“Ideas worth spreading.” That’s the philosophy behind TED (Technology, Entertainment, and Design). When you find yourself seeking inspiration, optimism, and the elusive incubation of good ideas—just google “TEDTalks.” Click on any and all results you find. I guarantee you’ll experience something amazing.
Or start here. Thelma Golden is the chief curator and director of The Studio Museum Harlem. Please enjoy her TEDTalk on the inextricable relationship of art and culture:
I’ll start with a defensive-sounding disclaimer: I love me some books. I love me some old school books. By way of evidence (also somewhat defensively) I offer this snap of my recent haul. Long story, but most of these books were headed for the dumpster. Now they’re mine. I stand over hauls like this and rub my hands together, greedily.
Or there’s this snap, of my favorite of my many bookshelves. I call 
these the ancients. They’re no one’s idea of an antiquarian treasure trove, but I treasure them nonetheless. No, I haven’t read them all (some of them are delicate enough that I dasn’t read them). Some of them are also rescues. I won’t pretend I rescue any book for altruistic purposes. I get them, keep them, chortle and obsess over them, because I like having them around.
Okay, one more. This is certainly one of my lesser-stocked shelves, alas. Still one of my favorites. My example of what the incomparable Kameron Hurley awesomely dubbed, The Ego Shelf.
That lengthy disclaimer comes because as the title suggests, I love my Kindle. But some barricades got thrown up in the earliest e-book days, a division between readers of e-books, and the bibliophiles who renounce them. All these years on, there’s some daylight breaking through in those barricades. We’re not quite so neatly divided into two camps anymore. But still, proclaim loudly enough your love for a Kindle (or Nook, or whathaveyou), there are going to be some people asking what you have against Real Books.
Clearly I have nothing against Real Books. Clearly I live for All Books, paper as well as electron.
But the reason I love my Kindle is because it can do something that our bound leaves cannot. Man, if only they could.
And you know, it turns out, genuflect doesn't quite mean what I thought it did. Huh.
See there? Just touch the screen, select some text, and get a dictionary definition. Such a simple feature, processor power-wise. As far as I know all the big-brand readers offer similar functionality. Back in the early design stages, it was probably thrown in almost as an afterthought.
But come on. How many times, as you’re reading, do you come across a word you don’t know? And how many times do you bother to look it up?
Nope. You just trust yourself to guesstimate the meaning from the context. Don’t you?
I’ve been in both camps, bibliophilic and e-read aficionado, for a couple years now. My consumption of both types of books, on average, is probably about equal.
But I gotta admit, when I’m reading a traditional book and the author presents me with an opportunity to broaden my vocabulary, I find myself tapping the page, wondering why the hell the text isn’t lighting up.
“I’ve always had a knack and penchant for going toward humorous irony.” That’s what celebrated Seattle artist Charles Krafft told Salon in a 2002 interview.
And if you were looking for irony in his work, it was easy to find. A self-taught painter, Krafft began working almost exclusively in ceramics during the early 1990s. His classically painted ceramics, coming in all shapes and sizes, were quickly and widely saluted for their artistry as well as their dark presence. His Disasterware series, for example, consisted of plates, busts, and a myriad of other delicate pieces, each commemorating historical catastrophes–from the sinking of the Andrea Doria to the firebombing of Dresden.
Then there was Krafft’s pervasive use of nazi imagery. He built teapots from Hitler’s head and put swastikas on perfume bottles. 
The largely liberal West Coast art establishment ate it up, agreeing in unison that it was all ironic, that Krafft was using his craft to pan fascism.
Then last month came this story, penned by Jen Graves of the Seattle alternative weekly, The Stranger. Graves found, and reported, something that Charles Krafft had done little to hide—he was an anti-Semite and a white nationalist, whose far-right-wing thematics weren’t ironic at all.
Krafft’s ideology seems to have evolved over time, culminating today in Holocaust-denial (or at least Holocaust minimizing), and an active presence on far-right Internet forums and podcasts. In fact, Graves says, it was just a couple simple Google searches that presaged her glimpse into Krafft’s character. He’d made no effort to hide his identity during these affiliations. One of Graves’s first finds was a podcast archived on the white nationalist website, The White Network, in which Krafft participated in a debate as to whether well-known racists should keep their darkest feelings secret. The group decided they should not.
