Dark Star Safari

March 12, 2009

by Naomi Henderson


Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux is an account of the author’s travels by bus and train form Cairo to Cape Town. He makes witty and scathing remarks about the ignorant tourists swarming in Cairo, and is glad to leave the city for the barren deserts of the Sudan. Although warned by countless people not to travel through the Sudan, these words of caution only peak his interest. This was before the recent genocide in Darfur, and Theroux found the people to be kind, relatively ambitious and educated. He reveled in the gentle desert landscape like “baked biscuits.”
Traveling by bus to Ethiopia, he passed through the xenophobic city of Harar that is plagued by hyenas and large birds of prey. It is here, where the author begins to question the efficacy of foreign aid. He observes that the beggars have a sense of entitlement to foreign money. Foreign aid has worked its way into the structure of the economy in such a way that people don’t feel the need to work. His views were only solidifyed when he reached Kenya. Theroux was familiar with the capital city of Nairobi, as he had worked in nearby Malawi as a teacher in the 1960’s. He remembered Nairobi as a bustling market town, not the dilapidated, crime-ridden city of the present. The corruption of city officials in Nairobi is notorious. They take large shares of foreign aid money for themeselves, and thus very little of it actually reaches the people in need. Moreover, Theroux noticed that none of these foreign agencies involve Africans in their affairs. He observed the old proverb in action; “give a man a fish and he eats for a day, teach him to fish and he eats for a lifetime.”
In his familiar country of Malawi, Theroux experiences more poverty and crumbling buildings, which were almost nonexistent in the 1960’s. It becomes evient to him that foreign aid isn’t working. When agencies see famine as an opportunity to make money, those people shouldn’t be welcome. He proposes that countries get rid of all foreign aid agencies. In this way, the people would be forced to work, the economy would flourish. In Zimbabwe he sees how this could be effective. The tyrranical rule of their leader Mugabe has led foreign countries to sanction them, thus they don’t receive any aid. Theroux saw that this made the people resourceful. Their markets were full of produce, and generally they had a high stabdard of living.
When he entered South Africa, he was almost shocked at all the electrical lights. The darkness of the bush dissolved into the lights and commerce of a western city. He meets with several writers, among them Nadine Gordimer, who wrote extensively about the Appartheid. As his journey winds down, Theroux is sad to leave the wilderness and isolation of the bush. Although I found his book very engaging, he did not inspire me to go to any of the countries he visited. In fact I want to avoid them. His descriptions made these places sound so desperate and violent, so barren and cruel, I just than God I want’t born there.

Published by The Cupboard

February 25, 2009

posted by Nick Sarno

Parables & Lies

review by Naomi Henderson


Parables & Lies by Jesse Ball, is the first in a series of publications put forth by The Cupboard in Summer 2008. It is divided into three sections, however I see no obvious change in theme or scenery from one section to the next. This led me to wonder, was that section all lies, all parables, or perhaps both? The book is quite diminutive in size, and each entry is no more than two pages long. Every descriptive scene is like a condensed fairy tale, replete with fantasy, violence and character types, such as “the merchant” and “the seamstress.” In almost every instance, I could imagine these small paragraphs being fleshed out into entire novels. Despite this, I did not find them terse or unfulfilling. The book seemed to be the outpouring of midnight inspirations and potent snapshots. As an example, I will share the entry entitled “The Carriage-Driver” from section Three:

“In the midst of a terrible storm, a carriage comes thundering down a narrow drive, and pulls up at the entrance to a large mansion. The carriage doors are thrown open and a man with a haughty, powerful bearing exits the carriage and goes to the house. Hours pass. The storm is a brutal call from an angry host, and the tree line flails upon the near hills; the mud churns, pounded by the water’s ceaseless assault. Still the carriage driver waits, trembling. He wants to rub the horses with a soft blanket, but he cannot, for the mud about their hooves is too deep now for him to stand in. In fact the carriage has now sunk so that only half of its wheels rise out of the mud. The horses are curiously dead, slumped in their harnesses, unmoving. Soon the mud will cover them. Then and only then will he knock upon the house’s great door. He will not speak when the door is answered, but will simply point, dumbfounded, at the carriage as it sinks from sight.”

Regarding Henri Rousseau

January 26, 2009

written by Naomi Henderson

Henri Rousseau, born in 1844 was nicknamed “le douanier artist” due to his job at the customs offfice. This mundane job belied an active imagination and rich fantasy life that mainfested itself in Rouseau’s paintings. He painted as a hobby, and came to it late in life. It wasn’t until he was in his forties that Rousseau enjoyed an early retirement to devote himself to painting full time. As an untrained artist, he suffered immense ridicule from critics and artists alike for his naive style. This same innocence and charm eventually attracted the avant garde who appreciated his fresh and unpretentious vision. Rousseau is best known for his lush jungle scenes that he claimed were inspired from his military service in Mexico. Although he did serve in the military, Rousseau’s Mexican adventures were a product of his active imagination. The artist allegedly never left France. His depictions of exotic flowers and tigers battling buffalos were drawn from trips to the zoo and botanical gardens of Paris. In the painting Dream, Rousseau depicted a wild green jungle in the midst of which sits a red chaise lounge with a naked woman lying on it. One wonders, did he claim to have witnessed such a scene in Mexico? I ardently hope so. Another painting I love, The Football Players, depicts several mustachioed men playing rugby in what appears to be striped pajamas. I think I can honestly say it is the only painting that has ever made me laugh out loud.

