Orhan Pamuk at BAM

Orhan Pamuk has an effusive, but many faceted, smile. It takes on a boyish naughtiness when he speaks of the challenge of writing erotic interludes. No matter that he has penned an armful of novels that contain touching insights delicately observed and astutely rendered. Or, perhaps it has a cheeky charm, lighting up his face like a prankster when he alludes to the job security that came along a month after his arrival at Columbia University in 2006, when he won the Nobel Prize. There is the full-faced and relaxed grin that comes just after he has landed an insightful comment about, say, the relationship of literature to history, or perhaps that of objects to memory. And, there is the sentimental twinkle that seems to arrive as he speaks wistfully of his native Istanbul. More than anything, his smile expresses, even exudes, a profound joy, joy that one immediately senses derives from an essential contentment and harmony between his life and the practice of his art.

When Pamuk was questioned about his writing practices, last night at an event at BAM's Harvey Theater (offered in collaboration with the Greenlight Bookstore), he noted his tendency to work in longhand, in regular 12 hour days. He alluded to his novels as trees, noting that each new work involves the construction of several thousand leaves, each of which provides individual details that add to the beauty of the whole. None of this was said with a hint of braggadocio; Pamuk is matter-of-fact and content with the demands his art asks of him. Asked if he ever wished to rewrite earlier works, while confessing to a slight tendency to tinker as his older novels face translation, his answer was framed with a twinkle similar to that induced by a parent being asked to speak of his child: "My life I would like to change, but not my novels," explaining that each of them is like a touchstone of a particular place and time. Despite his planning, he admitted that artistic creation involved allowing for the happy accident. Then, he smiled buoyantly. Limiting regrets and reveling in the privilege of encountering the muse seems to make for a very contented life.

Orhan Pamuk's SILENT HOUSE, a translation of a work originally published in 1983, is just out.

"Developing Nations"

A few thoughts about letting go, as so many of us have done in the last month or two.
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We arrived in New Orleans after a couple of days in Lafayette. We went there beforehand, maybe to pretend we were on vacation, trying to steady ourselves, to find some emotional neutral ground. There were visits to the Tabasco factory and a nature reserve on Avery Island, an Acadian music festival and a trip to a local flea market, some shopping in a mall. All of it was meant forestall the anticipated moment we all were waiting for, the one that lingered in the air like thick fog refusing to lift.

The plan was to set off around 8, but by 7:30 Dylan was already texting me asking if we could leave. He was awake, ready, anxious to get to where he was going. He visited Tulane on a junior year community service trip and liked it so much that the two of us came back to mull it over last October. That trip settled it: We took a tour of campus and asked a few questions, browsed the campus store, then climbed on the St. Charles Avenue streetcar and headed back into town. We eavesdropped on a few conversations and stared out open windows that framed the Garden District. Mostly we kept our thoughts to ourselves— me afraid of putting him off by seeming too positive in my assessment, him trying to make certain this decision about his future was his own. Setting off toward adulthood is full of such awkward moments. Words sometimes rush in, like a cozy blanket to warm the uncomfortable chill of silence. But so often they can keep us from feeling the cool crisp air or the damp of dewy grass that waken us, that remind us it is time to rise and face the day.

A couple of days later, we traveled back to Brooklyn. Dylan sat all afternoon in his room, playing blues riffs on his guitar and listening to recordings of the Preservation Hall Jazz Band. He made his decision that day, I think, and in all the months since today is the day we were headed toward. Much as Dylan liked high school, his friends and family, life at home has become one of those xBox games he used to compete at endlessly but now only plays every now and then. Of course, those same patterns and repetitions that he finds boring and leave him itching to move on to something new are what appeal to me— for years they have given my life rhythms and purpose, the familiarity of his presence gave me a sense of what role to play. I still see the white-headed, grinning two year old, lashed at my side in a purple sling or the seven year old playing with his friends after school, kicking his football around. He sees a tall, confident man, nervous and anxious, but ambitious, ready to tame the world. Parenting is a race, though I can’t for the life of me think of what kind of one I might compare it to. There are sprints and tests of endurance, sometimes run as a team, sometimes alone. A race where the rules can change in the middle, without warning. The mileposts come clearer into focus, not that that makes them any easier to accept or understand.

