“Ninth Street Women”: The New York School (of Painters, Mostly) Comes to TV

Left: Actress Rose Leslie (Photo by Astrid Stawiarz/Getty Images). Right: Elaine de Kooning.

Those of us who have been hoping for years for a Frank O’Hara biopic or Netflix mini-series devoted to the New York School poets will have to wait, but there is exciting news in this department: Amazon just announced that the studio has optioned Mary Gabriel’s Ninth Street Women, which was a finalist for the 2018 National Book Award.  Gabriel’s book is a terrific group portrait of five remarkable women artists — Lee Krasner, Elaine de Kooning, Grace Hartigan, Joan Mitchell, and Helen Frankenthaler — who were at the heart of Abstract Expressionism, and who each had significant relationships with O’Hara and the other poets in his circle.

Better yet, Amy Sherman-Palladino and Daniel Palladino — the Emmy-winning creators of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and Gilmore Girls — have signed on to develop the book into a series for Amazon.

From the Hollywood Reporter:

Ninth Street Women is set amid the most turbulent social and political period of modern times and chronicles five women — Lee Krasner, Elaine de Kooning, Grace Hartigan, Joan Mitchell and Helen Frankenthaler — who dared to enter the male-dominated world of 20th century abstract painting as artists (and not muses). These women changed American art and society, tearing up the prevailing social code and replacing it with a doctrine of liberation.

As ArtNet notes, “for Sherman-Palladino, it’s the chance to do another New York period piece, set in much the same era as Mrs. Maisel, as well as to write some more lightning-quick dialogue for women.”  

Gabriel’s book is “a fascinating, hyper-detailed portrait of the post-war avant-garde art scene in New York, the book paints vibrant portraits not only of its main characters, but also of such artistic greats as Jackson Pollock, Willem de Kooning, Arshile Gorky, Franz Kline, Hans Hofmann, and many others.”

Of special note for my purposes: Frank O’Hara plays a significant, recurring role in Gabriel’s book, thanks to his very intimate connection to Hartigan and close relationships with Mitchell and de Kooning.  Presumably, he would feature in the television adaptation as well — a tantalizing prospect for O’Hara aficianodos.

The ArtNet piece wonders “who should play the pioneering artists” on this new show, and offers their “dream casting picks.”  They seem pretty good to me: Sarah Paulson as Lee Krasner, Christan Bale as Jackson Pollock, Rose Leslie (Ygritte!) as Elaine de Kooning, Peter Skaarsgard as Willem de Kooning (an inspired choice), Rachel Brosnahan as Joan Mitchell and so on.

So — summoning the New York School faithful and poetry fans — who should play Frank O’Hara?  What about John Ashbery?  And James Schuyler?  (They each make many appearances in Ninth Street Women).  Suggestions?

Mary Gabriel has, not surprisingly, signed on as a consulting producer for the series.  I just thought I would mention that if Amy Sherman-Palladino and Daniel Palladino happen to be looking for a Frank O’Hara/poetry consultant to help out with historical accuracy and whatnot, I think I might be able to find room in my schedule!

Left, Jackson Pollock (Photo by Tony Vaccaro/Getty Images). Right, Christian Bale, courtesy of IMDB.

Left: Jackson Pollock. (Photo by Tony Vaccaro/Getty Images). Right: Christian Bale (Courtesy of IMDB).

 

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Posted in Abstract Expressionism, Elaine de Kooning, Frank O'Hara, Franz Kline, Grace Hartigan, Hans Hoffmann, Helen Frankenthaler, Jackson Pollock, James Schuyler, Joan Mitchell, John Ashbery, Lee Krasner, Television, Visual Art, Willem de Kooning | Leave a comment

Frank O’Hara as a Jeopardy! Clue

The list of poets who are well-known enough to appear in a question on a television trivia game show is relatively short.  Games like Jeopardy! frequently feature questions about old standbys like Homer, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Byron, Pound, Yeats, Hughes, Ginsberg, or Plath, but it would be pretty rare to come across a question about a Mina Loy or a Robert Creeley.

