Bob Schwartz

The Art of Eva Roberts

Later When Stars Opened

The paintings of Eva Roberts are now being shown on the Saatchi Art website. Some are there already, and more are reportedly on the way.

Others have written insightfully about this extraordinary art (Peter Frank: “Roberts’ practice harks back before abstract expressionism to the abstract painting of a century ago, a painting driven by and infused with spiritual and metaphorical content….The soul of Eva Roberts’ paintings, then, is a twinned unity, proffering the yin of pure form and the yang of the recognizable.”).

The best way to begin experiencing these paintings is not to read about them but to visit and look. Look and look again.

Please Don’t Dominate the Rap Jack: New Speedway Boogie Today

New Speedway Boogie 4

The Grateful Dead’s Workingman’s Dead album (1970) is a showcase for the brilliance of lyricist and poet Robert Hunter. (Hunter was inducted into the Rock Hall with the Dead in 1994, and is the only non-performer member of a band ever to be so honored.)

Listen to New Speedway Boogie, or read the lyrics below, and see if it doesn’t have something to say today.

Please don’t dominate the rap, Jack
If you’ve got nothing new to say
If you please, don’t back up the track
This train’s got to run today

I spent a little time on the mountain
I spent a little time on the hill
I heard some say better run away
Others say better stand still

I don’t know, but I been told
It’s hard to run with the weight of gold
Other hand I have heard it said
It’s just as hard with the weight of lead

Who can deny, who can deny
It’s not just a change in style
One step done and another begun
And I wonder how many miles

I spent a little time on the mountain
I spent a little time on the hill
Things went down we don’t understand
But I think in time we will
Now, I don’t know, but I was told
In the heat of the sun a man died of cold

Keep on coming or stand and wait,
With the sun so dark and the hour so late.
You can overlook the lack, Jack
Of any other highway to ride

It’s got no signs or dividing lines
And very few rules to guide
I spent a little time on the mountain
I spent a little time on the hill
I saw things getting out of hand
I guess they always will

I don’t know, but I been told
If the horse don’t pull you got to carry the load
I don’t know whose back’s that strong
Maybe find out before too long

One way or another, one way or another
One way or another, this darkness got to give
One way or another, one way or another
One way or another, this darkness got to give
One way or another, one way or another
One way or another, this darkness got to give

Written by Jerome J. Garcia, Robert C. Hunter

From the Unpublished Archive: It’s Now Safe for All Democrats to Love Joe Biden

This was written in October 2015, when Joe Biden announced he would not run for the Democratic nomination. The election story isn’t over yet, but we know what happened since. Bernie Sanders galvanized progressives who yearned for a new path and who had distaste for and distrust of Hillary Clinton. Donald Trump galvanized a completely other constituency of the distasteful and the distrustful. And so it goes.

Joe Biden is neutralized, so it is now safe for all Democrats to say how much he is loved, not just by Democrats, but by Republicans and the whole nation. And how capable, experienced and qualified he is. And how nobody is better at working across the political aisle.

The way he is being praised to the heavens by all, including Hillary Clinton supporters, you would think this was a new discovery. In fact, he was just as beloved, capable, experienced and qualified a couple of days ago. In fact, it was Republican Lindsey Graham who said three months ago, “He’s the nicest person I’ve ever met in politics. He’s as good a man as God has ever created.”

The difference, of course, is that Joe Biden now poses no threat to Hillary Clinton. And therein lies some insight, not about Joe or Hillary, but about what people do not like about politics, certainly not the way it is played by some of our leading figures.

Politics may be a game, but when playing it involves hiding the truth about people, or delaying telling the truth about people because it is not politically expedient, something is wrong. It may be “right” electorally, but wrong by most other human measures. Good people and behavior should be lauded in a timely way, not so good people or behavior should be noted in a timely way.

When people are as constant and talented as Joe Biden, members of the Democratic Party, even if they supported someone else, shouldn’t have waited to celebrate that constancy—even it meant giving him his due. But they did wait until today. When it was safe.

Which is not only sad, but bodes ill for those who claim to be truth tellers and uniters of a clearly divided body politic. Because if you are afraid of someone beloved, capable, experienced and qualified, what exactly does that say about you?

Plainday Plainsong

Plainday Plainsong

An old friend says
That when you fully notice anything
You are there.
The morning wind blows chill
Driving away thoughts
Of hot summer.
The birds are long awake
Forever.
A white steeple
Shoots out of a green sea.
Later they will gather under it
To sing.
My old friend is gone
Four hundred years
And still speaking.

It’s Not for Me to Say

“It’s not for me to say.”

One of the keynotes of Buddhism and Zen is nondiscrimination, that is, not getting trapped by thinking this is better and that’s worse, this is right and that’s wrong. This doesn’t mean that things aren’t by their nature or manufacture different or preferable, or that you can’t or shouldn’t recognize that. It’s just that clinging to that difference is unhelpful and can be the source of unnecessary conflict.

In the wake of some typically silly arguments, I have an idea for a way to remind myself of this, since it can be so easily forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Confronted by the endless opportunities to offer an opinion, to counter another’s opinion, or just to show off how smart and discerning one thinks one is, consider just reciting this, silently or out loud:

“It’s not for me to say.”

