Chantal Tseng

Chantal Tseng

by Chantal Tseng

Not-so-casual Xenophobia, Klexos, & Leonard / Leonardo obscura

Did you know that there is a word for the art and nuance of dwelling in the past? Just learned it. I’m totally mesmerized. Lose yourself here: klexos.

Consider this as a variant of Leonardo da Vinci quotables: Memory is a work of art never finished, only abandoned. Because the more we revisit our past lives, the more we perhaps notice that which we didn’t before. But also, the more we go back in time, the more we finesse our reality and maybe even bring back something with us anew. Our context shifts and our identity perhaps gets an additional brushstroke here and there. Here’s an exercise. Try looking back and perhaps noticing the moments of bias and hidden racism here and there and basically everywhere. Less of a treasure hunt, more of a digging deeper into the highly awkward and ignorant folds of our unconscious consciousness. (Also try repeating that last bit, but with a Twilight Zone-esque eerie soundtrack in the background.)

As I read and watch more shows, I’ve started to pick up on some trends. The phrase “gaining purchase,” as if a grip on a rock or cliff face, comes up frequently. But perhaps more meaningful, the blatant racism of H.P. Lovecraft, comes up quite often. And if you didn’t know, well, now you do.

Here is a reference to his raging xenophobic sentiments because I’d rather not re-type them here. I had no idea just how awful his politics and racism were until just barely a few years ago. One day, a generous and wise human pointed it out in a way that didn’t make me feel stupid, regardless of my actual reality.

“Chicago’s South Side were represented as shining
fortresses” : 2 oz. Gin, .75 oz. fresh lime,
.5 oz. simple syrup (1:1), soda, lots of mint

“I do love them,” George agreed. “But stories are like people, Atticus. Loving them doesn’t make them perfect. You try to cherish their virtues and overlook their flaws. The flaws are still there, though.” “But you don’t get mad. Not like Pop does.”

“No, that’s true, I don’t get mad. Not at stories. They do disappoint me sometimes.” He looked at the shelves. “Sometimes, they stab me in the heart.” ― Matt Ruff, Lovecraft Country

It’s a relatable emotion. Similar to finding one of your nostalgic favorite singers from long ago supporting alt-right wing hateful political stances on Twitter. Suddenly, you question whether you should shower-sing-along to their music anymore. Probably not. Or learning that in fact, J.K. Rowling is heavily biased against Trans lives. Re-watching Harry Potter over and over used to bring me so much joy. Now, it’s just another form of heartbreak in this day and age of sticking to one’s prejudiced guns.

“The greatest deception men suffer is from their own opinions.” ―Leonardo da Vinci

And now for a completely different opinion. I cannot share enough just how enjoyable N.K. Jemisin’s stories and characters are. I finished her Broken Earth trilogy the year before last, her short story collection “How Long ‘Till Black Future Month” last year and just read her latest novel this past week where I found yet again more Lovecraft realness striking home.

“Dangerous mental machines…Yeah. That was H.P. Lovecraft’s fun little label for folks in Chinatown–sorry, ‘Asiatic filth.’ He was willing to concede that they might be as intelligent as white people because they knew how to make a buck. But he didn’t think they had souls.” ― N.K. Jemisin, The City We Became

This line really hurt. This whole scene in the Bronx Art Gallery I thought was brilliant, but yeah, it stung a bit deep. It reminds me of some of my own crushing insecurities from childhood.

Input and Output.

I used to debate whether or not I was actually a robot. Just today I said to myself “Self, we have been indulging in enough input, maybe let’s try some output.” As in, I’ve been binge reading and show watching a bit much lately so maybe we should try writing for a bit. That’s a point for the stereotype brigade right there. Ha. If only I were a model efficient Asian stereotype. I imagine my living space would be much neater and that I wouldn’t sore-throat-ugly-cry while watching Inside Out. 

