For a topic this week, it would probably be difficult to beat Wordplay’s National Dessert Day tutorial on apples, banana pudding, chocolates, and other topics, posted today on the Wordplay Facebook page, complete with photos. Therefore, I won’t try. I thought I’d said all I needed to on desserts, Aphrodite, etc. last week, but when I found out what day it was today, I just had to seize the opportunity. (And really, can you ever get tired of looking at pictures of desserts? Probably not.)
I guess I was also trying to make a point about the impossibility of putting life experiences into separate silos and the lack of neat boundaries between categories of knowledge, experience, etc. If you’re reading this page for the first time, that may sound pretty far removed from National Dessert Day, but if you think in terms of mythology, depth psychology, and layers of meaning, it’s really not. I’m a librarian, too, and while I semi-enjoyed the cataloging class I took in school—which taught us how to organize and classify areas of knowledge—I saw even then that some subjects just don’t fit into a single slot. Some librarians might argue that they actually do if you’re doing cataloging the right way, but I don’t agree. There’s too much overlap between subjects.
I have a fairly strong teacherly instinct, which I’m sure annoys a lot of people (at least, it seemed to in the past), but I have realized that I take a lot of pains to explain things because I have spent so much of my life feeling misunderstood. I don’t mean to make that sound tragic; it’s just a fact that I often felt my experiences were not like those of other people, and that people really didn’t understand my jokes, my references, or even my real feelings about things. I was not always the forthcoming person I am on this blog, and I really was one of those young people I was talking about a few weeks ago who lacked communication skills. Through much of my life, I had a hard time speaking up for myself in person (though never in writing). Actually, what someone said to me once turned out to be true, and that is that you gain greater confidence in yourself by doing. I’m much better at talking now than I used to be.
So I tend to favor clearness in communication, but it’s also true that no matter how clear you try to be, some people will never understand you because they are seeing you through the filter of their own experiences. I don’t like misunderstandings, but they are unavoidable at times, so sometimes you just have to say your piece and move on. I might say something like, “It’s supposed to rain tomorrow,” and really mean that just as a literal statement of fact based on the weather report. And yet I often feel that people try to read much more into my words than I intended. On the other hand, I often have to caution people not to be “too literal” when it comes to interpreting stories and mythology. Sometimes there is no “literal truth,” but rather a psychological or artistic truth. I’m really not speaking a secret code that other people are supposed to decipher (I would find that extremely tiresome myself) just because I talk about poetry, myths, art, and other things that have layers of meaning. It’s not true that a person named Daphne literally turned into a tree because someone named Apollo chased her, but it is true that it’s sometimes necessary to put your foot down and make a stand.
Others things I learned from National Dessert Day:
1. There are an awful lot of blogs out there on cooking that almost look like someone just made them up and slapped them on the Internet a week ago. It’s not that they are lacking in quality, it’s just that they don’t quite seem real.
2. Banana pudding is one of the most appealing desserts there is to look at; you hardly ever see a photo of banana pudding that isn’t mouth-watering.
3. It takes a little courage to write about food and Aphrodite, as one feels that one is almost bound to be judged, or misjudged, for the attempt, even though you may only be saying what other people are thinking.
4. Fruits are more “erotic” than vegetables, and it’s probably because of the sugar.
5. Some fruits are more “erotic” than other fruits. Never really thought it through in those terms before, but it’s true.
6. Chocolate truffles, according to one source, were named for the truffles that grow in the ground because of the “earthy” appearance of their centers. That never would have occurred to me, though both kinds of truffles are expensive gourmet items.
That’s about it for this week. Thanks for reading, but remember this: if you take an idea from this page and run with it, only to find yourself at the business end of an international crisis, don’t blame me. Learn to be a little more thoughtful about what you read; take a couple of classes or something.
Showing posts with label depth psychology. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depth psychology. Show all posts
Monday, October 14, 2019
Monday, October 7, 2019
Wordplay Indulges in Broad Generalizations. You’re Welcome.
With last week’s post, I thought I had gotten Aphrodite and Eros and desserts and all out of my system, but that does not seem to be the case. I know this because I keep finding myself looking up pictures of the most elegant desserts I can find on the Internet. Of course, you cool kids know that when we speak of Aphrodite, we are speaking of more than romantic love. Aphrodite encompasses luxuries and indulgences of all types: fine wines, beauty, fashion, flowers, and, of course, desserts. If you’re not sure how this works, or what the goddess of love has to do with any of this, think of it this way: Aphrodite encompasses romance, and all of the above are considered enhancements or accompaniments to romance. And certainly, it is quite all right—healthy, actually—to fall in love with yourself and to treat yourself with appropriate indulgences as needed.
