Barbara Chase-Riboud. Untitled (Le Lit), 1966.

Charcoal and charcoal pencil on paper.

More here and here.

Current show at MoMA.

by Rebecca Baumgartner

Imagine someone sitting cross-legged on the floor and breathing deeply. Now imagine someone sitting on a couch and playing a video game. 

Which of these is mindfulness and which is escapism? What differentiates them? Why does one seem healthier or more virtuous than the other? And what assumptions about human cognition and flourishing does that assignment of virtue rest on?

Mindfulness adherents tell us we can savor the present moment by noticing all our physical sensations in great detail: the textures we feel, the sounds we hear, the sensation of our breathing, and other forms of physical feedback. Our personality and ego take a backseat to simply being present to what’s around us.

My contrarian view is that this hyperfocus on minutiae allows the person sitting on a mat meditating to escape everything in their life that isn’t sitting on a mat meditating. Wanting to escape is not the problematic part; the issue is that we’re deceiving ourselves that it’s not escapism. Meditating and other forms of mindfulness offer a metaphysical escapism that lets you pretend for a while that you are no more than an organism receiving inputs from your immediate surroundings, with no interpretative or meaning-making capabilities. This is why certain types of meditation and other mindful states are described as “no-mind” states. 

While meditating, you’re not an adult with responsibilities or a personality or justified reasons to be angry or sad – no, you’re something much simpler and easier to control: a Mars rover or a rat in a Skinner box, simply responding to stimuli and gathering data from your surroundings, making no judgments, having no desires, and keeping emotional reactions in check. If your mind does break the rules and have a thought (and it always will), you are supposed to observe it impersonally, as though it’s a cloud passing high above that has nothing to do with you. Read more »

by Brooks Riley

by Joseph Shieber

A recent study in Public Understanding of Science found that

… Republicans and evangelical-identifying individuals perceive more social threat from scientists. Viewing scientists as a group posing a social threat was associated with having less accurate science beliefs, support for excluding scientists from policymaking, and support for retributive actions toward scientists …

One of the co-authors of the study, Ariel Hassell, suggested that the study demonstrates that, “When people position science as something we should be for or against, believe or disbelieve, we lose sight of the fact that scientific research is a process.” She continued:

Often new evidence renders previous knowledge incorrect or irrelevant … Distrust, criticism and debate, when done in good faith, are part of this process and should be engaged with rather than demonized or weaponized. Otherwise, as our study shows, people may begin to see science and scientists as a social or political threat, inhibiting society’s ability to address large scale problems like hunger, disease and climate change.

It strikes me as correct to see this study as offering evidence that it is unhelpful to criticize as irrational those communities that reject scientific consensuses. I’m not sure that a further lesson from the study, however, is to suggest that “science isn’t something to be for or against.” Instead, it would be more useful to find a way to reorient those communities so that being informed about — and being in agreement with — elite scientific opinions would contribute to higher social status. That is, it seems to me that we SHOULD be finding ways to encourage more communities to perceive science as something they should be FOR. (Indeed, only then – as the study itself shows – will they appreciate “the fact that scientific research is a process.”)

I take this to be one of the lessons emerging out of my recently published paper, “An Idle and Most False Imposition: Truth-Seeking vs. Status-Seeking and the Failure of Epistemic Vigilance.” (It’s available as open access article here.) Here’s why. Read more »

At the train station in Bozen, South Tyrol.

by Nils Peterson

One of the easy metaphors, easy because it just feels true, is that life is like a river in its flowing from then to whenever. We are both a leaf floating on it, and the river itself. Boat maybe. Raft more likely. But those who know such things say there is a river beneath the river, the hyporheic flow. “This is the water that moves under the stream, in cobble beds and old sandbars. It edges up the toe slope to the forest, a wide unseen river that flows beneath the eddies and the splash. A deep invisible river, known to its roots and rocks, the water and the land intimate beyond our knowing. It is the hyporheic flow I’m listening for.” The person speaking is Robin  Kimmerer, a biologist, professor and member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation. It’s from her book Braiding Sweetgrass.

