Arrival and the Translator

Ted Chiang wrote this character, Amy Adams acted her out in the film Arrival.  She’s a quiet, solitary academic.  A translator.  A de-coder of languages that are not her own.  She is tapped to decipher the non-verbal, pictographic language of alien visitors.

The metaphors here are just so good.  The female translator, Louise Banks, beats her male competition to become the translator of aliens by correctly translating the Sanskrit term for ‘war’ as meaning ‘a desire for more cows.’  Not bulls, but cows.  Not male beef, but female fecundity and nurturance.

At the crucial moment, when governments worldwide are misunderstanding the aliens and shutting down communications in order to aim munitions, Banks speaks up.  She shouts, “we need to be talking to one another!”  She knows that cooperation is necessary.  The men in the room aren’t listening.  So she walks out to have a private, nonverbal conference with alien beings.

Louise learns an alien language, sees and hears echos from the future, and then she saves the world.  The pivotal message is spoken over a stolen telephone, in Chinese without subtitles.  She speaks aloud, just as she receives the same message in her ear from the future, from the person she is speaking to.  Louise is echoing the words of a man’s dead wife over the telephone.  This echo of female voices alters the fate of humanity.  The voice of the woman heralds arrival and survival.

all stills from Arrival, Dir: Denis Villeneuve, Paramount Pictures, 2016

Eleanor Antin: AND!

“And, But and Or,

They’ll get you pretty far.”

CONJUNCTIONthis&thatsmall

 

 

 

I began thinking about AND while visiting an exhibit of an artist who embodies AND.  Eleanor Antin is an artist who can draw and write and perform and direct.  She creates work that is conceptual and sensuous.  She performs as a ballerina and a king and a nurse.  She just kept saying AND.  Her work kept showing me AND.  Her work started me echoing AND.

AND is the persistence of freedom, of resisting confinement by label or convention, of singing even when silenced, even if only in the privacy of the cave.  AND is the redeemer of But.

Late-born and woman-souled I dare not hope,

The freshness of the elder lays, the might

Of manly, modern passion shall alight

Upon my Muse’s lips, nor may I cope

(Who veiled and screened by womanhood must grope)

With the world’s strong-armed warriors and recite

The dangers, wounds, and triumphs of the fight;

Twanging the full-stringed lyre through all its scope.

But if thou ever in some lake-floored cave

O’erbrowed by rocks, a wild voice wooed and heard,

Answering at once from heaven and earth and wave,

Lending elf-music to thy harshest word,

Misprize thou not these echoes that belong

To one in love with solitude and song.

Echoes

by Emma Lazarus, written in 1880

Doesn’t the word ‘Twanging’ just make you laugh!

Sing more songs of AND for Echo…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Defiance of the Shrew

It was refreshing to see an article on the front page of The New York Times on the sexist culture of academia, in this case philosophy departments.  Not that any one area of our culture deserves to be singled-out or assumed immune.  Men assert their superiority everywhere.  Women enable them in taking it.

We try to train our sons to think differently, but they absorb what surrounds them.   We all collude and we’re all equally trapped and implicated, even those of us who can argue eloquently otherwise.  Or maybe I should have stopped myself yesterday from reading all the way through the article about ‘rape culture’ in Steubenville, OH and our Twittering appetites in this week’s New Yorker.

I remember when I was a kid seeing Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in the film The Taming of the Shrew and wondering what made Liz Taylor shrink and diminish her wild child.  She did not appear to me to be in any way ‘lacking’.  Even (or maybe especially) at 8-years-old I felt the desperation of capitulation and yearned for the freedom of bonny Kate.

 

 

All abundant survivors, please speak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Shameless Singing

Hiding in the cave.  Too aware.

 

I listened,

listened to my whole life…

a detested mouse shamelessly singing

from its burrow a foolish, ugly song–

a persistent, senseless chirp

tumbling through fleeting moments

and flowing on oblivion’s face.

from the poem “Insight” by Furūgh Farrukhzād, translated by Sholeh Wolpé

 

 

All Shameless Singing is Welcome Here.