I know that my readers understand this because reductionism is a kind of sin in depth psychology, and if you follow this blog, that means you have some appreciation for the nuances of the soul. In mythology, too, it’s unusual for simple mathematics to rear its head: rarely does “this” equal “that” in any kind of neatly delineated way. Aphrodite and Eros reign over an entire class of experiences, not just sensual love, and that includes a group of things we might categorize as “the finer things in life.” Most people realize that life is made up of not just one or two but a variety of different types of experiences. “To everything, there is a season,” as Ecclesiastes tells us.
Nevertheless, just as people often have one or two qualities predominating in their makeup, so do places. L.A., for instance, is one of the most Aphrodite places I’ve ever seen, and Lexington, KY, (where I live now) is one of the least. There’s nothing unusual about a place or a person having a dominant cast to it, but it’s also true that whatever is undervalued or outside the comfort zone tends to go into the shadow. Thus many people have the perception that L.A. is an anti-intellectual place and that Kentucky is a very hearth, home, and family type of place. I’ve spent enough time in Kentucky to know that there’s a lot of truth in this perception and also to feel that people here have a suspicion of “Aphrodite.” It’s not that they don’t feel it, it’s that they’re not quite at home with it. It seems like frippery, perhaps, or something that might lead you astray, away from the things that really matter: hearth, home, family, and God. Of course, if it weren’t for Aphrodite, there wouldn’t be children or families, but somehow Aphrodite seems to get divorced from the rest of the process, as if she had nothing to do with it at all, and Demeter rules the roost.
My current preoccupation with Aphrodite springs, I’m certain, from my current experiences. If you ever find yourself living in your car and getting by from paycheck to paycheck, you may discover, as I have, that a healthy person eventually rebels against all that cheapism and tries to seek balance as best it can. You throw a chocolate bar into the grocery cart once in a while or check into a hotel to experience cool sheets, pillows, and air conditioning. A person who lives in his or her intellect much of the time (Athena/Apollo) will, at the best of times, seek out sensory enjoyment just to stay in balance, and if you’re living in very reduced circumstances, it doesn’t become less important but rather more. Certainly, it’s possible to have too much Aphrodite in one’s life, which amounts to overindulgence; it’s also quite possible to have too little, which amounts to poverty.
So it was that, being off work today and still thinking about dessert, no matter how hard I tried to find other “more important” things to read about, I decided to set myself a task: to discover an Internet photo of the most luxurious fall dessert not involving pumpkin that was out there to be found. This was how I made what was, to me, an interesting observation. The majority of fall desserts that don’t involve pumpkin contain apples, and no matter how long I looked, I couldn’t find an apple dessert that seemed luxurious in the same way a profiterole or chocolate mousse is. (An exception might be a galette, simply because the French have a deft way of putting Aphrodite into their food that does not seem to come as easily to most Americans.) Vast quantities of cinnamon, sugar, butter, and cream notwithstanding, all the apple desserts I saw, as delicious and appealing as they looked, seemed wholesome rather than gourmet, and I think this has to do with the apple itself. Introduce an apple into a dessert, and you’re suddenly speaking of harvest, Grandma’s kitchen, and the farm rather than of luxury.
So, here’s my contribution to world peace: 1. Aphrodite, so often either overvalued, maligned, or misunderstood, is probably most to be feared when overvalued, maligned, or misunderstood. 2. American culture has a Puritan cast to it that gives Aphrodite sort of a bad name here, but this possibly diminishes the further you get from New England. 3. If you require an indulgent dessert with apples in it, you might have to go as far as France. 4. Kentuckians are great at getting in the harvest but suck at experiencing (or creating) sensory delight. 5. People in L.A. fear being ugly or wearing their pants too loose as much as the rest of us would fear the plague. 6. It often costs more to make things beautiful, but the payoff in psychological well-being is probably vastly underrated.
I know that my readers understand this because reductionism is a kind of sin in depth psychology, and if you follow this blog, that means you have some appreciation for the nuances of the soul. In mythology, too, it’s unusual for simple mathematics to rear its head: rarely does “this” equal “that” in any kind of neatly delineated way. Aphrodite and Eros reign over an entire class of experiences, not just sensual love, and that includes a group of things we might categorize as “the finer things in life.” Most people realize that life is made up of not just one or two but a variety of different types of experiences. “To everything, there is a season,” as Ecclesiastes tells us.
