Atonism vs. Jes Grew in the Ballet World

We talked recently in class about what Atonism and Jes Grew look like in 2018. As many of you know, I’m involved with ballet, and this conversation got me thinking about what Atonism and Jes Grew look like today in the ballet world.

As much as I love it, ballet is probably one of the most Atonist things out there. Ballet as an art form was developed by and for Europe’s elites. It originated in the courts of Renaissance Italy and was spread to France by Catherine de Medici in the 17th Century, where the first ballet company was established by Louis XIV. He also established and codified several basic steps and positions, and is the reason ballet takes most of its terminology from French to this day. Despite having spread more or less around the world, ballet is still incredibly Eurocentric. The four most widely taught techniques (styles of dancing ballet) were developed in Russia, England, France, and Italy, and the world’s top ballet companies are mostly found in Europe, or countries that developed out of European settlements and colonies (the USA, Canada, and Australia).

Ballet also tends to be practiced and viewed by people who are both privileged and white. The stereotypical patron, especially for major companies, is probably your typical Atonist (old, white, wealthy, focused on tradition and the past). Trying to increase racial and economic diversity among the dancers themselves has also been a huge issue in the dance world in recent years. With a few notable exceptions (Misty Copeland for example), companies tend to be dominated by white dancers who had the money and resources to pursue dance to a high level. Ballet gets expensive, and since directors traditionally wanted their dancers to look as similar as possible, it unfortunately used to happen (and probably still does) that talented dancers are overlooked solely because of their race.

Ballet is also incredibly unnatural if you think about it. In what other context is it normal or good to be able to turn out your legs so that your feet make a 180 degree angle, lift your leg up so that your foot is above your head, or stand on your toes? Jes Grew is about dance, but also freedom and spontaneity. In ballet, every step is codified, and expected to be done in a very specific way. Some executions and combinations are acceptable, others are not.

An example of a recent “Jes Grew flare up” in the dance world is Hiplet, a combination of ballet with hip hop created by the artistic director at the Chicago Multi-Cultural Dance Center. The style is described as a way to keep classical ballet relevant, and takes the strength gained from training in classical ballet to combine pointe work and hip hop. Although classical ballet training is necessary to the style, Hiplet at the same time less an adaption of ballet than a co-opting of the tools used in ballet (strength in certain muscles and joints, pointe shoes, etc.) for its own purpose. The style is much freer than classical ballet, takes most of its steps from hip hop, and uses pointework in a way that would never have been considered “acceptable”. The style has also been fairly controversial, with people debating its legitimacy as an art form, the safety of it, and whether or not something like this will catch on or should even be taught. Sound familiar?

Our Identities are Entirely Constructed

[I'm going to break the 4th wall for a minute (postmodernism!!) to apologize for the weird
formatting of parts of this post. I've been having some issues with Blogger and couldn't
figure out how to fix it.]

One tenet of postmodernism as described by Edward Docx is that it claims that our

identities are solely defined based on existing power structures, while at the same time

calling for a re-evaluation of these very structures. In other words, we are all

constructions, and don’t have any personality, soul, self, etc. that is inherent or unique to

us. Doctorow plays with this idea in Ragtime in several ways.

One that will be easily recognizable to other people who took 20th Century Novel

is how Doctorow uses mirrors. In the modernist fiction we read last semester--Virginia

Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway and Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises for example--

mirrors provide a way for characters to contemplate their sense of self. Clarissa

Dalloway ponders the various aspects of her identity and draws them together into a

coherent self while sitting in front of a mirror. Jake reflects on his defining injury while

standing in front of a looking glass. Doctorow gives us a very similar image when he

describes Little Boy, who develops a habit of sitting in front of a mirror, looking at himself.

However, instead of reflecting on his identity or developing a coherent sense of who he

is, Little Boy sees “two selves facing one another, neither of which could claim to be

the real one...He was no longer anything exact as a person.” (117).