So I have to admit I was pleasantly surprised to see that Frank O’Hara’s name popped up on Jeopardy! a few days ago.  O’Hara appeared in the category “American Poetry,” alongside clues about Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, and Robert Hayden’s “Middle Passage.”  If you’re someone like me, who takes an (obsessive?) interest in tracking O’Hara’s reputation and ever-increasing influence and ubiquity, this seems like a significant little moment in his journey to mainstream recognizability.

The clue read:

Not only was it surprising to see a question about O’Hara, but also to watch the current reigning champ — the much buzzed-about, seemingly unstoppable James Holzhauer — come up with the wrong name.  “Who is Ella Fitzgerald?” Holzhauer said.  Another contestant quickly buzzed in correctly with “Who is Billie Holiday?”  This was especially notable because Holzhauer — who already, after 12 victories, holds the record for the four highest-scoring games in the show’s history, and is in second place for all-time winnings after the famous Ken Jennings (whose run was 74 victories) — almost never buzzes in with the wrong answer (he is averaging just 1.2 wrong answers per game)  Holzhauer has quickly become one of the best players to ever play the game, so I definitely am not holding this little slip-up against him.

 

 

I was expecting to be able to declare that this was the very first time Frank O’Hara has appeared in a Jeopardy! clue.  But — thanks to this fan-created archive of previous games — I just learned this is actually the second time.  It is, however, his first appearance in 32 years.  Way back in 1987, the show featured O’Hara in a clue, about the same poem no less, and then not again since: “Frank O’Hara’s ‘The Day Lady Died’ is a tribute to this black singer.”

So do any other poets of the New York School qualify as Jeopardy!-famous, in the company of the usual suspects like Wordsworth, Whitman, Dickinson, and Eliot?  Well, it turns out John Ashbery’s name has appeared in Jeopardy! too, also on only two occasions.  First, in 1998, with this clue: “This ‘X-Files’ star has expressed his admiration for the complex modern poetry of John Ashbery.”

(Answer? “Who is David Duchovny?,” who, by the way, studied literature in graduate school at Yale).

And second, in 2004, in the category “First Names the Same,” in the clue “Ashbery, Davidson, Cheever.”

According to the records, so far Kenneth Koch, James Schuyler, Barbara Guest, Alice Notley, Bernadette Mayer, and Ted Berrigan have yet to appear in a Jeopardy! clue, but I’m keeping an eye on it.

 

Posted in Frank O'Hara, John Ashbery, Robert Creeley, Television | Leave a comment

Frank O’Hara and Indie Punk (Having a Coke with Martha)

Longtime readers of this blog probably know I’m always on the lookout for moments when Frank O’Hara or other poets of the New York School pop up in the world of music.  O’Hara, especially, continues to haunt the history and present of popular music, leading one observer to ask: “When did Frank O’Hara become the poet of indie rock?”  O’Hara inspired the stage name of Frankie Cosmos, and songs by Rilo Kiley and Sonic Youth‘s Thurston Moore — Lou Reed even recited his work to Patti Smith while reclining in a bathtub!  Just the other day, Jeff Tweedy (of Uncle Tupelo and Wilco fame) cited O’Hara as one of his favorites, too.

An article in Rolling Stone this week on the British indie band Martha — which it calls “one of the most singular voices in indie punk” — mentioned the band’s “far-flung pop culture mentions (the Replacements, poet Frank O’Hara, the Disney classic Sleeping Beauty).”  This caught my eye — not least because I didn’t realize O’Hara counts as a “pop culture mention”! — and led me to Martha’s song “1967, I Miss You, I’m Lonely,” which was released in 2014.

