My Brightest Diamond Bring Me the Workhorse (Asthmatic Kitty Records, 2006) by Adela M. Brito | Age: 38 | New York City My Brightest Diamond’s debut album, Bring Me the Workhorse, is a strong and passionate album that gets better with each listen. Shara Worden is the woman behind the extraordinary voice that seamlessly takes the listener on a fantastic journey through dreamy, operatic, and poetic states of mind. All the songs on this album are worth a listen. Each one contributes to the whole quite effectively. The opening track, “Something of an End” is a well-crafted composition and a strong opener. It’s vocally, lyrically, and musically powerful. When Worden declares, "The earth started shaking, yeah, it was crazy, Heaven and Hell came crashing down. It was beautiful and terrible…" it demands the listener’s undivided attention to the urgency expressed in these words. “Gone Away” is a plaintive song of a woman counting the time since her lover left. She’s kept all his letters, clothes, and every other possible reminder. In the end though, she seems more accepting of his not returning and wants to escape her misery. She yells, "Get me off, this is a ride going nowhere but somewhere I despise." The melancholy rhythm and voice make us feel compassion for the abandoned desperate lover. On “Freak Out,” Worden sounds like Bjork and Fiona Apple. The song has a more rock feel to it than the others, because of the guitars and the loud, fast paced vocals. “The Robin’s Jar” has smooth guitars -reminiscent of The White Stripes- while telling two sad childhood stories: burying a dead robin and a good friend. “Workhorse” is a strong closer; its music and vocals are haunting, prompting the listener to start the album again in search of the more upbeat vocals. The rhythmic variety, the versatility of Worden’s voice, and the range of feelings evoked in the eleven tracks that comprise Bring Me The Workhorse, are what make it such a strong album. The lyrics are intelligent and have powerful emotions attached to them. Any album that can keep the listener entertained and surprised, as this one does so well, is worth listening over and over again.

MICHAEL CARPENTER Big High Moker (Self-released, 2006) by Shawn Alexander Roy | Grimsby, ON One man, one guitar, one hell of an album. Michael Carpenter sounds like Elliot Smith, Bob Dylan, and Nick Drake rolled into one. It's his powerful voice that makes this solo record so soulful. From the first track, "Alice Mooney," a song with a country flare reminiscent of John Prine and Ben Folds, to its last track "Here and Now," a Led Zeppelinesque acoustic piece that is sure to bring you to tears, Michael Carpenter wins the listeners heart.

MR. LIF Mo'Mega (Definitive Jux, 2006) by Jeremy Young | Age: 22 | Montreal, QC Mr. Lif is, well, a nerd. But if I’ve got my facts straight, nerdball hip-hop is in now. So he’s either a trendsetter or a bandwagoner and I’ll let someone else decide that. As a Def Jux veteran, he fits right in with the rebel forcefield they’ve created around themselves. Lif makes albums, not hit singles. His albums tend to be complex and politically motivated sagas, usually unfolding throughout their totality. Mo’Mega is no different. Though it tends to get a tad more introspective than his other ventures, with El-P producing his beats again, it’s far from unrecognizable. In the whole of Mo’Mega, I don’t think Lif lets one eighth note pass without a word dropping on it. His rhythm is impeccable, despite El-P’s vicious walls of noise that back him up. Thematically, Lif goes back and forth painting images of world poverty and extremely industrialized society together in a powerful juxtaposition. At the same time, he’s not afraid to digress a moment and think of his child-on-the-way in “For You." As usual though, Lif is most effective when he gets angry. Not that you’ll ever hear Scarface quoted in the margins, instead your ears will ring with the echoing graffiti of postmodernity. “Go to the beach/ And realize that you’ve got a scanline across your tanline/ And find microchips in your hands/ Fluid in your glands/ As a result of somebody else’s plans.” Murs guest appears and criticizes President Bush for not writing “his own shit," just one of this album’s many creative political criticisms. Mo’Mega is definitely an enjoyable album, even for those not familiar with the “Jukie” clan. But he’s a lot smarter than me, so it takes the fun away.