We piled in the rental, drove through a nearby Starbucks for coffee, then set off on our two hour trip. It’s a picturesque drive along that stretch of I-10 back to New Orleans: long concrete bridges that act like a raised canopy through barren tree-stumped bayou and over mossy swamps. It was Sunday morning, so there was little traffic. The vistas were devoid of people. Looking out over the land and water in glimpses sustained me for a time, the gentle thrum of tires on the roadway providing a lilting rhythm, the pops from seams between patches of pavement dictating a cadence as steady as a metronome. Dylan plugged in his iPhone, and put on a few songs he knew Rosie would enjoy— the Shins, Rolling Stones, one or two by the Bob Dylan. We sang along together, scouring through lyrics for words that matched our feelings, conscious that any of these songs might be the soundtrack for our memories years from now when we thought about this day.

But, before long the dark skies we were headed into opened up into a downpour, and the heaviness of the rain forced our thoughts back into the car. Maybe it was fate, or seizing one last opportunity, but in a moment or two we are talking politics, something Dylan and I often do. Around the table, sitting on the stoop, or over the kitchen stove while making dinner. We like to spar.

Dylan has put on a song by the group Franz Ferdinand, and feeling a need to squeeze in one last lesson, I mention it is named for an historical figure whom I ask him to identify. In seconds we go from the assassinated archduke to a follow-up about Sarajevo to trying to name the six republics of the former Yugoslavia. Deb, my girlfriend, usually feigns disgust at the two of us facing off like this, but try as she might, she this morning she can’t resist weighing in. When Dylan mutters that no one really cares, she is off; Deb worked in that part of the world once upon a time and has no intention of letting even an innocuous comment pass. She gives him a three minute sketch of this history, with hints about exactly why he should care dusted in. Before long she is ankle deep. It’s too late; the natural teacher in her is piqued.

Rosie closes her eyes and pretends to take a nap. She finds conflict difficult, no matter that for the pair of us it is just a spirited family game that might as well be “Jeopardy!” If we were home this is when she would excuse herself and climb the stairs to the quiet of her room. I’m not certain why she finds it so hard to tolerate, but even though Dylan and I know she hates it, and love her, we rarely are convinced not to joust. It’s some insipid form of male bonding, both of us asserting our vitality through self-expression, both trying to subdue each other with the power of our words.

I mention that for a long time I’ve wanted to read Rebecca West’s book on the Balkans, based on her visit there in the 1930’s— “something Lamb and Falcon,” my middle-aged mind failing me, not close enough for Alex Trebek. “Why would small states want to be independent anyway,” he asks. “Why wouldn’t they just all prefer to be part of something bigger, more powerful, maybe more efficient— perhaps that way they would be able to exercise more control.” I’m not sure if he was serious, has enough experience at what will set me off, or some combination of the two. It doesn’t really matter anyway. Bait, snare, or lure, this is where we begin.

There are allusions to old ethnic conflicts submerged but never forgotten, central power being used in tandem with outside governmental and corporate influence to stifle local development. Tito. The Cold War. The domino theory and client states. Like a late night dorm room conversation, it isn’t long before we migrate to Rwanda and Congo and how conflicts played out there. Dylan studied some of this in senior history, so he is conversant, able to allude to aspects of Belgian colonial history, about the political corruption of Mobutu, about the complicated web of entanglements that international trade can generate. We argue over whether US aid should come with policy strings attached. Dylan seems uncomfortable with the idea that history and power relations cast long shadows. Maybe it is easier for him to believe that it is possible to start with a blank slate.

I can’t see Dylan throughout this entire conversation. It’s storming. My eyes are focused on the wet pavement, peering through the mist and the droplets swept away by windshield wipers, trying to make certain we stay in the lane and make sure I somehow don’t miss a turn. My mind wanders ,and I remember a quote that I love from the writer E.L. Doctorow about driving at night: Though we can’t see further than our headlights, we manage to find our way home.

Someone mentions Brazil, and I ask Deb if she’s ever been there, trying to lighten things up a bit. She’s just been for a conference once, in Porto Alegre. Dylan tells her he went with his mom once, down to Sao Paolo. “What did you think?” she asks. He mentions the drive in from the airport, mile after mile of favelas, thousands of people living in shanties spread out as far as the eye could see. “It doesn’t seem right, does it?” I ask. “All those kids your age, not so very different from you. Talented. Smart. Ambitious. Their chances so different because of an accident of birth.”

The car is quiet for a moment. I’d like to imagine that it’s because I’ve hit a nerve and cashed in on a teachable moment, but it’s just as likely that we’ve reached the breaking point. Dylan programs some more music for us to listen to, then in four or five minutes there’s an exit. I pull off so we can go to the restroom and buy a Diet Coke. When we get back in, I let Deb drive. I love doing all the driving, and feel anxious as a passenger, but I know that isn’t fair so I’m trying to share. I sit quietly as we resume, trying to mimic drowsiness to mask apprehension. Anyway, I think as I close my eyes, the storm has passed and there’s only ten or fifteen minutes left to go.