After opening with a Belle and Sebastian nod, the song is chock-full of O’Hara references:

I spent a dirty weekend practicing my French
Rosy cheeked I saw my limitations there in evidence
When I invited Frank and you, back to mine for a mange tout
When I meant ménage à trois
You laughed so hard you cracked your chin against the bar

The song also nods to an O’Hara fan favorite, the closing of his poem “Steps” (“oh god it’s wonderful / to get out of bed / and drink too much coffee / and smoke too many cigarettes / and love you so much”):

Oh God how wonderful it is
Crossing bridges in the mist

And then pulls out the big guns — a direct riff on O’Hara’s beloved “Having a Coke With You” (“I look / at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world / 
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick / which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together for the first time”) — but instead of making an exception for Rembrandt’s Polish Rider, Martha makes one for a portrait of O’Hara himself by his dear friend Grace Hartigan.

I look at you
And I am confident that I’d rather look at you
Than all the portraits in existence in the world
Except possibly O’Hara by Grace Hartigan
Or something else
I’m not a connoisseur
I’m monolingual, and absurd
And I know this statement might sound phoney
But I miss you
And I’m lonely
I miss you
I’m lonely
Distance stretches on and on and on

It may be at the Smithsonian rather than the Frick, but here’s a portrait of O’Hara by Grace Hartigan.  Maybe the members of Martha can take someone they love to the museum who hasn’t been yet, so they can go there together for the first time…

Grace Hartigan, Frank O’Hara, 1926-1966, 1966, oil on linen, Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of Grace Hartigan, 1967.129

You definitely don’t see the painter Grace Hartigan name-checked in too many (or any?) indie punk songs, even if O’Hara continues to crop up with pleasing regularity in the some of the most interesting music of our time.

Posted in Frank O'Hara, Grace Hartigan, Lou Reed, Music, NY School Influence, Patti Smith, Thurston Moore, Visual Art | Leave a comment

The Power of Not Being Sure: John Ashbery, Jordan Ellenberg, and Math

JordanEllenberg How Not To Be Wrong

To my surprise, in the car the other day my math-obsessed 14-year-old son Dylan suddenly exclaimed “John Ashbery!” from the backseat.  It turns out he’d reached the last pages of Jordan Ellenberg’s 2014 book How Not To Be Wrong: The Power of Mathematical Thinking, which he’s been relishing the past couple of weeks and has now pronounced one of his favorite books.  Very aware that Ashbery’s name is hallowed in our house, he was excited to stumble upon a reference to a poet his dad has talked and written about so much, in a book about math of all things.

“Do you know a poem called ‘Soonest Mended’?” he asked.  Do I know “Soonest Mended”?  Do I ever!  “Yes! It’s one of my favorite Ashbery poems and one of his most famous.  Why?”

“Ellenberg talks about the poem in this really interesting section about math and uncertainty.”

“Really?  How does he do that?” Dylan went on to explain the point of the passage: although we usually think of math as “the realm of certainty and absolute truth,” Ellenberg wants us to recognize math is also “a means by which we can reason about the uncertain, taming if not altogether domesticating it.”

I began to recite some partially garbled lines from the poem about action and not being sure and how we’re always coming back to the mooring of starting out, and Dylan, mildly impressed at my recall, said “that’s the part he quotes!”

Indeed it is.  In the book, Ellenberg calls “Soonest Mended” “the greatest summation I know of the way uncertainty and revelation can mingle, without dissolving together, in the human mind.” After quoting the poem’s wonderful final passage, Ellenberg writes “For this is action, this not being sure!  It is a sentence I often repeat to myself like a mantra.”  Many people view uncertainty and ambivalence as markers of cowardice, moderation, or quietism, but for Ashbery “not being sure is the move of a strong person, not a weakling,” Ellenberg argues.  “It is, elsewhere in the poem, ‘a kind of fence-sitting / Raised to the level of an esthetic ideal.’  And math is part of it.”

Math?!  Part of an ethos that embraces ambiguity and skepticism? As a decidedly math-averse person — who sometimes views my son’s preternatural prowess with numbers as a bewildering, X-Men-like mutant power — I was very pleased to hear that our worldviews might be more aligned than one might think. “Math,” Ellenberg writes, “gives us a way of being unsure in a principled way; not just throwing up our hands and saying ‘huh,’ but rather making a firm assertion: ‘I’m not sure, this is why I’m not sure, and this is roughly how not-sure I am.’ Or even more: ‘I’m unsure, and you should be too.’”