By all accounts Henri Rousseau was an eccentric man who crashed parties and gallery openings, and often took sarcastic remarks seriously. Although he did manage to show many of his paintings, Rousseau died a pauper. He was the archtypal starving and unappreciated artist who gained fame and recognition only after death.


written by Naomi Henderson

DEC 5 – JAN 10, 2009, BODY CHATTER:
An Exhibition of Contemporary Indian Art

Opening reception: Fri. Dec 5 , 5-8pm

at Walsh Gallery

118 N. Peoria Street, 2nd Floor
Chicago, IL 60607
Tuesday–Saturday  10:30–5:30


This weekend I went to the Walsh Gallery at 118 Peoria, which specializes in contemporary Asian art. The exhibition is called “Body Chatter” and represents 12 well-known Indian artists, ShebaChhachhi,Shilpa Gupta, Atul Dodiya, Indira Freitas Johnson, Jitish Kallat, Reena S. Kallat, Bhupen Khakhar, Bharti Kher, Nalini Malani, Ravinder Reddy, Gulammohammed Sheikh, and Vivian Sundram. As the name of the show indicates, each artist depicts various ideas about the body; many of them drawing inspiration from ancient Indian art. Ravinder Reddy, for example has two works on display with traditional aesthetic values that glorify the everyday woman. The work entitled “Woman” is a life-size sculpture in gold leaf with a very stylized face. Both her nondescript features and her voluptuous body are typical of ancient Indian temple sculptures; however her body is not young and beautiful, but old and fat. She has a little paunch, and rolls of fat around her waist. This depiction of the female form allows the reality of the imperfect body to be raised to the level of the sacred.
Another artist that attracted my attention was Bharti Kher, who created large photographs of human-animal hybrids. In one picture there is a person of indeterminate sex serving cupcakes on a platter. He/she has the head of a boar, and one leg that is a horse’s leg. At the beast’s feet sits a vacuum cleaner with the head of a German shepherd. Several of the figures in the other drawings are wearing motorcycle helmets that completely obscure their faces. These helmets made me wonder what kind of grotesque visages they were hiding under there. The depiction of human- animal hybrids is not new to art, as seen in the centaurs and griffins of ancient Greece for example. In those instances however, such beings were respected and almost revered for their otherworldly powers. By contrast, the bodies Kher creates seem mangled and disgusting. They are freaks of nature, as seen through his depiction of a baby with bat wings, and a little boy with the head of an ape.
The last artist that caught my attention was a photographer named Vivan Sundaram. She has several black and white photographs of what seemed at first glance to be mundane family portraits, or vacation snapshots. Upon closer inspection, I observed that she had inserted or superimposed figures from other sources onto the photos. Most of these figures were mythical or ghostly looking women standing in the background. This work could be a representation of the invisibility of women on society, or perhaps of their influence “behind the scenes.” Whatever your interpretation, they were very interesting photographs and enjoyable to look at.

As I don’t know very much about Asian art, I found this exhibition unusual and enlightening. All of the artistst have very individual viewpoints, however I could see in many of the works, a distinct inspiration from ancient Indian art. As an American, I think they are lucky to have such a wealth of artistic inspiration to draw from.

To see more images from this show, follow this link.

posted by Caroline Picard

Christmas : Naomi Henderson

December 19, 2008


Naomi Henderson


‘Tis the season to be eaten

windows stuffed, stomach

like a hollow nut

take another nip.

Drinking whisky, smoking old butts

five coats thick and stinking all over.

Shifty Eyes, no one

meets the gaze           

of a crazy.


Waking up to a dog pissing

shifting uneasy

in my sack of skin.

Now it’s his territory.

Girls in furs window shop

thick fingers fumble

to stand me up. A sideways tilt

and I’m down again, stumbling

from sleep to sleep

my life’s been cheap.

The city lights buzz like a lullaby.

Peony In Love

by Lisa See


review written by Naomi Henderson

Since I have had no disposable income for some time now, I have to rely on friends and family to lend me books. The latest bundle of books came from my mother, who has been reading obsessively about various Asian cultures, most notably the Chinese. After spending three months there last year, she still “doesn’t get the Chinese,” and hopes that reading tons of books about them will shed some light onto the matter. The first book I picked up was called Peony In Love, by Lisa See. It is a historical novel that takes place in a wealthy family villa in 17th century China. The protagonist is a sixteen-year-old girl named Peony, who leads a very sheltered life. She is never allowed out of the villa, and is completely ignorant of the world outside her family’s decadent compound. A turning point comes in her life when her father stages an opera called the Peony Pavillion for a visiting dignitary. This opera is a real part of Chinese culture, and is especially known for it’s erotic content, and constant censorship through the ages. A few years ago, a troup from China performed the opera at the Metropolitan in New York, and they included various censored scenes. This inspired the Chinese government to try to shut down the production, deeming the scenes “politically inapropriate.” The opera also has the reputation of inspiring Chinese girls into such a state of lovesickness, that they starve themselves to death. Needless to say, Peony shares this fate after she secretly meets a young man in the garden during the opera. She is already engaged, and knows she will never see her lover again. She is so distraught that she refuses to eat, and eventually passes away.
In the next phase of the story we follow Peony in her life as a ghost. The author takes into account all the traditional Chinese beliefs in the afterlife, which are very strange and exotic to the eyes of a westerner. For example, upon death, her soul divided into three parts; one stays with her body to be buried, another travels to the afterlife where it is judged, and the third enters her ancestor tablet in her family’s ancestor shrine. In the story, the last part of the ceremony is never carried out, and Peony is forced to travel the world as a “hungry ghost.” In Chinese belief, the deceased are given many material goods to take with them in the afterlife. Like humans on earth, they will need clothes, money and food. A hungry ghost is one who has not been properly buried, and has no access to these vital gifts. Peony’s clothes eventually fade and tear, and she is always ravenously hungry. Despite these hardships, Peony gets to see the outside world for the first time. She travels to the countryside, and rides on the pleasure boat of a group of women writers. She looks after her lover, and watches as he marries another woman. Peony is forever manipulating their lives, and often believes that her destructive ways are beneficial. After many tradgedies, Peony learns how to be a helpful ghost, and eventually she gains her rightful place in her family’s ancestor shrine.
I found this book very interesting in that it teaches you about a distant culture and a foriegn belief system in the guise of a love story. In Chinese belief, for example a woman who dies while she is pregnant, goes to a hell called the Fiery Lake. She is damned for “not allowing'” her unborn children to live. The book also describes various superstitions connected with the dead, such as hanging mirrors to keep evil spirits away. This book would be enjoyable to anyone who is interested in anthropolgy and history. I think my mom made a good selection with this book in her search to understand the Chinese. It certainly gave me a glimpse into a culture I know almost nothing about.

