Ora sono ubriaco d'universo. (Ungaretti)

Page 6 of 178

Fifth Reflection: Sappho, “I confess / I love that which caresses me”

I confess / I love that which caresses me
Sappho (tr. Mary Barnard)

I confess

I love that
which caresses
me. I believe

Love has his
share in the
Sun’s brilliance
and virtue.


There’s that love which “hard to get” works so well at manipulating. It’s a pious, noble, virtuous love, where objects are kept at a distance and we are reproached for approaching. You don’t become a god by forcibly taking over a temple. Nor do you become a hero by stealing Batman’s costume. And, most of all, you don’t become beloved by forcing your attentions on someone. In each case, what we worship, admire, or adore changes us through the distance it sets. Gods make us reverent and obedient. Heroes embolden us in our everyday lives. And would-be lovers become different things to win the beloved.

I tend to think the heart of Plato is understanding that this noble sort of love is a special case of something more fundamental, namely eros. We should love that which caresses us, not just stays away from us. And that caressing should produce good things for us, just as the Sun does. (Obviously, I am not talking about creepers or stalkers being lovers here.) Its brilliance allows us to see and enjoy the day. And its virtue – is this excellence? or something else? – may be its steadfastness. No changes necessary to it, whereas a beloved must change in some way to accept a lover.

Which brings up this question. Why is this a confession? Why does the speaker believe that Love has only a share in the Sun? We feel guilty in having a love that is good for us and to us; we don’t see the whole of love in being loved well. We want to feel like we’ve learned to love or discovered love. Not the worst feeling, but maybe not always the best.

More on whether Political Philosophy depends on History

Poetry coming soon. I am very grateful for the questions sent and the readership. In what follows, I’ve tried to keep things real. I’m less interested in being right and more on just saying something, continuing the discussion.

I was asked the following question about the Zuckert/Strauss post:

Could you offer an example so that I can better understand what you mean here? “To ask about what is just, all that is required is for one to see or experience some injustice.” I don’t follow how this is sufficient for undertaking the question of justice.

I’ll admit I have a tendency of speeding through points obvious to me and no one else. This is an excellent question about a point that is none too obvious.

Let’s back up a bit. My larger point is that Strauss is not being entirely honest when he says that experience of a variety of regimes, places, and times is necessary for “questions of the nature of political things and of the best, or the just, political order.” My own feeling is that “What is justice?” explodes the whole argument. If one has lived in one regime at one time and is treated unjustly, there is a chance one might question the order she lives in and start imagining different things (cf. Xenophon’s depiction of Socrates and a horse). (To clarify, by “required” I mean “necessary” more than “sufficient.”) Is such questioning as rigorous as that of a political philosopher comparing regimes? Probably not.

Justice speaks to something far more important than intellectual rigor, though. It speaks to actually encountering the question. I love Mansfield’s description of Thrasymachus in his A Student’s Guide to Political Philosophy. Thrasymachus is angry because he’s been treated unjustly. Socrates is busy talking about how justice is either “helping friends or harming enemies” or “doing no harm.” The realities of power and control, realities Thrasymachus is very sensitive to, are flat-out ignored. In questioning Socrates, then, Thrasymachus does not merely assert himself and address an injustice. He contributes to the development of the question of justice itself. And maybe he is most sensitive to what Socrates trying to teach in the Republic.

“What is justice?” isn’t some question that people ask because they’re wondering about what the best law. They’re also wondering how they ought to be treated, what justice is for them, what justice means. You can get to these questions that might be dismissed as “existential” from wondering why one was treated unjustly and questioning the law or institutions that allowed it to happen.

Ah! But that’s not political philosophy, you say. Political philosophy is the discussion of the best regime! Of getting a standard of good and bad! Any idiot can whine about being treated badly. That doesn’t even add up to a serious complaint about a legal system, much less the question “What is justice?” Moreover, we don’t consider founders of regimes philosophers, so even though any given constitution posits an answer to questions like “What is man” or “What is virtue,” that does not count either. A real political philosopher, aware of the diversity of peoples, places, times, and institutions, takes all of it into account and attempts a comprehensive, systematic answer.

