Tuesday, October 16, 2018

Vegan Dinner Party

Sorry ya’ll! So so crazy busy at the moment that days become nights and night become days! I promise to stop being such a turd about posting on Mondays!

I have to leave like now… So I will just copy and paste the menu for a vegan, gluten free dinner I made over the weekend. It was for 16 people! So I just tripled everything.

Okay! Till next week! Hopefully I will have some time/sanity! Maybe not!

Winter Squash and Wild Mushroom Curry

  • 3 tablespoons vegetable oil
  • 10 ounces butternut or other winter squash, peeled and diced in 1/2-inch cubes
  •  Salt and freshly ground black pepper
  • 1 or 2 small whole green chiles, such as jalapeño or serrano
  • 3 medium shallots or 1 small onion, finely diced
  • ½ teaspoon black mustard seeds
  • ½ teaspoon cumin seeds
  •  Handful of fresh or frozen curry leaves, optional
  • 2 garlic cloves, minced
  • 1 teaspoon ground coriander
  •  Pinch of cayenne
  • ½ teaspoon turmeric
  • 1 pound mushrooms, preferably a mix of cultivated and wild, trimmed and sliced 1/8-inch thick
  • ¾ cup coconut milk
  • 2 tablespoons lime juice
  •  Cilantro sprigs, for garnish

  1. In a wide skillet, heat oil over medium-high heat. When hot, add squash cubes in one layer. Season with salt and pepper. Cook for about 2 minutes, letting cubes brown slightly, then flip and cook for 2 minutes more. Use a slotted spoon to lift squash out, and set aside.
  2. Cut a lengthwise slit in each chile to open it, but leave whole. (This allows the heat and flavor of the chile to release into the sauce without making it too spicy.)
  3. Add shallots to skillet, salt lightly and cook, stirring, 1 minute. Add mustard seeds, cumin seeds and curry leaves and let sizzle for 30 seconds, then add garlic, coriander, cayenne, turmeric and chiles. Stir well and cook for 30 seconds more.
  4. Add mushrooms to pan, season with salt and toss to coat. Continue to cook, stirring, until mushrooms begin to soften, about 5 minutes.
  5. Return squash cubes to pan, stir in coconut milk and bring to a simmer. Lower heat to medium and simmer for another 5 minutes. If mixture looks dry, thin with a little water. Taste and season with salt.
  6. Just before serving, stir in lime juice. Transfer to a warm serving dish and garnish with cilantro leaves.

Chana Punjabi

  • 1 tablespoon canola oil or other vegetable oil
  • 1 medium onion, chopped
  • 2 teaspoons minced garlic
  • 1 teaspoon minced ginger
  • 1 small Thai bird chili, chopped
  • 2 large tomatoes, chopped
  • 1 ½ teaspoons paprika
  • 1 teaspoon salt, or as needed
  • 1 teaspoon ground coriander
  • ½ teaspoon garam masala
  • ¼ teaspoon turmeric
  • 1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
  • 2 15-ounce cans chickpeas, drained
  • 2 tablespoons minced cilantro
  •  Cooked rice for serving (optional)

  1. In a medium saucepan over medium-low heat, heat oil and add onion. Sauté until translucent and soft, about 5 minutes. Add garlic, ginger and chili, and sauté until soft and fragrant, about 3 minutes. Add tomatoes and 1/4 cup water. Cover and cook until tomatoes are very soft, about 5 minutes, then remove from heat.
  2. Purée mixture in blender or food processor until smooth. Return to pan and place over medium heat. Add paprika, 1 teaspoon salt, coriander, the garam masala, turmeric and lemon juice. Add chickpeas and bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low.
  3. Cover and simmer until sauce is thick and chickpeas are soft, 45 minutes to 1 hour. Stir pan about every 10 minutes, adding water as needed (up to 1 1/2 cups) to prevent burning. When ready to serve, sauce should be thick. If necessary, uncover pan and allow sauce to reduce for a few minutes, stirring frequently, until desired consistency. Stir in cilantro, adjust salt as needed and serve with cooked rice, if desired.

Cucumber And Cilantro Raita (Not vegan)

  • 1 cup plain yogurt
  •  Scant 1/2 teaspoon salt
  • 2 tablespoons finely chopped scallion
  • ½ cup finely diced peeled cucumber
  • ¼ cup chopped cilantro

  1. In a medium bowl, combine yogurt and salt. Mix well. Add scallion, cucumber and cilantro. Mix again, and transfer to a small serving bowl.