I recall a phase where I believed I couldn’t cry. Several years in my late teens, I started to consider my time-lapse of never crying and was convinced that I somehow didn’t have the ability any more. Like I was just a machine, (regardless of all the very human things I did like eating, drinking, as well as the very human removal of that which I ate and drank). All that suddenly changed, while watching Mulan in a Berkeley theater one summer in the late nineties. It may have been the beginning of a tumultuous time. Tears of renewal? I might not have understood it then, but I was definitely emotionally overwhelmed by the story of the brave tomboy Asian heroine, a real first for American cinema.

Ever notice how the creation of an alien in the old Star Trek universe basically led to racial othering/profiling? Don’t get me wrong. I still think the original series helped bring down walls and tackled some taboos of the time. BUT STILL. Rather let’s think of Mr. Spock. He clearly started off as a not-so-casual racist depiction of an Asian stereotype born from the golden age of sci-fi, an iconic representation of an entire intelligent species that values cold efficiency over emotion. His non-alien counterpart, Hikaru Sulu, Asian scientist turned helmsman who rarely had more than one facial expression in the original series, essentially sported the same vein. Granted, due to the longevity of their series, both characters evolved and were given more nuance, eventually. I was particularly thrilled that the newer reboot re-evaluated and fleshed out both of these characters in brilliant ways both playing homage but also breaking out of tropes. Kudos and of course, RIP to Leonard Nimoy.

I suppose at the heart of all the many adaptations of works, the remakes of films done over and over and over, is the grandiose combo of the pull to the creation of art and klexos. Our need to revisit an idea, a character, a story til the end of time is just so restorative and often neverending.

“Art is never finished, only abandoned.” ― Leonardo da Vinci

by Chantal Tseng

True Colors, Gothic Terror and calling upon Thor with our Tears of Vengeance

I graduated from college with a Bachelor of Arts degree focusing in Media Studies over twenty years ago. My concentration was in Studio Art. I had a very different idea of where I would take that education but I am for all intent purposes happy with my life. I have tried to stay true to my awkward tune and pursue the creative life. I try to listen to others, read the works of folks with ranging perspectives and to get inspired by their words and worlds. I create cocktails and that is how I attempt to relate to stories and to people. It is also how I ask people to open their minds and consider my own perspective. For example, maybe consider drinking more sherry both by itself and in cocktails? That’s just one example, of course.

I remember now a project in one of my media classes. It was a group project. Our subject was the portrayal and analysis of terrorism in film and tv. We created an edited montage of video including scenes from True Lies, Patriot Games and other popular media including scenes from The Crow. That last bit brought on some discussion upon its airing to the rest of the class. After a montage of fictional Islamic and IRA dissidents, the underground cult gangster villainy, as well as the heroic other worldly vengeance of the hero in The Crow seemed confusing and led us to attempt to properly define the term terrorism. There are a few entries in the dictionary, as they have been updated over the centuries.

The definition of terrorism via Merriam-Webster first appeared in 1840 but its usage and understanding was first noticed and mentioned via the French, having been tied to around the 1790’s in depicting the Reign of Terror in France. Its first definition was “a state of being terrified, or a state impressing terror.”

Current broad definition:

: the systematic use of terror especially as a means of coercion

Legal Definition of terrorism:

1 : the unlawful use or threat of violence especially against the state or the public as a politically motivated means of attack or coercion

2 : violent and intimidating gang activity // street terrorism

“The second shift in meaning took place later: the use of terrorism without political connotation. It was used in this way in newspaper coverage of gangsters during the 1920s:“

CITY ASKS END OF 20 YEARS OF GUN TERRORISM HERE

— Chicago Tribune, 12 February 1926

SECRETS OF GANGDOM TERRORISM BARED

— Chicago Tribune, 4 July 1926

TERRORISM IN TEXAS OIL TOWN; RANGERS TO SCENE

— The Washington Post, 2 April 1927

“Indeed, Al Capone, the era’s most famous gangster of all, was clearly understood by the public to be a criminal rather than a person with political motives, yet his crimes were so extreme that they were referred to as terrorism. Regarded as the most important fact of all is this: Gangsters, by terrorism, vote stealing and bribery, swung a certain political faction into power and in return were given the privilege of operating gambling, vice and booze joints.“