Nevertheless, just as people often have one or two qualities predominating in their makeup, so do places. L.A., for instance, is one of the most Aphrodite places I’ve ever seen, and Lexington, KY, (where I live now) is one of the least. There’s nothing unusual about a place or a person having a dominant cast to it, but it’s also true that whatever is undervalued or outside the comfort zone tends to go into the shadow. Thus many people have the perception that L.A. is an anti-intellectual place and that Kentucky is a very hearth, home, and family type of place. I’ve spent enough time in Kentucky to know that there’s a lot of truth in this perception and also to feel that people here have a suspicion of “Aphrodite.” It’s not that they don’t feel it, it’s that they’re not quite at home with it. It seems like frippery, perhaps, or something that might lead you astray, away from the things that really matter: hearth, home, family, and God. Of course, if it weren’t for Aphrodite, there wouldn’t be children or families, but somehow Aphrodite seems to get divorced from the rest of the process, as if she had nothing to do with it at all, and Demeter rules the roost.
My current preoccupation with Aphrodite springs, I’m certain, from my current experiences. If you ever find yourself living in your car and getting by from paycheck to paycheck, you may discover, as I have, that a healthy person eventually rebels against all that cheapism and tries to seek balance as best it can. You throw a chocolate bar into the grocery cart once in a while or check into a hotel to experience cool sheets, pillows, and air conditioning. A person who lives in his or her intellect much of the time (Athena/Apollo) will, at the best of times, seek out sensory enjoyment just to stay in balance, and if you’re living in very reduced circumstances, it doesn’t become less important but rather more. Certainly, it’s possible to have too much Aphrodite in one’s life, which amounts to overindulgence; it’s also quite possible to have too little, which amounts to poverty.
So it was that, being off work today and still thinking about dessert, no matter how hard I tried to find other “more important” things to read about, I decided to set myself a task: to discover an Internet photo of the most luxurious fall dessert not involving pumpkin that was out there to be found. This was how I made what was, to me, an interesting observation. The majority of fall desserts that don’t involve pumpkin contain apples, and no matter how long I looked, I couldn’t find an apple dessert that seemed luxurious in the same way a profiterole or chocolate mousse is. (An exception might be a galette, simply because the French have a deft way of putting Aphrodite into their food that does not seem to come as easily to most Americans.) Vast quantities of cinnamon, sugar, butter, and cream notwithstanding, all the apple desserts I saw, as delicious and appealing as they looked, seemed wholesome rather than gourmet, and I think this has to do with the apple itself. Introduce an apple into a dessert, and you’re suddenly speaking of harvest, Grandma’s kitchen, and the farm rather than of luxury.
So, here’s my contribution to world peace: 1. Aphrodite, so often either overvalued, maligned, or misunderstood, is probably most to be feared when overvalued, maligned, or misunderstood. 2. American culture has a Puritan cast to it that gives Aphrodite sort of a bad name here, but this possibly diminishes the further you get from New England. 3. If you require an indulgent dessert with apples in it, you might have to go as far as France. 4. Kentuckians are great at getting in the harvest but suck at experiencing (or creating) sensory delight. 5. People in L.A. fear being ugly or wearing their pants too loose as much as the rest of us would fear the plague. 6. It often costs more to make things beautiful, but the payoff in psychological well-being is probably vastly underrated.
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Innocence and Experience
You know, I think Heraclitus was right: we really don't step in the same river twice. I've certainly found this to be true of my relationship with authors and books. I know I've mentioned the way a book can seem different when you re-read it after many years, but I also find that a new work by an author I'm familiar with can elicit reactions I wouldn't have had the first time around. It's not always a matter of enjoying the work more or less (though sometimes it is); it's more a function of relating to it from a place of wider experience. It can mean you're more critical, or it can mean you're more deeply appreciative. It can also mean you miss being able to see things with "Beginner's Mind." (I'm not going to say that being more critical is always an improvement.)
It's a little like the experience of going back to a place you knew as a child--a school building, for instance--and finding that it looks so much smaller than you remembered it. In a certain sense, it is smaller, because you yourself have grown, but the apparent change is only the result of you getting taller. Objectively, the building's dimensions are unchanged.
Recently, I managed to get hold of the edition of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table that I remembered from my childhood and had been searching for for years. Trying to locate this book, in which I first encountered the story of the Holy Grail, had itself almost taken on the elusive quality of a Grail Quest. I remembered what the book looked like but not the author or publisher. For years I looked in bookstores, often finding illustrated versions of the King Arthur story, but never "The One." The edition of The Romance of King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table by Alfred W. Pollard that I came across years ago and purchased came the closest in its solemnity of tone and language. I knew, though, that it wasn't the one I was remembering; the illustrations didn't match, and the telling didn't include a key episode I recalled at the beginning. Nice, but no cigar.
But years later, behold: the power of the Internet. One day it occurred to me to try just typing a description of the book into Google. There was a time this wouldn't have worked, but the sophistication of search tools these days along with the sheer volume of information that's out there now made me realize this method really wasn't all that quixotic. And it worked! After a couple of tries, the object of my search appeared on the screen in front of me, the same cover, the same title page. With a few keystrokes, my quest had ended. A short while later, I had the book, and although the edition arrived with a different color cover than the one we'd had as kids, it was undoubtedly the same book.
