Against the backdrop of space, her smile is all that exists. “Alright,” she admits, “that was pretty smooth. You’ll lasso this creativity thing eventually.” She plops into the passenger seat. “You’d better get out of here. You’ve got to wrangle up your little lunchbox and be somewhere.”
He looks at his watch and she’s right. “I’m sure I’ll see you guys around. We’ll have ourselves a reunion tour. You know I love to play imaginary third wheel.”
“So dull we won’t even know he’s there,” she tells her new flame. Colette stands up again and kicks up moon powder. “I want to ask you something first,” she adds.
“Okay.”
“All the reasons you gave for breaking it off were crap, weren’t they?”
“Well, no. Not entirely. I dunno. This story makes no sense to me. I don’t even know how breakups really happen.”
“There’s somebody else, then.”
“Um, maybe? It’s hard to—”
“Is she imaginary?”
“That depends on—”
Colette punches Jimmy in the throat, then hops back into the rover and putters off. He’s left hacking his way through a swelling windpipe. Each little jolt kicks him an inch higher in the diminished gravity. As he watches her go and tries not to choke, he feels like he’s lost something (other than the ability to breathe). But if things don’t work out, there’ll be other imaginary girls.
And they may or may not be wearing glasses.
Body Poem
A Lecture on the Work of Paul Obern
Peter Gilbert
Renewed interest in the work of Paul Obern has led to retrospectives at the National Art Gallery and a flood of critical papers. The biographical information that has been published recently, particularly on the National Art Gallery’s website, has been misleading to say the least. The paper by Professor Wurtler from Brigham Young University has also raised questions about the authenticity of some of Obern’s work. Debates about single authorship versus a collaborative effort, as well as accusations of outright plagiarism, have not yet been addressed with authority. In this lecture I hope to clarify some biographical elements and address some of the more controversial statements that have been made concerning Paul Obern and his works.
This task could have been best handled by my late stepmother. Dr. Randi Lee-Smythe was an internationally known expert on the work of Paul Obern, having been an intimate acquaintance since the artist’s youth, and later one of his most significant canvases.
My late stepmother, in addition to being the best mother any late blooming teenager could have, was a treasure house of stories about Obern. It was she who inspired me to do my own doctoral dissertation on Obern. Dr. Lee-Smythe had a long cooperative relationship with Obern and his art. My remarks here today are indebted to a great degree to my stepmother’s papers, especially her diaries, and her extensive collection of letters, cassettes, and video tapes of Obern.
When Paul Obern was nineteen, his father, Thomas Obern, died and left him a sizable inheritance. Obern’s mother, Norma Obern, nee Angstrom, had passed away when the artist was four years old, carried off by a fever raging through Philadelphia at the time. Mrs. Obern became one of the unnamed dead, remembered as a statistic, one of seven lost to “a particularly virulent strain of influenza.”
Despite the early loss of his mother, Obern never developed a particularly close relationship with his father. His father, or so it had seemed to the younger Obern, was more concerned with his business. The elder Obern ran a small pharmaceutical factory, specializing in vitamins. Thomas Obern had built his business from the bottom up. Perhaps in some way it was his firstborn. This put Paul Obern on the losing end of a sibling rivalry for his father’s attention.
The young Obern was left initially to the care of his grandmother while his father fulfilled his responsibilities as a CEO. Grandmother Obern, Lucinda Reimel Obern, was a terse woman who did not believe in play, except as a strictly regimented form of exercise. Grandmother Obern often spent time by herself, staring at the walls, looking distant and out of touch. These were occupations she seemed to enjoy.
Obern later wrote that this quality in his grandmother, this attentiveness to detail, this mystical reverence for the commonplace, was something he learned and later imitated. Obern’s choice of study was rarely the same as his grandmother’s, but her influence shows in his work, particularly in some of his more philosophical pieces.
Lucinda Obern’s periods of “meditation” allowed young Paul time to often wander off, away from her watchful eyes, to explore the natural world surrounding the suburban rancher where she lived. At times Paul encountered other children with whom he actually played. But, his grandmother would eventually come to her senses, and trot him off to gymnastics class, pre-K karate or pee-wee this or that.
