There are things I’m supposed to never mind. “Never mind” means silent and agreed upon, and that I must want, more than anything, to get through the day, and so should assent to go along. Glance. Turn the page. Turn away from a scream, and the place from which scream would rise, if cultivated by attention paid.
Subjects one might avoid: ruined land, ruined animals. Because the issues of the day can begin to feel old, and people get tired of feeling bad.
When I was a child I was not daunted. I let myself get completely exhausted.
Never minding makes it possible to do things like eat what you want, and talk about simple, daily things.
A scream is not speech.
I wasn’t sure if this would be considered an essay or a prose poem. Then I noticed that Washington College’s Literary House Press, who will be publishing it in a limited-run illustrated letterpress edition this coming fall, calls it a “lyric essay.” That’s a good description. We go from Munch’s “The Scream” to #419 and back again, and it hangs together beautifully though it may take some time to understand how.
As with several of the pieces I’ve read in this anthology so far, I was very aware of a kind of prescience in that the essay was written at least a year and a half ago, yet it’s painfully, tragically appropriate to now. Of course, I can’t rule out that I’m simply seeing everything as pertinent, no matter how far afield. But given all the recent screaming (including mine), I have to wonder: were we never-minding all along?
I learned a great deal about “The Scream” from this piece. I did not know that Munch created four different versions of the scene we all know, nor that one of them, a pastel, includes a poem, hand-written by Munch in two columns on its frame, a poem nearly, but not quite, identical to one he’d written in his diary three years earlier:
I was walking along the road with two friends
The Sun was setting – the Sky turned blood-red.
And I felt a wave of Sadness – I paused
tired to Death – Above the blue-black
Fjord and City Blood and Flaming tongues hovered
My friends walked on – I stayed
behind – quaking with Angst – I
felt the great Scream in Nature
I also did not know, until Purpura’s essay told me, that the location of the painting is an actual road in Oslo, one that, in Munch’s time, overlooked both a slaughterhouse, and the insane asylum where his sister lived.
I did not know any of this, and that surprised me, given the ubiquity of this image. Which is, of course, Purpura’s point, though she expands the scope well beyond art history.
Purpura points out how we’ve trivialized the painting, turned it into a joke, a t-shirt icon (not to mention a cake at the café Munch Museum). The power is too much, so we’ve reduced it to the never-minding of signifying upset without the messiness of being upset. She compares it to busts of composers in her elementary school music room:
I remember the bust of Beethoven and Mozart (and Haydn and Liszt and Chopin) in my elementary school’s music room. I couldn’t make any sense of them: a pianist with no arms; but joyless composer who wrote “Ode to Joy.” Their limbless bodies in marbly coldness. Stunted and chopped. I knew I had with a bit of neck was meant to be never minded. Another version of how-things-are-done. The men, canonical. The sculptures, memorial. A cliché of sight. I understood.
Still it was hard to see anything but severedness.
I’ve been in maybe two or three dozen music rooms over the years, and most of them had similar busts. Now I want to run into all of them – all that severedness! – and smash all those busts. Or melt them, I suppose, they’re probably plastic, cheaper than marble or plaster. She’s right; they don’t make sense. How did I never realize this before?
Munch’s painting looks very different to me now. As does #419.
#419 is a cow; that’s a tag in its ear; there’s a #308 right behind it, a #376, and a #454 – all jammed in the frame of the photo.. This must be a mixed lot. If I stand back just a little or, rather hold the newspaper out at arm’s length and unfocus a bit, the numbers fade and the cows are wearing bell-shaped earrings.If I shut my eyes, and shut many more things – doors in the brain, as if windows in cold – if I conjure up Heidi and green fields and milk pails, I can hear the little cowbells tinkling.
We see what we want to see because it’s easier when we sit down to eat a cheeseburger – as I do fairly often – if we don’t think about cow #419. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg, as we are all discovering now. Call it compassion fatigue, or settling for not-the-worst, or just plain not wanting to look. Never-minding has its costs, and eventually the piper must be paid. Then the screaming begins.