In my book Beautiful Enemies, I talk about “Soonest Mended” too, reading it as a powerful example of Ashbery’s deep connection to American pragmatist philosophy and its skepticism of fixity and absolute truths.  I argue that the poem’s ending is “a potent statement of a particularly Ashberyean negative capability – the willingness to remain in doubt, uncommitted, unaligned with any and all communities.”  The “eloquent and complex turn towards action and change” at the end of the poem suggests that, for Ashbery, “continued movement and artistic and personal health” are associated “with uncertainty itself… This is action: not aggressive gestures or declarations, not screaming slogans from the barricades, but remaining unsure, forever loose and careless, which recalls Ashbery’s frequent equation of doubt with motion.”

I would never have associated the outlook I’ve just described with math, but I’m very glad Ellenberg did.  The idea also seemed to resonate with my son, this ninth-grader deeply fascinated by math, its applications in real life and its philosophical underpinnings.

What a pleasant surprise to find this great little discussion of poetry — and Ashbery’s masterpiece no less — in a book about mathematical thinking. Among other things, this passage, like Ellenberg’s book as a whole, is a great example of how writers and thinkers might bridge the pernicious STEM / humanities divide.  It certainly appealed to both my math-focused kid and to his poetry professor dad.

So thanks to Jordan Ellenberg, not only for writing such a cool book, but for providing this little moment of math vs. literature détente and unexpected father-son bonding.  And, of course, to Ashbery for writing “Soonest Mended,” one of the great hymns to uncertainty and the power to be found in not being sure.

 

Posted in John Ashbery | 2 Comments

Falling in Love with Frank O’Hara (via Instagram)

8a8c3-frank_o_hara

The writer Sinead Stubbins has a charming article in the Guardian today about how she, like so many others, came to fall in love with the poetry of Frank O’Hara.  The piece also suggests the new, digital byways that lead people to poetry today, especially to the poetry of O’Hara, which has found renewed life in the age of Twitter and social media.

“It’s probably not very dignified to admit that I first encountered the poems of Frank O’Hara on Instagram,” Stubbins writes. “I’m ashamed to say that I had never even heard of him, but I quickly learned the facts.”

She tells the story of scrolling through her feed and stumbling on the now-famous lines from O’Hara’s poem “Mayakovsky,” a passage which has taken on a new, vibrant afterlife online in the years since the passage appeared in the second season of Mad Men.

Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.

Stubbins recalls taking a quick screenshot of the lines and moving on with her day, only to find she couldn’t get them out of her head:

“I couldn’t concentrate. ‘Catastrophe of my personality’ kept repeating in my head, like my brain was trying to memorise it independently of my will. I read the words out loud to myself in my apartment, letting them roll around my mouth like melting toffee, quite sure I had never read a more remarkable sentence in my life. I couldn’t decide if it was hilarious or if it made me want to cry. ‘And interesting, and modern.’ I needed to find the person who had written the words that had ruined my life.”

The freshness, humor, and clarity of O’Hara’s work seemed to cure Stubbins of her fear and loathing of poetry: “I always assumed I wasn’t clever or cultured enough to understand poetry. I love the Fast and the Furious movies, for chrissakes.”  I’m not sure if she meant the echo, but Stubbins certainly seems to be channelling O’Hara and his own attitudes about poetry here.  In “Personism,” O’Hara famously wrote “Nobody should experience anything they don’t need to, if they don’t need poetry bully for them. I like the movies too. And after all, only Whitman and Crane and Williams, of the American poets, are better than the movies.”

If you’re one of those people who, like Stubbins, always felt poetry belonged to “rich people … who were thrilled when they could tell someone that they don’t own a TV,” O’Hara would definitely be the poet to shatter that stereotype.

For Stubbins, reading O’Hara’s work seemed like finding a whole new form of poetry that was the opposite of stuffy and academic. “It felt like making a new exciting friend,” she writes.  “Frank’s poems were conversational and funny and weird in a way that I didn’t know poetry could be.”

