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Tuesday, February 25, 2014
On January 8th of the year, the architect Madeline Gins died, her husband and architectural partner Arakawa having died four years earlier in 2010.
Madeline had been a long-time acquaintance and, over the years, had sent me a couple of their theoretical books on architecture for possible publication by Green Integer and Sun & Moon Press. As I noted in My Year 2004: Under Our Skin, moreover, I joined them after a reading by Charles Bernstein and Kathleen Fraser at a French restaurant where they discussed some of their architectural ideas, in this case a project “in which rooms contain within them the history of the past and are named after body parts: the ear, the nose, the liver, etc.” Even today, I cannot comprehend exactly what these rooms might have looked like or what effect having them named by body parts might have on the occupants. But then I could never quite understand their complex notions ideas architecture and its effect on human life.
I could well grasp that buildings wherein “Each apartment features a dining room with a grainy, surfaced floor….[and wherein] electric switches are in unexpected places on the walls so you have to feel around for the right one…[and] a glass door to the veranda is so small you have to bend to crawl out” might help residents, as they put it, “to sharpen themselves neurologically and derive corresponding physical and mental benefits.” If nothing else, living in one of their constructions might be akin to living in a funhouse—perhaps a fun place be, but also rather frightening and spooky.
Gins and Arakawa, however, took these ideas even further. Arakawa, a protégé of Marcel Duchamp, apparently thought that the Dadaist and Surrealist aesthetics did not only sharpen and heighten the awareness of the human mind, but could remake the human body in which it existed, allowing one to live forever. As The New York Times described it, the couple felt that “Eluding death through design could be accomplished….through a literal architecture of instability—a built environment” wherein “no surface is level, no corner true, no line plumb.”
Working with their Reversible Destiny Foundation, they created such architectural projects in New York, Japan, and elsewhere, arguing in books and essays for “Making Dying Illegal” through architecture.
Quite obviously, their ideal was not only illusive but almost manic, playing out a kind of horrifying—at least to my way of thinking—fear and fascination with death. While on might certainly admire their holistic way of looking at the arts, one also has to admit that theirs was an architecture of delusion. Arakawa died of unspecified disease at the age of 73, Gins of cancer at age 72, ages younger than the median life expectancy for most men and women in developed countries around the world. They were dreamers whom we shall surely miss.
February 25, 2014
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
what we miss
Often, unfortunately too often, when you make friends you may not truly get to know their companions, wives and husbands. Your attention on the devoted friend makes you somewhat oblivious of the “other.” Certainly that “other” may always be there, but even if you attempt to communicate, they sometimes remain in the background, the way Alice B. Toklas must almost always have been perceived in relationship to Gertrude Stein, or Nora Joyce must have appeared to most who visited her husband. I try very hard not to relate that way with my author’s or my friend’s companions, but it sometimes unintentionally happens.
When my dear friend Deborah Meadows married her long-time lover—the word which with she preferred to describe him—Howard, my spouse Howard and I attended a party at their home where I suddenly discovered that he was not, as I had misperceived, someone involved in the film industry, but was a remarkable scientific innovator who had created experimental imagining tools for medical devices. When I talked to his friends at the party and discovered his skills, I felt embarrassed for not knowing this about him.
I, myself, have been misperceived, at many an art event, as simply Howard’s lover, an individual akin to a gay hairdresser—a career which might have given me much more financial security—or some other ancillary person. That I was a poet, a publisher, a somewhat significant commentator on culture never crossed some of these wealthy art collectors’ minds. We all have blind spots wherein we cannot completely perceive the “other” of our friends’ choices of companions. But it frustrated me at the time.
Miriam Olson, my author friend Toby Olson’s wife, was never perceived from that perspective. I knew she was an important figure in the world of social workers. And I knew also something about her background, that she had taught at the Yale Psychiatric Institute and Colombia University and teaching at Fordham, before joining the faculty at Temple. But I rarely, in all the long years I knew and visited the two of them—sometimes nightly—truly asked her about what she was doing. Miriam was a force, a radiant, loving spirit, with an absolutely lilting laugh, who simply invited me into their home when she and Toby might have, just as easily—and perhaps should have—sent me back to my own apartment, just a few blocks away from their Philadelphia townhouse. Yet, week after week, they invited me in to share dinner with them, never complaining, Miriam delighted to cook a meal, after a long day at work in the university, as if I was a member of their family.
It pains me today that, although I always loved Miriam, I seldom asked about her days of teaching or what she was currently working on. While Toby and I groused about the politics of the university English Department, I seldom heard Miriam complain once about her position in the Temple University Department of Social Administration, in which I knew she was a central figure.
I loved Toby as a writer and friend, and I simply (as if such things are ever truly simple) felt at home in their place, intensively talking with him about literature, university politics, and….just life, while Miriam cooked up delicious meals, and their elderly cat, deaf and unable to even climb into our laps, wandered about the place. I loved that poor cat, picking it up and placing it into petting range. One evening, Toby, author David Bradley, and I, smoking marijuana, got high—or at least I did for one of the few times in my life, much to David’s, Toby’s and Miriam’s amusement.