I’ll just say this: the more we insist on this sort of intellectual rigor, the more we’re making political philosophy something very specific: we’re making it exactly what some Straussians say Socratic political philosophy is. And I don’t know that’s a particularly philosophic thing to do. Something about philosophy must speak to our experience directly, not just our arguments.

Granted, this is a problematic answer. I guess I’m throwing the tradition of political philosophy under the bus in favor of sophists and second-rate thinkers. And I’ve been told there’s something about seeing beyond the limits of one’s time at stake in using and defending the tradition. But then again, my question when approaching “Political Philosophy and History” is why anyone should care for either discipline. If Strauss’ essay fails to speak to anyone but Straussians, well.

There’s a second part to the above question:

Also, is it worth noting that the interlocutors are not, strictly speaking, Athenians in book 1 of the Republic? Thrasymachus was from Chalcedon, Cephalus was from Syracuse, as perhaps was his son, Polemarchus.

Again, an awesome question. This time I need to address history and experience, and how much is needed for the inception of political philosophy.

I say nearly none at all. If one can imagine a change to one’s own regime, a change of any sort, one is well on the path to imagining a number of different societies. If one conceives of political philosophy as the quest for the best regime, one can just think through societies one made-up and work from there. Write a book and pretend your characters exist and you can do political philosophy, too.

Strauss’ essay, for its part, gives an answer that goes two ways, neither way obviously helpful to my take on things. Sure, he starts by saying that some knowledge of history was required for political philosophy in the traditional view. This Zuckert rightly identifies as a surface that can at least rhetorically stand on its own. (The radically imaginative act that political philosophy is – well, you’ll know it when you see it.) And he ends by talking about the “history of political philosophy,” the project that will help us see the foundations of ideas our historicist tendencies are covering up. The specific importance of history is to more fully see the implications of the ideas one works with. Only a special imagination could adequately account for reality in speculation; I don’t even know we’d call that imagination “best” as the best ones reintroduce us to wonder and remake the world in fantastic ways. So it does seem history is a very necessary task, especially as we’ve been given a past to make sense of. Ignoring it makes us prey to some terrible demagoguery.

Yeah, political philosophy is still 99.9% imagination. I’m going to be uncompromising on this. I’ll trade off losing the debate about a tradition and rigor and development of the theme of natural right, and work to see philosophers as actual people.

A Preliminary Response to Catherine Zuckert’s analysis of “Political Philosophy and History”

Thanks to Joe Connole, with whom I am co-authoring a larger article on this topic.

Articles discussed in this post:

Leo Strauss, “Political Philosophy and History” in What is Political Philosophy? And Other Studies. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988. 56-77.

Catherine Zuckert, “Political Philosophy and History” in Leo Strauss’ Defense of the Philosophic Life: Reading What Is Political Philosophy?, ed. Rafael Major. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2013. 43-64.

Let’s just be honest. Leo Strauss’ “Political Philosophy and History” (1949) is boring. Initially, one might also consider it tendentious. Once upon a time, philosophers discussed and debated the best regime, the “standard of good and bad in politics” (Zuckert 43). But now a specter called “historicism” haunts academic and popular notions of politics. It is more dangerous to political philosophy than “positivism,” which rejects the human things in favor of scientific certitude, as “science is good” is not a proposition all times and places accept (43). Historicism argues that “good and bad vary according to time and place” (43). That relativism threatens to destroy our ability to seriously debate what is good or what is bad, thus making political philosophy impossible.

