle can fail terribly: it exacerbating crime and poverty. It's construction was shoddy and needed extensive repair, and given the high level of crime among the projects, the only solution was destruction, which is absolutely fitting. Pruit Igoe won Yamasaki numerous awards, and was herald as one of the finest works of architecture from the Modernist Era. And when Modernism failed, which was inevitable, it was time to destroy that awesome work of Moderism, just as Michelangelo's bronze of Julius II needed to be destroyed. Not all things are equal, and not all things deserve the same things.

Now we have the hubris of the Post-Modernists, who often do some of the most inappropriate works of architecture (if it could be called Architecture, with a capital A) this world has seen. Take for instance Koolhaas' Villa dall'Ava: it's in a historic 19th Century neighborhood in Paris, and is by far an abomination to its context. Had the small house been built in the middle of a prairie, like Corb's Villa Savoye (the client of Villa dall'Ava wanted an updated version of Villa Savoye, which was equally hubristic), then there would be no problem: it would be isolate as its own object valued as a separate object. But it just had to be done in a historic neighborhood, which is inappropriate, making it one ugly house.

In a way that's what beauty is: being relevant and appropriate to its context. Frank Lloyd Wright, probably the greatest of the Modernists, understood context and appropriateness. The Usoanian houses were small, affordable houses for middle class families, and they were appropriate to the client and their neighborhoods. Then for more wealthy clients he would build something like Fallingwater, Prairies Style houses, et cetera. For institutional clients (churches, museums, offices) he built another way that was appropriate to them. While Wright was not always successful, he is a fine example of appropriateness or "beauty" in architecture.

Now we have Libeskind, Thom Mayne, Hadid, et cetera who do works that are oftentimes absolutely inappropriate. Why does Libeskind need to do a house prototype that looks like his museums? Even his museums are inappropriate, at least to the art they house. Before Post-Modernism architects addressed structural problems when they were required to address them: Brunelleschi's dome in Florence, skyscraper technology, hammerbeams, et cetera. Now architects dream up unnecessary structural problems to address, such as Nouvel's 174 foot (53 meters) long cantilever in the Guthrie Theater, which is not only ugly, but pointless. Nouvel isn't the next Brunelleschi: a bigass cantilever is not a "structural feat", because in order to be a feat is must have been a readily recognized structural problem. Making a cantilever that big was not an aesthetic or structural problem, it was Nouvel's problem - in a sense, a personal problem. And so we return to self-expression in art.

Personal expression in architecture is absolutely irresponsible, if not unethical. Architecture is for the world, for the masses, and each part of society gets their own architecture, but each part's architecture can be respected by all. The highbrow architects admired Pruit Igoe, but its tenets did not, and so it failed and deserved demolition. Nouvel's Guthrie Theater deserves demolition. It deserves it because it died the moment it was built, it died when Nouvel had to interject his own personal "structural problems" into a cultural center. It is not only hubristic, but lacks appropriateness, and therefore lacks beauty.

Such is the death of architecture: lack of concern for appropriateness, lack of beauty, and filled to the brim with hubris. The only means of reviving architecture is by architects asking, "should we do that?" How do LEED points create architecture? (They don't). How is a bike rack a criteria for ethically responsible architecture? (It isn't). Do we need to do a seven foot tall, four inch thick wide-flange beam to achieve this giant pointed cantilever crossing 13th Avenue? (No). Should we make an all-glass house in a residential neighborhood? (No). Should we build a factory in a residential area? (Why is that a question?). Do we need to use titanium on this new project? (Not really).

Like art, and certainly more so than art, architectre has a prominent social and ethical function. If it can't be respected, if beauty and appropriateness can't be respected, if hubris and ego can't be sacrificed for beauty, then architecture deserves to die.

Art is Dead Part 2

I don't mean to do a second part to my last post, but apparently a few people have misunderstood my point in Art is Dead, which I apologize for, and I would like to clarify in order to drive home a point.

Art itself is not dead. Personal expression in art is dead. Nobody cares about your feelings and how you express them in a song, painting, poem, some piece of shit Photoshop job, whatever. I write poetry from time to time, but its typically very personal in content, and so I keep them to myself. I've only ever shared a few of my poems to a few friends, and it was embarrassing and ill-received. As such I don't share my personal poems. They're mine. They're for me, and no one else, just as they should be. I have drawings and paintings that are personal that I've never shared with anyone, and I don't plan on it. When I suspect I'm getting close to dying I plan on burning all of them. Why? Because they're not for the world. Once they enter into the world they are no long your own, and then they die.

They die? Yes. To explain I will give an illustration from an acquaintance of mine, Dave, and his son. Dave's son was about 10 or 11 years old when this happened, and he was in trouble at school for not sharing his thoughts and feelings about things with his classmates. His teachers and counselors were concerned and asked Dave to intervene. Dave asked his son why he refused to share himself with his classmates, and this beautiful boy said one of the most profound things I've heard a boy say; he said, "I don't want to share my thoughts, because when I do they die." Concise, poignant, beautiful, and absolutely true.

Such is the nature of self-expression in art: once given to the world it dies; it no longer belongs to the artist, poet, or composer. The world takes it and morphs it to fit its own collective and/or personal agenda. Take for instance memes: Richard Dawkins coined the term meme to describe an idea or behavior that is propagated through a culture or subculture. Like biological genes, memes endure mutation and evolution over the years. Dawkins gave this idea of meme to the world, then the internet took it and transformed it pictures with words, and sometimes just the latest iconographic trend. We hardly recognize meme in the way Dawkins described it. Dawkins' meme idea died when he introduced it to the world, and was transmuted into something else entirely. (It's sort of meta what happened to the idea of meme). The same goes for personal expression: once expressed and given to the world your expression dies and the world does with it whatever it pleases.

If it's already dead once expressed, then it served its purpose, build a pyre and burn it. Don't express it ever again. Move on. That said, I am in no way (nor do I think Artaud was either) against personal expression. It is our natural right, and its a natural urge, a libido to express oneself. We should express ourselves through whatever means we wish: make a video, write a song, compose a poem, render a painting, carve a sculpture, whatever. Do it. Go for it. Express yourself, then move on, because there is no need to express the same thing over and over, especially after its dead.

And it is also entirely natural to express oneself through the various mediums of art, because art is at heart pure expression. Art is always expressing something. But personal expression in art is not true art. Personal art is a means to an end. Once the expression of the self is expressed the piece has achieved its purpose and serves no further purpose. But true art expresses the sentiments of a given culture - religiously, socially, politically - which is the means in which true art can heal a culture, remind us of our values, repulse us of our errors, guide us in a particular doctrine (politically or religiously), et cetera. That is the ethical function of art. To achieve that ethical and social function true art must express the culture's totems and taboos. True art's expressions are constantly regenerated so long as that culture exists and is perpetuated, because cultural expression in true art has no means to an end, only means, so long as the culture can constantly reinforce and regenerate its values through art. The more extravagant and Baroque the Star Spangled Banner gets at every football game is a means to constantly regenerate American ideals. Every time the Lord's Prayer is given before eating constantly regenerates Christian ideals, which serves the same function the Sistine Ceiling or Caravaggio's Call of Saint Matthew does. But these regenerations of ideas (e.g. cultural healing) in art can only function so long as that culture survives. Michelangelo's David is stagnant, because it no longer invokes the young boy (Florence) in giant form taking on a colossal oppression (i.e. Papal Rome, the Middle Ages, cultural tyranny, et cetera). While the David is still a wonderful sight, it's function was served, Florence fell out of the spotlight around the end of the Italian Renaissance, and the David is now dead. Since the Italian Renaissance ended most people (except for Florentines) don't understand why Michelangelo carved the David, and is now only remembered as a well-crafted, huge sculpture, and is famous for some reason, but not many people know why. The regenerating, healing aspect of a piece of art now ineffective and its purpose and expression forgotten (or at least has to be explained to comprehend), the piece of art is effectively dead. It might as well be destroyed.