Cucumber and Tomato Salad With Cilantro and Mint

  • 4 ripe tomatoes, chopped
  • 4 Persian cucumbers, chopped
  • ½ small white onion, chopped
  • 2 tablespoons chopped purple or green basil
  • 1 tablespoon chopped cilantro
  • ½ teaspoon dried mint
  • ½ teaspoon crushed red chili powder(or ancho chile powder)
  • ½ teaspoon salt
  • 2 tablespoons lemon juice
  • 1 tablespoon olive oil

  1. Combine all of the ingredients in a bowl; toss, and serve.

Apple Crisp (Substitute vegan butter)

  • 6 cups peeled, cored, sliced apples or ripe pears, 2 to 3 pounds
  • ½ teaspoon cinnamon, or more to taste
  • ½ cup sugar, plus 2 tablespoons
  • 5 tablespoons butter, plus more for greasing the pan
  • ¾ cup oats
  • ½ cup walnuts or pecans

  1. Heat oven to 375 degrees. Toss fruit with half the cinnamon and 2 tablespoons sugar, and spread it in a lightly buttered 8-inch square or 9-inch round baking pan.
  2. Combine remaining cinnamon and sugar in container of a food processor with butter, oats and nuts; pulse a few times, just until ingredients are combined. (Do not purée.) To mix ingredients by hand, soften butter slightly, toss together dry ingredients and work butter in with fingertips, a pastry blender or a fork.
  3. Spread topping over apples, and bake about 40 minutes, until topping is browned and apples are tender. Serve hot, warm or at room temperature.

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

Sick Of It All

The last two weeks I have been sick. The last week, actually really sick. It’s that time of year when your immune and will to live basically dies and you either embrace it or pretend it’s not that bad, thus making the damage prolonged.

During my invalid state, I had a lot of time to just mull around all the things I am sick of and below is a quick list because does any of if matter anymore! Also, yes I know this is a day late. Who cares?!

Things I’m Sick Of:

Texting – I feel like those (…) will actually make us all insane.

Potatoes – Sometimes I just can’t stand the look of them.

Podcasts – I listen to too many and they are melting my brain.

Eating – I’m in the, I hate food vibe, just give me a nutrient nugget and let’s call it a day.

Shitty Friends – Friendship is a type of labor.

Men –Such disappointments.

Artists – Blah blah blah, okay we get it.

Socks – Somehow they seem like they should be easy but they are not!

Drugs – Not sure what the point ever was.

Catching up – We are all bored of each other, let’s not waste each other’s time.

Memes – Cool.

Bagels – Sometimes too much is too much.

Walking – Put me in a cart and dump me in the ground.

Making things comfortable for others – At least give me a tip.

Trump – Everyone is obsessed and he’s obsessed with Obama. Unhealthy.

! – I use this way too much and mean it only like 2% of the time.

Meat – Sometimes if just freaks me out.

Treating people – They will never, ever get you back the next time.

Saying Hi – Can’t we all just agree that eye contact is sufficient?

Dating – You are all so fucking boring.

Making Amends – I wanna make amends by putting my face in a lemon meringue pie.

Believing in things – What. Does. That. Even. Mean?

Long Time, No See – Is it just me or is this phrase freaky?

Nicotine addiction – Self-harm is a bitch.

Underwear – What’s the point even?

Exercise – Don’t do it but still sick of it.

Art Talk – Only enjoyable with someone who doesn’t use proper nouns.

Politics Talk – Only enjoyable with someone who knows how to spell Beto O’Rourke.

Talking in general – My body language is telling you everything you need to know.

Holidays – Can we just skip it and get to April already?

TV – The internet is melting our brains.

Twitter – I’ve always hated it.

Guilt – I hope by 2060 women are free of this burden.

Monday, October 1, 2018

R.I.P. Phyllis Kind

Phyllis Kind and Roger Brown

I got a message the other day that Phyllis Kind died. For those of you who don’t know who she is, you should. She was a gallerist and a personality unlike anything the art world had before.

Her gallery, Phyllis Kind Gallery, was the first job I ever had in New York. It is the job that made it possible for me to move/live here and it has influenced my approach to art in ways I probably still do not understand.

She originally started her space in Chicago, selling prints and such, and then she got into the thick of it and is the reason why The Hairy Who, the Imagists and “Outsider Art” has the influence that it had/has and is finally being paid its dues.

I started working for her as an intern while still in college, commuting from Rutgers to her Greene Street location once a week, then worked full time as a gallery assistant. It was the end of the grand ol’ days as this was sometime around 2003, but for a total art newbie, entrance into her multi-level Soho space was both intimidating and wondrous. She lived in the back of the space so the mixing of business and personal overlapped in inviting (sharing Chinese takeout at her kitchen table) to rattling (potatoes being thrown at your head during an outburst.) But it was a type of education that was beyond impactful.

Under her tutelage and observations, I learned how a gallerist is more than just a person in the art business but a character of sorts. Anyone who knew Phyllis would be swirled into her vicinity and it was up to you if you could stay a float in her currents. Her mind was sharp, her tongue sharper, and the mixture of hard and surpassingly generous softs showed you the depth and complexity of what it meant to be a gallery owner and human being.

The thing that I learned most, the thing has is a base of so much of how I operate and think about art today, was her unwavering way of thinking and seeing art and who makes it. Her mixing of insider, outsider, has been talked about in many different circles, but Phyllis truly loved art in a way that seems cliché. She would get so excited and thrilled about an artist, she made it her business and passion to make sure that people saw, people understood, people opened their eyes to what she was seeing.

