Sex, Violence, and Hokey Pokey at the National Gallery

As a writer of YA, and particularly YA that has dark themes, I tend to keep an eye on debates about "quality content." I quirk a curious brow at those who deride stories that are "too violent" or boast too much "sexual content." Much of this criticism is lobbed by "Christian" groups, like the one in West Bend, WI who has sued for the right to burn "inappropriate" books shelved at their public library.

I'm both astounded and frustrated by news of hate-filled censorship, so when I was wandering the halls of the National Gallery today I got to thinking about human culture, sex, and violence. I find it interesting that some folks who label themselves as "Christian" are so distant from the history of their own beliefs. The holy texts and tales attached to Judeo-Christian literature couldn't be more full of sex and violence. Please bear in mind as I write this passage that I have a very deep respect for and fascination with religion (this comment isn't tongue and cheek, my father is a Presbyterian minister). I teach the history of religion in early modern culture and I draw much of my material for writing from questions that I have about the blurred lines between the spiritual and the material that cropped up in Western societies from 1500-1800.

I wonder why so many people seem afraid to take a hard look at human sexuality and the role of violence in our cultures, and are especially vehement that children should know nothing of such subjects. All it takes is a short walk through art galleries to see how integral both are to human history.

Here are just a few examples that I saw hanging on the walls this afternoon:

Susannah at Her Bath, Fracisco Hayez. Oh Susannah. What's an Old Testament girl to do when she all she wants is to scrub up and the Elders come in and tell her if she doesn't sleep with them the meanies will accuse her of adultery. Being of the no-nonsense type, Susannah refuses anyway and manages to prove her innocence; thus, she isn't stoned to death (phew!)

Judith in the Tent of Holofernes, Johann Liss. Just call her Buffy the Tyrant Slayer. Judith knew business when it came to getting her people out from under the thumb of Holofernes. She seduced this bad boy and then chopped of his head. You go girl!

Samson and Delilah, Peter Paul Rubens. Uh, if a picture is worth a thousand words need I say more?

Saint Sebastian, Gerrit van Honthorst. I've chosen Sebastian as the emblem for all the martyr works that fill museum collections. Believe me this image is tame when it comes to forms of martyrdom that are out there depicted in all their graphic horror. I'd also like to mention that this painting is only one of six Sebastian portraits that are hanging at the National Gallery (and the National Gallery doesn't have a monopoly on paintings of Saint Sebastian).
I'm not going to put up any pictures of the mortification of Christ, but I'd wager that those paintings out number all others in most art museums around the world.

So - sex, violence, discord, betrayal, tumult: all part of the human condition and something that needs to be part of literature and education not hidden from sight. That's my soapbox for today.

Now onto the hilarity. It seems that my trip is going to be marked by bizarre incidents with children (see it is related to above post).

During my perusal of the galleries today I encountered a National Gallery docent surrounded by a group of young children (ages 4-7 or so) and their parents. The docent was enthusiastically leading the children (and a few of the parents) in a boisterous round of the Hokey Pokey. Yes, I'm serious. When I saw them they had just gotten to the "you put your whole self in" verse.

I'm not certain what this tour was docketed as. Maybe, show your kids museums can be fun? Or, hey parents look at nice paintings while our employee distracts your children!?

Whatever the case may be it was one of the strangest museums scenes I've ever come across.

I Heart the British Library, but the Evil Kid at Kew Not So Much

British Library = Literary Heaven

Having been advised by a colleague that reading rooms fill up quickly, I made the short walk from my residence to the library arriving promptly at 9:25 (library opens at 9:30). Much to my surprise I encountered an already buzzing queue of tweed-clad folks outside the door.

Academics line up to enter the British Library like Tweens waiting for Hannah Montana: The Movie.

I think it's one of the best things I've ever seen.

While not so enticing from the outside, the interior of the library is astounding. Spacious, lightfilled and full of readings rooms, which are equally full of researchers, it is the perfect place to read and write.

The highlight of my day was purusing the library's "treasured collections." I think I was the most excited to view the original manuscript of Alice in Wonderland. Though Jane Austen's writing desk, an Illuminated Christine de Pizan manuscript, and Da Vinci's notebooks were humbling as well. Oh, and they have the Magna Carta.

