In "Sunday Morning," Wallace Stevens presents us with a modern woman torn between sensual enjoyment of the present and spiritual traditions rooted in the past. So what if one is supposed to attend church on Sunday morning: can't one also be fulfilled by pleasures of the body? The poem begins:
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug, mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.
As the poem progresses, it's increasingly clear that substituting sense for spirit is no more than whistling past the graveyard. No matter how enjoyable these pleasures of the body can be (the soft touch of a peignoir or gown, the smell and taste of coffee and oranges, the visual spectacle of the cockatoo), the body will eventually die ("The pungent oranges and bright, green wings / Seem things in some procession of the dead"), and this death of the body must remind us of the renunciation of flesh that we associate with Christ's spiritual transcendence.
Oddly, I had this poem in mind over the weekend, which partook more of the spirit of Mardi Gras than Lent. (I am not now nor have I ever been a Catholic, but I grew up familiar with the cultural forms of Catholicism, and, even at an early age, found myself intrigued by its rituals and observances. California Catholicism, however, may differ from that we see practiced elsewhere: true story, I never noticed people with Ash Wednesday ash on their forehead until I moved to Boston.)
On Good Friday, a friend was in town, and we went to the aesthetic spectacle that is the Whitney Biennial, and later stuffed ourselves at Blue Smoke Barbecue, eating a meal heavy on ribs (flesh, flesh, flesh!!) and bourbon. Holy Saturday began well, spiritually speaking - a visit to the "Byzantium: Faith and Power" exhibit at the Met (which I enjoyed, especially those parts of the show that revealed moments of cultural hybridity: the blend of Islamic and Byzantine artistic traditions in one period, for example, or Byzantine and Italian conventions in another) - but ended in a performance of Salome. The Oscar Wilde play that Strauss adapted for the opera's libretto was noteworthy (and scandalous) in its day for telling a biblical story without much attention to spiritual uplift. The play/opera isn't devoid of morality - Salome is ultimately punished by death - but its quick, moral end may not be enough to counter the effect of the rest of the drama, which revels in sensual and sexual decadence, including, in this production, a dance of the seven veils that concludes with a bustier-wearing Salome doing a pole-dance against the cistern where John the Baptist will soon be beheaded, before ripping off all her clothes and standing naked in front of a startled Herod, and an equally startled audience. (Karita Mattila's performance as the title character has already achieved legendary, "once in a generation" status; thankfully, the Met made a late decision to record it for future DVD and/or PBS distribution.) Having gone off the sensual deep end, what better way to end the evening than a carnal trip to burger joint? My friend, having found Salome's lap-dance aspect a bit much, abstained from the pleasures of beefy flesh, so maybe morality isn't dead after all. After all this, Easter Sunday seemed uneventful, but in the spirit of the holiday, I hereby renounce beef for the rest of the month!! It seems a small step, but it's probably the least I can do.
Posted by gminter at April 12, 2004 11:40 AM