European Literature in America

Giorgio de Chirico, The Dream of Tobias, 1917
Cameraphoto Arte, Venice/Art Resource/© 2010 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/SIAE, Rome
http://www.nybooks.com/multimedia/view-photo/1305

My friend Lou signaled a great article from The NY Review of Books. It is about European literature and the way it is translated and published in America. You should read the whole enchilada:

http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2010/jul/15/america-first/

I am proposing you some statements from this article, with quick notes:

Only 3 to 5 percent of books published in the US are translations, we are told. Aleksandar Hemon sees this as another manifestation of culturally catastrophic American isolationism; Edith Grossman feels that the resulting incomprehension of foreign cultures has dangerous implications for world peace.

Is it true for the whole world literature or only for Europeans? Also, I think there is an important number of authors with their roots in India and Latin America who write in English, keeping in their books the specifics of their national identities.

The recent wars in the Balkans remind us that familiarity with each other’s literatures has never prevented Europeans from slaughtering one another.

Good point.

Each writer appeals confidently to an international liberal readership at the expense of provincial bigotry and hypocrisy.

Is it because of openness of spirit, or just bowing in front of the masters of the day?

Narrative experimentalism (which invariably undercuts certainties, rather than reinforcing them) has become a literary lingua franca, an international convention.

Interesting.

European writers may be unconcerned whether or not they are published in this or that other European country, or indeed in Chinese or Japanese, but they are all extremely anxious to be published in America, precisely because, as Edith Grossman points out, this gives access to world recognition.

I wouldn't bother if translated in Chinese (but I'm not a writer, either).

Literary translators tend to divide into what one could call originalists and activists. The former honor the original text’s quiddities, and strive to reproduce them as accurately as possible…; the latter are less concerned with literal accuracy than with the transposed musical appeal of the new work. Any decent translator must be a bit of both. A translator’s task as first one of deep reading: to hear the first version of the work as profoundly and completely as possible, struggling to discover the linguistic charge, the structural rhythms, the subtle implications, the complexities of meaning and suggestion in vocabulary and phrasing, and the ambient, cultural inferences and conclusions these tonalities allow us to extrapolate. After which, the translator seeks to re-create…within the alien system of a second language, all the characteristics, vagaries, quirks, and stylistic peculiarities of the work…. And we do this by analogy—that is, by finding comparable, not identical, characteristics, vagaries, quirks, and stylistic peculiarities in the second language.

Originalist or activist? Well, the dilemma stands even when you try to render Don Quixote in Spanish.

Perhaps with the world now so intimately and immediately connected, the only real exoticism we are likely to find is in the past.

That's not true; we are deaf and blind for what's happening around.

When fiction-writing resumed during the Ramesside period (c. 1292–1070 BCE, the setting for Norman Mailer’s huge novel Ancient Evenings), Egyptian writers invented a few more genres, like the war story, the ghost story, and the fairy tale, but mostly pushed magic realism to bizarre lengths.

And so we rediscover the wheel again and again.

If we had understood, that is, that the Bible writers didn’t mean that God really intervened but were only using techniques later perfected by Gabriel García Márquez, not only would we have saved ourselves millennia of religious delirium, but we could also have added some new writers to our literary canon.

Is this an originalist attitude, an activist one, or both?

Paul Klee, The Bavarian Don Giovanni, 1919
Estate of Karl Nierendorf/Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York© 2010 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/VG Bild-Kunst, Bonn
http://www.nybooks.com/multimedia/view-photo/1306

(A Life in Books)

Meshes of the Afternoon

(Giorgio de Chirico, Mystère et mélancolie d'une rue, 1914)