That does describe the first few pages of Strauss’ essay, which to be fair becomes more detailed and nuanced later. However, if one feels that one’s own approach to serious questions is in danger of being stereotyped, labeled “political philosophy” or “positivism” or “historicism,” I don’t blame you. It’s easy to talk about how we acquiesce to convention, but the truth is that we sometimes struggle to accept things that are both true and conventionally held. Moreover, the belief in progress underlying historicism isn’t some waste of time. For example, we believe in religious freedom, women having rights, and people not being slaves. Not all times have held that, and they should be looked down upon for those failures. “The modern prejudice in favor of progress” is an important one (58).

Still, there are a number of worthwhile questions in Strauss’ essay. They’re just a bit tricky to find, for while the surface of things is the heart of things, that may not strictly be true in this case. Zuckert performs an admirable service in rigorously working with the surface. She breaks his “Political Philosophy and History” into its various sections, identifying six distinct parts. She does her best to elaborate important references Strauss makes but passes over quickly. And she builds context where it is hard for a more casual reader to imagine what exactly is being addressed. In performing these very necessary tasks, a central theme emerges: Strauss turns out to be very subtle about how history relates to philosophy. Claims by serious practitioners of historicism are understood and accounted for in his understanding of political philosophy. See pages 48-49 of Zuckert’s essay, especially the mentions of Skinner and Pocock.

But that debate is far too technical to be of use to most people, including those who are serious about their studies and much more. Again, to restate the above: whatever views people hold, they don’t hold them because they really enjoy being conformists. To be fair to Zuckert and Strauss, they don’t malign anyone in their articles. They are writing with a view to how political philosophy and history relate in terms of academic theories and disciplines. There just happens to be a lot more at stake, implicit in their arguments. Dodging these issues by sticking to the surface and keeping things narrow is problematic, to say the least. The deep concern is how much we believe in progress and what the limits of that are. Ancient and medieval thinkers, including some of the greatest moral and philosophic minds, did not assume progress and had quite a bit to say that’s important. “Historicism” as discussed in the essay is ultimately trivial. The real question is why we are drawn to something like it – or, as I’m leaving open, why we, even now, are not always drawn.

To be sure, Zuckert structures her analysis the way she does because she sees Strauss’ “Political Philosophy and History” fitting into the volume What Is Political Philosophy? as a whole. This means she has to restate the surface to a large extent so we readers can keep our place in the narrative. This leads, though, to her taking at face value some claims of Strauss that are questionable. In the very first paragraph, Strauss outlines the traditional view of political philosophy and history. They raise distinctly different questions, but “this does not mean that political philosophy is absolutely independent of history.” He continues:

Without the experience of the variety of political institutions and convictions in different countries and at different times, the questions of the nature of political things and of the best, or the just, political order could never have been raised. And after they have been raised, only historical knowledge can prevent one from mistaking the specific features of the political life of one’s time and one’s country for the nature of political things. (Strauss 56-57)

So we need “experience” of different institutions and beliefs in different countries and times to ask about the nature of politics. We need that kind of experience to ask about what is “best” or “just.” These claims are simply not tenable. To ask about what is just, all that is required is for one to see or experience some injustice. From that point, one might find everything about one’s own order questionable. Moreover, books like the Republic don’t treat a number of different institutions and beliefs in different countries and times in order to try to understand the nature of politics. It looks like that if one simply exaggerates the features of one’s own regime, one can easily see what principles it advocates at the expense of others. One can use one’s imagination – I know, shocking. To say Socrates or Glaucon couldn’t have conceived of a guardian class without Sparta is preposterous.

Strauss also claims that “only historical knowledge can prevent one from mistaking the specific features of the political life of one’s time and one’s country for the nature of political things.” It’s actually pretty easy to see that some “specific features” are not quite natural. We start disliking them, we see them as ridiculous. We might specifically attack them as unnatural, not caring a whit about history, but feeling ourselves oppressed or arbitrarily treated.