I’ve used the river image often enough in my own writing when thinking about my life and the lives of others, but now I’m wondering if what I was really trying to do was to find a way to listen to this deeper river, to get a sense of it as it winds its way to, well, Is there such a thing as the hyporheic sea? There must be and therefore all my sea images really float on that sea beneath the sea. Robin says, “One thing I’ve learned in the woods is that there is no such thing as random. Everything is steeped in meaning, colored by relationships, one thing with another.” Well, yes. This is the poet’s understanding too, and I think it is the basic understanding of language, maybe of consciousness. 

I’m thinking now of a girl I dated my junior year in college. I had to come back to school a little early because I sang in the choir and there was a special program early that we had been asked to sing for. The football team also came back early for its fall practice. This girl in addition to being a singer was a cheerleader. It worked out that fall that she went out with me every other weekend. A football player took her out the in-between weeks. I was a year younger than my class and very shy. I had just started to do things on the campus, act in plays, write for the newspaper, join the creative writing club, finding out how much I loved literature. I enjoyed talking with her. Maybe we held hands, but the truth was she awed me. I was continually surprised she was out with me.  Read more »

by Derek Neal

There is a scene near the end of First Reformed, the 2017 film directed by Paul Schrader, where the pastor of a successful megachurch says to the pastor of a small, sparsely attended church:

You’re always in the Garden. Jesus wasn’t always in the Garden, on his knees, sweating drops of blood. No, he was on the Mount, in the temple, in the marketplace. But you’re always in the Garden. For you every hour is the darkest hour.

The small-town pastor, played by Ethan Hawke, is in a state of constant suffering and isolation. His son, who he pushed to enlist in the army, has been killed in combat; his wife has left him; his home contains no furniture or decoration; he drinks heavily and writes in a journal; he rejects all those who try to help him; he is dying from cancer. Despite all this, he is a good pastor and cares deeply about the people he serves.

In another recent Paul Schrader film, The Card Counter (2021), the titular character played by Oscar Isaac is another man who is “always in the Garden.” He, too, drinks heavily and keeps a journal; he drives from city to city by himself, playing blackjack at various casinos before moving on to avoid attracting unwanted attention; he stays in budget motels and covers the furniture with sheets; he has no friends and no fixed home. Read more »

by Gus Mitchell

‘Three things in human life are important: the first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind.’ Henry James apparently spoke these words to his nephew Billy James in 1902. TV personality Mr. Rogers later took it up – with an intriguing preface: ‘There are three ultimate ways to success: the first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind.’

There is something revealing about that reformulation, from the beginning, to the second half of the twentieth century, that least ‘kind’ of all centuries. It holds true today as well. Kindness has become one of the indispensable buzz-virtues (or, as I conceive them, ‘word-virtues’) of our moment – see also ‘creativity’, ‘community’, ‘care’, and so on. The ubiquity of these words often masks a troubling lack of useful definition or resonance, not to mention the kind of morality-washing used to justify a great deal of lazy thinking and acting. Words in the place of a meaning. This trend has been helped on its way by an enthusiastically hijacking and hollowing by corporate or political instigators, whose interests are opposed to any genuine realisation of these ideals.

In a (no doubt vain) attempt to not be judged by some as callous or psychotic in this essay, let me preface everything to follow: the inherent qualities, the real virtues enshrined in words such as these, are ones I cherish. I’m not attempting to persuade anyone not to ‘be kind’, as you commonly understand it. Instead, I hope that by illuminating the fuzzy blubber gathering around these word-virtues – a blubber enshrined in the mimetic mindlessness of the internet – might help one see more clearly that, by them, we are selling ourselves short. Read more »

Maria Berrio. From the series “In A Time of Drought”.

More here and here.

Current show in Boston.

by Akim Reinhardt

The Lede: Wombats ate five children at a drive thru restaurant in Omegosh, Texas last week.

The Body: A wisdom of wombats, on the run from massive fires in their Australian homelands, surrounded five children at a Checkers drive thru and lectured them on the disproportionate impact of the U.S. carbon footprint, before devouring them sans cutlery. Normally herbivores, the marsupials said later that they were eating young American child meat to make an ironic statement about climate change. Afterwards they were taken into custody and assigned a public defender. When reached for comment, their lawyer said the wombats were planning a hunger strike while in prison.