SUFJAN STEVENS "John Wayne Gacy, Jr." (from the album Illinois; Asthmatic Kitty, 2005) by Jordan Gutlerner | Age: 29 | Portland, OR A few months now and I’m still on my Sufjan kick. I haven't been this obsessed since Iron and Wine, and before that, Radiohead. No joke. But let me begin with a TV reference. By now we all know the "jump the shark" phenomenon. You know, the "Happy Days" episode where they took it outside to the beach and Fonzie jumped the shark while water skiing a boat driven by Richie C. This episode, being viewed as a desperate attempt at salvaging a sinking boat (to stick with the metaphor), has become a metaphor itself for the episode of any show that has its own desperate episode. The most common sign that a show has jumped the shark is when Ted Mcginley is hired to act on it. Another sign is when a main character is killed off in a car accident while debasing a cover of the greatest song of all time ("Hallelujah"). Wishing that I was clever enough to come up with the jump the shark idea, I am now going to make up my version. I shall call it, "Show animated porn to Arnold and Dudley." The phenomenon I refer to of course is based on the episode of "Different Strokes" when the seemingly nice old bike store owner lured the two boys into the back of his shop, showed dirty cartoons to them, and eventually got Dudley to take off his shirt. Arnold was wise enough to take off (as in, get the fuck out of there before his life became even more screwed up), but we can only guess what happened to the Ramsey boy (his father had one of the greatest mustaches of all time, by the way). This was the least funny sitcom episode I've ever witnessed, and when it was over I sat a while, dumbfounded, waiting to laugh. But it never came. This happens to be the only plot I remember from any "Different Strokes" episode, but that's besides the point. So, if you'd like to support my desire for inventing a witty TV metaphor, the next time a show completely changes its tone, or even better, the next time your usually silly friend becomes all too serious about something just say, "Man, you just totally showed animated porn to Arnold and Dudley." I'd appreciate that. Speaking of child molesters using fun personas to lure their victims, John Wayne Gacy is that guy that entertained young children in his clown suit, lured young boys back to his house, raped them, killed them, and put their bodies under the crawlspace in his house. Killer clowns, bicycle store owning molesters; they're all the same. Now go ahead and listen to the prettiest song ever written about a serial killer. The lyrics of Sufjan Stevens’ “John Wayne Gacy Jr.” tell the murderer’s story truthfully (at least according to the bio I just read on Wikipedia). What is so jarring and eerily moving about this song is that it makes you feel for the guy. Not only does it paint him as an amiable boy with a drunk dad and a sad mother, but it later describes his killings as caring acts of love. Thankfully, the lyrics also humanize the 27 dead boys “with their cars” and “summer jobs.” Then the exclamation, “Oh my God,” sung in a haunting vibrato reveals the horror of the situation for everyone involved. Behind it all is soft plucking of an acoustic guitar and a pretty piano melody. To top it off, the speaker ends the song with a revealing proclamation: "And in my best behavior / I am really just like him. / Look beneath the floorboards / for the secrets I have hid." This brings it all together. Rather than being a post-modern, tiredly hip-ironic little ditty, the discord between the tone of the tune and lyrics and the horror of the story being told becomes a technique married to the meaning it creates. We act our prettiest to draw others in. The most harmless of us smile pretty on dark days, the most harmful of us wear clown suits or own bike stores to lure innocent victims, and the most ingenious of us write beautiful songs about horrid things to make a point. We draw others in with a shiny façade, but our secrets are never well-concealed for those daring to take a peak; especially those willing to see the secrets reflected in their own hearts. It’s that kind of compassion that Gacy surely lacked and Stevens clearly embodies. It’s also what can lead us to rot under a floorboard, or to fall in love with a song/person. Whatever the case may be, this song is the perfect example of what I call tonal lyrical dissonance. A beautiful song about an ugly thing, a funny song about a horrible thing (Blind Melon's "Skinned" comes to mind), or a sexy song about an unsexy thing ("Shit, Damn, Motherfucker" by D'Angelo is a prime example) are all examples of tonal lyrical dissonance, or what shall be hereby deemed "John Wayne Gacy'd," as in, "have you heard the new Taylor Hicks song about eating human babies? It's so John Wayne Gacy'd.”