"But wait," one might say, "I thought you loved Michelangelo!" And I do. I'm demonstrating an extreme position to illustrate a point. I would never actually advocate the destruction of Michelangelo's giant, and I would be appalled if it was destroyed. I still get upset that Michelangelo's bronze statue of Pope Julius II was destroyed and turned into a cannon (called the Julia), because it was his only bronze piece, and is a gem of history no one will have the luxury of gazing upon and wandering why it was made. But I must admit, Michelangelo's bronze Julius served its purpose so long as Pope Julius II held Bologna under the rule of the Papal States, and after Bologna succeeded the bronze Julius was no longer necessary, and so it was appropriately smelted down and turned into a cannon, which was necessary to fight papal rule. As sad as I find this scenario, it fully demonstrates my point and my sentiments: I find it to be a tragedy, but if the work of art no longer serves it purpose, then it is appropriate to destroy it because it is dead. Build a pyre and burn the dead.

Again, I do not advocate the destruction of culturally significant art, such as the David, because enough cultural art and wonders have been lost to the destructive nature of humanity. On the other hand there is personal art, which I say if the artist wishes to preserve it for their own sentiments, then that is welcomed. But don't shove your shitty paintings, songs, and poems down everyone else's throats. It's for you, and unto you it belongs, and unto no one else. If you must give it to the world, do so once and never again, because once expressed your work is dead. No one cares about your breakup expressed in a poorly written song that uses three guitar chords, or your half-witted attempt to toss oil-based pigments onto a canvas to express your depression, or a shoddy expression of your acid trip with primary color markers in lines and dots. All these things are yours, not the world's. Unless your sadness is the world's sadness (more than likely it is not), like Michelangelo's Vatican Pieta, in which Mary's grief is our grief, then keep it to yourself. Unless your acid trip is the world's acid trip, like the Native American shaman's dream is the tribe's dream, then keep your poorly rendered rendition of your drug-induced experience to yourself.

I had mentioned in Part 1 the need to mythologize the expression of a work of art, but "mythologization" is a fairly loose term in my lexicon, so I will elaborate for clarity. One may use actual and ancient mythological figures, places, icons, and other elements to express an idea. For instant in Ivan Akimov's Saturn Clipping Cupid's Wings it is being expressed that time (Saturn/Chronos) cuts down all things (i.e. with his scythe), even love (Cupid). Of course this scene never actually occurs in Greek or Roman mythology, but using the symbols and icons of ancient myths Akimov is expressing that even love - something we think is immortal and eternal - can be destroyed by time. But then there is the case in which myths can be quasi-invented, "new" symbols used for a more personal, remote, isolated mythologization. Such is the case for William Blake, whose poetry and prose is filled with what is commonly called "Blake's complex mythology" (historians are not very clever at naming things). There is Adam (aka Albion, an old name for Britain, and is the original human) and Satan, a contrary pair, from whose union creates Tharmas (the instinct), Urizen (tradition), the Christ-like Luvah (love), and Los (imagination and inspiration). There is also their many manifestations and usages by Blake with a higher complex of virtues and traits that interact in a plethora of brilliant and beautiful, not to mention utterly confusing, ways. Blake expressed the French Revolution, America, the origins of England, the transcendence of good and evil, the Holy City of Jerusalem, et cetera using these mythologized elements. Salvador Dali is another fantastic example of personal mythologization, like Blake.

The mythologization of the content expressed in art is what gives it its longevity, allows it to live beyond the decadence of personal expression, and renders the framework through which a culture may heal. Without myth-ish elements cultural art suffers temporality, fatality, and cannot live beyond the first public expression of the work. Myth gives art its timelessness, its perceived immortality.

Understanding the difference between personal art and cultural art - the former being a form of self-healing through personal expression, the latter being a form of social and cultural healing and regeneration through mythological and culturally symbolical expression - is the means to creating true art once again, and to put aside the caprice and hubris of awful art.

This is only a an extreme suggestion, just as Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra was an extreme suggestion, to illustrate a point. Just like Nietzsche, I would be appalled if anything I have here espoused would be literally and tyrannically enacted, even by unanimous cultural consent, and the artists themselves adopt it. I fear such a program of annihilating personal expression in art for the whole world to see. Are Michelangelo's love poems not beautiful? Emily Dickinson' poetry of love and death not poignant and captivating? Or Johnny Cashes songs? Expressionistic painting? Lost in Translation? And so forth and so forth. I fear what would be lost, and at what cost is it worth for such a sacrifice. Perhaps it's worth it, perhaps not, perhaps the problem is too wicked to untangle.

Art is Dead

The modern Zarathustra would come down from the mountain and say, "Art is dead." Art inherently dies when God dies. Not to say religioun or metaphysics is a prerequisite for art, but rather that there is no myth to art, and therefore lacking any concern for culture and society. That is to say that art today is personal, and has alienated society from its expressive manifestation. Art being "personal expression" means its materialistic and self-centered, and a far cry from humanism. In the words of Artaud, "There are no more masterpieces."

Indeed, there are no more masterpieces. A work of art can only be dubbed a "masterpiece" if and only if it can heal a culture. This was and very much still is the function of mythology: an analog, metaphor for a much larger human concern. The Renaissance artists didn't subject their works to humanist agendas via contemporary imagery, rather with a timeless emblem that was handed down to them through the ancients. A common emblem for cultural and social inspiration amongst the humanists was not some contemporary emblem, say an image of the city of Florence, but rather a Greco-mythic one, namely Mount Helicon, where the muses live. Thomas Mann retells the contemporary state of German with the rise the Nazis in his Joseph and His Brothers, merely retelling the account of Joseph in Genesis. Joyce based his modern epic on The Odyssey. Nerval told his tale and journeying through to the east alongside retellings of ancient tales (i.e. Queen of Sheba, King Solomon, et cetera).

But then God had to go and die on us, and therefore without some sort of common archetype to base human experiences and cultural phenomena off of, we are left to our own devices as individuals; that is we move toward personal expression. There is nothing for the masses; no archetype for the culture, any culture as a whole. Now someone injects primary color paints up his ass and shits them out on a canvas, and we call it art. The art resides in the shitting of paint onto a canvas, not in the finished work itself. It is not a masterpiece - for who among us would call that a masterpiece? Someone draws squiggly lines on a piece of parchment and says, "It's a feeling... I'm expressing myself." Who the fuck cares about your feelings! It's not art for the culture. It's art for you. It is not a masterpiece. At best someone might sympathize with the emotion being expressed and purchase it, but it lacks any coherent mythology for everyone to sympathize with. God died, then myth died, then art died. With the life of art now gone, there is no healing in any art. Without an art for healing, there is no life in art, and therefore art is dead.

How does art heal? Like any healing, something must first be lacking (i.e. inspiration, knowledge, coherency of the flesh and bone, a pulse), and through treatment that which is lacking is restored. This can be achieved in a number of methods, especially in actual medicine. But for art healing can be a simple reminder, such as an image of the Brazen Serpent, or a colossal statue, or a prominent public building, or anything that reminds the culture that this thing this work represents is lacking in due cause within us, and this thing then reinstates it in us. I myself am often overcome by the romantic image of Columbia, South Carolina's State House building being at the top of the great hill, sitting very prominently looking over the city down to the river and beyond - I pass by it almost everyday, and I often go out of my way to pass by it, because it is worth viewing. I feel much the same way when I look at the abstract beauty of Mary's face in Michelangelo's Pieta of the Vatican, and her subtle expression of sadness grasps me like a serpent snatching its prey. Her sadness is our sadness, and she, with her outstretched arms, invites us to partake in her sadness that also belongs to us. This is the healing power of art for a culture.

But does art not also heal the creator of the work? Certainly, but it does not render it a masterpiece. If the work only heals the creator, then it should be shown or demonstrated once (painting or sculpture viewed once, music played once, a poem or writing read once) and then immediately destroyed. There is no further need for it. Express yourself and move on. No one needs to hear your shitty experimental music again, or to look at your awful painting or picture of your food, or see you do the same break dance again. The personal art died the moment it was born - a still born, if you will. It no longer serves a purpose, so throw it out with the rest of the trash.

There are those who would say that art has no function, and to these I say you are myopic fools. There are also those who would say that art should have no constraints, and to these I was say you are worse than the former. Art's constraint is that of a social and ethical constraint, which is also inherently its function. If it cannot serve an ethical and social purpose then it is personal art, which is materialism, and therefore is ultimately worthless.

