Australian poet and author Peter Nicholson writes 3QD’s Poetry and Culture column (see other columns here). There is an introduction to his work at peternicholson.com.au and at the NLA.

Following on from last month’s post concerning commitment, politics and poetry, here is a poem written in 1984 and first published in 1991. When this poem was written apartheid had not yet ended in South Africa and East Timor had not achieved independence.

       And The Winner Is . . .

Comrades, citizens,
What has the century brought?
Death’s-head conferences
Laying a brutal hand
Across five continents,
Slating thousands each day.

A résumé of the past
Is sad
For the failed progress of ideals
Means a slight chance for your hopes
And where is your charity then
If history brings bad faith?

After the Great War flung its mud
Over Passchendaele
Countless foreign fields
Bloomed with crimson poppies
And Versailles broke with echoes
Of a bankrupt mésalliance.

Then the will to power got out of hand
When Schicklgruber’s revenge
Ground poor Europe a second time over,
After the night of the hummingbird’s plunder.
At Nuremberg some got their deserts
But too many flew down to Rio

Where they savoured a pleasant surprise:
Model regimes,
Few at first, cruel to the last—
Latin America under the thumb;
Archbishop Romero killed at Mass,
Death squads copying feral attacks.

Midnight panic at oven doors
Revealed the shape of genocide.
Desperate pogroms led to this
With culture’s golden prize:
A hand which grabbed at air
In rictus.

Hammer and sickle, scars and stripes,
Tattered flags;
They flap in the patriotic breeze
Above crowds that parrot yes
For the Kremlin geriatrics
And White House apparatchiks.

Why was the President killed?
Don’t ask.
And what of Stalin’s heirs?
Quiet! Do you want the knock
Of the KGB on your door at dawn
Or the CIA under your bed?

Race was a badge for destruction—
Armenian, Palestinian;
You never saw the flies
Buzzing round piles of corpses
Or felt the colonel’s boot
Kick in your aching ribs.

Yet you lived in your ivory tower
Moralising for all,
Never lifted a finger to help
One amnestied soul from its hell;
People endured
As you read the editorials.

In a free state, accustomed
To the full belly,
How could the hungry mouth
Compare to those sensual lips
Which advertise at night
Remorseless appetites.

You still put faith in a party,
You haven’t learnt;
They’ll sell your ideals from under your feet,
If you’re in the way they’ll sell you.
Stop prancing through the haze
Of right wing journals and Left Bank cafés.

There’s one born every minute
Who thinks he’s found the way,
The truth, the eternal light
(It shines from his fundament),
And when there’s at least one hundred dead
He’ll know he’s got what it takes

To ban books written, ideas expressed—
Finis to that;
The mind which thinks, unbound
By the censor’s pride,
Is likely to find its face
Crushed by the secret police.

And what if I shout in the streets of Berlin
Ich bin ein Australier?
Will the Timorese greet me,
Tasmanians cheer me?
(I mean the original, those Aboriginal);
It’s funny, they don’t seem to answer.

The dust bowls on African plains
Where rhetoric declines
Sift down a mountain of flesh
To a giant bone which seeks
At the door of Marxist states
Its liberal opiate,

While the soul with its body
Tossed in the pit
Receives a furtive requiem
With Shostakovich, Mandelstam
And those who remember at dawn
The disappeared with grief.

It’s depressing to index the crimes
Of political minds;
Their red books and other vain manifestos
Are no good to those who wait at Soweto;
Throw in the towel with that mob
Or you’ll end up a friend of Pol Pot.

This political bird with trick wings,
A decoying duck,
Brute part of the Zeitgeist’s plan,
Should depart our red planet (it won’t),
Follow the path of the Caesars
And become a quark in the stars.

Should we mutter our prayers
In suburban peace,
Be blessed in our righteousness,
Or will the tortured hostage,
Head bent in the final prison,
Atone for fate’s derision?

Will the nuclear winter sweep us
Under radioactive snow
Or can all come to keep
Freedom’s unpolluted vows?
What has the century brought
Comrades, citizens?

After the night of the hummingbird’s plunder: a reference to the Night of the Long Knives, the Nazi SS putsch against the SA, codenamed Operation Hummingbird
Will the Timorese greet me, / Tasmanians cheer me? / (I mean the original, those Aboriginal): Indonesia annexed East Timor in 1976. There is disagreement as to why the Aboriginal population of Tasmania declined so precipitously during the nineteenth century.