I’ve talked a lot on this blog and elsewhere about O’Hara’s strange new role as a consummate poet of the internet age — the widespread feeling that the poetry he wrote over a half-century ago feels oddly, wonderfully of our own moment.  I also feel Stubbins is right when she says

“I don’t think Frank O’Hara would think it was silly that I discovered his work on a social media app that is primarily designed for empowering bikini selfies and laxative tea advertisements. He would probably think it was funny. In his 1959 poem ‘Naphtha’ he writes ‘I am ashamed of my century, for being so entertaining, but I have to smile’. I’m looking forward to learning more.”

I felt the same mix of emotions upon discovering that Jennifer Lawrence was recently carrying a $1500 Lunch Poems purse which the media misinterpreted as a copy of the actual book, another moment that probably would have made O’Hara shake his head and smile, a bit ashamed and a bit entertained.

Posted in Frank O'Hara, Mad Men, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Walt Whitman, William Carlos Williams | Leave a comment

“A Frank O’Hara Notebook” by Bill Berkson

O'Hara and Berkson 1961

Frank O’Hara and Bill Berkson at O’Hara’s apartment on 441 E. 9th St., NY, 1961 (photo by John Button)

When the poet and art critic Bill Berkson passed away in 2016, he left behind a notebook full of fragments and notes about his close and decisive friendship with Frank O’Hara.  Apparently, he had been planning for many years to write a substantial study of O’Hara’s work, but was never able to complete the project.

Now, readers have the opportunity to see the notes he had gathered in an unusual form: in February, MIT Press will publish A Frank O’Hara Notebook, “an exact-scale photographic reproduction of Berkson’s handwritten notebook”:

This volume reproduces the sketchbook in which Berkson gathered notes, images, and poems about O’Hara, focusing on his memories of their collaborations in New York, from their initial meeting in 1960 to O’Hara’s untimely death in 1966. A Frank O’Hara Notebook offers a fascinating first-person account of the heyday of O’Hara’s creative life, and memorably sketches the heady social milieus of the poetry and art worlds of New York that O’Hara inhabited in the early 1960s.

But you don’t need to wait until February to see some of the contents of Berkson’s notebook.  The current issue of Poetry magazine features a great selection, which gives us a glimpse of an intimate handwritten archive of Berkson’s O’Hara-iana.

It includes memories of the party at which Berkson’s first met O’Hara (after being correctly warned by his mentor Kenneth Koch that O’Hara “would become something of a germ in your life”):

A list of pithy quotations from O’Hara’s work (which includes some personal favorites of mine as well):

A catalog of some favorite O’Hara books (including Joyce’s Ulysses, Sir Thomas Wyatt, William Carlos Williams, and Arthur Rimbaud) which Berkson labels “A (Mini) Frank O’Hara Library”:

It also features some fascinating little snippets of memory, including a 1962 argument Berkson had with O’Hara about Vietnam (in which he accused O’Hara of being a “just a sentimental Communist”) and a memory about the time O’Hara was enjoying Jack Kerouac’s novel Desolation Angels, but needed to stop halfway through because he found it “too depressing.”

This selection and the forthcoming notebook are a valuable companion to another important posthumous book of Berkson’s writing, Since When: A Memoir in Piecesrecently published by Coffee House Press (a book which I hope to have more to say about soon).  In the meantime, head over to Poetry to see a slideshow of the facsimile pages from Berkson’s Frank O’Hara Notebook.

 

Posted in Arthur Rimbaud, Bill Berkson, Books, Frank O'Hara, Jack Kerouac, Jane Freilicher, Kenneth Koch, William Carlos Williams | 1 Comment

Happy 40th Birthday to Midwinter Day (by Bernadette Mayer)

“I had an idea to write a book that would
… prove the day like the dream has everything in it.”
— Bernadette Mayer, Midwinter Day

Today marks the 40th anniversary of an important moment in twentieth-century poetry — the day the poet Bernadette Mayer wrote her groundbreaking long poem, Midwinter Day.  To celebrate this auspicious occasion, there will be marathon readings of the book held in cities around the U.S. and across the world, from Akron, Ohio to Washington, DC to Glasgow and Malmo, Sweden.  (Mayer herself will take part in the Albany, NY reading!).  You can find out more about these events (which have been organized by Becca Klaver) here.