Excerpt : A Simple Heart

November 14, 2008

originally written by Gustav Flaubert, what follows is an excerpt from “A Simple Heart,” one of three short stories in “Three Tales.” This was transcribed by Naomi Henderson and posted by Caroline Picard.


His name was Loulou. His body was green, the tips of his wings were pink, his poll blue, and his breast golden.
Unfortunately he had a tiresome mania for biting his perch, and also used to pull his feathers out, scatter his droppings everywhere, and upset his bath water. He annoyed Mme Aubain, and so she gave him to Felicite for good.
Felicite started training him, and soon he could say: ‘Nice boy! Your servant sir! Hail, Mary!’ He was put near the door, and several people who spoke to him and said how strange it was that he did not answer to the name of Jacquot, as all parrots were called Jacquot. They likened him to a turkey or a block of wood, and every sneer cut Felicite to the quick. How odd, she thought, that Loulou should be so stubborn, refusing to talk whenever anyone looked at him!
For all that, he liked having people around him, because on Sundays, while the Rochefeuille sisters, M. Houppeville and some new friends – the apothecary Onfroy, M. Varin, and Captain Mathieu – were having their game of cards, he would beat on the window panes with his wings and make such a din that it was impossible to hear oneself speak.
Bourais’s face obviously struck him as terribly funny, for as soon as he saw it he was seized with uncontrollable laughter. His shrieks rang around the courtyard, the echo repeated them, and the neighbors came to their windows and started laughing too. To avoid being seen by the bird, M. Bourais used to creep along by the wall, hiding his face behind his hat, until he got to the river, and then came into the house from the garden. The looks he gave the parrot were far from tender.
Loulou had once been cuffed by the butcher’s boy for poking his head into his basket; and since then he was always trying to give him a nip through his shirt. Fabu threatened to wring his neck, although he was not a cruel fellow, in spite of his tattooed arms and bushy whiskers. On the contrary, he rather liked the parrot, so much so indeed that in a spirit of jovial camaraderie he tried to teach him a few swear words. Felicite, alarmed at this development, put the bird in the kitchen. His little chain was removed and he was allowed to wander all over the house.
Coming downstairs, he used to rest the curved part of his beak on each step and then raise first his right foot, then his left; and Felicite was afraid that this sort of gymnastic performance would make him giddy. He fell ill and could neither talk nor eat for there was a swelling under his tongue such as hens sometimes have. She cured him by pulling his pellicule out with her fingernails. One day M. Paul was silly enough to blow the smoke of his cigar at him; another time Mme Lormeau started teasing him with the end of her parasol, and he caught hold of the ferrule with his beak. Finally he got lost.
Felicite had put him down on the grass in the fresh air, and left him there for a minute. When she came back, the parrot had gone. First of all she looked for him in the bushes, by the river and on the rooftops, paying no attention to her mistress’s shouts of: ‘Be careful, now! You must be mad!’ Next she went over all the gardens in Pont-l’ Eveque, stopping passers-by and asking them: ‘You don’t happen to have seen my parrot by any chance?’ Those who did not know him already were given a description of the bird. Suddenly she thought she could make out something green flying about behind the mills at the foot of the hill. But up on the hill there was nothing to be seen. A pedlar told her that he had come upon the parrot a short time before in Mere Simon’s shop at Saint-Melaine. She ran all the way there, but no one knew what she was talking about. Finally she came back home, worn, out, her shoes falling to pieces, and death in her heart. She was sitting beside Madame on the garden seat and telling her what she had been doing, when she felt something light drop on her shoulder. It was Loulou! What he had been up to, no one could discover: perhaps he had just gone for a little walk round the town.
Felicite was slow to recover from this fright, and indeed never really got over it.
As result of a chill she had an attack of quinsy, and soon after that her ears were affected. Three years later she was deaf, and she spoke at the top of her voice, even in church. Although her sins could have been proclaimed over the length and breadth of the diocese without dishonor to her or offence to others, M. le Cure thought it advisable to hear her confession in the sacristy.
Imaginary buzzings in the head added to her troubles. Often her mistress would say: ‘Heavens, how stupid you are!’ and she would reply: ‘Yes, Madame,’ at the same time looking all around her for something.
The little circle of her ideas grew narrower and narrower, and the pealing of bells and the lowing of cattle went out of her life. Every living thing moved about in ghostly silence. Only one sound reached her ears now, and that was the voice of the parrot.
As if to amuse her, he would reproduce the click-clack of the turn-spit, the shrill call of a man selling fish, and the noise of the saw at the joiner’s across the way; and when the bell rang he would imitate Mme Aubain’s ‘Felicite! The door, the door!’
They held conversations with each other, he repeating as nauseam the three phrases in his repertory, she replying with words which were just as disconnected but which came from the heart. In her isolation, Loulou was almost a son or a lover to her. He used to climb up her fingers, peck at her lips, and hang on to her shawl; and as she bent over him, wagging her head from side to side as nurses do, the great wings of her bonnet and the wings of the bird quivered in unison.
When clouds banked up in the sky and there was a rumbling of thunder, he would utter piercing cries, no doubt remembering the sudden downpours of his native forests. The sound of the rain falling roused him to a frenzy. He would flap excitedly around, shoot up to the ceiling, knocking everything over, and fly out of the window to splash about in the garden. But he would soon come back to perch on one of the firedogs, hopping about to dry his feathers and showing tail and beak in turn.
On e morning in the terrible winter of 1837, when she had put him in front of the fire because of the cold she found him dead in the middle of his cage, hanging head down with his claws caught in the bars. He had probably died of a stroke, but she thought he had been poisoned with parsley, and despite the absence of proof, her suspicions fell on Fabu.
She wept so much that her mistress said to her; ‘Why don’t you have him stuffed?’
Felicite asked the chemist’s advice, remembering that he had always been kind to the parrot. He wrote to Le Havre, and a man called Fellacher agreed to do the job. As parcels sometimes went astray on the mail coach, she decided to take the parrot as far as Honfleur herself.
On either side of the road stretched an endless succession of apple tress, all stripped of their leaves, and there was ice in the ditches. Dogs were baking around the farms; and Felicite, with her hands tucked under her mantlet, her little black sabots and her basket, walked briskly along the middle of the road.
She crossed the forest, passed Le Haut-Chene, and got as far as Saint- Gatien.
Behind her, in a cloud of dust, and gathering speed as the horses galloped downhill, a mail coach swept along like a whirlwind. When he saw this woman making no attempt to get out of the way, the driver poked his head out above the hood, and he and the postilion shouted at her. His four horses could not be held in and galloped faster, the two leaders touching her as they went by. With a jerk of the reins the driver threw them to one side, and then, in a fury, he raised his long whip and gave such a lash, from head to waist, that she fell flat on her back. The first thing she did on regaining consciousness was to open her basket. Fortunately nothing had happened to Loulou. She felt her right cheek burning, and when she touched it her hand turned red; it was bleeding.
She sat down on a heap of stones and dabbed her face with her handkerchief. Then she ate a crust of bread which she had taken the precaution of putting in her basket, and tried to forget her wound by looking at the bird. As she reached the top of the hill at Ecquemauville, she saw the lights of Honfleur twinkling in the darkness like a host of stars, and the shadowy expanse of the sea beyond. Then a sudden feeling of faintness made her stop; and the misery of her childhood, the disappointment of her first love, the departure of her nephew, and the death of Virginie all came back to her at once like the waves of a rising tide, and, welling up in her throat, choked her.
When she got to the boat she insisted on speaking to the captain, and without telling him what was in her parcel, asked him to take good care of it.
Fellacher kept the parrot a long time. Every week he promised it for the next; after six months he announced that a box had been sent off, and nothing more was heard of it. It looked as though Loulou would never come back, and Felicite told herself: ‘They’ve stolen him for sure!’
