In each of my books there’s an About the Author page. The current version says this:
Nassau Hedron is a writer, editor, and artist.
He is partial to malls, hotels, airports, and other man-made environments.
He loves exotic food, disposable goods, and shiny objects.
He prefers bright colors to subdued ones, passion to equanimity, and directness to subtlety.
He reveres, in no particular order: Vincent Price (actor, icon, gourmand), Salvador Dali (painter, human exhibit), Andy Warhol (painter, partyologist), Franco Mondini-Ruiz (installationist, magician), Kenzaburō Ōe and Kōbō Abe (novelists and madmen – the first won the Nobel Prize and the second ought to have), Ray Kurzweil (scientist, prophet), Tadanori Yokoo (poster artist, alien), and Jack Johnson (heavyweight boxing champion and maximum disturber of the peace).
In the ebooks there isn’t really room to expand on the contents of this capsule description of some of the people and things that preoccupy me, so I’m going to do that here. This is a work-in-progress, though, so be sure to come back from time to time and see what’s new.
Franco Mondini-Ruiz (installationist, magician)
I first encountered the art of Franco Mondini-Ruiz in 2002 in a show called Ultrabaroque: Aspects of Post-Latin American Art at the Art Gallery of Ontario in Toronto.
I loved the exhibition and bought a copy of the program, which has survived periodic culls of my bookshelves and which I’ve lugged with me from one country to another to this day. My copy cost me about $40.00 at the time of the show, but you can now get it on Amazon, new, for about $5.00 (and even cheaper for a used copy).
I was taken with Mondini-Ruiz’s art from the moment I saw it and it stood out even in a show that included a lot of standout artists.
His work was lighthearted, even cartoonish, without being vapid. It was bright and colorful — I’m a chromophile — without sacrificing depth. It played with everyday objects and images, but it imbued them with a unique spirit (and, on the scale of the gallery, even with grandeur) without ever making them remote or untouchable in the way that snobbish art can do to an otherwise charming object.
Franco Mondini-Ruiz Interview I
Franco Mondini-Ruiz Interview II
Franco Mondini-Ruiz — His Garden
Kōbō Abe (Nobel Laureate Manqué)
Japanese novelist, playwright, and provocateur Kōbō Abe (or Abe Kōbō, in the Japanese format) holds a very special place in my heart and my library.
Abe may be my favorite author of all. I normally accumulate books to read, not as fetishistic collectors items, but I do own a first American edition of every one of his books (at least all the ones that have been translated into English). Moreover, when I moved from Canada to Brazil and had to dispense with virtually my entire library of non-digital books, when space to bring anything with me was at a critical premium, those volumes were among the few dead tree books that made the trip.
Abe was the de facto head of a group of radical young artists–including writers, painters, architects, and filmmakers–called The Century Club, formed in the new freedom that came with the end of the American post-war occupation of Japan. He was a close friend and collaborator of another member Hiroshi Teshigahara (son of Sōfu Teshigahara, the legendary founder of the Sogetsu School of Ikebana).
Teshigahara made films from two of Abe’s novels, The Woman in the Dunes (book, film) and The Face of Another (book, film). The movie of The Woman in the Dunes won the Special Jury Prize at the 1964 Cannes Film Festival and was nominated for the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film, with Teshigahara nominated for Best Director.
Abe’s writing is jarringly different from the kind of realistic, autobiographical writing that was common amongst Japanese authors of his generation. His writing has a magic realist flavor, often blending a notably fantastical element into an otherwise naturalistic narrative.
His works also tend to feature a prominent metaphorical construction or symbolic element.
In The Woman in the Dunes, a man who is wandering some dunes collecting insects is forced by some villagers into a sandy pit in the dunes from which he can’t extract himself. A widow lives there in the pit, spending her time endlessly digging up sand, which she passes to the villagers above to be sold, and the digging simultaneously saves her house, which is under constant threat of being buried. At first the protagonist tries to escape, but eventually he comes to make a life with the widow and to dedicate himself to the only task that’s open to him: the Sisyphean task of digging away the sand. Among other interpretations: he is like any of us, jostled by circumstance into a particular relationship with a particular person (when he might just as easily have ended up with someone else), and into a trade that seems pointless but in which he engages nonetheless, ultimately making his peace with both.
In The Face of Another, a man whose face has been badly burned is given a new, artificial face, modeled on the face of another man. He’s warned that wearing another person’s face might alter his identity, as indeed it does, with his physical alteration impinging on his inner self. Again, this might relate to any of us: the mask of public identity that we wear for the benefit of others alters and distorts our internal identity.
This is the kind of big, broad metaphor that’s easy to do badly, and for that reason is sometimes scorned, particularly by literary snobs. But just because something is obvious, and easy for a mediocre artist to screw up, doesn’t mean the thing itself is intrinsically flawed.
Just because talentless artists and as-yet-unskilled novices are instinctively drawn to paint faces doesn’t make portraiture any less valid an artistic endeavor. The Mona Lisa and Francis Bacon’s studies for portraits of Lucien Freud (1965 version, 1967 version) are just a couple of examples of a trite form being executed by a master.
When this big-metaphor approach finds its fullest expression, it results in works that have a particular kind of genius: bold and arresting. It’s the kind of effect achieved by Kafka (The Metamorphosis: guy wakes up an insect in a metaphor for alienation), Conrad (Heart of Darkness: guy voyages up a river into the heart of a wild continent while also journeying into the heart of man’s own darkness), or for that matter, David Cronenberg (The Brood: a woman gives literal, fleshy birth to her inner demons).
Abe is one of those who does it best–he is at the Kafka end of the scale.
But don’t take my word for it. Kenzaburō Ōe, who won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1994, has said that Abe ought to have won it as well, and he’s a pretty discerning guy.
Kōbō Abe is someone I return to over and over, and likely this reflection on him will likewise be something ongoing.
For those of you who aren’t yet familiar with Abe, this should be enough to get you started. For those of you who are, or who read this and find that you’re interested in him, you might want to check back or subscribe to the blog, since I’ll almost certainly add to his entry on the Revered page in the future.
- The Scriptorium has an excellent page on Abe, including links to essays on his work.
- The Horogai page also has a great Abe page with links to some fascinating material, inlcuding a detailed interview with his daughter and biographer, Abe Neri.
- iBiblio has a wonderful Abe page, including a link to a very details timeline of his life.
- The now defunked Litweb.net had a decent page on Abe which you can still read courtesy of The Wayback Machine.
- Roger Ebert is, as usual, pithy and interesting in his review of The Woman in the Dunes.
You can watch an excellent, short documentary on Teshigahara the filmmaker and his buddy Abe the writer in three installments, below. (Be sure to turn on the “captions”on YouTube since some of the interviews are in Japanese–it’s the little red rectangle in the cluster of controls at the bottom right of the screen.)