Zuckert, at least for her essay, takes Strauss literally in the above passage. Her comment pushes an unironic, serious reading of it. This is what she has to say about the very sentences critiqued above:

Contrary to the assertions of many of his critics, we thus see at the outset of this essay, Strauss does not deny the importance of historical knowledge for the study of political philosophy. He merely, if emphatically, insists that historical and philosophical knowledge are not the same. (Zuckert 45)

However, as far as I can tell, Strauss has put these arguments forth to provoke us. This is the “traditional” – i.e. lazy – view of how political philosophy and history relate. It is only the beginning of Strauss’ argument, which may depend on its esoteric elements more than a coherent surface. Zuckert is well aware of this, but she wants the surface to stand on its own. Unfortunately, if one takes the surface too literally, one can’t do basic things for a text like determine an internal speaker or audience. To be too literal is to intentionally blind oneself. It does seem that Strauss is keen on addressing a certain audience in “Political Philosophy and History,” an audience that is more or less anti-communist, traditionalist, prone to thinking that Plato and Locke have more in common than Plato and Rousseau, or especially Plato and Nietzsche. And right now, I’m thinking he wants to teach that audience that the history of political philosophy, his own project, is a philosophic endeavor solely because of “historicism.” This is quite a radical thesis for someone more traditionally minded. I think Zuckert would concur, but what’s funny is that two different things might be meant by the same conclusion. A lot of people – not Catherine Zuckert – seem to think that you need to know the history of political philosophy well in order to say anything wise or thoughtful about our world. I don’t know about that, and I really don’t want to sign off on anything that would suggest it.

Kay Ryan, “Chop”

Chop (from Poetry)
Kay Ryan

The bird
walks down
the beach along
the glazed edge
the last wave
reached. His
each step makes
a perfect stamp–
smallish, but as
sharp as an
emperor’s chop.
Stride, stride,
goes the emperor
down his wide
mirrored promenade
the sea bows
to repolish.


I was at a sports bar tonight and I couldn’t do a thing there. Everyone came in with their group and no one was particularly prone to saying hi or sharing a conversation with strangers. The bartenders were these gorgeous women with tattoos, and the tattoos were elaborate enough to be conversation starters. Emphasis on “start,” as there wasn’t much of a middle or end.

So let’s talk about our speaker in this poem. She’s watching a bird walk – maybe there’s a bit of a waddle? – down the beach. She gives us three sentences about this. In the first sentence, she mentions “bird” and “beach,” but elaborates that the last wave created a “glazed edge” upon which the bird walks along. In the second sentence, she talks about the footprints this bird makes as he steps. They are perfect stamps, “sharp as an emperor’s chop.” You can read about chops here; they are official stamps that were as good as a signature of the emperor. In the third sentence, she talks as if the bird was the emperor, striding down a “wide mirrored promenade” belonging to him, repolished by an obedient sea.

Okay then! This is already a step up from my bar conversation – the speaker is a crazy person with big ideas. As is always the case with Kay Ryan, her speaker’s imagery is “as sharp as an emperor’s chop.” A lot rests on “the glazed edge the last wave reached;” this is a mirror, sure, but a mirror created by the sea or ocean. It isn’t hard to stretch the idea of water a bit further and assert that no less than time reflects the bird, giving it back a perfect, even idealized image, maybe of itself. Ryan’s speaker does not say “mirror” initially. “A glazed edge” is literally a reflective line, and maybe even not a line. Where the ocean meets the earth is not clearly drawn or given, just like the present is nothing but what has passed turning into the future.

So what does it mean that Nature gives this little bird back a resplendent image of itself? (This has happened: it is origin of the poem.) That’s a bit tricky, but it’s easy to see that our notions of power start looking pretty pathetic. We create all this conventional machinery, rig up entire systems of belief and virtue, to give an Emperor the power he has. All that power, power over life and death, culminates in his stamp. And we go through even more elaborate lengths to make sure that stamp looks perfect, like the power of God has made itself manifest. And here’s a small bird with small steps making footprints that are just as good, if not better.