It may seem, then, that the real Charles Krafft was hiding in plain sight after all, and it’s the fault of the art-patronage establishment for not recognizing him for what he was.
Except Charles Krafft was far more duplicitous throughout his career than one might expect from his current, post-outing candor.
Take the above-depicted Hitler teapot, for example. In 2007 it was displayed in the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco. Curator Timothy Burgard wrote a catalog description of the piece, describing it as explicitly and clearly anti-fascist. Krafft wrote to Burgard in 2008, saying “You certainly did your homework on the context” of the piece.
Or more chillingly, earlier, in 2006. Another curator asked him directly: “Do you consider yourself a neo-nazi?” Krafft reportedly laughed and said no, then—”But would that frighten you if I were?”
Charles Krafft’s talent is undeniable. His work is compelling. But his fame is based on a lie. His fame is an infiltration. His is an ideology that camouflaged itself to gain entree into a world where, in all likelihood, he would not be welcome.
So what do we do with the art of Charles Krafft? Do we smash it to bits? I don’t think so—that’s the MO of the fascists, after all.      
I say, leave Krafft’s art where it is. Go to the museums, and look upon it. Look upon it, knowing that you’re glimpsing deeply into the mind of the artist. And know that there’s nothing there ironic, nothing ironic at all.
In the scale of assaults that mankind inflicts on mankind, it’s hard to argue that biblioclasty, the torching of libraries, much compares with the worst crimes that all too often occur in times of war, conquest, and oppression. We’re informed by our own humanity that crimes against objects should be near meaningless next to destruction of life.
As inarguable as that is we’re also informed, by long tragic experience, that oppression goes away sometimes, and sometimes communities rebuild. And it’s at that point, stretching thence to generations unknowable, that this assault against knowledge, against the culture of the written word, is felt most deeply. Biblioclasty is an attack on unborn minds. It is the erasure of their most valuable birthright.
When I set out to learn more about the deliberate destruction of libraries, I quickly became overwhelmed by the multitude of horrifying historic examples. Most of us know about the Library of Alexandria and its posterity-robbing end. I thought my research would start there, and in a large way focus there.
But no, Alexandria is just one glaring example. Hardly the first and far from the last. The collecting of books, or at least scrolls and papyri, long predated Alexander the Great’s founding of his eponymous Nile Delta city. And whenever they’re collected, I learned, they’re subject to burning.
Social upheavals is probably the most easily identifiable spur for book burning. It covers the most common circumstances: sectarian religious strife, wartime sieges, inexplicable public furor. Hitler, Stalin, a few Chinese 
emperors, and more than one Muslim caliph did it to hobble the intelligentsia and to condition future slaves. Not a few regimes have done it because they deem an educated populace ungovernable. It’s been done to eliminate perceived blasphemies, to hide inconvenient historical truths, to sway contemporary opinions by annulling collective memory.
The Library at Alexandria was actually burned three times–once by Julius Caesar, later by early Christian zealots, finally by the first caliph. The explanation he gave for his order is typical: he said the books would either be in opposition to the Koran, in which case they’re blasphemous. Or they’re in accordance, thus superfluous. Burn them all, he said.
The islamists who recently swept across northern Mali, prompting the first French military action in memory, seemed to have been following similar orders. They captured the ancient salt-trade crossroad city of Timbuktu months ago, and threatened to burn its centers of learning almost from the beginning. But it wasn’t until French tanks were within sight in late January that the fleeing extremists destroyed the UNESCO world-heritage site, Ahmed Baba Institute.
Their procrastination, or whatever it was, allowed a few very brave librarians and curators spirit away the cream of the institute’s ancient collection–at least 28,000 manuscripts and documents, some more than a thousand years old.
It’s unknown how many books were lost, or how many of Timbuktu’s estimated 300 other libraries were attacked. It’s thrilling and rare that so much was saved, but still so much is gone forever. Multiply that by all the book burnings, all of history’s assailment of libraries—then you’ve some inkling of what the 
biblioclasts are doing to us.
What inconceivable intellectual treasures might have been lost, any of those times Alexandria burned? Or the Lyceum, in Athens, which likewise was sacked numerous times, by successive invaders. Are those classical examples, or any of the thousands that followed in the Middle Ages and Renaissance, worse than the burning of Sarajevo’s libraries in 1992? It’s impossible to say, I think, because it’s impossible to assess what’s been lost.