In addition to her authentic passion for art/artists, she played the gallery game so well. In the 80s she was a force that was recognized and feared at times. She was all New York brashness with a mind that could remember any date and name and eyes that could pierce any undeveloped soul. But through it all she remained herself and unnegotiating on what she thought art could look like and who were valid in making, buying and seeing it.

I hadn't seen Phyllis for years, after she moved to the West coast, but her name and the links I have made from my time with her still connect. She had that ability to create a sense of family. Dysfunctional in many ways perhaps, but she was this mighty force, glue, magnet that kept everyone connected. I guess that’s because if she saw you, if she took you in, that meant something.

Phyllis Kind. What a legend. What a shame that gallerists and key players fade away the way they do, but I guess that is normal. Even so, her legacy will still remain because the work people are just starting to remember now is what she loved and supported decades ago.

Monday, September 24, 2018

Octopuses on Ecstasy

I am way too busy to blog today so I will pass along this article which multiple people passed along to me, haha. We should all be hugging each other more.

On Ecstasy, Octopuses Reached Out for a Hug
By JoAnna Klein, September 20, 2018, The New York Times

Octopuses are smart. They open jars, steal fish and high-five each other.

Though interactive, they’re generally asocial, and temperamental, with unique behavior patterns, like those shown by Otto, who caused blackouts at a German aquarium and Inky, who famously escaped a tank in New Zealand. They learn through experience and observation, forming lasting memories with brain-like bundles of hundreds of millions of neurons in each arm and a centralized bundle in the middle.

A desire to understand the evolutionary underpinnings of this brainpower led scientists to give octopuses ecstasy. Yes, ecstasy — molly, E, MDMA, the party drug, which in humans reduces fear and inhibition, induces feelings of empathy, distorts time and helps people dance to electronic music all night.

And under the influence of MDMA, the researchers report in a paper published Thursday in Current Biology, asocial octopuses seemed to become more social.

“Even though octopuses look like they come from outer space, they’re actually not that different from us,” said Gül Dölen, a neuroscientist at Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine who led the study with Eric Edsinger, an octopus researcher at Marine Biological Laboratory in Woods Hole.

They also found that humans and octopuses share parts of an ancient messaging system involved in social behaviors, one enhanced by the presence of MDMA in both animals. These shared lineages may have been conserved to reduce fear and enable social behaviors. And although preliminary, the authors think octopuses present a promising model for studying MDMA’s effects on the human brain, treating PTSD and better understanding how the brain evolved to conjure social behaviors.

MDMA helps release, among other chemicals, serotonin. That ancient molecule is involved in regulating mood and social behaviors in invertebrates like locusts as well as vertebrates, like fish, dogs and humans.

For Dr. Dölen, who is interested in evolution of social behavior, the octopus offered an interesting test of MDMA and serotonin, because it is separated by 500 million years of evolution from humans, but also has complex behavior.

Octopuses suspend their aggression for a few minutes to mate, perhaps accessing an otherwise switched-off neural signaling system — potentially similar to the one that helps humans behave socially, she reasoned. And any similarities in octopus and human genetic code related to this system could help her understand how the brain — down to its tiniest bits — evolved to govern social behaviors.

Like a wedge in Pac-Man’s mouth, MDMA fits inside a protein that moves serotonin in and out of neurons. The drug eventually causes a flood of serotonin between synapses, increasing its signals. When the researchers compared the genome of the California two-spot octopus (Octopus bimaculoides) to those of other animals, they discovered humans and octopuses could both make this protein, and it was nearly 100 percent similar at that special Pac-Man spot.

But would that protein on ecstasy also make octopuses social?

They put the octopuses in the center of a three-chambered tank where they could explore a Star Wars figurine on one side or another octopus on the other (it was contained beneath an overturned orchid pot with holes, in case the MDMA hadn’t worked and violence ensued).

Undosed, octopuses of either sex spent more time with the toy than the other octopus (if it was a male; they seemed less concerned when it was female).

But after soaking in low-dose MDMA-laced baths, the octopuses seemed to relax. They spent more time with the male octopuses on the other side of the tank.

They also hugged the pot with several arms, showing off their ventral ends, or mouths, almost like how the Larger Pacific Striped Octopus, the only known social octopus species, mates beak to beak in an eight-armed hug.

Though they tested only a few octopuses and MDMA likely acts on more molecules than serotonin, Charles Nichols, a pharmacologist at the Louisiana State University School of Medicine, was impressed: “I’ve been giving psychedelics to fruit flies for years in my lab, but had yet to have seen one given to an octopus.”

And David Nichols, his father who pioneered studies of MDMA for therapy, wonders how the drug might help untangle the fear circuitry in octopuses: “Connecting the dots in the octopus may lead to scientists being able to connect the dots, so to speak, in other species, including man,” Dr. David Nichols said.