— Chicago Tribune, 4 July 1926

That moment when you realize you are carrying a strong bias about an idea of which the only experience you have is with the media’s narrow portrayal, is always a touch unsettling. I recall, at first, defending the idea that terrorism was a political act, but then later widened my perspective on its definition. In The Crow, the undead hero gets the help of a renegade cop to take down the bad guys responsible for his fiancee’s brutal death as well as the power seat of the underground creepy-uber-villainous-worshipper-of-chaos-type gang leader. Truly, it’s hard not see the early inspirations of our modern Joker here. There’s a whole lot of violence and it is mostly of the kind that feels like sweet sweet vengeance. Also, the soundtrack is amazing. But what I’m really getting at…

…Righteous anger is really something. It can range from hating on the person who cuts the line without concern for others to the president of the country spreading lies to incite violence and sedition without a shred of remorse. It usually comes down to a basic principle of someone feeling they don’t have to follow the rules, that they are above everyone else. Really, there are many stops on the train of righteous anger. Now let us explore our natural desires for vengeance. When other people do terribly wrong and selfish things, and then get what they deserve, it’s like elation multiplied by a factor of ten opiates. It’s fuzzy math because it’s an indescribably feel good vibe that only lasts for a short time. And oftentimes, we come down from this high with a touch of shame. After all, any proper moralist knows not to wish ill upon others.

“He wrested lightning from the gods and their scepter from tyrants.” (P.168) – “Little” by Edward Carey
1.5 oz. Rebel Yell Rye, .75 oz. Punt Y Mes Vermouth, .75 oz. Rainwater Madeira, lemon oil

Of course, in a film or in a book, rooting for sweet vengeance isn’t real so we can often avoid the crashing of shame and guilt. Call it a loophole. In a film where the villain is truly awful, we are all quite fine with them getting shot, bound in a moving car towards an unforgiving body of water, killed off, etc. In our sad continuance of dumpster fire reality, however, no matter how villainous our main antagonist gets, wishing murder or death by assassin/avenging angel as a cure all just doesn’t sit well with our beliefs. Unless an unsummoned lightning bolt streaks from the sky and puts a contract out on that specific human, we just can’t quite feel alright with the situation. There’s always poetry, I suppose.

The universal Spirit guides; nor less,

When merciless ambition, or mad zeal,

Has led two hosts of dupes to battlefield,

That, blind, they there may dig each other’s graves,

And call the sad work glory, does it rule

All passions: not a thought, a will, an act,

No working of the tyrant’s moody mind,

Nor one misgiving of the slaves who boast

Their servitude to hide the shame they feel,

Nor the events enchaining every will,

That from the depths of unrecorded time

Have drawn all-influencing virtue, pass

Unrecogniz’d or unforeseen by thee,

Soul of the Universe! eternal spring

Of life and death, of happiness and woe,

Of all that chequers the phantasmal scene

That floats before our eyes in wavering light,

Which gleams but on the darkness of our prison,

    Whose chains and massy walls

    We feel, but cannot see.

-Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Queen Mab IV”

by Chantal Tseng

A Ghost Story for Xmas Eve amidst a Global Pandemic

“Black are the brooding clouds and troubled the deep waters, when the Sea of Thought, first heaving from a calm, gives up its Dead...” – Charles Dickens, “The Chimes”

CAT SCRATCH FEVER, A WINTRY TALE

I wake up with a start.

Something is amiss.