Written 1984 Published 1991 A Temporary Grace 101–105

Elatia Harris

It’s a day to remember in Cornish, New Hampshire, at the Saint-Gaudens National Historic Site. The sky is the blue of stained glass at Chartres Cathedral, an impossible color too vivid to be entirely without edge. The sun is high, the shadows are deep, the birches silvery white. Mysteriously, though autumn has arrived 150 miles to the south, it feels like high summer here, with a breeze to take away the haze, not a yellow leaf in sight, and everywhere the scent of newly mown grass. Exactly one hundred years and one month ago, on a summer day possibly like this one, Augustus Saint-Gaudens, the dean of American sculptors, died at his Cornish home, Aspet, the Federalist house on a hill that was the hub of the artists’ colony he founded in 1885, and a nexus of American artistic and intellectual life for the next quarter of a century.

I am at Aspet to interview the New England-based muralist Holly Alderman about the installation she was commissioned to do at the site – an installation that was both a departure for her and the result of an investigation of digital space that she had begun several years earlier as a Fellow of the National Academy of Design in New York. In a much earlier life, I was a muralist, and have been fascinated by Holly Alderman’s murals, which can be seen in locations from Hollywood to Maine, for as long as I’ve been aware of them.  In an age of photo-realist painting, with muralists and their assistants tracing the contours of representational scenes projected onto a wall by an opaque projector, Alderman draws and paints using free-hand perspective, for compositions in which the eye travels far into deep background or architectural space. Trust me on this one – it’s a highly unusual way to work, and you not only see but feel the difference between an original mural painted in perspective and one that is a perspective rendition from a photographic source. I was astonished, then, when Alderman set out to discover what digital space had to offer her as a painter, and what, as a painter, she might bring with her across the digital divide. For an artist who liked to climb up on huge scaffoldings and paint her own murals as well as design them, how was this going to work?

The Saint-Gaudens National Historic Site is the natural location to debut the new work, which is suffused with the spirit of classicism, a spirit that has spoken deeply to Alderman for many years, as followers of her perspective murals know.  Augustus Saint-Gaudens (1848-1907) was the pivotal figure of the “American Renaissance,” which historians of art and architecture place between the late 1870’s and the beginning of the First World War. In a conversation about the Alderman installation, Russell Bastedo, a historian and the official curator of the State of New Hampshire, pointed out to me the tremendous optimism of the post-Civil War era, founded on an exhilarating fact – that the Republic, having come so close to destruction within only 70 years of its founding, was not, after all, sundered, was instead on the verge of becoming a great world power. According to Bastedo, the affinity for the classical style in architecture and all the arts was especially keen in these years, when Americans saw themselves as the heirs to Greek democracy and wanted their public spaces to look the part.  “Expansion was an optimistic process,” Bastedo told me. “And the technology making it possible to push back the frontier was deeply thrilling to the public. The style that best expressed this was classicism. Nobody would have put it this way, but the ergonomics were right.”

Augustus Saint-Gaudens, whose work embodied the classical spirit, rose to fame on his Civil War commemorative sculptures, most notably the monumental bronze bas-relief memorial to Colonel Robert Gould Shaw and his regiment of black Union soldiers, the labor of nearly 15 years. Unveiled to the Boston public in 1897, the naturalism of the figures and the dignity they achieved without appearing posed were ravishing to those at the new century’s edge. On the strength of this and other great commissions, President Teddy Roosevelt chose Saint-Gaudens to redesign the national currency, producing the high point of American numismatic art – the double eagle $20 gold piece. Towards the end of his rather short life – he died in his 50’s, having been ill with cancer for many years – Saint Gaudens took on Abraham Lincoln, creating for Lincoln Park in Chicago the brooding but kindly image with head inclined and eyes cast down that most Americans think of when they visualize the nation’s greatest hero.  Had he lived, the monumental sculpture in the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC, would have been his, for he had the commission.  Instead, it was done with his blessings, and very much in his style, by his friend and colleague, Daniel Chester French.

Aspet and, a few hundred yards away, Saint-Gaudens’s studio with its clerestory windows and trellised porticoes, pay homage to a life filled to bursting with work that was acclaimed throughout the land, with distinguished and loving friends. In this, his centenary year, many prestigious conferences are taking place to commemorate and look anew at his life and work. Perhaps, contemplating this era that can seem to belong to a much deeper past, an art lover might not be blamed for pondering: what happened? For a bare century ago, the mission of a great artist was to create beauty that every citizen would recognize as beauty, art that met a standard of excellence universally agreed on, that stirred patriotism and optimism, inspiring men to virtue, bringing them to their knees in recognition of the power wielded by beauty, pathos and heroism. To enter the radiant world of Saint-Gaudens, where even the weather is too beautiful be real, to wander among white fluted columns, fragrant lawns, fountains and birch lanes is — most curiously — to think about Modernism, to which the very naturalness people found and responded whole-heartedly to in Saint-Gaudens was a prelude. The classical ideal encompasses a certain large amount of naturalness, although we rarely think of it that way, and though it is a distance, it’s no great distance from there to the immediacy and intimacy found in the figural work of the early European modernists. Anyone in the mood for thinking it all through could hardly do better than to spend a day as I did in Cornish.

