ISN’T IT FANTASTIC

I was horrified when I found out that Kenneth Branagh is directing a live-action version of Cinderella for Disney. He seems far too classy to retell this politically retrograde fable. In a recent interview he explained, gorgeously and somewhat convincingly, “It’s a story with which we all identify. Somehow, the idea of, when life is tough, having things work out, sometimes with a bit of magic … for certain kinds of moments it’s a marvelous thing." For "magic” why don’t we substitute fantasy, or voodoo, or wishful thinking, or pornography? At the heart of the Cinderella story lies a notion that’s a little bit troubling, that a romantic partner will come along and solve all of our problems for us. It’s a fantasy that doesn’t play out too frequently, and, for many, remains persistent.

Then last month I attended an event with Bad Feminist author Roxane Gay. In addition to being an accomplished academic and novelist, she’s a fearsome television critic and live tweeter. She spoke, enthusiastically, about how much she loved shows like Scandal, The Good Wife, and SVU. When asked why she explained, “Without fantasy, we don’t have a lot of hope." She pointed gleefully to some of the more far-fetched elements in Scandal, including the way Kerry Washington’s character works as a political fixer while sleeping with the married president, and can wear a white cape and drink red wine.

If fantasy is necessary for the long slog through adult life, the content of the fantasy we allow ourselves to fall into matters too. A successful professional woman leading a stylish and sexually satisfying life is one fantasy. A young woman waiting to being rescued from poverty and drudgery by a prince is another. Fantasy might be a deeply human need, but it can also mask genuine desire and conflict, and cloud crucial life decisions. There’s truth in what Branagh and Gay say about it, and there’s truth in what Yeats says too. [Here I’m thinking specifically of this poem: Meditations in Time of CIvil War.]

October 13, 2014 by Nalina Moses

BOOM WITHOUT THE BOX

Stumbling from the subway station to the office on Friday morning, in an end-of-the-week haze, I was overtaken by a young man playing a lusciously-textured slow-moving rap song out loud on his black Beats Pill XL portable speaker. The music hit me when he passed, a big warm cloud of sound. The Pill is a simple, sleek baton-like device that broadcasts audio from a remote player. Though it’s been branded “XL” it’s small, about the size of an evening bag, and could be tucked easily under the arm or in a tote bag. This man carried his from its handle, swinging it back and forth as he made his way breezily, otherwise unburdened, up Broadway. He was dressed smartly, in Levi’s straight legs with deep cuffs, a plain black t-shirt, a White Sox cap, and black high tops with a thick white sole. Brandishing the Pill, he was an image of supreme cool.

This encounter me took me back decades, to a time when young men in the city carried suitcase-sized boomboxes, with shining silver knobs and multiple cassette decks, that required six or more D-sized batteries to operate. Today the fashion is to listen to music on small devices like iPhones, through headphones with cushioned earpads the size of hamburger buns, retreating deeply into an inner world. Broadcasting one’s music in public has become outrageous, an act of transgression and aggression. The young man I saw was asserting his taste, his identity and his turf, and also sharing his tunes – something of himself – with the city. It would be tiresome, certainly, if everyone on the sidewalk played his music out loud. But that morning it made for magnificent street theater.

Image courtesy of Beats Audio.

October 06, 2014 by Nalina Moses

PLAID PASSIONS

After last month’s independence referendum in Scotland, I’ve got tartan on my head. These plaids, woven and worn for centuries, originated to distinguish Scotland’s clans (i.e. families) from one another. Some standard ones date back to the seventeenth century. Now their specifications, old and new, are officially administered by The Scottish Register of Tartans, established in 2009. I wonder if Scottish identity is essentially clannish, and, if so, what happens if Scotland becomes nationalized? Will there be a need for a universal tartan, a federal tartan?

This little dress by McQ, that’s been photographed, flatteringly, on a number of non-Scottish celebrities, points one way. It mixes Rupert and Paddington tartans in a manner that’s simple, stylish, and politically progressive. It’s a classic sheath with a scoop neck and straight hem, complicated with a syntactical riddle. Its skirt is draped conventionally, with the grain of the fabric running orthogonally. But its top is draped on the bias, running at a 45 degree angle in front, falling along the left side like a shawl, and then resolving itself in a different, more acute angle at the back neck. I’ve studied pictures of the dress from all angles and still don’t understand how the side seams in the bodice work, and where the back zipper is hidden. The two plaids don’t match in color or tone, but the dress makes a harmonious whole. They are boldly scaled, but don’t seem tritely Scottish. Can happily mismatched tartans be the uniform for a modern, independent Scotland?

McQ by Alexander McQueen, Tartan Drape Top Dress (Rupert tartan draped top dress with Paddington tartan mini skirt, with zip closure at the back), Pre-Autumn/Winter 2014.

October 04, 2014 by Nalina Moses

ANALOG DAYS

The Nam Jun Paik retrospective at the Asia Society, Becoming Robot, is a bright blast of 80’s nostalgia. The video and robotics technologies that were available to the artist then, when he completed his best known works, are now obsolete. The CRT monitors he incorporated in so many installations and performances – his trademark – are deeper than they are wide, and even the smallest ones require remote adapters and transformers, and bundles of cables to tie them together. The technologies are mechanical rather than digital, and imposing physically as well as conceptually. There’s a wonderful photograph of Paik from 1990 in one of the galleries that shows him sprawled, ecstatically, on a studio floor, surrounded by a mess of televisions, cords and plugs. These elements give his work, when seen today, a sweet low-fi, high-tech, Radio Shack kind of aesthetic.

Paik’s videos also have distinct 80’s stylings. The resolution is grainy and the lighting is clouded. Colors are acid-tinged, as if we’re watching through an infrared lamp. Shots dissolve into one another slowly and are held for uncomfortably long stretches of time, as if they were edited by stoners. These videos remind me of very early programming on MTV and Nightflight. And they remind me of amateur Super 8 footage, with shots slipping in and out of focus, frames drifting unintentionally downwards, and everything hovering slightly off-center.

Despite these formal limits, Paik’s videos are jarring and often deeply funny. One shows him dressed in a tuxedo playing a piano, while a naked cohort, Charlotte Moorman, sits on top of it and keeps time by tapping his head with her foot. Another shows him crashing a five-foot high robot – a delicate jumble of metal angles and wire – with a white sports car on Madison Avenue. Today just about every smartphone is equipped with software to record, edit and distribute high-quality video. We’re inundated with clips, but rarely find ones that surprise or move us. The technology has moved forward, but for what?

Robot K-456, 1964. Twenty-channel radio-controlled robot, aluminum profiles, wire, wood, electrical divide, foam material, and control-turn out. 72 x 40 x 28 in. (183 x 103 x 72 cm). Friedrich Christian Flick Collection im Hamburger Bahnof, PAIKN1792.01. Photo: Courtesy of Nam Jun Paik Estate.

September 27, 2014 by Nalina Moses