At last he arrived – looking quite magnificent perched on a branch screwed into a mahogany base, one foot in the air, his head cocked to one side, and biting a nut which the taxidermist, out of a love of the grandiose, had gilded.
Felicite shut him up in her room.
This place, to which few people were ever admitted, contained such a quantity of religious bric-a-brac and miscellaneous oddments that it looked like a cross between a chapel and a bazaar.
A big wardrobe prevented to door from opening properly. Opposite the window that overlooked the garden was a little round one looking on to the courtyard. There was a table beside the bed, with a water jug, a couple of combs, and a block of blue soap in a chipped plate. On the walls there were rosaries, medals, several pictures of the Virgin, and a holy water stoup made out of a coconut. On the chest of drawers, which was draped with a cloth just like an altar, was the shell box Victor had given her, and also a watering can and a ball, some copy-books, the illustrated geography book, and a pair of ankle boots. And on the nail supporting the looking-glass, fastened by its ribbons, hung the little plush hat.
Felicite carried this from of veneration to such lengths that she even kept one of Monsieur’s frock coats. All the old rubbish Mme Aubain had no more use for, she carried off to her room. That was how there came to be artificial flowers along the edge of the chest of drawers, and a portrait of the Comte d’Artois in the window recess.
With the aid of a wall-bracket, Loulou was installed on a chimney-breast that jutted out into the room. Every morning when she woke, she saw him in the light of the dawn, and then she remembered the old days and the smallest retails of insignificant actions, not in sorrow, but in absolute tranquility.
Having no intercourse with anyone, she lived in the torpid state of a sleep-walker. the Corpus Christi processions roused her from this condition, for she would go round the neighborhood collecting candlesticks and mats to decorate the altar of repose which they used to set up in the street.
In church she was forever gazing at the Holy Ghost, and one day she noticed it had something of the parrot about it. This resemblance struck her as even more obvious in a colour print depicting the baptism of Our Lord. With its red wings and its emerald-green body, it was the very image of Loulou.
She bought the print and hung it in the place of the Comte d’Artois, so that she could include them both in a single glance. they were linked together in her mind, the parrot being sanctified by this connection with the Holy Ghost, which itself acquired new life and meaning in her eyes. God the Father could not have chosen a dove as a means of expressing Himself, since doves cannot talk, but rather one of Loulou’s ancestors. And although Felicite used to say her prayers with her eyes on the picture, from time to time she would turn slightly towards the bird.
She wanted to join the Children of Mary, but Mme Aubain dissuaded her from doing so.
An important event now loomed up – Paul’s wedding.
After starting as a lawyer’s clerk, he had been in business, in the Customs, and in Inland Revenue, and had even begun trying to get into the Department of Woods and Forests, when, at the age of thirty- six, by some heaven-sent inspiration, he suddenly discovered his real vocation – in the Wills and Probate Department. There he proved so capable that one of the auditors offered him his daughter in marriage and promised to use his influence on his behalf.
Paul, grown serious-minded, brought her to see his mother. She criticized the way things were done at Pont-l’Eveque, put on airs, and hurt Felicite’s feelings. Mme Aubain was relieved to see her go.
The following week came news of M. Bourais’s death in an inn in lower Brittany. Rumors that he had committed suicide were confirmed, and doubts arose as to his honesty. Mme Aubain went over her accounts and was soon conversant with the full catalogue of his misdeeds – embezzlement of interest, secret sales of timber, forged receipts, etc. Besides all this, he was the father of an illegitimate child, and he had ‘relations with a person at Dozule’.
These infamies upset Mme Aubain greatly. In March 1853 she was afflicted with a pain in her chest; her tongue seemed to be covered with a film; leeches failed to make her breathing any easier; and on the ninth evening of her illness she died. She had just reached the age of seventy-two.
She was thought to be younger because of her brown hair, worn in bandeau round her pale, pock-marked face. There were few friends to mourn her, for she had a haughty manner which put people off. Yet Felicite wept for her as servants rarely weep for their masters. That Madame should die before her upset her ideas, seemed to be contrary to the order of things, monstrous and unthinkable.
Ten days later – the time it took to travel hot-foot from Besancon – the heirs arrived. The daughter-in-law ransacked every drawer, picked out some pieces of furniture and sold the rest; and then back they went to the Wills and Probate Department.
Madame’s armchair, her pedestal table, her foot-warmer, and the eight chairs had all gone. Yellow squares in the center of the wall panels showed where the pictures had hung. They had carried off the two cots with their mattresses, and no trace remained in the cupboard of all Virginie’s things. Felicite climbed the stairs to her room, numbed with sadness.
The next day there was a notice on the door, and the apothecary shouted in her ear that the house was up for sale.
She swayed on her feet, and was obliged to sit down.
What distressed her most of all was the idea of leaving her room, which was so suitable for poor Loulou. Fixing an anguished look on him as she appealed to the Holy Ghost, she contracted the idolatrous habit if kneeling in front of the parrot to say her prayers. Sometimes the sun, as it came through the little window, caught his glass eye, so that it shot out a great luminous ray, which sent her into ecstasies.
She had a pension of three hundred and eighty francs a year, which her mistress had left her. The garden kept her in vegetables. As for clothes, she had enough to last her till the end of her days, and she saved on lighting by going to bed as soon as darkness fell.
She went out as little as possible, to avoid the second hand dealer’s shop, where some of the old furniture was on display. Ever since her fit of giddiness, she had been dragging on one leg; as her strength was failing, Mere Simon, whose grocery business had come to grief, came in every morning to chop wood and pump water for her.
Her eyes grew weaker. The shutters were not opened any more. Years went by, and nobody rented the house and nobody bought it.
For fear of being evicted, Felicite never asked for any repairs to be done. The laths in the roof rotted, and all through one winter her bolster was wet. After Easter she began spitting blood.
When this happened Mere Simon called in a doctor. Felicite wanted to know what was the matter with her, but she was so deaf that only one word reached her: ‘Pneumonia.’ It was a word she knew, and she answered gently: ‘Ah! like Madame,’ thinking it natural that she should follow in her mistress’s footsteps.
The time to set up the altars of repose was drawing near.
The first altar was always at the foot of the hill, the second in front of the post office, and the third about half-way up the street. There was some argument as to the sitting of this one, and finally the women of the parish picked on Mme Aubain’s courtyard.
The fever and the tightness of the chest grew worse. Felicite fretted over not doing anything for the altar. If only she could have put something on it! Then she thought of the parrot. the neighbors protested that it would be unseemly, but the cure gave his permission, and this made her so happy that she begged him to accept Loulou, the only thing of value she possessed, when she died.
From Tuesday to Saturday, the eve of Corpus Christi, she coughed more and more frequently. In the evening her face looked pinched and drawn, her lips stuck to her gums, and she started vomiting. At dawn the next day, feeling very low, she sent for a priest.
Three good women stood by her while she was given extreme unction. Then she said that she had to speak to Fabu.
He arrived in his Sunday best, very ill at ease in this funereal atmosphere.
‘Forgive me,’ she said, making an effort to stretch out her arm. ‘I thought it was you who had killed him.’
What could she mean by such nonsense? To think that she had suspected a man like him of murder! He got very indignant and was obviously going to make a scene.
‘Can’t you see,’ they said, ‘that she isn’t in her right mind anymore?
From time to time Felicite would start talking to shadows. The women went away. Mere Simon had her lunch.
A little later she picked up Loulou and held him out to Felicite, saying:
‘Come now, say goodbye to him.’
Although the parrot was not a corpse, the worms were eating him up. One of his wings was broken, and the stuffing was coming out of his stomach. But she was blind by now, and she kissed him on the forehead and pressed him against her cheek. Mere Simon took him away from her to put him on the altar.

