Is Canada Kinder and Gentler?

Sometimes leaving the USA clarifies what’s wrong with it. An old joke holds that George W. Bush meant Canada when he promised Americans a “kinder, gentler nation.” Yet in many ways that quip is more truth than cliché.

Before going further, a disclaimer. I used to teach Canadian Studies and have been to every province except Saskatchewan and Newfoundland, but I’m not Canadian. When those who are tell me they can be as mean as a junkyard dog, I'm honor-bound to believe them, so no misty-eyed utopianism from me.  Oscar Wilde once quipped that a map of the world that doesn’t include Utopia isn’t worth gazing upon, but I suspect it only appears at the map's edge where the road runs out and we see an arrow signposting, “To Utopia.” Maybe Utopia is an aspiration, not an actual place—one that challenges us to be better than we are.

Alas, too many Americans feel maps are worthless because there is nothing beyond the borders worth considering. Is it blissful ignorance that blinds them to aspirational Utopia, or the pride that goeth before a fall? The latter, I fear. Whenever I venture northward, I see people who are, on average, nicer, happier, and more decent than Americans. Perhaps I romanticize, but I’m not blind. Montreal drivers are often aggressive and foolish, homeless people line Ottawa’s Rideau Street, and heroin addicts roam some Vancouver neighborhoods.  Canadians like former Toronto mayor Rob Ford and ex-Prime Minister Stephen Harper are as odious as any politician that crawled from a US cesspool.

Nonetheless, I encounter civility inside of Canada that exists in the United States mostly in myth-fueled imaginings of the 1950s. Civility makes Canadians, well… nicer. That adjective distresses some Canadians and makes them feel they are not being taken seriously. Embrace it! Civility is linked to the concept of civitas—citizens bound by some common code: law, morality, shared values….  Civitas is a rare commodity south of Canada, where the word “united” is a syntactical misnomer that generally goes no deeper than xenophobic cheers during international sporting events or bombing sorties. In the main, the US is a land of “me,” not “we.” Canada seeks to reverse that formula. There are, of course, social outcasts in Canada, but at least they have universal healthcare, aggressive anti-poverty programs, and a social safety net that puts ours to shame.

Think upon other differences. Canadians own guns just like Americans, but are 51 times less likely to shoot each other. Why? Because too many Americans can't imagine that there should be any gun control; most Canadians can't imagine there wouldn't be commonsense restrictions. While it's true that Canadians visiting Parliament moan about taxes and complain about government with the fervor of a white Dallas suburbanite, at the end of the day they still think government should solve social problems. I've yet to meet a Canadian who thinks that universities are bad for the nation—something a majority of American Republicans shamelessly believes. When Canadians complain about government—who doesn't? —as often as not, it's because they want more schools, roads, public transport, and services.

It boils down to how one defines wealth. Americans often perceive it as if there are no stops between acquisitiveness and asceticism. Bumper stickers proclaim, "He who has the most toys wins." That would be amusing, were it not such a guiding principle. But is wealth merely individually owned TVs, SUVS, McMansions, bling, and sparkle? Civitas ideals suggest otherwise. Can a nation truly be considered wealthy if it has impoverished culture, a fractured citizenry, broken infrastructure, and a corroded sense of civics? Americans are fond of saying that a rising [economic] tide raises all boats, but do you see much evidence that this actually occurs? Ironically, though Canadians on average pay higher taxes and live in the world's 8^th richest country, the median wealth of adult Canadians is higher than that of Americans in the world's wealthiest nation.

Maybe Canadians don't assume as much debt, or maybe some economist will cite data refuting median wealth comparisons, but there is little question that Canadians are wealthier in their civic life. There are public mixings of First Nations people, immigrants, Anglophones, Francophones, assorted Euro-Canadians, and people of color. There are bigots, of course, but there is a much greater tendency for groups to move in synch that in the United States would roam in separate packs. The Canada Council for the Arts and other such bodies routinely greenlight multicultural or controversial projects that would be hopelessly shipwrecked upon ideological reefs in the States.

