Kitsch, Pornography and Other Evils

You can always count on a monastic to stir things up.  Recently at a professional development seminar, I heard a Dominican sister speak about liberal arts education: the “free arts,” by their more ancient name, are so called because their concern is with attaining knowledge for the betterment of the whole person and, through it, freedom for society as a whole.  By contrast, the “servile arts” create a utilitarian product that serves a purpose and, often, a person.  As one who attended a liberal arts high school and now teaches in one, I wholeheartedly support this approach, which is under attack at the moment by a depressed economy and a secular population that believes practical / monetary value to be the highest good.

As an example, Sister took us through a brief history of visual art, starting with the Classical and Renaissance Periods and continuing through the Impressionists and modern times.  In what has been called (by someone whose name I didn’t write down, of course) the “schizophrenic fragmentation of narrative,” modern forms of art have now imploded: in the absence of an expression of truth and a respect for the history of the discipline, we’re left with the empty shell of a thing — form but no substance.  Duchamp’s toilet bowl.  Mondrian’s blocks of color.  Pollock’s drips and splatters.

Consider the praise chorus, a shallow repetition of three chords and some non-rhyming phrases that, more often than not, center more on the worshipper than the Worshipped.  There’s nothing wrong with it, really, but without the benefit of the history of sacred music, it becomes a substitute that younger generations will begin to mistake for the real thing.  And it’s not.  Real worship is at once painful and enlightening.

Ultimately, Sister argued, we come to the most empty and dangerous forms of “art.”  One is pornography: a glorification of the sexual dimension of the human body without reference to soul or society.  The other is kitsch: garden gnomes, Barbie and Thomas Kinkade.  These, too, present a reality that is devoid of any substance, having been stripped of sacred values.  They’re “pretty” if you look only at the colors and designs, but they are not good, and they are certainly not liberating.

Not what I was expecting to hear from a lecture on the liberal arts.  But I think she’s right on the money.  And I’ll endorse the Thomas Kinkade Defamation League any chance I get. 

Just Listen

Before you listen to this, close your eyes and shut out the sight of these guys, who are all in desperate need of a shower and a shave.  Just listen, at least to the first three minutes: 

Now, tell me, is this:

A) Crosby, Stills & Nash,

B) Simon & Garfunkel, or

C) An group of young whippersnappers?

An amazing sound.  Glad my friends care enough to make me branch out a bit, although it’s interesting to see how similar they are to things I already loved.  

The experience was marred somewhat by their obnoxious fans, who yelled and screamed and stood up (see above) with no regard for the mellow, introspective mood of the music or for others around them.  Still, a lovely evening, especially since our friend had the forethought to purchase pavilion seats.  The lawn was a sea of grassy mud after a day / week / month of rain.

A Quartet of Quadratics

1. One day my Algebra teacher brought his guitar in and sang the following lines to a tune I've mostly forgotten, though I do remember the words:

When you encounter a quadratic equation

In a difficult situation,

Remember this and you can't go wrong;

The quadratic formula's not too long.

X equals negative B

Plus or minus the square root of B squared minus 4 A C

All over 2 A (bum bum)

Remember this and you can't go wrong;

The quadratic formula's not too long.

2. I thought of this because last week in class, my friend the Math teacher told this story:

Once there was a bee. An unusual bee. A very sour, bitter, negative bee. He was flying up and down, up and down, minding his own business, when he flew smack into a square root. He looked inside the root, and he saw another bee, but this bee was unusual too -- it was a square bee. And the square bee was pulling four apple carts. And the whole thing was balanced on two apples.

3. And then during a meeting of the literary magazine staff this afternoon, one of my students got up and sang the following with accompanying hand motions, to the tune of "Yellow Submarine":

Negative B

Plus or minus

The square root of

B squared

Minus four

A times C

All over

Two A (bum bum bum)

We all know the quadratic formula,

Quadratic formula,

Quadratic formula.

We all know the quadratic formula,

Quadratic formula,

Quadratic formula!

4. After all that, if you still can't remember it, I guess you need to follow this guy.

The Last Day

The last day before Christmas break passes with unbearable slowness.  The students dawdle with their essays.  The copier malfunctions again and again.  You get what help you can folding the newspaper and sticking it in boxes, but you have to finish it up yourself.  You always have to finish it up yourself.

You stay at school well past dismissal to finish grading and posting midterms -- like the first son in the parable, you angrily refused to make any such promise to the students, but you've realized it's better all the way around if they're done now.  And the feeling you get as you leave that day, looking at sixteen days of an empty schedule, is intoxicating.

You convince your husband to take you out to lunch at a nice Italian restaurant, where you unload your stress and gaze into each others' eyes, and the spicy shrimp gnocchi never tasted so good.

And suddenly, there's a knock on your window: a group of your students are doing some shopping and have seen you, and instead of scurrying away they wave you outside and give you hugs, tell you all about their Christmas plans and wish you well.  They do ask about the midterms, but you wave it off -- everyone did well, check online -- and they are happy with that; already school seems as hazy as though it happened weeks ago, not just this morning.

You go home, spend a couple of hours happily sewing and ignoring the half-decorated tree, and then go see a Journey tribute band with a bunch of friends.  Yep, a Journey tribute band.  You sing along at the top of your lungs.  It's okay.  No one's working tomorrow.

Manic Monday

So manic that I can't condense these separate thoughts into a cohesive entry, so enjoy:

1. To file under Things I Never Thought I'd Say at School: "Thank you for showing us all your underwear.  Now please sit down and finish writing."  Technically, they were boxer shorts, but I was still a little shocked to see her hiking up her skirt to show them off to her classmates.  The perils of a single-gender school, however, are few compared to the benefits.  I recently read that single-sex classes were forbidden by law until NCLB, so in my view that makes the entire disastrous piece of legislation worth it; in seven years, schools offering them have grown from about 12 to more than 540. Think about it: if she's comfortable enough to show everyone her undergarments, she'll be comfortable enough to request help or clarification, volunteer an answer that sounds a little crazy, or maybe even disagree with the majority.  I am, however, working on getting the latter without the former.


2. We have the day off from school tomorrow to attend the funeral of a longtime faculty member.  It struck me as such a fitting final tribute.  It's hard to say whether teachers or students are more excited by the prospect of an unexpected day off, but either way, we're blessed by the break, and by the opportunity to say goodbye.


3. Overheard two students chatting between classes today.  One started singing a pop song, and the other joined in on a high soprano harmony, creating a lovely effect.  The first student stopped singing to snap playfully, "Why are you so great?  AT EVERYTHING?"  I think that may be the most perfect metaphor for high school I've ever heard.  Lord, have mercy on these girls, and on their fragile sense of self-worth!