Over the course of their first year together, Grandmother Obern’s periods of wall-staring increased. Little Paul could not master the deadlock on the front door, but he quickly figured out the workings of the sliding door that led to the back yard. As Lucinda Obern became more and more fascinated with blank space (a fascination many artists share), little Paul acquired greater freedom. When consciousness of her surroundings returned, the boy’s absences greatly disturbed her, as noted earlier.
Grandmother Obern believed freedom led to mischief, and, in the case of little Paul, she was often correct. Grandmother Obern, after waking from her daze, would find Paul, with eggs stolen from the kitchen, pelting passing vehicles, or, having poured maple syrup and lighter fluid into a hole, preparing to burn the insects thus attracted. These and other adventures in his early years were transformed into metaphors in some of Obern’s more memorable poems.
In later years, Paul told one researcher that he remembered being dragged home by the ear by his grandmother. Obern was six or so. He had been caught playing doctor with a neighboring girl, beneath a large azalea overgrown with honeysuckle. The image of the azalea and the honeysuckle resurfaced in several of his later works, including a passage found on my stepmother’s thigh, which I had the pleasure of reading over and over while in high school. It is unfortunate that we do not know the name of that little girl. Obern himself could not recall it. Some scholars, including Dr. Randi “Patrice” Lee-Smythe, have speculated that the girl was a Teresa Conroy, who lived in the house next door to Lucinda Obern (2617 Magpie Place). To our misfortune, Ms. Conroy, a decorated Navy fighter pilot, was shot down during the Balkan War, before anyone had a chance to ask her about the story. The possible link between Obern and the future war hero only adds to the legend. In the end, the girl’s name does not matter. However, as a romantic, I, for one, would like to believe the incident did involve Captain Conroy. While some espouse that truth should be sacrificed to the needs of poetry, I believe that the essential truth of a poem depends on the honesty of the details (with certain exceptions of course). In view of Obern’s later career, the honeysuckle incident could be viewed as a prelude of things to come.
The young Obern often spent the night at his grandmother’s house. Widowed at age fifty, Lucinda Obern had lived alone for the better part of a decade before Paul was put in her trust. Several of his later associates, including Agnes Simms and the generally reliable Lee-Smythe, relate that Obern said he often heard his grandmother crying in her room alone at night. Obern was never able to discover why this behavior occurred. He described it as an eerie sound, similar to a coyote or a cat in pain. Paul did not get the impression that she was crying over his grandfather or for his mother. In Obern’s family, tears were to end with the funeral. Once Obern’s mother was in the ground, his father wiped his eyes, and rarely mentioned her again. Perhaps it is the memory of the cries of his grandmother that reverberate in the cries and moans familiar in poems such as, “You Cry Out and the Barriers of Time Shatter,” (courtesy of Vanessa Kluge) or “Flesh Eater” (Diane Tersecki).
This period with his grandmother ended with her hospitalization and subsequent electric shock therapy.
Subsequently, Paul’s contacts with his grandmother were infrequent. From the time he was seven until he turned thirteen, Paul was watched over by a series of nannies in his father’s home.
Thomas Obern, the father of the artist, would leave early in the morning to go to work, and come home late at night. Some nights he did not come home at all. Once, after not seeing his father for several weeks, Paul’s father returned. Paul had sat through dinner with him. It was a formal meal with the conversation controlled by his father. Paul Obern, who was ten at the time, later remembered his father probing him, asking subtle questions, trying to find out how he felt about possibly having a new mother. Paul answered as best he could, responding to his father’s vague questions in the vague manner that seemed appropriate. He had been honest in his indifference. For a few months following the dinner, Paul speculated that his father might remarry and his home life would change, but nothing came of it.
