Friday, July 30, 2010

Harry Redner: Failings in the Social Sciences and Humanities

From H. Redner The Ends of Science, Boulder, Colorado: Westview Press, 1987 - Chapter 6, "Pathologies of Science"

Philosophy is strictly speaking neither a science nor a humanity. It is an august subject of great antiquity, one that has only since the nineteenth century been professionalised in an academic setting. Such an abstruse and other-worldly subject might be expected to be little affected by the pressures of academic politics. In fact, the very opposite has proved to be the case, for precisely because philosophy is not bound by scientific criteria of utility or by humanistic ones of cultural interest and relevance, it has become all the more readily subject to the determinants of disciplinary authority. Since philosophy is relatively unconstrained by any need to be accountable to other interests and is free to pursue whatever aims it sets for itself in its departmental fastness as a minor academic backwater, it has in fact lent itself all the more easily to the free play of internal academic politics. Thus, Richard Rorty, a prominent philosopher and critic of philosophy, who because of his criticisms is being treated [c. 1988] as something of an outcast, explains that the subject matter of philosophy has largely been determined by the outcome of political struggles within the discipline: "the topics and authors which fall under the care of philosophy departments form a largely accidental and quite temporary hodgepodge - determined mostly by the accidents of power struggles within universities and by current fashions" (Rorty, Consequences of Pragmatism, p. 30). In his account of current academic philosophy Rorty stresses the struggles between the reigning paradigm of the discipline in Anglo-Saxon universities, analytic philosophy, and the other brands challenging its dominance, collectively called continental philosophy. The history of contemporary philosophy is largely "a story of academic politics. . . one of struggles between kinds of professors" (ibid, p. 228). Rorty tends to be rather nonchalant about this because he believes that "problems created by academic politics can be solved by more academic politics" (ibid). But, as we shall see, it is not easy to reform a disciplinary paradigm, no matter how empty it has become, or to introduce another elsewhere in the university system, since the struggle for academic survival ensures that only one subject-species can fill the available academic niche.

Elsewhere in his work Rorty (Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature, pp. 132 - 36) explains how philosophy became a Fach (academic subject) or professionalised discipline, beginning with neo-Kantianism in the nineteenth century German university. The process was completed after WW2 in the American university system where philosophy acquired a professional organisation with journals, a peer review system, grants, PhD training and all the other paraphenalia of the sciences. The earlier preponderance of patronal authority - which is still more or less the norm on the continent - gave way within the Anglo-Saxon system to formal-professional authority with a strong collegial elite of elderly eminences grises. [NB Previous chapters of The Ends of Science have given a detailed typology of disciplinary authority, the patronal and formal-professional types being two among many. CS] This authority rules with a very strong hand, excluding and outlawing any philosophic perspective other than that which falls within the analytic spectrum. Occasional open rebellions against this draconian rule attest to this fact. Thus at the 76th annual meeting of the American Philosophical Association in New York in December 1979, a group of rebels, among them such prominent figures as William Barret and John Smith, "charged that the APA has become a monolith and intolerant, that its programmes neglected philosophic issues and that its leadership has lost contact with other philosophers". The academic political reasons for the dominance of analytic philosophy are openly acknowledged, and the upshot was "that the APA was dominated by people espousing analytic philosophy, preventing those with other perspectives from having an effective say in the organisation." As John Lachs puts it, in philosophy "power is an important and lucrative matter". "It was made clear that differences between the European Continental, historical position and the Anglo-Saxon Analytic position were not merely an abstract matter but touched on such practical matters as grants, government support, endowments, publishing and the placing of students and friends in faculty positions." It remains to be seen how this particular insurrection will fare, though one cannot be sanguine about one that seeks openly to assault an entrenched organisational position.

Perhaps because of previous failures at open reform, there have been many attempts to infiltrate continental philosophy into Anglo-American university by the backdoor of other departments. Thus the so-called "deconstructive" movement in literary criticism is partly such an attempt to smuggle in continental thought - mainly that of Derrida and his predecessors such as Heidegger and Nietzsche - through departments of comparative literature, English, French and German. This tactic has caused an inordinate amount of confusion and bitterness among the older style literary critics who cannot understand how and why their theories are being outflanked by something that claims to be more sophisticated than mere criticism but which they see as less interested in literature than in literary philosophy. [one might add older style anthropologists, classicists, historians, political theorists and numerous others. CS]. The battle lines are being drawn, with the opposed literary camps organising in cliques and possibly to become rival professional bodies. [One sees a whole front of the contemporary culture wars opening out from this point. Sickening stuff. CS] If the deconstructionists succeed in taking over some departments completely, two kinds of philosophy will be taught in Anglo-Saxon universities which have nothing to do with each other. This is already the situation at Sydney University in Australia. Rorty's (1982, p.328) rather blase' view that all this is "not much more, in the long run, than a matter of what sort of professors come under which departmental budget" seems mistaken, because once departmental divisions are set up there is no way of breaking through them and the discipline becomes fragmented, narrowed and impoverished.

Analytic philosophy and continental philosophy are already narrow, puristic subjects, the one stemming largely from the ideas of Wittgenstein and his predecessors Russell and Frege, the other from those of Heidegger and his predecessor Husserl. Both versions have by now become highly abstruse and almost empty of substantive content. Both shun involvement with the sciences, the arts or politics or with any other extra-mural thought. Practitioners of analytic philosophy have even gone as far as to show a disinterest in history, including the history of philosophy itself, so that they have almost lost touch with the metaphysical traditions of philosophy. The younger practitioners are little interested in the classics and are almost solely preoccupied with the latest issues of the journals, as set out by the prestigious figures of the field. The result, as Rorty sees it, has been as follows:

"Analytic philosophy was thus left without a genealogy, a sense of mission, or a meta-philosophy. Training in philosophy turned into a sort of "casebook" procedure, of the sort found in law schools. Students' wits were sharpened by reading pre-prints of articles by current fashionable figures, and finding objections to them. The students so trained began to think of themselves neither as continuing a tradition nor as participating in the solution of the "outstanding problems" at the frontiers of science. Rather, they took their self-image from a style and quality of argumentation. They became quasi-lawyers rather than quasi-scientists - hoping an interesting new case would turn up (Rorty, Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature, p. 227)"

Like philosophy, politics is a subject of great antiquity which was transformed beyond recognition to become present political science. A brief sketch of this metamorphosis is offered by Habermas:

“In Aristotle’s opus the Politics is part of the practical philosophy. Its tradition reaches even into the nineteenth century, till it is finally broken off by the critique of Historicism. And its course dries up even more completely the more its currents are diverted into the channels of the specific sciences. Thus, since the end of the eighteenth century, the newly emerging social sciences and the disciplines of jurisprudence have drawn off the waters of classical politics. This process of separation from the body of practical philosophy has ended for the time with the establishment of political science on the model of the modern experimental sciences, having little more than the name in common with the old politics. Wherever we still encounter the latter, it seems hopelessly old fashioned to us.”

The discipline of politics has also experienced an insurrection against its current reduction to the “science of political behaviour”. As long ago as 1967 a Caucus for a New Political Science was founded to work within the instituted discipline appeared subsequently in a representative publication by members of this new caucus. Once again the main burden of the criticism is against the organized conformity of the discipline and its attempt to institute the behaviouralist paradigm as the sole intellectual content and method of politics. This disciplinary prescription was frequently buttressed by reference to Kuhn’s idea of a single paradigm per science. Peter Euben sums up this approach:

“A paradigm must be ‘enforced’. To achieve a science of politics, we need enforcers, we need those whose authority in a community of political scientists would function in ways comparable to that in the community of science. Tolerance for diversity within such a community, as within the “normal political science[‘ it would be there to defend, would necessarily be limited in order to guarantee cumulative knowledge.”

Euben predicts that such a paradigm community would soon cease to have much to do with real politics and become an ivory tower discipline: “the community of political science will be fairly small, embrace the concept of professionalism maintained by one or two core journals and the key textbooks, provide opportunities for closeness, common purpose etc.” This course, however, has not been followed since the pull of real politics is too strong to resist, especially by leading professors called to political office or advisory capacities. The converse danger is that the discipline will be staffed by ready apologists for the regime and its policies.