A long, long arm is laying slowly a flower on the street. A street as in a canvas by Chirico. Maya Deren is approaching, taking the flower. We cannot see her face, only her shadow is taking shape on the wall and on the street.
We can briefly note the back of a person somewhere on the right. A person dressed as a nun, a black mantle with a hood: passing the street, taking the corner, disappearing.
Maya is taking the stairs up to her house, holding the flower in her hand. We can see only her shadow on the wall.
She's knocking at the door, then trying to open it, by pushing the handle. She's taking out the key from her satchel. She's loosing the key, that's riding down the stairs, one stair at a time. Maya is going down the stairs, one stair at a time, is taking the key back.
She's unlocking, going inside.
There are newspapers in a mess on the floor. A loaf is on the table with a huge knife wedged in. The knife is detaching from the loaf, falling on the table.
Maya' s going toward the stairs to the bedroom. The phone is lying on the stairs out of cradle. She is passing around it and continues her way up the stairs to the bedroom. We can see only her shadow.
The bed is in a mess. The black veil is moving slowly in front of the open window.
She's going down to the living room. We can see only her shadow. A gramophone is on a small table near an armchair. The gramophone is running, without a sound. She's stopping it.
She's sitting down in the armchair, closing her eyes.

The story seems to move behind her eyelids.

The person dressed as a nun is passing the street, holding the flower in her hand. We see her from the back. She's turning her face toward us, we can see that there is no face under her hood, but void.
Maya is following the nun. Now we can see her, no more her shadow. The nun is taking the corner, disappears.
Maya is taking the stairs up to her house. She's pushing the door, going in.
She's advancing to the stairs inside. The huge knife is lying on the stairs. She is passing around it and continues her way up the stairs to the bedroom.
The bed is in a mess, the phone is lying on the bed, out of cradle. We can spot the shadow of the huge knife under the quilt.
The black veil is moving slowly in front of the open window. Maya is approaching the window, bending on it, back against the window.
She's going down to the living room.
The gramophone is there, on the small table near the armchair. The gramophone is running, without a sound. She's stopping it.
The first Maya is still lying in the armchair, seemingly dreaming.
The second Maya is at the window, watching the street where...
The person dressed as a nun is passing the street, holding the flower in her hand. We see her from the back. She's turning her face toward us, we can see that there is no face under her hood, but void.
Maya is following the nun. The nun is taking the corner, disappears.
Maya is taking the stairs up to her house.
The Maya that is at the window shows the key between her lips.
She's playing with the key, between the lips, in her hand, between the lips, in her hand.
Meanwhile the Maya from the door is pushing the handle, going in.
The huge knife is lying on the small table near the armchair where the first Maya is sleeping.
The person dressed as a nun is raising the stairs up to the bedroom, holding the flower in her hand.
Maya is following her on the stairs, shaking terribly on each stair, as in an earthquake.
The person dressed as a nun enters the bedroom. The bed is in a mess. She is laying the flower on the bed. There is no face under her hood, but a small mirror.

Maya is still lying in the armchair. The new Maya is watching her from somewhere near the ceiling. Then she is approaching the window, watching the street where...
The person dressed as a nun is passing the street, holding the flower in her hand. We see her from the back. She's turning her face toward us, we can see that there is no face under her hood, but void. Void, or a mirror?
Maya is following the nun. The nun is taking the corner, disappears.
Maya is taking the stairs up to her house.

The Maya that is at the window shows the key between her lips.
She's playing with the key, between the lips, in her hand, between the lips, in her hand.
The key becomes a huge knife, the huge knife becomes a key, the key becomes a huge knife, the huge knife becomes a key.
Meanwhile the Maya from the door is pushing the handle, going in.
The two other clones are sitting at the table, looking at her. She joins them.
The first Maya is still lying in the armchair.
The three clones are watching the huge knife that is lying on the table. The huge knife becomes a key. The key becomes a huge knife. The huge knife becomes a key. The key becomes a huge knife. They look at each other more and more horrified.
One of the clones is suddenly near the armchair. She is wearing special glasses, and is holding the huge knife. She is getting closer and closer to Maya's throat.
Maya opens the eyes, and notes her clone with the huge knife just near her throat.
The clone becomes suddenly a man, Alexander Hammid, Maya's husband. He's bowing towards Maya.
Then he is taking the stairs toward the bedroom. The bed is in a mess. Maya is lying under the quilt. The mirror that has been under the hood of the person dressed as a nun is lying now on the bed table. The man breaks the mirror and throws the parts through the window. A clone of Maya is watching for the parts of the mirror somewhere on a plain.
The man is again out, taking the stairs up to the house. The flower is lying on the stairs. The man is taking the flower, opens the door and goes in. There are newspapers in a mess on the floor. Maya is lying on the armchair. She's dead. Her throw has just been cut and blood is still flowing.