Though just beginning, Dr. Dölen is hopeful: “We need to be taking full advantage of these compounds to see what they’re doing to the brain,” she said.

She added that when the octopuses came down from their serotonin highs, they acted completely normal — for an octopus.

Monday, September 17, 2018

Things That Made Me Happy

Call Me By Your Name

So most of the time I feel like a do some variation of whining, judging or kvetching about one thing or another on this thing. This week I will give you (and myself) a break from all the gloom-doom, gripe-fest and give a quick jot of things that actually made me (gasp) happy this past week. Life is long/short. May as well smell the roses sometimes!

Finishing a Book – I read a lot but lately I’ve been skipping around, reading multiple things at once and it is driving me nuts. I sometimes attempt to be the type or reader who can juggle multiple titles at once but I can’t. I’m a one book pony and I guess I should just finally embrace it. I finished Michael Pollen’s new book on psychedelics, How to Change Your Mind for my reading group (it’s always best to have peer pressure to make you finish something) and I liked the book well enough but I felt so satisfied when I completed it without much effort and time, proving to myself that yes, I’m literate and yes, I can read voraciously when I focus.

Kids Playing At The Beach – I guess in connection with the book above, this past weekend I was watching this little boy, about 2-3 years old playing at the beach at the water line and it made me think about some of the ideas in the above book (saying young children are basically high in terms of their neural path developments) and how true it is. He was so adorable in the classic little kid way but he had this precociousness and awe of everything, the sand in his fingers, his feet touching water, it was like watching a little guru, alien life totally absorbed yet exhilarated. All kids are like this but trust me, this was like some strange universe he was inhabiting and it was so heart filling to observe it even if it was only from outside in.

Henry Slesar's "The Self-Improvement of Salvadore Ross" – I listened to this by chance while getting ready to leave the house the other day on WNYC’s Selected Shorts Program. It was apparently a Twilight Zone Episode too. It’s about a guy who can barter something he has for something that he wants. He is doing all this for the affections of his long standing crush, it doesn’t work out of course but the turns of self improvement, the efforts and the strategies to get there are twisted, familiar and in plain language revealed.

Call Me By Your Name – This movie! I can’t believe I only just saw this movie! It’s so lush in cinematic eye (almost too lush) but the tones, the long edits, and the acting, especially by Timothée  Chalamet, is heart rending. For total romantics this movie crushed you in that bitter sweet way that only the want and depth of love can make you feel.

Gallery – I never talk about this but I love running my gallery. I feel so lucky and grateful for all the people I have gotten to know through it.

Instant Noodles – I watched a quick TV episode on Ramen and then I was like ‘I must have ramen,’ for 48 hours after. I didn’t manage to get the real thing but it’s pretty amazing how easy it is to get instant noodles, a few vegetables, one egg and voila, you are a baby chef for under $3. Amazing.

Beach – NYC can be a real god-damn-slog but the fact that you can get to the ocean via train is pretty miraculous. Summer...Don’t go!

Fingers and Toes – Yo, seriously, if you have 10 of each you are pretty freaking lucky. In seriousness though, we, who have so much, often forget all we have and that is something I have been trying to re-align myself with. It’s amazing what we have.

Morning Glories – Seeing those delicate vines climb on fences, gates, gutters, wherever they can and those brilliant, impossibly thin and easily bruised trumpet like flowers just peeping out at you is like seeing constellations in cement.

Cats – Cliché, cliché, I know but having a furry friend(s) is the best type of company sometimes. That thing they do when they can sense when you are sad or crying or feeling blue and they come up to you and nudge you and curl up comfort you by just having their tiny beating heart near yours. It’s a type of companionship that is literally beyond words.

Art Season – I was going to see so much art the past few weekends but life circumstances happened and that’s okay but yeah, I’m very excited to see the shows up and about to be up. It’s funny, you think it would get boring but somehow every fall there is this tingle of newness and possibility. I am thirsty for it and can’t wait to see it all and think about it all and probably complain about it all on this thing.

Monday, September 10, 2018

Art World’s Version of ‘Punch A Nazi’ - Greenspon Edition

So yikes, have you been hearing about the hot mess that is the cancelled Greenspon show? Well if you haven’t read all about it here. So essentially, there was set to be a two-person show, curated by Chis Viaggio, to open on September 6th with Darja Bajagić and Boyd Rice. Greenspon is a hip cool gallery in the West Village that has in the past had hyphenate-partnerships but now is under the purview of Amy Greenspon. The show was closed via an email by the gallerist right before its opening. 

From what the internet’s various outlets have been relaying, Rice is alleged to be a Nazi (which he denies) as there is documented evidence (photos etc.) with him associating with both Nazis and Nazi sympathizers. This news was flash-alert-warned by an artists google group call Invisible Dole (I’m too irrelevant to be on this list so this is all third hand relay…) Anyways, in the group, Rice’s past associations were cast, passed on and forwarded until it created a firestorm of people contacting the gallery and demanding the show to be cancelled. So it was.