This evolution has been steadily taking place since the 1950’s, especially in American universities where politics is now frequently the study of what politicians are currently engaged in doing, mainly with the purpose of offering them acceptable academic advice and so making the scholars indispensable to the politicians – the example of Kissinger and Brzezinski looms large in the aspirations of political scientists. Long before he had assumed office, Brzezinski had already proffered such a programme for political studies:

“As engagement in the world is encouraging the appearance of a new breed of politicians-intellectuals, men who make it a point to mobilize and draw on the most expert, scientific, and academic advice in the development of political programmes . . . (so) the largely humanist-oriented, occasionally ideologically-minded intellectual-dissenter, who saw his role largely in terms of proffering social critiques, is rapidly being displaced either by experts and specialists, who become involved in special governmental undertakings, or by generalist-integrators, who become in effect house-ideologues for those in power, providing overall intellectual integration for disparate action.”

He has been as good as his word, both as academic and politician. Most other academic mandarins have followed suit. The result has been that foreign policy, diplomacy and international relations studied at present are mainly concerned with the balance of power in the period since the end of the war, with nuclear deterrence as a technical speciality and with the major power blocs as areas of specialization. The study of domestic policy, government and institutions has become focused on the current workings of corporatist representative democracy, concentrating on parties, pressure grops, administration, and the strategies and tactics of electioneering – the last even going to the ludicrous extreme of attempting to become established as a special science with the name of psephology. One-party systems are the preserve of specialists calling themselves Kremlinologists and China men. To this body of studies at the top of the status ladder are sometimes added bits and pieces derived from other sciences, such as political sociology or psychosocial politics, or the occasional subjects dealing with issues such as totalitarianism or Third World politics. An outline of the main modern ideologies is presented largely for undergraduate teaching purposes, though since the “end-of-ideology” thesis these are looked on more as historical curiosities. Only the ex-student radicals, with their influx of new Marxisms, have altered this development a little here and there. Political theory is frequently presented only for teaching purposes as a potted history of political philosophy. Political theorists have gone to the length of trying to establish a separate association called the Conference for the Study of Political Thought. But such secessions do not improve the discipline as a whole, which now suffers from an absence of integrating theories. There is usually nothing of what used to be considered the main staples of politics: no comprehensive theory of the State (Staatslehre), no theory of sovereignty, right or law, no ethical political philosophy or morality of power, no comprehensive theory of representation or power and authority, no utopian speculations, no comparative study of political systems in different countries and epochs, no political economy, no study of politics in relation to culture, no study of the “spirit” of politics, such as the classical concern with the civic virtue of citizens. In short, there is hardly anything left of what was thought worthy by classical political thinkers, as indeed Habermas declares.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Pseud's Corner Part 7

For multiple disservices to literature and human dignity, this week's Order of the Brown Nose goes to Jennifer Byrne, host of ABC's First Tuesday Book Club. The list of the pseudy talents on display in her most recent First Tuesday website update really only starts with public brown-nosing of much-loved writers; apart from the general air of unreconstructed self-love and clubbyness, there's the excrutiating pretention ("we laughed like drains" etc), unselfconscious use of cliche's ("that grand old man" etc) and boganic glossy magazine slang (the Book Industry Awards could've been "glammer" etc). Oh, and the generous plug she gives her own interview with Christopher Hitchens in the same breath as announcing that he has cancer.CS

"Another week, another literary prize... last week it was the turn of young Craig Silvey, who took out the industry's Book of the Year with his terrific story of life and a mysterious death in a country town, Jasper Jones. I was sitting at the back of Paddington Town Hall next to that grand old man of letters Tom Keneally, - always blissful company - who scored big applause for his win in the non-fiction category. These Book Industry Awards aren't perhaps as glam as some others but what I like about them is they honour not just writers but the lesser-known people who make the publishing world spin: booksellers, distributors, illustrators, publishers. Though the anxiety in the room about the rise of the e-book was palpable. Lots of passionate speeches in support of the paper-and-ink version - the "heritage delivery system", as the marketers might say. - As for my own reading - well, you can't get much more heritage than Tolstoy's epic Anna Karenina, nominated by many as the greatest novel ever written. . .

Thanks for your reading suggestions last month. I can tell you which clubber suggested Curtis Settlefield's An American Wife, it was Amanda Keller on our Christmas show last year - along with the unforgettable Me Cheeta, a spoof celebrity biography by the world-weary chimp in the Tarzan pictures. We all laughed like drains - assuming she was joking - but had to eat our cackles [eat our own kaka?] when it turned up on the the 2009 Booker Prize longlist!

And even though it is the second Tuesday of the month, a reminder to tune in July 13 for my special half-hour interview with the brilliant, mouthy contrarian Christopher Hitchens. This is a man who could charm birds from the trees. And then roast them for dinner as punishment for being so easily seduced. Funny, pugnacious - and at the moment, I imagine, absolutely devastated. He was out promoting his 11th book and first memoir, Hitch-22, when advised that he'd been diagnosed with cancer; he immediately pulled out of the tour to start chemo treatment. But he's in scintillating form in this interview - and the full hour version will go up on the First Tuesday site." (Jennifer Byrne, "What I'm reading" First Tuesday Book Club online)

***

On Fanoodling

It's been non-stop fanoodling here on The Great Stage since Julian Meyrick fanoodled his way to a really prominent corner of the Corner of Shame in edition no. 6 and revealed to us with the f*ck-you appassionata of a man of true conviction - not only that Beckett's immortal Waiting for Godot is a moral lesson in . . . waiting, but also what Vlad and Estr really get up to in the course of the play. Of course they despair, but, more importantly, they fanoodle. They fanoodle so significantly that the great gullet of Australian cultural unresponsiveness opens wide and emits . . . funny noises. Feeling almost certain that Dr Meyrick wasn't suggesting he'd seen Ian McKellen and co. "messing round on a couch" doing something "like cuddling, only better" - as a quick trip to the Urban Dictionary seemed to indicate - we asked readers to tell us what they thought Meyrick really meant - deep down. Today, the results are in.    

A SHIFTING, shuffling, furrowing, cogitating noise. A cross between a wheeze, a sigh and a snort of determination. This is the sound emitting from the Comedy Theatre at the moment. The sound of Australians facing up to Culture. . . That Waiting for Godot should be presented commercially 50 years after it was damned by New York critic Walter Kerr as "a play in which nothing happens, twice" suggests either the world has lost its mind, or changed it. Beckett's two tramps, fanoodling and despairing their days away waiting for a mysterious Godot who never appears, is stamped on our collective consciousness as the archetypal existential statement. A ditch, a tree, a few guys killing time. That's it, folks. After all the unwanted Christmas presents, great loves, political upheavals, promotions, demotions, technical advances, broken marriages and lost biros, that what we're left with. That's life. - A production of Waiting for Godot is a compelling event because it is still an affront to theatre-going sensibilities. Or once again an affront. Discontinuity is the dominant mode of the modern world, as we frazzle and fragment in unrelenting competitive locomotion. Harried, hurried and chronically overwhelmed, waiting of any kind has been banished, an unmitigated bad. So Beckett's tramps, who literally do nothing for two hours, is a poke in the eye, a ''f**k you'' from beyond the grave. Having to sit in the theatre and think for a prolonged period demands skills all but forgotten, like tuning a crystal set. Something more is required, a quality of attention we reserve only for things that touch us deeply. Things that really matter. (Julian Meyrick, "Beckett can teach us how to wait", The Age)

So, were Vlad and Estr fanoodling, as in:

(a) canoodling in fcuk apparell (Daniel Pilkington)?

(b) "fail-noodling" - i.e. failing to use their noodles - presumably to agree on a departure strategy once it became clear that Godot was putting in a no-show (Sam Waters)?

(c) squeezing the wrong end of the sauce bottle (Kevin Rudd)?