We get back to New Orleans, drop things at our hotel in the French Quarter, pick up and pack in the things he’s taking for his room. There’s not too much stuff, to be honest, but even so the back of the car gets filled from floor to ceiling and the kids end up with his guitar case slung over their laps. Tulane is only a brief drive away, but it’s raining again as we wind our way through the maze of backstreets. We all lean forward in our seats, as if the plane’s nose is tilted down and we are headed for the runway.

Dylan and I leave the girls in the car and walk to his dorm, then are directed to another office to fill out forms and collect his keys. I have to sign something, but otherwise my presence is meaningless. I hang back. He doesn’t need me to say a thing.

Two quick loads of armfuls hauled in and he’s unpacked. Pillows, sheets, and a comforter, a couple of duffels full of clothes. His guitar. A banner for his English soccer team and an electric tea kettle are there to help him feel at home. The room is small and empty as a tomb, a set of blank walls and floor and ceiling that act like a vise to hold in the stale air and sickly pallid light, created by grey skies refracted through slatted milky metallic blinds. The furniture is utterly standard issue, as appropriate to a minimum security prison as a dorm— a pair of cot-like bed frames and rubberized mattresses, small desktops, a small open-faced cubicle with hanging rails, a shelf, and empty drawers. Clean enough, but not fresh. There’s a sense that people have lived here but there’s not a distinctive, recognizable trace. I remember my own room at Ohio State from more than 30 years ago. A different layout, but it’s like theme and variation. The room I saw then with excited eyes now looks drab and cheerless. The space was never what the fuss was all about.

Dylan’s roommate hasn’t arrived, so after a few minutes’ deliberation, he chooses a side of the room and with Rosie’s help begins to unpack. After a few minutes, we settle into our comfort zone: Dylan begins to piece together how he wants his things arranged and I’m dispatched to shop. Deb and I find a nearby Walmart, and assemble a cart’s worth of odds and ends he text messages me— towels, toothpaste, batteries, cans of soda to stock the fridge. By the time we return an hour later, the room looks a bit more like home.

We sit awhile, make sandwiches and trade nervous small talk as Dylan makes a cup of tea. The clock is ticking but no one wants to mention time. Sitting next to him, Rosie tries hard to keep the tears away. I take some pictures of what Deb snidely calls an “historic family moment.” Though Dylan isn’t pushing, I sense it is time for us to leave. I look into Rosie’s sad red eyes and give the briefest nod. I don’t need any words for her to know what I mean.

It’s a long, narrow walkway that leads from the dorm to the parking lot, and we stroll along it, mostly single file. I busy myself opening car doors, checking to see that nothing’s been forgotten. I’m putting off the inevitable, trying to think of what possibly I can say. Deb and Rosie take their turns, sobbing quietly. It’s all I can do not to dissolve into tears, to stifle the howl that is welling, but I’m afraid to let out. When my turn comes, I throw my arms around him and grasp hold as if the laws of gravity are loosening. “Make me proud” are the only words I can manage to sputter, hoping he knows how proud I already am.

Dylan turns and walks toward the dorm, sidestepping puddles. He holds himself upright and gazes straight ahead, maintaining a brisk and steady gait. None of us say a word as we pile into the car. Years of habit leave me using eyes like tracking beams, following him all the way down the path. He gets to the door and opens it. I already know this time he won’t be looking back.


"Developing Nations"
Oct 2012

(Photo by Rosie)

Garth Fagan at BAM: A Review

While the Barclay Center opened down the street last Saturday evening, the Brooklyn Academy of Music featured performances of two Garth Fagan / Wynton Marsalis collaborations— "Griot New York" and "Lighthouse / Lightning Rod." I know very little of dance, but was curious to see these works. Tightly choreographed movement seems in many ways anathema to a musical form based on improvisation. The results are stunning: The visual tableaux created by Fagan's dancers have a lightness and joyfulness that seem to complement, though not imitate, the complex harmonics and rhythms of Marsalis's score. Minimalist sets are accented by individual sculptural elements, and the costumes (sometimes in bright lustrous color, other times in soft nocturnal hues) always amplify, rarely detract. In the end, the focus is always on "people dancing" as Fagan pointed out in the post-performance chat, "not dancers performing people." The last section featured the cast dressed in black with shiny elements seemingly lightly pinned to their leotards, frolicking under a pair of lightning bolts that could easily be aluminum foil molded over cardboard shapes, all set to the fugue-like polyphony of the Wynton Marsalis Septet playing unseen beneath the canopy of the stage. It was a wonderful reminder that great art— despite its pretensions to sophistication, complexity, and subtlety— can still be rooted in our child-like desires to play.