So what to make of this whole thing? It’s word against word, Rice says he isn’t a Nazi but yeah, it looks pretty bad when you search his name. It’s basically all Nazi, anti-women, anti-everything type of results. I mean wearing a shirt that says “RAPE” with a swastika charm necklace is pretty f-ed up regardless of how much time ago it was or how much dripping irony you embrace.

BUT. Here’s the thing. I, personally, do not believe in censorship in any form. And this holds especially true for art. Now, this show should have been wayyyy better vetted. I mean google takes you what, all of two seconds? BUT, I can see how this can get muddy too. I don’t think this show should have been cancelled though if it was already set. Shows take a long time to organize and this wasn’t a last minute add on… But it was completely in the rights of the gallerist and those who protested it to bring that pressure and to do what they did.

Someone who I briefly talked to about this mentioned the Dana Schutz incident. Where she painted Emmet Till’s body in his coffin and it was shown at the Whitney Biennial. They were saying that the Greenspon case was different because Schutz is a really good person and felt terrible that it was construed in this manner. I responded that in a way, the Shutz incident was just as sinister because to be so oblivious to the impact of subject matter at hand and also the apologist structure given to those who are ‘allies’ but make a ‘mistake’ is a part of the art machine in another way.

I don’t know Rice’s work. I don't’ really want to, to be honest, but if he is a Nazi or likes to play with the margins of political correctness, he is at least self-exposed. So the question of what is allowed in art and not is back to the brink and its something we have to talk about. As much as the affiliations Rice has been clearly attached to make me want to wretch, the idea of censoring art makes me existentially debilitated.  

What is the takeaway from this? It seems there was a huge lack of attention on Greenspon’s part to let this get as far as it had. But I feel for her. There is a community of trust and perhaps she relied on the vouching of others more then she should have. But in the end, you are the responsible party, either way it lands. The collective voice, which polices is essential but also fraught. There needs to be exposing not for the sake of calling out but for a transparency that is actually generative. For those that make art or live lives in the anti-state, chaos theory, anarchy-against-all modus, don’t play victim yourself when your show gets cancelled. You know this could have happened and part of you relishes it. Rice did say this episode was a “win-win” for him. (Can he be any grosser?)

Regardless, it’s making us think and talk and not necessarily take sides (for some it has) but for all who care about art, freedom of speech and expression this instance belies you to ask, what the terms are for all the above. It’s a nasty, messy conversation but we have to have it. There are so many things hidden in the art world. Everyone who participates in it is guilty of some association or another. Some form of enabling and justifying. It’s necessary to call it out when you see it but also to mine your own relationships and connections. It’s ugly but the truth often is and I’d rather have bitter conversations then none at all.

Monday, September 3, 2018

I Watched Crazy Rich Asians…

Crazy Rich Asians is a new film directed by Jon M. Chu and based off of the book with the same title by Kevin Kwan. On its opening weekend (just a few weekends ago) it grossed $25 million, making it a surprise summer blockbuster. But is it really a surprise? Billed as the first all Asian cast film since Joy Luck Club’s release in 1993, of course lines were forming because for the 4.5 billion Asians around the globe and 17 million in the US, it has been long overdue.

Critics everywhere are gushing over this movie because of this radical concept of an all Asian cast. Groups of friends are going to see it to experience this landmark in Hollywood recognition and representation. I too saw the film because as an Asian American, it would be culturally remiss if I didn’t see it and while yes, of COURSE! It is high time and great to see a film with all Asians (and not through the gaze of white eyes), there are some issues to be addressed.

The film is a rom-com in all of its glory. Rachel Chu (Constance Wu) is an economics professor at NYU and she has a boyfriend of about a year plus named Nick Young (Henry Golding). Nick invites her to Singapore, his hometown, to attend his best friend’s wedding. The rest unfolds as you can imagine, she arrives and whoa, he is not just rich but CRAZY RICH, (as the title already establishes) and the frog, princess, Cinderella, evil mother story line unfolds, happy ending and all.

For me, the issues of this movie are the most basic of criticality. First, the acting. Although I get it, this is a summer flick and other race groups have had a plethora of light, easy viewing films of the same ilk, I can never really forgive stilted acting. Although Constance Wu (Rachel) is charming in a girl next-door way, for the first half of the film I felt like I was watching someone read lines off the frame. There is a lack of dimension in her character that was a bit distressing to watch. Other actors in the film had some panache though. Akwafina (Goh Peik Lin) played Rachel’s best friend and she was actually really funny, as well as Ken Jeong (Goh Wye Mun) Peik Lin’s dad which added much needed comic relief and sparkle. It was the comedic moments that made the film have some bubble and entertainment which I felt I was holding onto for dear life in order to enjoy the film.

