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Earth rising as seen from the lunar surface via Apollo 8 (Photo: NASA/Bill Anders)

Lessons learned from the last U.S. election cycle are still being processed and discussed. A big theme for me is just plain epistemological: How do you know what you know? The strange and the unreal took over somewhere in this process, and I am left wondering how it gets sorted out. Who would have guessed that reality itself would become such a crucial player—unreliable, furtive, indeterminate and squirrely.

If you are up to a full on confrontation with the strange circumstances that define our world today, watch Adam Curtis‘ documentary HyperNormalisation.

A description of the film from Curtis’ blog:

We live in a time of great uncertainty and confusion. Events keep happening that seem inexplicable and out of control. Donald Trump, Brexit, the War in Syria, the endless migrant crisis, random bomb attacks. And those who are supposed to be in power are paralysed—they have no idea what to do.

This film is the epic story of how we got to this strange place. It explains not only why these chaotic events are happening – but also why we, and our politicians, cannot understand them.

It shows that what has happened is that all of us in the West—not just the politicians and the journalists and the experts, but we ourselves—have retreated into a simplified, and often completely fake version of the world. But because it is all around us we accept it as normal.

Chuck Klosterman addresses similar “what is reality really?” questions in his new book, But What If We’re Wrong? He uses the concept of gravity as an example. Some now believe that it might not be a fundamental force but an emergent force (meaning gravity might be a manifestation of other forces, not a force itself.) In considering the history of our beliefs about gravity Klosterman asks, “If mankind could believe something false was objectively true for two thousand years, why do we reflexively assume that our current understanding of gravity—which we’ve embraced for a mere three hundred fifty years—will somehow exist forever?”

He goes on:

The practical reality is that any present-tense version of the world is unstable. What we currently consider to be true—both objectively and subjectively—is habitually provisional. But the modern problem is that reevaluating what we consider “true” is becoming increasingly difficult…If there’s a rogue physicist in Winnipeg who doesn’t believe in gravity, he can self-publish a book that outlines his argument and potentially attract a larger audience than Principia found during its first hundred years of existence. But increasing the capacity for the reconsideration of ideas is not the same as actually changing those ideas (or even allowing them to change by their own momentum.)

This touches into the concept that environmental philosopher Timothy Morton has called hyperobjects—“entities of such vast temporal and spatial dimensions that they defeat traditional ideas about what a thing is in the first place.” In Morton’s view we live inside an array of hyperobjects—climate, nuclear weapons, evolution, nature—that we cannot comprehend and that cannot be parsed with normal reasoning.

The implications of this are demonstrated with the example of global warming as described by Morton:

We can’t directly see global warming, because it’s not only really widespread and really really long-lasting (100,000 years); it’s also super high-dimensional. It’s not just 3-D. It’s an incredibly complex entity that you have to map in what they call a high-dimensional- phase space: a space that plots all the states of a system.

In so doing, we are only following the strictures of modern science, laid down by David Hume and underwritten by Immanuel Kant. Science can’t directly point to causes and effects: That would be metaphysical, equivalent to religious dogma. It can only see correlations in data. This is because, argues Kant, there is a gap between what a thing is and how it appears (its “phenomena”) that can’t be reduced, no matter how hard we try. We can’t locate this gap anywhere on or inside a thing. It’s a transcendental gap. Hyperobjects force us to confront this truth of modern science and philosophy.

And to close, an excerpt from another writer/thinker I admire, Kathryn Schulz, who brings another dimension to this concept of what we know and what we don’t:

Even here on earth, with our senses seemingly full to the brim, we see almost nothing of what matters. Molecules, microbes, cells, germs, genes, viruses, the interior of the planet, the depths of the ocean: none of that is visible to the naked eye. And, as David Hume noted, none of the causes controlling our world are visible under any conditions; we can see a fragment of the what of things, but nothing at all of the why. Gravity, electricity, magnetism, economic forces, the processes that sustain life as well as those that eventually end it—all this is invisible. We cannot even see the most important parts of our own selves: our thoughts, feelings, personalities, psyches, morals, minds, souls.

I have no answers to offer. But it seems clear to me that we are in need of a different set of tools, ones that can allow us to access new ways of perceiving, conceptualizing, describing, decoding, envisioning and enacting.