OR

(d) running around with their underpants on their heads being boisterously expressive, i.e. acting (Larissa Harrison)?

The free lunch voucher I think clearly goes to . . . Mr Pilkington.

***

For my part – and in this forum for intimate, writerly expression – I’ve got to openly submit here to conceding that for the longest time I’ve resented the contention that a tactile, geographical environment impacts on the quality of an author’s work. I do, however, freely and cordially embrace the notion that a physical, authorial space administers a significant influence upon a writer’s work ethic. - For wherever I work – be this sprawling over and scrawling onto the leg of an armchair – be this conveniently adopting the Yellow Pages as both a makeshift desk and seer-stone for its infinite supply of barbarous character names – be this scrawling my linguistically anomalous breed of hieroglyph into water-choked moleskines, or onto the backs of lurid junkmail pamphleteering the services of professional suburban podiatrists moonlighting as dental technicians – be this writing with my fingertip into granulated mounds of sugar, or into nuggets of spilled coffee grounds, before palming my idle attempts at kitchen literature into my enamel-ware mug and consuming these same imperfect sentences with soy milk so sweet I can almost mask the bitter taste of haphazard syntax – for wherever my compulsion to write seizes me, my stamina for producing is dependent upon a space where personal comfort reigns supreme. (Kirk Marshall, "Kirk Marshall's Literary Space" LiteraryMinded)

The Advancement Solutions Consultant is responsible for analysing client requirements and providing complex data reports to the advancement community of the University. The position is required to play a pivotal role in the development and documentation of technical procedures for managing information across the Advancement system portfolio. Furthermore, the Advancement Solutions Consultant will develop standard reports that replace ad hoc reports using the business intelligence reporting tool (Microsoft SQL Server BI) by adhering to the report development lifecycle. - The incumbent will also be responsible for providing assistance and making business process improvements across the Advancement system portfolio. - Additionally, the Advancement Solutions Consultant will manage new customizations and configurations to advancement systems and conduct system and user acceptance testing on applicable environments with other team members. (University of Melbourne, "WANTED: Advancement Solutions Consultant - Advancement Office, Deputy Vice Chancellor (University Affairs))

By day three, we were total ratbags. Our American companion had morphed into ‘Dingo Dave’. Ascending a sharp incline, we found Jennifer Byrne [Why, hello again!] rolling on the ground in paroxysms of laughter. Linda Jaivin’s description of the plot twists in her Song dynasty opera scenario grew more baroque with every mile. Raymond, now bereft of any hope that we might be capable of shutting up for even the shortest time, announced that he had decided to let us talk. I pumped him for dirt on Doc Neeson and the Angels. Conversation ranged across topics from Cormac McCarthy to the difference between a cad and a bounder to cheap eats in Istanbul. Only rarely did we encounter other walkers, groups of older folk mostly, with serious expressions and ski-stock walking sticks. They looked scandalised as we trooped past singing selections from The Sound of Music. ("Shane Maloney opens his diary", The Spectator Australia)

[The latest album]'s many false starts and dead ends also place M.I.A. on shaky ground aesthetically, and with no coherent message to fall back on, the album feels alienated and disconnected, perhaps ironic for an album attempting to evoke the hyper-connectedness and sensory overload of culture in the wake of iPhone and Google. A lot of the criticisms of M.I.A. have focused on her lack of a coherent politics, the questionable ethics of her aestheticization of poverty, and the hypocrisies of her privileged lifestyle. With albums as vital and original as Arular and Kala, it was easy to defend her deterritorializations as a valid artistic strategy, a method of salvaging the radical moment and making it resonate with a Western audience weaned on hip-hop's valorization of the outlaw. The Hirschbergs of the world are wrong when they attempt to bring M.I.A. to task for these perceived ethical violations, when her body of work is more productively viewed as a series of politically charged portraits in which that naïveté is essential to the revolutionary urgency she seeks to bring to the dancefloor. Unfortunately, this time out, M.I.A. just hasn't given us enough to work with. (Jonathan Dean reviews MIA, Tiny Mix Tapes. Tip of the hat for a close reading of this spasming hypertext to Matt Wendus)

Hyland’s writing, which has only increased in strangeness with each new book, emerges from a shifting of co-ordinates between cold-eyed clinician and artist’s empathetic heart. Her characters are constructed from the tension between autistic remove and panting proximity; her narratives energised by the insertion of wildly disturbed individuals into drab, constricted worlds. And her style? As Harold Pinter once said of his work, “What goes on in my plays is realistic, but what I’m doing is not realism.” (Geordie Williamson, The Australian)


[Spotters: ONR, BG, CMcC, ACG] 

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Dicta and Contradicta: More Karl Kraus

I’ve noticed that the butterflies are dying out. Or is it just that children are the only ones who see them? When I was ten I associated exclusively with Admiralen in the fields of Weidlingau and I can say it was the proudest company I’ve ever kept in my life. Trauermantel, Tagpfauenauge and Zitronenfalter made for the extra colour of one’s youthful existence. Vanessa Io, Vanessa cardui – oh indulgence of indulgences! When I returned many years later, they had all disappeared. The midday sun blasted away as ever, but not a single flicker of colour was to be spotted. Instead scraps of newspaper were scattered about the meadows. Later I learned that wood from the forests had been requisitioned the production of printing paper. In short, with information in such abundance, the butterflies were considered to be in oversupply. One of our magazine’s well-wishers actually sent in the very last butterfly and a colleague took the opportunity to skewer it on his pen and look into the causes of its fatal isolation. The world (it was found) is in flight from all colour of personality; from which one protects oneself by getting organised. The butterflies were the only ones who’d neglected to organise themselves. And thus it came about that sub-editors, glimmering hacks, sip away at the flowery chalices of old and infuse their prose with the perfume of their experiences. Even the monotonal Kohlweisslinge (cabbage whites) had to give way, though the journos might plausibly have come to some agreement owing to a certain kinship between them. The war to the death with those little flying creatures represents the triumph of newspaper culture. Butterflies and women, beauty and spirit, nature and art get a painful taste of what it means for a Sunday paper to have 150 pages. Mankind hits out against butterflies with fly-swats. And wipes the colourful dust from its fingers, because they have to be clean for printers’ ink.

Prejudice is an indispensable servant who stands at the front door and turns away nasty impressions. The trick though is not to be thrown out by your servant yourself.

My spirit is stirred by my senses, my senses are stirred by the spirit of women. But what of the body? The body I think and feel into non-existence. Experimenta in corpore vili.

Hypocrites are not hateful because they don’t practise what they preach, but because they don’t preach what they practise. A man who condemns moral hypocrisy has to take care not to be mistaken for a friend of morality, which the hypocrites at least betray in private. It is not betrayal of morality that is worthy of condemnation but morality itself. For it is the sum and substance of hypocrisy. The scandal that needs to be exposed is not that they drink wine, but that they preach water. To show up contradictions between theory and practice is always an awkward business. What do the actions of the mass of men mean compared with the thoughts of a single individual? The moralist could well be in earnest in his crusade against a brand of immorality, to which he himself has fallen victim. Now if a man preaches wine, he could even be forgiven for drinking water. Sure – he contradicts himself. Yet he at least brings it about that the world's consumption of wine increases.

God be thanked I have often shot over the target but seldom beside it.

In earlier times I often got amorally indignant. But morality gets the upper hand here, there and everywhere and one gives it up.

A paradox comes into being when knowledge that's ripe before its time collides with the idiocy of the times.

Antitheses seem to be no more than mere mechanical inversions. Yet what a wealth of experience, suffering and knowledge one has to acquire before one may turn a word on its head!

It is almost ten years since I did any waking up to myself. The last time I woke up I founded a magazine in which to go to war against people.

My public and I understand one another very well: it doesn’t hear what say and I don’t say what it'd like to hear.

The masses don’t understand the German language; and I can’t tell it to them in journalese.

You get so little recognition, it's enough to drive you megalo-manic!