My cat is staring at me. Not in his usual location, I might add. He is right in front of me as I sit up, staring with the look of someone who has been staring for quite some time. Borderline creepy, but then again, he could just be hungry. It’s a strong possibility. And yet, it’s only 7 am, I think. It could be night time. What is time anymore?

Something is clearly amiss.

My cat was not the instigator to my rude awakening, I should add. He was just there observing, likely playing witness to the climactic scene on my face just when dream jolts razed the furrowed lines of my uncertain stark reality. Consider it a furry metaphor for a long 9 month+ experience, watching from within and afar, as the world grows smaller and smaller. The quarantine from the current pandemic had started off as one hell of a beast. Then it morphed slowly into a kindred creature with tentacles that sucked away one’s will to do laundry. Then in true changeling form, it transitioned into a third bleak entity, a fourth and quite frankly, it may or may not now be a creeping shadow somewhere between my corner closet and the dark crack that formed from one side of the window to the dresser. I’ll have to get back to you on that. It’s anyone’s guess at this moment.

No, not my cat. I definitely had a nightmare. Trouble is…it’s slipping away quickly. A banshee screaming maybe? No, not quite. Just your standard shrieking and overwhelming sense of dread. A scant image of free-falling with ice spires waiting at the bottom of a drop so far one must whistle through not one but two cloud formations. That feeling when you can no longer scream because the situation has normalized after a passage of time and your throat has hallowed out.

I amble out of the covers into the chill of the stark dawn or possibly night air. I generally keep my windows open to varying degrees. Air flow is healthy and it can get stuffy with the ongoing multiple radiators I’ve code-named “Wild Dragon #1,” “Surreal Fire Beast,” and “Hot Stephanie.” I use the feminine so that every now and then I might cry out to no one in particular, “Thar she blows!” when the hissing gets a bit eccentric.

Now this is odd. The corners of the bathroom windows are crystallizing on the outside at an unusually fast pace. Why is this familiar? This can’t be science. It seems a bit fast. Then again, I’m not a scientist. Outside I make out a single dark cloud seemingly out of place from the rest of the sky. It almost looks two dimensional. Maybe I’m just seeing spots. There is no sound. That is, there isn’t until my cat jumps up into the sink expecting the faucet to magically turn on. Distraction is an orange furry ball with legs and static electricity. 

meow.

Ah yes, thirst. Good point. I make my way into the small kitchen by the water pitcher. Then it hits me. “The Day After Tomorrow”

It’s that scene when the air is so cold it crystallizes the surroundings. Everything freezes in mere seconds and the characters have to run to find shelter and fire or else freeze to death in faster than two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

Huh. Also, why is my leg itchy? Cat scratch? But when & why?

I look up at the kitchen windows. They seem normal so I head back to the bathroom again. No crystals. Gone. Like they were never there. Perhaps I’m still dreaming in and out of things. I should head back to bed. It’s too early. Sun’s barely yawning. Now where’s my Neosporin at?

My cat is staring again. But, now this is unnerving. Speaking of changelings, he looks so unlike himself. Almost like he is pouting, as if on the verge of tears.

“Aww…what is it B? This scratch ain’t so bad.”

The most subtle of details shifts and he no longer looks sad. I am pretty sure I’ve never seen this expression on my cat before. It’s eerie. My skin starts to crawl and my limbs are going stiff. But rigor mortis is for dead people and…wait, what on earth is that?

A shadow grows unfathomably grandiose. It’s in my mind, I think. It might not be? A grumbling and then a cold icy voice “You need to get out.”

Confusion addling my brain, my first thought shoots to my vitamin D tablets. I have been taking supplements to make up for the lack of natural sunshine in my quarantine life. 

“What, like in the sun??” I ask to the flickering darkness that is no longer in the dark corners of my head. It grows like shadowy ooze absorbing the walls into what can only be described as a heartless void.