The other issue is that while I get it, this is a film about the super rich and that’s a totally universally desired and the glam setting of so many films, in this instance it felt somehow stereotyping. Asians have a reputation for brand obsession and the rise of economies in this part of the globe is greatly changing the landscape of consumption and branding. In addition to this, there are other stereotyping/archetyping aspects of this film that I found problematic.

As mentioned, Rachel is an economics professor at NYU and this is even highlighted as a point of exceptionalism by Nick to his disapproving mother. She is also the youngest professor and that idea of having to be hyper exceptional is very much an Asian trope. Also, what the hell does Nick do? Like we never find out what he does in New York, what his interests are, what makes him so fabulous besides being super hot and later finding out he is super rich. What is Rachel thinking?! Also, the whole sub story line (yawn) with Astrid (Gemma Chan), Nick’s sister and her husband Michael (Pierre Png) and how he cheats on her and this shows that rich people also have problems (Just Like Us!). Uggg. Really…

But maybe I am being too harsh. Too snobby in my own right. This movie does do a lot of good things. I mean, yeah, all Asian casted movies are totally viable and blockbuster capable - DUH. Yes, it is about time, necessary and refreshing to see faces like your own on the big screen. Yes, thank god the Asian male is being hubba-hubba-fied because they are super hot and that whole emasculating history needs to be quashed asap.

So yeah, this might be a problematic film like so many other films in their casting, general narrative and editing but I guess that’s the whole point. Everyone, Asians and all, should be allowed to make feel-good-trope laden films as much as they want and yes, people will go and watch the crap out of them.

I’m happy in a way that this film is just light fluffy aspirational and fairytale-esq versus the ‘let’s talk about being Asian’ identity politics. But the point I guess I’m trying to make is that even with the fluff, there is politics and although we should all just sit back and embrace the fun and decadence of it all, there are still faults and room for improvement. But for now, we will take what we can and if anything has been proven, Asian everything is hot-hot-hot and worth every penny.

Monday, August 27, 2018

Fran Lebowitz on Racism

This is from 1997 (Vanity Fair). Someone sent it to me the other day and I think it is pertinent.

Fran is boss.

More soon. Summer is almost over.

Fran Lebowitz on Racism, October 1997

Do you think the proper way to talk about race now is to talk about multiculturalism?

I came from a town where there were two races, black and white. There were a few Chinese people, and this may sound shocking, but I had no idea they were a different race. I thought they were a different nationality, like Italian or French. Now you have people coming here from Cambodia, from Egypt, from Colombia, from places you never thought would be sending us their huddled masses. I mean, surely 20 years ago no one could have imagined a more unlikely pair of words than “Korean deli.” And all these people think of themselves as being members of different races. Ethnic groups have taken on the same weight as racial groups, with the same demands, the same notion of themselves.

To me, this plays into the hands of the people in power—the white people. If you want to ensure generation after generation of Mexican gardeners in California, you insist on bilingual education in the grammar schools. You can pretend that you would just as soon have your cardiologist speak to you in Spanish, but if you don’t speak Spanish, you would just as soon not.

If you’re black, don’t you say to yourself, “We’ve been here for a zillion years, and here are all these people coming along, acquiring power by saying they’re powerless—acquiring power by equating their lot with ours”? Blacks are the standard of oppression. People are always taking appalling historical events that one would hope are unparalleled and making absurd and immoral equations: the police raid the Stonewall Inn and instantly and forever it’s “Bull” Connor turning the fire hoses on the marchers in Birmingham; anti-abortion maniacs throw fetuses at abortion-performing doctors and an absolutely unembarrassed analogy is made to a lynch mob. These things are categorically unrelated, as are most things. Things are very rarely exactly like other things. If they were, people would be less baffled in general, and perhaps less given to such statements as “This is like the Holocaust.” Nothing is like the Holocaust. Not that there haven’t been other tragedies, other genocides. But simply that they were peculiarly, specifically, intrinsically like themselves. Genocides are like snowflakes, each one unique, no two alike. You can’t go around making these horrendously invalid comparisons. It is disgraceful and annoying. If you were in Auschwitz, you undoubtedly feel that on top of having been in Auschwitz you shouldn’t also have to have your experience used to justify, say, gay marriage.

What is actually served by multiculturalism and all things attendant to it is the power of white people, and this, despite any and all such academic quibbling, is primarily accomplished by the continuing oppression of blacks. Because even though the conversation now includes all these other elements, the truth is that the farther you are from being black, the more likely you are to assimilate, to be more like white. The more you are like white, the less trouble you have—because the more you are like white, the less trouble you are.

How do you think we should approach the topic of race in this country?

Clearly in some other way—in as other a way as possible—because if ever there was an example of something not working, this is surely it.

What are we doing wrong?

Well, first of all, by “we” I assume you mean the public, the public approach or the public discourse, which means the discourse that takes place in the media. And for the purposes of this discussion, let us imagine that the media is white and thus approaches the topic of race as if they (the white people) were the answer and them (the black people) were the question. And so, in the interest of fairness, they take their turn (having first, of course, given it to themselves) and then invite comment by some different white people and some similar black people. They give what purports to be simply their point of view and then everyone else gives their beside-the-point of view.

