Object Lessons

For many years, my father had a copy of this print hanging in his study:

Souvenir of Sydney Bechet (1952) by Nicolas de Staël

It was stored in my parents' bedroom closet for a few years, until my father hung it in my room.  For culture, I think.  We never spoke about it, and he never told me why he liked it or what it meant to him. 

Personally, I didn't think much of it.  How could I?  I could make out three men, I could make out horns.  The picture was too abstract for me, it felt clumsy.  I was at an age where I thought all art was supposed to be beautiful, accomplished.  An adult made this?  That didn't make any sense.   

Eventually, I asked my father to remove the painting so I could hang a poster of Farrah Fawcett-Majors on my wall.  I'm sure it broke my father's heart, sticking his painting back in a closet.  And for what, a couple of nipples?  

I haven't thought about the painting in years, and then I found an article on Nicholas de Staël this afternoon while I was looking for something else entirely. 

It brought back a lot of memories. 

He committed suicide, Nicolas de Staël.  He did it in 1955 by jumping off the terrace of his studio.  Eleven floors.  He was 41.

I've been thinking about suicide lately.  Not for me, but it's been on my mind.  I want to know what happens when hurting yourself becomes an irresistible proposition, when the brakes in your mind go out completely.

I mean, I don't want to know. 

My Black Dog

I get depressed this time of year, always have.

Maybe it's the approaching holidays, or the way the sky gets darker earlier and completely pulls the rug out from under the day.  Maybe it's the way the World Series preempts my regularly scheduled viewing, or the realization that another year is coming to an end.  

Whatever it is, it's here.  I can feel it. 

I'm going to busy myself with projects, maybe write my way out of it.  I'll make plans with friends.  Being perky is so much easier when other people are around.   Left to my own devices, I can go the whole weekend without talking to anyone. 

On Thursday, I came home from work and played this record while I made dinner:

 

 

It's a lot harder to be depressed when The Happy Harts are singing "Who Threw the Overalls in Mrs. Murphy's Chowder?"



When the dishes were done, I spent some time with Lord Buckley.  You know Lord Buckley.  The hippest, jive-talkin'-est hepcat of American stand-up. 


Hiparama of The Classics (City Light Books, 1980)

Buckley's shtick was delivering famous monologues (the Gettysburg Address, Shakespeare's Julius Caesar) and short biographical sketches.  In Buckleyspeak, "fourscore and seven years ago" becomes "four big hits and seven licks ago, our before Daddies swung forth upon this sweet groovy land, a jumpin', swingin', stompin', wailin', NEW NATION."

 

His routines about Gandhi ("The Hip Gan")and Jesus ("The Naz") were no less boppy and boisterous. 

 

You really need to hear it to appreciate it.