Doctorow also explores this idea through the characters of Evelyn Nesbit, Harry

Houdini, and J.P. Morgan. Doctorow’s versions of all three of these historical figures

feel like they do not belong, and are dissatisfied with their lives. However, when

confronted with these identical feelings, the three characters react in very different

ways that correspond to their background and social class. Houdini, an immigrant

who has worked hard to overcome his lower class background, responds by working

even harder and redoubling his efforts to gain a reputation as an artist. Evelyn Nesbit,

whose looks have catapulted her into the upper class, but who has never had to make

a decision or think on her own has a completely different reaction and attempts to

simply escape her troubles by forcing her way into a completely different life and

family. Morgan, who is used to having the world’s treasures at his fingertips, deals

with his feelings of not belonging by developing a philosophy that draws upon the

ancient cultures whose precious items he has stolen, and that bestows upon himself

almost god-like status. These characters different reactions to identical emotions

reinforces how their “selves” are entirely constructed by the existing power structures,

and societal constraints and expectations.

There are a couple of other odd potential examples that I’m not entirely sure what

to make of. One is that many of the characters from different spheres whose worlds

collide have very similar names. For example, take Emma Goldman and Evelyn Nesbit.

Once they meet, we learn that the unlikely pair share even more similarities. Both have

a man they care about in prison. Evelyn has used her body to make a living and Emma

Goldman once tried. Particularly important is that after spending time with Goldman,

Nesbit begins to side with her on social issues and makes anonymous donations to her

cause. The similarities between these two women raise the question of whether Emma

could have been Evelyn if she had been born into different circumstances and vice versa.

I think Doctorow would say yes. The main differences between them have arisen because

of their different stations in society, and identities they constructed as a result.

The worlds of two characters with similar names collide again when Harry Houdini sees
Harry K. Thaw in the cell across from his while showing off his ability to escape from the
Tombs. The two do not develop a relationship like Emma Goldman and Evelyn Nesbit’s,
but there is a moment where the two are described as almost mirror reflections of each other. “Quickly Houdini began to dress...Across the well the prisoner began to undress” (30). This continues until “the prisoner was as naked as Houdini had been” (30). The two figures have
the same name, but are otherwise framed as opposites--Thaw is rich while Houdini is not,
Thaw undresses as Houdini dresses, Thaw is confident and mocking in contrast to Houdini’s
self-consciousness. Their names show some commonality between them, but society has
shaped them into completely different people.

These last two examples in particular might be getting to be a bit of a stretch. What do you
all think? Are they valid examples of Doctorow playing with identity and the idea that we’re
all constructions, or is it just me reading way too much into a coincidence?

Hans Kohlhase, Michael Kohlhaas, and Coalhouse Walker

Mr. Mitchell hinted at the end of the class period today that although Coalhouse Walker is not a historical
figure like J.P. Morgan or Emma Goldman, he is also not purely Doctorow’s invention. I looked into this
a bit further, and found that in 1808, the German author Heinrich von Kleist published a novella called
“Michael Kohlhaas”, whose story is strikingly similar to Coalhouse Walker’s. The novella is based on the
experiences of a man named Hans Kohlhase.

Kohlhase (the real person), a merchant, was travelling in the October of 1532 when his horses were
seized by a nobleman named Junker von Zaschwitz, as a supposed fee for travelling through the area.
Kohlhase was furious and sought justice through the court system, but was foiled by corruption and
Junker’s powerful connections. He put out a public challenge to Junker, and began burning down
houses and plundering villages in the area when Junker did not acquiesce. Martin Luther himself tried
to stop Kohlhase, but was unsuccessful. In 1540, Kohlhase was captured and sentenced to death.

Heinrich von Kleist builds on this story a bit. In his novella, Michael Kohlhaas’s horses are not only
seized, but put to work and mistreated. Kohlhaas sues for the cost of their medical treatment, but gets
the same response as Kohlhase. His wife attempts to deliver a petition for his aid to an important
official, but is struck down by a guard and dies from her injuries. Kohlhaas, seeing no other options,
begins a private war against Junker. He destroys his castle and kills his servants, but fails to capture the
nobleman (who has fled). Martin Luther intervenes on Kohlhaas’s behalf, but Junker’s power and
connections save him again. Eventually, Kohlhaas is captured, tried, and killed. As he is being led to
his death, he learns that Junker will finally be brought to justice.