ASTRO AL 4:20 (Self-released, 2006) by Shawn Alexander Roy | Grimsby, ON I can't lie to you, I could not get through this God-awful album. This stoner themed record (the liner notes say, "legalize it baby") draws influence from the likes of Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart and Tom Waits. Astro Al takes us through an intergalactic journey around the far reaches of the universe. Sampling old news reels and producing Fruity Loops quality beats, Astro Al produces an embarrassing array of music. You get an anxiety attack just listening to it, because you remember back to when you had to listen to your friend's shitty band but you could not tell him his band sucked because it'd break his heart. The only use for this album is teaching young children the dangers of mixing pot and fruity loops.

THE HYLOZOISTS La Fin Du Monde (Boomba Records, 2006) by Jeremy Young | Age: 21 | Montreal Introducing the Hylozoists. Show of hands: who’s heard of/heard the one-off record by post-rock conglomerate super-combo Valley Of The Giants? Okay, think less Monument Valley and more Everglade microbiological love story, but keep thinking sick Canadian line-up. Before I try to expound on the new sound of the summer, let me introduce the band. Between two records and a shape-shifting touring group, here are the contributors to the Hylozoist collective: Paul Aucoin (The Sadies), Patrick Conan (Cuff the Duke, Tricky Woo), Jason Tait (Weakerthans, FemBots), Jason Ball (The Hopeful Monster), Owen Pallet (Final Fantasy, Arcade Fire, Les Mouches, Hidden Cameras…), Paul Lowman (Cuff the Duke), Wayne Petti (Cuff the Duke), Dale Murray (Cuff the Duke, Hopeful Monster), Matthew Faris (Cuff the Duke), Julie Penner (Broken Social Scene, Deadly Snakes, FemBots), Jeremy Strachan (Sea Snakes, Hopeful Monster), Monica Guenter (Christine Fellows), Nathan Lawr (Royal City, The Constantines, FemBots), Rob Gordon (Les Mouches), Dave Christensen (Hopeful Monster, Heavy Blinkers), Bryden Baird (Blue Rodeo), Dave Mackinnon (FemBots), Damian Moynihan (Hopeful Monster), Lukas Pearse (Rebecca West, Dusty Keeler), Michael Olsen (Arcade Fire, K-OS), Jonina Gibson (Hopeful Monster). Since 2004, the band is pretty much Cuff the Duke + three vibraphones and the vision of writer (ex. Sadies) Paul Aucoin, but in no way does that describe the harmony of this exceptional group. Aucoin recruited a Halifax-centric assemblage of musicians to manifest his musical ideas in 2001 with La Nouvelle Gauche, but was forced to keep this project at bay when The Sadies asked him to join the band. When the Hylozoists returned in 2004, the group had changed almost entirely, and Aucoin had instead chosen Toronto for his inspiration. Thus, members of Cuff the Duke, the Weakerthans and the FemBots were invited along, but the result (La Fin Du Monde, just released in the US) is not like anything these groups have composed before. Their sound has been likened to vibraphone and glockenspiel-heavy post-rockers Tortoise and the Sea and Cake, which I guess I agree with, for that reason. And to say that “if you like Tortoise, you’d like the Hylozoists” is probably accurate, but the two evoke very different sides of rock music’s multiple personalities. I’d rather compare the Hylozoists’ composition tendencies with that of Do Make Say Think or Valley of the Giants, who mask inherent complexity with the energy of the pop-rock orchestra. Though, certain songs like, “The Fifty Minute Hour” and “If Only Your Heart Was A Major Sixth” tend to nod towards Tortoise’s brilliant TNT. Then again, the string section begins “Man Who Almost Was” like A Silver Mt. Zion and builds on a classical guitar theme until braided male and female vocals ride the song out on a chariot of clouds. As I mentioned before, the Hylozoists are centered (both conceptually and spatially in their live set-up) around the sustained bell tones of the vibraphones, and the strings steer the vessel into daylight. Each song on La Fin Du Monde is evocatively powerful and emotionally encapsulating. Occasionally, the alt-country swing of Cuff the Duke’s drummer Matt Faris rears its goofy head out of the orchestral madness and lets you rest assured that this is still only a rock band, and not really ‘la fin du monde.' Between the recent release of Final Fantasy’s He Poos Clouds, a song-cycle performed by a string quartet, and La Fin Du Monde, I think I’m falling for this merge between trained classical composition and the unpredictable sensibility of popular music.