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Howard Zinn (Photo: History is a Weapon)

What is left to be said? Ten days in, I have read hundreds of opinions about the outcome of the election, conversed with sympathetic friends and family, sought for ways to stay grounded in this increasingly surreal landscape we now share in the United States. For all the opinionating and pontificating, I still don’t have a definitive and complete explanation for how this happened or what the best strategy will be going forward. I’m perplexed by all of it. Perplexed and utterly, utterly devastated.

If I am aligned with anyone, it would be with many of the writers from one of my favorite books, The Impossible Will Take a Little While*. It was published by Paul Rogat Loeb in 2004, during another era of extreme political pain. The contributors to this collection of essays are familiar names from many walks of life—Maya Angelou, Nelson Mandela, Václav Havel, Adrienne Rich, Cornel West, Joanna Macy, Pablo Neruda, Alice Walker, John Lewis, Terry Tempest Williams, among others. But they share a common message: Do not be daunted, even if your first efforts feel tiny and insignificant. This book is full of inspiring stories of how to effect change and how to tenaciously attend to efforts that often start small but end up making a difference. In some cases, a very big difference.

Howard Zinn, ever wise and much loved here in Boston/Cambridge even after his passing in 2010, wrote an essay for this volume: The Optimism of Uncertainty. What a concept! The content of that essay is so apropos it could have been written this morning.

Is the optimist necessarily a blithe, slightly sappy whistler in the dark of our time? I am totally confident not that the world will get better, but that only confidence can prevent people from giving up the game before all the cards have been played. The metaphor is deliberate; life is a gamble. Not to play is to foreclose any chance of winning. to play, to act, is to create at least a possibility of changing the world.

What leaps out from the history of the past hundred years is its utter unpredictability. This confounds us, because we are talking about exactly the period when human beings became so ingenious technologically that they could plan and predict the exact time of someone landing on the moon, or walk down the street talking to someone halfway around the Earth.

And this:

The bad things that happen are repetitions of bad things that have always happened—war, racism, maltreatment of women, religious and nationalist fanaticism, starvation. The good things that happen are unexpected. Unexpected, and yet explainable by certain truths that spring at us from time to time, but which we tend to forget.

Political power, however formidable, is more fragile than we think. (Note how nervous are those who hold it.)…

Revolutionary change does not come as one cataclysmic moment (beware of such moments!) but as an endless succession of surprises, moving zigzag toward a more decent society…

To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty, but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness. What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives.

So begins this latest zigzag. And for me, a daily practice of steering clear of hate while staying focused on compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness.

Once more with feeling, since most of us have been here before. Is this my last chance to really get good at this?

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*The title of the book references lyrics written by Bob Russell ( “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother”, among others) for Billie Holiday back in the 1940s:

The difficult I’ll do right now
The impossible will take a little while.

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Sally Mann (Photo: Liz Liguori)

Finding fully immersive distractions to defend against the relentlessly ugly political news has become a daily ritual. Like so many others, I go out each day in search of sustenance in a landscape that has been ravaged by the locusts of lies, hatred and distrust. Protecting the inner landscape and keeping it moist has become an epic task during this season of my greatest struggle with EAD (see below.)

Books, good ones, work better than just about anything.

Thank you to Sally Mann for her completely captivating memoir, Hold Still. My copy is margin marked as I encounter her artistic insights and understandings. She is a masterful photographer, writer and observer.

For example here’s some of her wisdom about that inevitable process every maker knows about: You have one lucky break—a great painting or photograph or poem emerges out of nowhere. That success brings on a “cocky confidence,” but the next attempts all fail. On cue, the voices of doubt and despair appear and suggest you just give up. They tell you that you have made all the good works you can and that you have nothing more to say.

Mann shares her experience:

That voice is easy to believe…it leaves me with only two choices: I can resume the slog and take more pictures, thereby risking further failure and despair, or I can guarantee failure and despair by not making more pictures. It’s essentially a decision between uncertainty and certainty and, curiously, uncertainty is the comforting choice.

So you soldier on, with just enough good outcomes to keep you going. Soon new work appears, and with it comes the disempowering of the older work. So the struggle continues.

Others looking in from the outside don’t understand how this works and how this feels.

How can they understand the paralyzing, dry-well fear I live with from one good picture to the impossible next? Who can know the agony of tamped-down hope between the shutter’s release and the image in the developer? Or the reckless joy when I realize that, at last, I have a good one; eagerly, my ebbing confidence throws off the winding-sheet and resumes business at the old headquarters, a wondrous resurrection.