My stiff limbs slowly creak backwards until my back is against the bedroom window. Wild Dragon #1 is raging while a chill gust of outside air teases the nape of my lower back. That singular sensation is fighting a losing battle called consciousness. I am a dead end. My mind is a pointilist painting of fuzziness, light headed and indistinct. This isn’t good and is headed to worse. A flinty scent reminiscent of scrap metal burning amidst a trash heap. My lungs gasp. The foul air is seeping away, but so is the rest.

I can’t breathe. 

Something is pushing me.

No no no no no

There’s barely a week till 2021.

I am so close.

So powerless and fuzzy. 

I grasp at the sill.

A single furry paw.

It claws at my weak clinging fingers. Is this help or betrayal?

So many unanswered questions.

I fall.

There are 9 stories. 

I shouldn’t have named him Brutus. THE END.

Did you know that Charles Dickens wrote more than just one ghost story? Behold, my plans for the holidays: a re-read of The Chimes.

“…Monsters uncouth and wild, arise in premature, imperfect resurrection; the several parts and shapes of different things are joined and mixed by chance; and when, and how, and by what wonderful degrees, each separates from each, and every sense and object of the mind resumes its usual form and lives again, no man- though every man is every day the casket of this type of the Great Mystery- can tell.”
― Charles Dickens, The Chimes

Three years ago, I created a cocktail to pair with this novella. Stirred chilled and up: 1.5 oz. Isle of Skye 8yr. Scotch, 1 oz. Cocchi Torino Vermouth, .5 oz. Mirabelle Eau de Vie, a dash of Orange Bitters

by Chantal Tseng

Tisn’t the Season, nor Tiny Tim

“What’s gold to a man if he be too sick or too sad to enjoy it?” – Darby O’Gill played by Albert Sharpe

Ah if only more folks felt this way. But I suppose the great stain of our current civilization is the collectively addictive tendency to work towards accumulating wealth over health and prestige over happiness. Too Disney in sentiment perhaps? You’re not wrong.

Lately, I’ve started watching “The Crown” on Netflix, inspired by the life of Queen Elizabeth II. I have to admit, I never really cared much about the royal family, even though I grew up amidst the Lady Di → Princess Diana infatuation. I recall in particular, the comedic jabs from Christine Sullivan’s (played by Markie Post) devotion to Lady Di in Night Court. (1984-1992)

The 80’s was a uniquely special era for hair, a windswept marriage of feathers, oceanic waves and of course, hairspray. Perhaps some ozone defying Aquanet?

More than likely, this is why I recently started craving a more down-to-Irish-earth nostalgic piece that I loved as a child. Plus, it occurred to me that with the passing of Sir Sean Connery last Halloween, there are no longer any living actors and production members from this long-standing favorite film of mine, “Darby O’Gill and the Little People.” (1959) I’m part Irish, by the way. And for much of my childhood, I preferred to imagine that tiny fraction of Irish genetics from my mother’s family (an over-imagined stalwart within a mix of other ingredients, including a bit o’ French and a good dash of Native-Canadian) to be much grander than it actually is. I recall an embarrassing moment from my middle school days. The class assignment had been to select a celebrity who has the same background as ourselves and write a small essay on that background. As a minority in a small town school, I was basically the only person of color. The assignment felt a bit jarring. Being a child of mixed descent, I decided to write about my Irish background. And then because I was a bit dumb, I chose to write about Sean Connery. Like I said, dumb, but you know, I was a child heavily influenced by cinema and yes, Disney. Connery’s performance as Michael MacBride was the foundation of my flimsy case that he was clearly Irish (ya’ know, and not Scottish.) The teacher, Mr. V., was super kind to not point it out to me at the time and just sort of let me go with it. We all have our phases.

Not all films quite stand the many varied tests of time, but dare I say magic realism can always look back on Darby O’Gill with a nod of affection? I loved so much about this flick. It will always be a classic in my heart. I have a few silly, yet not necessarily absurd theories about myself because of it. Bear with me.