The scents of summer came up from the meadows; there was a buzzing of flies; the sun was glittering in the river and warming the slates of the roof. Mere Simon had come back into the room and was gently nodding off to sleep.
The noise of church bells woke her up; the congregation was coming out from vespers. Felicite’s delirium abated. Thinking of the procession, she could see it as clearly as if she had been following it.
All the school children, the choristers, and the firemen were walking along the pavements, while advancing up the middle of the street came to church officer armed with his halberd, the beadle carrying a great cross, the schoolmaster keeping an eye on the boys, and the nuns fussing over the little girls – three of the prettiest, looking like curly-headed angels, were throwing rose-petals into the air. Then came the deacon, with both arms outstretched, conducting the band, and a couple of censer-bearers who turned round at every step to face the Holy Sacrament, which the cure, wearing his splendid chasuble, was carrying under a canopy of poppy-red velvet held aloft by four churchwardens. A crowd of people surged along behind, between the white cloths covering the walls of the houses, and eventually they got to the bottom of the hill.
A cold sweat moistened Felicite’s temples. Mere Simon sponged it up with a cloth, telling herself that one day she would have to go the same way.
The hum of the crowd increased in volume, was very loud for a moment, then faded away.
A fusillade shook the windowpanes. It was the postilions saluting the monstrance. Felicite rolled her eyes and said as loud as she could: ‘Is he alright?’ – worrying about the parrot.
She entered into her death agony. Her breath, coming ever faster, with a rattling sound, made her sides heave. Bubbles of froth appeared at the corners of her mouth, and her whole body trembled.
Soon the booming of the ophicleides, the clear voices of the children, and the deep voices of the men could be heard near at hand. Now and then everything was quiet, and the tramping of feet, deadened by a carpet of flowers, sounded like a flock moving across pasture land.

