Barack Obama – My Own RE:public

A right royal Welfare Queen

In the process of posting at the end of last year on the film Passing, I considered Imani Perry’s review of that film, and in glancing Perry’s Wikipedia profile I was alerted to her role in a recent interesting art transaction; from which arose questions to do with ownership of art and the responsibilities that come with that – to the artist and to the public arena.

As reported here at Artnet, Perry was in fact the owner of the Amy Sherold painting Welfare Queen (2012), which was sold at auction for a sum way beyond the estimate. Controversy ensued on a number of fronts. Firstly, Sherold’s own dissatisfaction that this work which she herself sold to the fledgling collector Perry, for the first time and under generous circumstances, a decade ago, should now be auctioned; destination unknown. (Sherold articulates her disquiet on the matter in a statement to Culture Type.) And this leads, of course, and as the Artnet piece considers, to the matter of re-sale equity conditions. Mostly one would think in “royalties” (no pun intended!) but equally so in terms of due “care”, and I think it is this latter that grates so at the artist. Perhaps not all, not even most, artists have this as an imperative, but it seems for this Black woman artist a transaction has more worth than the almighty dollar; rather is an act of passing on the guardianship of her work, her art, her intent. An honorable intent.

Welfare Queen, oil on canvas, Amy Sherold, 2012.

In her lot essay for Phillips (something else that raised eyebrows; normally the prerogative of a qualified other, not the collector), and the above video, Imani Perry enthusiastically states her highest regard for the artist and the painting, and (in the essay) her wish that the new owner will be similarly disposed. I suppose it is no one else’s concern … well, Amy Sherold may be entitled to a legitimate interest … but one has to wonder, should the painting have meant so much to Perry, why on earth did she unload it at all, let alone let it loose to the highest bidder in the capitalistic playground of the auction house? As I say: not my business! For Ms. Perry: good business, perhaps. As I write, I can’t track the buyer which seems to indicate that it was not purchased by a public gallery and is destined for another private collection. Hopefully, one with an interest in its public display, because, for all the reasons Perry says, it is a powerful work that invites reflection and identification in many ways, and especially in respect to stereotyping – based on race, gender, class – created very often through political expediency and becoming entrenched through language (‘welfare queen’) into societal norms.

Diverting, I also note that in her essay Imani Perry remarks upon the painting being a constant companion and inspiration during the last years and in the course of her own creative endeavors, right up to the writing of her latest book, so I should mention that that book, South to America – A Journey Below the Mason-Dixon to Understand the Soul of a Nation, was in fact published last month by Harper Collins. There is a sample reading on the publisher’s website, an adapted essay (regarding New Orleans) at The New York Times and also there, a (middling to good) review by Tayari Jones.

Should you be unsure of quite where to place Amy Sherold, you may remember, as I do, her celebrated 2018 portrait of Michelle Obama; now hanging in the National Portrait Gallery in Washington. Well, usually! For now I see, through until May this year, it is on a nationwide tour – with its other half so to speak!

When words matter

We are witnessing the beginning of the end of a fantastically failed presidency; the state of the society that facilitated it, and which is to be left in its wake, is yet to unfold and reveal itself, let alone to be told.

Here, in this space, I have been very disciplined in my restraint, and (mostly) suffered and seethed in silence; words are not all that matter, but sometimes really are there to be said…

As things would have it, the events of the last weeks, culminating in yesterday’s mayhem, have coincided with my immersion in Barack Obama’s memoir covering his first years in office. And as my reading, too, approaches its end, it does so leaving me much informed, much reminded of things worth remembering, sometimes irritated, and very often touched by beautifully rendered human moments – full of warmth, humour, regret.

