On “Jorie Graham’s ‘New Way of Looking’” by Thomas Spiegelman: A Critical Précis

In “Jorie Graham’s ‘New Way of Looking,’” Willard Spiegelman explores Graham’s often contradictory approach to poetry. Spiegelman answers the many critics interested in Graham’s poetic development and perceived style transformation by pointing out that Graham’s ideas remain surprisingly constant throughout her career. In other words, Graham is consistently inconsistent. Her constancy is in her steady unsteadiness. Spiegelman says it is “hard to get to know her” (Spiegelman 174), and hard to describe her because she resists being known and resists describing and description. For Graham, “Frames exist to be broken” (Spiegelman 187), but although broken, the audience is still able to identify many of Graham’s frames. There is clear evidence in Graham’s poetry that points at the impulse towards narrative, but she, like Pollack, does not wish to create her art for its meaning’s sake. Her rejection of complete storylines is a “provocative breaking-up and breaking-down of story and scene” (Spiegelman 183). And though it may make her poems difficult to access, it also allows for a multiplicity of interpretations.  Graham makes an important statement about life and culture—that “all creation… starts with the promise of satisfaction but invariably ends with the admission of the serpent into the garden” (Spiegelman 186-187). By not completing her narratives and thus not allowing for satisfaction, her poetic mirrors that (in her apparent philosophy) inevitable disappointment and fulfillment that will come from involvement in the world.

               

Spiegelman discusses at length the way Graham sits squarely in liminal spaces both in her exploration of herself and of the world. Her “style features fragments and ellipses as indexes of boundaries and the slippages between them” (Spiegelman 199). This fragmentary style and descriptions that are less descriptive than they are “like air and water… invisible or dark” (Spiegelman 174) create a distance between Graham’s self and the reader.  Through this interesting, though somewhat distant voice, Graham considers, literally, a new way of looking, a new way of considering looking, and a new way of considering the word “looking.” Spiegelman concludes that Graham’s “subject matter—the relation of body to soul, the visible to the invisible” (Spiegelman 200) necessitates categorizing her differently than she perhaps has been before—“among the poets of sexual and religious bliss” (Spiegelman 200), and that Graham’s readers will have to be forever satisfied with the process, for there will be no conclusion. 

Week Nine: Jorie Graham, The End of Beauty

Jorie Graham’s The End of Beauty seems to be of quite a different timbre than the other books we’ve read so far this semester. I wonder how much its earlier publication date (1987) has to do with what seems to me like a much different tone. The book feels a little more familiar than some of the other things we’ve read since it’s decidedly more formal and traditional than some of the other works—it’s definitely more reminiscent of the kind of classic poetry I was exposed to in high school. Upon opening the book and seeing the form on the page, I wasn’t surprised that the poems seemed to stay in the realm of Adam and Eve and Biblical creation. I think it’s very interesting how subtly Graham shifts from her Biblical theme to more personal poetry. It happened so gradually that I wasn’t very aware of it until I got to “Breakdancing.”

                It seemed like the first major subject change. Looking back I realize that there’s a lot of non-Biblical content before that, but Breakdancing itself seems like an odd, even startling topic for a poem in this volume, or, at least, it did to me until I read it. When I think of breakdancing I think, “cool,” and not much beyond that. So I was impressed with how much beauty Graham sees there and how beautifully she describes the act of breakdancing, using that as a vehicle to discuss a lot more than just a dance. But like much of the volume, I kind of lost track of where this poem was. That feeling of lostness was comfortable in some of the more abstract poetry we’ve read because it made sense, but it was a little disconcerting here.

                I think the major strength and beauty in Grahams poetry comes through her stunning images and descriptions. “Breakdancing” has some moments that are surprising but so fitting. And while some of the other poets have used vague hints towards imagery to then create a scene, Graham makes interestingly specific use of words and phrases to cultivate really full, rich images. A favorite from “Breakdancing” is “Minutes exploding like thousands of silver dollars all over your/ face your hands but tenderly, almost tenderly, turning mid-air, gleaming,/ so slow, as if it could last.” I’ve never heard anyone describe anything as being like thousands of exploding silver dollars. So the image itself is compelling and lovely, but the surprise of its uniqueness adds an interesting dynamic to the emotional response the poem provokes. I’m looking forward to talking more about Graham in class. 