The mightiest library known today, our age’s Alexandria, is the Library of Congress, which surpassed 100 million volumes at the turn of the last century. That institution was legislated into being in 1800, incorporated itself with an initial purchase of 740 books, and has endured with a quest toward the preservation of as much knowledge as possible. No way of guessing how long or in what way the Library will fulfill that mission—but if there ever was any library immune to biblioclasty, surely it’s this one.
But burn it did. On August 24, 1814 all three thousand titles in the Library of Congress were put to the torch.
When the most dire things happen to us, when they happen to us personally or collectively, our first instinct is to wish nothing so horrible should happen again. The second is to prepare for it to happen again.
So wish though you might, and wish though we do that the book burnings stop, they won’t. Bigots will burn whatever foreign or liberal titles they say are intolerable, then despots and tinpots will destroy larger and more important collections. Someday somewhere bigger monsters will rise, with bigger ambitions, and they’ll build bigger book pyres. No library is ultimately safe in a world like that. Maybe literacy and learning themselves aren’t.
I’ve no how idea how you prepare for that nightmare of a future, but I fear that’s exactly what we must do.
It’s been a few days since anyone shook themselves up over the Harlem Shake, so we’re clearly desperately in need of something new to go inexplicably viral.
So enter Andrew Finklestein, Google employee and self-proclaimed hippity-hopper. His “Welcome to Google” rap, hesitantly embedded below, explains once and for all how grand it is to toil around the Googleplex. It’s a good-faith try, I guess, but I’ll echo the words of the best non-explicit comment offered on YouTube: “I love Google products & I’m a big rap fan, but the two just don’t belong together. Unless I’m buying an album on Google Play store, don’t ever mix them again.”Â
See, the thing is, the pinnacle for this sort of rap was reached long ago. In 2008, an employee of CERN’s Large Hadron Collider, who shall forever be known and honored as AlpineKat, gave us all the nerd-job-rapping we will ever need. She even threw in a bit of rhyming enlightenment on cutting-edge particle physics. Seven million viewers can’t be wrong, so check it out:
Call it the Luddite Sabbath: from sundown tonight to sundown Saturday, we are urged to disconnect from our electronic
tethers; and reconnect, if only for a while, with a simpler life.
Read a book (one made of paper). Ride your bike. Talk to your kids. Do something, anything, that doesn’t require a log-on ID.
It’s only 24 hours. You can do it.
(Not sure I can, though. Friday nights and all of Saturdays are my time to catch up on a slew of tasks, not a few of which are e-based. I like the spirit of National Day of Unplugging, though, and I’ll honor it, best I can, and in good faith. I hope you’ll join me.)
Can a single art exhibition alter a nation’s cultural consciousness? Could it usher in new appreciation, even new archetypes for how art is created and enjoyed?
In 2013, probably not. Contemporary culture is too fractured, entertainment too micro-targeted for such momentous impact. Individual exhibitions can be impactful, even transformative for a limited audience. But never again could one gallery show change how an entire people embrace the visual arts.
That high-water mark was achieved almost exactly a century ago, with the February 17-March 15, 1913 International Exhibition of Modern Art at the 69th Regiment Armory on Lexington Avenue in New York City.
National Guard armories were, once upon a time, popular gathering places for events of all kinds. Their vast interior spaces, usually under-utilized and available for rent during peacetime, were dedicated to musical concerts, boxing and wrestling matches, and yes, even art exhibitions, throughout the twentieth century.
But mention “the Armory Show” to any art historian, and they will know you can be referring to only one event. The Armory Show was the first major American showing of contemporary art, heavily featuring European luminaries such as Marcel Duchamp, Henri Matisse, and Pablo Picasso; but not ignoring American artists including James Whistler and Gifford Beal. It introduced American audiences, previously steeped mainly in realism and the American folk-art tradition, to the emerging styles of Cubism and Futurism.
The Armory Show was the creation of the then-newly formed Association of American Painters and Sculptors, members of which spent several months in 1912 touring Europe, meeting artists, collectors, and curators, and making arrangements to borrow works for the exhibition. When the show at last opened the following February, it featured more than 1,300 paintings, sculptures, and decorative works. After closing in March, smaller versions of the show (mostly omitting the work of American artists) were staged in
Chicago and Boston.