There are so many parallels between these stories and Coalhouse Walker’s that it’s hard to know where
to start. The first similarity that jumped out at me was the name. “Kohle” is the German word for coal,
and “haas” and “hase” are similar to “Haus”, the word for house. Von Kleist’s Kohlhaas becomes
Doctorow’s Coalhouse. In terms of plot, both men have their means of transportation seized as a
supposed toll or travelling fee, and after attempting to bring the other person to justice through
traditional means, turn to a form of vigilante justice that involves murder and the destruction of
property. The fictional Kohlhaas’s revenge particularly resembles Coalhouse’s, with the castle being
analogous to the firestation, and the servants to the other firefighters. Kohlhaas’s wife also dies in the
same way as Sarah.

This whole situation is incredibly postmodernist. Von Kleist took a historical figure and turned him
into the fictional protagonist of a novella. Doctorow then incorporated a variation on this same
historical figure/fictional character into a second novel that blurs the lines of fiction and reality even
further. And even though von Kleist’s novella is based on fact to a much greater degree than Ragtime,
it almost feels like he’s using a similar approach to Doctorow. The Martin Luther tried to help
Kohlhaas? Apparently.

This also brings up the question of transworld identity. If an author takes a historical figure or a character from another book and incorporates them into their own story, are they the same person in each medium, or are they different? To what extent are Hans Kohlhase, Michael Kohlhaas, and Coalhouse Walker the same person? In this case, I am going to say there are fundamental differences particularly between Kohlhase and Kohlhaas’s experiences, and those of Coalhouse Walker. A major one is the role that race plays in the destruction of Coalhouse’s property, and his inability to get justice through the police and courts. That Doctorow breaks from the figures he’s “borrowing” in such a significant way could have many potential interpretations. Is he trying to show that he as the author is in complete control and can do whatever he wants? Maybe. I think it’s also likely that he saw this as an opportunity to make a point about racial inequality in America both in the 1910s and 1970s. Through Coalhouse’s story, he can comment on the progress America had made in the 60 years separating the events of Ragtime from his writing about them, while also showing how far there still was and is to go.

Future posts will be for History as Fiction!

Pilate's Death

The moment that surprised me most in Song of Solomon was Pilate’s death. How could Pilate--the most powerful character in the novel, who “piloted” the story, saved Milkman on multiple occasions, and taught him introspection and empathy--die? But the more I reflected on the ending of the novel, the more fitting her death seemed, even if it wasn’t what I had wanted to happen.

In Pilate’s death, her life in many ways comes full circle. She has returned to her family’s place of origin and finally buried the bones of her father, which she had carried with her for decades. Milkman also sings to her as she dies: “Sugargirl don’t leave me here/ Cotton balls to choke me/ Sugargirl don’t leave me here/ Buckra’s arms to yoke me” in an inversion of the opening scene, where her own version of the same song heralds his birth. Pilate’s connection to supernaturality and flight persists even in death. When Milkman sets her body down, a bird swoops down and carries off the earring containing her name that she had worn since her father’s death. Birds are not only symbols of freedom and flight, but are often seen as bridging the human and spiritual worlds much like Pilate did.

Pilate’s death signals the completion of Milkman’s coming of age. She was portrayed throughout the novel as powerful and strong, but compassionate and ultimately a force of good. When Milkman stands back up after her death, he takes on her traits of strength, courage, and empathy and launches himself into the air without a thought as to his own safety. This moment also shows his connection to his family, something Pilate felt deeply, and his taking a decisive course of action for one of the first times in the novel. Also showing the completion of his coming of age is how Guitar refers to him in this scene. Where as Guitar had previously abbreviated “Milkman” to “Milk”, using the childish part of the nickname and dropping the part that implied adulthood and maturity, he calls Milkman “my man” in this scene, dropping the “milk” and using only the second half.

Pilate also changes the way Milkman perceives the notion of flight. The men in the book who fly (Solomon, Macon I, Milkman, Robert Smith, etc.) are portrayed ambiguously. Their flights are dramatic, almost mythical, and take them physically into the air, but at the same time cause incalculable damage to those left behind. In contrast, Pilate’s last words express her compassion, and sorrow that she hadn’t “knowed more people. I would of loved ‘em all. If I’d a knowed more, I would a loved more”. Milkman realizes here that there is more to flight than the physical state that had amazed him as a child.“Now [Milkman] knew why he loved [Pilate] so.Without ever leaving the ground, she could fly.” The defining moment of Milkman’s childhood was when he realized he could not fly, and so it’s only fitting that the moment he becomes an adult is when he realizes there are many forms flight can take.

