I've been
on a French Revolution kick, which stems from wanting to learn French,
which stems from being French—genealogically. I also love the 1700s and
early 1800s. Add these two factors together, and voila: I've been
strategically reading all things French.
This project started with a second attempt—and I would like to stress the word
attempt—to read Tocqueville's
Democracy in America.
I've enjoyed it (the whole five to ten pages I've actually read), but I
have to be in the mood for a mental workout with that book. It's a
disciplined read. When I force myself to pass a concept I don't fully
understand, I am compelled, by perfectionism, to go back and research it
anyway. I read every footnote, if I have time—and even if I don't.
Footnote reading in most books has lead me to some pretty sweet
discoveries, but the bottom line is that if I don't understand the
material or have a background with it, which is the case with this book,
it takes forever to finish. It's been a slow and painful process, but I
want it.
Les Misérables
was the next read, but fortunately it was an easy one. Caleb gave this
to me for my birthday in 2008. I read it over Christmas vacation two
years ago, while in the Dominican Republic, while not understanding a
lick of Spanish spoken around me—literally. So I read. And I
loved this book. Anything that makes me cry gets an automatic pass to the good-read list. Amazingly crafted by a fine artist.
Most recently, I finished reading
The Count of Monte Cristo. This,
too, made me cry, and on the metro of all places! I thought I was
pretty good at containing my emotions, a recently rebuked assumption. At
very least, not many people were on the train. (Phew.) This piece was
also amazingly crafted by a fine artist.
Crafting art
takes time. It's painstaking. You feel when your art is done. Sometimes
the art is good, and sometimes it's not. Either way, you know when it's
complete, and you obsess until it's there. I don't consider myself an
artist, but writing is the only medium I attempt to use as art. Whether
the final product merits that title or not is another story. Last week
at work, I got a call from the corporate office. They've seen my writing
and like it, at least enough to commission me to write a blurb for our
social media initiative. Ok,
corporate office people, not a problem. I spent time thinking about and
refining my work and sent it to headquarters. I felt like it was
mediocre, but good enough to do the job. Then it was published, and I
knew I'd have to brace myself before looking at the final product. I
gave them permission to change it if they wanted to. I don't have
anything against my writing being changed for the better (on the
contrary, I deeply appreciate advice on how to improve), but I prepared to cringe because I
had a feeling about this one: I've had three years' experience with
the punctuation of the person in charge of manipulate my writing, and that experience isn't pretty. I
saw the final copy. Ugh. Holy editing rules being broken. I wasn't even in
love with what I wrote, and it hurt. I politely sent some suggestions to
this person noting the good changes the person made (and there were
some) and noting which ones might need tweaking. No luck in effectuating
change. The final product stands.
At first sight of my tortured work, I thought about an editor's
motto: "never make anything worse." It's better not to change something
than to make it worse than its original form. I try to adhere to this.
My mind then jumped to the adaption of
Les Mis. as
a musical—which was a nine and a half out of ten in my eyes, even though I
couldn't help comparing it to the original work—and the most recent
movie of
The Count of Monte Cristo, which I have conflicted opinions about
. One
amazing in its own right, and the other probably good by most people's
standards, but both tortured forms of the original. May I continue to be
dramatic? One a truncated version of a magnum opus, which is
practically impossible to capture on stage, and the other a kaleidoscope
version of a simulacrum (noun:
an insubstantial form or semblance of something : trace) of original art work.
So what is fair to do to/with a piece of art? I'm sure
this has been debated in art classes throughout centuries, and I have
no exposure to those debates, and I have no doubt I could be persuaded
in any direction with a strong enough argument. However, when strictly
consulting my feelings, I feel the following: if other artists have any
attachment to their art work like I do to my not-even-worthy-of-being-called-art art, to see a mangled version of
their original art would be almost as bad as if someone were to walk
into the Salle des États in the Mus
ée du Louvre, remove the bullet proof glass from the
Mona Lisa, and cut a big
X through the face of the painting. Dramatic, I know.