The shows were an overwhelming success, and their impact and legacy were almost immediately recognized. Tributes and recreations have been mounted regularly over the decades, with notable versions occuring in 1944 in Cincinnati, and in 1958 at Amherst College. The 50th Anniversary show in Utica, New York in 1963 featured more than 300 works from the original.
Now, at the centennial of this seminal event, no less than three physical exhibitions and one extraordinary website are paying homage to the Armory Show. The Montclair Art Museum in Essex County, New Jersey is currently staging “The New Spirit: American Art in the Armory Show, 1913.” Later this year the New York Historical Society will be presenting “The Armory Show at 100.” And the Fountain Art Fair will be returning to the original Lexington Avenue Armory from March 8-March 10 for “At the Armory.”
Somewhat more accessible for most of us is the Smithsonian’s Archives of American Art, which has created the interactive 1913 Armory Show: The Story in Primary Sources. The website features a sliding timeline, displaying original documents and ephemera relevant to the conception, preparation, and staging of the show. It’s a fascinating glimpse into how any art exhibition might have been produced in the previous century, made all the more gripping by the enduring legacy of this one particular show.
Again, there will never be another show like the Armory Show. Never again will a single exhibition of art seize a country’s imagination. But our imaginations can be engaged, at least, through our collective memories of the Armory Show, and of the Armory Show’s continuing impact on American art appreciation.
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Edward Gibbon, in his History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, summed up his many exhaustive volumes by diagnosing late-empire Rome with an illness of its civic virtue. Civis Romanus stopped caring about its place in society, about its responsibilities to the collective, says Gibbon, which contributed to and accelerated the empire’s collapse.
Every empire since has compared itself favorably to Rome, but in fairness every empire should also cautionarily compare itself. Every society and culture, in fact, should look for warnings from the past. We should be on guard for the same symptoms that Gibbon tells us brought on the Dark Ages.
Civic virtue was a founding virtue for the United States, but it’s one that has largely slipped away from us. Vast swaths of our society reject and refuse any responsibility to contribute, to get involved, even to inform themselves. Most eligible voters don’t vote. Startling percentages of us can’t name a single Supreme Court justice, or cabinet member, or leading legislator.
That’s a betrayal of our heritage, but it’s hardly new. Better men than me have complained about it at length. But what might be new, or at least evolving into new levels of intensity, are the challenges faced by that plucky minority who still embrace civic virtue. Because thanks to the shallowing of our culture, it’s harder than ever to engage meaningfully and purposefully, with a society so much more obsessed with style over substance.
Examples are myriad, but a couple became disgustingly apparent in recent weeks. Most recently—horrors—Senator Marco Rubio took a drink of water.
My initial reaction to this “story” was that it was surely going to be short lived. After all, I thought, let those among us without
thirst cast the first…etc. etc. But it didn’t go away, did it? It became, according to Reuters, “the sip seen round the world.” CNN, meanwhile, asked if it was a “career-ender.”
Clearly I underestimated our penchant for shallowness.
It breaks my heart to have to say this—and those among you who already agree are probably just as broken-hearted—but Rubio was giving a major political speech, in response to the major political speech. Words and policy positions are what mattered here. A sip of water? That is so damned meaningless and irrelevent that it makes my hair hurt to talk about it.
Another example is a bit less pivotal but probably just as symptomatic. The Super Bowl, my favorite sporting event, isn’t exactly 
central to our society, but it’s become a cornerstone of our culture. It probably reflects a lot about us, and a lot of that is unflattering. So be it.
But once again, it would be great if we could embrace the substance of the event, and not the style. I’m dreaming though, aren’t I?
Halfway through last week’s epic game, Beyonce performed. I didn’t watch it, because half-time shows do nothing for me. But ever since, I’ve heard and seen, over and over, nothing except shocked critiques: Beyonce made funny faces.
The thing is, we could have a meaningful discussion about the worth of these half-time shows. Terry Pluto, sports writer for the Cleveland Plain Dealer, makes a powerful argument that the half-time show has become too sexualized, making the Super Bowl as a whole less appropriate for family viewing. I think he has a point. It’s probably worth discussing.
But because we embrace the shallow, it seems as though the only discussion we’re going to have in this regard is: Beyonce made funny faces.
What stings most in both these cases, other than that they demonstrate we’ve lost our ability for seriousness, is that there are also hints of double standards here. I detest double standards almost as much as I hate shallowness.