"Home Invasion": A Review

For the last week or so, I’ve been reading Errol Morris’s new book, A Wilderness of Errors, which re-examines the Jeffrey Macdonald murder case from 1970. Sifting through the record, Morris advances the position that a cocktail of sloppy police work and prosecutorial sleight of hand have resulted in an innocent man spending three decades behind bars. It is a cautionary tale about the justice system. The “CSI” era is deceitful artifice; despite the fact that every week we are bombarded with television programming where every crime is solved swiftly, straightforwardly, and conclusively, Morris (whose previous filmwork included the superb documentary “Thin Blue Line,” which resulted in an innocent former-Death Row inmate being exonerated) is not so sure this is a storyline we can trust.

It turns out that this book was timely background for “Home Invasion: The Whole Truth and Nothing But The Truth,” a new one act play written by Anna Theresa Cascio and performed by Doc Dougherty. The story, based on events that have played out in Cascio and Dougherty’s lives over the past three years, plays out like some form of “method acting” in reverse: Doc (whose roles have included cops of “Law and Order,” a gangster in a daytime soap, and a fake FBI agent in an indy film) has a pair of Connecticut detectives show up on his New Jersey doorstep, accusing him of participating in a “home invasion.” A year or two before, Ann Bass, arts philanthropist and ex-wife of a wealthy Texas oil magnate, was held hostage in her home by masked gunmen, shot up by the invaders with hypodermic needles, told she would only be injected with the antidote if she paid an $8.5 million ransom. Doc, who bartends part-time for caterers in high ticket price charity events, has crossed paths on a couple of stray occasions with Ms. Bass. When an accordion case containing needles and empty cigar cases washes up near the Queens neighborhood where he grew up, Doc falls under suspicion. How? Well, there is a suggestion by the cops of “touch DNA,” the results of which may place someone from his family group on the scene. There is Doc’s history of brushes with the law as a teenager, his service as a medic decades ago in the military. But, there is also the mysterious fact that his brother has only just escaped punishment on a pair of serious offenses. He has seemed distant of late, and there is talk that he is offended by some perceived slight. Did a family grudge factor in?

Before long it becomes apparent that it is Doc and Theresa’s home that is being invaded. There are policemen loitering in cars outside their apartment building, unexplained clicks during phone calls that could be wire taps, cops showing up on the doorstep pressing Theresa and the neighbors to think the worst. It isn’t long before their domestic “fortress of solitude” feels like its secure, protecting walls have been breached. The receipts Theresa finds that could easily be an alibi are challenged by the agents as an elaborate ruse to cover up, and they threaten her with accessory. Doc’s feisty determination to not be steamrolled, the residue of a tough upbringing in Broad Channel, lead him to hard-headed and absolutist resistance that both increases the appearance of his guilt in the eyes of the investigators and the exasperation of a partner who wants desperately to believe the simple act of cooperation will make it all go away.

Doc commands the stage throughout the evening, bringing a wide range of characters (himself, his wife, his interrogators and lawyer, family members, neighbors and friends) to life. Deftly directed by Molly Fowler, the story is complicated and briskly paced, with only a few shifts of lighting and music samples to signal changes of time and location. It is a gift to be able to manage all of this— to use tiny bits of physicality and subtle vocal inflection to suggest the particularity of character in a way that keeps the audience oriented, while not resorting to caricature. Doc managed to bring these perverse events alive, inviting us to use our imaginations to occupy the confused and threatening space he came to inhabit through no fault of his own. By the time, near the end, he comes to ask angrily, entreatingly, to no one in particular how it is that years of hard work and determination to reshape himself— to alter his pathway from the man he might easily have become— count for so little against a police system that seems weighted to assume his guilt, we wonder with him: Is the woman holding scales outside so many courthouses masked out of a desire to mete out unbiased justice, or is she just sometimes blind?

“Home Invasion: The Whole Truth and Nothing But The Truth,” a one man show starring Doc Dougherty, written by Anna Theresa Cascio and directed by Molly Fowler, runs Thurs, Fri and Sat for the next two weeks at the Jorda Production Theater [Oct 4, 5, 6, 11, 12, 13] Tickets are available at http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/258932.