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I have a new rule of thumb when it comes to food. If I can imagine Steve Martin eating x, then x passes the test. If not — if he would avoid x or do something comically derisive to x — than I must do the same.
With the looming amount of food options available to modern consumers, the only sensible thing to do is adopt a doctrine strict enough to narrow the field considerably. WWSME? seems as good a food doctrine as any — it is slightly glamorous, generally healthy, and pleasingly flexible. (You can replace Steve with Harold Ramis, if you wish.)
The introduction of WWSME? into my food habits clashes with a parallel attraction toward the raw vegan lifestyle. A skeptical attraction, but still an attraction. The appeal of raw veganism lies in its adherence to frivolous rules, its celebrity following, and its promiscuous deployment of the phrase 'glowing skin'. The promise of 'glowing skin' is enough to ensnare me in any cult.
Perversity also plays a part in my raw vegan interests. I perpetrate the fascination, in other words, merely because I do not want to. "We stand upon the brink of a precipice," Edgar Allan Poe wrote in his famous description of perversity. "We peer into the abyss — we grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger. Unaccountably we remain."
Yep! That's it. There's nothing that makes me want to punch a wall with more intensity, for example, than raw vegan branding. Purveyors of vegan goods tend to replace the sensory claims of generic products with ridiculous-sounding spiritual claims. Instead of emphasizing great taste, companies like Love Force will emphasize the "edible love, light and happiness" contained in their snack foods.
In good moods I find this innocuous. In bad moods I find it irksomely foolish. Not particularly misleading or symptomatic of capitalist ills, just foolish. "You've waited your whole life for this," the Love Force packaging claims. Inside, a speckled brown turd awaits.
Have I? Waited my whole life for this, I mean? Love Force has sent me a box of lumps to sample, each one made only of nuts, dried fruits, seeds, agave and flavoring agents. Flavors range from the safely appealing (chocolate orange, chocolate mint) to the inventively tasty-sounding (mango pecan, fig ginger) to the odd but plausible (chocolate lemon).
Each bar costs $4.99. Each is chewy. Each is filling and tastes exactly like what it is — which is to say, delicious. The Fig Ginger and Goji Lemon taste like whole pies compacted into a portable snack. When you taste such non-negotiably good things, it makes you wonder whether the raw vegans aren't on to something after all. It was certainly very nice of the company to send me a boxload of them to try.
But then, my aversion to the raw food vernacular is rhetorical, not visceral. These are bars that come in packages printed with a radiating infinity sign on the header, like some weird detail edited out of a David Mamet play. These are bars that equate, beneath the nutrition info, being vegan with saving our planet — a mantle of importance that I'm not sure most vegans deserve. Love Force is not content to make amazing bars (which they do); they must also "raise human consciousness through the power of organic raw vegan food nutrition and other positive mindful products." And this is where we part ways.
Would Steve Martin eat a Love Force bar? Maybe if he was offered one free of charge. He'd read the name in that good-natured jeer into which his voice has matured, and then he'd consume it without complaint.
This past August was my first month living in New York City. At around age twelve I can recall considering the MoMA to be a mecca of sorts upon my first real visit. It contained some of my most favorite paintings in the world, and I could have happily lived there and dwelled amongst those works until the end of time if it had been up to me then.
One of the earliest story books I can remember having was Linnea in Monet’s Garden. Yes, a story book about visiting the home of the great impressionist himself. Do you know that they even have a cookbook about Monet’s home? Well, they do, and the meals are paired up and photographed in various pastel rooms of his estate.
I still dream of going there of course, standing on that japanese bridge, looking out at the same reflections Monet himself was so captivated by. Other artists evoke daydreams for me as well. Caillebotte makes me want to drift lazily in the wooden row boats in Central Park. Turner made me swear I’d see sundown in Venice one day (and oh did I ever), and Whistler still makes me want to expatriate.