Does art with the sheer eye appeal of classicism have meaning not only within the culture that produces it but across cultures? That might depend on whether beauty and order are able to reach us through the “felt axis” posited by Gestalt psychologists, on whether certain proportions and geometries create in us a sense of harmony that is physiologically based. Proponents of the classical style would say that was exactly the case, that shorn of its European “high culture” associations, classicism pleases on a simpler basis – even in an irony-besotted era not so interested in being pleased by its art, compelled more by consumer culture than by high culture. Preparing to go to Saint-Gaudens for the Alderman installation, I spoke with the art historian and Egyptologist Diana Wolfe Larkin about the tension in mid-19th century Europe between classicism and romanticism that prompted so much side taking. From this distance, Larkin remarked, many seemingly contradictory tendencies – represented, for instance, by the painters Ingres and Delacroix – appear reconciled, like two sides of the same coin, so that it is possible to discern a classicizing spirit in a romantic painter, and vice versa. “There will always be a place for classicism,” Dr. Annette Blaugrund, director of the National Academy Museum and School of Fine Arts in New York told me — classicism running as a current through other movements in art, its keynotes a dynamic symmetry and a balance reflecting order, not stasis.

Holly Alderman is inspired not only by the spirit of classicism but also by a long-time interest in synergetics to pursue an ideal of beauty with origins, like all such ideals, in an earlier era.  This is no retreat from our own time, however, for she is passionate and knowledgeable about the modern and post-modern in art, committed to conceptualizing new forms that can arise only from the present. Although she is far from exalting technique over the interiority of a work of art, in her life as a muralist, she has been a ceaseless technical innovator, experimenting with materials to increase the durability of her murals, and, as a printmaker, printing on unconventional substrates from silk to acetate. In the 1980’s, she chaired the Design Science Group, bringing together MIT and Harvard scientists, mathematicians, architects, writers, artists, film makers, dancers and students for a symposium on the materials, media and creative methods used to explore and teach the science of design. Entering digital space to compose there, and developing a way to print on sheer satin for a transparent output are in character for this artist both highly comfortable with new technologies and profoundly reluctant to harness them either as a shortcut to an appearance of old-fashioned skill or a substitute for originality. In a wide-ranging conversation, she and I talked about crossing the digital divide, about site-specific environmental art, about unique materials that express an artistic vision, and about the inspirations for it all.

EH: What did it feel like to put away your paints for a summer, head to New York and explore cyberspace as a painter?

HA: Wild and free! I had a fellowship at the National Academy Museum to work on very large-scale murals in a program about revitalizing mural painting in the U.S. Cyberspace was a revelation, not an intention. The work I started out to do felt a lot like preparing for painting because I was thinking like a painter, trolling the city – especially Central Park — with my new digital camera for images that might be digitally manipulated by me, but which I believed would take their final form in paint.  I actually spent lots of time sketching with a pencil, and Xeroxing historic picture research.  I redesigned three locations including the neo-classical dining room of the National Academy townhouse on Fifth Avenue, with panel murals composed in digital space.  I’d kind of begun wondering what it would be like to paint something that came from the process of image capture, not from drawing… Then I had a moment of hyper-clarity – about not painting it because it really didn’t need to be painted.

EH: What was this “it” that didn’t need to be painted?

HA: Nine composite images built of smaller ones from around Central Park, which I had created with the idea of scaling up to paint on 11-foot panels. Like you see in the maquette. The most familiar figures in it are the traffic signal – the silhouette dotted in light that blinks on to tell pedestrians to cross the street – juxtaposed with the falconer statue from Central Park. These became iconic to me. They arose from digital space and they lived there – I was extremely surprised and intrigued with how they looked on the monitor, and wondered how I would paint them.  Then I wondered — why would I paint them?  It would have been almost like killing and stuffing them.

EH: Quite a moment for a painter…

HA: It was.  On a personal discovery scale, it was like Columbus making landfall or Fermi engineering the first atomic chain reaction.

EH: Were the other Fellows experiencing something similar?  What about the teacher?

