It Makes No Sense
Thoughts on this ‘n’ that…
I didn’t get The Gates at first, but I wanted to, I did. Then came the announcement that they’ll only be up for 16 days. And it clicked in.
It’s not so much straight art, it’s a moment in time, a finite “thing” to be experienced before it’s gone. In that respect, it’s like joy itself: surprising, revelatory, transporting, and then gone. What does art do, if not take the power of emotions, bottle them up, present them with beauty and unleash them back on the world? The form may take some getting used to (okay, they are the color of parking cones), but in their way Christo and Jeanne-Claude have made a piece of true art.
What do they mean? As Jeanne-Claude said, “Nothing. They just are.” In other words, they don’t have to make sense.
Joy rarely does.
The Anti-Gates
"Chuckles" Peyser
As a review, it’s a complete failure, because halfway through it you forget what she’s writing about and only focus on what kind of person could write something so dark, gloomy, scolding, negative, off-putting, unenthusiastic, downbeat and depressing.
Life with this Debbie Downer must be just a non-stop yukkfest. Can you imagine?
“Honey, what do you want for dinner?”
“Aww, who cares? It’s just gonna suck anyway. I’ve never really had food that I’ve enjoyed. Of course, I’ve never really enjoyed anything, so what the hell.”
“We’ve got pasta.”
“Oh, puh-leese! It’s friggin’ macaroni! In Queens, we called it macaroni, and that’s what it is! Save your postmodern, yuppie, pretentious, revisionist, too-good-for-the-bougeois rephrasing for your steel-and-glass cased Manhattan-venued office.”
“We’ve also got crabcakes.”
I mean, I’ve met nuns who look like Shecky Greene next to this lady.
My daughter’s a big Harry Potter fan, and her some of her favorite characters are the Dementors… horrific creatures who can make you feel like you’ll never be cheerful again, and whose kiss can suck out your soul. I can’t imagine I’d have much soul left if ol’ Andrea planted one on me. (“It’s just a kiss, for crissakes! It doesn’t matter, nobody kisses the way they used to anymore, now it’s all slobber and tongue. Fireworks? Puh-lese.”)
I’ve heard a lot of critiques of The Gates, some love it, some object to the obstruction of the landscape, but most get it. Some don’t get it. But some don’t want to get it because confronts them with what they don’t understand and aren’t willing to learn.
Sense and the City
You’ll see a Jets Stadium at 34th and 11th just before you see a Second Avenue Subway and just after you see all those new shiny buildings downtown.
In other words, never.
Now, I think the Jets Stadium makes no sense (you got $3 million for a stadium and more millions for the Olympics but my daughter’s teacher has to take a summer job? Puh-lese!). But it is sad that it’s become so difficult to do good, big projects in New York. It’s how a city grows, how it expands, becomes stronger. But lately it seems that if we’re either wasting money on some boondoggle that you can’t even tailgate at or nickel-and-diming to death something we need (like another subway on the East Side).
It makes no sense.
Life is bad, life is good...
My daughter drew a picture of all the things she loved: acting, art, dancing, the Yankees, her school. A unique combination different from every other person on the earth.
It’s amazing the footprint a child leaves in the world after such a short time. A cubby in a classroom full of art. History reports and math worksheets tacked to the wall. A stack of photographs of her with friends. Videos of performances in plays. Reminders that none of us, even the lonely, live in a vacuum. And that every life really is a miracle.
It’s been said that there are two kinds of people in this world, those without kids and those with kids. I’m not sure that’s totally true, but I do know that I didn’t realize how profound and unspeakable love could be until I felt the love I have for my daughter. And to have to look straight at the unspeakable horror, the ultimate nightmare, of having that love broken has left me frightened and sad and a little angry. Angry at the fates, angry at the sheer nonsensical nature of this life.
And a little angry that now my daughter and her friends have to learn that life makes no sense.
Contrast that with my father, 67 years young, who this week was declared cancer free. Ten weeks of treatment and the esophageal cancer is gone. Cured. Passed like a bad cold (granted, with a much tougher therapy). He gets to experience that sublime moment of “I’m not gonna die, I’m gonna live!” He called me to tell me that very message. The tone of his voice forced me to picture my ex-court officer father, -- 6 foot 200 pounds (maybe less now) of pink Irish rock – skipping down the street like Woody Allen in Hannah and Her Sisters after the doctor has told him he’s not going to die.
See the resemblence?
Life is good, life is bad, but either way, life makes no frigging sense.