I’ve strummed a guitar from time to time. When I really get into it, I sometimes make a funny face. “Rock and roll face,” I’ve heard it called. Does it make me look anything like Beyonce? I have no idea – because it has never mattered. Not one bit.
Indeed, that fabled rock and roll face is part of our cultural landscape. It’s expected—at least when it’s a man onstage. When Mick
Jagger sings Jumpin Jack Flash, the only thing that’d make us notice his expression is if he isn’t making rock and roll face.
Similarly, can we honestly say that there’s anything momentous or remarkable about a public speaker going a bit dry, and doing something about it? If not, why is Marco Rubio being singled out 
for this?
For the record, I’m no fan of Marco Rubio. I agree with very few of his positions. But, out of what I hope is an abundance of civic virtue, I’m willing to listen to him. I’m willing to honor and respect his right to present his and his party’s argument.
But that civic virtue, that simple human respect, becomes harder and harder to exercise. It’s squeezed out by shallowness, by the valuation of style over substance, and by our habitual, self-destructive embrace of double standards.
How self destructive? Not for me to say. But some future Gibbon, I fear, might mark down these trends as woeful symptoms of a regrettable, preventable decline.
Shout out, btw, to my kin and debate partner, Kevin Carpenter, whose observations about the Rubio double standard inspired this post.
Can we all agree that Chris Brown is an asshole? If not, then I’ll hasten to add that I don’t really think that’s just my opinion – I think that Chris Brown has empirically proven his own pettiness, small-mindedness, brutishness, and dishonor. If you’d like to examine the evidence that Brown has so readily supplied, click here, here, here, here, and here.
So it’s more than a little gratifying to see that tiny little echo of a man seemingly dressed down at the Grammys, for the edification of us all, by an awesome songstress who, we suspect, tolerates little crap from churlish men:
 Alas, the story that accompanies that snap suggests this was just a temporary beef, involving Brown’s characteristic rudeness during the awards ceremonies. Supposedly it was all sorted out in short order.
But still. Seeing Chris Brown getting scolded like the little boy he is, and seeing the shock on his face as it unfolds…priceless.
What would be even better would be if Brown’s ill-deserved fame expired, and he crawled back under the rock from whence he came.
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This is the Deconstruction’s third blowout Super Bowl Sunday, and cheers to that. Cheers to you too, and your team if you’ve got one, and to your health (whether you’ve got that or not).
And that’s that—the rest of my pregame, and in-game, and postgame I’m taking off-line. If you’re dying for a W’s-Decon-style deconstruction of the SuperDuper Bowl and all it means, then stroll back down memory lane with previous efforts, here and here.
And that’s all I have to say about that. Unless you need a team to root for, in which case I say, look east. Because of this guy. And Old Bay.
It’s fitting, now that we’re debating the roles of women in warfare, that we bid farewell to the last surviving member of the Andrews Sisters. Â
It’s true that there were women who served more directly in World War II. More than a quarter-million women joined the armed forces, serving as WACs, WAVES, test pilots, and more. Millions more joined the workforce, eventually comprising more than 1/3 of wartime factory workers.
But from the world of entertainment, few gave more than the Andrews Sisters. Only Bob Hope performed for more U.S. troops, and logged more USO miles. The Andrews Sisters traveled to frontlines and combat theaters all over the world, sold war bonds, and
helped create the famous Hollywood Canteen. They were on stage on August 14, 1945 when they were handed a note, and Patty tearfully announced to the soldiers and sailors in attendance that the war was finally over.
It’s no coincidence that the Andrews Sisters, Patty, Maxene, and LaVerne, are most fondly remembered for their wartime contributions. They continued to perform after the war, sometimes appearing in movies, sometimes trying their hands at solo careers. But like so many who answered the call (the bugle call, you might say), they found that their service during the war most defined their lives. Everything that came after might not have been an anticlimax, but was certainly less eventful.
The Andrews Sisters effectively ceased as a performing group in 1967, with LaVerne’s death. Maxene died in October, 1995. Patty died at home in Northridge, California on Wednesday, at the age of 94. She and her sisters, brilliant entertainers and selfless patriots, will never be forgotten.
Hats off to the Knight Foundation, for decades of community-based philanthropy in support of progressive 
journalism, media, and the arts. (Originating, I’m proud to say, from my very own home town.)
