Moriah - March 23 2007
Wake Up and Smell the Golden Spires
UW Student Becomes Published Author, Sets Example
Close your eyes, dear readers, and think of the golden spires of
Oxford. Breath in the air of immaculate academia, where students divide their time between exams and oil paintings, where clubs take not the form of Beer Pong Teams, but rather writer collectives, such as the one forged by Tolkein and Lewis at the Eagle and Child. You may notice students on the main street being literally knocked over with inspiration, scrambling to find their notebook in which they can house this berth of ideas.
Now wake up. Welcome back to UW, where you will find ivy-covered cathedrals replaced by monolithic monuments to mathematics. Here, the students trudge through campus, drones serving the Gods of Engineering and Business, wary of an open mind in case inspiration may send them reeling into a puddle and ruin their Co-Op suit. At UW, an admiration for Gray’s Anatomy is replaced by a fixation with Grey’s Anatomy, and an appreciation for the Classics is diluted by an unfortunate association with “Classic Rock.”
Shame on you, students of Waterloo. How dare you neglect your creative obligations in the face of exams, essays, tutorials, policy reviews, critical analyses, weekly assessments, novel studies, laboratory assignments, mid-terms, quizzes, workshops, debates, and part-time jobs. What happened to our (my) dream of making this University a bastion of artistic energy? Another year lost, friends, and my spirit grows weak.
Next year, I want you all to resume classes with David Tubbs in your minds. David Tubbs, you ask? Don’t I know him as a 3rd year History major at UW with a minor in Religious Studies, you say? Surely he is as bound to the same torturous chains of University life as I, you whine.
Indeed he is, I answer, but David Tubbs has something the rest of your pitiful lot do not: priorities. At the beginning of the 2006 Winter Term, Mr. Tubbs embraced his creative passions and embarked on a project that would fill every waking moment he had in between classes and assignments. A year later, his labour has come to fruition in the form of a novel: at the beginning of March, Tubbs’ Three Days to Moriah was published.
While the rest of you complain about not having time to eat or sleep between research and reading, David Tubbs is represented on Amazon.com. For shame.
Sitting in Dr. James Diamond’s class on ‘Great Texts in the Jewish Tradition’ last year, Tubbs was struck by the imprecise nature of the Isaac narrative, in which God asks Abraham to sacrifice his own son on Mount Moriah. This passage is perhaps one of the most troubling, challenging stories in the Bible, and while it is a fundamental part of Judaism, Christianity and Islam, it is remarkably absent of detail. Inspired by the intensity of this ancient human drama, Tubbs set out to fill in the blanks.
The resulting piece of Biblical Fiction attempts to illuminate the three days that stood between God’s request and the moment an angel appeared to intervene on the Mount. Imagining a narrative full of torment, trauma, and struggle, Tubbs filled in his vision by researching different rabbinical interpretations and giving new relevance to certain characters, such as Abraham’s wife Sarah.
So, here we have a full-time student who has found the time to be a published author. Surely our valiant Mr. Tubbs will have something to say about the wretched state of art at our school: “I actually think it is very prosperous, especially in the theatre department…”
Right. Well then, I ask Mr. Tubbs, if it’s so prosperous, why did you have to have a U of T student edit your work? “Well,” Tubbs intones, “Jill McCullough is an old friend of mine…” Bollocks. Obviously, David is reluctant to admit that UW students are useless, despite my protests that they need the motivation. After much pushing, however, I discover the author’s disappointment: “I would like to find another writer who at least has the ambition to be published. There are too many writers out there who have written a good book, but don’t feel that they should do anything about it.”
There you have it, ladies and gentlemen; it’s time to get off your arses. For inspiration, check out Three Days to Moriah on Amazon.com. It may also be helpful to note that Tubbs shares an affinity for the work of C.S. Lewis, an Oxford man of the highest class. Just goes to prove my theory: when in doubt, close your eyes, and think of Oxford. Godspeed on your creative endeavors.
Brecht - Mar 16 2007
“Don’t Stare So Romantically!”
UW Audience Eager to be Challenged by Bertolt Brecht
My dear readers, there is nothing sweeter than being alienated by a piece of theatre. Some things come close; being physically abused by a piece of music, for instance, or sexually harassed by an oil painting. Hell, sometimes I even enjoy being drugged by a decent bit of literature. But going to see a play that denies superficial illusion, that encourages the viewer to be critical and conscious, to participate in the dialectics of the drama; now that is an experience.
If you’ve never had the privilege of such a sensation, my friends, you’re in luck. Bertolt Brecht is coming to Waterloo.
Indeed, the influential German dramatist who introduced “the Alienation Effect” has been exhumed from his steel coffin in Berlin, reanimated through a complex chemical procedure, and transported across the Atlantic to our fair University where he has been granted an office in the bowels of Modern Languages. Or, the UW Drama Department is staging a production of Brecht’s Caucasian Chalk Circle this weekend and next in the Theatre of the Arts.