by Naomi Henderson

I have recently, and for no apparent reason, become interested in aliens. I decided to start my investigation by reading Alien Agenda by Jim Marrs. Although the book is chock full of convincing research and real facts, it also relies heavily on circumstantial evidence. It is a book for open-minded people; those who think the world is far greater and more mysterious than we will ever understand. Many of the chapters go into explicit detail regarding government cover ups of alien activity. If this is your cup of tea, this book will give you plenty of evidence. The more intriguing chapters for me were those dealing with alien contact. Marrs starts the book by going back in history and explaining that UFOs are described in the Bible, most notably when “Ezekiel saw the wheel”, as well as in the myths of the Hindus. Christopher Columbus reported seeing strange lights in the ocean that rose out of the water and sped away across the sky. Marrs also investigates instances of alien contact, crop circles and unexplained animal mutilations. He writes about a psychic process developed by the military called Remote Viewing, describing how it was initially used to spy on the Soviets. This process involves psychic people being given a longitude and latitude and then “remotely viewing” what is located at that place. This process has enabled the viewers to see all types of alien activity, both in the confines of the US government as well as in space. They can even see the surface of other planets, which made for an interesting read. The descriptions of Jupiter and Venus are beautiful and fascinating. More importantly, what the viewers saw in the 1970’s was later corroborated by scientific data. Perhaps the most mind-blowing chapter of the book involved the moon, and how its rocks are 3 billion years older than any found on earth.  Most people think the moon was created at the same time as the earth, but the evidence suggests otherwise.  As opposed to the earth and all other planets, the surface is covered with a hard layer of molten rock, with a soft layer underneath. This suggests that at one time the moon was hollowed out, thus dumping the hard interior on top of the soft exterior. When astronauts left the moon, they dropped a large object onto it to gather seismic data. To their surprise, the moon rang for hours like a bell, denoting that it was hollow. This evidence as well as the strange facts about the orbit of the moon, suggest that it was hollowed out and used as a spacecraft. The aliens carefully brought it into our orbit, and many astronauts have reported seeing alien activity on the moon. Moreover, there are many mysterious structures on the moon that resemble bridges. They are composed of rectangular and obelisk shapes, which are not found in nature. These structures are enormous, measuring miles high and wide.

I would highly recommend this book to anyone interested in alien activity.  Marrs gives several reasons for the Aliens continual interest in humans, but I don’t want to ruin the surprise.  Keep an open mind, and this book might make you think differently about the Universe and our place in it. I am convinced now more than ever that aliens are real.


November 7, 2008

posted by Caroline Picard, transcribed from photocopy by Naomi Henderson and Lily Robert-Foley

Painfully Ironic

by Brad Spence

The sea, the land, the artist has with great sadness known they too will be no more.

– Bas Jan Ader

When Bas Jan Ader disappeared at sea in 1975, a relatively small number of works were left to account for his five year career as an artist.  This modest oeuvre—consisting of short films, photographs and slides—attests to an artistic perspective that was at once fragmentary and remarkably resolved.  In these documents, Ader staged momentary glimpses of a subjectivity threatened by failure and dissolution, a plight he repeatedly played out in the act of falling.

In his essay, “On the essence of laughter.”  French poet an early theorist of modern consciousness, Charles Baudelaire discusses the comedic convention of falling as an event producing a doubled sense of self:

“The man who trips would be the last to laugh at his own fall, unless he happens to be a philosopher, one who had acquired by habit a power of rapid self-division and thus of assisting as a disinterested spectator at the phenomena of his own ego.”

For Baudelaire, laughter is an ambivalent response to failure, marked by unconscious feelings of superiority.  He draws a distinction, however, between a commonplace amusement at the misfortunes of others and what he terms the “absolute comic,” a more sophisticated humor that recognizes the debased state of humankind at the hands of nature—a Fall of the theological order.  The subject who has tripped and is falling is losing the self-possession of consciousness- becoming an object among a universe of indifferent objects. To laugh while falling is not merely to imagine oneself from the position of another spectator, another subjective state, but to recognize the smug folly of any subjective state as it stands against the forces of nature.

In an early installation, Light Vulnerable Objects Threatened by Eight Cement Bricks, 1970, Ader strategically positioned on the gallery floor an assortment of everyday objects that included light bulbs, flowers, a birthday cake, eggs, and a painted portrait. these items lay defenseless beneath cement bricks that dangles from the ceiling by thin lines of rope. During the course of the exhibition, Ader severed the ropes with a utility knife and allowed the bricks to fall; thus unleashing the destructive potential of gravity upon objects, which seem to embody the frailty of human existence. Similarly, Nightfall, 1971, demonstrates the vulnerability of two tangles of glowing light bulbs. This short film presents Ader in his garage as he arduously hoists a large brick over his head, then allows it to fall, demolishing one pile of lights. Tension builds as he again lifts the brick, then suddenly lets it fall on the second group of lights, thereby extinguishing the illumination for the camera and bringing the film to an abrupt conclusion. As with many of Ader’s films, the action ends at the moment of impact- suggesting irrevocable consequences.