Or was it? It was definitely the right book, though a slightly different edition. The color was blue instead of the deep maroon I remembered, and it seemed smaller (and may actually be smaller, although that, too, may be an illusion). It would be exaggerating to say that the experience of opening the book again was on par with Keats' experience "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer." I didn't gaze with "wild surmise" or fall silent, as if staring "from a peak in Darien," but I was pretty excited. The episode of the dragons was there, and the illustrations, so vaguely remembered, were the right ones. But as I looked through the pages, I found, to my great surprise and dismay, that the language, once so evocative, now seemed more obviously written for a child. The glowing, full-color illustrations had lost their high magic and seemed more ordinary than I remembered.
Alas, what is this? Is this what we call "growing up"? I recall how remote and mysterious the doings of Arthur's court seemed to me as a nine-year-old, part of the mystery deriving from the fact that the characters were all adults, with adult motivations and aspirations. Now that I am an adult, I guess the glamour has worn off that particular part of the rose. The characters, not only in the telling but in what they represent, seem much less compelling than they once did, even more cartoon-like. I have not re-read the book from start to finish; it may be that in doing that, I will rediscover some of the magic that was formerly there. One thing's for sure, though, and that is that it will not be the book it once was for me.
Last year, I had a similar experience in re-reading the book of a very accomplished travel writer--similar, but with a difference. I found that I enjoyed her descriptions of places and activities--the angle of light on a certain street corner, the taste of a particular dish--more than ever. I often felt that I was seeing things right along with her, and this must surely be because I'm more in touch with the world of the senses than I was when I was younger and tended to have my head in the clouds. I appreciate the simple justness of a description, the precision of a scene well rendered. On the other hand, I found myself getting angry with her over what I experienced as her uncritical religious faith, which she wrote of openly. I was constantly thinking things like, "How can you believe that!" and "Yes, but . . ." Of course, this merely reflects my own thinking; another reader may well find her expressions of faith beautiful and inspirational. The point is, I don't recall being bothered by that aspect of the book at all when I first read it.
More recently, I've been reading a book by an author in the depth tradition whose work I know. For me, it's a new book, and while I'm familiar with his thinking, I find that I'm arriving at it from a different place, that I'm much more likely to engage in mental arguments with him. Early on, he was one of the first modern thinkers I came across who was writing from a mythic and Jungian perspective, and I treasured my experience of his books. I still find what he has to say thought provoking and useful, but I sometimes find myself in profound disagreement with him. Instead of plunging in headlong, as I used to, I read now with a bit more resistance.
Of course, this merely means that I'm a more critical reader, which is not at all surprising, but I have to say that I am missing the lost magic of my King Arthur book. There's a time and a place for the critical mind and a time and a place to be open to wonder. I've known people who get the greatest satisfaction from figuring out the mystery or anticipating the end before it happens, but I'm not really one of them. I'd rather have joy than be right every time. Do we have to lose all innocence in the name of experience? I hope not . . . though some people will tell you otherwise.
It's a little like the experience of going back to a place you knew as a child--a school building, for instance--and finding that it looks so much smaller than you remembered it. In a certain sense, it is smaller, because you yourself have grown, but the apparent change is only the result of you getting taller. Objectively, the building's dimensions are unchanged.
Recently, I managed to get hold of the edition of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table that I remembered from my childhood and had been searching for for years. Trying to locate this book, in which I first encountered the story of the Holy Grail, had itself almost taken on the elusive quality of a Grail Quest. I remembered what the book looked like but not the author or publisher. For years I looked in bookstores, often finding illustrated versions of the King Arthur story, but never "The One." The edition of The Romance of King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table by Alfred W. Pollard that I came across years ago and purchased came the closest in its solemnity of tone and language. I knew, though, that it wasn't the one I was remembering; the illustrations didn't match, and the telling didn't include a key episode I recalled at the beginning. Nice, but no cigar.
But years later, behold: the power of the Internet. One day it occurred to me to try just typing a description of the book into Google. There was a time this wouldn't have worked, but the sophistication of search tools these days along with the sheer volume of information that's out there now made me realize this method really wasn't all that quixotic. And it worked! After a couple of tries, the object of my search appeared on the screen in front of me, the same cover, the same title page. With a few keystrokes, my quest had ended. A short while later, I had the book, and although the edition arrived with a different color cover than the one we'd had as kids, it was undoubtedly the same book.