SANDRA GRACE Do You Have a Lover? (Self-released, 2006) by Adela M. Brito | Age: 38 | New York City Sandra Grace returns with her third album, Do You Have a Lover? It’s a sexy sizzler of dance tracks that’ll keep you moving. She serves as producer, performer, and composer of this collection. There are some tunes that make reappearances from her last recorded effort- this time, they are revamped, revitalized, and ready to get you dancing. “Epiphany,” “Vicious Ass Nocturne,” and the title track will keep you dancing at the club as well as running on the treadmill at the gym. Instrumental versions of these songs close the album nicely. Two classics from the Decade of Decadence offer a very pleasant surprise. Ms. Grace covers the Eurythmics’ “Here Comes The Rain Again” and “Bette Davis Eyes.” Here, they’re transformed into pulsating, fun blasts from the past - real treats to this listener’s ears. “Stay With Me,” a love song, is the gem of Do You Have a Lover? Lyrically, it’s emotional, but not sappy. Musically and vocally, it’s uplifting and quite moving. Ms. Grace - a woman of many talents - performs, produces, and creates with style. She’s a one-woman show and does it quite effectively. Portions of this CD’s sales will be donated to an important cause close to the artist’s heart – fighting breast cancer. It’s a great CD, which is one reason to buy it. However, contributing to the vital work of breast cancer awareness, prevention, and research is an even more important reason to do so. Good tunes for a good cause!

INKWELL These Stars are Monsters (111 Records, 2006) by Adela M. Brito | Age: 38 | New York City Inkwell’s These Stars Are Monsters is fun with catchy choruses, strong vocals, and upbeat music. This is definitely a grows-on-you-with-each-listen kind of album; all twelve tracks flow pretty smoothly and make for a strong album. Surprisingly, Inkwell accomplishes all this with only two members. Travis Adams takes on vocals, guitar, bass, and keyboards, while Dave Pierce plays drums, guitar, keyboards, and contributes to the vocals. Another accomplishment on their part: the very important networking thing. Inkwell currently has almost 3,000 friends on their MySpace page to support them. There are several tunes which stand out. Track one jumpstarts the album with a numerically off countdown. It’s got a catchy chorus: "We’re sorry it’s just a joke and I’m starting to get the punch line," while the title suggests you “Just Take the Monkey and Leave.” There’s no mention of a monkey in this song, so maybe that’s the joke? While the second song was playing, this writer was singing along: "Just blame the night, blame the empty sky above, just the blame the night." As logic might suggest, the song could be titled, “Blame the Night,” but it’s not even close to that. This upbeat tune is called “Equador is Lovely This Time of Year.” The title is spelled differently than the country’s name and there’s no mention of visiting a lovely place at all. This listener also enjoyed the title track very much. The vocals are strong and there’s a Spanish guitar groove that’s effective. The fourth song, “No You Drop It” (which conveniently follows “Drop It”), has these guys sounding a bit like the Beach Boys, with a sweet harmony and a four-word chorus that starts halfway through the song and continues for about a minute and a half. And the four words are not "No you drop it," and nothing is being dropped or picked up in this song. You get the pattern. So, that’s what these guys seem to have as a gimmick. While reviewing the album, I had a hard time identifying all the songs, as the choruses were in my head, but the titles were not. But in the end, song titles aren’t that important. If the listener remembers the tune and can sing along, then musicians have done a good job. The lyrics don’t necessarily make a lot of sense, tell a story, or reveal anything substantial, and that’s totally okay. For those who are into pleasantries with a beat, Inkwell’s These Stars Are Monsters is definitely a job well done. This listener, who’s usually impressed by more lyric-oriented music, still enjoyed the CD very much. Now... what was the name of that song?