I can proudly say that I’ve spent days and nights reading nothing, and that I use every free minute, iron of will, gradually acquiring an encyclopaedic lack of education.

How much material I’d have if there weren’t any events!

He who wants to do no business with the world should let it be known that he intends to reduce his stock of acquaintances and to clear out his experiences at something less than their purchase price.

I've developed over the years into a hectic pursuer of social disadvantages. I keep on the trail of every chance to get rid of an acquaintance or lose an influential connection. Maybe one day I'll pull off one of the top jobs after all!

I was rarely loved, but always hated.

Hold your passions in check but guard against giving reason free reign.

Vanity is the indispensable guardian of a godly gift. It is nonsense to demand that a woman should relinquish her beauty or a man his intellect so as not to rub poverty up the wrong way. And it is foolish to claim that something valuable shouldn't draw attention to itself so as not to betray the worthlessness of another. Someone who accuses me of vanity puts himself under suspicion of envy – which is not as pretty a trait by a long shot. Someone who dares deny me my vanity however puts me under suspicion of impoverishment.

The sensuality of women needs as little of a tangible pretext as the artistic genius of men. The more unlikely the trigger, the more lavishly it unfolds itself. Spirit is bound to no class prejudice and lust is a perspective on life.

When we cast off an error, superficial characters continue to accuse us of the error and meticulous ones of inconsistency.

Wise men relent, but only those who got wise through suffering.

The faker doesn’t believe in anything genuine. And if he were to believe he still couldn’t comprehend how anyone can be genuine in an age when nobody has any real need to be genuine.

Look, that’s still not the right sort of loneliness in which to busy yourself with yourself.

The only part of an ideal which ought to be attainable is called martyrdom.

What will torture you are lost possibilities. To be certain something is impossible is already to have gained.

Nationalism – that love which binds me to the numbskulls of my nation, to those who offend my ways and desecrate my language.

It’s not true illumination if the faculty of understanding can't make a will-o’-the-wisp of it.

The philosopher thinks his way into daily life from eternity, the poet into eternity from daily life.

In a well-ordered intellectual household some thorough tidying up needs doing on the threshold of consciousness a few times a year.

If you want a clear-cut estimate of your friends, consult your dreams.

We often have to reflect to discover what we're happy about. But we always know what saddens us.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Pseud's Corner Special: The Peter Craven Edition

This week, a special edition of Pseud's Corner featuring a writer who has really been excelling himself over the years - Peter Craven.

Mr Craven has managed to get himself in the starting line-up for all of our previous five editions of the Corner of Shame; his sycophantic panting over artistic celebrities in The Australian Spectator and those unstoppable, barely argued reviews in a range of literary publications have made him a real go-to man when it comes to prose that is "pretentious, over-written, self-important, knowing instead of knowledgeable, name-dropping, cliche'd or sloppy to the point of meaninglessness" - as prose which deserves its place in Pseud's Corner must be.

Luckily, Craven's bad prose also seems to have inspired one of The Great Stage's 5.5 readers to draw our Grand Master of Pseudery in a costume provided by his own rhetorical self in a recent frenzy of off-key name-dropping (see below). We give you . . . "Peter Craven as The Widow Twankey" by "Anna Karenina". David Levine - you have a continuator! 

Some may find that the compilation we've made below of Mr Craven's monstrosities runs on too long. And yet there's no denying the man can be entertaining when he is writing this badly and getting away with it - for connoisseurs of tortured prose, maybe the freak show can't go on too long. Second, it's nice to give a sense of the different shades of Mr Craven's bad writing. After all, there's not just the infatuated celebrity tittle-tattle, there are the snobbish invocations of High Art, the great heaving gestures in the direction of explanation, the metaphors from the twilight-zone ("cobra-like steadiness of purpose" etc), the flatulent attempts to channel Robert Hughes ("the shit and slime of mortality, the ordure and torture of the act of dying"). And, of course, there's Peter talking about God.

Am I alone in thinking that most Australian arts undergraduates could produce more coherent critical responses than this guy? How does he get away with it? Anyone who thinks he has an answer - and of course anyone who's spotted any more of Mr Craven's gems - feel welcome to say hello at pseudsaustralia@yahoo.com.au  
  
*

The audience was peppered with Beckettian spectres. I didn’t see Barry Humphries, who’d been a striking presence at the Bill Henson opening in Sydney two nights earlier but Geoffrey Rush, [Mel] Gibson’s Vladimir, and a triumph 30 years later as Ionesco’s exiting king, was there, as was his friend Bille Brown who had actually written an Aladdin pantomime in which McKellen played the Widow Twankey. So too was Max Gillies who had done Krapp’s Last Tape for Elijah Moshinsky at Monash 40 years ago. And Colin Duckworth, the professor of French who knew Sam Beckett himself, was in the audience, having seen most of the notable Godots since Peter Hall’s. . . With the passage of the years Waiting for Godot has come to seem less like a shocking paradigm of absurdity and more like the deep sad comedy of a continuing condition (call it human if you must). (Peter Craven reviews Sean Mathias' "Waiting for Godot", The Spectator: Australian Edition)

The easiest way into Rothwell is via Another Country, because that book makes clear without any overwhelming baroque turbulence that we are dealing with a cultivated sensibility, all but flypapered with the culture of Europe, the kind of bloke who jumped on a plane to see, as soon as possible, a newly rediscovered Titian in eastern Europe, who is steeped in the literary power of the 19th-century Australian explorers and is alive not only to his own desire for illumination and the potential for personal enlightenment and spiritual excruciation that comes from exploration (in all its literal and metaphorical ambivalence); but who is also, in a worldly sense, open to the fact that "spiritual tourism", like the taste for Aboriginal art, is a growth industry and a collective sussurration of which his own whispering is a part. ("Appointment with the sublime", ALR)

Later that night we were partaking of more Sydney luxury at the party of my old friend (and doctor) Jonathan Upfal and his lovely lady Susie Corlett, which was in the Pratt flat that overlooks Circular Quay the way a Martian spaceship might overlook Earth. It’s another of those views that make you feel, for a moment, like a master of the universe, even if what you’re listening to in the velvety darkness of the balcony with the lights in the water like inverted stars is that wild man Peter Booth talking about his paintings, or Bill Henson arguing that the films made by that left-wing aristocrat Visconti just got better and better as his career went on. Colin appeared to spend the whole night talking only to that gorgeous popular novelist Lee Tulloch. ("Peter Craven opens his diary" The Spectator online)

Charlotte Rampling (a strikingly thoughtful and self-possessed woman with whom Colin and I had dinner on Saturday night at Jane Badler’s South Yarra home) was 24 when she made The Damned for Visconti, and is still a regal presence in the French cinema. She is playing a dying woman in Schepisi’s White film and Judy Davis her daughter, the Princesse de Lascabanes. On the previous Sunday we went to the 80th birthday party of Jonathan Upfal’s mother, Bunny, a lady who used to vote communist but who is now (and she finds it a great lark) la comtesse de Saint-Ferjeux. . . A couple of days later I was at the memorial service for that great Australian-born London-based poet, Peter Porter. His daughter Jane told me that at the actual London funeral –– at which Clive James, visibly moved, had read from the Bible — Martin Amis, Julian Barnes and Ian McEwan, those lions of modern fiction, had all showed up to honour the man who gave up a job in advertising to make a living writing reviews but will be read as long as the English language is spoken. At the service at Newman College, Fr. Peter Steele presided, Morag Fraser read psalm 39 to the manner born, and Peter Rose talked of the funny, generous man who always thought everyone was likely to be run down crossing the street by a dark Daimler sent by the British government. Craig Sherborne read a late poem by Peter, ‘After Schiller’, which had a staggering formal power, magnificent and moving. They sang Mozart, Wolf and Schubert, with Anna Goldsworthy at the piano, and then in the high reverberant acoustic of that Catholic chapel we heard the voice of Peter Porter reading his own work: so warm, so understated, a commingling of Britain and Australia. The congregation –– which ranged from the comedian John Clarke to the critic Owen Richardson –– melted. ("Peter Craven opens his diary" The Spectator online)

