Domenica Press:October 2013 Muse-letter

Back in the day there was the Iron Curtain; a boundary that essentially divided Europe in two. One side under the oppressive control of the Soviet Union… the other side not, and therefore free. As much a physical boundary, it represented a battle of ideologies: Communism vs. Democracy…“Our way of life” vs. theirs… “Better dead than Red!” It was called the Cold War.

Once in a melt-down moment at the U.N., he supposedly banged his shoe on the table in protest, though that has never been verified. But what is fact, is that his son Sergei Khrushchev has been a U.S. citizen since 1999, and a professor at Brown University. Perhaps causing dad, to take a few spins in his grave. That would be akin to Nixon’s daughters become Soviet citizens.

Back in the day, because of the threat of the “Russkies,” we would conduct drills in our schools about what to do in the event of a nuclear attack. Which essentially came down to diving under a desk. (Little did anyone realize, that one day the real threat to our kids at school would be American psychopaths armed with semi-automatic weapons.)

In time of course, we would win the Cold War even beating the point spread. (“Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”). But that was then and this is now.

Last month, it was Russian President Vladimir Putin, taking the moral high ground in agreeing to have talks with the U.S. aimed at getting a U.N. resolution to rid Syria—its closest Middle Eastern ally— of its chemical weapons. (Though he disagreed about which side in that civil war was using them).

This occurred as we were preparing for “limited” warfare, apparently with or without congressional approval and with or without the sanction of the international community at large. This was voiced in no uncertain hawkish terms by Secretary of State John Kerry… in a previous life, a dove.

It remains to be seen how all this plays out, but did one ever imagine a day when the erstwhile “Evil Empire” would be the one “tsk tsking” us, on our warlike aggression? On the op-ed page in The New York Times?

Then going on to make some points echoing the very concerns of a war weary American public?

Whatever Putin’s agenda and gamesmanship, we the people agreed with him by landslide margins according to the polls, in our disapproval of proposed airstrikes against Syria.

Fair enough. Ah, but he went too far when in a more general philosophical rumination, he took exception to our calling ourselves exceptional.

Dangerous? For daring to be great? We the proud country of the Nike “Swoosh”? How dare that duplicitous Muscovite! We’ve seen his kind before.

And finally, I remember as a kid that at the end of mass, we used to say prayers for the conversion of Russia. Guess it worked.

Needless to say, the response to all of this was intense in some quarters. Senator John McCain asked for equal time to bring his case to the Russian people, which Pravda.ru readily granted. And his response was basically one of “so’s your old man!”

In his blistering attack on Putin, one was reminded of the Cold War heat. But this is not your father’s iron curtain. Rather, as has been demonstrated throughout the years “us” vis-à-vis “them,” and in most socio-political matters in general for that matter, a new curtain has been woven. One of irony.

I don’t know. I don’t even know how to figure out my cable bill. But I do know that what Putin brought to the table, was at the very least, time. Time to exhale. Time to consider. Time to check on al-Assad’s compliance. Even time enough perhaps, to hear if Dennis Rodman has anything to say on the matter before he departs for still another trip to North Korea. Speaking of irony.

In the world of The J. Peterman Company founded by John Peterman—a man roundly spoofed in the Seinfeld sitcom—it doesn’t even take clothes, in the plural, to make the man. A singular “Classic Moleskin Blazer” will do.

In the recent finalization of the largest merger in the history of book publishing, Markus Dohle, the CEO of the newly formed Penguin Random House, stated that one goal of his enterprise is: “to crack the code of discoverability” —of how to put books in front of potential buyers— “in a world with fewer bookstores.” Fewer bookstores indeed. Book sales predominantly now come from on line, and have ever since the Amazon business model that was introduced in ’94, flourished beyond all expectations.

Penguin Random House now also boasts of being “the world’s first truly global trade book publishing company.”

This striving for “biggest” is understandable, given my own experience working at ad agencies that played in the mergers and acquisitions game. Our pitch to prospective clients always trumpeted that we were big, and “bigger is better,” and you better believe it.

Yes, but does not something of value get lost in all that bigness? This was a concern expressed in an op-ed in The New York Times on the heels of the PRH merger: “Whether literary culture is best served by the ceaseless centralization of publishing is a question worth asking.”

And while the writer of the piece was at it, he even took a shot at the newly formed company’s temporary logo… “ a giant penguin looking away from a house — is an awkward amalgam, a glyphic non sequitur.”

But in his lament, he also imagined a positive effect of “more and more of the interesting literary fiction,” moving toward smaller presses. And one such that he mentions, Graywolf Press, seems to me a metaphor for the taking: there will be a wolf at the penguin’s door.

Specifically, he sees them as a viable alternative for writers, given their “personality, mission and focus.”

As a reader and writer, I have been aware of Graywolf Press for quite some time. They have been in existence for nearly 40 years. And they have experienced many noteworthy achievements in making good on their mission to “champion outstanding writers at all stages in their careers, to ensure that diverse voices can be heard in a crowded market place.”