If these pieces employ objects as surrogate subjects, then Ader’s other falls dramatize a contrary movement, that is, the human subject becoming an object under the sway of natural forces. Most often it is Ader’s own slender frame that plummets earthward. It is this moment, Ader the artist losing self- possession and becoming a passive objects, that is reenacted in a series of locations and circumstances-an event whose reiteration suggests that it provides no resolution.

Ader made very few public statements about his work. An often cited quote, though reticent, gives some sense of the artist’s intentions:

I do not make body sculpture, body art or body works. When I fall off the roof of  my house, or into a canal, it was because gravity made itself master over me.

Here Ader challenges the body as the sole referent of his work that is the body as merely an aesthetized object. As a Dutch immigrant to Southern California in 1963, Ader was schooled in the dominant American movements of Minimalism and Conceptualism. this era represented a marked shift in art making toward the empirical and analytical in response to a culture that was experiencing a massive, rational reordering of the social. For the most part, the practitioners of Minimalism made the material factuality of the object and the body’s perceptive response the primary content of their work-such that most subjective concerns were excluded from discussion. Likewise, many Conceptual artists embraced a quasi-scientific approach in examining the relationship between consciousness and matter, literary tropes such as metaphor, allegory, irony and their corresponding narratives of the self, were largely ignored. Ader distanced himself from “body art”, perhaps because he saw the prevailing artistic practices deliberately omitting issues of subjectivity. He needed to draw a distinction between representations in which the body is an object denied interiority and his images of the body becoming an object by losing interiority.

Ader consistently stages a tension between the body, consciousness and natural forces. He does so, however, with an awareness of how the natural is perpetually invented by subjective systems of meaning. This is most evident in the work Untitled (The Elements), 1971. Originally planned as a film and a series of photographs, only a singel photograph was completed. The image finds Ader standing on a rocky coastline, dwarfed by the turbulent ocean at his back. He holds a cue card on which the word “fire” is handwritten (negatives from this session show “earth”, “air”, and “water in other cards). This work slyly mocks any system of belief that portends to circumscribe, within its linguistic categories, an immense disorderly universe. Similar concerns animate 473 Reader’s Digested, 1970, an early installation created in Ader’s garage. The artist constructed a compost heap of earth, grass and copies of the middle-class American journal Reader’s Digest. A version of the natural is being grown upon the linguistic sentiments of the popular imagination.

If these works are in keeping with a Conceptual practice that explored the mechanisms of representation in attempting to map the territory of the real, then Ader complicated this exploration with the addition of his own subjective presence. Ader adopted some of the formal conventions of this practice in which the art object is treated as a mere artifact. Nearly all of the artist’s work exists in several forms of documentation from which he made appropriate selections for exhibition. The deliberately staged quality of his recorded performances hints that Ader saw himself as an actor in a fictional production. For an artist like Chris Burden, the authenticity of the original event- for example, the artist shot in the arm-is maintained through a nearly scientific handling of artistic evidence. Ader, in contrast, frequently undermines the integrity of a particular performance by repeating it several times. The most striking example is the series I’m Too Sad to Tell You, a postcard, photographs and two films documenting the artist weeping. THis piece was staged on two occasions (1970, 1971), suggesting that the artistic concerns transcended the specifics of any single moment. Thus Ader makes the referent of his work not the art object or a specific temporal occurrence, but the fictions of “The Artist”. As inheritor of this heroic legacy, Ader became the vessel of romantic subjectivity that was fated, within the changes of an emerging late-capitalist culture, to disappearance.

In some of his earliest works, Ader’s concern with the artistic persona as a self-conscious fiction is clearly pronounced. A black and white photograph titled The Artist as Consumer of Extreme Comfort, circa 1968, presents Ader reclining by a fire, sipping wine, with a book on his lap and a relaxed, pensive expression on his face. Another work, which was used as a poster for his 1967 MFA thesis exhibition, The Artist Contemplating the Forces of Nature, shows Ader sitting in a wicker chair atop the roof of his house, smugly smoking a cigar. Three years later, from this same vantage point, he would begin the action for Fall l, Los Angeles, 1970, in which he tumbles down and off the roof. Ader cast himself as “The Artist”, however it is a role with such grandiose expectations, that the individual must fall perilously short.

In contrast to his later work, his early pieces offer parodic visual representations of subjective composure. The Artist in the act of “contemplating” stands in marked contrast to the embodied artist in a dangerous descent. However, both represent violence to a coherent sense of identity. By adopting the persona of The Artist, Ader must produce a self within the dominant fictions of that role, and as such an inauthentic double. This false addition is to some degree a willing loss of “actual self”, paralleling the threat to subjective integrity dramatized in the falls. This twofold movement of self-invention/self-destruction is a consistent pattern in Ader’s work. An entry from Ader’s notebook illustrates his degree of self-awareness in this process.

Write an articles regarding van Gogh’s genius and pre-eminence as modernist  through the price of the cutting off of an ear (public always recognised implicitly  his real achievement as an artist was this act).

Ader’s direct inheritance of the European tradition of romantic irony (pace Baudelaire) allowed him to explore a set of concerns somewhat distinct from his American counterparts. In this literary tradition, the subject is isolated within the territory of its own unhappy consciousness. Excessive self-reflection produces the perspective that all knowledge can only be registered within the unobjective limitations of subjectivity. Thus a sort of death-in-life prevails in which any version of the self is viewed as arbitrary and inauthentic. Irony offers a provisional respite from the melancholy circularity. The self produces a double that is decidedly fictional and therefore distanced from desire for authenticity. However, this ironic stance provides no resolution. It must remain vigilantly self –conscious or else lapse into lesser stages of falseness.