And particular heart-felt cheers for their ongoing project, Random Acts of Culture. It’s a recognition that our traditional model of culture, where art itself is a destination, has become endangered; and even worse—ignored. Random Acts of Culture doesn’t wait for you to buy your ticket and take your seat. It brings the event to you.
Is this just another incarnation of our definitive twenty-first century performance art, the Flash Mob? Or is it something more? As much as I adore the idea of flash-mobbing, I think there’s something a bit self-indulgent about it. At the risk of stereotyping the phenomenon, it feels a bit like a gaggle of art students, taking their rehearsals outdoors.
Random Acts, on the other hand, feels more like a gift. It’s a acknowledgement by the artist that you’re busy, and that you’re going about your life. The artist says, “That’s okay. I get that. But if you can take a little break, five or ten minutes, maybe, I’d like to show you something I think you might like….”
Random Acts of Culture probably won’t change the world. Probably won’t even change the arts. But I hope we can appreciate it for what it is: free, unexpected…and unexpectedly free expressions of joy. If one happens to break out near you, stop what you’re doing and enjoy it. Then do what you can to support the ideals behind it, even if that means creating a few random acts of culture of your own.
The two American sports personalities that caught our attention last week couldn’t be more different. One was a star ascendant, whose future couldn’t have been brighter. And the other was already far into his downward spiral, tarnished by suspicion and banished for life from his own vocation.
What links Manti Te’o and Lance Armstrong, aside from an accident of nefarious timing, is their deceit—and the way their lies have exploded so completely, so publicly.
Te’o's story rings a bit more tragic, probably because the lie behind it was so purposefully heart-tugging. Manti Te’o is a star linebacker playing for Notre Dame, an odds-on favorite to be a first-round pick in the next NFL draft…who until last week was as famous for his star-crossed love story as he was for his prowess on the field. Sports Illustrated, ESPN’s College GameDay and the South Bend Tribune all ran gushing features about Te’o's unshakable faith, and his undying commitment to his soulmate, Lennay Kekua. They followed Manti’s and Lennay’s story as she was diagnosed with leukemia, suffered a horrific car crash, and then finally, this past September, passed away. Te’o was showered with praise as he followed what he said was her dying wish, by never missing a game to be by her bedside or even at her funeral. In the months after her death, Te’o's followers on Twitter were witness to his frequent and moving tributes to his fallen angel, like this one from November 6th: “@LennayKay I miss you!”
Even a cursory bit of fact-checking by SI, ESPN, and the Tribune would have revealed what we now know, and what seems so obvious in retrospect: there never was a Lennay Kekua. There was never a leukemia diagnosis, nor a car crash, nor a heart-wrenching death.
Te’o admits as much, but claims he was victim of a cruel ‘net-based hoax. If that’s his attempt to come clean, he’s yet to learn the harshest lessons about deceit and redemption. Because even those most credulous reporters, the ones who helped him build his web of lies, now smell the p.r. blood in the water, and can plainly see the glaring inconsistencies in Manti Te’o's “confession.” If Manti Te’o was snared by an online trickster wielding a stolen photo of a pretty girl, then from where do we have the stories of Manti’s and Lennay’s times together, of her visits to his native Hawaii, of the way he’d stay on the phone with her during her hospital stays, talking to her until she fell asleep?
It’s just possible that Te’o was a victim of a hoax at some early point in the creation of Lennay Kekua. But at another point, probably nearly as early, he recognized the value to his burgeoning brand of this perfect love story. So he lied. And lied, and lied.
Deceit itself can become a brand, and can come to define not just a narrative, not just an episode—but the entirety of a personality and a career. Just ask Lance Armstrong.
It’s not bad enough that Armstrong lied, so convincingly and for so many years, about his use of performance-enhancing drugs and the role those drugs played in his dominance of competitive cycling. No, what will define Armstrong, and rightfully so, was the way he tried to destroy so many people, professionally, financially, and personally, for telling the truth about him.
In his self-serving mea culpa to Oprah Winfrey last week, Armstrong couldn’t recall exactly how many people he’s sued over the years for accusing him of the drug use he was guilty of. Or at least he claimed to be unable to recall; Lance Armstrong is a branded liar, and we have every right to view his every statement as suspect. Lance Armstrong has only himself to thank for this.
So why have these men done this to themselves? Why did their pursuit of glory bring them little except scorn?
