Whatever captures my attention does. TLS November 17, 2017, No. 5981. The Times Literary Supplement. Page 7. The title of the article? “ Sorry, what were you saying?” Not that. The subtitle? “Why modernity ignores the past in favour of the future.” Not that. The copy? Not that. What then seized my attention?
It was the graphic rendition of Reem Bassous’s, Memory for Forgetfulness (Italics mine) 2015. Lebanese American, b. 1975. Acrylic, vinyl, paint, acrylic gouache, milk paint, latex paint and charcoal on canvas. 84 x 72 inches (213.4 x 182.9cm).
Why?
The same reason a cigar I have my sights on that has drawn me into a collision of galaxies that would create a black hole. And, since not even light can escape the powerful gravitational pull from such a celestial event horizon, how could I even begin to grasp the immense first impression a cigar would generate so mightily?
When I first tried the cigar I knew there was something about it that had that certain 30s sophistication that is so rarely found in cigars today. But despite its under-the-table, 21 Club caché, guess what? No one has smoked this one but the manufacturers, the blender – and me. That’s it!
But to get back to the point I was at when I first saw the cigar – look at the painting. Go ahead. Get out of the cigar world if only for a few minutes and examine the painting. Now I’m not one to extol the majority of the abstract artists of today. It seems anything can pass for art. Utter nonsense. It has to drill into and enter the edge of eroticism’s lusty seduction of man’s carnal being to even start that immortal journal.
Background: “Reem Miriam Bassous is a Lebanese artist. She was born on July 19, 1978; she was raised in Athens, Greece until she was four years old due to (the) conflict in Lebanon. She moved back to Lebanon later that year. At the age of seventeen, Reem attended the Lebanese American University in Beirut, Lebanon, and at the age of 21, she attended George Washington University in Washington, D.C. There she earned her master’s degree in painting and drawing. She moved to Hawaii in 2006 and became a lecturer at the University of Hawaii. Much of the artist’s work deals with her memories of the Lebanese Civil War and its aftereffects. Memory for Forgetfulness, in the collection of the Honolulu Museum of Art, shows the destruction caused by this conflict.” (Wiki) (No relation that I am aware of to the book of the same name by Mahmoud Darwish.)
And no, I’m not trying to convert anyone of you readers to become the next Jerry Saltz. But it’s keen to know that when Jerry was driving a taxi for a living, he had no idea he would become one of the art world’s most respected critics. I’m just suggesting that you take a timeout from cigars to mull over my point. Even Jerry had to take a piss.
So back to the canvas and look at it. Go ahead stare, no one is paying any attention to what you’re doing right now. Though, I don’t know. But I can tell you that it reminds me of what my thoughts may have looked like when I first put a flame to this handsome cigar I speak about and that I now have such affection for. And I mean real, honest to goodness affection. Definition: a gentle feeling of fondness or liking. Note the adjective “gentle.” Definition: i.e. moderate in action, effect, or degree; not harsh or severe. Assuage. Definition: to calm or soothe.
Are you getting the picture? (Pun?) My thinking was the absolute opposite of what Ms. Bassous painted and what the piece is meant to portray. It’s supposed to show the horrendous destruction of what the war in Lebanon has caused, not only to its own people but to the land, the buildings, the countryside and the order of what God ordained peace should be. God does not dictate destruction for or in His Holy Name.
My reaction, my interpretation, my desire was to gather all this confusion and relocate it in my mind as a peaceful, quiet, soothing, undisturbed environment. I cannot imagine the artist wondering why her portrayal of chaos would bring unto me the feeling of stillness. I can only go by what my feelings were at the time.
This cigar I speak of is a simple one. It’s not that pretty or would be considered an adornment for the perfect advertisement. Think W Magazine – the fashionista’s intellectual juxtaposition of what could be – to what is.
What tobacco? No comment. Who blends it? No comment. What factory? No comment. When is it being released? No comment. Tension is beginning to build. Now we’re beginning to slither back into the ethos of the painting. Now, this is where we reconnect to the seemingly chaotic world of war. Of cigars.
Revelation forthcoming.
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