But of course, it is also a fleeting one. It lasts about as long as the exquisite apex of a wave and, just as the wave takes the sand castle, it sucks my confidence out with it as it recedes. In its wake, it leaves the freshly exposed reminder that, however good that last image was, the next picture must be better. Each good new picture always holds despair within it, for it raises the ante for the ones that follow…

I practice my skills despite repeated failures and self-doubt so profound it can masquerade outwardly as conceit. It’s not heroic in any way. To the contrary, it’s plodding, obdurate effort. I make bad picture after bad picture week after week until the relief comes: the good new picture that offers benediction.

So here’s to those who slog through to get to those good new pictures, paintings, plays, poems, music. And here’s to the slogging we also have ahead of us in repairing a political landscape drained of compassion, empathy and collaboration. Taking some wisdom from Mann, it isn’t heroic but a plodding, obdurate effort that hopefully brings about a benediction.

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*EAD: Election Addiction Disorder. Thank you to my friend, psychiatrist Harvey Roy Greenberg, for sharing his wickedly funny, DSM-ready description of the epidemic that overtook so many of us these last few months.

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Judy Pfaff at Wheaton College

Judy Pfaff is an artist’s artist. Perhaps I should be more specific and say she is my kind of artist’s artist. And “my kind of artist” is a much bigger category than me and my friends. Legions of us have followed her for years, and we keep being compelled, enthralled, delighted and at times left speechless by the stamina of this woman who is part whirling dervish and part postmodern alchemist. There’s no flagging or slowing down with this one. Great work just keeps coming from this timeless, energetic and passionate artist.

If you are in the Boston area, you have a chance to see a spectacular selection of her work at Wheaton College in Norton: Judy Pfaff: Drawing Thick and Thin.

This show is full of those Pfaffian marvels—exploding images and colors in every shape and size, natural elements such as leaves and branches alongside industrial materials including foam and flexible ducting, plastic that has been made to look like molten glass, wall colors individualized for specific pieces, cut outs and mark making that force the two dimensional into three, backdrops constructed from photographs and images, creating a veritable cornucopia of images in lively juxtaposition. The joy of making, looking, discovery—this whole show is an unabashed celebration of just being alive.

I’ve written about Pfaff many times on Slow Muse. In an interview with Constance Lewallen published by Crown Point Press a few years ago, Pfaff had words that are still feel relevant and meaningful to this current show as well as the larger arena of art making that is coming from a like-minded place:

Lewallen: [Your] work is not ironic as so much of the work being shown today, in which the artist is the art critic as well…You once said to me that a positive way of looking at this phenomenon is that now artists have created another arena for themselves–they can be critics, they can be businessmen.

Pfaff: When I am in a generous mood I think that. But often I think it is very depressing that the whole art world seems to demonstrate that attitude now—cool, detached, competent. I think one of the things about being an artist is that you should be allowed to test murky, unclear, unsure territory or all you have left are substitutes that signify these positions. Having it all together is the least interesting thing in art, in being alive.

Lewallen: Someone once wrote that your work deals with art at the fringes of confusion of life itself.

Pfaff: I like that.

I spent two hours in the gallery today, and I hope I can return again. I’ve posted a slew of images below, many of them detailed views, that speak to the extraordinary richness of Pfaff’s multidimensional explorations into the “murky, unclear and unsure territory” that is her art making.

The show runs through November 11. Kudos to Gallery Director Michele L’Heureux for making this exhibit happen. For more information about the exhibit, click here.

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Edmund de Waal, detail, Princeton Museum

Continuing with themes inspired by Edmund de Waal in his latest book, The White Road

In a profile of de Waal that appeared in the New York Times, Sam Anderson describes de Waal as an evangelist of touch. “Thinking is through the hands as well as the head,” de Waal has said.

De Waal worries that modern humans are beginning to lose our fluency in touch. He thinks that we live in a world impoverished by a lack of attention to tactility. Our culture has a deeply embedded shame of the body, shame of skin, shame of “mere” sensation—a desire to transcend the animal coarseness of nerves, hair, blood flow. To live in clean, noble abstractions: things that we think will last. All of our digital technology, all of these portable virtual worlds, only make it easier to live in touchlessness. If you put on virtual-reality goggles, there will be plenty to look at and pretend to touch, but nothing to actually feel. But touch, de Waal insists, is fundamental to the human experience. If we can’t fully inhabit and value the world of touchable objects, de Waal told me, then we can’t fully value other human beings.

The power of objects to connect us with our living, breathing bodies and selves is not trivial. Even if we don’t pick up one of de Waal’s fragile vessels, its made by handedness is so essential to its essence. We can see how it came into being, how a human shepherded it into existence, step by step.