1- Even though I was born in the lucky year of the horse, there is a strong chance I never ever had the familiar childhood obsession with wanting to own a pony due to a certain distaste for the swarthy nemesis of this film, Pony Sugrue. His character is a dreadful bully and he even steals a shot of liquor from the town pub when he thinks no one is looking. (What a jerk.) Plus, his widowed mother is just downright creepy. (sorry Estelle)

2- I’ve always wished I had reddish auburn hair and green eyes for as long as I can remember. Just like the lovely (& sadly tragic*) Janet Munro, aka, Katie O’Gill in the film. So yes, I did eventually buy a red haired wig (although it ended up being magenta even though that wasn’t quite what I was going after) and green contact lenses at different points in my life. And also, yes, I completely realize what this says about my misguided white washing desires from youth. 

*Tragic because Janet only lived to 38 years, a victim of heart disease.

I was just a tad enamored of Katie O’Gill (Janet Munro). She had wit, a sunny disposition but was also a total firecracker. Also, Sheelah Sugrue (Estelle Winwood) was akin to a mild mannered shrouded death furie with blue eyes and silver wisps.

“Me second wish is a small wish indeed, for it means a lot to me. I want a big crock of potatoes.” – Darby O’Gill

3- I love potatoes, pretty much in every prepared form, from Curly fries to Dauphine to good old soup and stew filler.

Ok, those were a little absurd. I’ll pivot.

The storytelling of Darby O’Gill to this day holds itself golden. I’ve always had a penchant for mythologies and old stories of such. Pretty sure this movie contributed greatly to the stirring of my soul in curiosity of old celtic myths and wicked creatures like Banshees and Pookas.

Classic wailing Banshee on the left, Pooka in the form of Cleopatra, the horse, and the Cóiste Bodhar, a trio of incandescent Irish spooky badassness if ever there was one.

“A Pooka is a shapeshifter and can take any form it chooses. Usually, it is seen in the form of a horse, dog, rabbit, goat, goblin, or even an old man. Traditionally a Pooka is seen as a dark, sleek horse with a long wild flowing mane and luminescent golden eyes.”

Incidentally, throughout the entire reel, it occurs to me now, that no one aside from our title character ever actually witnesses the existence of leprechauns and other darker storied phenomena including the trio above. Darby’s imagination and keen storytelling nuance makes him a village favorite. But is it all in his head? When given a chance to view the Leprechaun king in his sack, Michael and the townsfolk only ever see a rabbit. We assume Katie had a run in with the same Pooka scheming horse from before, and yet we never witness this on screen. And perhaps the grandest query of all, especially with regard to the end of the film, is that of the shadowy Death Coach.

“The Cóiste Bodhar (pronounced coach-a-bower) in Irish folklore is a silent death coach that makes its appearance in the event of someone’s death. It’s driven by the Dullahan, the headless horseman and pulled by four black horses. Summoned by the wails of the Irish Banshee the Cóiste Bodhar will rumble through the streets of villages and where it stops is an omen of death. The coach must return with at least one soul on-board and that soul cannot escape its final destination.”

*SPOILER ALERT since I suppose not everyone has seen the film 20-30 times like myself.*

Darby, in a beautifully tragic climax, demands of King Brian of the Leprechauns to let his 3rd wish be one of self sacrifice. He insists on taking his daughter’s place in the fast approaching Death Coach. Soon afterward, Brian masterfully tricks Darby into making a 4th wish which, in regards to the rules of the film, negates all his previous wishes.

“Three wishes I’ll grant ye, great wishes an’ small! But you wish a fourth and you’ll lose them all!” – King Brian

Darby’s life is suddenly spared and he is quickly shot out of the carriage without having even a second to accept his new freedom. But what happens to the King? Just how much magic does he wield with the dark powers of the underworld being so grand? Did he take Darby’s place and die? The trickery is just so full circle perfect. The film proceeds with no true acknowledgment of this possibly secondary sacrificial move and yet, I am uncertain. After all, there are no other on screen interactions with our mythical friends to follow.