HA: People were inspired to all kinds of insights – it was a heady time.  We had a fantastic leader, the painter Grace Graupe-Pillard. Most of the time in design, using a computer is a way to save yourself some wear and tear by making it very simple to try out something new without destroying what you’ve already done.  My father and grandfather were architects who drafted with pencil on paper and before that with crow quill pen on starched linen, on the same drafting board I used until about two years ago, when I left it behind for digital space.  My father the modernist actually made perfect drawings with a pencil every time, and found CAD absurd. When you’re doing mural design, you appreciate the efficiency of composing with whole images, and not having to sketch every detail from scratch to do that. But in making art, you’re much more sensitive to the process itself and what its potential is, so you stop and look at what is in the moment, and set aside preconceived ideas. At least, that’s what I do. My biggest preconceived notion was that I was at the Academy for a summer of enlightenment that would result in new visions for painted murals. That’s just not what happened there. I think I bring with me wherever I go the processes of an artist – one who lives to invent, not to streamline.  I always feel the pull of terra incognita very strongly, and the first thing I want to do is explore it, not bend it to my will.

EH: That comes later…

HA: Oh, yes. It certainly does.

EH: When you realized you were entering a world that might not lead you back to painting on walls – that sounds very difficult.  Was it?

HA: It was very exciting. I knew I was starting on a period of form-finding, and that’s always a great feeling. One day, crossing Columbus Avenue and heading towards the Academy, I realized I was ecstatic about art – as happy as I had been in college.  I was inventing. What especially struck me about digital space were the layers and scale and transparency. I’ve been working with illusions of depth for a long time – nearly all muralists do – and there’s a way to simulate depth in architectural space with a computer program.  But that wouldn’t work for me, since it’s the sort of thing I greatly prefer to finesse by hand for blends and effects. What is really fascinating is how you achieve a feeling of fluidity and depth by layering transparent images that you’ve captured.  This isn’t about speed or efficiency, and it’s very freeing.  I think it’s one of the great gifts of technology to artists because it’s a new metaphor for layers of memory, in a way not comparable with composite images that are not transparent.  For example, I find one image showing with tremendous clarity in the shadow of another – something that has obsessed painters since Pontormo, nearly 500 years ago.

EH: Yet none of this you wanted to take, as a painter, and run with.  What were you thinking about outputting it?

HA: I’ve always thought of myself as an environmental artist who creates many different kinds of environments, and for most of the hours we spend, walls do form our environment. It’s true, I didn’t want to paint onto walls what I created in digital space, yet I badly wanted to see it out in our environment. Inventing how to do that was my new big and daunting challenge. What I was looking for was a fluid support for a fluid medium – a flexible, transparent substrate that would be an analog for the luminosity of the monitor.  This needed to be a fabric – one that could suggest either an enclosure or a window.

EH: This sounds like a big departure in working methods.

HA:  Totally!  It meant a deeper inquiry into materials and techniques than is normal even for me, and I like to experiment. But it was a conceptual shift, too.  I moved my digital studio out of doors to help push that along. There’s a convention in Roman fresco painting that fascinates me. They would paint the walls of a room that gave onto a garden with a view of the very same garden. Or, was the painting on the walls the prototype for the garden? There was an intimate back and forth with gardens and landscape that I was interested in. So when I moved my digital studio outside, right into my garden and in sight of Mt. Monadnock, I started thinking of digital output as both window and wall, and I also started thinking of environmental art as imagery that could be transparently integrated into landscape.

EH: You mounted your first output as big silk banners.  What about printing them? I can’t imagine…

HA:  It’s like printing on air.  That is, that’s the idea.  But for a long time there were technical difficulties — to say the least – in creating that effect. Then my sister Mary Lord, a digital photographer, told me about a genius of a printmaker, Dan Saccardo, and together we started to print my transparent, layered images onto a transparent substrate. It was very important to me that the banners have a surface that would hold color and bounce light back, yet allow light to filter through from behind, too.  The luminosity of the monitor held such an attraction for me – I wanted to hold onto it. So finding the right fabric was a thrilling adventure!  As well as looking right, the fabric had to stand up to the weather.  And so did the ink.  Finally we had a banner that you could hang outside in a rainstorm and let dry in the sun.  Environmental art really has to perform that way. My banners survive giant hailstones and hurricane conditions.

EH: Your palette is so remarkable and intense to find on something so sheer. What was it like changing over to a digital palette?

HA: Like painting with veils of color. I use entire photographs as glazes. Since there are colors you can blend in digital space that you’ll never see in nature or in output, getting the intensity I desire for the images to fuse yet remain clearly recognizable is a patient and delicate process. I love color, and I want to use the palette of nature for works that integrate with nature. And to have presence when backlit by the sun, the banners need highly saturated colors. Color is key to emotional intensity, too. Discovering the right materials and techniques is an adventure in the service of a vision, not a goal in itself. You’re going for an emotional effect, after all.  And an environmental art installation that had only a cerebral appeal would be…oh, empty, for me.