MARGO GLANTZ The Wake (Curbstone Press, 2005) by Sunny Rhode | Age: 18 | Chicago, IL When cellist Nora Garcia’s ex-husband Juan dies of a heat-attack, Nora returns to Mexico for his funeral. There, musicians, critics, and artisans are all brought together by Juan’s death. Nora contemplates the relationship of art and life, her own emotions and the way in which the human heart seems to operate outside reason. She asks herself ‘What do I feel?’ as her mind soars through medical, literary and musical monologues that twist themselves into patterns, trying desperately to answer the question. Told in the first person stream of consciousness, Glantz is able to portray the uncertain and disorienting paralysis of grief incredibly well. The point of view effect here is amazing, keeping the reader riveted and involved; feeling rather than observing Nora’s spiraling emotions and mental chaos. Throughout the story, Glantz inserts pages of information (most often musical) that may seem extraneous at first glance, but tie and connect to the study of humanity and artistry. In fact, the whole book reads more like music and is paced in such a way to resemble a fugue. It emphasizes repetition of key phrases, introduces variations of several motifs with the lyrical harmony one might only expect to find in poetry or music. When Nora describes the relationship between herself and her ex-husband (especially their playing of the piano and cello together) there is a definite echo of anguished duets, romantic cantatas and tormented but exquisite arias laced within the simple but powerful language. When I found first picked up The Wake, I was a little skeptical. I had no idea who Margo Glantz was and to be honest, had not read a lot of Mexican literature. But as I read on, I found such intelligence and beautiful imagery and expression of sentiment that I could not put it down. It is difficult to express how this novel (even in its translated form) can make a reader feel. Glantz glides through time, memories and emotions with such passion that the end result is dizzying and incredibly intense. The Wake is not only deserving of the 2005 Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz Prize, but a testament to the narrative and poetic power of Margo Glantz’s literature.

NEAL SHUSTERMAN The Schwa Was Here (Dutton Juvenile, 2004) by Gina Favata | Age: 26 | Boston, MA Antsy—real name Anthony, pronounced in Brooklyn Antny, morphed to Antsy—Bonano is your average Italian kid living in Brooklyn. Calvin Schwa, on the other hand, is not your run-of-the-mill kid. He's that kid no one talks to, but everyone knows. He's the guy in your middle school who everyone speculates about, but no one knows truly what his deal is. He's an urban legend—infamous, but certainly not popular. Calvin, or the Schwa, is known for being forgettable. You can't even think about him long enough without losing your train of thought, and when you're sure no one is around, he's standing right next to you. The Schwa and Antsy have an accidental meeting, and a friendship based mostly on entrepreneurship is born. Antsy views the Schwa, and what's known as the Schwa Effect, as a way to make some fast cash. Antsy becomes an "agent" for the "nearly invisible," as he takes bets on what the Schwa can do without being noticed. The dares start off harmless, like standing in the teacher's room and going into the girl's bathroom, but eventually they become more daring. For the riskiest bet and the most money, the Schwa has to break into the home of the crazy and mean old man Crawley, and steal one of the bowls of his 14 Afghan dogs. And with the outcome of this dare both the Schwa and Antsy's lives are instantly changed. Author Shusterman's book The Schwa Was Here is laugh-out-loud funny, and a great story. The book may be considered "young adult" and sold in the children's section of bookstores, but it isn't just for kids. Most who read this, whether young or old, will find the narrator Antsy to be witty and insightful about the world around him, and the storyline to be compelling enough to keep you turning the page. Anyone who likes books by Spinelli or E.L. Konigsburg will enjoy the Schwa. Those who've read The Last Days of Summer (and if you haven't you should) will find a similar voice between characters Joey and Antsy. And if you're too cool to be caught with a young adult novel, buy this for your younger cousin, little brother, or niece. They'll love you for it!