Or was it? It was definitely the right book, though a slightly different edition. The color was blue instead of the deep maroon I remembered, and it seemed smaller (and may actually be smaller, although that, too, may be an illusion). It would be exaggerating to say that the experience of opening the book again was on par with Keats' experience "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer." I didn't gaze with "wild surmise" or fall silent, as if staring "from a peak in Darien," but I was pretty excited. The episode of the dragons was there, and the illustrations, so vaguely remembered, were the right ones. But as I looked through the pages, I found, to my great surprise and dismay, that the language, once so evocative, now seemed more obviously written for a child. The glowing, full-color illustrations had lost their high magic and seemed more ordinary than I remembered.
Alas, what is this? Is this what we call "growing up"? I recall how remote and mysterious the doings of Arthur's court seemed to me as a nine-year-old, part of the mystery deriving from the fact that the characters were all adults, with adult motivations and aspirations. Now that I am an adult, I guess the glamour has worn off that particular part of the rose. The characters, not only in the telling but in what they represent, seem much less compelling than they once did, even more cartoon-like. I have not re-read the book from start to finish; it may be that in doing that, I will rediscover some of the magic that was formerly there. One thing's for sure, though, and that is that it will not be the book it once was for me.
Last year, I had a similar experience in re-reading the book of a very accomplished travel writer--similar, but with a difference. I found that I enjoyed her descriptions of places and activities--the angle of light on a certain street corner, the taste of a particular dish--more than ever. I often felt that I was seeing things right along with her, and this must surely be because I'm more in touch with the world of the senses than I was when I was younger and tended to have my head in the clouds. I appreciate the simple justness of a description, the precision of a scene well rendered. On the other hand, I found myself getting angry with her over what I experienced as her uncritical religious faith, which she wrote of openly. I was constantly thinking things like, "How can you believe that!" and "Yes, but . . ." Of course, this merely reflects my own thinking; another reader may well find her expressions of faith beautiful and inspirational. The point is, I don't recall being bothered by that aspect of the book at all when I first read it.
More recently, I've been reading a book by an author in the depth tradition whose work I know. For me, it's a new book, and while I'm familiar with his thinking, I find that I'm arriving at it from a different place, that I'm much more likely to engage in mental arguments with him. Early on, he was one of the first modern thinkers I came across who was writing from a mythic and Jungian perspective, and I treasured my experience of his books. I still find what he has to say thought provoking and useful, but I sometimes find myself in profound disagreement with him. Instead of plunging in headlong, as I used to, I read now with a bit more resistance.
Of course, this merely means that I'm a more critical reader, which is not at all surprising, but I have to say that I am missing the lost magic of my King Arthur book. There's a time and a place for the critical mind and a time and a place to be open to wonder. I've known people who get the greatest satisfaction from figuring out the mystery or anticipating the end before it happens, but I'm not really one of them. I'd rather have joy than be right every time. Do we have to lose all innocence in the name of experience? I hope not . . . though some people will tell you otherwise.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Beat the Mythologist
I've been wondering whether to follow up last week's post on Elaine Constantine's film 9 Kisses, because I guessed that readers who attempted to interpret the film for themselves might be wondering how their results compared with mine. In the last post, I tried to be suggestive only, giving readers the chance to draw their own conclusions. Then an accidental (or maybe synchronistic) event suggested to me that I wasn't finished with the subject and that I wouldn't be beating a dead horse with a follow-up.
Maybe Jung could come up with a better piece of synchronicity, but I'm not sure I could. In my non-blogging life, I've been dithering about whether to purchase a metal knob that would screw in to make one of my dishes suitable for oven use. After having the picture of this metal object in my mind for several days, the similarity between it and an image in 9 Kisses suddenly struck me. One of the eye-catching oddities in the first scene, starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Reese Witherspoon, is Ms. Witherspoon's short, screw-shaped metallic skirt, a somewhat loaded symbol, it seemed to me. Having a similarly shaped object surface in my life this week after I wrote the last post has reinforced the idea that the material calls for more amplification.
The caution I've supplied before about reading symbols too literally or mechanically applies here, as always. If you attempted to interpret scenes and found yourself thinking, X always equals this, or Y always equals that, you probably ran into dead ends or things that didn't really work. One of the difficulties of interpreting symbols is the fact that they almost always have many possible meanings. In one context, a color implies one thing; in another, it means the opposite. An identical pair of gloves may mean entirely different things in different situations. Characteristics such as gender and physical appearance may suggest various things--again, meaning is very dependent on the particular dynamics of the exchange.
In Ms. Witherspoon's scene, for example, both characters wear costumes, though only one of them is actually disguised. The scene depicts a tryst in which neither wishes to be discovered, though Mr. Cumberbatch appears to be especially concerned. While the meeting is obviously consensual, Mr. Cumberbatch has taken pains to hide his identity (the mask and gloves), and he keeps his partner waiting, which suggests that he has more power. In addition, he appears to have left a cocktail party or a similar type of gathering, while his partner is kept waiting outside. This, along with Ms. Witherspoon's suggestive attire, implies to me not romance but instead prostitution or something equally illicit; perhaps both parties are men.