Obama makes the intricacies of finance and health reform and the complications of composing and passing of legislation eminently readable. (Though, and especially in terms of finance reform, I was sometimes overwhelmed with initialisms and acronyms – for legislation, programs, committees, etc.) International relations and foreign and defence policy concerns are usually presented with a brief historical discourse that places the matter at hand in context – for instance, I particularly liked his preludes to discussions on Saudi Arabia (on his visit there) or to Iran (when the nuclear capabilities issue came to the fore). What I liked somewhat less was Obama’s tendency to see fit to describe the physical attributes of others. I mean, we know what Vladimir Putin (“…a wrestler’s build…”) and Benjamin Netanyahu (“…built like a line backer…”) look like. And, perhaps the “high-fiving”, “firing-ups”, “freaking outs” and the like, irritate a little the non-American ear. On the other hand, I “know” Barack Obama well enough to recognise such colloquialisms as genuinely being an aspect of his way of expression, and authenticity in voice is surely what one wants from a testimony such as this.

When did I last think of this. The catastrophe of Deepwater Horizon seems such a long time ago, and affecting a coastal region I once passed through even longer ago, but deserves not to be easily forgot: as an event in and of itself, but beyond that, what it has to say about the world’s insatiable consumption of fossil fuel. And, Obama tells us that little Sasha came into the bathroom one morning whilst he was shaving and enquired: “Did you plug the hole yet, Daddy?”; a tone Obama sets throughout – of seriousness and reflection blended with glimpses into the intimate family life that was being lived, parallel to, and sometimes intersecting with, the job at hand. There are any number of snippets of repartee with Mrs. Obama and their daughters and interactions with his staff and others, of observations and afterthoughts, which reflect a wonderful mix of wit and intelligence, and a basic goodness that is rarer than we would like to imagine.

So, it is then, that every other day, I have been reading the former President’s account, and every other day waking up to, or retiring of an evening with, the reality of this perversely “other” presidency, or the closing act of absurd theatre – or both. And, wondering where the line is to be drawn, if in fact a line can be drawn, between performance and all its component parts. Is Trump playing a role? Or is he the role? And for all those who enabled – who set the scene, supported from the wings, propped up – does the show go on with a new cast? And, when Trump exits the stage (or be dragged from it!) in a few days time, what will be his legacy, or more precisely, what extent the wreckage he leaves behind? Surely, there will neither be the traditional memoir nor Presidential library – a historian’s nightmare in years to come; explaining this era without the defining subject’s testimony.

Words matter. What is said and written matters. Words inspire and words incite. The 44th and 45th Presidents of the United States have proved that; each casting long shadows that could not be more different. And the 46th? Mediocrity incarnate one could reasonably suggest, uninspired. Perhaps. But, a Biden presidency will at least offer some respite, and with good will (and some luck) allow in its warmer shadow a new generation of political leadership to form.

Just a phone call away

Former NYT star critic, Michiko Kakutani, makes a return to talk with Barack Obama about A Promised Land – the book and all the books that led to it, and the land, and all the promises it makes – sometimes fulfilling them and just as often not. One could say her piece (based on an extended telephone conversation) confirms what one already knows about Obama’s intellectual and literary influences, but it does also reveal a few new things. For instance, about his method of writing – not a disciplined keeper of a diary, rather a collector of fragmentary anecdotes; digitally inclined when it comes to research; very analogue – legal pad and favourite pen – when it comes to the writing.

In her opening paragraph, Kakutani refers to A Promised Land as being, beyond the expected historical record, also “an introspective self-portrait”. Perhaps, not exactly the same thing, but Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie, in fact missed “true self-revelation” and bemoaned Obama’s (too) cool detachment. Nor does Kakutani insinuate any discomfort with his handling of race issues, unlike Adichie who is frustrated by what she identifies as his tendency towards misplaced evenhandedness. But, then, Kakutani is not writing a critique. What they both do agree on, though, is the fineness of the prose and the pleasure of the reading experience, and the service done in giving an enthralling account of an extraordinary (too) few years.

Any hesitancy I may initially have had about diving into such a meaty tome – fearing somewhat the insider policy-speak that comes with most political memoirs – was quickly assuaged. Obama talks to us! Every other passage, every turn of phrase, one may well imagine coming from his lips – just without the ums and ahs! The complexities of politics are so well packaged in familiar real world scenarios, and without a preponderance of technical jargon, that they should be understandable to most, and, more importantly perhaps, are embedded in the common warmth of a life being lived.