Canada is, indeed, a kinder, gentler nation. Utopia? No. But if you look, you'll notice that the arrow on the edge of the map bends northward.

Rob Weir

Tom Perrotta's Mrs. Fletcher: Sharp, Recycled, or Cheap?

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MRS. FLETCHER  (August 2017)

By Tom Perrotta

Simon & Schuster, 320 pp.

★★ ½

I mused over Tom Perrotta's latest before attempting to write about it. Perrotta has never shied from unsettling themes, so I knew that Mrs. Fletcher wasn't going to be mannered. I pondered whether Mrs. Fletcher is a crib of turf he's already trod in Election (1998), Little Children (2004), and The Abstinence Teacher (2007); a Zeitgeist-capturing look at modern relationships; or just a trashy and clichéd pastiche of buzz topics. After careful rumination, I still can't decide.

If you're looking for wholesome, cast your gaze elsewhere. As fans of Perrotta's The Leftovers know, he's a sharp critic of the gap between the values Americans purport to hold and how they actually conduct their lives. There's a lot of sex in Mrs. Fletcher and quite a bit is degrading. All acts of fellatio seem to come with the recipient commanding, "Suck it bitch." You could read this as punctuating misogyny with a phallic exclamation point. You could also conclude it merely titillates in a prurient fashion. Without giving anything away, let me add that there are more deeply inappropriate relationships in this book than in Congress and the White House combined. Is that how it is in modern America, or is Perrotta just being as nasty as he wants to be? Similar split readings arise over other plot devices: Craigslist pickups, Internet porn, LGBTQIA themes, casual hookups, hazing, autism, the cougar phenomenon…. Do these add complicating depth to characters, or are they contrivances designed to make the novel seem more "relevant" and "contemporary?" (Terms in quotation marks because the definitions of such terms are up for grabs.)   

The novel's epigraph is from the pre-Socratic philosopher Heraclitus: "The way up and the way down is one and the same." Heraclitus was a foundational thinker in what is called the unity of opposites. In oversimplified terms, the idea is that we understand most concepts in relationship to its opposite(s)—love presupposes hate, good requires evil, etc. Do healthy relationships requite contemplation of unhealthy alternatives? Can contemplation take place without actual walks on the wild side?

The titular character is 46-year-old Eve Fletcher, a still attractive divorcee, but one aware that her life is at a crossroads. As the director of a senior center, Eve witnesses decay and death daily, and she has just dropped off her only child, Brendan, for his freshman year at Berkshire State University*, where she's perceived as ancient by other students. That point is driven home also by Brendan's disrespect and his infrequent texts that touch upon campus life. She even feels like a frump around Amanda Olney, her tattooed and energetic recreation director at the senior center. Eve's midlife funk is so deep that she's afraid to confront the fact that her son is a total asshole. Just to change the frame a bit, she signs up for a Gender and Society class at a community college in Haddington, Massachusetts (a fictional town that's clearly a Boston suburb). Her instructor is Margo—once Mark—Fairchild. Will this be a spark to make her rethink her rutted life, or will it confirm how out of touch she has become?

Perrotta divides the novel into five parts—The Beginning of the Great Whatever, The End of Reluctance, Gender and Society, The MILF, and Lucky Day—each one focusing on paths taken or forsaken by one or more of the book's major characters. Eve is the book's center, but hers is not the only point of view. Whatever else one makes of the book, Perrotta has plotted it well and has populated it with secondary characters that have stories and issues of their own. He even redeems cheaper prose with occasional gems, such as describing a Bikram yoga instructor as  "a beautiful Asian man with the body of a gymnast and the soul of a drill sergeant."

And yet, there are aspects of the book that unsettle me in ways other than its inherently creepy details. It began to stretch credulity that Eve could know so many people simultaneously making unwise decisions. Nearly every male character —Brendan; Eve's ineffectual ex-husband, Ted; cranks at the senior center; a bartender who hits on patrons; and skateboarding Julian, a self-described PTSD high school survivor—is a jerk, a loser, pathetic or all three. Not that the women in the book specialize in Socratic logic either. Eve dances on the razor's edge so often that we wonder why she hasn't sliced herself in two. Perrotta seems to be leading us to consider that damaged individuals must hit bottom before they reverse course. Does he do so, or is his "Lucky Day" section more tacked on than organic? What would Heraclitus say?