(video by Supercinema77)

(Maya's Song)

Umbo - Dreamers

Otto Umbehr (Umbo) - Dreams

(Modernism in Central Europe - Exhibition at the Washington National Gallery)

This photo, Dreams, brought into my mind the works of Chirico and Magritte. Their mannequins, faceless bodies, in a mute dialog with these masks, bodiless faces. The same theatrical universe, of props stored somewhere in a tiny closet, dreaming at the lights of the stage. Dolls dreaming at the joy of kids playing with them in large rooms fool of light. Heads dreaming at shoulders of greatly dressed mannequins, standing in large windows.

Aren't they actually, these bodiless faces, our dreams? Or our memories? Our hopes? Our fears?

Umbo (Otto Umbehr) was one of the most important photographers to emerge from the Bauhaus. Perhaps the second, after Moholy-Nagy.

Here is another work of Umbo, Der rasender Reporter, made in 1926. The raging reporter is Egon Erwin Kisch.



Umbo was trained at the Bauhaus from 1921-3 with Johannes Itten, Oskar Schlemmer and Wassily Kandinsky. He moved then to Berlin where he was camera assistant to Walter Ruttmann for his masterpiece, Berlin, Die Sinfonie einer Grosstadt. In 1926 Umbo began a career as a professional photographer, opening a portrait studio with the assistance of Paul Citroën. From 1928-33 he worked for Dephot, (Deutsche Photodienst), the first cooperative photojournalist agency. He experimented with multiple exposure, unusual camera angles, photomontage, collage, and x-ray film. He took part in FiFo (Film und Foto), the important international exhibition of avant-garde photography and film held in Stuttgart in 1929 (Catalogue of Cleveland Museum of Art).

This close-up of a Cat dates from 1927.




Here are two photographs made by Umbo in San Francisco, at the beginning of the 50s.


Umbo was a soldier in the Second World War, while bombs destroyed his Belin studio and 60,000 negatives. He returned to work as a photographer until 1957 when he took up teaching. It is only relatively recently that much of his old work has come to light again, including some previously forgotten close-up portraits, photomontage and photograms from the 20s as well as his classic photojournalism from the 30s (Directory of Notable Photographers).


Here are two other works by Umbo: a Simultaneous Portrait (1927), and a Playground (1928):





And I left for the end his masterpiece: Mysterium der Strasse. Plato brought us Socrate's Allegory of the Cave ... and because of flickering he would be not able to see the objects for which he had seen the shades before ...
This photograph does not describe what Otto Umbehr saw when he looked out his window in Berlin, but what he discovered when he turned his overhead view of the street upside down. His simple inversion (indicated by his signature Umbo in the lower right corner) posits an unsettling world in which the insubstantial dominates the substantial, and imagination intercepts cognition (MetMuseum).
Chirico comes again to mind: Mystère et mélancolie d'une rue ... everywhere, a threat, harrowing ... but it's only a dream ... you open your eyes ... everything's fine ... it was a dream ... you close your eyes ... only you know that the nightmare will visit you again ... and again ... and again ...





(Modernism in Central Europe)

Note la Teorema lui Pasolini

Imaginea am preluat-o din ziarul Cotidianul.

Incerc sa imi argumentez punctul de vedere privind Teorema lui Pasolini cu cateva note pe care mi le-am facut la o noua vizionare a filmului.

Prologul - ziaristul intreaba, este un act izolat sau avem de-a face cu un nou trend? Prin middle class este inteleasa in film burghezia. Daca este un trend (se refera la eroul interpretat de Massimo Girotti care renunta la fabrica in favoarea muncitorilor) , inseamna ca middle-class (repet: aici in sensul de burghezie) devine intreaga omenire.