The Arts Snob, for one, welcomes Brecht’s brand of “Epic Theatre” to our humble city with open arms. I’ve had a real craving for some Verfremdungseffekt lately, and it was this German playwright who gave the movement momentum, consolidating a theatre technique that moulds methods of clear description and commentary around an engaging social/political focus. Essentially, plays like the Caucasian Chalk Circle act to destroy the ‘fourth wall’ which separates the audience from the action; characters are self-reflective, speak to the audience, and are often modeled around archetypes in order to encourage onlookers to discriminate and decide.
Brecht believed that Art “is not a mirror with which to reflect reality, but a hammer with which to shape it.” His plays reflect this ideal, working as a venue to educate and challenge the audience. Fighting the complacency bred by illusion, Brecht modeled his plays as “political seminars” during which onlookers are encouraged to develop a critical perspective regarding specific issues. The audience is constantly reminded that what they are witnessing is indeed reality, a consciousness fortified by the use of unnatural stage lighting, speaking out of stage directions, and instances in which actors directly address the crowd.
The Caucasian Chalk Circle was written in the 1940s, partially in reaction to the Nazism and Fascism that had enveloped Brecht’s home country. It is thus no surprise that the playwright asks the audience to consider issues of morality in the play, a dialogue accompanied by other discussions on motherhood and usefulness. This inclusion of real and universal themes has ensured the continued relevance of Brecht’s work, and indeed his innovations regarding Epic Theatre and Audience Alienation have been widely adopted by the modernist and post-modernist movements.
The UW performance of Caucasian Chalk Circle marks the first full production of Ross Manson’s translation of the play, and although I am a bit disappointed that director Alex Fallis sought out a Canadian version as opposed to simply employing subtitles (a decision he admits he wrestled with), I am interested in observing how Brecht’s Soviet parable will engage a modern Western audience.
In one of his early productions, Brecht put up signs around the theatre reading “Don’t Stare So Romantically!” Hopefully the UW version of Caucasian Chalk Circle will be able to slap the audience in the face as effectively as this. There is nothing sweeter, after all, than being pushed around by a piece of theatre. Godspeed.
Self-Determination - Mar 9 2007
When Ché Becomes Cliché…
Who’s the hipster’s favorite U.S. president? Why, Woodrow Wilson, of course! In 1919, our boy Wilson stood up for the right of national self-determination at the Paris Peace Conference, lending legitimacy to the work of oppressed people the world over in their fight for independence from colonial masters.
Why should a hipster care? Well, the ability to associate oneself with the struggle of minority groups is strangely reminiscent of the desire in hipster culture to attach themselves to obscure new bands or undiscovered new artists. Wilson gave courage to the downtrodden millions in demanding national sovereignty, and in doing so created a glut of potential groups that could be converted to trendy accessories in the West.
Case in point, the Palestinian keffiyeh. This checkered traditional Arab headdress is the symbol of Palestinian national disaffection, and as such has emerged as a fashionable scarf option among cultured urban youth in the West. It is quite obviously a politically conscious attempt by hipsters to display their allegiance to the anti-Zionist movement, and certainly has nothing to do with the fact that certain British rock-star libertines have been known to sport the keffiyeh under dark leather jackets.
In the same way, Spin magazine declared “gypsy” to be the scene of 2006, illuminating the attractiveness of the dispersed Roma populations to indie culture. Bands like Beirut, Gogol Bordello, and DeVotchKa have been embraced by hipsters as a means to better understand the plight of the Eastern European diaspora. Similarly, electro-grime-baile funk goddess M.I.A. has built an identity around her Sri Lankan Tamil roots, filling her music videos with tigers and rebellious looking figures wearing colourful bandanas. If she doesn’t attract any political sympathy for the Tamil cause in South Asia, at least she’ll get the kids thinking she’s ‘deck.’
Indeed, my dear readers, the uniform of oppression has replaced the one inch button in distinguishing the cool kids from the poseurs, and the search for new minorities to exploit has replaced the scramble to find that long lost Sergei Eisenstein film. Assuming his recurring role as the catalyst of coolness, the Arts Snob offers some suggestions on how to stand out in this new age of global hipsterdom:
The Dudayev Moustache – Thin, sharp, sexy…the facial hair of Chechen secessionist leader Dzokhar Dudayev bursts with anti-Russian sentiment. It is, perhaps, the most potent symbol of Chechen nationalism, and styling your moustache in a similar style will convince everyone that you follow the Nokhchallah code of honour of this oppressed Russian republic. For ultimate effect, wear a green military cap and look angry.
The Saami garb – this colourful costume of the reindeer-herding Laplanders will exemplify your sympathy with a people whose culture has been suppressed for centuries within the states of Norway, Sweden, and Finland. Accordingly, I predict the curly-toed shoe sported by the Saami will soon replace the Converse Chuck Taylor as official hipster footwear.