I remain conflicted. The good news is that the book moves crisply, so you won't invest much time in checking it out for yourself. If, however, after 75 pages or so you find Mrs. Fletcher too tawdry, give up. It won't get any nicer for quite some time.

Rob Weir   

Berkshire State is clearly modeled on UMass Amherst, especially its physical appearance, its campus activism, its ideological diversity, and its honors college. Other parts are stereotypes that died in the 1980s. In a recent ranking of top party schools, UMass ranked a mere 69^th. Nor does anyone complain about the food—UMass cuisine ranks #1 in the nation!

Alasdair Fraser and Natalie Haas: July Album of the Month

ALASDAIR FRASER and NATALIE HAAS

Ports of Call

Culburnie 125D

In a world in which the adjective "professionalism" is often appropriated rather than demonstrated, music remains an expression in which one can literally hear the proof behind the label. Top-tier musicians possess an ineffable quality that, the moment you hear it, you know you have crossed from the border between good and great. I have made this claim before, but let me reiterate: there are few fiddlers on the planet whose tone, precision, skill, or excitement levels approach those of Alasdair Fraser. For the past fourteen years, his primary musical partner has been cellist Natalie Haas, whose own talents have risen to match those of her mentor. On Ports of Call, the duo's fifth release, Haas and Fraser are co-equals that stand head and shoulders above most of their peers.

The album is aptly named. Past Fraser/Haas collaborations have explored deeper dimensions of Scottish traditional music. It has taken them far, and this album pays homage to various places they have touched down. This includes an evolving exploration of their own compositional skills, and the myriad ways in which melodic categories overlap and collapse. Fraser is fond of saying that their music is "all about the dance," you would be hard pressed to say which Fraser and Haas imbue with more gravitas, a village dance tune or a formal court promenade. That's because many of their favorite composers blur the folk/classical line. Take the Hamish Henderson tune "Freedom Call All Ye." It was written as a protest piece, but it sets your toes tapping. Haas appends her own tune, "Peas in the F-hole," whose whimsical title does little to prepare you for its jaunty complexity. This combination is one of the few that is mostly Scottish in makeup and structure. From it they move to France for two scottisches and an andro. These three tunes chase each other, but with a solemnity that flirts with darkness, as Breton music often does. The same can be said of the "Silver and Stuff" set, a march, polska (3/4), and halling (6/8) that come from Norway.

Before Ports of Call finishes we also visit Spain (including Galcia), Quebec, California, Sweden, Finland, and the creative minds of Fraser and Haas. Galician tunes such as those in the "Muińeiras" set often employ hand drums, but Haas' cello provides the percussive bottom. If you like somber, check out the Galician hurdy gurdy tune in the "Foliada!" set, a xota, which is waltz-like, yet not a waltz. Listen to Haas' own "Megan and Jarrod's Waltz" and you'll hear what I mean.  The polska/waltz combo of Swedish tunes in "The Devil and the Gypsy" also tilt toward the austere end of the spectrum, but also highlight the age-old tussel between those of a puritanical bent who damn dance as the devil's music and the gypsy spirit that embraces its intrinsic joy. If you want a lighter touch, check out Fraser's "Keeping Up with Christine," written in honor of his high-energy sister, or Haas' "Waltzka For Su-A," an original and innovative mash of Scandinavian, Quebecois, and Celtic music in C-minor. A personal favorite is Fraser's "Hanneke's Bridal March," which is what more formal pieces should be: stately, but without starch.

Nothing on this album fits the diddly-diddly stereotypes often slapped onto the efforts of "Celtic" musicians. At a recent concert I overheard a woman remark that this was the best "classical" concert she had attended all year. I might dispute the label, but I know what she meant. Listen and you will too. That's what the true pros do—defy our expectations until we surrender to their charms.