I recall a very impassioned lecture in which I was first introduced to Ensor in a Political Art course. “Look at the masks," my professor exclaimed, "That’s you!" Was it me? I felt aghast. The faces looked dead and terrifying; they laughed, committed violent acts, wore eery childish grins, and mocked you to your face. These masks expressed a total lack of reason, an idiocy, a violence, a lack of cause or sense.
Ensor had grown to despise the drunken debauchery of his home country, and their notorious masquerade carnivals. His famous masterpiece, “Christ’s Entry Into Brussels” was a brutal critique of the bourgeois people. “He loved people and empathized with them, but also criticized them passionately" my professor explained. "He hated them for their dim interest, laziness, their overall lack of control."
Our professor had forced us to read Marx and Nietzsche in the first half of the semester, and upon the midterm, made the only students to get A’s stand up in front of the class and promise to assist the ones who did not (I got an A, and changed my major the next semester to art history). I looked forward to lectures like most people look forward to their weekends. That is what Ensor reminds me of: a sort of burning passion.
“To some extent, the future of painting was determined in that attic” - Paul Haesaerts
To see so much of Ensor’s work in one place alone is an exhilarating experience, greeted by earlier works, consisting mostly of murky portraits and gorgeous greying landscapes of the artist’s native home, Belgium. It even smells beautiful in there (this also happened to me in the Uffizi). The exhibit is scented like you might imagine the streets of Olsted would, like waffle vendors and the faint smoke from a pipe and dessert wines. I am not sure how this happened, but I approached “The Rainbow, After the Storm” (1880) and immediately felt weak in the knees.
My Grandparents had in Olsted.. a shop selling seashells, lace, rare stuffed fish, old books, prints, jams, china, an inextricable jumble of assorted objects constantly being knocked over by a number of cats, deafening parrots, and a monkey. My childhood was filled with marvelous dreams an frequent visits to my grandmother’s shop, with it’s iridescent glow from the reflections of the shells, sumptuous lace, strange stuffed animals and terrible savage weapons that terrified me. This exceptional milieu without doubt developed my artistic faculties and my grandmother was a great inspiration. - James Ensor
Ensor, deemed “the painter of masks” by the poet Emile Verhaeren, is known for participating in the Tachist style of painting. The term tachism is derived from the french “tacher” which means to mark or stain. It should be noted that after leaving the Academie Royale Des Beaux-Arts in Brussels (he enrolled in 1877), Ensor returned home to refocus his studies, setting up a permanent studio in attic above his family’s shop.
In 1883 he co-founded the artist group Les XX (also referred to as Les Vingt), a group which advocated the freedom of personal expression over any certain style of painting. This is only a small insight as to why it is difficult to confine Ensor’s work within the brackets of any one particular “ism”, but this assertion of ‘staining’ by way of the palette knife is spot on for many of the works within the exhibit. “The Rainbow, After the Storm” is a work in which the horizon is barely discernible, and the sky appears a fresco inspired symphony of paint.
In the distance a pale arch of color is born against the clouds, not quite vibrant, but arresting all the same. This and other works depicting Olsted and Brussels suggest the artist's quiet love for his country and all of its natural beauty. Ensor's painting confronts me with vast skies, cascading light, and a sense of atmosphere which feels almost ethereal. I have always favored Ensor for the versatility of his palettes, but I didn't expect to be seduced so by his handling of natural light. His subjects had such life inside of them and yet the paint itself was so visible. There is no way to compare him with any other painter.
I don’t have children, but light is my daughter, light one and indivisible, light bread of the painter, light soft part of the loaf of the painter, light queen of our senses, light, light, illuminate us! Animate us, show us the new routes leading to joy and bliss. - James Ensor
I move along and find my feeling of ethereality is not misguided. There are many works which are religiously inspired in this show, notably “Adam and Eve Expelled from Paradise” (1887), “The Tribulations of Saint Anthony” (1887), and “Christ Calming the Storm” (1891). Adam and Eve are expelled by a radiant angel three times their size who appears to be producing the most spectacular light. They turn in shame, two indistinguishable human figures rendered in the same tones as the earth they themselves have sprung forth from.
