Hockey’s back, and I experienced a lovely moment of related sensory overload this evening. After dropping off a friend in Bridgeport, I drove to the end of the block while fiddling with the radio tuner. At the stop sign I looked up to see Cellular One Field just ahead, bathed in light as the White Sox battled the Red Sox in a Very Important Playoff Game inside. Just then, I successfully tuned in the local hockey game as the puck was about to be dropped–the first NHL hockey I had seen or heard in 16 months was really, truly happening! For a few seconds there, before I turned toward the expressway, the glowing not-Comiskey, surrounded by a meaningful-looking halo of light, stood for my thrill at hearing the sounds of hockey again after a long silence. It was kind of like experiencing a synesthesia of the sports rather than the senses. I don’t believe they’ve yet concocted a technical term for that.

I’ve more or less composed myself by now, but let me indulge in just a wee hockey story to mark the end of Canada’s long national nightmare, and mine.

Sam [Pollock] was very impressed with how scientific football coaching had become, and so for a while he tried to adapt their methods to our game. He would wander the highest reaches of the Forum, searching out patterns of play, and if he detected something he would quickly radio Busher Curry, who would be pacing the gangway, a plug in his ear. No sooner would the Busher get Sam’s message than he would rush up to Bowman with the words of wisdom. Once, when we were leading the Bruins here, 3-2, with a couple of minutes to go, Sam, watching above, got on the radio to the Busher, who immediately rushed to the bench with the message for Scotty, which Scotty passed on to us. The message was “Sam says don’t let them score on you.”

That’s Doug Risebrough, quoted in Mordecai Richler’s Dispatches from the Sporting Life.

I see that the archived version of Terry’s and my radio appearance is now available on the Hello Beautiful! website. If you listen, which I recommend, you’ll get to hear Terry say a lot of very smart things and you’ll get to hear me throw in a few choice adjectives! But most of all, you’ll get to hear a thoroughly fascinating interview with Stephen Lang, the actor, writer, and director of the one-man show Beyond Glory, appearing at Chicago’s Goodman Theatre through October 16th. Moreover, you’ll hear taped excerpts from this astounding show, as well as live ones that Lang recreated in the studio during his live interview with host Edward Lifson. Trust me, this is an interview worth listening to and, especially, a show worth seeing.

I haven’t had anything to say in print about August Wilson’s death, and won’t, because it happens that I haven’t seen all that much of his work. I rarely sought it out before my midlife conversion to drama criticism–it never sounded like my sort of thing–and Gem of the Ocean, the only play of his I’ve had occasion to review
for The Wall Street Journal, struck me at the time as “far too self-consciously poetic,” which for me is the kiss of dramatic death.

I wish I were in a stronger position to stick my oar in, since yesterday’s journalistic elegies for Wilson were (to put it mildly) fairly windy. If I had to guess, I’d say that my negative impression of his style, even though it’s only based on a couple of his plays, would probably be sustained were I to see five more of them in a row next week, and unlike many of my colleagues, I see nothing wrong with speaking ill of the recently dead, so long as you didn’t wait until they died to say what you really thought of them.

On the other hand, I also don’t believe in expressing broad-gauge opinions about artists based on insufficient experience of their art. To be sure, I’ve been around long enough to know that many, perhaps most artists are in some fundamental sense pretty much all of a piece. (If you don’t like one Clyfford Still painting, you probably won’t like any of them.) But I’ve also been known to change my mind
about artists and works of art as I get to know them better–sometimes quite dramatically.

To quote from the essay to which I just linked:

I’ve changed my mind about art more than once, and I’ve learned that I not infrequently start by disliking something and end up liking it. Not always–sometimes I decide on closer acquaintance that a novel or painting isn’t as good as I’d thought. More often, though, I realize that it was necessary for me to grow into a fuller understanding of a work of art to which my powers of comprehension were not at first equal.

The music critic Hans Keller said something shrewd about this phenomenon: “As soon as I detest something, I ask myself why I like it.” I try to keep that in mind whenever I cover a premiere. I don’t mean to say that critics should be wishy-washy, but we should also remember that strong emotions sometimes masquerade as their opposite.

