The Fran Lebowitz Reader (13 page)

I will introduce you to Soho slowly by noting that this area of downtown Manhattan shares with Mr. Art nary a single characteristic. Up until a few years ago Soho was an obscure district of lofts used chiefly for storage and light manufacturing. It wasn’t called Soho then—it wasn’t called anything because no one ever went there except the people who make Christmas tree ornaments out of styrofoam and glitter or fabric trimmings out of highly colored stretch felt. And say what you will about members of these professions, they are generally, I am
sure, very nice people who not only don’t make those things out of choice but also don’t go around calling obscure districts of Manhattan things like Soho. Ostensibly, Soho is called Soho because it begins South of Houston Street, but if you want my opinion I wouldn’t be too terribly surprised to discover that the person who thought up this name is a person whose circle of friends in 1967 included at least one too many English photographer. It was, of course, a combination of many unattractive things that led to the Soho of today, but quite definitely the paramount factor was the advent of Big Art. Before Big Art came along, painters lived, as God undoubtedly intended them to, in garrets or remodeled carriage houses, and painted paintings of a reasonable size. A painting of a reasonable size is a painting that one can easily hang over a sofa. If a painting cannot be easily hung over a sofa it is obviously a painting painted by a painter who got too big for his brushes and is in fact the very sort of painting responsible for Mr. Art’s chronically curled upper lip. Painters, however, are not the only ones involved here. Modern sculptors, or
those chiselers
as Mr. Art is wont to call them, must bear a good part of the blame, for when clay and marble went out and demolished tractor-trailer trucks came in, Big Art was here to stay.

One day a Big Artist realized that if he took all of the sewing machines and bales of rags out of a three-thousand-square-foot loft and put in a bathroom and kitchen he would be able to live and make Big Art in the same place. He was quickly followed by other Big Artists and they by Big Lawyers, Big Boutique Owners, and Big Rich Kids. Soon there was a Soho and it was positively awash in hardwood floors, talked-to plants, indoor swings, enormous record collections, hiking boots, Conceptual Artists, video communes, Art book stores, Art grocery stores, Art restaurants, Art bars, Art galleries, and boutiques selling tie-dyed raincoats, macramé flower pots, and Art Deco salad plates.

Since the beginning of the Soho of today the only people in New York who have been able to get through a Saturday afternoon without someone calling them on the telephone to suggest that they go down to Soho and look at the Art are those who belong to Black Nationalist organizations. As neither myself nor Mr. Art is a member of such a group, we consider it quite a feather in our mutual cap that we have succumbed to these ofttimes strongly worded suggestions so infrequently, and that on the rare occasions that we have we certainly have not been gracious about it.

A recent Saturday was just such an occasion and here is what we saw:

A girl who would probably have been a welcome addition to the teaching staff of any progressive nursery school in the country had instead taken it upon herself to create out of ceramic clay exact replicas of such leather objects as shoes, boots, suitcases, and belts. There was no question but that she had achieved her goal—one had literally to snap one’s fingernail against each object and hear it ring before one was convinced that what one was snapping one’s fingernail against was indeed ceramic clay and not leather. And one could, of course, choose to ignore Mr. Art as he hissed, “Why bother?” and struck a match across a pair of gloves in order to light one of his aromatic foreign cigarettes.

A young man who had apparently been refused admission to the Boy Scouts on moral grounds had arranged on a shiny oak floor several groups of rocks. He had then murdered a number of adolescent birch trees in order to bend them into vaguely circular shapes and
hang them on the wall. These things were all for sale at prices that climbed well into the thousands. “First of all, imagine actually wanting to
own
any of this stuff,” sneered Mr. Art, “and then imagine not being able to figure out that with an ax and a wheelbarrow you could make it all yourself in a single morning and still have time to talk to your plants.”

Two boys who were really good friends had taken a trip to North Africa. They took a lot of color photographs of bowls, skies, pipes, animals, water, and each other. They had arranged the photographs alphabetically—i.e., A—Ashes, B—Bright sunny day—pasted them to pieces of varnished plywood, written intricately simple little explanations beneath each photograph, and hung them under their appropriate letters. I am compelled to admit that upon viewing this work Mr. Art had to be forcibly restrained from doing bodily harm to himself and those around him.

Someone who had spent a deservedly lonely childhood in movie theaters had gotten hold of a lot of stills from forties films, cut out the faces of the stars, hand-colored them, and pasted them to blow-ups of picture postcards from Hollywood and Las Vegas. “Too camp,” said Mr. Art testily upon being awakened; “they oughta lock ’em all up.”

Scores of nine-by-twelve photo-realist renderings of gas stations, refrigerators, pieces of cherry pie, art collectors,
diners, ’59 Chevys, and Mediterranean-style dining room sets.

Mr. Art and I are presently seeking membership in a Black Nationalist organization. In the meantime we have taken our phone off the hook.

Color is, of course, not wholly without virtue. Shape being insufficient, it is necessary that things possess a certain measure of color in order that they might be distinguished one from the other. It would hardly do if in reaching for a cigarette one picked up a pen and discovered that the prospect of a moment’s relaxation had turned instead into hours of tedious labor. It is, however, doubtful in the extreme that the degree of color demanded by simple distinction bears any relation whatsoever to such a concept as lime green.

I am not, I assure you, totally unreceptive to color providing it makes its appearance quietly, deferentially, and without undue fanfare. I am compelled to make this statement in view of the current popular belief that color is capable of conveying ideas and supplying us with a key to the human personality. This type of thing has become far too prevalent and I for one absolutely and unequivocally refuse to be bullied about by a thing’s capacity to absorb light. There is nothing less appealing than a color fraught with meaning—the very
notion is boisterous, inappropriate, and marked by the dreariest sort of longing.