Paintings and sculpture may not be designed with the same implicit suggestion of being held in the hand, but they also, like de Waal’s vessels, can claim a very personal, very human etiology. Sarah Sze‘s installation, Timekeeper, currently on view at the Rose Art Museum, speaks to the suggestion of high touch, yet another form of touchability. Meticulously intricate and outrageously eclectic, this signatory Sze creation sits in the center of a very large gallery, whirring and “breathing” as you enter the space. Constructed from torn sheets of paper, photos, mirror shards, text, embedded LEDs, projections, reflections off the surface of water, multilayered mini-scaffolding, Timekeeper speak to how Sze “blurs the line between organic and mechanical structure.”

From the curatorial statement:

Timekeeper has no relationship to the mechanical devices we use to mark the literal passing of time, but instead to the way we recall and replay our lives, in selected fragments that, strung together, account for the passage of years. Timekeeper may not keep the time, but it keeps our time.

While very different in spirit and form from de Waal’s ever growing tribe of tiny pinch pots, Timekeeper feels human-sourced, made by hand. It too claims its place in the celebration of the power of thingness and of touch.

Installation views of Timekeeper by Sarah Sze, at the Rose Art Museum:

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Edmund de Waal installation currently on view at the Princeton Museum

With the publication and international success of his family memoir, The Hare With Amber Eyes, Edmund de Waal became a literary sensation before many knew he was, first and foremost, an artist whose specialty is ceramics. Notoriety tends to spills over, and soon his artistic efforts were being heralded as well. In 2013 an installation of his work was featured at Gagosian Gallery in New York.

Not everyone was a fan of that show. New York Times’ Roberta Smith was dismissive (“Time spent with Mr. de Waal’s work can teach a lot about the nuances of ceramics, but his work is ostentatiously precious and ultimately naïve”.) I was moved by the energy of his intentions, but I did have mixed feelings about such quiet, contemplative work being displayed in an environment like Gagosian where the high pitched din of art commodification drowns out the subtle registers.

While the context did seem wrong to me, so many other things about de Waal’s approach seemed right. In an interview with Iain Millar, de Waal speaks in a way that feel very aligned with my views:

One of the really interesting things in contemporary art is about the loss of time. The process is neutral, it’s not a good thing or a bad thing, but long looking and long making do something different from short looking and short making.

He also addresses his discomfort when the making and the selling are too closely aligned, and more boldly, of his dislike of art fairs:

Millar: I was wondering what would bring you out in hives again.

de Waal: When I discovered that I don’t agree with art fairs, that an artist going to art fairs make me ill…

Millar: You’re a refusnik?

de Waal: The brutality and the commodification of what you’ve just done is just too total for me. I’m English enough to enjoy that separation. I like making stuff, talking about how it’s going to be curated and then finding out later about whether someone’s bought it or not. That interim process of seeing it being sold is a bit of a shock.

It may be that de Waal’s work exists outside the familiar categories, and naive is the easiest way to describe that mismatch. Martin Roth, director of the Victoria and Albert Museum said of him, “He doesn’t fit into a niche, and that’s his strength. He’s not copying 18th-century or ancient Asian porcelain. His work is completely modern, but it is steeped in a great knowledge of history.”

Apropos to that blend of the modern and the historial, de Waal published a second book, The White Road: Journey Into An Obsession, in 2015. In this volume de Waal shares his lifelong passion for his preferred medium, porcelain. The book is, inter alia, a fascinating chronicle of his journeys to the “white hills” where porcelain is found. His first stop is to the belly button of porcelain production, Jingdezhen, China. He subsequently travels to other “white hill” locations in Germany, England and America, moving easily from historical narratives to accounts of his very personal experiences of looking, making and connecting with objects.

It is his devotion to the power of things that most connects me with de Waal. “Thingness” and how we can sense their power have been running themes on Slow Muse*, and de Waal’s The White Road is in line with so many of my experiences:

I hear objects. With objects it is possible not only to sound them, name them and make sense of them through language, but hear their kinship with words themselves. Some things feel like nouns, words with physicality, shape and weight. They have a self-contained quality, a sense that you could put them down and they would displace the same amount of the world around them. Other objects are verbs and are in flux. But when I see them I hear them. A stack of bowls is a chord.

de Waal has described his work by saying, “It’s patently sculpture of a kind, it talks to architecture I hope, it’s very much rooted in poetry and music, it’s pottery at a very real level.” This book, like his work, has many tracks that all come together to make it a memorable and provocative read.