But the bird is obviously not waddling along the beach because it is powerful. It probably looks free. To be free is to be mirrored by nothing less than time, which stands outside you. The Emperor ultimately was crafted out of necessities to respond to necessities. His stamp leads to a world of even more conventions and all sorts of pointless pettiness. The bird makes stamps as it walks. It seems to do as it will in a world which exists around it. The bird points to the rest of the world, not just what is man-made with singular purpose. We can learn from the bird, maybe be truly governed by it.

Michael Donaghy, “The Whip”

The Whip (from Poetry)
Michael Donaghy

After Lu Chi (261-303)

Sometimes your writing’s a soft tangle of subtleties
undercutting one another, blurring the paths
and you arrive at a washed out bridge or rockslide.
Leave it. Don’t try to end what’s finished.
The well aimed phrase is a whip, your poem a horse,
stamping and snorting and straining at the bit.
He wants to win as much as you do, and the whip
will serve better than a web of fine thoughts.
Just make sure you know when you’ve won.


“Sometimes your writing’s a soft tangle of subtleties undercutting one another:” ok, um, I guess? That’s a problem which plagues much more talented writers, also known as “writers.”

In any case, the “soft tangle of subtleties undercutting one another” forms a landscape. The “soft tangle” blurs the paths and does so much more, as one wouldn’t “arrive at a washed out bridge or rockslide” otherwise. It’s not hard to imagine calligraphy alongside a natural scene in Chinese and Japanese art, but I wonder if we’re just talking about calligraphy itself, the style and shape of letters formed by our hand.

We’re urged to leave the landscape be. It’s finished. We can wander in it. Why are we trying to end it?

Ah, because of the way we normally use language: “The well aimed phrase is a whip, your poem a horse, stamping and snorting and straining at the bit.” We have a specific end in mind; we constrain and contort ourselves to make it. Still, that brings a lot of power into being, power that contrasts with the natural beauty of the “soft tangle.”

That power has a beauty of its own. It can garner honor and perhaps win us much more. Trained rhetoricians, all of us are:  “He wants to win as much as you do, and the whip will serve better than a web of fine thoughts.” We’re such good rhetoricians that we’ve created something – a horse – that will spur us that much more to our goal. Any doubts or second thoughts are eliminated by the project which takes us over.

“Just make sure you know when you’ve won:” one might be tempted to think a good poem is the balance between natural beauty and the power of the whip and horse. Certainly this poem has gotten its share of praise, and does have some very well aimed phrases. But we are left with a washed-out bridge and rockslide at the end. The primary takeaway is that whatever enterprise which allows us to wander our own thoughts has a value. No one said that “soft tangle” formed a poem, or anything crafted for an audience.

Hannah Stephenson, “How to Put This, Exactly”

How to Put This, Exactly (from The Storialist)
Hannah Stephenson

Who is here in this body,
and who was here when the body was invented
by birth. Wailing baby, you will one day
walk in the snow alone, as an adult,
you will come to love those who are now
strangers to you, there will be numbers in your life
and cats and laundry. The bravest thing you will do
will happen one day, and then that day will end,
and here come the years all rushing in at you.
Sometimes we know this and sometimes we don’t.


I’ll admit it. When the word “soul” first came up studying ancient thought, I winced. It seemed already loaded with religion and traditionalism and pseudoscience. It felt like a way of telling me what to think.

But in order to take older works seriously, you do have to examine the question of soul, and it does reveal itself in ways a fairly secular concept. It ties to an inquiry driving ancient and medieval science: How do we recognize life, exactly? The question twists and turns until we get to ourselves. The soul seems to be responsible for our motion as well as our rationality. How exactly those two things add up, well.