Yet despite being an independent, non-profit publisher and located in Minneapolis, to label them “small” would be a bit of a misnomer. That might imply they are not a serious player, while in reality, their authors have received many prestigious literary awards including a Pulitzer Prize, a Nobel Prize in Literature, a National Book Critics’ Circle Award and a Commonwealth Prize.

In regards to poetry, their numbers at times have been quite sizable. For example, their publication of the late Jane Kenyon’s book, “Otherwise: New and Selected Poems,” has continued to sell over 55,000 copies over a number of years. This in a world where reaching 2,000+ sales, classifies a poetry book as a “best seller.”

In its non-profit status, with grants from major national funders in recognition of its position as a significant American press, Graywolf continues to thrive. Sales so far this year are at $1.25 million. (www.graywolfpress.org)

I was fortunate, along with various writers, literary agents, publishers, editors, and patrons of the arts, to be invited to a private reception at a Fifth Avenue home last month, for a brief update on their state of affairs, and to celebrate three of their more distinguished 2013 authors. And as we retreated to the drawing room where they read excerpts from their books, you could not help but feel that for all the “Big Bang” in the publishing universe, it ultimately comes down to a one-on-one: someone with food for thought … someone hungry to hear it. And in this way, the wolf as it were, will remain at the penguin’s door.

—Pope Francis I
(in response to an interviewer’s question:
Who is Jorge Mario Bergoglio?)

That last chord in the Beatles' “A Day in the Life” seems to last an eternity. In actuality, and in E major, it goes on for 45 seconds. Which could seem like 45 minutes depending upon the hallucinogen one was on. Which might lead one to wonder what Yves Klein was on when he wrote his “Monotone-Silence Symphony.” That is, if one had any clue as to who is, or was, Yves Klein.

I certainly didn’t as I sat there in the Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church last month anticipating a work that would unfold over the course of 40 minutes, in which the first 20 minutes would consist of one note, followed by the next 20 minutes in complete silence.

Klein as it turns out, was considered an important figure in a post-war French artistic movement labeled Nouveau Réalisme. He died in 1962 of a heart attack of all things, given his tender age of 34. Ironically, he never had the chance to hear his symphony as he had imagined it; a D major chord coming from a fulsome orchestra of 70 musicians and singers.

“…one unique continuous sound,
drawn out and deprived of its beginning
and of its end,
creating a feeling of vertigo
and aspiration out of time.
Thus even in its presence,
this symphony does not exist…
However, in the world of possibilities
of conscious perception,
it is silence—audible presence.”

For all the emphasis on the audible—or lack thereof—it is the visual of that real life assemblage, including 10 cellists, 10 violinists, 3 bassists, 3 flutists, 3 French horn players (and a partridge in a pear tree), producing a chord while breathing and bowing in such a way as to create a sound with no audible breaks, that blows one away. There are no mixing tricks in a recording studio at work here.

Further, it is the packed church of people who have come to bear witness, as much as hear (or don’t hear), that ultimately gives these 40 minutes such a sense of profundity.

For certain, there was that sense of vertigo of which Klein spoke. And one kept imagining a musical variation that wasn’t there, but would soon be arriving at any moment. Yet never did. As if waiting for Godot.

The silence part was equally stirring, in that not a creature was stirring, not even a church mouse.

As one with a background in church-going, I did not hear one “church cough” or creaking pew during the whole soundless part of the piece. We had collectively bought into the premise, and one did not dare be the one to break the silence. We were now part of the performance. Or non-performance?

Yes, the mind would drift. But then the eyes would return to the orchestra still frozen in position, as they had been since that note had stopped on a dime. And though we knew that silence was coming, it still came upon us taking us unawares.

Abstraction can drive one to distraction. There is often a fine line in Avant-garde and performance art, between an honest attempt to resonate, and a masturbatory self indulgence. This one—and in a church no less—had turned us all on. And it got a standing ovation.

The day is dealt out from a deck
that is the sum total of allotted time.
We play to make best of what can be.
Jack when nibble can trump an Ace of Spades.
Yet in such tricks there is no magic
we never learned sleight-of-hand.
Pick a card? Any card?
The universe is a menagerie
of white coats and black cassocks
wrestling with the genesis of nothingness
philosophers refereeing in gray:
Whatever is in front of you is your teacher.
In front of us now

a collection of withered limbs
scattered on a bed of disorientation—
his five senses up for grabs.
What would a wise man do?
Play “Attention” then play “Final Respects;”
this is the hand of the wakeup call.
The King is dead; the life force lies
within her Majesty. Play the heart
as only you can
in a bid to woo and win the day.

—Ron Vazzano

As a new member of Artists Without Walls, a multicultural community that includes singers, dancers, painters, writers, oral historians, poets, and cultural enthusiasts, (www.artistswithoutwalls.com), I will be reading a few of my poems on October 22, 2013 at a showcase event at The Cell Theater in Chelsea at 338 W. 23rd St. New York, NY. starting at 7pm.

I will return to that venue on November 26th in a joint performance with three other artists: Actor Mary Tierney, Painter Vince Nauheimer and Vocalist/Musician Deni Bonet (her new music video is a must see: www.youtube.com/denibonet)

Artist and friend Joan Thorne (www.joanthorne.com) will have a gallery showing of her latest work beginning this month.

MUSE-LETTER