Surely 20 years ago no one could have imagined a more unlikely pair of words than “Korean deli.”

The customary way for white people to think about the topic of race—and it is only a topic to white people—is to ask, How would it be if I were black? But you can’t separate the “I” from being white. The “I” is so informed by the experience of being white that it is its very creation—it is this “I” in this context that is, in fact, the white man’s burden. People who think of themselves as well intentioned—which is, let’s face it, how people think of themselves—believe that the best, most compassionate, most American way to understand another person is to walk a mile in their shoes. And I think that’s conventionally the way this thing is approached. And that’s why the conversation never gets anywhere and that’s why the answers always come back wrong and the situation stays static—and worse than static.

Well, that’s part of the problem. What’s part of the solution?

The way to approach it, I think, is not to ask, “What would it be like to be black?” but to seriously consider what it is like to be white. That’s something white people almost never think about. And what it is like to be white is not to say, “We have to level the playing field,” but to acknowledge that not only do white people own the playing field but they have so designated this plot of land as a playing field to begin with. White people are the playing field. The advantage of being white is so extreme, so overwhelming, so immense, that to use the word “advantage” at all is misleading since it implies a kind of parity that simply does not exist.

It is now common—and I use the word “common” in its every sense—to see interviews with up-and-coming young movie stars whose parents or even grandparents were themselves movie stars. And when the interviewer asks, “Did you find it an advantage to be the child of a major motion-picture star?” the answer is invariably “Well, it gets you in the door, but after that you’ve got to perform, you’re on your own.” This is ludicrous. Getting in the door is pretty much the entire game, especially in movie acting, which is, after all, hardly a profession notable for its rigor. That’s how advantageous it is to be white. It’s as though all white people were the children of movie stars. Everyone gets in the door and then all you have to do is perform at this relatively minimal level.

Additionally, children of movie stars, like white people, have at—or actually in—their fingertips an advantage that is genetic. Because they are literally the progeny of movie stars they look specifically like the movie stars who have preceded them, their parents; they don’t have to convince us that they can be movie stars. We take them instantly at face value. Full face value. They look like their parents, whom we already know to be movie stars. White people look like their parents, whom we already know to be in charge. This is what white people look like—other white people. The owners. The people in charge. That’s the advantage of being white. And that’s the game. So by the time the white person sees the black person standing next to him at what he thinks is the starting line, the black person should be exhausted from his long and arduous trek to the beginning.

When did you first become aware of race as an issue in American society?

I probably had some slight awareness of it from hearing about segregation at school, or eavesdropping on adult conversations, or seeing the sit-ins in the South on television. I had a very strong association, an exclusive association, of racism with southerners. To me as a child, it was a southern thing. I think it probably also had to do with the way they taught the Civil War to us in my northern grammar school. In real life, the first time I can remember thinking about it was when a neighbor called my mother to say, “Did you know that Fran is in the front yard playing with a little colored boy?” I was really young, about five or six. My mother got into a fight with the neighbor. We lived in a small house. It was summertime. There were screen doors. These things are important because you could always hear the grown-ups talking. This was the 1950s, an era when there was such a thing as adult conversation. An era when there was such a thing as an adult. An era when there was such a thing as conversation. Now children can hear everything, and adults speak like children. My mother was furious at the neighbor, and I was shocked that someone from a good state like New Jersey would have these bad southern views.

That was the essence of it to you?

Without question. To me as a child, all villains were to be compared to Communists. It was the height of the Cold War. It was a very Republican town. We were steeped in anti-Communist lore and so the worst people I could think of were Communists. They were the people I was scared of. Next were southerners—not as bad as Communists, because I couldn’t imagine anything as bad as Communists, except, of course, Nazis, who, although definitely scarier than Communists, were, I felt, more my grandparents’ department. My grandparents were in charge of Nazis. I was in charge of Communists.

Nazis were the worst, then Communists, then southerners. Although I had every belief that the Russians were plotting night and day to bomb Thomas Jefferson School in Morris-town, New Jersey—every conviction that I was absolutely in the sights of the Russians—I had no notion that southerners or racism could be in my life. In other words, I had more expectation of having contact with Russian Communists, who were on the wrong side of the Cold War, than I did with southern racists, who were on the wrong side of the Civil War.

Are black people cooler than white people?