THE AGNES MONGAN CENTER: Hidden Delights at the Fogg by Barry Maloney | Age: 41 | Dedham, MA There is a tangible pleasure in any visit to the Harvard University campus - the tall noble trees, cobbled sidewalks, stone churches, and quaint Cambridge homes exist amid the beautiful brick buildings, decorative peaks and steeples that enfold us in a daydream of sublime architecture. Harvard is a place where old meets new, where a sense of academic tradition and colonial history co-exists happily with youthful students, international cuisine, and progressive thought. So it was with a pleasurable sense of anticipation that I climbed the steps of the Fogg Museum of Art for my first visit to the vast collection of prints, drawings, and photographs at the Agnes Mongan Center Study Room, located just off of the first floor courtyard. A library-like environment houses a wooden card catalog (still in use), and the long, wide tables are ideal for laying out assorted prints and drawings for contemplation. A series of paneled doors line the longest wall, which when opened reveal moveable shelves housing some of the collection’s most exceptional two-dimensional treasures in frames. The Mongan Center houses both the study room and collections of the Fogg Museum’s departments of prints, drawings and photography. It’s collection encompasses more than 60,000 prints, 13,000 drawings and 70,500 photographs by European and American artists from the 14th Century to the present. Most are by-and-large available to the public for personal study upon request, as long as visitors are patient and respectful of the work. Assisted by a personable staff, a rare opportunity awaits us merely for the price of admission. As I sit at a table a cart pulls up beside me and a gentleman hands me a requested series of works, and it strikes me how fine it is to have an opportunity to scrutinize works up close that, under normal circumstances, would be kept behind glass and darkened light, or, even worse, hidden away from public eyes in some investor’s climate-controlled storage vault. Fortunately, that’s not the case here at the Fogg; they are willing to share and are neither stingy nor ill-equipped. For this review of work at the Mongan Center, I chose to focus on two heavy-hitters in the art of drawing: Michelangelo Buonarroti and Jean Auguste-Dominique Ingres. No good artist fears a fair evaluation, so let’s clear our mental pallette and evaluate some specific works with a little knowledge, a lot of insight, and few preconceptions based on reputation. Reviewed: Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564): Sitting at a table with two works by Michelangelo before me, I have time to examine them alone and unhindered in this peaceful study room. These two drawings from the artist’s own hand are quite different from each other in content, context, and quality. Goldsmith’s Designs (1521) This interesting page contains several overlaid images - the first, a fantastic head done in cartoon is imaginatively distorted, monstrous and empty-eyed; nearby, a puffy-cheeked imp squats supported by his small tail, holding on his shoulders either a wooden weapon or an architectural element to which he will be attached. These grotesques - we assume from the documents title - are intended for casting in metal for some decorative purpose. Several other sketchy figures and facial elements fill the open areas of the page; the drawing technique, shading and cross-hatching is immediate and exploratory, revealing the artist’s persistently investigative nature. The quality of all this imagery, though not poor by any means, is much closer to the quality in a Marvel comic book than to what we usually expect of fine art, yet it is unfair to judge this work by this standard. It is but a sketch for the creation of decorative elements and other passing notions, never intended to be a stand alone drawing. It’s primary value lies is in it’s ability to describe to us the artist’s exploratory processes. Ganymede (1533): This black chalk on off-white paper drawing illustrates the story in Greek mythology in which Jupiter, in the form of a great eagle, steals a beautiful shepherd boy to take to Olympus as his lover and cupbearer. This work is not rough and searching like the previously reviewed image, but has a finished touch; lovingly worked, refined and completed. It radiates a light, ethereal quality, as though gravity does not exist within its realm, yet it still exudes a certain forceful nature nonetheless. In it, a male figure is held aloft in the clutches of an enormous eagle, one arm slung over a wing, the other draped around the eagle’s neck. His anatomy and musculature are cloud-like and emanating light, his hair is snaky and swirling, his features handsome, and he is nude but for a cape flying off his back, trailing upward into a light-filled break in the clouds. The eagle holds the boy’s legs pinioned in his clutches, gripping him from behind; and where we might expect to see the victim fighting and panicked, instead his feminine face is