Asked about what he is reading now, I am absolutely unsurprised that Obama has turned, amongst other things, to Jack for some respite. It would not need me to bring to his attention the significance of his return to Marilynne Robinson’s “Gilead” opus just now; the first story of which had accompanied him as he traipsed around Iowa in 2007, at the beginning of an odyssey that could have led nowhere, but instead to the highest echelons of power. Did he ever imagine that the (once) “bright radical star” of the Union would play such an important role in his life?

Granted, I must confess, I am only a couple of hundred pages in – chronologically speaking, the first weeks of his presidency – and as one unable to confine myself to just one Lektüre at a time, I do have some reading ahead of me, but I look forward every day to a bit more. And, I will most definitely have more to say.

Obama again, and then enough…

…until I read this tome that arrived on my doorstep the day after publication – courtesy the enormous first printing that demanded a “Printed in Germany on acid-free paper” component!

My copy of “A Promised Land” , Crown Publishers, 2020.

Liked very much this interview given to David Olusoga on BBC Radio 4 – to be followed (from December 14th for two weeks) with an abridged reading of A Promised Land by Barack Obama himself.

David Olusoga has written an accompaniment of a sort for The Guardian, which is an interesting extension to his interview experience and his not terribly optimistic personal observations of the United States post-4 Years Trump.

And a musical accompaniment there must be!

And the winner is…

…all the books listed and fiction and lovers of the same one could say, but (with the exception of last year!) there can only be one winner of The 2020 Booker Prize, and that is Shuggie Bain, written by Douglas Stuart.

Shuggie Bain by Douglas Stuart

On the BBC Radio 4 “Front Row” page there is (for the moment at least) a video of last night’s event hosted by John Wilson, in that hybrid digital mix – in person, far away, on tape – that we have become more use to than we would like this year – nominees keeping their distance, and others likewise, and Wilson, Margaret Busby and Bernadine Evaristo at the “Round House” in Camden. But I must say all were stoical, and found a very fine tone.

Margaret Busby, reminds me that her work as a publisher over decades has been instrumental in the diversification of talent, especially Black talent, in the UK – it may be only now that she sees, we see, the fruits of her labour. Evaristo, as representative of this. And Ishiguro and Atwood, that a Booker is nice but a body of work is better. President Obama – he, presumably responsible for the rescheduling – prompts me to remember at least of one of the reasons I forgive him his shortcomings: his love of books, and belief in the power of fiction. The Duchess of Cornwall; that royal patronage is not without its virtues, and you can love horses and Charles and also words.

Forget the gripe about the transatlantic bias, what a “great looking” group it was zooming in from afar, what choice readings we heard; more than enough reasons to read their work. Given the difficulties of this year, the Booker has done a very good job, and their jury to be congratulated.

A short story, a loving tribute & a long review

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Another one, most favoured by many, and by me; so elegant her prose, so singular her voice. And, here is Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie now, with three quite different pieces of writing, but all seeped with ideas about belonging – to family, to nation; about losing – those we love, freedoms taken for granted; and about fickle power – as a tool to control or to set one free. All are recent, very recent, very contemporaneous in style and subject and intent.

Firstly, Zikora. As modest a work as it is in terms of length, so wide its sociological and psychological scope; and all displayed in the compact first person narrative of a successful professional Nigerian woman, Zikora, about to give birth surrounded by the cool accoutrements of western medicine. At her side, the mother who she does not know how to please, and in the conspicuous absence of a partner, Kwame, deemed “perfect” and then to do “a runner”, and from whom she struggles to let go, and all the while reflecting upon her complicated Nigerian family and their complicated relationships, the awkwardness of her place as an African woman in the United States where her Blackness is always writ large. And, in the end, wondering herself why she persisted in forgiving the men who did her wrong – Kwame was not the first, and then there is the father who had deserted her mother (and her) and started another family, but whose attention she still craved. And when it is over, a new life brought into the world, a realisation is in the dawning that just as her thoughts flew to Lagos and her impossible family, it is alone her mother who has flown to her; her difficult, impossible to please mother who never left her and was with her now.