So how might art once again be a masterpiece? How might art regain its life and heal once more? This seems tough to the simple minded, but Artaud (if one cannot tell, Artaud is a huge inspiration for this post) posited one of the greatest proposals to reinvigorate art - though for him is was theater, but the same can be said of all art - to terrify and shock.

Antonin Artaud called it the Theater of Cruelty, but not in any necessarily violent sense, at least not without just cause. Rather that life itself is cruel. It is cruel to propagate ourselves and our species in an inherently meaningless existence, further into a reality that is not as it should be for us, and that we persist in it nonetheless. The cruelty that life must kill and eat life in order to propagate life further. Everything is without rational or just cause, and we persist in enduring in it is cruelty. And with the death of God, myth, and art (and inherently the death of purpose or meaning) materialism is the cloth mother we run to in the face of fear. We seek comfort in shopping, eating expensive meals, getting breast implants, trying to fuck the cutest blonde in the bar, boast how many TV shows we've seen, collect coins and stamps and rocks (minerals), do drugs, murder, play videogames, read books, try and find the most obscure local band, start a religion and so forth and so forth.

The art that will ultimately heal us is the art that will shock us out of our materialistic squandering. The true art for us in our present modern condition is one that will materially shock us, frighten and terrify us. To see Marcellus Wallace get butt raped is materially shocking, because it is without meaning, and is worth watching innumerable times. To watch the collapse of the World Trade Centers and hear the screams of the entire city of New York is applicable as art (at least to the truest extent of found footage). To gaze upon the photograph called Piss Christ and be revolted by its materialistic senselessness is worth it every time we look. Viewing Picasso's Guernica, Goya's Shooting on May Third 1808, Lynch's Eraserhead or Blue Velvet, Ron Fricke's Baraka, Eddie Adam's photograph Execution of a Vietnamese spy, et cetera is to materialistically terrify us.

The materialistic shock is of course meaningless unto itself, and that is precisely the point: materialism is inherently meaningless. So why not use materialistic means to shock us, awaken us from our materialistic slumber; to reinstate those things that are lacking in us. (What is lacking in us is a cultural matter and debate, but I only wish to address art's function in healing culture, not what is needing to be healed, but I can briefly say that what is lacking are myths, humanistic sentiments, social coherency, political balance, and psychic health in cooperation with natural laws and the cruelty of life).

Now, one final thing: too many people misinterpret Artaud's Theater of Cruelty, as is quite evident if one simply types "theater of cruelty" into a YouTube search. Materially it is meant to frighten, like Harlow's diabolical object, but Artaud was emphatic that this materialistic shock must not upset the balance of the psyche. It should terrify for the moment, awaken something in us permanently so that upon awakening we can not go back to sleep or turn our heads from it. But it cannot and should not permanently scar us. This is rightly appropriate. 

Too often do we forget to ask ourselves what is appropriate; should we do something just because we can? How often have I seen a two hour long film and realized that its creators were too stupid to realize that it would be more appropriate as a short film? Just because you can shit on a canvas doesn't mean you should, much less sell the work. But equally so, we must remember that what is appropriate is sometimes (and I will emphasize sometimes) also what is necessary (timing is also a factor in necessity), though it may not be what we want. To create an art that denounces personal expression in favor of materialistic shock, to repulse the psyche into awakening, may not be what we want, but it is certainly was we need, at least so far as art is concerned. If we don't need art to heal us, then let art be dead, and we can bury it, plant a memorial so that we can finally forget about it (a monument is for forgetting). But if we do need to reinvigorate ourselves through the revitalization of art, then our only recourse is through material shock.

Think of it like the Native American shaman who has a dream. It is not his dream, it is the tribe's dream. And when the shaman reveals his dream to the tribe, then the tribe is healed. Mary's sadness in the pieta is our sadness. Goya's political victim's fright is our fright. Patrick Bateman's inhuman and senseless violence with overwhelming materialism is our inhumanity and materialism. Marcellus Wallace's rape is our rape.

If this is not our concern, then let art be dead and stop making music, film, poetry, paintings, sculptures, novels, et cetera, or at least stop preserving them. But if it is out concern, then we drastically need to revise our perceptions of art, not as a materialistic and personal thing, but as something that heals a society.

Lord of the Rings: Why the Eagles Don't Help Until the End

I don't know why I feel that I actually have to write this, but if people would just pay attention, then it wouldn't be too difficult to understand why the Great Eagles don't just fly Frodo to Mordor and drop the Ring into the fires of Amon Amarth from the get-go. But since I've encountered way too many criticism concerning this, I am now compelled to spell it all out.

Firstly, there is a consistency of when the Eagles come to the rescue: they only help out when Gandalf is in dire need and the Eagles are his only hope. In The Hobbit the Eagles come to the rescue when Gandalf, Bilbo, and the dwarfs are trapped in the trees with wolfs below, and there is no other way out. In The Fellowship of the Ring Gwaihir, one of the Eagles, comes to Gandalf's rescue when he is trapped on the pinnacle of Orthanc being tortured by Saruman (in the book Radagast the Brown Wizard sends an Eagle to rescue Gandalf, not a moth). And in The Return of the King the Eagles come to help Gandalf in the battle at the gates of Mordor. Their small army (composed almost entirely of all the soldiers from Rohan and Minas Tirith that are left over from the battle for Minas Tirith... so their numbers are quite low) is outnumbered by the armies of Mordor. The Eagles probably showed up to even out the playing field against the flying Nazgul on dragons. Some air-support would have been nice. Gandalf could very well have died in this battle, as it was a last stand after all.

In other words: the Great Eagles only ever help Gandalf when he has no other means of getting himself out of a dire situation. In all honesty, it really seems inconsistent for the Eagles to help Frodo and Sam out on the slopes of Mount Doom, because they really only help others when Gandalf is in distress with them. But I suppose if these brave hobbits could travel all the way across Middle Earth to toss a gold ring into a volcano, and since there is no longer a threat in Mordor, then the Eagles might as well get Frodo and Sam out of the situation they're in (I mean they did save the world), and probably only at Gandalf's request.

Secondly, other than the armies of Sauron there really are no alliances in Middle Earth. Men and orcs gather in Mordor because Sauron promises power and wealth (they're greedy), and threatens punishment under pain of enslavement and death. But no one else is in alliance with anyone else. The elves are all leaving Middle Earth to go to the Gray Havens, the dwarfs hide in the mountains looking for treasures and building great halls, hobbits don't seem to know anything is wrong beyond their own doorstep, the Ents say it is not their war, and men are in disagreement with each other. Rohan and Minas Tirith are right down the valley from each other, and they don't even like each other. Minas Tirith never came to Rohan's aid in Helm's Deep, and Rohan was hesitant about coming to Minas Tirith's aid for the battle at their doorstep. No one gets along. Everyone thinks its someone else's problem. Why would the Eagles be any different? They never seem to get involved with anyone else's affairs to begin with. They certainly are not errand runners, and flying a hobbit over to Mordor just doesn't sound like an errand they would feel like running. I wouldn't do it if I were a giant eagle.

The only person who could possibly bring elves and dwarfs and men together to fight against Mordor is Gandalf, and no one seems to really trust him anyway. He is unwelcomed in the Shire (except for his fireworks), being labeled a "disturber of the peace." The Steward of Minas Tirith doesn't welcome him either, nor the people of Rohan. Gandalf is a meddling trickster, and always has to trick and coerce people into doing his deeds (i.e. sending Bilbo to the Lonely Mountain, sending Frodo to Mordor, lighting to Beacons of Minas Tirith, tricking Saruman out of the Palantir, et cetera). No one trust Gandalf, and why should they? I wouldn't even trust him. But he is the only one who could form an alliance, and does a very poor job of doing so. So why would Gandalf's errand to destroy the Ring be welcomed among the Eagles? They probably would have criticized Gandalf for digging it up out of the Shire and sending it out into the world anyway.