"The Tribulations of Saint Anthony" is a painting literally out of this world, so much so that it scarcely suggests any perspective and instead presents us with the absolute torment endured by the poor saint. Are you one of those people who is interested in how monsters and demons have been portrayed in art throughout the history of time (especially those great medieval ones)? This painting is for you. It is feverish, delirious, fantastic, certainly unlike anything I’ve come into contact with before. It only hints at what Ensor would infuse into his later masterpiece “Christ's Entry into Brussels” and the works following.
Yes, our actions are pictorial, our inventions are enormous, our thoughts are tragicomical, our temptations are burlesque, our desires are born of the flatlands, our paradises are made of dough and condensed milk, and our endearments are made of butter. - James Ensor
Ensor in some way empathized with Christ’s suffering and torment, and feeling so used this theme of tribulations repeatedly throughout his career. I find the line between empathy and parody to be a blurred one, and yet Ensor portrays himself as Christ numerous times. Is this arrogance or sincerity?
Such portraits were suggested as metaphors for his suffering due to critics' poor opinion of his work, and in the same stroke they were also allegories for his disgust at the inhumane tendencies of the public. In "Calvary" (1886) Ensor portrays himself as Christ on the cross being pierced by a spear bearing the name of a popular art critic of the time.
He has also portrayed himself as a skeleton, a herring being eaten by skeletons, an insect, a head on a platter, a "pisser", and as himself being assaulted by demons. Ensor has an ability to make you laugh, feel solemn, feel horrified, laugh again, and then feel complete awe. As if made uncomfortable by what they saw, patrons of the MoMA's Ensor exhibit default to laughter to thwart their discomfort. There are a few that make me giggle, “Self Portrait with a Flowered Hat” (1883/88) in particular, but other works are far more grave in their assertions.
Vision is altered by observation. The first type of vision, the common kind, is the simple line - dry and with no attempt at color. The second is where a keener eye makes out the value and delicacy of the different shades. This type is already less comprehensible to the common man. The final kind is where the artist discerns the subtleties and manifold effects of the light, its planes and gravitational fields. These progressive investigations after primitive vision, undermining the line and rendering it subordinate. Such vision will not be widely understood. It requires long observation and attentive study. The common man will merely see disorder, choas and impropriety. This is how art has evolved from the Gothic line through the color and movement of the Renaissance to arrive at modern light. - James Ensor
Moving through the rooms the theme of death becomes far more prevalent. An equally stunning and chilling work, “Skeleton Looking at Chinoiseries” (1885/88) is one of the first in the progression of the show to depict Ensor’s trademark skull.
It is yet another in a series of works that he revisited in the late 1880s when his work was about to undergo a great transformation. The painting was once a portrait of a sitter, now changed into a skeleton who seems to be situated beneath a waterfall of colors. This work at once ignites a sense of unease and interest. The colors seem to celebrate life, and yet the tilted skull whispers that one day we’ll be just as he is, a pile of bones.
This same sense of being drawn in persists once the theme of masks begins to dominate the works. I feel haunted, mocked, accused, estranged, and fearful all at the hands of these paintings. Is he expressing the misery, the anguish, the nature of turmoil that has befallen his beloved country and town? Is this his own personal tribulation? In 1888's "Mask Mocking Death" the masks themselves appear to have no sense as to fear death, they are so disillusioned, so far from human. White paint dominates the canvas and a chalky pinkish background offers no sense of space or depth, but only allows the masks to crowd further into the frame. With hollow eyes the skull stares out at its viewer undaunted by the madness, delivering an unwavering truth - life extinguishes.
I want to survive. The transiency of the pictorial material frightens me. Poor painting! An art exposed to the incompetence of restorers and the imperfections of reproduction. Yes, I desire to stir future generations for a long time to come. - James Ensor
Up on that sixth floor exhibition, I felt overcome by the paint, which is second only to being overcome by sound. Visiting the depths of every lightwave and spectrum, I have been shown life, death, chaos, madness, catharsis, calm, nightmares, and still each vision was alive with delicate rendering. Such an atmosphere is like going to church in a sense, so much divinity and damnation in one place.