EH: Is that a romantic idea?

HA: Well, maybe it’s romantic by way of classicism. The ravishing, ecstatic relation to nature is a romantic idea – I so relate to that. You sense it in the works of Caspar David Friedrich, who had an amazing way of combining the colors of glaciers and snow with bright colors. But classicism isn’t all about restraint and white and gray marble. It’s also about a feeling of vibrancy and optimism – qualities that are well within the ability of line and form and color to communicate, and that have a re-invigorating effect on people. The archetypes from classical mythology are still very much with us, so much that it’s quite normal for us to recognize them instantly.  So these are powerful images to conjure with, and they have a 2000-year long association with gardens. Classicism is found in a certain touch of civilization on nature — the very light restraining hand that makes the difference between nature and a garden. Although sometimes you do have to detach from a lot of bank architecture to see it that way.

EH: Was it this feeling for the classical style what attracted you to Saint-Gaudens?

HA: Well, my art studio is in southern New Hampshire, where Saint-Gaudens is not just the pre-eminent America sculptor of all time, but a familiar and beloved hero. Saint-Gaudens home in Cornish is the only national historic site in the state. Cornish was an artists’ colony from the time Saint-Gaudens made it his summer home in the mid-1880’s, and it was on the cultural map for visits from many distinguished Americans in the New York, Boston and Washington, DC world of arts and letters.  There were receptions and studio concerts in the summer. Saint-Gaudens created a huge amount of work while being very social and hospitable – he was an awesome genius! As his health worsened, he came to live here fulltime, and remained productive as an artist until the very last few weeks of his life.  He was the son of a shoemaker, born in Ireland, and he had no great education to start with. Yet he lived in and died in this miraculous place, where as you see, there really is something special about the atmosphere, and created a body of work that is profoundly revealing of the American experience.  For all my love of modern art, I can’t imagine who wouldn’t be inspired by this.  I started making photographs here last summer and fall, more than a year before I was invited by the Saint-Gaudens Memorial to produce a special exhibition. I was appropriating Saint-Gaudens and the Saint-Gaudens National Historic Site as my subject, you could say.

EH: It’s a huge installation, isn’t it? The banners are all over the site.  I like the way they move in the breeze.

HA: There are 40 banners here, the biggest ones about 4 by 6 feet. That they have motion from unseen forces is very important to me because it simulates the fluidity of images in digital space. And it adds to their memory dimension, because memory is fleeting – not the same if you look twice.  Also, the banners are soft, not static like a painted wall, and they should respond to changes in light and atmospheric pressure.

EH: I was talking with Diana Wolfe Larkin [art historian at Mt. Holyoke College] about this work, just to get an art historical perspective on an installation that is site-specific in an historic site. She called the banners a study in how to bring memory into art, and said that looking at each one was like looking through time and accumulated memory.

HA: Oh!  Yes, I’ll take that — thanks, Diana!

EH: She also said you were in unashamed, unabashed pursuit of beauty – although she told me it was possible to get into trouble using words like “lyrical” and “beautiful.”

HA: Yes, beauty is crucial – even magical or mystical — to me.  The banners are murals of cyberspace, and cyberspace is very beautiful even just to think about, as the place where so many impossible connections are possible. Here, outdoors in natural light, we see complex images only possible in cyberspace.

EH: Does beauty create its own mood? Is it about a certain mood?

HA: Well, it’s uplifting.  It almost can’t help but be.  And we all know there’s a lot of wonderful art that isn’t uplifting. I read that Brice Marden, whose abstract paintings are so very beautiful, shied away from the word beauty in favor of the term enhancement. But I love the eternal depth of meaning, the aspiration, discipline and courage involved in trying to reach the perception of an aesthetic deliverance – call it beauty.  It’s beyond self-expression, but it’s self-expression too. And the very search for it creates a certain vibrant mood that is artistically sustaining to me. For this body of work, the search came from the classical spirit – it’s pervasive here, as anyone can see, as well as a good fit for me.  But this is a site-specific installation, and it brought out in me a highly specific response.   Any image I create, whatever it may look like, will be created purely for aesthetic adventure, to invent and discover new ways of seeing unique in our time.

EH: Is that the way it is when you’re painting, too?

HA: Totally the way it is.  But, you know, cyberspace has changed everything, and presented us all with the imperative to forge a new aesthetic.

See Holly Alderman’s installation through October 31st, 2007, at the Saint-Gaudens National Historic Site in Cornish, NH. Visit www.sgnhs.org for hours and directions.