“How to Put This, Exactly” is a beautiful statement of soul. “Who is here in this body, and who was here when the body was invented by birth.” We know you will be or should be something. That’s not our arbitrary expectation, or even our hopes. That’s the fact of you. You always were there, present with us. The soul does exist, and is somewhat alien from the body.

We adults can wonder at the cosmos unveiling itself before us at a child’s birth, but can we say anything to the child about what we feel? Besides pinching cheeks and making kissy faces? We can say something about how life unfolds, how a human being, perhaps, comes to know himself:

Wailing baby, you will one day
walk in the snow alone, as an adult,
you will come to love those who are now
strangers to you, there will be numbers in your life
and cats and laundry.

From walking in the snow and all its implications – loneliness, dealing with adversity – Stephenson moves to loving and learning to be comfortable (“numbers,” “cats,” “laundry”). It feels like a prophecy declaring happiness within reach. What stands out for me is a tension between loving and “numbers.” The rest of the poem speaks to this tension. Does the length of time we live define us, or something else? Usually we talk about virtues being central to our identity, but Stephenson couches this carefully:

The bravest thing you will do
will happen one day, and then that day will end,
and here come the years all rushing in at you.

Again, the drama of this poem is that we’re trying to tell the baby about our euphoria. We’ve said everyday experience can involve love and comfort: you can love and be comfortable, maybe even be loved. What is clear now is that the child at some point has to recognize the importance of these things. Something amazingly brave will be done – one is part of a miracle or something that should be a miracle – and the day doesn’t stop. There’s not one pause, no honor calling you a saint, no “achievement unlocked.” Just like the moment a parent imagines an infant a man in full, there will be a moment where you’ve feel you’ve seen it all – maybe you do know it all – and the virtue you displayed is meaningful only for you.

The “bravest thing you will do” is the catalyst for appreciating life for what it is. The virtue pulls us back to “numbers,” but more importantly “cats and laundry.” In a way, being brave enough to live is life. The whole poem is a prayer of sorts: “Sometimes we know this and sometimes we don’t.” It doesn’t really matter if the kid knows to reflect to find what’s important. As long as she takes the trust given her and tries with it, she’ll learn.

George Szirtes, “Tritina”

Tritina (from The Rotary Dial)
George Szirtes

Every morning they waited for the postman.
They talked and fretted, or would go for a walk,
examine their nails or fetch something from the cupboard.

Even when there was nothing in the cupboard
it filled the time between rising and the postman
whose steps they listened for, recognizing his walk

on the gravel drive. There was nothing but the postman.
There was always the waiting, and the long walk
up the hill. There was always the talking and the cupboard,

as if the postman could walk straight through the cupboard.


At least for me, the drama is in the ambiguity of the details. “Every morning they waited for the postman:” who waited? Were they together? Were they separate? What exactly do they want?

We don’t know any of this. All we can sense is an anticipation that commands. “They” – maybe we – are dependent on it daily. The talking and fretting, going for a walk, examining nails, fetching things from the cupboard – all of this isn’t just frustration. It’s a routine which they actually want, one defining life.

It’s strange to say that. What if the postman delivers something which ends the routine? Isn’t all that’s missing for these people some kind of satisfaction? I don’t think the poem allows such a resolution: “There was nothing but the postman.” One can say I’m taking this out of context, as that is how it felt while these people waited. The whole poem is in the past; the sentiment animating it has disappeared. Of course the postman could give these people their deliverance! It’s just that he isn’t doing so at the time this poem presents.

Or he’s giving something unsatisfactory, perhaps because the desires of the recipients are malformed. Which brings us to my original point, that the frustration is not a mere side product of what they want. “Talked and fretted” is an attempt at human interaction. It fails. Going for a walk corresponds to trying to leave the situation. It fails. Looking at one’s nails? This is just passing time. That fails too. And fetching something from the sometimes empty cupboard attempts to substitute whatever the cupboard holds with what the postman brings. Again, a failure.