Interesting, in another respect, is that Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie has chosen to publish this through Amazon. I dare say this will not impress some, but it does actually make sense for a “small” work at a small price that she would have wanted to make available to as many people as possible.

This links to Amazon.de in Germany (because that’s where I am) but it is of course at every other Amazon out there in the big wide world.

(Hilary) Mantel pieces

I recall a piece about Hilary Mantel in The Guardian the other day, which mentioned a forthcoming collection of essays; and I was immediately taken by the title: “Mantel Pieces”. This I thought very clever indeed – a nice play with name in the first instance, and then there is the association to fireplace which extends to frame and flame, warmth and light, kindle and burn, etc., and extended then to the shelf above – a piece, a place of display and decoration. Many attributes that could well apply to a fine piece of writing. And certainly to most everything put to page by Hilary Mantel.

Maybe it was that I was just a little too interested in what Mantel had to say about not making the Booker shortlist (pragmatic and gracious, of course!), or maybe it was not said; for whatever reason I failed to get that the collection does in fact comprise her contributions to the London Review of Books over thirty odd years, and this I register only now on reading this blog entry at the LRB. (A delightfully informative blog entry by the way; fulfilling the requirements as stipulated by the marketing department!) Mantel Pieces, then, is a compilation of twenty essays or reviews and, even more tantalising, each is accompanied by fragments of correspondence (for instance, with the editor Mary-Kay Wilmers) or artwork relating to the piece.

Fact-checking my own recollection: in fact, the subject matter of the collection was NOT said in the abovementioned Guardian article – only the October publication date. What it did say and I should add, is that at the moment Hilary Mantel is busily at work adapting The Mirror and the Light for the stage (alas, there is no mention yet of a continuation to the BBC television effort), and so, even if inclined to, she has little time to cry in her teacups, and obviously maintains an air of optimism in terms of a return to normality in the theatrical landscape in London.

And, diverting slightly, more generally speaking on the politics of book awards, I note the following:

As I predicted, there does appear again to be murmurings about the probity of opening up of the Booker to US authors (coming mostly from the conservative media in the UK granted), but Hilary Mantel is otherwise inclined and accepts the diversification argument and encourages British and Commonwealth authors to accept the challenge of greater competition. As I said: gracious. I was actually quite peeved, specifically about the Mantel omission and more generally am sceptical of conflating powerful US book market interests with good literature !
And then, this just read in the NYT, which is illustrative of the above said, and is some affirmation of my argument:

…another major literary event threatens to make an already overcrowded fall publishing season even more chaotic: the release of former President Barack Obama’s memoir, “A Promised Land.”
On Tuesday, the Booker Prize said it was moving its award ceremony, previously scheduled for Nov. 17, to Nov. 19 to avoid overlapping with the publication of Mr. Obama’s book…
…[this]could also fuel new criticism that the prize, originally established in 1969 to honor writers from Commonwealth countries and the Republic of Ireland, has become too Americanized and increasingly focused on the U.S. book market. American authors have dominated the Booker nominees in recent years, following a 2014 rule change that made any novel written in English and published in the U.K. eligible…

It is clear, the book business (and when all’s said and done awards are after all just another element of merchandising) operates on a global scale as with most everything else these days – for good or ill, and that is unlikely to change.

Yes, yes…I get it that the Booker people fear their winner will go under in the Barack Obama hype, it is just that I consider their argument somewhat specious – many, many people will read Obama and a lot, lot less people will read a fine contemporary novel, and some will read both, and maybe I am the latter, but they are hardly works in competition to each other. More honest would have been to admit to kowtowing to the pressure of monolithic publishing companies.

The good news is: in former President Obama, we have an ardent reader, from whom we can expect each summer one of his cult reading lists, which is sure to include National Book Award and Booker nominees and unknown gems and certainly NOT a de rigeur presidential afterlife – granted he has no reason to read a thousand pages of politicking; he lived it to write it!