Art Heals: Clutter

I have a yin yang relationship to clutter. I have moved house, (and often countries) 14 times, and each time as I pack I dream of a Zen existence in which I possess nothing but one exquisite vase and a closet of all white garments. But once I was settled again, I moved from room to room looking at the 10,000 books and walls of artwork and cabinets full of dishes for every dinner party color scheme and drawers of craft fair jewelry and…you get the idea. These are not clutter, these are collections. But where you stand depends on where you sit, and right now I am sitting in a three room apartment and my stand on clutter is well, evolving. When we first moved here from a largish house (two floors and more rooms than I could serially enter in a week), we pledged to live, if not my Zen ideal, at least lean and mean. One thing in, one thing out, was to be our mantra. We had donated most of the books, given some of the artwork to appreciative new homes (I did go and personally vet each one before approving placement), and sold the majority of the dishes (anticipating fewer dinner parties and more restaurant dinners). I kept the jewelry. But inevitably, stasis is followed by mutability. For my part, I had a spacious office to go to, and it became a repository for the detritus necessary for my creativity. Upon having to leave this sanctuary due to Covid, I took with me the most precious bits (meaning most of it) and crammed it into previously undiscovered spaces in that three room apartment. (Under the bed.) And secondly, I have a partner in isolation, who believes in existentialism, to wit, that society (me) should not restrict an individual’s (his) choices and thus the development of his potential. This manifests in very very neat piles of papers on every flat surface. So, clutter creep. The quarantine conditions didn’t help. My previously curated kitchen counters took on the look of the stock room at Safeway, despite my valiant attempts to display the Pringles cans in an artistic tower. Cleaning products, toilet paper, masks, latex gloves—the more things I had to corral, the more things I needed to corral them. My things got things. Corona clutter was invading my organized world, and I resented it, but felt helpless to do anything about it. But time went by, as time tends to do, even in the age of corona. Strangely, the piles around me started to look cosy, and comforting. Was I nesting, knowing I had enough—enough of whatever mysterious amount of stuff was sufficient to make me feel safe? Joseph Ferrari, who studies the psychological impact of clutter at DePaul University in Chicago, describes home as a foundation for identity, “an extension of our selves, a living archive of memory.” We function differently in our homes now. The little collections on our tables, the art on our walls, the food in our fridges, all of it now acts as a remembrance of things past, and surety for the future. We spend a lot of time in our spaces now, so we really look at them, and what we see can give us comfort. So go ahead and curate your Zoom background as you invite strangers into your home but remember that all of it is a reflection of your lived experience. Be proud of your clutter. After all, you are the one who brought it in. My favorite kind of clutter by Adnan Charara.

Art Heals: Peripety

Are we about to come to a turning point? We are certainly living in what seems to be the plot of an Aristotelian tragedy, defined by the philosopher himself as "actions that excite pity and fear." In his “Poetics” Aristotle discusses dramatic tragedy in terms of peripety, a reversal of circumstances, a turning point in the plot contingent upon probability or necessity. We have entered Fall, and the turning points are poking us like a sharp stick. Fires, floods, racial and social injustice, politics, collapsing economies, to say nothing of the pandemic that has left lives in ruins. And now warnings that Steinbeck’s winter of our discontent is looming, with a possible resurgence of the virus just as people are thinking it is on the wane. Scientists are holding their collective breath as they calculate the effects of schools opening, states removing all restrictions, and people heading to poorly ventilated indoor spaces due to the colder weather. Pity and fear indeed. But can we control the turning points in our lives? This is where the ancient philosophers debated the nuances (politely). Socrates, Ari’s mentor-in-thought, held that virtue is knowledge, people don’t act against what they know to be good. Plato refined this to include the idea that passions have an influence on what a person “knows,” thus altering their actions in seemingly self-destructive ways. Aristotle took this further, exploring the concept of “incontinence” by distinguishing between theoretical knowledge, about things that cannot be changed, and practical knowledge, about what can be changed. People don’t knowingly act against their own self-interest, but from a temporary ignorance of what is good for them. Everyone wants happiness, but people differ only about their power to achieve it. Pringles make me happy, so even though I know the consequences of eating them will be a contribution to the covid-15, I eat them anyway. So, peripety. We have come to the place in the plot for a change when the “action veers round to its opposite, subject to probability or necessity." I am hoping we turn toward the good, supported by knowledge. We have the power to affect our destiny. Vote. Take reasonable precautions against infecting others, and ourselves. Support those fighting for justice and equality our own individual ways. We are more than characters in a play determined by others. We write our own scripts, create our own circumstances. We know what can be changed, and what cannot. Twelve Pringles a day is doable. Ari and the gang. Philosophy heals too. (Thanks, Brain Taco for this image!)