The Red Robe of Tibet – uniform of the Dalai Lama, this Buddhist outfit will undoubtedly be adopted by the hipster to show solidarity with the Tibetan struggle for independence. Not only does it exemplify dissatisfaction with Chinese occupation, it’s also silky smooth and extremely comfortable
The Canadian Aboriginal Headdress - since the whole world has jumped on the Arcade Fire/Montreal-is-better-than-you bandwagon, hipsters have had to abandon their association with the Fleur-de-lis and Quebecois oppression. What better replacement than the trampled indigenous Canadian populations? Rock the feathered headdress when you got out with your friends and acquire infinite credibility as an opponent of reservations, residential schools, and cultural assimilation.
The Frantz Fanon tattoo: This Algerian philosopher penned The Wretched of the Earth, the manifesto for violent upheaval in the Third World. Plant his handsome, North African face on your skin and you will be instantly connected to every revolutionary insurgency from the FLN to the PLO.
No need for thanks, dear friends. I’m glad to be of help in your quest to capitalize on the oppressed for the greater good of hipster fashion. Godspeed.
Rapture - Mar 2 2007
Finding Beauty in Brimstone
Portland Punks ‘The Termals’ Stand Strong Before the Apocalypse
I’d like to say something about the Rapture; no, not the fashionable dance punk band from New York City, but that end-of-days, burning apocalypse scenario upon which all good Christians ascend to heaven while the legions of unfaithful descend into the death and destruction of the Great Tribulation. Easy to confuse, I understand.
The Lenten season has begun in Christendom, my dear readers, and across the world millions of followers have undertaken vows of penance in preparation for Easter. This year, however, I cannot help but worry that, instead of forcing children to give up candy and soda pop for forty days, we should be helping them prepare for the increasingly imminent Final Judgment.
Just ask Shelby Corbitt, who was visited by God in 1986 and chosen as his messenger to ensure that the world is “Rapture Ready.” Her book, 2007, indicated that, yes, Jesus will return this summer to act as a “boarding ticket” for God’s children, with faith securing your “rapture reservation.” The rest are condemned to “suffer through horrific world-wide destruction.” This summer. Guess there’s no point enrolling in that fourth year History seminar this spring term.
While this may be bad news for the unfaithful, it is certainly good news for art lovers. Why? Well, if anything inspires artists, it’s the End of Days. Think of Albrecht Durer’s magnificent Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Michelangelo’s legendary Sistine Chapel fresco The Last Judgement, or Marcel Duchamp’s heart-wrenching Fountain. All are masterpieces; dark, gloomy, thoroughly depressing masterpieces
Come to think of it, Christianity has bestowed upon the art world a bit of a buzzkill for a muse. The Romans had Bacchus, and we get The Stoning of St. Stephen. I think it may be time for the church to put more emphasis on Jesus’ ability to turn water into wine. I guess it’s too late for that now.
With Shelly Corbitt’s warning and a renewed appreciation for evangelical Christian ideas of the apocalypse in the United States, it seems only logical that somewhere in the world young creatives will be mobilized by the inescapable feeling of looming death and destruction.
Sure enough, Portland, Oregon indie-punk trio The Thermals have released The Body, The Blood, and the Machine, a pounding, terrifying record of dystopic apocalyptic yearnings inspired by religious iconography and an Orwellian-tinged Christian future. It draws on a world teetering on the edge of fire and brimstone, and extracts from it some really, really catchy three-minute punk songs. It appears, my friends, that indie rock has become rapture ready.
Thermals singer/guitarist Hutch Harris bellows his songs with the same determination of Corbitt confronting the world with God’s message. Harris, however, seems less concerned with oncoming hellfire and more worried about the growing influence of people like Corbitt. In The Body, The Blood and the Machine, The Thermals take us into a Christian Fascist future, where concentration camps are filled with homosexuals and mothers who had performed abortions, where warmongering crusaders launch holy wars on the unfaithful, a time of “locusts, tornadoes, crosses and Nazi halos.”
The apocalypse Harris sings of is different from the one that inspired Michelangelo and Durer; his is one brought not by God’s fist but by man himself. Lyrics target the popularity of the Christian Right, demanding the creation of “the new master race, ‘cuz we’re so pure.” It is a carefully articulated critique of fundamentalism and the fact that “we’ve built too many walls.” The Thermals scream “We were born to sin!”, and somewhere in the world Shelly Corbitt faints in horror.
While it is true that the Vatican didn’t commission The Thermals record, one must not dismiss it simply as the demonic, gurgling excrement of the Antichrist. It is more important for its condemnation of extremism in all forms, its warning of the potential for human devolution that comes with radicalism.
At the very least, if Jesus does return this summer and The Thermals do fall into the deep, dark abyss, they’ll know that they left the world with a catchy, provocative and powerful record. What can you say of yourself? Are you Rapture Ready?
Close your eyes, dear readers, and think of the golden spires of 