Rob Weir

The Hero a Classic Middling Film

THE HERO (2017)

Directed by Brett Haley

The Orchard, 93 minutes, R (language, drug use, sexual content)

★★★

The Hero is the very essence of a middling movie: not great, but not bad; not funny enough to be a comedy, or serious enough to be a drama; very well acted in places, and halfheartedly so in others; a summer movie, but with more potential depth than most; and at turns clichéd and surprising. If you can put aside the desire for it to be more than it is, The Hero is a worthwhile way to spend an hour and a half inside an air-conditioned theater.

It follows the waning days of a has-been cowboy TV and matinee idol, Lee Hayden (Sam Elliott). Hayden's coming up on his 72^nd birthday and is a divorcé living alone in the hills above Los Angeles. He supports himself by using his stentorian voice to do commercials and spends his time contemplating his dire medical prognosis, lamenting his estrangement from his daughter Lucy (Kyrsten Ritter), and smoking dope with Jeremy Frost (Nick Offerman), his dealer and former co-star. Basically he's just waiting to ride off into the sunset.

Two things put a damper in that non-plan. First, Lee reluctantly agrees to accept a lifetime achievement award from an obscure group devoted to Western classics. Second, a younger woman, Charlotte Dylan (Laura Prepon), shows up to buy some dope from Jeremy, and Lee is intrigued enough by her sparkling repartee to invite her to go with him to the awards banquet. Suffice it to say that something happens at that ceremony to make Lee a hot commodity once again. Call it the age of celluloid meets the age of Twitter. Things with Charlotte are a bit more complicated. Is she a daughter substitute? Are we on the cusp of a May-December romance? Or is Charlotte, a stand-up comic, using broken-down Lee as raw material for her act?

Elliott and Prepon are terrific as an odd couple—he of the resonant voice, push-broom moustache, and a demeanor somewhere between the cowboy code of honor and that expected of a brothel bouncer; she of the arched eyebrows, snarky attitude, third-wave feminism, and world of e-communication. Ritter is less successful as daughter Lucy. She is best known as a model and a TV actress, and her overall lack of emotional range is rather evident. Alas, the same must be said of Katharine Ross (Elliott's real-life wife) as Lee's ex, Valerie. I had a serious crush of Ms. Ross when I was younger but, truth be told, she's never been a great actress. She doesn't have much to do in The Hero, and she doesn't do it very well. (Excuse the syntactical mess, but you know what I mean!)

The Hero is ultimately a ping-pong film that is alternatively exactly what you expect one moment (ping), but then not-so-obvious the next (pong). I suppose one could argue that Elliott has been living off laconic cowboy stereotypes since The Big Lebowski (1998), but I see him as another ping-pong factor in this film. At times, he is nearly silent—other than a few F-bombs—but when he speaks, his words are spare, but choice. On the flip side, this movie could use a whole lot more script polishing. There is too much padding and not enough background development, especially of Prepon's character. I can see the benefits of making her tough and mysterious overall, but when we she isn't, we wonder where her softness was residing. I suspect that director Brett Haley wanted to keep her cloaked to deflect attention from the creepiness factor in the room: Elliott is 72 and Prepon is 37. In essence, it's safer to dwell on the two getting high than getting jiggy. Yet for all of the pulled punches, The Hero at least suggests more important stuff, mortality and morality for starters. Who gets to tell anyone else how to live, for another.

Rob Weir

#TheHeroMovie

#samelliott

Music Clean-Out Time!

Music: Summer Clean Out Time

Every year I get inundated with new releases in the spring and by mid-summer they've backed up like Friday afternoon on I-95. Here's a roundup of some things I want to let you all know about before mold grows and the leaves drop.