At a certain point, the nights his father spent away from home began to lessen. About six months after the dinner at which his father had hinted at remarriage, Obern noticed that his father had been home for ten nights or so in a row. Thomas Obern said nothing to his son by way of explanation. The elder Obern never seemed approachable or open to questions to his son. Paul Obern was never able to learn the details of what had transpired. Had his father had a serious affair? Who had called it off? Thomas Obern or the man’s lover? Or had the two simply lost interest in each other, a mutual drifting apart. As he grew older, Paul asked himself these questions, but never had the courage to ask his father.
According to popular psycho-analytic readings of “Lost on the Great Plain of Your Abdomen,” “Your Butt Won’t Quit,” and “Parchment,” as well as excerpts from Paul Obern’s self-praising Autobiography, the poet blamed himself for his father’s failure to remarry. An alternate, and perhaps better, reading of the pieces cited points to an older, stronger reason for feelings of guilt: the child blaming himself for the death of a parent.
The absence of a mother, a search for a mother figure, is clear in Obern’s adult actions. This will be obvious to those of you who are familiar with the Casanova personality type. We will never know how pronounced this feeling of guilt was, or how deep a wound it caused in the poet’s psyche.
Paul never doubted that his father had a strong appetite for women. In Paul Obern’s early years there were several embarrassing episodes involving his father and a series of nannies. The subsequent legal history, which remains extant, has been widely analyzed. In his Autobiography, Paul Obern hazily recalls an earlier dispute between his mother and his father over a secretary, a pair of lace panties found in the car, and a hotel bill. With this clear evidence, it is difficult to understand why Dr. Hans Peterson’s theory that Thomas Obern was a homosexual has caught on. Paul Obern suspected that he had inherited his own appetites from his father, but was never able to discuss such matters to seek oral confirmation. Thomas Obern’s actions give plenty of clues as to where his interests lay. You might say Thomas Obern was a man of deeds, not words. He would leave the words to his famous son.
Paul Obern accepted his father as his father and did not question his behavior as he got older. As a child Paul had cried when his parents fought, or on those nights, after his mother’s death, when his father did not come home. But, as he saw more of the world himself, his own anger subsided. Thomas Obern made a good living, and provided his son with the best that money could buy.
Paul’s father tried to make up for his long periods of absence through intense vacations in places a child would feel exotic. Winter brought ski trips to the Rockies, beaches in Florida, and trips to California and Disneyland. Summers featured rock climbing in the Poconos, weeks at the New Jersey seashore, and at least one journey to a National Park or historic site. Thomas Obern did his parenting in intense bursts, as one might expect from a busy man. I do not hold with Maxwell Cullen that Paul Obern was an unloved or unwanted child who spent his life in search of affection. During these periods of escape from the business world, Obern’s father was a different man. He had more patience, laughed more, and seemed more tolerant of his son’s curiosity. It was the memory of these times that kept Paul Obern from growing bitter, or so he later wrote in his Autobiography.
Some critics today tend to dismiss Paul Obern’s Autobiography as a source of valid biographical data. I disagree. My own research has confirmed many of the details. I do agree that the style is too bombastic and self-praising to give the book the same literary footing as Obern’s poems. The problem with Obern’s Autobiography as source material is not what is said, but what is left out. On this point, I agree with Professors Talmadge and Verhoben. Where I disagree with Talmadge and Verhoben is their extrapolation of detail. Let me re-emphasize; I do not feel the evidence is there to support their allegations that Paul Obern was neglected and abused as a child. I feel this is a calumny directed against Thomas Obern and Paul’s grandmother. I do agree with Verhoben that Paul Obern’s relationship with his various nannies needs more research, but I see no reason to expect evidence of abuse to be uncovered. It is a fault of our age to see, or want to see, child abuse everywhere, whether it exists or not.
As I have said, Thomas Obern’s taste for women is well documented. As such, Paul Obern was not surprised when his father, for the poet’s sixteenth birthday, took him to a private club that catered to the needs of busy executives. The exact name and location of the club remains a mystery. Neither Paul Obern nor Dr. Lee-Smythe would divulge this information while they were alive. Obern and Lee-Smythe simply referred to the place as “The Club.” I will follow their example.