To help mark this important milestone, I’m posting an extended excerpt about Mayer’s Midwinter Day from my recent book Attention Equals Life: The Pursuit of the Everyday in Contemporary Poetry and Culture (sans footnotes)The following is one section of a longer chapter entitled “Writing the Maternal Everyday: Bernadette Mayer and Her ‘Daughters,'” which discusses Mayer’s work in detail and its influence on younger contemporary women poets, including Rachel Zucker, Hoa Nguyen, Claudia Rankine, and Laynie Browne.

******

On December 22, 1978, the young American poet Bernadette Mayer undertook an unusual experiment that she had been planning for weeks.  She wrote an entire book-length poem during and about the events and thoughts she experienced on that particular day.  She later described the resulting poem, which she titled Midwinter Day, as “a 120-page work in prose and poetry written on December 22, 1978, from notes, tapes, photographs, and memory.” The poem recounts an ordinary day in the life of a young woman, her husband, and two young children in the small town of Lenox, Massachusetts, where Mayer and the poet Lewis Warsh, had recently moved from New York City. As Alice Notley has noted, Midwinter Day is an “epic poem about a daily routine.”

Although it was not well-known at the time, Midwinter Day has increasingly come to be seen as a major long poem of the past several decades. While still hardly a household name, Mayer has lately become a beacon for younger American women writers who are still trying to negotiate what is often referred to as “the juggle”–the irresolvable balancing act of work and family that contemporary women endlessly struggle with. Many young poets today feel that Mayer managed to find a way to reconcile these competing roles successfully, long before the “mommy wars” of our day.  Her books of the 1970s exuberantly demonstrate that one can be a poet and a mother at the same time and still survive, and even thrive.

In recent years, Mayer’s work has received a smattering of good critical attention, but her poetry’s outsized influence on more recent writing has still not received the attention it deserves. Critics have often focused on Mayer’s complicated connections, especially as a woman poet, to the two different, often competing movements with which she is associated, the New York School and Language poetry. They have also discussed her relationship to conceptual art, her feminist revision of poetic forms (such as the long poem and the sonnet), and her complex handling of gender and sexuality.

Despite this recent surge of interest in Mayer’s work and her example, there has been little attention paid to her role as an important poet of the everyday, nor to the significance of her quotidian aesthetic for contemporary poets who follow in her wake. By referring to an everyday-life aesthetic, I mean the broad turn away from the extraordinary, the exotic, or the heroic towards the mundane, the small, and the ordinary that has often been hailed as a central feature of twentieth-century literature and art: a literary and artistic lineage that stretches from James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, and William Carlos Williams to the “New American Poetry” of the postwar period, especially to Frank O’Hara and the New York School, a movement known for its loving attention to the daily.

In this chapter, I argue that Mayer should be viewed as an important and under-recognized contributor to this tradition. But I make the case that Mayer not only draws upon the resources of this lineage, but also offers a powerful retort, a bracing corrective to its failures and limitations. To do so, Mayer develops a groundbreaking, influential mode that I call “the poetics of the maternal everyday.” I use this phrase to refer to a feminist aesthetic that explores how daily experience is inescapably shaped by gender, that strives to represent the lived realities of being a woman and a mother, and insists on the fact that motherhood is always, at some level, political.  In short, Mayer’s work offers a stiff challenge to the supposed universality that has long cloaked the implicit male-ness at the heart of many models of dailiness.

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Posted in Bernadette Mayer, Charles Olson, Claudia Rankine, Ezra Pound, Frank O'Hara, James Joyce, Lewis Warsh, NY School Influence, William Carlos Williams | 2 Comments