 My favorite among the bunch is the debut solo effort of Hugh Masterson, Lost and Found. Masterson' no neophyte; he's been a guy in the band with The Lone Bellow, Nikki Lane, Margo Price, and others. This taut six-song EP suggests he's spent his spare time productively. Masterson uses his whiskey-soaked voice to good effect and is more than capable of fronting a kick-ass band. But what really makes him stand out is his ability to take what life deals and turn it a really good country rock line. He got hit with a tire iron in a Milwaukee mugging and parlayed his wired-jaw downtime into the titletrack—a musing on how things turn on a dime. What's not to admire about tight prose like, I'm somewhere in the middle of lost and found? Or, From now on I'm living like I'm dying. There are Springsteen-like echoes in the pathos of "Small Town" and in his command of the band in "Show Me the Road." ★★★★      #HughBob

Think of a more pop version of Kate Rusby crossed with a younger version of Jewel, and you are in the right ballpark for Ellen Thweatt, a Nashville-based singer/songwriter who has sung backup for Carrie Underwood. As we hear on her debut EP Halfway in the Clouds, all she needs is a bit of seasoning and her backup days are over. "Airplane" has a catchy country feel. Also try "Butterflies," a bluegrass/pop mash. The latter shows her great promise and what's needed next: a bit of maturity to add depth that will give edge to the little girl tones. There is a lot of potential waiting to be unleashed. ★★★★

It's Country is the debut album from Levi Petree but it's only a partly descriptive title (and derives from a semi-ironic remark made by a friend). He's a Louisiana native, so he comes by his twang naturally. "The Rapture" is badass country, but of the frenzied kind that makes you understand why some have called him Johnny Cash combined with The Clash. Yet "Rockaway" captures that "small tune" essence that The Beatles used to great effect on the White Album. There's even a little torchy/slightly corny "Lover's Cove," which is analogous to those sensitive not-quite-ballads rockabilly artists used to cool the room temperature. This is a skillful debut.★★★★   

Cory Branan is a gravely-voiced singer whose observation is things aren't so good in the US of A for quite a few folks. His Adios explores discomfort as measured by the spectrum between screwed up and everyone dies. Try "Another Nightmare in America" (with Rodney Crowell and Dave Hause), with its gritty lyric: Ain't no use praying/There's no soul there to save/Boy you're just the difference/'tween a hole and a grave. You might want to check out "I Only Know" as well, which is about as close to happy as it gets on this album. ★★★   #corybranan

The Wild Reeds are an LA-based band anchored by three women (Kinsey Lee, Sharon Silva, Mackenzie Howe). They sometimes get saddled with female Crosby, Stills, and Nash analogies, but who wants to carry that kid of baggage? Their sophomore release is titled The World We Built. Their music is a mix of soft and hard—soft when the vocals are in play with an uptick in volume and instrumentation in the seams. "Only Songs" opens with a nostalgic look back at their youth (in the 1990s!), but leavened with experience born of bad decisions that left behind songs that contain as much truth as easy promises of earthly salvation. Cleverly, the song hints of a girl group pop 90s style. Moving on is also the theme of "Everything LooksBetter (In Hindsight)," which is based on a tried-and-true theme: love that didn't last and what, if anything, survives. Forget the CSN comparisons and just call this folk rock with harmonies and hard edges. ★★★ ½  #thewildreeds

Nathaniel Braddock comes to Cambridge, Massachusetts via Chicago and now teaches guitar at Passim School of Music. He has played with numerous groups, but has recently released a solo acoustic album titled Quadrille and Collapse. His sound is on the dreamy/contemplative end of the spectrum. Delicate tunes tend to be heavier on high notes with bass and low notes assuming drone-like qualities. Check out "The Desert Within," which is typical of the atmospherics contained on this recording. Its only downside is that it could use more diversity. ★★★

Speaking of atmosphere, Palm Ghosts is a project and debut record headed by Philadelphian Joseph Lekkas. It's a blend of pop, electronica, folk, and ethereal rock in which Lekkas' breathy vocals act as delicate ornaments within the mix. "Seasons" uses thumping bass and a repetitive keyboard groove to set a gauzy mood somewhat at odds with the song's flirtatious lyrics. "I Know You Won't Break My Heart" is similar in content and in hypnotic feel. Enjoyable and relaxing stuff, though some may find it more yogic than intoxicating. ★★★