In the afternoon I took the tube out to Kew so I could register at the National Archives. With that task complete I headed over to Kew Gardens. The Royal Botanic Gardens are beyond impressive, acres and acres of grounds filled with wonderful trees and flora. I spent some time communing with a 300 year old chestnut tree and particularly loved the way the glasshouses have spiral staircases that enable viewing of the tops of giants ferns and succulents as well as walking alongside them. They also have a tree-top walkway that provides views of the entire garden and all the way to London.

It was all just perfect and lovely (it is still unbelievably sunny here) until I ran into the little mean boy. I was walking across a lawn, just having passed three mums pushing strollers when I heard a horrible screech. Making a beeline towards me was a little boy (I'd guess he was about 3 or 4) red faced and crying, behind him was another little boy of the same age with wide gleaming eyes, a wicked grin, and...a stick.

Mum one: Ben, what's the matter? Ben?
Me (thinks): Uh, that other kid is hitting your kid with a stick.
Mum two: A.C. what are you doing with that stick?
Me (thinks): Obviously hitting other kids with his stick. No one brandishes a stick like that unless they are delighting in acts of violence. Note: I say this from lots of observation and storytelling, not personal penchant for stick violence.

In the next moment, A.C. catches up to fleeing child, cackles, and (of course) hits him with stick.

Mum Two (in shock that sounds a little not-too-shocked for comfort): A.C. no! Put down that stick.

I walk on, grasping at a slim idea that A.C. might be adequately chastised and hope not to see Mums and children for rest of time at garden.

Alas, when I took a break to have afternoon tea replete with scone and clotted cream (if you have never had scone and clotted cream, you are missing out). Three mums with 3 boys and strollers take places at next table.

A.C. immediately begins to terrorize pigeons on the cafe terrace.

Mum two (in a lame voice): A.C. no, A.C. no.

Eventually she gets up and brings A.C. back to table.

Two minutes later he is terrorizing pigeons again.
Mum two (again lamely): A.C. no, A.C. no.

She doesn't get up.

Me (thinks): Are you sure his name isn't Damien?
When I leave the cafe and am halfway to the next glasshouse I can still hear A.C. shrieking like a pterodactyl.

So for the record if in 30 years an evil genius named A.C. is holding the world hostage with a giant electro-ray (his proverbial biggest stick of all), you were warned here first.

London: Without the Fog

I have arrived and am now trying to adjust to typing on the British keyboard in the internet centre of my residence, a keyboard that has just enough keys out of place (including two extra character keys to the right of (;) which makes me type # every time I want to hit Enter. Ahh, acculturation.

The weather is astoundingly good. I spent the afternoon wandering through Covent Garden and actually took my lunch outside a French brasserie where the sun blazed down, making it almost too hot. Something that usually only happens on the sardine-packed Underground.

I've enjoyed bustling along reaquainting myself with the city. I have not gotten lost yet. Yay.

One of my favorite things about this British Isle is how beautifully its inhabitants make use of space. On a sun-washed afternoon like today's, every miniscule green space was filled with friends, families, and couples lounging idly in the grass or sharing a picnic. Even my university flat, which is cheap and cheerful minus the cheerful, has its own private garden.

England and its northern neighbor Scotland have a dearth of space. The two countries have been fighting over this little island for a long, long time. And the Scots know full well that though the highlands are sublime, they are the most hospitable to sheep and not metropolitan centers.

I think the multiude of green nooks, hidden flower beds, and luscious parks that thread through Britain's cities offer perpetual resistance to the press of population of this former empire.

Speaking of evil empires, when I tried to Google something on this computer (it's the hall's computer and not my beloved Mac) it refused to let me go to Google and forced my searches onto Microsofts new "Bing" search engine. Even when I typed in http://www.google.com/ and started the search again, the computer overrode my action and sent me back to Big Brother Bing, with no way to escape.

That was when I got scared.

Over the Pond

In a few short hours I'll be winging my way across the Atlantic (on a jet plane, alas I have yet to sprout wings). The next two weeks will see me pouring over very, very, very old books and manuscripts in the British Library.
I love London, and I've been fortunate to have spent a lot of time in this city. But the doldrums of grad school kept me away for half a decade and I'm eagerly awaiting my reunion with the sights and sounds of London town.

I'm staying in Bloomsbury and hope to pull on the lingering spirits of the Bloomsbury group for inspiration as I write and wander the streets.