This brand of irony, though forged in anguish and dissatisfaction, occasionally produces a comic effect. In a series of works directly addressing modern Dutch master Piet Mondrian, Ader’s performances approach slapstick. Staged in his native Netherlands, Ader filmed and photographed a brick road leading to the lighthouse in Westkapelle, a frequent subject of Mondrian’s early paintings. In one photograph Pitfall on the Way to a Ne0-Plasticism, Westkapelle, Holland, 1971, Ader, dressed entirely in black, is seen losing his footing an spilling the items that he is carrying; a plastic yellow paint can, a blue blanket and a red satchel. Mondrian’s ideals of harmony and order are deliberately botched in the hands of Ader who, in an effort to turn himself into the inert composition of a painting, has instead become a debased falling object.
In a discussion of Beaudelaire, Georges Bataille describes poetry as the failed relationship of the subject to the world. For Bataille, the poetic process is based on an endlessly futile attempt at subject/object unification-his words, a desire for “the impossible”. As one of the central themes of romantic thought, the subject, through concrete observation, approaches a harmonious relationship with nature and self. However, this transformation always takes place at the level of language which substitutes and annihilates the natural object. The flux and fluidity of existence is unbearable as such, and the poetic subject wishes t transfix an externalize consciousness to the immutable status of an object.

Like Beaudelaire, Ader tempered this melancholy desire for the impossible with an ironic consideration of the means of representation. In the works titled I’m Too Sad to Tell You, Ader pushes the disparity between an unhappy consciousness and its representation to a dramatic climax. In the first version of this film (1970, no longer extant) Ader’s upper torso and face are tightly framed by the camera. He drinks froma cup of tea, produces a genuinely grieved expression and cries. A photograph from this session was reproduced in the form of a postcard. A handwritten note. “I’m too sad to tell you,” was added to the reverse side and copies were mailed to friends and colleagues in the art world. The title directly states what cannot be stated, that is, his experience of despair is simply beyond words. In questioning the suitability of language to consciousness, Ader also calls into attention the body’s signs. Tears, as the body’s ultimate expression of grief, are perhaps as reductively uncommunicative as words.

Ader’s choice of format is telling. In his inability to give an appropriate voice to his heartache, he instead produces a souvenir of that experience. The mass-produced form of the postcard is congruent with an artistic self that is mired in the failures of its own fictional status. This turn toward kitsch also speaks to the loss of a sense of authenticity to the pervasive sentimentality of American culture. Ader’s use of popular imagery, e.g. the fifties song Searchin’ by the Coasters and selections from Reader’s Digest, though sparing compared to the Pop artists, is a subtle acknowledgment of the effacement of certain subjectivities in a culture governed by commodities and the mass media. It seemed to be Ader’s futile desire to represent genuine emotions within the empty tropes of melodrama.

For Ader, a Dutch artist living in Los Angeles, the possibility of the European romantic tradition with its focus on the individual was perhaps threatening to dissolve within the horizon of a new culture. Southern California as a territory of technological utility and order-producing subjectivity thoroughly in concert with the mobility of images and goods- was increasingly antithetical to aspects of the European literary heritage. In Farewell to Faraway Friends, 1971, Ader’s figure stands watching a fiery sunset against the sea. This image of loss echoes equally the romantic landscapes of Caspar David Friedrich and the kitsch scenic shots featured on insurance calendars. When Ader evoked the characteristic melancholy and nostalgia of the romantic tradition, it is likely that he was in part mournful for the tradition itself and that he saw himself as a witness to its disappearance.

Present in his final work, In Search of the Miraculous, 1975, are Ader’s enduring concerns as to the self’s fictions and failures. Perhaps the desire to transcend such self-negating ironies reached an intolerable level. In its conception, a solo voyage across the Atlantic Ocean would be so consuming in its demands and duration that all unresolved issues of identity could be subsumed. The artist could finally become an object at the play and mercy of nature’s forces-in extended freefall on the ocean’s currents.

In Search of the Miraculous was intended to be a trilogy. The first part took place at the Claire Copley Gallery in Los Angeles-where a small choir with piano accompaniment crooned a series of mournful sea shanties. A bulletin by Art $ Project (no. 89. 1975) published in conjunction with the exhibition featured lyrics and an image of Ader aboard hi 12 foot, 6 inch sailboat that he christened “Ocean Wave”. The second part of the trilogy was to be Ader’s voyage from Cape Cod, Massachusetts to Falmouth, England, which he expected to take 67 days. The third and final part, an exhibition at the Groninger Museum in Holland, would duplicate the show at the Claire Copley Gallery and feature documentation from his journey. Ader set sail on July 9, 1975, on a voyage that, at the time, had yet to be accomplished in such a small craft. Radio contact was lost after three weeks and there were no further signs of Ader until the empty hull of his boat was discovered off the coast of Ireland the following April.

For Ader, the sea’s calling promised the Miraculous. As a surface of romantic projection, the sea is a grand symbol in the fictions of western culture. In Coleridge’s canonical romantic poem “The Rime of the Ancinet Mariner,” it is the agonizing, isolated duration spent adrift on the ocean that allows the mariner a unification with nature an self. However, the vastness of the sea mocks any human effort to turn it into a sign. Its border, like death, places an exterior limit to imprisoning fictions of culture. A ballad sung by Ader’s choir tells, “Like an eagle caged, I pine on this dull unchanging shore.”

Perhaps the Miraculous event was the abandoning of self in all its fictions to the demands of the voyage-a relief from the spiral of ironic descent, a forced congruence of body and consciousness, a movement homeward. It was Ader’s misfortune and ours that his search for the impossible took place on the perilous edge of self -dissolution.