If all this innovation makes you want to take a step back in time, try Going Home by Joe Newberry and April Verch, he of North Carolina via Missouri, and she of Canada's Ottawa Valley. They title track is a Si Kahn song, but it sounds like something that's been kicking around the backwoods forever. Ditto "WillYou Wait For Me," which Newberry and Verch co-wrote. If Newberry sounds familiar to you, you've probably heard him weave his old-time magic on an episode or two of Garrison Keillor's show. And when it comes to kick-up-you-heels fiddling, it's hard to top Ms. Verch. ★★★★

#aprilverch

Rob Weir

If You've Not Seen Wonder Woman, Do So!

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WONDER WOMAN (2017)

Directed by Patty Jenkins

Warner Brothers, 141 minutes, PG-13

★★★★

Summer blockbusters and I are usually not on the best of terms, but I'll make an exception for Wonder Woman. Patty Jenkins is the first woman to direct a superhero film. It's a travesty that it has taken this long, but welcome to the club, Ms. Jenkins. May it never again be a fraternity.

One of the things that makes Wonder Woman work on the screen is that it's based on a comic book character. Unlike biographies, textbook myths, or reworked fantasy novels, comic books long ago abandoned official single narratives. These are not your grandmother's super heroes—at least not entirely. It's a multiverse out there, folks, so don't expect this Diana Prince to be like the William Moulton Marston original. (As those who've read Jill Lepore's The Secret History of Wonder Woman can attest, that's a good thing—Marston was a sick puppy!) Nor are the Amazons faithful to Greek mythology; DC Comics put its first spin on the Amazons in 1941 and it's been a gyroscope ever since.

Before I go one sentence deeper, let me utter the two words that assure you'll keep your eyes glued to the front: Gal Gadot. She is utterly riveting as Wonder Woman/Diana Prince and in ways that go well beyond her astonishing beauty. She plays with a full deck of emotions: steely, impulsive, moral, conflicted, fearless, vulnerable, calm, angry, determined, frustrated…. In other words, she has too much depth for us to see her as just a comic book character.

The story opens in Themyscyra, the island home of the Amazons—some of whom are mortal and some of whom are demigoddesses. It is a magical CGI-created Herland paradise of hills, greenery, waterfalls, and fantastical architecture ruled by Hippolyta (Connie Nielsen). Most Amazons are born through asexual parthenogenesis, but a god fathered Hippolyta. Even Zeus is gone now, though, as he used the last of his power to bind Ares, the god of war. Only a select few know of Hippolyta's parentage, including General Antiope (Robin Wright), who relentlessly trains the Amazons in case Ares is ever unshackled. From an early age, Diana wishes to become a warrior, but her mother does not want her to know that she is a demigoddess. Diana has a mind of her own, however, and chooses to leave Themyscyra when the Amazon world is rocked by the appearance of Steve Trevor's plane bursting through its cloaking fog with a hot pursuit of Germans at his tail. The "war to end all war" (World War One) is underway and, though the Amazons have never heard of it, Diana's sense of justice is aroused and she's off the see what she can do, with shield, tiara, magic bracelets, and the lasso of Hestia in hand.

There are nice flashes of humor as Diana tries to learn human ways and Steve (Chris Pine) attempts to teach her, but this is a save-the-world action film that ranges from London, to Paris, and to Belgium. Along the way, Diana and Steve gather companions, Wizard of Oz style: Sameer (Said Taghmaoui), a Moroccan spy; Chief Napi (Eugene Brave Rock), who has secrets of his own; a Scot named Charlie (Ewen Bremmer), who'd be a sharpshooter if he didn't drink so much; and a British MP (David Thewlis), who clandestinely bankrolls their mission. You'd not think such a motley assortment would be much of a match against the pure evil of General Erich Ludendorff (Danny Huston), poison maven Isabel Maru (Elena Anaya), and the entire German military, but may I remind you that Wonder Woman is a super heroine?