RESOURCES FOR THIS ARTICLE

Holly Alderman

http://AldermanSaintGaudens.com/

http://MonadnockPhoto.com

Augustus Saint-Gaudens

http://www.sgnhs.org/

http://www.metmuseum.org/TOAH/HD/astg/hd_astg.htm

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Augustus_Saint-Gaudens

http://americanart.si.edu/education/fellows_interns/2007_symposium/index.cfm

http://hoodmuseum.dartmouth.edu/calendar/calendarextra.html

There are two kinds of people: there are the kooky kind who will spend $4,000 on dialysis for their cat whose kidneys are failing (substitute some significant expenditure of resources for individuals in differing financial circumstances—you know what I mean), even if only to extend its life briefly; and then there are the kind who will make fun of the former (or even regard them with moral disapproval—that money could have been used for better purposes, etcetera). Recent events surprised me by showing that I belong in the first category. And now that I know I belong there, I am going to attempt an explanation or at least hazard a conjecture, a speculation, a plain guess, at what puts some people there.

But first let me tell what happened: my wife Margit and our cat Freddy (about whom I have written before here) left New York City to take up residence in the northern Italian alps at the beginning of September. My wife is from that lovely German-speaking area known as the South Tyrol and is now teaching English there, and I will be joining her quite soon for an indefinite duration.

Freddy is a young cat with a unique personality of great beauty, and we went to some lengths to try and make the journey as stress-free for her as possible, buying her an expensive soft mesh carrier and a “cat ticket” so she could travel in the aircraft cabin with Margit rather than be scared alone in the cargo hold. It is a long trip even for humans, including a 4-hour drive at the end.

While Freddy did okay on the trip itself, she stopped eating soon after arriving there. After a day or so of this, Margit noticed that she regurgitated a piece of a thick string toy that she usually likes to just play with. Thinking she may have swallowed more of it from the stress of being in a new environment (cats are very territorial and do not like moving houses) she took her to a vet, who X-rayed Freddy and thought that she saw something blocking her intestines. Surgery was scheduled for the next morning.

Upon cutting her open, the vet found nothing inside. At this point, the diagnosis was changed to something called Feline Adipose Liver, which is something that cats can get by not eating from stress. If caught early enough, most cats can be made to survive this condition by being force fed by mouth as well as by injection for a few days or sometimes weeks. This regimen was started immediately, causing great difficulties for Margit who had started her own stress-inducing new job the day after arriving in Italy, and who kept having to take time off to attend to the cat and her many appointments at the vet’s. Still, we talked about it, and I told her that even if she has to quit her job she should do so to try and save Freddy’s life, and we also agreed that whatever material resources we have would be expended for any reasonable chance of making Freddy feel better. But she got worse.

Her eyes glazed over, she could not move with ease and hardly did, her breathing became labored and loud, and it became clear that she was dying. At this point, Margit was told that the vet she had been seeing was not the most reliable, and was known for operating unnecessarily on animals just to charge the large fees that such surgeries entail. Trust me, you cannot imagine my rage at this thought.

Now, after much research, Freddy was taken to a different vet, who criticized the first one for not having performed a standard series of blood tests to rule out common feline ailments, and when these tests were finally administered, the news was shocking: Freddy’s blood came back positive for Feline Infectious Peritonitis, an incurable viral disease (related to the human SARS virus) which quickly kills cats in a most painful way, causing them to lose their eyesight, and their organs to fail rapidly one by one. She already had many of the symptoms of the disease, especially the labored breathing which is typical of FIP. She was in pain and the vet recommended that she be brought in the next day at noon (a week ago Saturday) to be killed by lethal injection, sparing her (and, of course, Margit) a slightly more drawn out death of terrible suffering and agony. I spoke to Margit on Friday night and tried as best as I could to steel her for this duty and then canceled all posting at 3QD for that Saturday in a private act of mourning. Since the day I started 3QD more than three years ago, we had never had a day without any posts until then. (Did you notice?) And then I felt dejected and disconsolate, even desperate.

Since that time, I have thought a bit about my own reactions which, as I mentioned above, surprised and even embarrassed me. It is obvious that different people feel various degrees of affection for their pets. This can depend upon the type of pet (very few people, I imagine, are capable of feeling very strongly about a goldfish, or a snake, or even a hamster), how much time you have spent with the pet, the nature of your interaction with the pet (how much you play with the pet, whether the pet sleeps with you, how much time you are alone interacting with the pet, whether it is the only pet in the home), and so on. And, of course, it depends upon the type of person you are, and how much empathy you have for other creatures. Now I am not a cat-lover in general. Other people’s cats do not evoke much affection from me and just bore me, and I am mostly indifferent to many animals. (I am also a meat eater, so clearly the slaughter of animals for my consumption has never been much of an ethical problem for me.) So why this reaction, which I might have laughed at in someone else?