Milkman’s reaction to Pilate’s death is also reflected in Morrison’s life. In the foreword to Song of Solomon, she writes about her father, and her reaction to his death:

He had a flattering view of me as someone interesting, capable, witty, smart, high-spirited. I did not share that view of myself, and wondered why he held it. But it was the death of that girl--the one who lived in his head--that I mourned when he died. Even more than I mourned him, I suffered the loss of the person he thought I was. (xiii)

Pilate plays the role of a mother-figure in Milkman’s life, and his reaction to her death could be read as the same as Morrison’s reaction to her father’s. Pilate saw in Milkman what he did not see in himself: someone whose life was worth saving on multiple occasions, someone worth lying for and being humiliated for, someone worth loving despite his faults. And through observing this relationship and Pilate’s unconditional love, Milkman began to learn introspection and empathy (think of the scene in the bathtub). When Pilate died, he, like Morrison, lost not only a loved one but a more positive picture of himself and who he could be. It could be argued that much like how Morrison’s father became her muse while writing Song of Solomon, Pilate is Milkman’s inspiration when he launches himself off the cliff and comes to the realization that “if you surrendered to the air, you could ride it”.

Through the Looking Glass

Throughout the semester, we have seen authors use mirrors to represent a character’s sense of self, or to provide additional insight into their personality. Clarissa Dalloway ponders the various aspects of her identity and draws them together into a coherent self in front of a mirror. Jake reflects on his injury while standing in front of a looking glass. When Meursault looks into a mirror, he sees his surroundings but not his reflection. The image of a looking glass is repeated many times throughout Wide Sargasso Sea, and is often used to show tensions within a character.

Antoinette mentions twice that at Coulibri, her mother still “planned and hoped--perhaps she had to hope every time she passed a looking glass”. This portrait of Annette as someone with hopes and plans is not one that we see anywhere else. In the other descriptions of her, she is withdrawn from the world, walking along the glacis talking to herself and rejecting all attempts by Antoinette to reach out to her. Perhaps this line is meant to show that Annette’s mental state was not inevitable or caused by something innate to her personality, but rather brought on by external factors, and that her inner self is still very much human and capable of human emotions. This theme is one that continues to be important throughout the novel.

We also catch a glimpse of the conflict in Rochester’s personality through how he sees himself in a mirror directly after Antoinette gives him the love potion. “I got out of bed without looking at her, staggered into my dressing-room and saw myself in the glass. I turned away at once. I could not vomit. I only retched painfully.” Rochester had been trying to distance himself from Antoinette, having seen her as repulsive and destined for insanity since hearing from Daniel Cosway. However, when she explained her childhood and feelings to him, he started to relent, regretting how he had been treating her and even saying in retrospect that she would not have needed to use the love potion on him. Perhaps his inability to look for long in the mirror symbolizes the conflict between his actions and morals, and how although he had briefly felt more sympathetic towards Antoinette, he is not prepared for the soul-searching and inner strength it would take to reverse his course of action.

Of course, the character that Rhys reveals the most about through this device is Antoinette. Looking glasses are mentioned in connection to her six times over the course of the novel. The first is during the burning of Coulibri when Antoinette runs from her family to Tia, who throws a rock at her. “We stared at each other, blood on my face, tears on hers. It was as if I saw myself. Like in a looking-glass.” Antoinette is rejecting her Cosway identity and running into the mob, but they too do not accept her. Antoinette and Tia see each other as if the other was their own reflection, but there is at the same time a solid and impenetrable barrier between them.