inwardly smiling and he seems taken away in an unearthly reverie. The drawing is unclear at the bottom of the paper, due to its having being abraded or rubbed at some point in its history, which caused some loss of the original chalk outline - yet we can still make out a well-drawn dog sitting among his sheep and a discarded shepherd’s crook. In pen on the bottom matte is written: “According to Vasari, this drawing was made for a young gentleman call’d Tomaso de Cavalieri by Michael Angelo in order to encourage and teach him to draw.” Well, how very kind of him indeed! But this seems to be only the beginning of an explanation, and as I get to know this work, the truth is much more revealing. In his mid-fifties, the artist met a young Roman nobleman and quickly formed an intimate friendship, a token of which were the gift of two drawings: “The Rape of Ganymede” and “The Punishment of Tityus.” The latter is another eroticized work that depicts an eagle hovering over a bound young man; which is presently held in the collection of the Royal Library of Windsor Castle. These drawings fall into the art-historical category of ‘presentation drawings’ – drawings given as gifts that were not intended for public display. Michelangelo’s presentation drawings are often erotic and not easily understood in the context of his public works, but on a human level, they are quite easily explained. This is more than a well-drawn mythological theme, or a metaphorical illustration of homosexuality, this is a highly personal love poem between two actual people. Though these two works became widely popularized and were reproduced by artists and engravers across Europe, they are in truth very intimate works, and I begin to feel that this is none of my business, as though I were intrusively reading another’s diary and private thoughts. Tomaso de Cavalieri wrote to Michelangelo in a letter dated January 1, 1533: “I have hope, lest fortune should not wish to torment me further, that in a few days I will be back on my feet and able to pay you a visit. Meanwhile I will set aside at least two hours every day to take pleasure in the contemplation of your two drawings – the more I look at them, the more I like them…” So let us leave Michelangelo and Tomaso de Cavalieri here, among their intimate correspondences. I suppose we can take some consolation in knowing that the reputedly diligent artist did more than toil in his lifetime; laboring under difficult taskmasters such as the Medici and the Popes, painting the Sistine Chapel, designing the architecture of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, and creating some of the most powerful sculptures in human history; he also had an active, and, at least occasionally successful, love life. Reviewed: Jean Auguste-Dominique Ingres (1780-1867): An artist of many contradictions, Ingres had a bourgeois mentality and publicly extolled traditionalist and Classical precepts, yet his best works were, as Baudelaire said, “the products of a deeply sensuous nature.” He was, to my eyes, a bubbling fountain of repression, unconsciously oozing eroticized mannerisms in so much of his work, particularly in his treatment of the female form. His romanticized anatomy of women is irrepressibly fetishistic, exaggerated so that the body seems to fit to the shape of the clothes, rather than vice versa. Perhaps his formative childhood mind was imprinted with the exterior clothing of the fashion of his time - generally based on the Empire waist dress - so much so that he has adapted the female form to fit the clothing in his mind’s eye; breasts are high up on all females, at almost shoulder level, with particularly long, willowy arms hanging passively in just so-and-so pose. We see the influence of Botticelli in the long arms and neck and the sloping willow-shoulders; and Leonardo da Vinci in each and every woman’s tiny Mona Lisa mouth, (a formulaic construct that must have pleased and flattered his many sitters), but he is all Ingres in the heavy-lidded eye, curvaceous buttocks and ankle, and the long extended torso for which his critics assailed him; it’s as if the artist so loved the female form that he needed to draw it out to lengthen his time of observation. There is an intangible quality in Ingres imagery that I see as a distant forerunner to the Freudian underpinnings of surrealist expression, a “polished realism with a twist.” Supremely confident and strange, influential and in some ways naive, Ingres gives form to an intersection of subject, surface play and character insight, psychologically revealing both his models and himself. Portrait of Augustin Jordan and his daughter Adrienne (1817): The graphite on white wove paper portrait looms before me on its table-easel, radiating the artist’s obvious delight in the act of drawing. A lesson in pencil technique, dimension, and romanticized anatomy, this drawing contains some of the finest graphite modeling I have ever seen. Mr. A. Jordan, the father, is magnificently rendered - he’s strong, with an air of sensibility and