A Lovely Evening

Maybe I have a penchant for all things Tudor and Elizabethan.

I enjoy The Tudors almost as much as Shakespeare, albeit in quite different ways. So I was thrilled to get tickets for the Roundabout’s new production. Actually, I tend to love whatever the Roundabout puts on, and a historical drama or classic play just adds to the draw.

Last night I saw A Man for All Seasons, a 1960s drama by Robert Bolt about Sir Thomas Moore and his opposition to the divorce of King Henry VIII of England from his first wife, Catherine of Spain, to marry Ann Boleyn. I enjoyed the 60s movie version, and brought high expectations to this production directed by Doug Hughes and starring Frank Langella. The performence met them.
Bolt’s play is a clean vehicle for the drama of a man trying to live when his government finds his personal beliefs–inconvenient. A simple play in its characterization of Sir Thomas Moore as a saint, following his conscience to his death for refusing to publicaly support the King’s divorce, and everyone else as evil (Cromwell, immoral powerseeker, Rich, trecharous worm) or merely less willing to risk death(Moore’s simple wife). Moore’s beliefs do not allow him to serve his King any longer, at which point he simply stops, not because-as he points out in the play-he is making a gesture, but because his conscience would not allow him to do otherwise.
Moore’s remarks were often the delight of the play, lightening the tense mood even as his situation became more and more dire. Only once–at his trial after Rich betrays him–does Moore’s comments, always clear-headed and apt, seem out of place–when he grasps the chain of state office around Rich’s neck and, seeing a dragon, says “Not to give one’s soul for the whole world, but for Whales?” Moore’s fate was sealed in that moment, and his prescient comment too light.
The play had many powerful moments in addition to this, for example when his wife visits him in prison. She is angry that he won’t remove himself from his situation. He begs for her support so that he can go on, and she cries out, “No, I am afraid that when you are dead I will hate you.” When the jailer pulls her away from a prone Moore, sobbing on the prison floor, one feels the great emotional strength it takes his cahracter, to, ultimately, face death with such resolve. This is not an ascetic, but a man, who loved his family and country as well as his god.
The character requires strength of voice and manner, and some subltely in the timing of its witticisms. Langella inhabits the man and role from the pate to the toes, and his controlled and smooth voice is a pleasure to hear. The play depends on Langella for coherence and veracity, and he delivers a solid and natural performance. I barely took my eyes off him, and was as engrossed in the play as I would have been in a vivid dream, because of his performance. He made it look easy to be Sir Thomas.
Before the play, I had the lucky opportunity to be in the audience of a radio interview of Doug Hughes. Hughes was thrilled to have worked with Langella, saying that to work with an experienced actor at the hieght of his powers in such a part as Sir Thomas Moore’s was a great opportunity. After an informative half hour q and a, we were given wine and appetizers and mingled to piano music in the Penthouse Lobby of the American Airline theater–basically the perfect introduction to a powerful, and powerfully-acted, evening of theater.

Ray Caesar and Ugliness with Beauty

Recently I came across the works of Ray Caesar (feel free to check out his very nice web site from which I pulled these). I think the images are lovely: striking and rich palette and a painterly feel (as it happens, the images are produced digitally). The images are often of beautiful fantasy women, typically in romantic period costume and in luxurious, ornate settings…with deformities. Not deformities that actually happen to people, but like the one to the left: octopus-like tentacles. The combination of the beauty of the style, which suits the preconceptions of beauty we bring to glamorous women in Victorian costume, twists the ugliness of these unexpected, unnatural additions into an uncanny mix. In some of his more explicitly sexual works, there is the added odd charm of liscentious and uncanniness and beauty. The effect: disturbing.

Distrubing in a light way, the kind you never need think about twice. The uncanny, as a mix of ugliness and beauty, is ground mined during Romanticism and liscentious ugliness reared its serpent head in the works of Decadents. The mix of straight-laced Victorianism with alien qualities is nice, the skill of the graphics excellent, and the style beautiful. The dreamy Surrealism of Dali, as well as similar plasticine molding of form is “pretty,” as in attractive.

But what interest me is the use of prettyness and ugliness together. Does the style beaut-ify the ugliness depicted? Does Caeser succeed in making beautiful pictures of uncanny, ugly things? I think so. But I think that is the sum total of his charms, and there is much more to be said for ugliness in art. For example, can it be ugly, if it’s good art?

Cy Twombly and Tara Donovan: Connections

Tara Donovan’s recent exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art awakened me to how lovely and natural her sprawling forms can be, making me quite pleased she won a MacArthur “genius” grant. Composed of a single type of “ready-made” material, she deconstructs the material until you see the essence of its structure and qualities in the way she presents it. She uses mylar tape on the walls of the Met, tacking the shiny rings across the walls like the natural growth of fungus or barnacles. The photograph (below) gives you no true sense of the feel of the

walls, or the gloss of the transformed mylar. Donovan both brings the material into its essence, and gives it a new identity. The way she organizes her material, as one can see here, is organic and expansive, holistic in a way that encompasses chaos. I find the subtle, minor variations of the patterns of rings trance-inducing.


Let’s take another contemporary American artist, Cy Twombly, who I feel is more similar to Donovan than is immediately apparent. Wikipedia categorizes him as “well known for his large scale, freely-scribbled, calligraphic style graffiti paintings; on solid fields of mostly gray, tan, or off-white colors.” For both artists, scale is large. Twombly’s abstract paintings create similar designs whose internal harmony mimics that of nature.

Obviously Twombly is quite painterly and messy, and Donovan has a clean-edged, minimalist aesthetic to her sculpture. However, the works of both display a harmony through sprawling, organic balance in patterns echoing Donovan’s work above. Both artists use organic arrangements to evoke a chaotic materiality. Their works are atmospheric, rather than explicit, and scattered rather than centered. What they are saying about the world, even in Twombly’s paintings where he writes it out, is unclear, but how they say it is tantalizing.