Thirdly, it never seems to have cross anyone's mind that Gandalf might have actually tried to get the Eagles to help. Seriously, when Gwaihir, the lord of the Eagles, saves Gandalf from Orthanc, you don't think Gandalf might have asked for his help? I imagine the conversation when something like this:

Gwaihir: "SCREECH!" (translation: "What the hell were you doing up there anyway? And why do I always have to help you out when you're in a real pickle?")
Gandalf: "Oh, I was seeking Saruman's council on how to approach this dangerous mission we have, but he's turned into a power-grubbing son of a bitch and has betrayed us."
Gwaihir: "SCREECH!" (translation: "Oh, that sucks. What are you guys up to?")
Gandalf: "Oh, the usual, trying to save the world. Turns out the Ring of Power has been in the Shire, and I've sent a hobbit to take it to Mordor to destroy it."
Gwaihir: "SCREECH!" (translation: "Sounds dangerous.")
Gandalf: "It is. Do you think you could possibly lend a helping hand... er... claw?"
Gwaihir: "SCREECH!" (translation: "Dwag, I love you, and I'm always there for you when you need me the most, but... hell no. I'm no errand bitch.")
Gandalf: "No problem. Couldn't have hurt to ask. Oh, and thanks for getting out of there. Saruman is a dick."
Gwaihir: "SCREECH!" (translation: "Oh, it's no trouble at all.")

To recap: the Eagles don't run errands; they only help Gandalf when he has no other way out. They, like anyone else in Middle Earth, think the War of the Ring is someone else's problem, and are not in alliance with anyone else (like the Ents: "I am on no one's side, because no one is on my side"). The Eagles only show up at the end because Gandalf could die in the Battle of Morannon, and probably only went to grab Frodo and Sam off the slopes of Mount Doom because the coast is clear in Mordor, and those two hobbits saved Middle Earth, so they deserve it.

That's settled. Stop complaining about why the Eagles didn't just fly the hobbits to Mordor and save them a lot of trouble. Anyway, it would have been a lame story if it happened that way.

Truth: An Existentialist Rant

I suppose this post will be little more than an extension of my previous post. Previously I had said that the truth sometimes just sucks because it doesn't always, if ever, hold that mystical element we value in the meaning we construct for our lives and the things in our lives. But I found a quote from Jorge Luis Borges that I believe sums up, more or less, what I was trying to get at:

"...Reality has not the slightest obligation to be interesting.... reality may get along without that obligation, but hypotheses may not."
~Death and the Compass

And I suppose that's what the truth really boils down to: it isn't obligated to be interesting, and perhaps that is why the truth doesn't always seem as meaningful as we would like. The fact of the matter is that more often than not the truth seems to lack any sort of meaning for us, which is always unsettling.

Think of truth and its concern for our search for meaning as Lovecraft's monsters and horrid alien civilizations: they could easily exterminate us all without even breaking a sweat, but we are like an ant mount in Africa: it's too much effort for something that doesn't concern it. That is what really makes Lovecraft's monsters so terrifying: they don't actually care about the human race. I mean, if we get in their way, sure, they'll destroy us, but it isn't really worth the effort. We are not the center of the world. We really don't matter in the grand scheme of things. Such is the the case with the truth: it isn't obligated to fascinate us and fulfill those hollow searches of ours for meaning in our lives. Mostly because nothing really has any meaning in the first place. We construct the meaning in things to make ourselves feel better, which is more or less the basic principles of existentialist philosophy.

Nothing has any real inherent meaning unto itself. We might imagine that the Pyramids of Giza were quite meaningful to the Egyptians, and we will speculate on what the shape of the pyramid meant to the Egyptians. Some have speculated that they represented mountains that were a sort of gateway to the heavens, or that they mimic the shape of the top of an obelisk - an obelisk being a sort of petrified ray of the sun - and as such represented a ray of sunlight. But this is only what the pyramid meant to the Egyptians. They completely made that up. In reality - that is non-obligated reality to be interesting - the pyramid is a meaningless shape. The shape of a pyramid is nothing more than a solid with a square base and four triangular faces with eight edges and five vertices. It is meaningless unto itself. We are the ones who construct the meaning and apply it to completely meaningless things.

But that's the trick: we construct meaning for truth to be as interesting as possible to make up for how completely meaningless the truth actually is. The truth doesn't have to be meaningful. Our hypotheses and explanations for the truth, however, do have to be meaningful.

This is what I think Julia Sweeney was getting at when she said, "The truth is a poor competitor in the market place of ideas." Ideas have to interesting and meaningful. The truth doesn't give a shit about what is meaningful or interesting to us.

Reality is a lot like the Pyramids of Giza, really: it's just a great big heap of meaningless stuff that we constantly try to attach some interesting explanation to.

Truth: A Poor Competitor in the Marketplace of Ideas

It isn't uncommon for me to reread parts of the Bible. There is a great variety of stories and teachings in that book. Want a story about war? Rape? Decapitation? Zombies? The apocalypse? Genocide? Read the Bible. Want a love poem? Read Song of Solomon. Want a lesson on why everything in futile and pointless? Read Ecclesiastes. But for me I was recently drawn to rereading the writings of the Prophets (e.g. Daniel, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Amos, Micah, et cetera). I don't know why. I suppose I thought the Prophets held some superpower and I do not, or they can magically see farther than I can, and I just had to know! Well I never found that secret something, but I did find myself particularly disturbed that in nearly all the writings of the Prophets it is said that God decides to leave the Jewish people forever. In Isaiah he just up and leaves the Temple. The same for Ezekiel (I mean they did kill another god, Tammuz, in the Temple). In Amos God just tells Amos that the Jewish people better get their shit straight, because He's not looking after them anymore.

All I could think was: why? I thought they were His chosen people. Call it Synchronicity. Call it fate. Call it pure chance. Call it what you will. But a week later I found myself perusing some used books and Spinoza's Theologico-Political Treatise literally fell off the shelf, and I thought: why not? I picked it up off the floor and bought the book, and started to read it, and what do you know? Spinoza talks about this very subject! But Spinoza's reasoning isn't exactly the great mystical answer I was looking for, even though his reasoning is by far very convincing. Essentially Spinoza says that God never favored the Jews more than he favored any other nation, but for a temporary length of time he helped them out and gave them direct guidance. With other nations God would just send an angel to assist (as implied in Exodus 33:2-4), rather than His own awesomeness. Spinoza, admittedly, has very sound reasoning concerning God, His relationship to the Jewish people, His covenant with them, and His ultimate departure. But I found Spinoza's answer to not be the grand, awesome answer I was hoping for.

In a way, I suppose this is the way it is for many things... that is that the truth (or at least the best answer) sometimes, if not oftentimes, really sucks. I can recall a few relationships in the past where the girl asked why do I love her? My answer: I don't; I just do. One girlfriend demanded of me a logical and rational answer as to why I liked her. Really? "Logical" and "rational" explanation for affection? It's like asking why 2+2=4? Because it equals 4. Sure Bertrand Russell spend three hundred pages trying to prove 1+1=2, but even Godel turned that one on its head. In reality, affection is sort of silly for how much we hype it up to be something awesome. Relationships are little more than an exchange of goods and services based on incentives. We maintain friendships because this particular friend makes us laugh, or this friend never asks for gas money and always wants to hang out, and this friend is essentially a convenient scapegoat, and this one is my own personal therapist, this one lets me borrow his movies, et cetera. That being little more than what friendship really is, friendship doesn't sound so awesome anymore. What's more is that intimate relationships are little more than friendships with sex. And what about love? It's little more than a chemical and hormonal reaction that creates a bond between two sexual partners to increase the likelihood of the survival of each other, their offspring, and hopefully their species (I would say homosexual love is little more than the same as heterosexual, except for the offspring part). Love doesn't sound so grand and mystical anymore, now does it?

Pets are little more than animals with Stockholm Syndrome. Prayer is talking to yourself. Meditation is trying to not think. Yoga is holding bodily positions to get high. Life is an accident. And you are an insignificant speck of carbon and water on a tiny little planet orbiting around a small, insignificant, yellow star that's swirling around a collapsed star that destroys other stars, all floating amongst many other stars and galaxies in an endlessly expanding universe that has no divine or grand purpose for existing. Everything is meaningless. Even you are meaningless.

I know, I know, I sound like a warm ray of sunshine right now. But the truth is this: the truth sucks. Oftentimes the truth doesn't seem to hold any meaning at all. Objective reality is kind of lame. We can find some wonder and amazement in it, but it still seems to fall short. I mean a circle is so simple and elegant, but pi is irrational and chaotic. Sure, it's cool that you can find your telephone number somewhere in pi, or your zip code, or your mother's birthday, and probably the super-secret nuclear access codes somewhere in that infinitely long and irrational number. But why is the circle simple but pi is not? Because that's the way it is. Circles are simple and pi is irrational. Order and chaos (whatever that's suppose to mean). There is no natural meaning to it.

