12.11.2003
"the napoleon of crime"
well, I’ve finally finished "the napoleon of crime" by ben macintyre, (a recommendation from the lovely olivia) and it can best be described as a tale of lyrical Victorian hypocrisy (hahaha)…
the book tells the impressively novel-like (but true) story of adam worth, alias henry j. raymond— a master thief most known for his capture of thomas gainsborough’s controversial portrait, "the duchess of devonshire". worth was the perfect embodiment of the familiar cliché of "honor among thieves." he went to great lengths to avoid the betrayal of a colleague… he loathed violence and drunken-ness of any kind… and still he managed to make a living stealing what eventually amounted to millions, all across europe and the states (and briefly, even in africa). meanwhile, his peculiar and stubborn tactics won the deep admiration and eventual friendship of william pinkerton, of the legendary, crook-catching, pinkerton agency.
macintyre writes like a storyteller rather than a biographer, and the book is a fun ride from beginning to end. he transforms the theft of the gainsborough into an emblem of romantic obsession, with an arsenal of strange facts as his structure (such as worth’s estrangement from one-time lover kitty flynn or the scandalous, erotic history of the painting itself). but the most peculiar element, in my opinion, is the three-decade-long love/hate relationship between worth and william pinkerton, who would transform from the ultimate emblem of his capture to the literal (albeit covert) benefactor of worth’s son, following the thief’s passing.
it’s got me thinking about morality, and how ineffective morality can spiral one’s life off into strange and poetic paths. worth put a polite and pomaded face atop his machiavellian inner beast, and considered himself throughout a gentlemanly aristocrat. pinkerton, on the other hand, so immersed himself in a lifelong pursuit of criminals that he increasingly found few others with which to identify. the climatic "pact" between the two men, in which the famous "duchess" returns from her years of hostage, is the product of a hilariously convoluted sense of "honor," yet one that is strangely sympathetic as well. it’s funny how bonds, for lack of a better word, always seem to overpower basic rights and wrongs, and how the trail of justifications flowers accordingly.
all of which reminds me of one of my favorite concepts of nietzsche’s "zarathustra"—I’ll leave this post with an except from the "of the friend" chapter of thus spoke zarathustra:
"If you want a friend, you must also be willing to wage war for him: and to wage war, you must be capable of being an enemy."
(that's from page 82 of the R.J. Hollingdale translated, Penguin Classic edition)
the book tells the impressively novel-like (but true) story of adam worth, alias henry j. raymond— a master thief most known for his capture of thomas gainsborough’s controversial portrait, "the duchess of devonshire". worth was the perfect embodiment of the familiar cliché of "honor among thieves." he went to great lengths to avoid the betrayal of a colleague… he loathed violence and drunken-ness of any kind… and still he managed to make a living stealing what eventually amounted to millions, all across europe and the states (and briefly, even in africa). meanwhile, his peculiar and stubborn tactics won the deep admiration and eventual friendship of william pinkerton, of the legendary, crook-catching, pinkerton agency.
macintyre writes like a storyteller rather than a biographer, and the book is a fun ride from beginning to end. he transforms the theft of the gainsborough into an emblem of romantic obsession, with an arsenal of strange facts as his structure (such as worth’s estrangement from one-time lover kitty flynn or the scandalous, erotic history of the painting itself). but the most peculiar element, in my opinion, is the three-decade-long love/hate relationship between worth and william pinkerton, who would transform from the ultimate emblem of his capture to the literal (albeit covert) benefactor of worth’s son, following the thief’s passing.
it’s got me thinking about morality, and how ineffective morality can spiral one’s life off into strange and poetic paths. worth put a polite and pomaded face atop his machiavellian inner beast, and considered himself throughout a gentlemanly aristocrat. pinkerton, on the other hand, so immersed himself in a lifelong pursuit of criminals that he increasingly found few others with which to identify. the climatic "pact" between the two men, in which the famous "duchess" returns from her years of hostage, is the product of a hilariously convoluted sense of "honor," yet one that is strangely sympathetic as well. it’s funny how bonds, for lack of a better word, always seem to overpower basic rights and wrongs, and how the trail of justifications flowers accordingly.
all of which reminds me of one of my favorite concepts of nietzsche’s "zarathustra"—I’ll leave this post with an except from the "of the friend" chapter of thus spoke zarathustra:
"If you want a friend, you must also be willing to wage war for him: and to wage war, you must be capable of being an enemy."
(that's from page 82 of the R.J. Hollingdale translated, Penguin Classic edition)
12.09.2003
political dali
i decided to take a glance at the counterpunch site today, since it keeps appearing in the ever-bewildering "related searches" section of my blogspot ad (alongside things such as "sprockets" and-- weirdest of all-- "andrew sullivan"). at any rate, i came across a surprising article about salvador dali and fascism. i've never been much of a fan of dali. i find his technique too controlling, and it's hard to get past the obvious in his content (not to mention the attended legacy of puzzles, calendars, lava lamps, etc., but i can't exactly fault him for that). but i have found his peculiar writings worth a look back in grad school... and having a general interest in surrealism and its social climate, i was surprised to read about his long term support for the franco regime. knowing little about dali outside of his artistic concerns (not to mention precious little about franco, which i'd like to remedy), i can't comment too much about this. but i will say that my concept of bohemia becomes trickier and trickier the older i get, as does any designation of someone/something as "anti-establishment." definace strikes me as something in constant need of fine tuning (and yet, as a painter, i pray i still have some basic instruments of piss-and-vinegar at my disposal).