“Ah, it’s better for the old to die than the young. In the end, we all have to go.” – Darby O’Gill to King Brian (who happens to be 5,000 years old, by the way)

Think on that one, BUT ALSO, allow me to wax poetic in honor of some of the secondary characters. While they don’t get a whole lot of screen time, they have some pretty inspired performances.

1- I’ve already mentioned the Widow Sugrue, Sheelah, mother of Pony. Her misguided manipulations portrayed with a mildly witchy overbearing soul are all the more forceful with her chilly steely blue gaze. With her cracked words to her son like gentle poison, she could be a long lost opposite of fairy godmother to so many cinematic dark mothers from Carrie’s mom to Cersei Lannister. She basically gives a bad name to all the old biddies lurking about minding their own kind business.

2- Father Murphy is a total hustler. His first entry into the story is a strong one. He enters the main amphitheater of the film, the local watering hole, “The Rathcullen Arms” and proceeds to guilt Darby on a physical errand with the payment of only “The song of the bells.” He lays it on real thick, having just previously heard Darby banter about fooling the church with a gift of leprechaun gold, (the dark spirits association making the entire gesture quite unholy.) 

3- Tom Kerrigan the Bartender-Owner is all heart but Molly Malloy is the only one on screen pouring drinks and behind the actual bar. She wins a scene for me early on with one particular pro-move. Pony tries to order another whiskey and Tommy tells him he is cut off but can stay if he sticks to a stout. At first, Pony is indignant but eventually caves. The moment he does, Molly hands him a ready poured Guinness as if she knew all along…because well, she does.

4- Ginger the cat is masterful when he/she is sic’d on King Brian at the will of Darby. The leprechaun king is quelled into acquiescence at the lustful furry, err, I mean fury of Ginger and I will always appreciate that cinematic moment. Not quite as strong a performance as the cat in Captain Marvel, but you know, certainly up there.

Ginger sets those lustful eyes on no other than the likes of King Brian Knocknasheega of the Leprechauns and delivers a worthy feline foe oscar perfomance. So ahead of his time he was.
A “Cameron’s Kick” Cocktail for to steel your soul from the Banshees and otherwise shrill talking miscreants of unnatural realities: 1 oz. Scotch, 1 oz. Irish, .5 oz. fresh lemon juice, .3 oz. orgeat, shaken into a frenzy. Shrouded in sage leaves and a lemon peel is a single preserved cherry.
by Chantal Tseng

A Withering Winston Battles the Soul of a Portrait

“All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.”

― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

In Season One, Episode #9 of The Crown, Winston Churchill is getting his portrait done by Modernist artist Graham Sutherland, commissioned by Parliament in honor of his 80th birthday. The year is 1954, the day is November 30th and the legendary Prime Minister is on the verge of retirement.

John Lithgow brilliantly plays the part of Winston Churchill in The Crown

He and Sutherland chat during their sittings and engage in light conversation. Churchill feels like he has found some common ground with Sutherland, being an avid painter of landscapes himself, and starts to feel somewhat comforted that he won’t be depicted too harshly in the man’s brushstrokes, as in the manner of a bullfrog. 

“There are plenty of things in history that are best left in the shadows. Accurate knowledge does not improve people’s lives. The objective does not necessarily surpass the subjective, you know. Reality does not necessarily extinguish the fantasy.”

― Haruki Murakami, Killing Commendatore 

Or rather he hopes this to be the case. Simultaneously, he fears that the painter will be unduly harsh. Sutherland manages to get Churchill to open up about his own paintings. In particular, we learn about a disturbing connection to a long ago personal tragedy. We begin to understand that Churchill has never truly understood how his particular preoccupation with painting a specific pond carried a deeper note for him. Sutherland plucks that tiny bit of reality straight from his mind, it seems. Like a sleeping goldfish, shimmering vaguely through the light refracting from the leaves of trees, suddenly blinking into consciousness.