Art Heals: Wining

You might have noticed my frequent references to adult beverages in these missives. While I have been known to indulge in the occasional fruity concoction on a terrace in Miami, appropriately clad in floral dress, strappy sandals and large sun hat, my usual tipple is a glass of wine. Being a simple soul (see earlier blog, Plain Vanilla) I like limiting my choices: red, for colder weather, drinking to accompany beouf bourguignon, drinking with cheese and French bread, or just drinking. Then there is white, which I drink mainly to pair with fish or chicken (except for coq au vin, which, as the original recipe comes from Burgundy (I think) needs to be paired with a similar red). Sometimes I’ll have a glass of Pinot Gris on a hot day, but hot days usually lead me to rosé. And for toasting, I prefer Prosecco over champagne, but I never judge people on their bubbly behaviors. One other caveat: white wine is de rigueur at art gallery openings. Never red. Because people gesticulate in their enthusiasm for great art, resulting in sad consequences for the watercolors. I must note that when I held an exhibition in a Paris gallery a few years ago, the owner of the gallery served red, and when I objected, said, “This is Paris, of course we drink red wine.” I must also note that in that crowded space those little plastic cups did indeed go flying, luckily hitting only the gouaches covered with glass and a swath of white wall. (I don’t know a direct French idiom for “I told you so” Je ne voudrais pas être désagréable, mais… Far more likely to hear ce n’est pas ma faute.) But I digress. Now that cafes and bars and dining with friends seem to be off limits for the duration, most of us are consuming our adult beverages at home. Though I occasionally share a verre de rouge with my companion in isolation at a socially distanced outdoor table, most of my quaffing occurs on my balcony or on the couch after 5 pm. And while I have been able, so far, to stick to my usual glass-or-half-of-the-other, a recent study from the Rand Corp. indicates that more people, especially women, are reacting to pandemic stress by coping with a coupe. Which brings me to Florence, Italy in the 16th century, and the buchettes del vino. These “wine holes” were originally hatches with little wooden doors, often little wider than a man’s hand, carved into the walls of hundreds of buildings throughout Tuscan cities, mainly in Florence. Originally used to sell wine directly to the consumer (eliminating the middleman, and I speculate here, probably some taxes) they later became the perfect solution to safely sell wine during the plague of the 1630s in Italy. They were often located at a low height from the ground, ensuring some anonymity for the purchaser. Contactless delivery, no tipping. (But plenty of tippling. Ouch.) So, fast forward to 2020, and the clever Florentines are reopening these charming little doorways to serve wine, coffee and even gelato while their bars and cafes are still closed. Similar, if not quite so charming, adaptations are being made here. To help with the bottom line, restaurants have been granted special licenses to sell packaged single-serving drinks and bottles of wine from their doorways (though, unlike in Italy, you cannot consume alcoholic drinks while standing on the sidewalk.) People are picnicking under trees and on grassy knolls in every available open space, imbibing special lemonades. So, I raise a glass to all of you who drink responsibly, letting the glories of the grape enhance your life, giving you a few antioxidants, offering a coda to a difficult day in these difficult times. And remember, this always applies: “Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I’ll not ask for wine.” For this, you don’t even have to take off your mask.