Ending: Does Jesus want us forgive the wombats, or blame the children? Perhaps we can do both.

*

The Lede: There’s someone in California who might like you.

The Body: California is home to nearly 40,000,000 people. One of them may like you. Like, really like you. That’s according to Cletus Nerdtoster, professor of probability statistics at California Polytechinc State University, who says chances are there’s someone in the Golden State who has the hots for you.

“Can’t rule it out.  There’s just so many goddamned people here.”

But what to do about it?  Nerdtoster has fewer insights into how to actually meet that person.

“I met my wife at the library. But if you’re not here in California, I guess that wouldn’t work.”

Nerdtoster says he is unfamiliar with how dating apps work.

Ending: Do you even want to be liked? Read more »

by Brooks Riley

by R. Passov

Sometimes, you find yourself thinking about why something happened and get nowhere. For example, a year ago this October, my (ex)wife and daughter and I were visiting my son in his second year at a prestigious college where tuition exceeds the average income for a family of four. We had landed in St. Louis with the plan of stopping at a diner that my wife knew from an earlier drive out to Colorado. She and a friend had driven their dogs from our homes in suburban New York out to Telluride. They diner-hopped along the way and one stop was the Goody Goody Diner.

We arrived mid-morning on a Sunday and drove on wide, sparse streets – a seemingly random store or gas station surrounded by empty lots or abandon structures. After many turns and red lights we saw a small white brick building with an upside down neon sign.

After entering we found ourselves in a long line. Sunday brunch is popular. It didn’t take long to notice every diner on that morning was a person of color. I and my family are suburban white.

Maybe we showed concern, hopefully not that we were scared but rather that perhaps we’d stumbled into someone’s party. While silently working our contingencies, the couple in front turned our way. Ron, about 6’4”, built for business and his wife, Tanecia, also taller than me, were dressed in what looked to be their Sunday Church clothes.

Hi, Ron said, you guys visiting? Yes.

We exchanged pleasantries and I mumbled that we were visiting our son at the local, amazingly over-done college which happened to be smack in the middle of Ferguson. We felt so enormously self conscious to be visiting so soon after the riots. Read more »

by Rafaël Newman

“D — — , I presume, is not altogether a fool, and, if not, must have anticipated these waylayings, as a matter of course.”
“Not altogether a fool,” said G., “but then he is a poet, which I take to be only one remove from a fool.”
“True,” said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his meerschaum, “although I have been guilty of certain doggerel myself.”

—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Purloined Letter”

On the eve of their wedding day, on September 12, 1840, Robert Schumann presented Clara Wieck with a collection of 26 songs of his own composition, settings of poems by Goethe, Byron, Heine, Burns, and others. Arranged in four fascicles, the songs foreground literary works in which the speaking voice seems by turns male and female, at least by conventional codification. The poems’ themes range widely, including typical romantic topoi, such as flowers, the Scottish Highlands, and forbidden love affairs, but also drinking songs, ribaldry, and mock rhetorical argument. The very diversity of the selections suggests some definite, if eclectic and highly personal organizing principle had ordained them. And indeed, Schumann’s Myrthen opus 25, although named innocently enough for the myrtles traditionally carried by brides in the 19th century, was more than simply a Brautgeschenk or “bridal gift,” more than merely a pretty, arbitrarily assembled anthology (a term whose etymological roots are similarly floral), since it also celebrates the couple’s triumph over odds both familial and legal—Clara’s father had been resolutely opposed to the marriage, and she had had to win the right to marry Robert at court—as well as the union of two gifted and epochal musical artists.

Now, there is indeed a possible structural determinant of the selections for the cycle, one that tantalizingly suggests a secret code: for the number of its songs—twenty-six—is of course also the number of letters in the Roman alphabet; and musicologists have undertaken various ingenious attempts to discern an alphanumeric key or cypher in their distribution. Does the third song, for instance, “Der Nussbaum” (The Walnut Tree), in which a young woman dreams of a bridegroom, have some particular significance to the addressee, herself presumably about to see her own dream fulfilled, and whose name—Clara—begins with the third letter of the alphabet? Read more »

Rain streaking on the window of an Icelandair Boeing 737 aircraft on its takeoff roll for a flight from Reykjavic to Boston about a month ago.