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* For more posts that explore the concept of thingness, click here.

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Family diary of Florentine merchant Pepo d’Antonio di Lando degli Albizzi from the 14th century (Photo: The Newberry Library)

Memoirs have been around for a long time, but their occurrence increased significantly around 1990. Interest in that literary category has continued, growing 400 percent between 2004 and 2008 alone, which has led many to call our era the Age of Memoir. As way of explanation for that success, Marion Roach Smith, author of The Memoir Project, said, “It is simply so much easier and so much more acceptable to be one. Then there is the fact that it feels good. Why? That old truth about an examined life. It settles the mind. It makes us sure of things. Nothing quite like it.”

Three of my favorite reads right now are memoirs. Two come from a scientific point of view, written by scientists who approach their research with a personal passion. In reading about their deep connection with their work, I see so many similarities with the way artists connect with their creative explorations and meanderings.

Lab Girl, by Hope Jahren, is utterly engaging. Her invitation steps you in close to life. Her book has changed the way I view trees and the complexity of the ecosystem. The crossovers with art are frequent.

For example, this description of her lab rings familiar:

My lab is a place where my guilt over what I haven’t done is supplanted by all of the things that I am getting done. My uncalled parents, unpaid credit cards, unwashed dished, and unshaved legs pale in comparison to the noble breakthrough under pursuit. My lab is a place where I can be the child that I still am…

My laboratory is like a church because it is where I figure out what I believe…There are rituals that I follow, some I understand and some I don’t….My lab is a refuge and an asylum. It is my retreat from the professional battlefield; it is the place where I coolly examine my wounds and repair my armor. And, just like church, because I grew up in it, it is not something from which I can ever really walk away.

Lab or studio, scientist or artist, Jahren’s description captures how a space can hold what is so essential when the passionate core of a person is being tapped.

That close parallel is also evident in her one line description of science:

Science is an institution so singularly convinced of its own value that it cannot bear to throw anything away.

Janna Levin is the author of the memoir, How the Universe Got Its Spots: Diary of a Finite Time in a Finite Space. The book began with letters Levin wrote to her mother exploring and explaining this primal question at the core of her research: Is the universe infinite or is it just really big? A cosmologist by training, she is a masterful translator of complex, esoteric notions of space and time into comprehensible explanations. Her voice is poetic as well as clarifying:

No infinity has ever been observed in nature. Nor is infinity tolerated in a scientific theory—except we keep assuming the universe itself is infinite…

The fabric of the universe is just a coherent weave from the same threads that make our bodies. How much more absurd it becomes to believe that the universe, space, and time could possibly be infinite when all of us are finite.

The third in this stack is a book many of my artist friends have been raving about since it appeared last year: Hold Still, by Sally Mann. I read the reviews and heard the praises, but I was resistant. I didn’t think a photographer’s memoir sounded all that compelling, and I also wasn’t particularly interested in revisiting the controversy of Mann’s 1990 exhibit that featured images of her naked children. That controversy still dogs her and her work, and I had assumed this would be a rehashing of those issues.

Too many preconceptions and prejudices! What I didn’t know is that Sally Mann is a gifted writer as well as an accomplished photographer. She studied creative writing before she even began taking pictures, and her verbal skills are commanding.

Speaking of memory, for example:

Whatever my memories hadn’t crumbled into dust must surely by now have been altered by the passage of time. I tend to agree with the theory that if you want to keep a memory pristine, you must not call upon it too often, for each time it is revisited, you alter it irrevocably, remembering not the original impression left by experience but the last time you recalled it. With tiny differences creeping in at each cycle, the exercise of our memory does not bring us closer to the past but draws us farther away.

I had learned over time to meekly accept whatever betrayals memory pulled over on me, allowing my mind to polish its own beautiful lie. In distorting the information it’s supposed to be keeping safe, the brain, to its credit, will often bow to some instinctive aesthetic wisdom, imparting to our life’s events a coherence, logic, and symbolic elegance that’s not present or not so obvious in the improbable, disheveled sloppiness of what we’ve actually been through. Elegance and logic aside, though, in researching and writing this book, I knew that a tarted-up form of reminiscence wouldn’t do, no matter how aesthetically adroit or merciful. I needed the truth, or, as a friend once said, “something close to it.” That something would be memory’s truth, which is to scientific, objective truth as a pearl is to a piece of sand. But it was all I had.