Second Summer

I usually post on the major days of the Wheel of the Year, but given that the Solstice fell on Father's Day this year I was busy taking my dad out to lunch and then making the long drive back to Minneapolis.

So my Solstice thoughts arrive a day late.

There was no way to miss summer's arrival. Stepping out of the door this morning was akin to slipping into a warm bath. Steamy, languid summer air has arrived, that heavy air you could drown in. Not having spent time in the south I don't know if the stereotype of life moving slowly there is true, but on days like this one I can imagine everything slow down as a matter of necessity. The thick, wet air forces you to wade from one activity into another. Speed becomes impossible. Even deadly.

I don't enjoy extreme heat, but I respect its insistence and in light of the Solstice, it feels appropriate.

The other harbinger of summer received my delighted yip at the market.

Heirloom tomatoes. I love earth-fresh tomatoes, and particularly heirlooms. I love their bizarre, asymmetrical shapes and their sharp, leafy scent. And their deliciousness is marked by how briefly they are available.

At the end of Neil Gaiman's latest blog post, he declares that out of season strawberries should be illegal. Now I'm already a loyal Gaiman subject, but he couldn't be more justified in this opinion.

Those of us in the northern climes face a barren winter of vegetables and fruit. Strawberries in winter are a mockery of the real thing. The closest I can come to describing their taste is "nothing with an edge of tart." I'll confess that I still break down and buy them when I'm mired in January or February - the dream of a real strawberry and luscious summer proves too hard to resist. But always, always it's a horrible disappointment that makes winter that much more painful.

When I was a little girl I would crawl through the grass on hot summer days, face low to the ground seeking the wild strawberry plants that would vine out on the lawn. These tiny treasures, no larger than a thimble, are still the sweetest red berries I've tasted.

Welcome summer, I've been waiting. Here's an anthem for you.

From Whence We Came

It takes four hours to drive from Minneapolis to Ashland. When I'm alone I use this time to write. Of course I'm not literally writing (other drivers can stop screaming now), but I come up with many plot twists, key dialogue, and new scenes while listening to what my mother dubbed my "muse music" as the miles roll by.

When I'm not alone, I'm either listening to public radio and discussing current events or, in the case of the last trip home, playing games from childhood. Namely MASH. That's game the where you use a cryptic formula to scry your future, not unlike this.

Since my friend Casey and I had already gotten to adulthood we came up with a new twist on this slumber-party favorite, we created a chart that pulled together a movie using categories like "Who would play you?" "Who is the villain?" "Who directs?" "Who wrote the soundtrack?"

In my film I was played by Lauren Ambrose who had to fight Dracula with a slingshot while serenaded by the music of Tangerine Dream. So that's how it went, and it was loads of fun.

Being in my hometown always gets my mind churning over my life as a child and after revisiting the world of MASH, I started to wonder if the games we play as children don't predict our paths as adults.

My friends and I spent hours upon hours in the woods near my house. We invented innumerable worlds and characters and played out scenes in fantastic places from dusk till dawn.
Is the creative life one we start from the very beginning? Is it reflected in our childhood pursuits?

How did you play as a child?

Waiting and Weddings

What is the best way to spend one's time while waiting for the call that could change your life?

(Drums nails on table). I do not have the answer.

Fortunately, I have help in the form of prior obligations. Namely this weekend I'm back in my hometown on bridesmaid duty.

I'm not much for ceremony. I tend to walk different roads in life, avoiding graduations, skipping class reunions, etc. But this wedding is one I've looked forward to since my friend announced her engagement.

When I was a little girl there were two friends who I always thought were a "lock" when it came to weddings I'd be a part of. The first one happened a year ago in September (hi Katie! *hugs*), the second is tomorrow.

That these two wedding have taken place, and that I will have paraded down the aisle bearing my posies for each of these long-time friends marks a major transition in my life. Being 30 doesn't necessarily make me feel like an adult, that my two childhood best friends have both gotten married does.

Moving into the "real" world of adult choices and problems has taught me that very little in life is predictable and that our circumstances, feelings, and selves are always shifting, changing, reforming, and hopefully growing.

In this case it feels uniquely innocent and lovely that our slumber party chats at age nine about flowers and dresses and falling love have indeed come full circle.