Amanda McCleod is a contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Brooklyn. This is her first appearance in these pages. She tumbls here.
There are really only two reasons to watch Cherry 2000.
1.) You’re an insomniac whose penchant for Battlestar takes you to the SciFi channel at 3am, or
2.) You have this theory that you tend to divulge whilst intoxicated on dates about how exactly the inevitable robot takeover is going to happen, and Cherry 2000 happens to be a 1987 Melanie Griffith film about futuristic sex robots.
You watch it all Tylenol PMed up on late night cable or you Netflix it with the intention to learn.
(The theory goes something like this: In five to ten years the first specially designed sex robots will be ready for the market, but too expensive, they’ll first appear in brothels. Theeeeen the crazy people who salivate over stab sex fantasies will start being extra violent to robot prostitutes because they’re just robots, you know, and some people will even tout this development as good — like in the same way people thought that child molesters could safely and discreetly exercise their craving for 9 year olds on Second Life and avoid To Catch A Predator camera time.
But eventually all this violence towards sex robots will start to make us feel bad. No one likes to see any sort of being-ish thing victimized, and we’ll begin to lobby for sex robot rights. And the sexbots will win more and more rights and gain greater and greater access to resources, because it seems like the humane thing to do, but then one day they’ll plug themselves into the power grid and OMGOMGOMG...EVENT HORIZON...I can barely see it, it’s so hard to describe, but stock up on Diet Mountain Dew and regional topography maps and prayer books and please, someone hold my hand as we run. (Nitasha?) Also see: Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles.)
Beyond the evolution of sexbots, Cherry 2000 is about the impotency of the middle income male yuppie, a man who has no power at his job but makes decent money, who vaguely looks like a pervy version of Seth Meyers as if Seth Meyers wasn’t pervy-faced already, and whose greatest comfort is coming home to a hot yes woman who cooks his favorite dinner and spouts pre-programmed compliments about his dick. I feel like maybe it’s a portrait of an I-banker.
The first scene of the movie is man-bot frottage on the kitchen floor. Suds from the overflowing dishwasher pour down on the two. The sexbot’s breasts look incredibly supple. Then the suds short-circuit Cherry’s wiring causing sparks to fly everywhere, and right away you realize that you’re not actually dealing with a normalish well dressed office drone, but a guy who is willing to stick his cock in an electric box. There is just so much room for character development.
Sam’s friends try to take him to a bar to meet human ladies, but, like, blood-based pussy is just so frakking difficult. One lady calls him an asshole for a minor faux pas. All the women kind of look tired and saggy, and there are CONTRACTS REQUIRED FOR CASUAL SEX (actually, is this maybe a good idea?) He decides he won’t give up the dream of getting a new Cherry, but his favored model is only stored in a dangerous robot graveyard somewhere near what used to be Las Vegas, because in the movies the future always is a desert. SRSLY, THINK ABOUT IT. And he needs to hire Melanie Griffith, a brassy tough-as-nails tracker with a phone sex voice, to help him. Lover-like bickering, shooting of bad guys, and sexually tense montages to Moog-y music ensue. Between Griffith's breasts and a recording of Cherry's coos, Sam has a constant face erection.
I would divulge more of the plot, but it seems a little silly since you already know what happens. Sam chooses to love the human woman, of course, because this is a film made by 1980s humans. Though his sudden decision, coming moments before the film's end, doesn't mean so much — it happens after he's already taken his new Cherry model and flown off in a plane that can only seat two, leaving Griffith to essentially die by the guns of the bad guys.
A few minutes after takeoff he looks back down at the pathetic figure of Griffith hiding behind a barrel, and with a pained look, he decides to land and switch out the robot for the real girl. AIEEEEEEEEEE! What's maybe even scarier than my vision of the imminent robot takeover, is that in the future a real grrl's standards are so low she'll smooch a guy who five minutes ago left her for dead.
Lauren Bans is the senior contributor to This Recording. She blogs here. She is a writer living in New York City. She last wrote in these pages about Green Day's Dookie.
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