Want to enjoy this film? Let go of your logic. Just do it. Let this big spectacle suck you in it. There is a lot of money on the screen. The credits roll forever and even if you only glance at them, you'll notice a veritable who's who of CGI, f/x, and animation worked on the film. I imagine that cinematographer Matthew Jensen and costume designer Linda Hemming submitted large invoices of their own. I even liked Rupert Gregson-Williams' grandiose score, though I'd like it even more if a future director's cut lost the god-awful Sia "To Be Human" track. But, really, this film has everything you could hope for in a summer blockbuster: lots of action, creepy villains, solid acting, characters with dimension, and a fabulous performance from Gadot. Did I mention that, at long last, we have a female who kicks butt? If you forget, millions of little girls across the globe are poised to remind you.

Rob Weir

   

@WonderWomanFilm

#WonderWoman

Sabra Field at Middlebury College Museum of Art

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SABRA FIELD, THEN AND NOW: A RETROSPECTIVE

Middlebury College Museum of Art

Through August 13, 2017

If you don’t live in Vermont, perhaps the name Sabra Field doesn’t ring immediate bells. But you know her art. With the possible exception of Woody Jackson—he of the black and white Holsteins that grace Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream products—no recent artist has done more to evoke Vermont’s rural heritage than Ms. Field. Not many artists can claim that 60 million people have seen her work. In 1991, she pulled out nostalgic stops for a red barn, verdant fields, green hills, and blue skies ensemble that graced U.S. postage stamps. If that sounds more commercial than artistic, read on.

Although she is now 82, has lived in East Barnard since 1967, and has been producing art since her undergraduate days in the 1950s, her Middlebury College retrospective is aptly titled “Then and Now.” It includes old favorites among the 100 works on display, but also more recent work like a sixteen-panel assemblage titled “Cosmic Geometry,” which on the surface appears to a collection of spirals, angles, architectural details, shapes, and natural objects, but which might also be viewed as metaphors for life and passages. Even more stunning is her “Pandora Suite,” a powerful exploration of the human experience from the exaltations of love to the ugliness of racism and the insanity of war. There’s much more to Sabra Field than barns and farms.

Still, there’s no escaping the fact that Field is first and foremost associated with tranquil wood block prints that capture the solitude of the Vermont countryside. And if you wonder about the postage stamp thing, consider that for many years Field grappled the same challenge that most artists face: how to parlay the creative spirit into something that resembles making a living. She raised a family, taught art to supplement the family budget, flogged her work at craft fairs, and did small shows. Emily and I first saw her work in the 1970s at the Montshire Museum in Norwich, and the fact that it’s science museum gives you a clue that Field's impact was more modest back then. Here’s another tip-off; we own a few of her prints—things we bought for much less than they’d go for now! 

 If you look hard at Field’s prints, you begin to realize that she’s doing more than romanticizing rural vistas or seeking to fossilize fading ways of life. There is a Zen-like quality to a lot of her work. In some cases, Japanese aesthetics are pretty obvious, but there are others in which it’s subtler. You stand before scenes of waving grass, puffy clouds, undulating fields, and lumpy mountains that are bisected by fence lines, silos, shadows, of contrasting patches of color and, without realizing it is happening, you sink into a meditative state. Others, like “Fox in Winter” or any of a number of deep frost scenes force you to think upon the dance of life, struggle, survival, and mortality. Or, if you wish, you could just see her work as appealing to the eye. If you can make it to the show, though, you’ll learn from the captions and a video that Field had more in mind than simply making pretty pictures. My personal take is that we ought to take regional artists such as she much more seriously than we do. But I suspect that Sabra Field would be happy that people like what they see—no matter what they make of it.

 

If you can’t get to Middlebury before August 13, don’t despair. Ms. Field is an alum and the college is a repository for her work, so there’s likely to be something on display next time you’re passing through. And there are always Vermont galleries to consider. Field is now such an icon that it’s a rare independent gallery than doesn’t have something of hers on offer. You’ll know her work when you see it. First the color will grab you, then the composition, and then…?

Rob Weir