I meet Rampling twice, once at a dinner party, then two days later on the set. At the dinner table, without make-up and with clearly no desire even for the most casual limelight, she looks the opposite of vain, with no hint of the star. - On the set, though she is made up to look very old, all the familiar beauty, the sense of bewitchment is there, even as she strives to explain how it was the core of spirituality that illuminates the character she is playing. . .
It is hard not to have the highest hopes for Schepisi's film. The man who as a director can range from what is, I suppose, the greatest representation, in any form, of an Australian Catholic childhood in The Devil's Playground through to the easy sophistications of Six Degrees of Separation and who also elicited that performance by Meryl Streep as Lindy Chamberlain: who better to direct a film of this dark yet luminous masterpiece about womanhood and the mystery of things in the face of death? - That he is doing this with an actress who has been famous for decades and has pursued a career not of stardom but of dramatic truth . . .what could be more appropriate for the first major film that is being made of a book by a man who presented our world as one of the dark and God-kissed places of the earth? (Peter Craven on the making of Fred Schepisi's Eye of the Storm, "Demise of a dominator", ALR)

THE paradox of The Eye of the Storm and the thing that makes it unlike any other novel is that White gives the fullest possible weight to the shit and slime of mortality, to the ordure and torture of the act of dying, while also providing with a dazzling and kaleidoscopic realism for the vision of spiritual illumination that makes Elizabeth Hunter more than the twitching corpse of her pent-up vanities and seductions and capacities for betrayal. - It's a brilliant novel in what might almost have been a gothic mode (the grand old dame croaking and gabbling in the grand old house) except that the writing has such a consistent verve, as it continues to find the stuff of drama in the crazy poignancy and comedy of this woman dying, with all her girlhood and her womanhood in flower, through the action and invention of memory and the marvellous counterpoint that is executed between the predicament of the ravaged and the ravishing Elizabeth Hunter and her two dreadful children, the feckless narcissist actor and the insecure "French" aristocrat. - It's an extraordinary performance even at the incidental level of its orchestration. Apart from anything else The Eye of the Storm is a kind of recapitulation of King Lear for the female voice and face. This de Kooning-like creature bedraggled in bed and physically and mentally degraded by the crawl towards death is, like Lear, one of the supreme tragicomic portraits of human life where (to use Shakespeare's language) nature is at the "extreme verge". And one aspect of White's translation of Lear to a feminine mode and to a minor key -- and pointing to the harmony King Lear first intimates, then shatters with its "Howl" -- is to slyly underline the other analogues . . . ( "Demise of a dominator", ALR)

A few years ago, when Cormac McCarthy published On the Road, that story about a young boy and his father wandering an Earth that is coming to an end with maximum horror and bestiality, some people wondered where that writer of westerns with the infliction of tragedy and the eloquence of epic had left to go. The Road seemed a terminally bleak visionthough it was true that the figure of the boy was luminous in his innocence. . .
The play-like Sunset Limited has a kind of didactic brilliance that constantly suggests a different context, as if [it] were the fragment of some subordinated allegory that had its place in a larger novelistic frame-work like the Grand Inquisitor of The Brothers Karamazov. - But because the structure of the work is so dialogic and neo-theological, because it is such a duet for dominant bass and receding tenor to the theme of the problem of evil, it becomes increasingly apparent that there is only one way the action can twist in its climax, and that turns out to be precisely the turn it takes. - The Sunset Limited has a compelling, nearly monomaniacal consistency of tone that fascinates the reader with a cobra-like steadiness of purpose, and then it leaps, as it must, into contrast with a stabbing intensity. ("A life and death debate", The Age)

***
 
Hm, and it seems Mr Craven isn't the only critic that the recent Beckett production has inspired to a spot of, um, foggy-minded "fanoodling". . . [Lunch on CS and an honourable mention in Pseud's Corner 7 for the person to come up with the best definition of "fanoodling" (entries to pseudsaustralia@yahoo.com.au). The Urban Dictionary's definition - "to mess about kinkily, like cuddling only better" - is not acceptable. But apart from that, well, let your imagination wander. What were Beckett's tramps really up to? And what does Julian Meyrick really mean?]

A SHIFTING, shuffling, furrowing, cogitating noise. A cross between a wheeze, a sigh and a snort of determination. This is the sound emitting from the Comedy Theatre at the moment. The sound of Australians facing up to Culture. . . That Waiting for Godot should be presented commercially 50 years after it was damned by New York critic Walter Kerr as "a play in which nothing happens, twice" suggests either the world has lost its mind, or changed it. Beckett's two tramps, fanoodling and despairing their days away waiting for a mysterious Godot who never appears, is stamped on our collective consciousness as the archetypal existential statement. A ditch, a tree, a few guys killing time. That's it, folks. After all the unwanted Christmas presents, great loves, political upheavals, promotions, demotions, technical advances, broken marriages and lost biros, that what we're left with. That's life. - A production of Waiting for Godot is a compelling event because it is still an affront to theatre-going sensibilities. Or once again an affront. Discontinuity is the dominant mode of the modern world, as we frazzle and fragment in unrelenting competitive locomotion. Harried, hurried and chronically overwhelmed, waiting of any kind has been banished, an unmitigated bad. So Beckett's tramps, who literally do nothing for two hours, is a poke in the eye, a ''f**k you'' from beyond the grave. Having to sit in the theatre and think for a prolonged period demands skills all but forgotten, like tuning a crystal set. Something more is required, a quality of attention we reserve only for things that touch us deeply. Things that really matter. (Julian Meyrick, "Beckett can teach us how to wait", The Age) 

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

More Fun: Old Fun: Other People's Fun - With Photoshop

2010 - The Year That Isn't . . . [Click to enlarge]
 



Meanwhile, back in 2007 . . .

Getting truculent Labor Premiers to sign off on commonwealth-brokered deals was one of the many challenges that presented themselves to the Honourable Member for Bennelong. . .

A skinny barely human-looking girl whose pants were falling down in public took a turn along Hollywood Boulevard with a pirate named Benji she had just married. . . 

Telemovies took a turn for the even worser. . .

John So had an embarrassing encounter with some members of the Tibetan Buddhist fraternity visiting Melbourne. . .

While humorous beings all over the internet easily outdid The Great Stage, producing photo-montages and rectilinear speech bubbles that cast shadows. . .



Friday, July 9, 2010

More Neapolitan Proverbs

A new installment of proverbs from Naples, plus last November's installment newly improved. Minor liberties have been taken in translation, e.g. in adding specificity to the Neapolitan picture of exercising authority.

Nun facite maie bene, ca nun avite maie male.
Don't do good deeds if you don't want wicked deeds to come of them.

' O cumannà è meglio d' 'o fottere.
Giving orders is better than hot sex on the beach.

Ogne strunzo tene 'o fummo suio.
Every d*ckhead has his own special whiff.

'O palosso fa sempe mosse.
A man with a ridiculous side only draws attention to it with his attitudes.

Pulecenella, 'e fische 'e teneva p'applause.
When Pulcinella wheeled round and dog-whistled the audience he showed the true value of applause.

Quann' 'o diavulo t'accarezza è segno ca vô l'anema.
When your devil was still in short pants, mine already had his PhD.

Tutt' 'o munno è paese.
The whole world is provincial.

'O cafone tene 'e scarpe grosse e  'o cervello fino.
The definition of a peasant is someone with fat shoes and a fine mind.

Ommo senza vizie, menesta senza sale.
A man without vices is as insipid as soup without salt.

Quann' 'o tavernaro sta annanze â cantina, dinto nun ce sta nisciuno.
When the inn-keeper stands motionless in the entranceway, it means there's no one left in the inn.

Chi pava ampresso pava doie vote.
Paying up quickly is paying twice over.

'E pezziente so' sempe 'e chiù superbe.
Beggars are always the highest-minded of the lot.

Se venne Napule pe nu soldo e nun ce sta 'o soldo.
You could sell the whole of Naples for a dollar, but nobody would have the dollar to buy her.

