premiere partie: pomp of virtue.

mark twain dining at delmonicos, new york. late nineteenth century.

 as i am off to new york with friends tomorrow, i have spent most of my morning commute to work sifting through the myriad of perceptions of the city i've taken from films, books, visits and photographs over the years. jostling for attention, each idea or paradigm of the city i hold always loses out to the one i find the most romantic and the most far removed historically, new york in the second half of the nineteenth century. having spent a fair bit of time researching and reading on turn of the century social thought, i find this era in north america's, arguably, then most important city fascinating. a meeting of staunch victorian tradition and illusions of the yeoman's frontier, within this era in the city's history elegance and propriety clashed with the increasingly dark side of poverty and crime caused by an unprecedented flooding of people from rural to urban environments. the neighborhoods by the water were primarily supported by farming and shucking oysters which although now extinct in new york waters, were so plentiful in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries that they were considered a poor man's nourishment. after dark these areas were characterized by prostitution, citations for lewdness and drunken brawls. this was in high contrast to the pomp of virtue that the most affluent members of the city put on. socializing at establishments such as delmonico's, the "upper crust", so to speak, of new york's citizens draped themselves in finery and bantered over seven course meals at north america's first fine dining establishment.

oyster stands in fulton market, 1870.

establishments like delmonico's were essential in creating the still burgeoning idea of what exactly, america was, culturally and socially. surrounding the time that the photo above of mark twain was taken the "new" americans were still battling the mohawk, sioux and iroquois tribes with legislation such as the indian removal act of 1830 and the indian appropriations act of 1871 and battles such as wounded knee in 1890. north america was a tumultuous place, very uncertain of its identity and disillusioned with what it was seemingly becoming, a crowded web of metropolises. increasing concerns in the period over poverty, general "immorality" and declining religious adherence motivated scores of women to become heavily involved in colonial-esque philanthropic ventures, typically concerning new immigrants to the city. roaming the streets in their petty coats and corsetted tops, these women, although from a modern historical perspective grossly misinformed by theories about biological determinism, were the precursors to eminent women's movements such as the suffragettes. it was as much these women (and their poorer counterparts who prostituted themselves or acted as barkeepers) as it was the class-obsessed and politically motivated men who made new york what it is today.

19th century tenement life, new york city. photo by jacob a. riis.

further reading
the big oyster: history of the half-shell by mark kurlansky
five points: the nineteenth century neighborhood that invented tap dance, stole elections and became the world's most notorious slum by tyler anbinder
the alienist by caleb carr
devil in the white city by eric lawson


a la prochaine....

mythos.

otis redding, early 1960's.

recently i had a discussion with someone about the idea of tragedy in the lives of those most highly regarded and emulated by younger generations; sam cooke, otis redding, nina simone, billie holiday, virginia woolfe, sylvia plath, hubert aquin. sadly the list goes on and on. we both remarked on the penchant that developing minds have for lives lived viscerally, or so it would seem through a historical lens. we construct mythic  narratives surrounding people who seemed to have shone so brightly that they could not be contained by life. life made up of such minutia as making beds, pointless arguments and taking the bus. always riddled with torrid tales of lovers, heroin, plane crashes and shot guns it seems impossible that anyone could live in such a way. i suppose to young minds it provides the possibility that we too can live extraordinary lives.

sylvia plath, late 1950's.

why does it always seem that these narratives only existed in and before the first three quarters of the twentieth century? and if they do appear in the contemporary collective memory, they seem to typically manifest themselves in cultures foreign to us; i.e. the distinctly orientalist obsession with places like india that has come about in western society in the last twenty years. is this because we cannot see the romance in our present times? does witnessing the creation of the myth dull its charm? will we too find our reddings and plaths? and if so, what do we gain from it besides a fleeting sense of mysticism and enchanting danger? i suppose that at a certain age, we must learn to separate, to quote a friend, "the truly magical from the crazy". wise words.

la grande fallace.

photo series,  iconographie photographique de la salpetiere, 1878

education plays a significant role in the development of [hysteria]. the prolonged contact of children with older persons will develop in them a precocious intelligence and a want of simplicity; the intellectual facilities of young girls are artificially simulated at the expense of their physical powers.

 -sigmund freud, a clinical treatise, 1879 

i don't talk about feminism much these days, lest it my comments be met with dispassionate shrugs or glazed eyes. for an issue that seemed so strongly to define women's intellectual thought and history over the past century, it would appear that our present day society has resoundingly rejected this notion as pertinent. this past year i devoted a considerable amount of time writing on and researching the "disease" of hysteria in nineteenth century north america. presently, the concept of hysteria brings to mind tearful and fainting women, but few are aware of the "disease's" controversial roots. finding its origins in the hippocratic corpus, hysteria literally translates in ancient greek to "wandering womb" and dubiously referred to an ailment that affected only barren or single women. long theorized by feminist historians and sociologists as a social tool through which male doctors could reinforce patriarchal standards, hysteria manifested itself in over a thousand symptoms and essentially acted as a umbrella diagnosis for women who did not fit the paradigm of traditional femininity.