I'm reminded of the talk given by Julia Sweeney, Letting Go of God, in which she gives her confessions and stories of growing up Catholic, wanting to be a nun, losing faith, trying to hold on to God, trying other religions, and ultimately renouncing her belief in God. Her story is emotional (both joyous and sad) and hilarious. But in particular what I found compelling about her talk is her conclusion and closing remarks. One remark that I enjoyed was how she wished that she could build a temple to her experiences and transitions in life, like others had done with temples to their gods. There was one remark that has long resonated with me more than anything:

"Let's face it, the truth is poor competitor in the marketplace of ideas."

Damn right. Even though Julia Sweeney no longer believes in God or the stories of the Bible, she comes to accept them later in life. Before she lost her faith she found the stories to be appalling (which they are) and disturbing, and many times completely unbelievable. After losing her faith she found a sort of peace and ultimately recognized that there was a comfort some people find in fantasy, because many times objective reality is a hard thing to swallow. That's because it is.

The truth is out there, but you're probably not going to like it. I'm starting to suspect that this is Mulder's problem.

The Divided Self

The problem of evil has been on my mind considerable lately, so this will be my topic for my first post in a long time. Generally the problem of evil centers around God, and why a benevolent deity would allow there to be evil. The problem usually goes as such: if there is evil, then God doesn't know about it, rendering Him not omniscient; if evil exists and God does know about it, then God can't do anything about it, making God not omnipotent; finally, if there is evil and God knows about and can do something about, then He doesn't care or doesn't want to, which leaves God's benevolence open to question. A number of philosophers have toyed with idea, such as Plato, Saint Augustine, Hume, et cetera, but their discussion always centers around God. What I am concerned with is not evil and good concerning God, but rather concerning people. In my experience and thoughts, and even in myself, I find that evil and good concerning people is rather like a divided self. I suppose the best way to express this idea is a line from Apocalypse Now! (1997 director's cut) with the French plantation. The French woman tells Captain Willard: "There are two of you: one that kills and one that loves."

So what do I mean by divided self? The aspects of the human self, mind, soul... whatever you want to call it, has long been considered to be constituted of parts. The Egyptians had nine aspects of the soul. Freud broke the unconscious mind into three parts (Id, Ego, and Superego). Jung divided up the unconscious mind into a pantheon of archetypal psychic entities, many of which mingle with others. Aristotle said the soul was divided into two parts (rational and irrational). So forth and so forth. Julian Jaynes even discusses a theoretical second mind within our own conscious minds, a thought experiment he called the "bicameral mind." In many ways there are, indeed, two minds: the conscious and the unconscious, and both can interact together or independently of each other.

So why wouldn't we have a dualistic nature concerning ourselves with being good or wicked? Perhaps some fictitious examples might suffice to express it better. Take for instance my favorite monster: Frankenstein's monster. He is made of all bad parts, give the brain of a criminal, and I suppose ultimately designed to be evil and wicked. But Frankenstein's monster only wants to be good. But all his acts of kindness and goodwill ultimately end in destruction and ruin. How is it that a monster made of all bad parts could try to be good? Similarly, there is Stitch from Lilo & Stitch, who is quite the same monster as Frankenstein's. Stitch wants to be part of a family, try to be good to them, and defend them from aliens, but he always ruins everything. Is it possible for one aspect of ourselves to be wicked and another good? Can anyone ultimately be evil, but want to be good (like Alex from Clockwork Orange... or was he ever really good or wanted to be good?), or vice versa?

Perhaps an even more perplexing example is 3:10 to Yuma (2007). Ben Wade is an evil man: he steals, murders, robs, and is completely unjust. Escorting Wade to prison is Dan Evans, who is a good man and is doing this deed to make money for his family. There are a number of moments concerning aspects of what makes a man wicked in this film. For instance, Dan's son tries to tell Ben Wade that he's not wholly evil and that there's a person in him somewhere. Or another moment when Ben Wade says, "Even bad boys love their mothers." But the scene that best demonstrates the divide of good and evil in this film is the ending scene: Wade, who is conscious of his own wicked nature, agrees to go to Yuma Prison so Dan can get the money for his family. He does it because he knows Dan is a good and just man and deserves it. How?! How can an evil someone know what good is? So he murders his own men because they killed a good man.

This is, more or less, my point: how? I suppose it's something undefinable or misunderstood by us. While I recognize that that is a bit of a cop-out, the answer concerning the divided nature of the self between good and evil is beyond me; much like the problem of evil concerning God has long eluded philosophers. I can't imagine this problem of evil is any different. Perhaps it's biological: the animal instinct in us battles with the human side of us. Perhaps it is a gift and curse from God. Maybe it's just who we are and what we do; it's neither good nor wicked, but just the manner of being human. Maybe it's the body that's corrupt and the soul that fights for virtue. Maybe the soul is helpless to the body and can only observe the drama of justice and wickedness exhibited by the whims of the body. Who knows. All I know is that it has been on my mind, and I can only seem to understand it through a few films I am fond of.

"There are two of you: one that kills and one the loves."

The Mask Part 8: Good and Bad

The Mask:
Introduction: Masks and Masking
Part 1: The Metaphor
Part 2: The Mask that Fits
Part 3: Ontology
Part 4: Masquerade of the Gods
Part 5: Mask of Sanity
Part 6: The Material Mask

Part 7: Revealing and Concealing

It occurred to me the other evening while enjoying my New Years Eve celebration that I have completely forgotten to discuss the most iconic set of masks in human history: the classic image of comedy and tragedy, the mask that laughs and the one that frowns. To the Greeks there were three types of plays: tragedy, comedy, and satire. Aristotle felt that all Greeks should attend theater as a civic duty, but should primarily go to see tragedies, occasionally see comedies, and rarely, if ever see satires. Ignoring satire (what most Greeks considered to be a very barbaric play type, as the word comes from satyr), we will look at how tragedy and comedy reinforce the concepts of the mask as fuzzy logic, and ultimately lead up to the question of whether or not the mask is a good or a bad thing.

There are only a handful of examples of ancient Greek masks, all of which are on pottery. No actual masks survive. The earliest example of tragedy and comedy masks come from ancient Rome, in particular a theater in Ostia, in which three (two comedy and one tragedy) are carved on blocks of stone, and a mosaic at Hadrian's Villa in Tivoli. Comedy and tragedies are reflections of each other, companions, if you will, in the dynamic of human nature and civic life. As Aristotle deems a proper citizen should do, everyone should attend theater as a civic duty. This wasn't just entertainment, theater also illustrated life lessons, important philosophies, ideology of what it is to be a Greek, illustrations of civic life, as well as accompanied by public service announcements. The theater originally evolved from sacrificial rites, particularly around the mystery cult of Dionysus. The word "tragedy" comes from tragos, meaning "goat," and ode, meaning "song." It is the sacrificial goat, which is torn apart like Dionysus was, but also related to the satyr, which was a sort of barbaric goat-man. To witness a tragedy, to see human suffering, was a catharsis of sorts. It is much like the Romans found relief by witnessing the horrors of the Colosseum, and we do today by watching horrors of world events unfold in the news and petty human suffering in reality television (panem circensesque - bread and circuses).

The theater illustrated something about ourselves, and these were done via the masks worn by actors. There was something divine about the theater, the masks, actors, and plays. The term deus ex machina, Latin meaning "the gods out of the machine," or in Greek apo mekhanes theos, comes from Greek theater. The gods we brought on stage via a crane that would lower them onto the stage, as if from the heavens, and fly them around. While its literal translation is "god from the machine," the more proper translations of the Greek suggests that it means "the god of our making." Like Latin (i.e. face - facere, actor - agere/actor), in Greek many words have multiple meanings that are not reflected well in our common derivatives of these words. Mekhane (machine, crane) is related to poiesis (poetry, to make, fabrication) and techne (craft). To Heidegger these words were all related to the idea of revealing and yielding truth. Techne was a revealing, by technique or production we are not just making something, the thing is revealing itself to us through our making. The word legein, or logos (logic, truth) is rooted in apophainesthai, "to bring forth into appearance." The Greek word for revealing is aletheia, has only one close Latin equivalent, veritas (truth). Is it any wonder that Heidegger talks extensively about these things when he discusses the essence of technology and our relationship to it?