This isn’t a magical mantra, but it is meaningful. Of course, if someone asks for the quickest directions, or how to best cook something, or where to live, you will be welcome to offer your practical knowledge and expertise, if you have those. But often, when the difference of opinion is of no consequence, or of less consequence than the conflict is worth, having no opinion can be the best way.

It may be for someone else to say. But not me.

Reading Obituaries Late

I picked up a year-old magazine and read the obituary of a writer I did not know had died.

It celebrated his talent and achievements, which I had occasionally enjoyed. I wasn’t a regular reader of his work, but I admired it.

There would be no newly-created work of his to read. To those who regularly read his work and who worked with him, it was a deep loss. For those who were still to discover his work, or like me had only dabbled in it, there was plenty of already published work to read, though we might or might not get around to it.

It would not have mattered had I read the obituary the week it was published instead of now. Maybe it would have come up in conversation at the time, but probably not. Maybe I would have noted it in something I wrote at the time, but also probably not.

He died about a year ago. Maybe I will go back and enjoy something he wrote, something I’d read before, or something I’d missed. We’ll see.

Practices

Practices

Our practices grow ragged
From disuse
Or irregularity.
Don’t fret.
There they are
Patient for our return.
Once a day
Once a year
Once in a lifetime.
Always ready and waiting.

Poem: A Flight of Stuff

A Flight of Stuff

Simple enough
Pack and go.
But what was this airport?
People I knew
And strangers
And strangers I knew.
Narrow passageways
And great halls.
Why was my stuff unpacked
And whose stuff was it anyway?
My companions had headed for the gate.
What time was the flight?
So many bags
So much to review and repack
Or leave behind.
This and this,
I remember this
But this, this,
What is it?
What does it do,
What would I ever had wanted with it?
Had the flight left?
Concerned but not panicked
A whisper of sadness.
The more I looked around
The more there was.
Where was that flight going anyway?
Why had they left me alone
Behind with this stuff?

Istanbul

Istanbul Street

Above is a photo of a street in Istanbul. It is one of hundreds I’ve taken of the city.

Today’s news, a bombing at the Istanbul Ataturk Airport, might discourage visits to this city—a city that depends on its fully-deserved tourism.

Istanbul from the Terrace

Istanbul is possibly the most fascinating city in the West. Or the East. Or in the East and West, since Istanbul is literally the historic and cultural bridge between two worlds. The Christians came. The Muslims came. And then as the Muslim world tried to find its ways in the 20th century, Kemal Ataturk formed a new kind of modern Muslim nation—one that was more Western, one that had its own language instead of Arabic. Rooted in its history, reaching for the future, it has stood apart.

There’s not a lot to say right now. It can be hard for people to ignore the possibility of random terror just to experience this urban treasure. Which is a shame. Because as many special cities as there are, there is only one Istanbul.

Istanbul Cat

Hunter S. Thompson and Political Journalism

Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail

Hunter S. Thompson developed one of the most original and irresistible voices in American journalism. He killed himself in 2005, and nowhere is his work more missed than in politics.

To sample that voice, you can and should try The Great Shark Hunt, the best single volume collection of excerpts from his many years and areas of coverage. If you just want to see what he did for and to political journalism, read Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72.

We can only wonder what he would make of this political season and of the major party candidates for President. Wish he was here. That would be something. From his first exposure to Richard Nixon, for example, Thompson saw right through to Nixon’s dark soul. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who saw it, but he was the only journalist who would talk about it at all. Talk about it in ways that seemed borderline deranged, because faced with twisted truth, sometimes only the twisted can tell it like it is. Or as Thompson liked to say, “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”

Thanks to him, it’s a little more common now to hear a bit more seemingly immoderate but completely justified criticism of questionable candidates. But not as much as we need and not as much as is deserved. Not as much as Thompson would have handed out.

Here is an excerpt from Thompson’s 1994 obituary for Nixon (“He Was a Crook”).   Note his criticism of the failures of “Objective Journalism” when journalists are faced with the extraordinary.

Kissinger was only one of the many historians who suddenly came to see Nixon as more than the sum of his many squalid parts. He seemed to be saying that History will not have to absolve Nixon, because he has already done it himself in a massive act of will and crazed arrogance that already ranks him supreme, along with other Nietzschean supermen like Hitler, Jesus, Bismarck and the Emperor Hirohito. These revisionists have catapulted Nixon to the status of an American Caesar, claiming that when the definitive history of the 20th century is written, no other president will come close to Nixon in stature. “He will dwarf FDR and Truman,” according to one scholar from Duke University.

It was all gibberish, of course. Nixon was no more a Saint than he was a Great President. He was more like Sammy Glick than Winston Churchill. He was a cheap crook and a merciless war criminal who bombed more people to death in Laos and Cambodia than the U.S. Army lost in all of World War II, and he denied it to the day of his death. When students at Kent State University, in Ohio, protested the bombing, he connived to have them attacked and slain by troops from the National Guard.

Some people will say that words like scum and rotten are wrong for Objective Journalism — which is true, but they miss the point. It was the built-in blind spots of the Objective rules and dogma that allowed Nixon to slither into the White House in the first place. He looked so good on paper that you could almost vote for him sight unseen. He seemed so all-American, so much like Horatio Alger, that he was able to slip through the cracks of Objective Journalism. You had to get Subjective to see Nixon clearly, and the shock of recognition was often painful.