What a great passage. And there are so many more.

The epigraph that begins Mann’s book parallels the passage above but it also speaks to the genre as a whole:

The steady eyes of the crow and the camera’s candid eye
See as honestly as they know how, but they lie.

–W. H. Auden

Truth or lies, a memoir done right is irresistible.

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The Starry Plough flag, at the Irish National Museum, Collins Barracks

We are going through a period in our history that feels like a Rubicon crossing. Decisions made now will have ramifications that will be long, deep and unperceived from our current viewing spot. Brexit was one of those ramifying decisions, and the U.S. presidential election is another.

Historians are good at naming those moments where a vortex is encountered, and certainly the Western world went through one following World War I. Having recently been in the Habsburg capital of Vienna, I was reminded of how quickly the topographic distribution of power can shift. How many anticipated how quickly one of Europe’s most powerful dynasties would come to an abrupt end?

(And of course Vienna played a crucial part in the events that led to a second World War. Adolph Hitler, a footloose and forlornly lost 17 year old, came to Vienna and decided he wanted to study at the prestigious Vienna Academy of Fine Arts. He sat for the two day exam and was completely dumbfounded when he was not accepted. He tried once more and was rejected again. How can we not wonder what might have happened had the outcome been different.)

The vortex of change at the end of World War I has a particularly important Irish version as well. This year is the Centenary celebration of the Easter Rising that began in Dublin, a rebellion that eventually led to the Irish Free State declared in 1922. While I was visiting friends in the southwest of Ireland last May, I heard many regional accounts of how the rebellion played out in that remote corner of the Emerald Isle. And as part of this year long commemoration, friend and artist Cormac Boydell created a gorgeous series of ceramic pieces heralding the rich Irish lineage of stories, icons and legends. (For more examples of his work, click here.)

The Abbey Theatre, Ireland’s premiere theater—founded by none other than W. B. Yeats and Lady Gregory in 1904—is currently in Boston to perform one of Ireland’s most seminal plays about the battle for Home Rule, The Plough and the Stars by Sean O’Casey. Named after the Starry Plough constellation that was used on the banner of the Irish Citizen Army, the play was met with controversy when it was first performed in 1926. O’Casey was no apologist for the rebellion, and his overtly political play questions many of the decisions that led to the bloody feud that continued to fester until very recently. But this is an essential narrative to all things Irish, a narrative that is captured so poignantly when visiting Dublin’s Glasnevin Cemetery as well as the National Museum of Ireland at the Collins Barracks.

The Abbey Theatre’s production preserves the historical events of 1916 as seen through the eyes of a group of Dubliners, but the play is staged in a brutally post-industrial, urban wasteland that brings the story into a contemporary context. The fate of these characters is harsh as is the landscape of their lives. O’Casey does not delve into his characters in depth—his approach suggests E. M. Forster‘s description of Charles Dickens‘ characters as “flat but vibrating furiously.” But O’Casey’s play still honors the redemptive qualities of Irish unflappability and indefatigableness. Those qualities, ones that have carried the Irish forward as a nation with a unique proclivity for expressiveness and artful storytelling, are evident even in this tragic account of rebellion and loss.

The Plough and the Stars runs at Am Rep in Cambridge through October 9.

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Sharing a few photos from the opening of the exhibit at Morpeth Contemporary in Hopewell New Jersey. Such a great night and turnout. My thanks to all who were able to stop by. The show is up through October 16.

Deborah Barlow
Ayami Aoyama
Morpeth Contemporary
43 West Broad Street
Hopewell New Jersey
609 333 9393

For more about the exhibit:
Morpeth Contemporary

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Thanks to David Wilcox for photos of the opening.

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“Circasan 2″, 24 x 24” on wood panel

If you are going to be in the environs of Princeton, Trenton and Philadelphia next weekend, please stop by the opening reception for a new show at Morpeth Contemporary on Saturday, September 24, from 6-8pm. I will be there and would love to see my friends in southern New Jersey.

This upcoming show is my second exhibition with Ruth Morpeth. She has chosen some of my newest paintings for her light-filled gallery, on view with the evocative sculpture of Ayami Aoyama.

Here are the details:

Deborah Barlow
Ayami Aoyama
Morpeth Contemporary
September 25 – October 16, 2016
Reception: September 24, 6-8pm
43 West Broad Street
Hopewell NJ 08525
609 333 9393

For more about the exhibit:
Morpeth Contemporary

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