As I say, my guess is that I’m never going to end up liking August Wilson. I know my own taste well enough to suspect as much. But if he really was as good a playwright as his recent obituarists claim, then I’ll surely have plenty of opportunities to change my mind in the years to come.

And in the meantime? As Ludwig Wittgenstein so famously said, “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.” So I was.

UPDATE: Here’s a dissent on Wilson (in a predictable place).

One of the most popular pieces in the Teachout Museum (which I showed off to a New York art critic yesterday afternoon, and which I’ll be showing to a curious artist tomorrow) is Jane Freilicher’s Late Afternoon, Southampton. I’ve written about Freilicher more than once, both here and elsewhere, most extensively in a 2002 “Second City” column in which I described her as

one of the chronically underrated group of New York-based representationalists who learned invaluable lessons in composition and paint handling from the abstract expressionists. Freilicher’s subject matter is conventional–landscapes, skylines, still lifes–and her palette is soft and even-toned, so much so that you might well be tempted at first glance to dismiss her subtle style as bland. Instead, take a long look at “Dark Afternoon,”
in which a fractured cubist cityscape serves as backdrop for two houseplants placed on a Cezanne-like tabletop that thrusts them out at the viewer. My guess is that “Dark Afternoon,” like most of the other paintings in this lovely show, would be a satisfying work to live with, one that gives up its quiet secrets gradually but never completely….

Alas, Freilicher’s paintings as yet hang in few museums, but if your interest has been piqued by any of the above links, a handsome coffee-table monograph about her work was published earlier this year. Jane Freilicher, by Klaus Kertess (Harry N. Abrams, 176 pp., $60), contains more than 150 beautifully reproduced images, plus an accompanying text that tells everything you could possibly want to know about an American artist decidedly worthy of wider recognition.

Put it on your Christmas list–or just give it to yourself.

– Advance paid to Dawn Powell by Scribner’s in 1947 for her novel The Locusts Have No King: $1,500

– The same amount in today’s dollars, courtesy of Inflation Calculator: $14,196.28

(Source: Tim Page, Dawn Powell)

The soil now gets a rumpling soft and damp,

And small regard to the future of any weed.

The final flat of the hoe’s approval stamp

Is reserved for the bed of a few selected seed.

Wind goes from farm to farm in wave on wave,

But carries no cry of what is hoped to be.

There may be little or much beyond the grave,

But the strong are saying nothing until they see.

Robert Frost, “The Strong Are Saying Nothing”

Count me overjoyed, elated, and ecstatic that the early word on the Wallace and Gromit movie is positive:

“Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit” has forced me to ponder the deepest mysteries of cinema. Why, for instance, do certain faces haunt and move us as they do?

I am thinking of Gromit, the mute and loyal animated dog whose selflessness and intelligence can be counted on, when things get really crazy, to save the day. Gromit has no mouth, and yet his face is one of the most expressive ever committed to the screen. In particular, his brow–a protuberance overhanging his spherical, googly eyes–is an almost unmatched register of emotion. Resignation, worry, tenderness and disgust all come alive in that plasticine nub. To keep matters within the DreamWorks menagerie, you might compare Gromit to Shrek, who has the genetic advantages of Mike Myers’s Scots burr, a bevy of celebrity-voiced sidekicks and rivals, and state-of-the-art computer-animation technology. Good for him. But Gromit, made by hand and animated by a painstaking stop-motion process, has something Shrek will never acquire in a hundred sequels: a soul.

I had a good feeling about this, and not only on the basis of “The Wrong Trousers” and the other delightful shorts. When I somewhat unaccountably went to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory over the summer, the high point of the screening was, by a very wide margin, the trailer for Were-Rabbit.

“So what this writer impressed on me was the fundamental importance of time management, of routine in the life of a writer, that you had to use routine like a tool, like a fulcrum and lever for heavy lifting.”

Michael Ruhlman, House: A Memoir