Week Eight: Anne Carson

               
               In quick conversations about Anne Carson’s Nox with some of my classmates, the most frequently recurring word is “pretentious,” which has, so far, been consistently followed with the question: is this poetry? I both agree and disagree with this assessment (but mostly disagree). I remember several very similar conversations in my high school and undergrad music departments about John Cage: is his four minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence really music? Does his chaotic orchestra of radios count as a song? Nox is pretentious in much the same way that some of John Cage’s musical compositions are—by which I mean that I think we say “pretentious” when we really mean “brilliance for brilliance’s sake.” Yes, self-indulgent displays of talent and ingenuity can be irritating, but I don’t think that makes them any less significant. It didn’t seem important at the time, but looking back, I can see that the concert of John Cage pieces I saw when I was fifteen was something that contributed to a big shift in the way I thought (and now think). It was a sudden realization that definitions and impositions of limits are not nearly as useful or productive in the world of art as they are in other genres of life’s-work.

                So when Stephen Burt points out in his review that Nox may be more akin to an artists’ book than the typical volume of poetry, I agree with him just like I agree with those who say Cage’s works are more like directions for performance art installations than music. But my answer to the recent conversations I’ve had about Nox is that being one type of art shouldn’t exclude something from also being another. So certainly it’s clear that Nox is a piece of visual art—it’s impossible to talk about the volume without discussing its unusual aesthetic qualities—but that doesn’t preclude it from being poetry.

                I love the way Nox’s structure (poetic as well as physical) creates an experience for the reader that goes far beyond the typical reading experience. Nox was exciting for me before I even opened it—it shipped in a box much larger and heavier than I expected to receive a book in, so I assumed it was multiple books. It was surprising when I opened the large box to find a smaller box. Its shrink-wrap suggested that there was something of value inside worthy of protection. After unwrapping it I tried to open the book like I would any other book—held up in front of me—but it was awkward and heavy and started to fall apart this way. The way Nox is built demands that the reader give it a place to sit, which I think seems important.

                During my reading of Nox I was struck by how my surprise at its form turned to a feeling of familiarity. I have a shoebox somewhere in my attic full of all the scraps that, though ultimately insignificant, still seem too important to throw away yet—letters, tickets, photographs, programs from recitals and concerts. Every few years I come across this box and set it on the table or floor in front of me in exactly the same way I had to set Nox down. When I dig through my shoebox of scraps I invariably discover memories I’ve forgotten. When I opened Nox I felt I was meant to discover something. Carson’s Nox is a box full of memories too, but rather than memories of her own life, they are the few fragments she has of her brother’s life. But I don’t think the form is limited to representing the memory box—it’s a coffin, a treasure box, and, as my friends have argued, an artists’ book, and probably many things of which I haven’t yet thought. I don’t think I’ve read any other book that can be defined as representative of so much.

                The poems themselves felt like a journey—I found myself wanting to rush past the translations of Catullus on the right to get to more of Michael’s life story, so initially I had to force myself to slow down to read the book in order. But when more of Carson’s personal words began coming through in the definition, I lost my urge to move on from the left-hand pages. It didn’t occur to me until reading Chaisson’s review that literally half the paper in this box is blank. The initial realization seemed like a disappointment in all the wasted space, but then I had to agree that a half-blank book is very fitting for a story about the death of an estranged family member. The one thing that I didn’t particularly enjoy about the book was the art. The photographs were so interesting and made all the words so real, but the strange paintings were more disturbing than enlightening. They all look like the artwork of a mentally ill person. I’m assuming that the eerie, disturbed quality of the paintings is meant to underscore the grief of the experience, but I wonder if there are other reasons for such stilted, untalented art in what is clearly a work of art.


*Photo credit: www.paintedfishstudio.com