In the scene with Laura Dern and Steve Carell, there is extreme hesitation about initiating the encounter, which suggests some taboo the characters are slow to overcome. While both are conventionally dressed, their clothes are nonetheless costumes; Ms. Dern's backless dress suggests that she is outwardly the less inhibited of the two, and that Mr. Carell, the very picture of buttoned-up ordinary middle age, is wearing a more successful disguise. Again, the extreme mortification on being discovered is suggestive; perhaps one of the characters is married. The genders need not be literal, either--this is not an arbitrary suggestion but rather one based on the context.
To me, Jenny Slate's and Rosario Dawson's scene seems not to depict a sexual relationship at all. Their interaction suggests two women of the same status (notice how they're sitting) who spend a lot of "face time" together--friends, perhaps. Clues in the scene imply, however, a predatory relationship, a serious betrayal of some kind. Ms. Dawson has "screwed" Ms. Slate, figuratively speaking. (I know, I know: "Geez, Wordplay, can't you keep it classy?" I would, if only I could.) I read Chadwick Boseman's scene with Kristen Stewart in a similar way. Being knocked off his feet implies an unwelcome shock for Mr. Boseman, one that initially distresses him but is ultimately, perhaps, amusing. Reading clues in the attire, I interpreted this scene as an attack of one man by another; Ms. Stewart's clothing (and her edgy aggression) seemed rather pointedly masculine here. (I'm not suggesting women can't be aggressive; I'm only looking at the specifics of this scene.)
Outwardly, Jason Schwartzman and Patricia Arquette seem to be strangers meeting by chance, although the behavior of each is remarkably odd. Why does Mr. Schwartzman, who is obviously preoccupied, take the time to brush off and kiss the cap of a complete stranger? Why does Ms. Arquette (who also seems preoccupied) appear at first taken aback--even frightened--and why does she return his gesture by first biting him and then laughing? The characters are moving in opposite directions (initially, they seem not even to see one another); it is the handing back of the cap (part of Ms. Arquette's "disguise") that unites them. The backward glances, in Mr. Schwartzman's case, look like a puzzled attempt to figure out what's happened to him even as the ambush recedes in time. Perhaps these people are "strangers" only in the sense of their very unequal understanding of what's taken place between them. Though I don't read this scene romantically (at all), Mr. Schwartzman's gentleness and Ms. Arquette's peculiar aggressiveness, along with the fact that she somehow seems to tower over him, suggest that their genders could be reversed.
In my last post, I pointed out that the characters in the bar scene are very unlike one another, two adversaries involved in a great contest. I based this on their postures, their actions, and the way they're dressed; it's easy to see how different they are. I suggested that perhaps one of them wasn't even a man, and while that may have taken you by surprise, it was just my reading of the extreme difference in the way they're portrayed: they're such opposites in every other way that, in this context, I guessed that different races might symbolize opposite genders. And if you watch their contest closely, you'll see the moment when Mr. Spall reveals both dismay and surprise at his opponent's strength. He only overcomes Mr. Oyelowo by a nasty and unexpected trick that changes the dynamic completely.
I see the "sparring" between partners in the next scene as a metaphor for a romantic relationship between two people who have long been at odds. After Ms. Woodley lands a direct hit on Mr. O'Connell and then tries to made amends, he at first appears shocked--boy, he didn't see that coming. He then responds by ridiculing her, and the two go back to fighting. One senses, though, that a corner has been turned in the relationship, and that Ms. Woodley now sees her partner differently (despite his efforts to "protect his face"). To me, Ms. Woodley's boyish figure, along with the fact that the partners relate to one another by boxing, suggests that both partners are male; Ms. Woodley, however, is the more vulnerable of the two.
The scene in the dance club, to my mind, suggests a political rather than a romantic situation. If I were to ask you which of the two is a Democrat and which a Republican, I think you could hazard a guess, based on their dance styles alone. (I know it's a stereotype, but who looks more uptight?) The final scene, with the runaway groom, seems to me suggestive of a marriage in which there has been some great trouble and an attempt at reconciliation. I read this scene pretty straightforwardly as the story of a marriage in which something momentous (and tragic) has occurred. In this case, the mixed-race marriage might refer to some division--a difference of opinion or a betrayal--that has separated the couple. It may be the contrast between this scene and the one before it--in which the dancing partners seem united mainly by cynicism--but this one, so starkly personal, is one that I initially found to be most disturbing.