Enough with the etymology. The point is that to the Greeks there was a correspondence between the theater, the gods, the actors, masks, and making these things. The masks and the actors were, in a sense, the gods. They didn't just pretend to be the gods on stage, they were the gods, embodiment of the divinity when they wore the masks and acted on stage. Jung makes a similar point about this when we spent years researching primitive African tribes. In Man and His Symbols Jung illustrates that a man wearing a lion mask doesn't think he's pretending to be a lion, he believes he is a lion.

This brings us back to our fuzzy logic: there is the mask as an object, and what the mask does. Since I began this study it has been about understanding the essence of the mask, and in the last post I concluded that the essence of the mask isn't about the mask as an idea - that is the mask as an object or a metaphor, or what the mask conceals or reveals - its essence is that it conceals and reveals. It is about what the mask does, not what it is. The mask is a face (facere) that is made to reveal truth (aletheia, veritas) by concealing. So now for the biggest question of them all: is the mask good or bad?

The last post illustrated that it isn't really respectful at all the wonder of the mask to fit it into such binary terms like good and bad. But this is where fuzzy logic can help us once again if we were to try (a sort of contradiction unto itself to use fuzzy logic and categorization of binary terms simultaneously). So let's ask a different question: which is better, comedy or tragedy? Aristotle thought tragedy was far superior to comedy, at least as far as what survives of Poetics (Aristotle does say that he will discuss more on comedy in Poetics, but never does, and has often been concluded that the portion on comedy was lost). But Aristophanes felt comedy told more about human life and nature than tragedy. It has been an age old question as to whether Jesus Christ laughed or not. This is one thing that separates the monastic orders of the Benedictines and the Franciscans (that and the poverty of Christ), the former believing laughter is close to sin and makes a mockery of all things, the latter believing there is truth in laughter. But what did the Greeks feel about these two play types? Besides comedies being usually depicted in a poor part of town or out at a villa (out in the country at a farm), and tragedies usually took place in a palace or town center, there is one other difference that should be obvious. In tragedies everyone dies at the end. In comedies everyone gets married. To the Greeks there was little difference between marriage and death (just ask Spartan men, or Athenian warriors or philosophers).

Such a paradox should enlighten us on the duality of comedy and tragedy, good and bad. Watching a tragedy was cathartic, a means of salvation (i.e. health and sanity). So watching a comedy was like laughing at tragedy; death and fun. They were two ways of finding the same thing: catharsis through death, and laughter in marriage. We must keep in mind we are dealing with some fairly primitive cultures here, no matter how advanced they were. We have a hard time letting go of our modern Western ideals, which relies heavily on categorization and binary answers. But unlike Eastern cults, which rely heavily on paradox, neither-either, both-nor, the Greeks went further and used both binary categorization and paradox simultaneously (probably the biggest paradox of them all). What mattered to the Epicureans was not what is true, but what is truth. Big difference there.

So what about good and bad? Well there is three parts to good and bad. There is good, there is good bad, and bad bad. Good is simply a good thing. Good bad is a bad thing that clearly presents itself as a bad thing, which is a good thing because it in no way tries to conceal its bad nature. A bad bad is a bad thing that tries to masquerade as a good thing, when it is not, which is a bad thing. (Corinthians II 11:14: "And no marvel, for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light" a bad bad).  It's very elementary, but that's what makes it sort of hard to wrap yourself around. A mask that clearly manifests itself as a mask is a good thing (a good bad). It's only when the mask tries to present itself as a true face and not a mask is when we have a bad bad. This the truth of the mask in the Epicurean sense of the truth. The mask cannot be good because it isn't the true face of the actor. Nonetheless it is a good thing because it isn't trying to be good. 

This is how the actor can be the actor and the god at the same time by wearing a mask. The actor is not a god, but the actor is a god by not trying be a god when he/she wears a mask. The actor is the idea of the god when wearing a mask, but still an actor. It isn't about what is true, but what is truth. That it is an actor wearing a mask is true, but that is not as important as the truth that the actor wears a mask. In a way this has been our other primary question: which is more important, the mask or the actor? Is the person who walks into his/her boss's office more important than how that person presents his/herself to their boss in the image of the company? If you walk into an interview dress in raggedy blue jeans, a Judas Priest shirt on, with double-0 gauge nose ring, and dirty hair, is that superior to dressing in a fine suit? Though this person may like wearing old blue jeans, listening to heavy metal, and tattoos and piercings, and this person may be a good person and extraordinarily qualified for the position, nonetheless their mask is not appropriate to the stage. What is true is inferior to what is truth. The suit is a mask, but it is a good bad, regardless of who the actor is in this setting. The mask is a good thing because it isn't try to be good, instead it is clearly saying, "I am a mask! I am a lie!" I am a lie is the paradox that constitutes the mask. It is what it is because it isn't what it's supposed to be. It is a face because it is a mask, but it is a mask because it isn't a face.

This concludes my little mask series. I would like to reiterate some things as a summation and conclusion. The mask is a metaphor for our faces, and faces are tangible notions that we can attach to abstract ideas. The mask expresses (signifier) those things that cannot express themselves due to their abstract nature (signified). This being so, the mask is not our face, but it is a reflection, an imprint of our faces. What is concealed by the mask is revealed by it being able to fit our faces. It is not the truth, but it reflects the truth. This is how the mask reveals by concealing, and conceals by revealing. It is "the lie that tells the truth." The truth is expressed by a lie, because the truth cannot express itself on its own terms. The mask being a tangible concept for abstract notions is how we engage certain ideas such as dreams, gods, fear, and ourselves. The self is probably one of the most abstract ideas we have ever created, and the way we approach ourselves is by identities that we define for ourselves. The mask is a means to approach ourselves, discover and define ourselves. It always leads back to us. To engage the mask is also to engage what supposedly lies behind it, which is always some idea we are not privileged to witness. Because we cannot access this idea behind the mask, we are really searching for the essence of the masks a person wears; which ones, when and where, how do they use it, et cetera. Because of this the essence of the mask (persona) has little to do with the mask itself or what is behind it, but rather the actions done by and with the mask. It is more important to understand that the mask conceals and reveals, rather than what it is concealing or revealing. The importance lies in the difference between the authenticity of ideas and that of action. If we are not privileged to the ideas, then we must face the actions of masking to gain the truth. There is a wonderful quote from Nietzsche I think is fitting for the conclusion of the mask, identity, the essence of it, and how it defines:

"All great things must first wear terrifying and monstrous masks in order to inscribe themselves on the hearts of humanity."

Michelangelo Buonarroti's death mask:

The Mask Part 7: Revealing and Concealing

The Mask:
Introduction: Masks and Masking
Part 1: The Metaphor
Part 2: The Mask that Fits
Part 3: Ontology
Part 4: Masquerade of the Gods
Part 5: Mask of Sanity
Part 6: The Material Mask

I had initially intended to use more examples to plumb further the nature of mask, such as Batman and the villains he fights, MirrorMask and the mirror and the abyss, Nietzsche and some of the things he had to say, drawing and photography (art), et cetera. But upon further reflection I feel that they only reinforce ideas we have already covered, and therefore add nothing new to this exploration. I might perhaps toss some examples from those in to reinforce some other ideas we will get into, but nothing that will be looked at in depth. I really would like to wrap this little study up, so I only have in mind this post and one other. For this post we will revisit Michelangelo's New Sacristy in the Medici Chapel of San Lorenzo in Florence. What is of concern here is the two statues on Giuliano de Medici's tomb of Day and Night. We will focus on how Thomas Mann thought of Day and Night, and how the two are identical masks, but with opposing qualities.

Let's ask a silly question: does night mask the day? or does the day mask the night? Better yet, which masks and unmasks the other? Is one a mask and the other not? Seems like another chicken-and-the-egg question, but if we consider both as masks for the other something new is revealed. The day, revealing the radiance and warmth of the sun, does in fact masks the glittering brilliance of the nightly stars. On the other hand the night conceals the sun and reveals the shimmering stars and the face of the moon. Night and day are not masks for each other, but merely a process of masking. This introduces us to what is known as "fuzzy logic."

