Wednesday, December 28, 2005


1) Match Point, directed by Woody Allen. East Village movie theater. Top floor. Sold out. 7 p.m. Nihilistic as expected. No meaning allowed - meaning only allowed in the dream sequence - just luck, more luck for the men. Well-made, but not really too emotional. Fooled at least once into thinking that meaning would win out, but it doesn't. Lights up. A lost glove, unfound. Knitted hat and cell-phone earpiece found. Opera snippet credits missed. Too many different operas to remember. Missed the last showing of An American Tragedy at the Met to catch the opening night of the movie instead. Cheaper, shorter. The right choice?

2) Two missed text messages. One automated, one personal. One voice mail. Three unanswered call backs. Another voice mail. Plans to call tomorrow after 7 p.m., but not too late.

3) Several pages of Ulysses by Joyce. 1 train from 14th Street, uptown. L. Bloom. Indications of the date: June 16. Bloomsday. Reading a letter included in the text. Stream of consciousness more clear than usual in the graphs immediately following. Hopeful that the narrative will keep up and allow me to keep going without getting frustrated, fed up. Finishing the chapter, closing the book two stops early. Dashing through the tunnel, slightly out of breath, hoping the PBS program wasn't merely an hour. (It was two, actually.)

4) Second half of Imagining America: Icons of 20th-Century American Art on Thirteen. Warhol. Incorrigible in interviews, but evoking his art, his persona, his prescient views all the while. Now we see that, then he must've seen slightly weirder. McLuhan. "Medium is the message." Stuart Davis. Wojnarowicz. Dancing around the gay issue, apparently, like the Times said. Mentioning "Stonewall" as a codeword perhaps. One artist worrying that art will fuse entirely with entertainment, arguing that art causes you to look at how it was made, at where you stand in relation to it, whereas entertainment covers over the strings, aims to beguile totally, not to draw attention to its issues. Was Woody's film, very few laughs throughout, art or entertainment? More of one than the other? Lots of paintings in the scenes of the movie. But not much said about them at all. Perhaps they'd offer too much meaning in an otherwise meaningless world. Or were they chosen more carefully than that. The Saatchi. The Tate Modern. Signifiers of taste and high class and the rich world that beguiles the main character or actual sites of art?

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