Matthew Simmons
Matthew Simmons lives in Seattle.
Matthew Simmons lives in Seattle.
This morning, I heard a story on NPR about the wildfires in Russia.
Among the stories of the tragic loss of life and home was one about a woman in a small village who attempted to save her house from the flames by standing out front holding up a Russian Orthodox religious icon. One could react to this in a number of ways. This could be an opportunity to deride religious faith or a point in the “God is dead or never was” column. This could be seen as a cautionary tale about the right and wrong kind of fire extinguisher a person should have on hand in their home. Or this could be, for artists, a time to offer an apology.
To the extent that I might or might not be an “artist,” and bearing in mind the fact that, even if I could be considered an “artist,” the community of artists is likely never going to vote me in as their spokesman, I would still like to apologize to this Russian woman for the failure of the religious icon to stop the fire from consuming her house.
I realize that when holding up the icon against the fire, the woman was thinking of it as a lens through which to focus her religious faith, and hoped that through her faith her home would be spared. It was a religious icon being held up to beat back the fire, not, say, a de Kooning print or a copy of Joshua Cohen’s new novel Witz*. But religious proxy or not, it was still a piece of art, and it still failed to save her house.
Frankly, artists should be thanking this woman. She has a—probably misplaced—faith in art**. A faith most artists certainly don’t have***. She tried to hold back the destruction of her home with art and art failed her.
And when art fails, it is because the artist failed.
Go ahead and complain that the woman did not use art as directed. Try to find some clever loophole to absolve yourself of the guilt. Deep down, though, we know what we did. Or what we failed to do, anyway. Shame on us.
Russian lady: we’re sorry****.
* Have you readers heard anything about this book? Anywhere?
** And—possibly misplaced—faith in God. But who am I to judge?
*** Cynical, cynical bunch.
**** And those of us who aren’t should be.
All four issues of Daniel Raeburn’s The Imp are available to download for free at his website. Raeburn was doing some serious, and seriously impressive, study of comics before most of us thought such a thing was possible. (Thanks to Paul for the link.)
A couple of my favorite podcasts have had some pretty amazing episodes lately. Go download them if you are so inclined.
So, I loved William Burroughs in high school and the first couple of years of college. I tired of him in my later college years and after for quite a while. And now, I find myself turning back to him again, rediscovering an appreciation for his work. Does Burroughs come in and go out like a tide for the rest of you as well?
(I had a friend who bartended at a place in Lawrence that was, people said, owned by Burroughs’s lawyer, and he used to give me free drinks all the time. This, in some sideways way also makes me think of Burroughs fondly, though he was in no way responsible for me getting free drinks.)
2. Marc Maron—who I, and other people named Matt(y), like quite a bit and have written about in the past—had a really fascinating discussion with a comedian named Moshe Kasher on a recent episode.
The whole question of subculture and identity became the core of the discussion. Kasher is the son of Hasidic Jews who were also both deaf. Both he and Marc are sober, as well. Jewish culture, and a Jewish kid who idolizes Oakland’s gangsta rap (Spice One, Too Short) culture. Deaf culture. The culture of sobriety and therapy. Stand up culture. Really interesting stuff.
Moshe talking about people who use the phrase “there’s really no translation for it in English,” an absurd claim that was always been a pet peeve of mine, as well:
Thank you, Moshe. Thank you, Marc. Thank you, Don.
Sorry to be picking on my hometown blog commenters here, but seriously, does no one understand meter?
I mean, I know I’m just a fiction writer and all, but I at least sort of get it. I think. Maybe I shouldn’t let this get to me, but we’re only talking about a couple of syllables here. And it’s not like the limerick is a sestina or something. It’s really not that complicated.
There once was a man with a stein,
Who thought Coors Light was just fine,
‘Till his friend said “fuck it,
just drink out of the Honey Bucket
you’ll think that shit is wine.”
Posted by Skip on August 25, 2010 at 11:29 am
I have a new minibook. You can order a copy now. If you want.
There’s some black metal in it. And three short stories.
UPDATE: Can I just point out how awesome my name looks as a black metal band logo?
Monday night, I did a reading to promote Dzanc’s Best of the Web 2010 collection. It was nice. Dave Rowley and Christine Hartzler read, too. It was sunny out, so not a lot of people were out to see the reading. That’s okay.
I read CAVES. Or, well, most of CAVES. See, something happened.
I was reading CAVES, and figured I had enough time to read the whole thing. And had intended to read the whole thing.
But then, I stopped. At section 16, I stopped reading and paused. READ MORE >
Let us now acknowledge the passing of Ralph Records, home of The Residents who, in secret, have been the greatest band on the planet(tm).
Someone break out the Duck Stab. And the Eskimo. And Songs for Swinging Larvae. And Amerikka Stands Tall. And some Snakefinger. Scour the rekkid stores. BUY OR DIE!
In the ever-evolving effort to figure out how to use internet video to sell books, Matthew Sharpe has hit on this idea: introduce themes from the book in six silly, strange, short little videos in which the author plays a video artist named Marc Sharf.
Personally, I like them—I like the absurdist energy and the seemingly unnecessary play with identity. (Sharpe’s books are funny, but darkly funny. The character may be a way to break from that.)
So, what do you think? Is this a step in the right direction? Will these videos help sell books? (I was already on board, and my copy of You Were Wrong is on my nightstand.) Did he get you? Did he lose you?
(Weird that this post appears after a Jonathan Franzen post, eh? Franzen was a champion of Sharpe’s novel The Sleeping Father.