more salpetiere archival photographs, late 19th century

although a slow evolution throughout modern history, the "disease's" distinctly gendered qualities as an ailment affecting only women were perfected by dr. jean-martin charcotte and sigmund freud at the end of the nineteenth century. innumerable women were institutionalized by primarily male relatives and co-opted into fitting the stereotype of hysteric patient. this was typically defined by erotic spasms of the body and babbling in languages not native to the patient. until the early twentieth century the "cure" was thought to be clinical orgasm with the help of (guess who?) the doctor himself. it couldn't be a more depraved and fascinating coming together of fallacious notions of female sexuality if i'd made it up myself.

salpetiere archival photographs, late 19th century

as some of my co-conspirators would know, hysteria is a very complex cultural phenomenon that is difficult to explain in a few short paragraphs. regardless, my point remains the same; if hysteria was a collective creation used to perform a socially regulatory function on women whose self identities remained schizophrenic in the face of paradigms of femininity; what is our contemporary manifestation of hysteria? once again, many feminist theorists, such as elaine showalter, argue that it comes in the contemporary package of plastic surgery and body dis-morphia. but does a society as (fairly) progressive as ours in canada even need such tools anymore? is feminism irrelevant? or is it simply besides the point in the burgeoning age of androgynous sexuality? if so, i will back up my words and be on my way.

elaine brown, far left. renowned feminist and
 former leader of the black panthers party,  1971

not to leave this on a dark note, i do firmly believe that the generation of women and men i have grown up with are posing a marked change in opinion on the preceding issues. young women are slowly re-appropriating their worth as mothers, sisters and daughters without protest and negative connotations of being slaves to biology. not to even begin to mention men who, arguably, are presently facing similarly devastating pressures of fitting themselves into contemporary constructs of masculinity. but alas, that is for another day.  

felquistes.

still of aquin from gordan sheppards documentary "ha! self-murder mystery"

           i've only lived the way that grass lives. if i were to make a quick tally of kisses given, of my powerful emotions, of my nights of wonder, of my luminous days, of my privileged hours and the great discoveries i have yet to make; and if i were to add up over an infinity of perforated postcards to cities i've passed through, the hotels where i've had a good meal or a night of love, the number of friends and of women i've betrayed, to what sombre inventory would these irregular operations lead me? the sine curve of real-life experience doesn't translate the ancient hope. 

                                                                    -aquin, 1965

yesterday i finished reading hubert aquin's novel prochaine episode and i was left astounded. it was one of those works that can't help but break something open in the reader upon completion. published in 1965, prochaine episode is part political manifesto, part internal dialogue, part spy novel written in first person by an unnamed narrator who is confined to a psychiatric hospital awaiting sentencing for an unmentioned revolutionary act. aquin expertly weaves a complex plot concerning the politics of québec in the 1960's overlaid with the tragic inner demons of a man who is ruminating over the consequences and disappointments of his life as a failed revolutionary. long considered a french-canadian literary classic, aquin's work deeply reflects the great tumult of mid-century québecois political history. for those of you who aren't familiar with this period it signified a marked change in québecois social thought; no longer content to be a french island within a sea of anglophones, many french canadians dusted off their edition of capital and rallied for the separation of québec from english canada as a nation unto itself. out of this movement came a plethora of "terrorist" groups (i quote terrorist to signify my innate distrust of the word as an accurate descriptor), most notably the front de libération du québec, made up of those calling themselves felquistes. the flq took a distinctly militant stance on separatism, arming themselves and, in climax to their presence on the political arena, kidnapping two government officials in protest of their believed english oppressors.

demonstration of jeunes communistes, 1970

 not to suggest that one should support militaristic and armed forms of protest, i, ever the aspiring historian, could not help that the concepts of change and continuity cross my mind. as i said in a conversation with a someone last week; where have all the stokely carmicheals gone? times are revolutionary, positively passionate, in the middle east and even in some fashion in wisconsin, at the moment. scanning the contemporary canadian socio-political landscape one cannot help but find the results bleak, to say the least. i simply wonder where our, our, frenzied and politically consumed men and women have gone? are their voices silenced and their rises to notoriety stifled by our drastic preference of mediums of media from those used by the carmicheals and hanischs of bygone times? or is it that today there are too many screaming at once, and we can't hear the worthy ones but for the noise? i leave you with another quote from aquin, a man who can articulate the pure truth of political obsession more beautifully than i ever could. 

a pirate set free in a misty pond, covered by a colt 38 and injected with intoxicating syringes, i'm a prisoner, a terrorist, an anarchist, and an undeniably washed-up revolutionary! with my gun at my hip, always ready for a lightening shot at ghosts, never pulling any punches and with a heavy heart, i'm a hero, the former addict! national leader of an unknown people! i am the fragmented symbol of quebec's revolution, its fractured reflection and its suicidal incarnation.

danse macabre.

still from biutiful.