“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”

― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

It’s a humbling experience as the Prime Minister begins to understand that Sutherland is tapping into more than just his iconic character. He is attempting to reveal a bit of his soul as a mere man rather than wholly memorialized as an accomplished British legend. We see that Churchill is deeply burdened by his old age, failing health and less than successful last bouts of diplomacy during employment. His diminishing abilities compounded with his insecurity and vulnerability in front of the painter start to forebode a poor experiment in trust and expectation. For the truth is a crumbling wall of unpleasant geriatric realness that the whole of the world save one had already acknowledged. His denial could not possibly survive the unveiling. 

“I found it odd somehow. There were times it felt like my soul was being stolen from me.”

― Haruki Murakami, Killing Commendatore

He feels betrayed as he comments that the painting is so modernist. The nuance understood here is that rather than memorialized in the manner of traditional portraiture (think about all the wig wearing royals and old presidents) he is caught on canvas as closer to his authentic vulnerable self. When the portrait is unveiled to the public, an old shrunken man cast in sepia tones with half tragic eyes, he is no longer able to control his own story, his own denial. He vehemently hates the work, even though he does in fact see the artistry of truth in it. His wife, Clementine, likely in an act of loyalty and hopeful perseverance, makes a point of destroying the painting later, privately, burning it into oblivion. Too many people had kept on requesting a viewing. Its destiny, after all, had been slated as a preservation of history. It is deemed a loss to said history that the portrait no longer exists. It is also debatable just how unflattering or how true to form the final piece brought to life. There are, of course, pictures of the portrait so we can all stare and theorize internally from our computers.

By Graham Sutherland, 1954

“Paintings are strange things: as they near the end they acquire their own will, their own viewpoint, even their own powers of speech. They tell the artist when they are done…”

― Haruki Murakami, Killing Commendatore

In conjuring contemporary portraiture, (via photography) one naturally thinks of the selfie and portrait-mode. With our smartphones and other gadgets of technical wonder, a selfie can be taken a multitude of times, erased and re-taken again until we find the view that flatters us best. I wonder if there is a word to describe the mild unease we feel when someone else snaps our photo and thereby has the power to release our non-approved, unedited visage to the world. It is a very modern courtesy we extend to our friends, getting the okay to publish, delete or edit. I almost wish the saying “Oh, don’t broadcast a withering Winston” were a thing. The dedication to honest portraiture in social media is not exactly trending. And when a candid photo is published, the goal of the publisher is likely one of critique or not so subtle slander. Imagine a photo of a seemingly dignified public official getting caught in that perfect awkward moment, as a gust of wind mischievously tickles the spaces between toupee and temple.

“Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.”

― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

When I studied studio art, I never really dabbled in portraiture. It’s intense. Also, I’m an introvert who probably couldn’t tell you the color of some of my closest friends’ eyes. A failing for sure. Beyond that, I have to admit I love the idea that someone else, even possibly a stranger, often has the keen awareness of providing a realism that an individual has no grasp of. Other people truly see us in a way we can never see ourselves. But also, our ability as people to discern faces, to recognize the smallest details and see a whole human and character is uniquely fascinating. A dedicated portrait artist truly accomplishes something exquisite in the documentation of our humanity when they capture an earnest visage. 

“Look deep enough into any person and you will find something shining within. My job was to uncover this and, if the surface is fogged up (which was more than the case), polish it with a cloth to make it shine again. Otherwise the darker side would naturally reveal itself in the portrait.”― Haruki Murakami, Killing Commendatore

“So dark that when you turn off the flashlight it feels like you can grab the darkness with your hands.” (P.252, “Killing Commendatore”)
1.5 oz. Nardini Amaro, .5 oz. blood orange-ginger shrub, 1 oz. Pu’erh tea