What the postman represents is fulfilling human interaction. What he needs to bring can take the place of others, our continual searching and scrutinizing, and even our material wants. The thing is that completely fulfilling human interaction is impossible. We don’t just take another in like we do oxygen or a steak. We’re at a distance from everyone, so much so that sometimes the best thing we can do for another is fight with them or stop communicating entirely. We see the outlines of a love poem, perhaps. One could imagine this poem being about a couple that had kids. Not seeing each other as anything but the necessity of daily existence, they’re hoping to hear back from their progeny. Even if they do, nothing is going to be good enough, and not for the simple reason that a lot of parents are crabby when older.

Again, the frustration is one that’s wanted. Unless communication occurs that makes the unreal real, nothing will satisfy. Just like steps can be heard which indicate exactly what is going on, the arrival of a true letter is the making of a new day (“long walk up the hill”). The postman walking straight through the cupboard encapsulates this logic. One wants to know another can be part of them literally, and is not content to merely hear. Nothing less than complete unity will suffice.

Everything I learned in life I learned from Lana Del Rey’s Twitter

soundtrack for this art project

5. Thank you so much to Yuri Milner for giving away millions at the breakthrough awards at NASA and bringing the world’s most outstanding physicists to our attention. Was incredible to see Sergey Brin and Mark and all of the deserving winners


4. There was a child went forth every day;
And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became;
And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day, or for many years, or stretching cycles of years.

- Walt Whitman

He talked at length about receiving impressions from the world around us, impacts upon our senses, then our minds selectively filtering them, yielding useful information. She was skeptical. Maybe some objects dictate to us, never let us go.

3. Paris

I remember being rejected, walking those streets. It was a giant joke. There were so many people with real problems. What right did I have to feel bad in a rich, glamorous city?

2. Everything Was Beautiful And Nothing Hurt

The experience of nothingness.

1. You are, therefore I am

At first, a corny statement about love – adoring or being adored. At first.

On the Dallas Museum of Art’s “Alexandre Hogue: The Erosion Series”

To say Hogue was concerned with the Dust Bowl would be like saying Einstein was pretty smart – a gross, gross understatement. The curators note that the Dust Bowl wasn’t just a natural disaster. It was exacerbated to terrible heights by practices that didn’t make much sense except for making a quick buck. Long-term benefits and treating the land well were very distant considerations. The scale of devastation was something else to behold. Floods of sand that overwhelmed rail lines and buildings; swirls of dirt that blotted out the sun.

Hogue created iconic images to make these points. In Grim Reaper, the lines in the wood echo the torn landscape and turbulent ash that is the sky. The haunted face blows away, and the import is all too clear. We are the Grim Reaper unto nature and ourselves. Written into our very actions are the results.

Sometimes there’s a bit more subtlety on the artist’s part. Red Earth Canyon takes a bit of time to absorb, but one can’t help but eventually be disgusted by it. The colors make the landscape look fleshy and diseased. The human construction resembles a pox, a thoroughly unnatural condition.

Hogue overwhelms with lines. There are always repeating patterns of them, and it isn’t just a stylistic feature of the works in “The Erosion Series.” Rather, the immensity, scope, and awfulness of the disaster conveys itself to us in patterns. If we face a grave danger, we may see some kind of dark beauty, a semblance of order. There’s a reason why we can be deer in headlights, as we fixate on something.

Another thought I had about Alexandre Hogue while at the exhibit was the following. Ad after ad on television has candidate X proclaiming how much he fought Obama, followed by candidate Y saying how candidate X can’t be trusted since Y fought Obama more. There are Texas liberals, real ones, from generations ago. And if Hogue is any indication, they can be very thoughtful and talented. This state has some aspect of “blue” in it that’s of tougher stock than the cheap and thoughtless “red” I see at times nowadays.

Month in Review, February 2014

I’ve stopped keeping track of traffic. Aside from promoting to people who pretty much know me, I’m trying to let my work speak for itself:

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