Meglio 'o pazzo â casa soia ca 'o savio â casa 'e l'ate.
Better to play crazy at home than play the wise-man at someone else's place.

'A meglia parola è chella ca nun se dice.
The best word is the one that goes unspoken.

Chi cammina sempe pe l'ombra, offenne 'a luce.
A man who walks forever in the shadows is an offence to the light.

Chi nun tene pietà, pietà nun trova.
A man who has no pity will find no pity.

Chi guverna 'a robba 'e l'ate nun se cocca senza magnà.
A man who takes care of the goods of other people will at least manage to feed himself every day of the year.

Chi mette 'a pezza a culore è 'o vero duttore.
The man who knows how to rescue a situation is a true maestro.

Chi perde ave sempe torto.
The man who loses is always in the wrong.

Chi s'appiecceca senza raggione, fa pace senza suddisfazione.
Start a fight without motivation and you make peace without satisfaction.

D' 'o panno fino ce sta sempe 'o chiù fino.
When it comes to finery, there's always something finer.

'E morto chillo d' 'e pisciature; e che, nun se piscia chiù?
The guy who invented pisspots died. Do you think that means no one's pissing any more?

Fa' bene e scorda, fa' male e pienzace.
If you do good deeds, forget about it. If you do ill, keep it in mind.

Meglio 'o male pruvato ca 'o buono 'a pruvà.
Better to have suffered than to be compelled to enjoy.

N'ora 'e cuntiento fa scurdà mill'anne 'e turmiente.
An hour of joy makes nothing of a thousand years of suffering.

Chi va pe chisti mare, chisti pisce piglia.
He who travels these seas will catch these kinds of fish.

Chiove e malu tiempo fa: â casa 'e l'ate è buono a sta'.
When it's raining or the weather's bad it's a sweet thing to be holed up at a friend's place.

'O pirchio pare c' 'o culo l'arroba 'a cammisa.
The miser fears that his own arse will rob him of his shirt.

'E chiù fesse so' sempe 'e primme a farse sentì.
The biggest imbeciles are always the first to be heard.

Muntagne e muntagne nun se 'ncontrano.
All things come together except the mountaintops.

***

Ammore sincero dura na vita e renne allere.
Love that is sincere lasts a lifetime and fills the lover with high spirits.

Chi tene mamma, non chiange.
If you have a mother, you have no need to cry.

‘E figlie so’ piezze e’ core.
Sons are like pieces of the heart.

‘O figlio muto ‘a mamma ‘o ‘ntenne.
A son who holds his tongue is understood by his mother.

P’ ‘a sora zita ‘o frato è nu miezu marito.
To a sexy sister a brother is already half a husband.

Quann’ ‘e figlie fottono ‘e pate so’ futtute.
Once the children are f*cking, the parents are f*cked.

‘O parlà chiaro è fatto pe l’amice.
Clear speech was made for friends.

Si nun vuo’ perdere l’amico, nun ‘o mettere â prova.
If you don’t want to lose a friend, don’t put him to the test.

È viecchio sulo chi more.
Don’t say you’re old till you’re dead.

‘O viecchio ha da murì, ‘o giovane pô murì.
An old man must die, a young man can die.

‘A monaca d’ ‘e Camaldole muscio nun ‘o vuleva, ma tuosto dice che la faceva male.
The Camaldolean nun said she didn’t like it floppy, but when it was hard it hurt.

Cazzo ‘ntustato, sempe rispettato.
A stiff pr*ck is always respected.

‘A vita è n’affacciata ‘e fenesta.
Life is short, like a glance out the window.

Dicette ‘a morte: - Se ‘n Catania vaie, ‘n Catania vengo.
Death said – If you’re going to Catania, I’ll come to Catania.

Casa accunciata, morte apparicchiata.
An orderly house is a mortuary waiting to happen.

Chi ‘int’ ‘a chiesa s’ammacca ‘o pietto ‘e ponie, è fauzo e demonio.
A man who beats his breast in church is false and is a demon.

Chi nun rispetta ‘o Criatore, nun pô rispettà ‘a criatura.
A man with no respect for the Creator has no respect for His creatures.

Dicette Dio ‘nfaccia a Dio: - Lasammo fa’ a Dio.
Even God sometimes turns to God and says – Bah, leave it to God.

‘O Pateterno primm’ ‘e fa e po l’accocchia.
God in Heaven makes ‘em, then copies ‘em.

Si ‘a fatica fosse bona, ‘a farriano ‘e prievete.
If work were fun, priests would do some too.

Auciello ‘ncaiola, o canta p’arraggia o canta p’ammore.
The bird in the cage sings either out of rage or out of love.

Che ce ave a fa’ ‘a gatta, si ‘a patrona è pazza?
Why blame the cat if her mistress is a nutbag?

Quann’ a furmicula mette ‘e scelle, è segno ca vô murì.
When the ant grows wings, it’s a sign he wants to die.

Quann’ ‘o perucchio saglie ‘ngloria perde ‘a scienza e ‘a memoria.
When the louse ascends in glory it loses all trace of science and memory.

‘O pirchio pare c’ ‘o culo arroba ‘a cammisa.
The miser fears his own arse will rob him of his shirt.

Si ‘o prestito fosse buono, se ‘mprestarria ‘a mugliera.
If loans were a good thing, you’d loan out your wife.

Meglio ‘o pazzo â casa soia ca ‘o savio â casa ‘e l’ate.
Better to play crazy in your own home than play the wise man in someone else’s.

‘E galere so’ chiene ‘e gente ca tene ragione.
Prisons are full of people who are in the right.

‘A casa cu doie porte ‘o diavulo s’ ‘a porta.
A house with two entries is at risk of the devil.

‘A spieca è fatta ‘o ‘ gnurante.
Explanations are for the ignorant.

‘A femmena bella nasce matertata.
Beautiful women are born married.

[from the Italian - i.e. not the Neapolitican - by CS]

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Pseud's Corner: Part 5

Exact an undying revenge on silly, over-written, self-important waffle. All links and extracts welcome at

pseudsaustralia@yahoo.com.au  

For this week's tip-offs, thanks to MH, MJH, SL, BG

***

The fulcrum of truth-claims in documentary drama now becomes clear. Rather than lying with the reporting of indisputable ‘facts’, as Weiss imagines, it is the abrasion between known and accepted views on the one hand, and views that have been ignored and suppressed on the other, that constitutes the force and appeal of the approach. Factual accuracy is, as it were, leveraged in the narrative to instantiate the general truth contained within the conditions of its possibility. But note there has to be a lack of fit in the structure of the drama, on cognitive, emotional and/or physical levels. Badiou says that Truth interrupts History. From a dramaturgical perspective we might say Truth interrupts Pattern. The experience of a drama must overrun its structural predicates and it is in the gaps, elisions and supplements to the action, what elsewhere I call a play’s ‘structural silences’ (Meyrick 2006) that its ontological truth is to be found. (Julian Meyrick, "The Ontology of Dramaturgy")

There have been other cooking shows before, of course, but it's hard not to be impressed by the role MasterChef has played in boosting the culinary confidence of a nation. - We see pasta being made from scratch. We lean how to shuck oysters and how to make our macaroons sleek and shiny - this all amounts to a better world. . . Tension is created in the usual overwrought style. But there's still a lot of fun to be had with the ridiculous dramatics as long as you know where to look. Keeping one eye on the Twitter news feed and one on the telly is a good way to cope. . . In small ways such as these, the overemotional MC moments can be skilfully wrangled back to the realm of the pisstakingly bearable. And thank god, because it really is such a splendid show . . . (Lorerlei Vashti reflects on the pisstakingly bearable agonies and ecstasies of MasterChef, Green Guide)