Due to the urgent nature of this situation it is necessary that purely aesthetic considerations be allied with the equally grave concerns of philosophical error. The entire matter has too long been ignored—a hue and cry are long overdue.

The primary colors are the most blatantly abused. Chief offenders can be divided into two main camps.

First, the graphic design crowd who think that primary colors are both cheering and bold and demonstrate this belief by employing them incessantly in places where people have every right to be depressed. In fact, so widespread is the use of red, yellow, and blue in schools, airports, and cancer hospitals that, should one find oneself with neither textbook nor luggage in a place thus adorned, one could not be accused of overreacting were one to decide to jump.

Second, there are those who endeavor too stridently to impart an aura of passion, childlike innocence, or serenity, depending upon which primary color they have chosen. The concern here is, of course, not with those who use these colors moderately but rather with those who, lacking the personality to get carried away with themselves, are forced instead to get carried away with someone else.

Red is frequently associated with passion because it is the color of fire. Those who take this seriously need to be reminded that there is such a thing as arson.

People who favor yellow with inordinate gusto are attempting to create an air of childlike innocence and sunny optimism. As these particular properties cannot possibly be the reason for the color of warning signals and legal pads, one would be well advised to look both ways before crossing.

Blue is supposed to indicate serenity because it is the supposed color of water, which is supposedly a calm and restful element. In dealing with champions of this hue one could do worse than remember that water is also the favorite environment of sharks and the cause, nine times out of nine, of death by drowning.

The secondary colors—green, orange, and purple—are merely variations on a theme. They, like the primary colors, have their place and are often, I am told, found in nature.

Despite all this I remain, where color is concerned, less than enthusiastic. There are those who contend that without it the world would be a very dull place indeed—and then again there are those who contend that at least it wouldn’t clash.

First off, I want to say that as far as I am concerned, in instances where I have not personally and deliberately sought it out, the only difference between music and Muzak is the spelling. Pablo Casals practicing across the hall with the door open—being trapped in an elevator, the ceiling of which is broadcasting “Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme”—it’s all the same to me. Harsh words? Perhaps. But then again these are not gentle times we live in. And they are being made no more gentle by this incessant melody that was once real life.

There was a time when music knew its place. No longer. Possibly this is not music’s fault. It may be that music fell in with a bad crowd and lost its sense of common decency. I am willing to consider this. I am willing even to try and help. I would like to do my bit to set music straight in order that it might shape up and leave the mainstream of society. The first thing that music must understand is that there are two kinds of
music—good music and bad music. Good music is music that I want to hear. Bad music is music that I don’t want to hear.

So that music might more clearly see the error of its ways I offer the following. If you are music and you recognize yourself on this list, you are bad music.

There are times when I find myself spending the night in the home of another. Frequently the other is in a more reasonable line of work than I and must arise at a specific hour. Ofttimes the other, unbeknownst to me, manipulates an appliance in such a way that I am awakened by Stevie Wonder. On such occasions I announce that if I wished to be awakened by Stevie Wonder I would sleep with Stevie Wonder. I do not, however, wish to be awakened by Stevie Wonder and that is why God invented alarm clocks. Sometimes the other realizes that I am right. Sometimes the other does not. And that is why God invented
many
others.

I do not under any circumstances enjoy hold buttons. But I am a woman of reason. I can accept reality. I can face the facts. What I cannot face is the music. Just as there are two kinds of music—good and bad—so there are two kinds of hold buttons—good and bad. Good hold buttons are hold buttons that hold one silently. Bad hold buttons are hold buttons that hold one musically. When I hold I want to hold silently. That is the way it was meant to be, for that is what God was talking about when he said, “Forever hold your peace.” He would have added, “and quiet,” but he thought you were smarter.

The past few years have seen a steady increase in the number of people playing music in the streets. The past few years have also seen a steady increase in the number of malignant diseases. Are these two facts related? One wonders. But even if they are not—and, as I have pointed out, one cannot be sure—music in the streets has definitely taken its toll. For it is at the very least disorienting. When one is walking down Fifth Avenue, one does not expect to hear a string quartet playing a Strauss waltz. What one expects to hear while walking down Fifth Avenue is traffic. When one does indeed hear a string quartet playing a Strauss waltz while one is walking down Fifth Avenue, one is apt to become confused and imagine that one is not walking down Fifth Avenue at all but rather that one has somehow wound up in Old Vienna. Should one imagine that one is in Old Vienna one is likely to become quite upset when one realizes that in Old Vienna there is no sale at Charles Jourdan. And that is why when I walk down Fifth Avenue I want to hear traffic.

I’m not talking about musicals. Musicals are movies that warn you by saying, “Lots of music here. Take it or leave it.” I’m talking about regular movies that extend no such courtesy but allow unsuspecting people to come to see them and then assault them with a barrage of unasked-for tunes. There are two major offenders in this category: black movies and movies set in the fifties. Both types of movies are afflicted with the same misconception. They don’t know that movies are supposed to be movies. They think that movies are supposed to be records with pictures. They have failed to understand that if God
had wanted records to have pictures, he would not have invented television.

When I am in any of the above-mentioned places I am not there to hear music. I am there for whatever reason is appropriate to the respective place. I am no more interested in hearing “Mack the Knife” while waiting for the shuttle to Boston than someone sitting ringside at the Sands Hotel is interested in being forced to choose between sixteen varieties of cottage cheese. If God had meant for everything to happen at once, he would not have invented desk calendars.