Fuzzy logic is a philosophy that involves things not having binary answers: yes and no, right and wrong, hot and cold. Fuzzy logic involves answers like both and neither, less or more, maybe and probably, et cetera. Sometimes is can be either and neither at the same time given the problem. The idea is that sometimes things are not always one or the other, but somewhere in between. Zedeh, one of the pioneers of fuzzy logic, used temperature as an example. He would ask his kids if it was cold or hot, but sometimes it was somewhere in between. Sometimes it's less hot than cold, or more cold than hot, but it wasn't exactly hot or cold. In our case the day is not the mask, nor is night, but rather both are the mask of each other.

Thomas Mann, in his Joseph and His Brothers, says that day is the liar, while night reveals what things truly are. While I doubt Mann truly felt this way, in that I doubt he believed that the day was the liar and night was not, especially given what he discusses about solar cults of Egypt in Part 3 and 4, nonetheless he does give insight into which quality of things are revealed or concealed at night or during the day. Mann says that the day distracts us with details and differences between things, which the night reveals that they are the same thing. He describes this when he discusses Jacob's marriage to Rachel, which was deceived by replacing Rachel with Leah in the dark bedroom. Because it is night and there are no candles in the room Jacob cannot tell the difference between Leah or Rachel. He compares this Biblical tale to Osiris's accidental affair with his brother's wife, Nephthys. It was night and Osiris was chasing his wife, Isis, in order to have sex with her. But Osiris accidentally caught Set's wife, Nephthys, and had sex with her, and she thought Osiris was Set. (By the way, Osiris, Set, Nephthys, and Isis are all brothers and sisters, but whatever). According to Mann the day distracts us with the difference between this man and that man, or this woman and that woman. Night reveals that they are the same. Night conceals what the day distracts us with and reveals that this woman is no different from that woman, Isis is no different from Nephthys, Rachel is no different from Leah. They are all women. Day is sort of like missing the forest for the trees: there is this tree and that tree, but ultimately they are trees and they make up forests.

I hope I'm not entirely misrepresenting Mann's opinion of night and day. Mann felt that night reveals by concealing the day. In a sense, the mask reveals by concealing, and the day conceals by revealing. By concealing the differences we see during the day between this person and that person another quality is revealed. This is what masks do: they reveal by concealing, and conceal by revealing. It is misguided to think of the mask as a concealer of truth. That's a binary conclusion to give something as powerful and wonderful as the mask. No, rather the mask abides to fuzzy logic: it reveals and conceals, and it does one by doing the other; it is both and neither simultaneously.

Is it any wonder then that Master Buonarroti depicts both Night and Day masked and unmasked? Night's face is refined and polished, but also has a mask. Day does not have a mask, but his face is unfinished, obscured, and never fulled revealed from the stone he was carved from. Michelangelo learned from his sculpting master, Bertoldo, that the figure was in the stone, waiting, sleeping, and needing to be released. Day is masked, but has not mask. Night has a mask, but is unmasked. One reveals what the other conceals.

In fact the entire New Sacristy is flooded with images of masks. Giuliano de Medici has a cuirass, much like Augustus Caesar Prima Porta, which fits him perfectly, and has masks on the ends of the straps that hold the cuirass on his body, a grotesque mask on the front and another on the back of the cuirass. Lorenzo de Medici has a lion mask upon his head, and a grotesque mask carved upon the end of the stone block under his elbow. The egg and dart molding that runs along the walls has grotesque masks in place of the eggs. George Hersey interpreted this replacement of the eggs (a symbol of female fertility and power) with grotesque masks was a sacrificial statement; that the eggs are broken/sacrificed to reveal what lays within, as if the eggs broke and are dripping a face/yoke, just like the Doric Order's triglyph is a femur bone broken into the three pieces that drip the guttae (the marrow). I'm not so sure about the sacrificial interpretation, but I would agree that the eggs (masks) are broken to reveal grotesques (another mask).

I suppose the same relationship of revealing is concealing and vice versa exists in the difference between drawing and photography. I believe it was Paul Clave (I'm not sure if I have his last name correct) who said that all art was a process of concealing, except photography, which can only reveal. Photography is like the mirror, in that it can only reveal what it is presented with. When we draw or paint or sculpt we are not always being honest. We might alter the proportions, exaggerate the light and shadow, omit or add to the models we use, et cetera. I suppose this is why Michelangelo always felt that sculpture was superior to painting. Painting is a matter of creating illusions of space, form, perspective, and light - a masking (lie) of features that are not true on a flat surface. Sculpture, on the other hand, is honest to space and form and light. It is a revealing. This is perhaps why Micky often left many figures unfinished, as if they were not completely revealed from the rock. They are part of a series called "Prisoners" for Pope Julius II's tomb. Michelangelo is revealing something by not fully revealing their forms. If sculpture is an unveiling, then what is revealed if revealing is concealing? To leave the Prisoners concealed Michelangelo is revealing. What exactly is being revealed I am not totally sure of (I've never spent a significant amount of time with the Prisoners), but I imagine in a way he was saying something about masking; the same sort of masking and unmasking is played with for the egg and dart modeling for the New Sacristy: the egg/mask is revealing another mask.

In summation the mask and the face are not necessarily important, because sometimes all we have are masks. This is really the nature, the essence (esse) of the mask: it isn't about what the mask reveals or conceals, rather it is that the mask reveals and conceals. It matters little that we put a smile on our faces when we are actually upset. What matters is that we are hiding an emotion by revealing a different one (signified verses signifier). It doesn't matter if the night masks the day, or the opposite. What matters is that they mask one another, concealing and revealing different aspects of reality depending on the mask. The mask almost does not matter anymore, but rather that we are masking is what matters. I think this could be summarized best from Batman Begins: "It's not who you are underneath but what you do that defines you." In other words: it's not what's under the mask, but what the mask does that defines the actor and the mask.

The Mask Part 6: The Material Mask

The Mask:
Introduction: Masks and Masking
Part 1: The Metaphor
Part 2: The Mask that Fits
Part 3: Ontology
Part 4: Masquerade of the Gods
Part 5: Mask of Sanity

In continuation of my little mask series it would be fitting to now discuss one of my favorite films that I to talk about a lot (and analyze... and for that matter, to watch): Fight Club. Given that my last post centered around American Psycho, it is fitting to now discuss Fight Club because I have always felt it is a corollary to American Psycho. Both are social critiques that focus on materialism and identity, and I consider both to be some of the greatest social critiques of the 21st Century (Fight Club I would just rank as the single greatest social critique for this century). Where American Psycho is a satire on the yuppie lifestyle and materialism, Fight Club is a straightforward protest against materialism. While materialism is the primary subject for both films, the materialistic lifestyle is a product (a masking) for a loss of identity - the unknowing of self. American Psycho is clearly a satire given its rather comical ending, its anti-climatic conclusion that is just as hollow and pointless as Patrick Bateman himself. In the ending monologue Patrick Bateman says, "But even after admitting this there is no catharsis; my punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself. No new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant nothing." Bateman is an example of masking, only material masks covering a hollow core. This is the disease of materialism that fun is being poked at here. But the Narrator of Fight Club clearly has a different issue with the materialistic mask. Bateman has no intent of revealing or finding what lies beneath the mask. The Narrator, on the other hand, is searching for something deeper than his clever apartment and wardrobe.

I should go ahead and clarify here that the mask is not just a material thing, which should be clear from all that has been discussed about masks thus far, but here we will focus on the mask of materialism. The material mask is your job, how much money you have in the bank, the car you drive, the contents of your wallet, your fucking khakis. These are all things that we think define us, but they don't. Rather we define them. This should be evident when Tyler says, "The things you own end up owning you." It used to be that the things we owned, the things we made, the things we used and cared for, those things that would be with us for the rest of our lives were reflections of ourselves. Take Abe Lincoln's ax for example, which was also his father's, and his father's before him. The ax had the head replaced twice, and the handle replaced thrice. And yet it is still Lincoln's ax. While no single part of the ax is the original ax, it is nonetheless the same ax (ignoring Theseus's Ship paradox). The material ax is of no concern here, only that the ax reflected the men who owned and cared for it. The ax is a reflection of Lincoln, his father, and his father's father. Unlike Bateman's stainless steel ax used to hack up Paul Allen, the ax had purpose and was cared for. Lincoln owned that ax. Bateman did not own his. When we are no longer the masters of our stuff those things no longer reflect us (unless it's a literal reflection, like Bateman's face reflected on the metal of the ax), but rather we are a reflection of those things. It is clear that we are slaves to those things which are only there for a shallow image of materialistic success and wealth.