The visit to The Club was not cheap. It was a luxury only the well-heeled, disciplined, and connected members of society could afford. Obern had marveled at the choice of women, all young, but of different races, sizes, and demeanors. His father had let him have his pick on that evening, and several others. The girls giggled at his inexperience, but seemed charmed by his youth, fervor, and money.
After a few weeks of such idleness, Thomas Obern tightened the reins. “Discipline,” the elder Obern told his son. “Concentrate on your education, your career. Try frying some fish on your own.” Thomas Obern held up his membership card in The Club. “Use this only as a last resort. For stress reduction. Therapy. Release.” (See Obern’s Autobiography.)
Eventually, Paul Obern was able to get his own membership. He had dutifully kept at the books in high school and into college. His father had designs for him. He would study Pharmacology, then go to the Wharton School or Harvard for business, or study law. Paul Obern dated when he could while in school, but remained focused, or tried to stay focused, on his studies. If a girlfriend grew into a distraction, if his mind became preoccupied with her, or she demanded to see him more often than his studies would allow, he dropped her. Or she dropped him. At such times, Paul Obern would seek solace and release at The Club, dousing the fever in his body while seeking to free his mind of the face, voice, memories that had distracted him.
All this changed with the death of the poet’s father. Thomas Obern’s death came suddenly. The heart attack was unanticipated. It happened while the elder Obern was at work. He had argued with a clerk over some small matter regarding filing, gone into his office, and closed the door. He had no appointments that day. His secretary was on vacation. He could have taken off himself or gone to The Club. Instead, he had chosen to come into the office, to make sure things were being done right, to check the books, to make some calls, to run his business as he had always run it. Three hours after the argument, Thomas Obern was found, seated behind his desk. Dead. The controller, who found Thomas Obern, had come to get him to co-sign a check for repairs to some of the new German-made machinery. The check would have to wait for the new CEO to sign.
At the funeral, Paul Obern felt a sense of loss, but not sadness. He had buried both of his parents, but the fullness of the graves, and the seeming emptiness of his life, did not make him sad. He felt somehow relieved. Afte
r the last relative had said his or her tearful good-bye and gone home, Paul went straight to The Club to relieve himself of whatever anxiety remained in him. Obern stayed there for two days, returning home a free and guiltless man. This story is recounted in his poem, “Spring Lotuses” (courtesy of Lin Min-Hua a.k.a “Lotus”).
Obern learned at The Club that he thought best, and thought deepest, while embracing a woman in an act of love or pleasure. The motions of the body might be, to a degree, automatic. While the body was thus engaged and entertained, the mind was free to wander. Or, if his emotions became involved, sex helped Obern transcend to the ineffable—as we will later see. Obern became convinced that the hours he spent at The Club had made him a wiser man. He expressed these ideas in a letter to friend, Kevin Atwell, a percussionist and photographer. The letter survives as part of Obern’s collected papers [Item 1771]. Paul Obern’s stay at The Club after the funeral was no exception.
Obern never was, nor would ever become, the tough, serious businessman his father was. Obern lacked the same determination, the single-mindedness, the joy that came from building a company, making a product, turning a profit. To Obern, the purpose of going into business was to make money, and, thanks to his father, he already had that. And what is the purpose of accumulating wealth? With Freud, Obern agreed that it was to obtain sex.
With the death of his father, Obern had no shortage of cash. He was not old enough to control the company. His father’s will had turned that task over to some trusted associates. A board of directors was formed. Stock was issued, with the majority going to Obern. As long as the company was profitable, Obern was provided with income, or something of value that he could sell. The stock always had some value, until the company itself lost all value. Without his father to persuade him, or a real need, such as physical survival, the need for food, clothing, and shelter, Obern saw no need to work at anything that might involve physical or mental labor. Obern saw work as having killed his father. He had no wish to die the same way, at a desk. Instead, Obern turned his time and attentions to other interests.
Dadaoism (An Anthology) Page 16