Here’s what I think: while you can have various degrees of affection for pets, there is a quantum leap that you can make (and this is a Rubicon that cannot be uncrossed): if in your own psychological representation of your pet, you habitually grant them personhood, then there is no choice but to treat them as you would a person because different parts of your mind which specialize in generating the emotions which allow you to interact with (and love) other humans come into play, and these are irresistible impulses. You might as well try to not care about your children. I believe that some animals, like cats and dogs, have through their long histories of living in people’s homes as pets (more than 10,000 years in the case of cats), been naturally selected to encourage human empathy. Imagine what a survival advantage it is to the household cat that its young behave in such ways and make such tiny, vulnerable (to the human ear) sounds that it takes a particularly monstrous human to harm a kitten. Similarly, they have, I think “learned” (even if they do not have the equivalent emotion–after all, just as I don’t know what it is like to be a bat, I don’t know what it is like to be a cat either) to express emotions that move us and encourage us to conceive of them as persons. I can recognize fine distinctions, I imagine, in Freddy. She appears very much an adolescent (which she is): pouty, moody, angry, playful, lazy, affectionate, awkwardly sexy, etc., in turn. The fact that I work from my apartment and therefore have spent most of my waking days around Freddy since she was even younger doesn’t hurt that I have developed a very fine-grained sense of her moods and feelings. And it doesn’t hurt that Freddy has a bizarrely human and intelligent personality either. She likes to constantly imitate me in a million ways, lying down in a very unnatural (for a cat) position on her back next to me in bed, with her head on the pillow next to mine. Or look at this photograph in which she is copying my pose almost exactly (I am lounging on the other corner of the same sofa with my spread-eagled legs on a table) which shocked Margit so much that she captured Freddy with a camera:

Freddy is an indoor cat and I felt bad that she does not have as much stimulation as she should, so I bought some DVDs made for cats to watch on a High Definition TV. These show birds, insects, mice, etc. Freddy loves to watch, and does so with attentiveness and excitement. Don’t believe it? Check her out:

The objection that one should not waste ones money on things like cats is spurious and basically silly. I am not objecting to someone spending $20,000 on a cruise to the Antarctic, or a set of bigger breasts, or whatever. Is their travel or vacation or how their breasts look so important that they couldn’t spend the money saving childrens’ lives in Africa with it instead? This is crazy and would make it immoral for any human to live a life better than ANY other human on Earth. I’m not stealing the money, after all, I can spend it any way I like! Some might say that since cats have no sense of their future (hopes and dreams for it, for example) and they have no sense of their own mortality, it is not worth it to try and save their lives. Try telling that to the parent of a one-year old child, who also doesn’t have these things! Oh, I’ll stop there with my defensiveness. Ich kann nicht anders.

So what happened to Freddy? As Friday night wore on I became more agitated. I read on wikipedia that 19 out of 20 cats who have FIP will die. And then in the middle of the night here in New York, and only a couple of hours before Freddy’s appointment with eternal sleep, I called Margit and we agreed that there was no reason to rush this. I said that she is such an unusual cat in so many ways, maybe she will be that twentieth cat! We convinced ourselves that she would be. And we decided to let her suffer and die at home and to suffer along with her, rather than kill her.

With Margit’s constant and attentive care, a day later she started eating again, and for the last four or five days, Freddy has been COMPLETELY normal, running up and down the stairs, playing with her ball, eating with gusto, sleeping well, breathing completely normally, and making friends with other humans. And I have my hopes.

This post is dedicated to Ruchira Paul.

All my previous Monday Musings can be seen here.

Have a good week!

Michael Blim

“What has that got to do with the price of wheat in Russia?” This was my father’s way of saying that an argument had nothing to do with his.

So too says the Federal Reserve and the financial community, except they ask the question in reverse: What does the price of wheat in Russia have to do with inflation? According to them, nothing. Nor do the prices for all food, gasoline, natural gas, and heating oil count. None of their price rises or falls, they believe, are relevant to measuring real inflation. They are excluded from “the core rate” of inflation, the index of price rises that is the gold standard central bankers use to raise or lower the interest rates on money. They set the prime interest rate that is the benchmark for all other interest rates, from passbook and money fund savings rates, to house mortgages, car loans, credit card debt, and anything else you owe on.

In contrast, “headline inflation” measures the rise in the prices of all that we consume. It is about the wheat in Russia, and how their wheat, our wheat, and the rest of the world’s wheat is worth over twice what it was worth 10 years ago, and 50% again over the course of the last year. That’s headline inflation. Its rise worries some economists, but it is not currently the stuff of policy.