The second time Antoinette talks about seeing herself in a looking glass is when she tells Rochester a story of a previous night at Granbois. Antoinette awoke in the middle of the night to see two gigantic rats in her room. “I could see myself in the looking-glass on the other side of the room, in my white chemise with a frill round the neck, staring at those rats and the rats quite still, staring at me”. This might be a little bit of a stretch, but I think Antoinette catches a glimpse of the future when she looks into the looking glass here. Her white chemise that she sees in the mirror symbolizes her current state of innocence, but the two rats that she is also watching represent her future self and Rochester. Rats are often symbols of betrayal and untrustworthiness, and this could be foreshadowing how their betrayals of each other will destroy Antoinette’s innocence and sense of self.

Twice in Part II, Rochester mentions Antoinette “smiling at herself in her looking-glass”. The first is shortly after they arrive at Granbois, and the second is as they are leaving, when he says that she will never “smile at herself in that damnable looking-glass” again. I think for Rochester, Antoinette’s reflection, like her name, is very much tied to her sense of self. At first when he accepts Antoinette, he finds these things charming. Later, however, he becomes determined to strip her personality and these representations of it away from her. Maybe he even sees her smile as another version of how everyone he encounters seems to be laughing at him. His use of the word “damnable” to describe the mirror at the end of Part II reflects this new violence towards Antoinette, and there is no mirror in the attic room in England where she goes by Bertha Mason.

For Antoinette as well, her reflection in a looking-glass is closely tied to sense of self. At the end of the novel, when she is considered mad by all those around her, she says “names matter, like when he wouldn’t call me Antoinette, and I saw Antoinette drifting out the window with her scents, her pretty clothes and her looking-glass. There is no looking-glass here and I don’t know what I am like now.” In class today we discussed whether or not Antoinette lost her soul at the end of the novel. Whether or not this is the case, she does seem to have lost a key part of her self. But the loss does not seem to be inevitable, nor her madness innate part of who she is. She is not like Meursault who looks in the mirror and sees nothing. Rochester has simply taken away her ability to look.

Creating Meaning out of the Absurd

As I was scrolling through my Instagram feed a few days ago, I saw a Humans of New York video clip that reminded me of The Stranger. A boy wearing a suit was sharing his life motto: “The meaning to life is that there is no meaning, and because of that, you have to make there be a meaning for the people that haven't realized it yet”. In addition to being incredibly insightful, his advice speaks to the same themes that Camus does in The Stranger, and is not as different from Meursault’s worldview as it might seem.

Absurdism, a philosophical school of thought developed by Camus, centers around the conflict between humans’ attempts to find inherent meaning in life and ultimate inability to do so. One key question is how humans should go forward once having recognized this absurdity. Camus and other absurdist philosophers present three possibilities: suicide, belief in the existence of a reality beyond the absurd (whether religious or more general), and acceptance of the absurd. The solution endorsed by Camus, as we see in The Stranger, is the acceptance of the absurd. Meursault detests the fact that the method of his execution forces him to become complicit in hoping his execution succeeds, and hopes in the last line of the novel “that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate” so that he can at least feel defiant despite being powerless (123). Meursault also rejects religion, and any attempts to try and convince him there is greater meaning or a life after this one. The one time we see any display of emotion or passion from Meursault is when he lashes out at the chaplain after his many attempts to reach and sway Meursault. The approach Camus believed in was recognizing the Absurd, but continuing to live and create your own meaning. Meursault seems to have been living with the knowledge that there is no larger meaning in life throughout the novel, but only truly grapples and comes to terms with it in the last chapter, saying “As if that blind rage had washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself--so like a brother, really--I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again”.  He recognizes that the universe is indifferent--there is no greater meaning--but in spite, or perhaps because of this, is happy and able to create some meaning of his own.

This is where I saw the similarities between his outlook and that of the boy interviewed for Humans of New York. Both agree that there is no larger meaning in the universe, and any meaning that humans can find they have to create for themselves. Where their philosophies differ is that Camus would be against perpetuating in any way the “delusion” that there is meaning inherent in the universe, while the boy believes in finding meaning by creating it for others.

Although I’m not going to analyze them in this post, I also found it interesting how relevant some of the comments on the post were to other aspects of The Stranger:

1. “This is a dangerous worldview.”
2. “That’s literally what I think about life. To me life has no meaning, so just enjoy it while it lasts.”
3. “If life has no meaning, why is it a bad thing to go around killing each other?”