I take it that this exercise illustrates why film interpretation (and symbolic interpretation of all kinds) is so challenging. I'm not suggesting that there's always only one way to see things, but I do believe that some interpretations are better than others. That's why it's so hard to use a standard dictionary of symbols to interpret dreams, fairy tales, myths, or anything else. For one thing, a good dictionary only reveals how multifaceted any one symbol can be. Everything depends on context; you look at all the pieces and keep moving them around until something clicks. Word association, hunches, knowledge of human nature--all is fair in love and war (or so they say). I'll limit myself to saying only that all of these are fair in Jungian interpretation.
If you'd like to know more about this kind of approach, take a look at any of Marie-Louise von Franz's works on fairy tales. She uses some Jungian language that might hamper anyone unfamiliar with Jung's theories, but reading just a little of her work will give you the gist of it. She was a very subtle, penetrating, and perceptive interpreter of the meanings latent in traditional stories; I can't think of anyone who does it better. More recent works in the depth psychological tradition suitable for a general audience include Allan B. Chinen's Once Upon a Midlife and Joan Gould's Spinning Straw Into Gold.
Maybe Jung could come up with a better piece of synchronicity, but I'm not sure I could. In my non-blogging life, I've been dithering about whether to purchase a metal knob that would screw in to make one of my dishes suitable for oven use. After having the picture of this metal object in my mind for several days, the similarity between it and an image in 9 Kisses suddenly struck me. One of the eye-catching oddities in the first scene, starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Reese Witherspoon, is Ms. Witherspoon's short, screw-shaped metallic skirt, a somewhat loaded symbol, it seemed to me. Having a similarly shaped object surface in my life this week after I wrote the last post has reinforced the idea that the material calls for more amplification.
The caution I've supplied before about reading symbols too literally or mechanically applies here, as always. If you attempted to interpret scenes and found yourself thinking, X always equals this, or Y always equals that, you probably ran into dead ends or things that didn't really work. One of the difficulties of interpreting symbols is the fact that they almost always have many possible meanings. In one context, a color implies one thing; in another, it means the opposite. An identical pair of gloves may mean entirely different things in different situations. Characteristics such as gender and physical appearance may suggest various things--again, meaning is very dependent on the particular dynamics of the exchange.
In Ms. Witherspoon's scene, for example, both characters wear costumes, though only one of them is actually disguised. The scene depicts a tryst in which neither wishes to be discovered, though Mr. Cumberbatch appears to be especially concerned. While the meeting is obviously consensual, Mr. Cumberbatch has taken pains to hide his identity (the mask and gloves), and he keeps his partner waiting, which suggests that he has more power. In addition, he appears to have left a cocktail party or a similar type of gathering, while his partner is kept waiting outside. This, along with Ms. Witherspoon's suggestive attire, implies to me not romance but instead prostitution or something equally illicit; perhaps both parties are men.
In the scene with Laura Dern and Steve Carell, there is extreme hesitation about initiating the encounter, which suggests some taboo the characters are slow to overcome. While both are conventionally dressed, their clothes are nonetheless costumes; Ms. Dern's backless dress suggests that she is outwardly the less inhibited of the two, and that Mr. Carell, the very picture of buttoned-up ordinary middle age, is wearing a more successful disguise. Again, the extreme mortification on being discovered is suggestive; perhaps one of the characters is married. The genders need not be literal, either--this is not an arbitrary suggestion but rather one based on the context.
To me, Jenny Slate's and Rosario Dawson's scene seems not to depict a sexual relationship at all. Their interaction suggests two women of the same status (notice how they're sitting) who spend a lot of "face time" together--friends, perhaps. Clues in the scene imply, however, a predatory relationship, a serious betrayal of some kind. Ms. Dawson has "screwed" Ms. Slate, figuratively speaking. (I know, I know: "Geez, Wordplay, can't you keep it classy?" I would, if only I could.) I read Chadwick Boseman's scene with Kristen Stewart in a similar way. Being knocked off his feet implies an unwelcome shock for Mr. Boseman, one that initially distresses him but is ultimately, perhaps, amusing. Reading clues in the attire, I interpreted this scene as an attack of one man by another; Ms. Stewart's clothing (and her edgy aggression) seemed rather pointedly masculine here. (I'm not suggesting women can't be aggressive; I'm only looking at the specifics of this scene.)
Outwardly, Jason Schwartzman and Patricia Arquette seem to be strangers meeting by chance, although the behavior of each is remarkably odd. Why does Mr. Schwartzman, who is obviously preoccupied, take the time to brush off and kiss the cap of a complete stranger? Why does Ms. Arquette (who also seems preoccupied) appear at first taken aback--even frightened--and why does she return his gesture by first biting him and then laughing? The characters are moving in opposite directions (initially, they seem not even to see one another); it is the handing back of the cap (part of Ms. Arquette's "disguise") that unites them. The backward glances, in Mr. Schwartzman's case, look like a puzzled attempt to figure out what's happened to him even as the ambush recedes in time. Perhaps these people are "strangers" only in the sense of their very unequal understanding of what's taken place between them. Though I don't read this scene romantically (at all), Mr. Schwartzman's gentleness and Ms. Arquette's peculiar aggressiveness, along with the fact that she somehow seems to tower over him, suggest that their genders could be reversed.