This is a wicked turn for the nature of the mask: suddenly we ourselves can become a mask for things we thought would define us. This was Bateman's problem: the things he thought defined him ended up being defined by him. This was the Narrator's search, the reason he invented Tyler Durden, the reason he created Fight Club: he needed to lose this material mask in order to define himself. This is something I have discussed elsewhere in this blog, but it would be useful to reiterate those ideas again through the framework of the mask.

The Narrator's quest is ultimately to hit "bottom." Rock bottom is a spiritual place, not material. As Tyler tell him: "Hitting bottom isn't a weekend retreat. It's not some goddamn seminar." The Narrator thinks because he gave up the condo life, gave up all his flaming worldly possession and moved into a dilapidated house in the toxic waste part of town that he has hit bottom. But as Tyler says: "Sticking feathers up your butt does not make chicken." There is a difference between material rock bottom and spiritual rock bottom. Here we have another perfect mask that concerns the problem of identity and personal definition: "sticking feathers up your butt." Just because your image appears to be a chicken does not make you a chicken, nor does appearing to be destitute make you free from the enslavement of materialism. We are not defined by our image nor by what we own. Tyler's message is to let those things go, to hit bottom in order to find ourselves. This is what Fight Club provided.

Fight Club was about finding freedom. Letting go, and "losing all hope was freedom." The Narrator initially finds freedom when he cries against Bob's giant breasts ("the kind you think of God's as big"). Upon crying, once he let go he saw his own sobbing face marked like a smiley face on Bob's shirt (a face made from his own face). But he suddenly became addicted to these support groups. This is wear Tyler begins to work his way into the Narrator's life, setting the groundwork for Fight Club and Project Mayhem. The support groups became just as meaningless to the Narrator as his stuff: he was not being defined by the groups, but rather he defined them. Marla showed him this, because "her lie reflected my lie." The mask is a reflection of ourselves. Marla is a reflection of what the Narrator needs to define himself ("I would ask: what kind of dinning set defines me as a person?"). He was reflected in the group (the mask), but the mask did not reflect in him. What's the point of a mask that doesn't show the world something about ourselves? What is the purpose of a mask that we have to answer to and not the other way around?

Tyler is one of the chief mask of the film for Marla. Marla is the expression the Narrator wants to present to the world. Tyler is the Narrator's mask (face - facere) that he made to reflect what he aspired to being like ("I didn't create some loser alter ego to make myself feel better"). Tyler says, "You were looking for a way to change your life. You could not do this on your own. All the ways you wish you could be, that's me. I look like you want to look. I fuck like you want to fuck. I am smart, capable, and most importantly I am free in all the ways that you are not." It is impossible to express an emotion (signified) without a mask (signifier). Tyler is the signifier for Marla, the signified. Marla is already at bottom or almost there ("I'll say this about Marla, at least she's trying to hit bottom"), and Tyler is the means to hit bottom, to find freedom from the material mask. The support groups were a freedom to, if I may use Eric Fromm's terms. Tyler is freedom from. Fight Club was initially freedom from, but it soon became something to identify with, so it evolved into Project Mayhem. Fight Club became freedom to Project Mayhem, which provided the freedom from materialistic enslavement.

There is two other important masks in Fight Club that concerns the material mask: the condom and the dress. After one of Tyler and Marla's sexcapades Marla approaches the Narrator and says, "The condom is the glass slipper of our generation. You slip one on when you meet a stranger. You dance all night, and then throw it away; the condom I mean, not the stranger." Immediately following this Marla gives another example of the exact same material mask: "I got this dress at a thrift store for one dollar... It's a bridesmaid's dress. Someone loved it intensely for one day, and then tossed it. Like a Christmas tree, so special, then BAM! it's on the side of the road. Tinsel still clinging to it. Like a sex crime victim. Underwear inside out. Bound with electrical tape." Narrator: "Well then it suits you" (the mask that fits, but is not her own). Marla: "You can borrow it sometime." Both the condom and the dress are material things that cover and fit perfectly. The condom is meant to fit anyone, just like the glass slipper was only meant to fit Cinderella. But rather than having Prince Charming, the perfect person, the condom allows anyone to be a prince, and then it's tossed. So special. Just like Miss Singer's bridesmaid's dress and a Christmas tree: one special night, then it's tossed.

This is the nature of the material mask. It defines nothing. The material mask defines us no more than a condom makes a man Prince Charming (wearing an identity that is not your own, like Augustus wearing the trophy cuirass). This is the point of Fight Club: to lose these material masks, to forget the condom, forget the dress, Christmas tree, DKNY wardrobe, string bean stripe patterned furniture, coffee tables in the shape of a yin-yang; to hit bottom to discover what these masks distract us from finding. When a man fights ("how much can you know about yourself if you've never been in a fight?") he engages in primitive activities, fight or flight, there in the darkest of all places where instinct takes hold, there is where he hits bottom and finds freedom from material things (Fight Club makes it a point not to concern itself with women, which is left to Marla). What's the point of all our stuff in the hunter-gatherer sense? The question concerning what we find when we hit bottom is another matter. Supposedly it is at bottom that the men find themselves, discover their supposed identity, and how they define themselves. At the very least hitting bottom provides the solid ground upon which to rebuild our identities, to make the masks that truly define us. These can't be masks we purchased. We have to make them (facere, agere). Our masks have to reflect us, like Lincoln's ax. Tyler says: "You will wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life." He is describing a post-apocalyptic world where we make and fix our own stuff, hunt our food, build our houses, et cetera. These will be things we make (facere), things we wear, and not things that wear us.

Since I've discussed Fight Club before, I have written before that in hitting bottom we define ourselves. I would like to amend that, as I highly doubt that hitting bottom has anything to do with definition of identity; that is at bottom we find who we truly are. Rather I think, now, that hitting bottom gives us the foundation upon which we build a more authentic identity, or at least a less superficial and materialistic identity; because what is an authentic identity if all identity is masks and cross dressing? What is "authenticity" anyway? In our study of the mask it seems more fitting that in hitting bottom we make (facere) our identities/masks rather than finding them.

Now for an art example. Master Buonarroti did a sketch once entitled The Dream, which depicts an angel giving divine inspiration to a male inclined against a globe (often interpreted as melancholy, but also the world). In the background are depictions of a number of contorting figures representing sins, mostly the seven deadly sins with the exception of pride. The nude is sitting upon a box filled with masks. This is the only work by Michelangelo I know of in which masks are not depicted upon a face, except for Saint Bart's skin, but rather laying around.  These masks have been interpreted as worldly deceits, distractions from more noble work and aspirations. So in a sense they are like our material mask, the most useless mask of them all, the one mask that tells nothing about ourselves. They are not on a face because they define nothing, reflect nothing but their own distraction. They are not necessary, and therefore discarded like a condom or a Christmas tree. What is particularly interesting is that the most prominent mask, the one in the center, has a flat nose and a forked, boxy beard, which is in the likeness of Michelangelo himself. This would be our second example of Master Buonarroti depicting his self portrait on a mask that was not attached to a face; the other being the skin of Saint Bartholomew. It is not entirely understood as to why Micky made his self portrait on this material mask, perhaps he was speaking to his own childish, conceited nature, his own sins he was trying to overcome in order to receive divine inspiration for more noble work.

Whatever the reason, whatever the path, the point of the mask is help us define ourselves, to know ourselves, and to express what we have found out about ourselves and show it to the world theater. The material mask is the most dangerous mask because it does not define us, except by showing to the world that we are naught but a hollow core. Discarding the material mask, to hit bottom, to overcome our worldly concerns, to be better than our sins and shortcomings is the way to making the masks that truly define us. It isn't about authenticity, to show our true faces, but to show what we think we are under the masking.