Mostly, Toby, Miriam and I talked about films, about the then popular PBS television series, a literary recounting of Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisted (a work I now abhor), and other events of the day. I now realize, with somewhat cringing embarrassment, I must have been a terrible intrusion upon their lives; but I was never made to feel that, and Miriam’s laughter and loving personality made me always feel I was more than welcome.
As I’ve written elsewhere in this My Year volumes, I visited them, as well, in their summer home at North Truro, on Cape Cod. Miriam was even more wonderful in what she describes as “camp Olson,” where Toby took me—a clumsy non-athletic creature—on hiking, biking, and other treks. I fell off a cliff. I shared his efforts at gathering clams and mussels by sinking into the bay. But I survived, ridiculously rising each time to declare “I’m okay.” Although Toby and I scrubbed and cleaned those mussels—a seemingly endless task—it was Miriam who infused them with wine and spices to create one of the most memorable meals of my life, which we shared with Charles and Susan Bernstein, who summered also on the Cape.
Miriam was a magnificent presence who, I am afraid to say, I took for granted, never quite assimilating the glorious light which she always projected. If I was not always ignorant of that human lighthouse, I was stupid; I was blind. She was too much like a mother to me—perhaps even to Toby!
Now hearing of her death, after years of her disabling falls, followed by Alzheimer’s Disease, I can only wish her back into conversation, to talk to her about her personal concerns, her focuses on the health of women in this country.
In her 1994 collection of essays on women’s health, Women’s Health and Social Work: Feminist Perspectives, Miriam was quite positive, seeing the time as a “period of renewed optimism” if guarded, by the new developments supported by the Clinton administration, and the growing interest in the concerns of the health of women, involving everything from general health care to rape, incest, and other abuses against what she describes as “the other.”
Citing changes going back to the 1960s, she argued that issues of women’s health, including those of older women, were improving. The rates in infant mortality and morbidity had improved, but not always for Black women or others of those living in poverty, “inadequate nourishment, sub-standard living conditions, including addiction,” issues that could be prevented. Quoting from Simone de Beauvoir, Olson makes it clear that women have long been perceived as second class citizens, treated through male-centered experiments, and often ignored as a gender unto themselves. Yet, Olson argues, it is not useful to simply understand these concepts as an issue only related to gender, a male/female divide, and that women need to learn from a broader perspective, that “social workers often failed to recognize their own involvement in actions based on problematic gender constructions or to speak on the inequality of women’s health that renders women’s health care less adequate.” Olson, at end, argues for great advocacy among social workers, in short, an active rather than passive involvement with the social role in which they were involved. It was that active role that she played in life that, I might argue, defined her being.
One might wonder how she would have responded to the increasing attacks from the right on issues regarding women’s health and rights, including the right’s increasing attacks on abortion, definitions of rape, and other women’s health issues. Just two days ago, former Republican candidate for president, Mike Huckabee, vociferously complained that Democrats were working against women by suggesting that they could not control their “libidos” and sexual activities. I think Miriam, who in her last few days had not been not able to swallow or even drink, might have stood up and screamed had she been able.
But then, Miriam, always the lovely conciliator, might simply have set him straight: women “in our society are able to do anything, but we do need fair laws to protect us and our health.”
And she might have laughed, as she did so wonderfully, amused by the world in which she was entrapped.
I wish I had might have been able to show my appreciation to this woman when I weekly encountered her. I did know, I now realize, but took her gifts for granted. I so sorely miss them.
Los Angeles, January 25, 2014.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Already this year, I have witnessed the death of several close and less intimate acquaintances. But hearing of the death of Joan Mondale today saddened me most. Although I didn’t know her intimately, we certainly knew each other well enough to literally embrace.
I also met her in relationship to my publishing activities. She was a presence whom you just couldn’t resist. A handsome woman with a wide smile, she made you immediately feel that you were a dear friend. Indeed both her and her husband, Walter, were the kind of political figures who seemed to remember the faces of everyone they had ever met, immediately recalling their names.
The Mondales, in a remarkable embracement of the visual arts, invited a great many of the most noted American artists to the Vice President’s residency at the US Naval Observatory in June of 1976 for a gala dinner. Howard was among the invitees, asking, when responding to his invitation, whether he might also be able to attend with me. “No problem,” came the answer.
I’ll never forget the evening, as the Vice President entered, personally greeting every individual in the room in a manner which seemed to me totally authentic. At my table, if I remember correctly, we were seated next to Max Kozloff—art critic and photographer who served as a critic for The Nation and had just become the executive director of Artforum magazine—and his artist wife, Joyce Blumberg Kozloff. I don’t recall our other tablemates.
A few years later, when Walter was running for president, he and Joan invited me over to their home, where I remember chatting with them about their daughter Eleanor’s budding acting career (sadly, she died of brain cancer in 2011) as well as politics. Mondale was personable and friendly up close, while on television during that campaign, he often looked wooden and distant. I could never quite square the two different aspects of him.
Several years later, after they had returned to Minneapolis, we ran into Joan again at a Los Angeles art party, whereupon she immediately came up to us, saying “Well as I live and die, it’s Howard Fox and Douglas Messerli.” Visiting Minneapolis sometime after, I ran into them on the street, where they smilingly waved before getting in their car and speeding off, the last time I saw them.
Los Angeles, February 3, 2014