In my last post, I pointed out that the characters in the bar scene are very unlike one another, two adversaries involved in a great contest. I based this on their postures, their actions, and the way they're dressed; it's easy to see how different they are. I suggested that perhaps one of them wasn't even a man, and while that may have taken you by surprise, it was just my reading of the extreme difference in the way they're portrayed: they're such opposites in every other way that, in this context, I guessed that different races might symbolize opposite genders. And if you watch their contest closely, you'll see the moment when Mr. Spall reveals both dismay and surprise at his opponent's strength. He only overcomes Mr. Oyelowo by a nasty and unexpected trick that changes the dynamic completely.
I see the "sparring" between partners in the next scene as a metaphor for a romantic relationship between two people who have long been at odds. After Ms. Woodley lands a direct hit on Mr. O'Connell and then tries to made amends, he at first appears shocked--boy, he didn't see that coming. He then responds by ridiculing her, and the two go back to fighting. One senses, though, that a corner has been turned in the relationship, and that Ms. Woodley now sees her partner differently (despite his efforts to "protect his face"). To me, Ms. Woodley's boyish figure, along with the fact that the partners relate to one another by boxing, suggests that both partners are male; Ms. Woodley, however, is the more vulnerable of the two.
The scene in the dance club, to my mind, suggests a political rather than a romantic situation. If I were to ask you which of the two is a Democrat and which a Republican, I think you could hazard a guess, based on their dance styles alone. (I know it's a stereotype, but who looks more uptight?) The final scene, with the runaway groom, seems to me suggestive of a marriage in which there has been some great trouble and an attempt at reconciliation. I read this scene pretty straightforwardly as the story of a marriage in which something momentous (and tragic) has occurred. In this case, the mixed-race marriage might refer to some division--a difference of opinion or a betrayal--that has separated the couple. It may be the contrast between this scene and the one before it--in which the dancing partners seem united mainly by cynicism--but this one, so starkly personal, is one that I initially found to be most disturbing.
I take it that this exercise illustrates why film interpretation (and symbolic interpretation of all kinds) is so challenging. I'm not suggesting that there's always only one way to see things, but I do believe that some interpretations are better than others. That's why it's so hard to use a standard dictionary of symbols to interpret dreams, fairy tales, myths, or anything else. For one thing, a good dictionary only reveals how multifaceted any one symbol can be. Everything depends on context; you look at all the pieces and keep moving them around until something clicks. Word association, hunches, knowledge of human nature--all is fair in love and war (or so they say). I'll limit myself to saying only that all of these are fair in Jungian interpretation.
If you'd like to know more about this kind of approach, take a look at any of Marie-Louise von Franz's works on fairy tales. She uses some Jungian language that might hamper anyone unfamiliar with Jung's theories, but reading just a little of her work will give you the gist of it. She was a very subtle, penetrating, and perceptive interpreter of the meanings latent in traditional stories; I can't think of anyone who does it better. More recent works in the depth psychological tradition suitable for a general audience include Allan B. Chinen's Once Upon a Midlife and Joan Gould's Spinning Straw Into Gold.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
New Year's Eve, Two Years Later
Two years ago on New Year's Eve, I was drinking a mug of hot vanilla and writing the proposal for the paper I'm linking to here. The article is the result of not only several years of work on my dissertation but also a year and a half in which I explored the question of why the symbolism of the labyrinth might matter in contemporary America. In other words, what accounts for the current popularity of labyrinths? Is it something more than a trend? The paper picks up where the final chapter of my book leaves off and extends a literary-philosophical question into a social-political one.
The link will take you to the home page of the Jungian Society for Scholarly Studies. To find my article, go to Publications, then Journals, then Journal 9, 2014, of the Jungian Journal of Scholarly Studies.
My Ph.D. is in Myth Studies from Pacifica Graduate Institute. A background in psychology and English literature also contributed to my thinking on the topic of labyrinths.
Happy New Year to everyone.
The link will take you to the home page of the Jungian Society for Scholarly Studies. To find my article, go to Publications, then Journals, then Journal 9, 2014, of the Jungian Journal of Scholarly Studies.
My Ph.D. is in Myth Studies from Pacifica Graduate Institute. A background in psychology and English literature also contributed to my thinking on the topic of labyrinths.
Happy New Year to everyone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