Cred ca aici e un hint catre a doua cheie a filmului - care se poate citi ca o parabola antiburgheza, dar si ca o parabola a conditiei umane.

Urmeaza leitmotivul desertului - dunele rascolite de vant: Though God led the people through the desert, He visited them now and then - epifanii.

Everyday is a march through the desert, only we are unaware, till an epihany occurs.

Eroina (Silvana Mangano) citeste din Rimbaud - versurile citite la un moment dat de Terence Stamp sunt din cartea ei:

He belonged to his own life and the turn of goodness

would have taken longer to recreate than a star.

The loved one who came without my ever hoping he would,

has not come back and never will again.

Cheie spre intelegerea epifaniei. Acestor versuri sunt puse in replica unui text din Ieremia 1:

You have seduced me Lord and I let myself be seduced. You have taken me by force and You have prevailed. I have become a laughingstock every day. Yes, I have heard many slanders. Terrors on all side. You denounce him and then we'll denounce him. All my friends kept an eye close on my fall. Maybe he'll let himself be seduced and we'll reap our vengeance on him.

Tatalui bolnav, i se citeste din Moartea lui Ivan Ilici - el face o comparatie intre eroul jucat de catre Terence Stamp si Gherasim - tu nu esti Gherasim, pe tine omul nu te poate infrunta cu privirea.

Epifania iti distruge indentitatea dinainte. Coma lui Odette - extaz mistic. Culoarea picturilor baiatului: blue reminds me of him (pe urma urineaza pe albastru).

Secera si ciocanul cand servitoarea se ingroapa de vie. Nu te teme, nu am venit aici ca sa mor ci sa plang lacrimi de bucurie - din lacrimile mele va tasni un izvor. Secera si ciocanul in locul crucii.

Turnul care apare la un moment dat imi aminteste de Nostalgia Infinitului a lui Chirico (chiar daca in film turnul este o structura metalica)

• Teorema lui Pasolini

(Italian Movies)

The Journey of René Magritte from Giorgio de Chirico to Odilon Redon

The journey of René Magritte started from the universe of Giorgio de Chirico. There is no wonder, as the Metaphysical Interiors of de Chirico contain within themselves so many directions the twentieth century art would take, from surrealism to pop.

Look at Magritte's La Traversée Difficile (the left image), painted in 1926, and then look at de Chirico's Metaphysical Interior (the top image), done in 1916.

The hero of Magritte, his ambiguous bilboquet, is placed as an observer into the metaphysical world of de Chirico: world of ambiguous objects that could be anything, even gates to other worlds. A universe of universes, perhaps our own, as we are living surrounded by objects that can be just theatrical masks, or windows towards the infinite, or maybe both.
There is another version of La Traversée Difficile, made in 1963 (the bottom image). I saw it on the monograph of Suzi Gablik (where I discovered also the painting of de Chirico). I looked for both of them on the web, without having success. I found all kind of Difficult Crossings and Metaphysical Interiors, but the versions from 1963 and 1916. Eventually I asked a colleague to scan them both from the book of Suzy Gablik - so I was able to insert them here.
The version from 1963 is far from the one made in 1929. The bilboquet became an anthropomorphic spectator, dressed in a black suit, wearing a white shirt and a tie - the way the typical character of Magritte was dressed - his head remained the one of the bilboquet, only the eye became ominous. And the universe was reduced to the essentials. The objects -gates to other worlds - opened and all worlds joined together.


The version of 1963 had no more to do with Giorgio de Chirico. It was rather a replica to Vision, the charcoal drawing of Odilon Redon. The works of Redon were compared to the poetry of Baudelaire. A lone wolf, like Puvis de Chavannes, his contemporary, he created with his lithographs a dream world situated beyond the visible. Redon's Vision is looking at you the way saints from Byzantine icons are looking.

And Magritte made the whole journey back in time, from Giorgio de Chirico to Odilon Redon.

(René Magritte)