Through a dramatisation of this man's life, we watch as political idealism turns to doctrinaire ideology and democratic protest becomes a Trojan horse for enabling oppression of the people themselves. Iran: My Grandfather is an astonishing and cautionary tale. - The author portrays his grandfather in a series of vivid vignettes. As these include scenes of argument with his wife, post-coital argument with his mistress and seditious argument with his best griend, it's clear that the grandson has taken imaginative yet unsentimental liberties with this avatar. However, issues of authenticity are side-lined by the vigour of the writing, which includes some "deft info-dumps" presented as dialogue, and the immense commotion of the political background. Interspersed are cogent historical accounts that fill in the caesuras of the narrative. - Deadpan and yet clenched with outrage, these brief essays recount how Iran, the proud inheritor of Persian culture. . .[continues] (Kate Holden, "Iran and its awful ironies", The Age)

"People warmed to Rudd quickly," she told me. "But the affection hasn't deepened. He's seen as bright, not beholden to the party warlords, competent, his own man, really keen to have the job, a breath of fresh air. But who is he? The feeling is: we've been on lots of dates, but we haven't got to the next level." First and foremost, Kevin Rudd is the engine that drives him. Every witness to his life since [his Queensland home-town of] Nambour talks about the phenomenal machine inside this man. He turns many faces to the world, but the engine under the hood is the same 5.4-litre V8. What you see of Rudd at any particular moment depends on the destination and the terrain. He is a sui generis off-road vehicle whose driver is only glimpsed in passing, a shadow through the windscreen. (David Marr talks to Rebecca Huntley of Ipsos Mackay Research about who Kevin Rudd is, Quarterly Essay No. 38, "Power Trip)

I’d claim, therefore, that I’m only productive when I possess an arena to write in that is as supple and accommodating as an old, fuzzy, sublime memory. I don’t want to resign myself to having to assemble a new or revised order from the things around me, every time I sit down to unfurl my fists: writing should be like fly-fishing or tossing the ball; surveying your immediate surroundings, you should know the way and wend of the river, you should sink back into your chair with the faultless ease of a hand into a well-oiled baseball glove. - For me, if you’re having to repeatedly grapple with your workspace each time you succumb to your keyboard – as though words are only valid and apparent when chaos has been cast asunder – then your reserve of energy is being channelled into an unnecessary endeavour. Eventually, a desk will clean itself, but the words won’t ever fail to sprawl, to clutter up, to generate their own forms of fungus and dust. Eventually, there comes a time when you have to accept that objects in disarray won’t tell you anything. The words are skulking in the negative space around them, and unless it stinks of week-old pizza a writer has more important concerns to devour. (Kirk Marshall, "Kirk Marshall's Literary Space", LiteraryMinded)

What Decibel give us is a highly complex, and densely material, negotiation of both the appeal of these concepts, and the rather clunky but beautiful sounds, warm overlays and microtonal fluctuations of these materials when harnessed in conjunction of [sic] what one might characterise as a surrealist bazaar of sound reproduction technology. Like the flea-markets and junk shops which Ray and Andre Breton formerly prowled, Decibel's mechanics of performance is rich in the "convulsive beauty" and strangely patinaed dance of objects and sounds which emerges from such a play of thingness within the audiences's perception. Jonathan W. Marshall, “Thingness and Sonic Alchemy: Decibel performs Alvin Lucier” Liquid Architecture Festival of Sound Art

Monday, July 5, 2010

Melbourne University in $85 mill plan to “grow in its own esteem” (2007)

Melbourne Uni Vice Chancellor Glyn Davis has a “bold new plan” for the university’s future. It may be controversial, but the CEO of Melbourne’s sandstone “icon” has some classic tricks up his sleeve, as he candidly revealed to The Stage recently.

“We are fully up-to-date with the lessons of modern advertising,” Davis told our education correspondent. “Lesson number one is that if you repeat a lie often enough it will be accepted as truth. And lesson number two is that commercial hype, once it goes into overdrive, has the power to cancel out what is normally common sense. Any idiot knows you can generate a bunch of statistics making it sound as if you’re the best or the eighth best in the world. Among the other nonsense we’d like accepted as truth is that Melbourne University’s ‘global positioning’ is ‘enhanced’ by huge class sizes, 1000’s of students who struggle with English, spending millions of dollars on administrative salaries and churning out disgusting amounts of university merchandise like t-shirts and degrees [Is this right? Ed.]”

“That’s where our new Growing Esteem Strategy comes in. It’s like the Federal Government’s Future Fund. We want it to be like the Future Fund. That’s why we’ve given it the dicky name. Only there’s a difference – while the government’s Future Fund will be spent over time to pay for hospitals and telecommunications, the $85 million Growing Esteem money will be spent straight up outspending other universities on advertising. Our aim is to use it on trips overseas talking up our credentials – in fact on anything that will sear the Melbourne University logo onto the retina of anyone who comes within 100km of the place.”

Asked whether he would stop at anything to boost the University’s profile, Professor Davis said he had rejected a proposal to hire girls in bandanas and g-strings to hawk the “hot new education package” outside city train stations. But apart from that he is “open to suggestions.”

“Obviously coming up with slogans and some sort of catchy jingle is the key. We’ve come up with plenty so far. Let me see: The children are our future. Making the future safe for diversity. Go with ‘esteem power’ – it’s the future, yeah!” he said, weirdly punching the air.

Davis was frank about where the $85 million is to come from for him to grow in his own esteem. “Obviously we intend to put the screws on departments that aren’t willing to cut corners so that we have more money to burn over the next few years. But we’ll do it in polite-sounding managerial jargon they can barely understand.”

How are staff reacting to the prospect of yet another education revolution from above? “Ask any member of staff who’s ever been involved in a meeting about ‘Growing Esteem’. If they’re honest, they’ll admit they have no idea what’s going on. That’s because we haven’t told them what’s going on. It’s also partly because we don’t know what’s going on ourselves. About the only thing we’ve decided is that it will involve spending this 100 or so million on ‘fully commercialising’ the ‘venture’ and increasing the number of Deputy Vice Chancellors from the current ten to about 50 or 60.”

“Staff in general need to understand that they are small cogs in an enormous education ‘machine’. And if they aren’t spinning and spinning, as a good cog should, then they will be asked to leave the machine.”

“Obviously it is a gross dereliction of public trust to treat students as canon-fodder in some vast educational war effort. But it would be foolish to try to lay the blame at anyone’s door. There’s nobody who’s really responsible and so nobody’s to blame. Is it me? Is it the government? Is it John Dawkins? Maybe it’s the Abominable Snowman. More likely it’s something to do with the global economy and the global economy means thinking about things from a realistic economic perspective. People accept that. They accept that any economy is a good economy. Including a false economy like dropping standards to pay for first-class publicity.”

“I object to the suggestion that I’m just trying to make the noises Canberra wants to hear. I’m here to spend the pathetic trickle of money that comes down to us from Canberra on something other than education.”

“At the most basic level, I’m just trying to look after myself, like everyone else. I look after Melbourne University by looking after myself. Has your esteem grown as this interview has worn on? Never stop growing in your own esteem – that’s the shot.”



(Glyn Davis will be coming soon to 168 giant plasma tv screens near you.)

(The Stage was the much-loved reality-based predecessor of The Great Stage. It "leant its breast against a reedy shore and unlocked its silent throat" beside a Coburg pond in 2007.)

(Melbourne University continues to grow in its own esteem)

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Pseud's Corner: No. 4

Order of the Brown Nose

Julia Gillard wears power incredibly well. Sorry to use the verb "wears"; a colleague had warned against it. But as Australia's first female prime minister established the running order of questions at yesterday's press conference, her newfound authority fitted like a second skin. Her voice was steady, her gaze direct, her cheeks ever-so-slightly flushed. My eyes kept returning to her stylish necklace. Our Prime Minister chooses a necklace in the morning and not a tie, I kept thinking. Funny what a giddy, slightly nervous mind can latch on to.

As we stood around watching the press conference, one woman thrust her fist into the air and hissed, "Yes!" Another whispered "Finally", her eyes moist. No, I decided. Granted, the time for bursting into "I am woman, hear me roar" has long passed. And it is a challenge to mark this moment without lapsing into the sentimental or the patronising or the glib. It is a bittersweet, heartbreaking moment too; encompassing the shattered dreams of a man of great promise. But don't piss on this parade by claiming there's nothing to celebrate. . .