The notion that black people are cooler than white people is one that I am instinctively repelled by because it is adolescent, not only in content but also in form—it’s a teenager’s idea of an idea. It’s the moron in the oxymoron. In this case, however, I think it is true. Not because of the obvious, even blatant coolness of such black inventions as jazz, or fun, or a certain kind of stylishness in dress, but because coolness is a sensibility, and sensibility, at least in this country, has chiefly been the province of the marginalized rather than the oppressed—an example being the homosexual invention of camp. Oppression is usually so annihilating that it destroys the very possibility of sensibility. The invention of cool, the invention of a sensibility, by people who are so oppressed is in itself conclusively cool. They were literally cool enough in the face of the heat of oppression to invent a sensibility, one that is in every respect as rarefied, as ornate, as redolent of connoisseurship as camp, and, unlike homosexuals, they kept it even when white people took it away and made it square. When straight people took camp away and made it square, homosexuals couldn’t wait to join them in their squareness—to beat them to the punch. Who are now the most square people on earth? Who are the only people left who want to go into the army and get married? Homosexuals. Black people stayed cool even when white people stole it and made it square. That’s undeniably cool. And that’s what good sports black people are. With oppression staring them in the face, they averted their gaze and invented cool. Of course, as usual, they didn’t do it on their own—they needed sunglasses.

Traditionally, education is seen as the only real solution to the problems of black children. Do you think this still holds true?

Absolutely—look how well it’s working for white children. I think it is generally agreed that the great scandal in this country is the state of public education. But far worse than the problem is the currently fashionable, but in no way stylish, Republican proposal that it be solved by the use of school vouchers—a genuinely diabolical plan and one that, if instituted, would surely result in the end of any sort of democratic society. Recently a business magazine devoted an issue to this subject and used black parents who wanted school vouchers to argue their case for them. It’s so profoundly deceitful for rich people to ask “Why should rich people be the only ones to send their children to private school?” when the answer is so plainly that they have the money. So serviceable, in fact, is this answer that for the edification of these bewilderingly bewildered millionaires I offer it also as the clear explanation to the centuries-old riddle of why only rich people own Sargent portraits, vintage Daimlers, and beachfront property.

These black parents are decoys, to distract your attention from what the Voucherites are doing—which is lowering taxes. School vouchers are advantageous because they would result, ultimately, in no public school system at all—there’s no free lunch in the totally free market. School vouchers are, for the readers of such a magazine, about lowering taxes. Life, for these readers, is about lowering taxes. They look constantly for the cause of taxes the way oncologists look for the cause of cancer, and, like surgeons, cut them out wherever possible, even at the expense of what you might previously have thought of as a vital organ. The public school system—what an obvious cause of taxes, what a drain it is on our hard-gained capital.

Not to mention that even among not-so-rich white people there is a sizable constituency for the notion that the public schools attended by poor blacks are useful only as a source of professional basketball players—so, conceivably, one such school would really be sufficient. Perhaps I am judging them too harshly and what they are really doing is at long last making good on a very old promise: 40 Lakers and a school.

Why are there so few black writers?

There aren’t few enough. There aren’t few enough white writers, either. One thing we desperately need in this country is fewer writers of every color.

What do you think are the most virulent stereotypes held by blacks of whites and by whites of blacks?

All stereotypes held by all people are equally virulent—it’s just that some are more fun than others. People hate the bad ones but love and even cultivate the good ones, despite the fact that they are imprisoning and diminishing to the same extent. Both pride and prejudice should be individually earned because allocating them at a group rate is, in fact, the very definition of racism. I say this even though I myself am guilty of taking pleasure—even sustenance, on those days when nothing else is going right—in thinking: Donald Trump is still not Jewish.

There is a lot of opposition to affirmative action, even among liberals. What do you think is the basis of this?

Well, some of it is simple racism and some of it is complex racism. By complex racism I mean the kind that argues for the color-blind society—the kind that is mendacious, that is corrupt, that harbors a little white lie. First of all, it is disingenuous at this point in time to equate race with mere color. The opportunity for that is long since gone. Initially, it was true that the only difference between blacks and whites was skin color, but the experience of centuries of racism has made that idea utopian.

Second of all, it should be more than apparent to anyone who has ever had occasion to observe the travel attire of the average American family as they snack their way toward the departure gate that a color-blind society is something we already have. A race-blind society is something we don’t.

And since we don’t, we need some kind of affirmative action. I am suspicious of the insistent and incessant focus on the exceptional. The endless discussion of law-school applications. The ceaseless debate regarding admission to medical school. Always the attention is placed on the gifted black person. So whites can point to these people and say, Yes, there’s been historical progress. Yes, it is true that 50 years ago a black person with the I.Q. of Isaiah Berlin would have been a janitor, and now look: we’ve solved the problem of what to do with the black geniuses—they have the same opportunities as the white geniuses. But we don’t need affirmative action for these people and we never did. The problem of the talented tenth was actually solved by the civil-rights movement. It is to create parity between the untalented 90th and its white counterpart that we require what are perversely called racial preferences—I say perversely because surely we all know which race is genuinely preferred, talented or not. We will have equality when dopey black people get into Harvard because their chair-endowing grandfathers went there. We will have equality when incompetent black people buy their way into the Senate. We will have equality when larcenous black union plumbers start not showing up in greater and greater numbers. We will have equality when the unjust deserts and ill-gotten gains are spread around impartially. One Clarence Thomas is not enough.