 recently a good friend and i went to see biutiful, a film billed as a love story between a dying man and his children. the plot focuses on uxbal, a man who is desperately trying to provide his two children with some sort of financial and emotional life preserver to carry them through after his fast approaching death. albeit grim, the film was beautiful and left us both with an unsettled feeling that betrayed simple shock and sadness at the horrors of one family falling apart. the film genuinely asked questions about what was to be done when everything foundational in one's life simply vanishes. i feel as though many films over the last few years, another example would be cormack mccarthy's novel-turned-film the road, have kept up a tone of unapologetic grittiness that seems to hold as its foundation a refusal to look away from true and ugly things.

danse macabre, micheal wolgemut, 1493.

 it may seem an obvious comment but i am always astounded at how reflective the arts, film especially, can be of a specific socio-political climate. in north america the two-thousands have brought us a post-911 era of cynicism of our personal safety, burgeoning concern over population issues, a post-bush era distrust in government, the ever present tumult of middle eastern countries, and the cautionary tale of the financial meltdown of two thousand and eight. it is furthermore no surprise to see that these same reactions, boom and bust of faith in ourselves as a species if i may, have cycled throughout history, manifesting themselves in some of the only relics left behind, the arts. as anyone who has had any rudimentary education in european history would know, the continent was ravaged again and again by plagues cycling from the sixth century on. the infamous bout of black death, as it is often called, peaked in roughly the mid fourteenth century and wiped out nearly half of the european population by the beginning of the fifteenth century. when exploring the woodcuts, paintings and drawings of this era there is a distinct grimness present. one example is the danse macabre, (dance of death, in english) a genre of work that depicted skeletons (often of different classes and backgrounds) dancing together. it was meant as a memento mori (latin for remember death), a reminder that no matter who you are, regardless of riches and sins, death was universal.

letter a in the hans holbein "alphabet of death", 1538.

 i suppose the question that this leads us to is what is our danse macabre? is it films like biutiful and the road, or does it manifest itself in the pop nihilism of authors such as palahniuk and copland? we seem, as a whole, fairly overwhelmed right now with the horrific possibilities of our future. but before letting fear mongering rob us of our rationale we must realize, that with every other era that came before us, there is always going to be an ebb and flow of conviction in ourselves. a distinctly human dilemma that is no more beautifully illustrated than in films such as biutiful. watch it.

tekakwitha.

view of montreal looking south, taken 1930

having just spent an astoundingly great weekend visiting one of my best  friends, i have montreal, specifically french catholics, on the brain. walking home after a particularly long night we made our way up to my friend's studio on one of the top floors of a building and lorded over the montreal skyline. what strikes one the most is how from the ground level you can't really conceive of the way in which churches in a city are built to loom over those oblivious below. they rose up with such grandiosity and authority, it felt my self taken aback by all i had been missing. as a person who doesn't practice any sort of religion, i felt oddly sad for them, sitting in plain sight yet seemingly unnoticed and almost neglected, some sort of beacon of a time lost.

montreal, 1875

the simple feat of building the dome on the basilica style roman catholic churches seems catastrophically impossible to me. specifically when considering how the largest churches in montreal were built as early as the mid-nineteenth century. with a series of pulleys and scaffolding they were painstakingly built over years, sometimes decades. having studied renaissance and baroque architecture, the sheer dedication of the patrons, architects and labourers leaves me awestruck.

bishop ignace bourget of montreal, taken 1862

i was particularly aware of the religious qualities of french canada this past weekend due to my concurrent reading of leonard cohen's beautiful losers. written in the late sixties, cohen's distinctly post-modern work encapsulates the dichotomies of religions in contemporary culture. aggressively sexual, almost obscene, the stream of consciousness narrative surrounds a love triangle between a man, his dead wife, and a fictitious character named f. with the ever looming figure of the indigenous saint catherine tekakwitha, whom the narrator, an academic, studies almost obsessively. recently having been exposed to the rich literary history of french canada i am consistently shocked at how little we pay credence to our own historical legitimacy as a nation. persistently relying on america as an easy scapegoat for a national persona, we neglect our own unique qualities as a people mediating between the two worlds of french and english, not to mention the plethora of other languages indigenous and imported to us. in some strange way i feel as though as long as we don't speak too loud or too boastfully about who we are as a country, the longer we will remain unnoticed and unfrenzied. canada has always held an innately pure quality in my mind, but it may just be wishful thinking.

depiction of catherine tekakwitha

ancestrality.

recently my aunt scanned and sent forth hundreds of photos of our relatives, past and present. it shocked me to see myself in these people i had never really met or connected with. it can be especially bizarre considering i don't really perceive myself as being indigenous in anyway, admittedly mostly due to the genetic lottery of ending up fair skinned. that begs the question of how you can even conceptualize yourself as an ethnicity? since we've cast off biological determinism long ago, it can't theoretically be based on any skin colour? what had to happen to me when i was a child, what experiences did i have to have, to now consider myself metis or native or french or white? what essence can you be missing that makes you one thing or the other? how important is it to even care? i have a feeling it's tremendously important, but i don't really know why.