Unfortunately, it turns out that as Russian wheat goes and the world’s wheat goes for that matter, so go the rest of our food costs. World corn prices are a third higher than 10 years ago, and have jumped and another 60% in the last year. The world price of soybeans has increased 30% over the last ten years, but is expected to jump another 30% within the space of this year. “Food prices,” said The Financial Times on May 27, “are heading for their biggest annual increase in as much as thirty years.“

The costs of feeding a family, driving a car, and heating a house in the US are also going up. Like food, they are running well above the core inflation rate of 2% between August 2006 and August 2007. Crude oil at last week’s $80 quote is running 18% higher than last year, and a gallon of gas last week cost $2.78. Natural gas is up 5%, and heating oil 5.8% over last year, according to the September 11 report of the federal government’s Energy Information Administration. Perhaps this Sunday’s Boston Globe’s business lead story banner says it best: “Cold Comfort: Winter is coming, oil prices are at a record high, and you haven’t locked in a price.” The cost of home heating oil this winter at $2.67 a gallon is 60% higher than a decade ago.

Is anything cheaper for Main Street Americans? Not medical care, crossing over once more to double-digits this year. Houses are, and ex-Fed guru Alan Greenspan forecasts further price declines. Though usually good news for buyers, this time it is not clear whether banks and mortgage brokers will lend people money at a rate they can afford or lend at all. And if fewer people buy first homes, rents may go up.

We’ve got it bad, and that ain’t good. But as usual, poor people here and abroad have it worse. Poor people in the US spend more of their income on food. Though the majority receives food stamps, large increases in food costs hit them harder and can run ahead of new food stamp funding increases. Though the average American spends just 3.6% of after tax income on gas, people in the lowest income bracket in 2005 spent 9% of their after-tax income on gas. The more one spends on life’s basic necessities – those items not included in the core inflation index – the more vulnerable one is to inflation as a whole.

Abroad the poor are even more vulnerable. The average Mexican, for instance, spends 26% of disposable income on food. Ten days ago, after the cost of tortillas had shot up almost 30% almost overnight, the Mexican government imposed a price freeze. Given the record world demand for corn, the action may only marginally affect the tortilla price while lowering the supply of corn available to Mexican consumers. People in poor countries spend up to 65% of their income on food. Though poor farmers can in theory protect themselves from food deprivation by planting crops for household consumption, the prices for seed and fertilizer rising with food inflation. And this year marks the first time in human history that the majority of the world’s population lives in cities. No maize plots for them.

People around the globe are served by the same markets for food and fuel and also have begun to experience the worst of both worlds: rising prices and diminishing supplies. Worldwide, wholesale food prices have increased 21% thus far this year. The Forbes September 20 issue reports that even as world wheat prices are at historical levels, wheat stocks are the lowest in 33 years. Though a predictable effect of supply and demand, its consequences are both worrying and dangerous. Food price inflation in India is running in the double digits and nearly so in China. The new middle classes of these two industrializing giants, a fraction of their combined 2 plus billion population, can doubtless afford to pay more for food, but the poor masses behind them are much more vulnerable to food insecurity.

Economists discount headline inflation precisely because food and fuel are volatile commodities. Bad weather, wars, and pestilence, among other things, create too much uncertainty for standard economic equations. The Fed, bankers, and most economists prefer the core inflation index because its curve is more gentle, its movements more predictable – all the better for figuring out how to make money from one quarter to the next, and from one year to another.

All well and good for them. But what happens to the rest of us when faced by an inflationary tide surging beyond their sacral standard? The US headline inflation rate has outpaced the core inflation rate every year since 2002. An economist for the Deutsche Bank reported to The Financial Times on May 24 that “there is growing concern within the food industry that the present upswing in soft commodity prices is structural rather than cyclical.” What about fuel prices declining significantly? I wouldn’t bet on it. Whether caused on the one hand by trends such as population growth, increasing affluence in formerly poor countries, or the current corn into ethanol craze, or on the other hand by accidents and acts of god, inflation itself is becoming a trend that is being built into the basic cost of living.

This is not good news for anyone. The Mister Moneybags of the world, as Marx caricatured capitalists, will see their real capital shrink, and their loans repaid by debtors proffering devalued dollars, Euros, renminbi, or yen. But debtors beware: if incomes continue to stagnate, or if they decline relative to inflation, your temporary advantage is lost. Interest rates will tick up, outrunning by Federal Reserve intent the inflation rate. Any debt you hold, if you haven’t locked in the interest rate via a contract, will become more expensive still.

And then, you might agree that the core inflation rate, while good for bankers, is a mighty thin and risky reed upon which to support the economic well being of the billions of people on the world’s Main Streets, whose cost of living and economic vulnerability, though overlooked by the Wall Streets of the world, is growing day by day.