I won’t try to look inside their minds, so I can only guess at what seems most likely: it’s simple greed. It was two very different, completely misguided attempts to build lucrative sports-based brands. The irony is that the foundation of those brands—raw and natural talent—existed and could be relied upon, before being sullied with duplicity. Then somehow deceit itself became the basis of their brands, and it required more deceit, unendingly, to endure.
Those were decisions that Manti Te’o and Lance Armstrong made willingly, and even if they’re forgiven they should never be excused for it. But what of the cultures behind them? What of the world of professional sports, in which this culture of deceit thrives?
Why is doping so pervasive in cycling? Why do we find that scourge wherever we look within the sport? And why is a heroic backstory necessary for football? Why would a young man feel the need to invent his virtue (rather than live it) to create a successful career?
And finally—how much more deceit lurks beneath the surface of professional sport? How many other life stories are ginned up for impact, and how many other “heroes” rely on artificiality for their achievements?
American sports are huge profit centers, and a huge part of our national psyche. So before we go down that rabbit-hole of suspicion and deceit we should probably ask ourselves: Do we really want to know the truth?
We learned this week that we have another look at the face of history’s most talented composer. This undated 18th-century portrait has been identified by Austrian researchers as one of just 14 known likenesses of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. This painting is unique among the Mozart portraiture in that he’s gazing directly ahead, and he’s not wearing his emblematic powdered wig.
Mozart’s story is at least as fascinating as his music. He was a child prodigy born into a world that had no understanding of such things. It was the Age of Enlightenment, but the emerging sciences couldn’t explain a toddler with perfect pitch, a child with seemingly limitless musical talent, and a young man who was effortlessly becoming a composer unlike any yet seen. Only the largess of heaven could explain his gifts, in the minds of most of his contemporaries. And when Mozart revealed his very human flaws, those contemporaries saw this as an insult to Providence, an abuse of the talents that didn’t truly belong to him. With Mozart the combination of genius and weakness earned him contempt. One suspects he was aware of that, and one can imagine seeing the weight of that in his world-weary eyes, in this newly identified portrait.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart died when he was just 35. He left behind not just an immortal body of work, but also an enduring warning about the relationship of society with its geniuses. We still vilify and misuse our geniuses all too often…but since the age of Mozart we’ve learned something about the cost of that. We’ve learned what we’re likely to lose when we hound them to an early grave.
Something about that warning becomes more real, more tangible, when you look directly into Mozart’s eyes. You can see that he knew it too.
I dreamed a dream where I could go to the movies without publicly embarrassing myself. I’m a highly empathetic person, you see. When I see pain, I feel pain. And although I’m thoroughly masculine—truly as masculine as masculine can be—my runaway empathy often unhinges my emotions. That’s why I fear I can’t go see the new film version of Les Misérables.
Lucky for me, I’ve had advance notice. In the last twelve hours, I’ve heard from two well-known personalities, both of the male persuasion, both of whom unashamedly copped to blubbering out loud in the movie theater, as Jean Valjean, Fantine, Inspector Javert, and damned near everyone else, meets their doom.
The first was Jon Stewart, who interviewed Anne Hathaway (“Fantine”), and admitted that the movie moved him to tears. Then this morning, I read Washington Post columnist and former GOP speechwriter Michael Gerson, who apparently broke down at a Les Mis showing on Christmas day. He asserts that
his teenage sons will probably never go to the movies with him again.
These men, of course, aren’t exactly linebackers or lumberjacks, but they’re hardly foppish dandies, given to public displays of emotion. I can only assume that Victor Hugo’s story, first published in 1862, has only become more (no other word for it) Miserable in this musical/film iteration.
All the reviews I’ve seen are glowing. I’ve heard and read several enthusiastic recommendations. There is talk of Oscar. All signs point to this being a truly remarkable film.
But I just can’t take the chance. Can’t risk becoming a blubbering spectacle for the amusement of strangers. My wife asked me this morning why I don’t just read the book. Not a bad idea; like most artifacts of classic literature, this one’s on my gonna-read-someday list anyhow. But then again, at least as far as the classics list goes, I’ve been reading a lot of Hemingway and Shakespeare lately. That means I’ve been reading of far too many tragic, heroic characters dying miserably. Do I really want more of that?
I love culture and the classics. But for the sake of my own brittle emotions, I think I’ll immerse myself exclusively in the funny pages, at least until I get control of myself.