When Kevin Rudd became Labor leader in 2006, a reporter wrote about how sexy he suddenly seemed: a dusting of power being all it takes. So let's say it: Gillard was damn sexy too, even sexier than she was two days ago. If saying this undermines the [feminist] cause, the cause still has a way to go. (Julie Szego, "A feminist hero", The Age)

***

This week's Order of the Brown Nose goes to Julie Szego for her reaction to the Gillard boil-over last week in The Age - not quite for sucking up, but for empty-headed cluckiness on the subject. "Funny what a giddy, slightly nervous mind can latch on to," Szego twitters as she catches herself in flagrante full of confused sentimentality; less funny is what such a mind is happy to splurge into its newspaper column: the worst of the lot is the cliche' that power is sexy - that Julia G is sexier than ever before now she's come by the highest office in the land. Szego knows the effect is pure media hokum - something that dissipates over months or can vanish almost overnight, as it did for Kevin Rudd; she says as much. But when it comes to Gillard, well. . . because she's feeling giddy, the cliche' doesn't just get trotted out as if it's true and interesting, it gets elevated to the status of a feminist nostrum; the logic seems to be - we all know that the power-is-sexy idea is bollocks, but - if women can be sexy in power just like men, it proves that equality of the sexes is another major step closer to full realisation.

The Age was at its worst in its coverage of Gillard's rise to power. In comparison to its 10-page spread, the Hun read like Tacitus. With more column inches to fill - and at such short notice, given the coup against Rudd took everyone by surprise - Age staffers were able to really indulge one of the mainstream media's worst habits: reporting on their own reactions to events (events that they in every sense tease into existence) as if their reactions were themselves the news. Maybe this kind of situation's made specially surreal in Australia by the fact that the national capital is a sort of anti-metropolis: the drama of Rudd's resignation, like so many a national-political story, took place in an almost wholly negative public space - in front, that is, of no one but an assembled mass of PR-bods, journos and camera-operators, with no street scene to function as backdrop, no vitally interested or plainly curious or merely indifferent group of burghers to raise the scene from out of its hyper-mediated sub-reality.

The best response to the civic vacuum, you'd think, would be to let events speak for themselves. Instead, Age sloggers like Szego and Tony Wright fill out their pictures of events with the reactions of fellow sloggers. The media stands around observing itself, ready to write up its experience of itself as news. There it is, front and centre of the story, crowding close to the "spectral" Kevin Rudd, hanging on the "dying words of the extinguished leader". Rudd's own media-team, together with other staffers, are captured accompanying him on his "final journey" - this is the journey into the prime ministerial courtyard outside his office for his last press conference: poignant spinners in serried ranks of three "march as a battalion across the cobbles, forming a sort of guard of honour." Wright really earns his place in the Corner of Shame with a little touch that comes in the middle of Rudd's speech: a nameless member of the media-pack bumps the sculpture in the courtyard and - you guessed it, it tolls like a bell - "the bell that has already tolled for Kevin Rudd, the vanquished prime minister." Tony, we feel, it tolls for you too, for all those dead phrases walking, the ritual changing of the words on the page. As you put it so aptly - it is all nothing more than a formality. Lead us, your lambs, to the slaughterhouse of prose. Vanquished yet expectant, we read on. . .
 
Such a long walk, the one to the gallows. Kevin Rudd, hands in pockets, Labour Party elder and keeper of the last rites John Faulkner. . . He had declared the night before he would fight; he would call a ballot and he would put himself in the hands of the party. But as the night wore on, it became apparent there was no point. A ballot would leave on the books a dreadful truth. He had no mates, or too few to matter. And so he was a dead man walking. The destination was a party meeting that was nothing more than a formality: a ritual changing of the guard. No ballot. The Australian people had elected him. The Australian Labor Party's fear of the Australian people had executed him. Within two hours, a spectral Kevin Rudd . . . stood for the last time in the prime minister's courtyard. A couple of hundred journalists crowded close, intent on capturing the words of the extinguished leader. Rudd's staff, all those exhausting days and nights behind them, their future uncertain, marched as a battalion in ranks of three across the cobbles, a guard of honour. "What I remember most about [the day of national apology was that] as they came in from over there - he gestured across the courtyard - they were frightened," he said. "Our job was to make them welcome." He could barely utter the words. The eyes welled, the silences grew, the crowd stood transfixed. Someone bumped a large metallic sculpture in the courtyard. It tolled like a bell. But the bell had already tolled for Kevin Rudd, the vanquished prime minister. . . Within two hours, Rudd would attend question time in the House of Representatives. He sat at the back of the bankbenches, determined to stay, hoping for redemption. . ." (Tony Wright, "Kevin Rudd's Long Walk" The Age)



Meanwhile. . .

There is an old Dale Carnegie saying: It goes - 'people don't care how much you know, 'til they know how much you care'. - Thought Leaders are knowledgeable people, often very objective and analytical around an issues that a business or person may be facing. I try to remember the importance of care factor. Without it, all your smarts, all your IP [Intellectual Property? Induced Polarisation? Intercessory Prayer?] is completely useless.
My friend and Thought Leader Darren Hill, would tell you it's simply increasing your Humanity. My dear friend Pete Sheahan, would tell me it's simply being Old School. My customer experience mate Iven Frangi, would tell you that it's Good Business. My technology and futurist friend Craig Rispin, would tell you it's being High Touch in a High Tech world. However you look at it, show you care. That's why so many profiteering [sic] businesses are getting all "do good" with corporate social responsibility and I think it's a great thing. Some may be faking it, but the power of kindness means that before long they'll be making it. (Matt Church, "Care factor 'zero'" Inspiring ThoughtLeadership)

Learning about Our City of Literature has been a personal journey. My great-grandfather, Frank Hobil Cole, arranged the lease for the Hill of Content back when A.H.Spencer needed funds to get his dream. started. Having historical connections to this iconic store was my catalyst for developing the "Melbourne by the Book" tour, which is sensory discussion about the heritage of reading, writing and storytelling in Melbourne. I believe that how and what Melburnians are reading is a historical indicator of the nature of our city, so the writers festival . . . is seeing history being made. (Fiona Sweetman on Melbourne as a UNESCO memorial City of Literature, an Age Writers Festival special)

This is a Godot which is accessible at every point and which refuses to acknowledge any lacuna or yawning gulf that doesn’t have its primary registration in a human sigh or shrug. . . At every point Sean Mathias refuses to formalise Beckett. The clowning always looks like the natural fumbling and frolicking of two professional chaps who know each other and the routines they share which constitute the forms of their intimacy, above everything else. In the great lyrical duet, the nearly liturgical refrain, about leaves and everything else that sounds in the silence, McKellen and Rees cut through the form of Beckett’s cadences to find unexpected human colour and surprise. And it’s that sense of tumbling, improvised comedy on the part of two old stagers that dominates throughout. Ian McKellen as Estragon has an encyclopaedic repertoire of ghoulish comic faces to pull and imbecile dances to dance and dogged cowardly lion growls to growl. It is a wonderfully warmhearted, baffled face he presents to the world as Gogo, almost a fluffy toy with the stuffing knocked out, and the fact that you can hear the great tragedian behind the bawling, long-vowelled northern tragic of a music hall man brings him to the heart of Beckett’s vision. Roger Rees as Vladimir is McKellen’s perfect complement, partly because his eroded matinée idol smoothness comes from a different planet which is, nonetheless, professionally compatible. It’s such a dapper, rapid performance style, as if he had fallen asleep doing Private Lives and woken up 30 years later on a dung heap.Of course, this Ian McKellen/Roger Rees Waiting for Godot is as much Shakespearean as it is sawdust. The magic, though, which releases Beckett’s sense of mystery, is in the lavishness with which these two masters of the technique of the classical theatre pay homage to music hall in order to convey their sense of the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart. (Peter Craven reviews Sean Mathias' "Waiting for Godot", The Spectator)