refinement. He looks at us from behind the intoxicated, magnanimous eyes of a father who loves his little daughter - the apple of his eye - most completely. Here, the artist seems to tell us, is a strong, decent man with his heart exposed. To best showcase its illusory high relief, the modeled head rests in a collar of very simple - though perfectly placed - contour lines, making the face even more lively by comparison. The folds of his magnificent great coat are a mix of contour, line weight, and shading. On the father’s head we see the very sprigs at the part of the hair; while the illusion of cut, pomade, and layering are so well-conceived that we can see Mr. Jordan getting ready for his portrait, getting his hair cut that very morning in preparation for his sitting with the great artist. It may seem strange to go on about the part in the hair, but one must see it in person to believe the sophistication of this man’s hand - the facile way he plays with illusion, pencil strokes and surface aesthetics. He is undeniable! The daughter, Adrienne, is an idealized Victorian sprite, more delicately beautiful than possible with heavy-lidded Ingres eyes, exquisite nose and an adorably dimpled mouth, lightly pursed. Around her exquisite locks she wears a bonnet made of ribbon, small flowers and ornament. Her body bears the idealized Ingres female form, only in miniature. The pencil work on her apron and dress are a real testament to the artist’s zeal for perfection, completion, and giving his everything to his viewer. His handling of her sleeves and arm ornamentation is, to use an overused term — virtuoso. Standing on a small step stool, with her gesture supporting the weight of this entire pose, this child is Sphinx, central, and magical. Utterly beautiful, a possible willfulness belies this physical beauty, and sparkles as sure as does innocence. Gently passive and fragile - yet full of life force and latent power - Adrienne could learn to control the world with this beauty, like she is already learning to control her beloved father. And yet we also note her exquisite fragility, her physical frailty, and see that even this youth has been marked by mortality as its own. One hand is in front, gently holding her father’s to keep a dainty balance on a low footstool, the other reaches around knowingly behind her, toward her father’s waiting hand, and their fingers just almost touch; in this gesture we see the mutual love, gentility and adoration between them. Augustin’s hands seems to at once guide and protect his daughter, while simultaneously preparing to let her go. This is a picture about adoration. The father, the artist, and we the viewer each fall in love with this beautifully enigmatic girl, with a moment in time, and with a piece of paper imbued with a way of seeing. The Bather (1808): Watercolor and white gouache over graphite. What to say before a painting like this? It is hard to bore into the discipline, patience, skill and mental acuity required to create such an object. It is almost impenetrable to conceive of the fine brushwork of the skin. Washes blend with invisibly tiny brush strokes, all proof that Ingres belongs in the company of the high-masters of surface technique: Albrecht Durer, Lucas Cranach the Elder, Da Vinci, and the Master of Flemalle. Though not an expressive artist by any stretch, Ingres’ true gift is his ability to turn paper, pigment, and graphite into an incontrovertible treasure, a velveteen reality, a cherishable thing. The figure sits on the edge of the bed, back to the viewer, with long sloping back and shoulders. She is nude with only a white-and-red-patterned turban on, her little slippers have been kicked off her feet, one arm is still entwined in her bed sheet while the other rests on the mattress, giving her balance. Even in this view from behind we are drawn to the face, as in all of Ingres’ works, but this woman doesn’t give herself over to us, she doesn’t even seem aware of a viewer but trances off in a morning reverie. We see just some brown hair, an ear, an eye, an eyelash, a bit of cheekbone and the tip of nose, yet even this little bit of face offers so much, as this is the place of transcendence. There is a gentleness, a tranquility, as though this figure we watch is lost, perhaps poised in a moment of existential vacuity. There is no end to humanity in that eyelash and bit of cheek. The bourgeois, curmudgeon-like Mr. Ingres, much like old Scrooge in the Christmas Carol, seems in the end to enjoy nothing more than melting into his own heart. Agnes Mongan Center Study Room, Fogg Museum of Art 32 Quincy Street, Cambridge, MA 02138 Hours: Tues-Fri 2:00 to 4:45pm, Sat. 10:00am-12:45pm; E-mail: Mongan@fas.harvard.edu

Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan Directed by Larry Charles Starring Sacha Baron Cohen by Steve Brachmann | Age: 19 | Boston, MA Alright, so anyone who has ever read one of my reviews here for Dissolver Magazine has probably heard me all but fellate Grandma’s Boy at some point or another. Yes, this hurts my credibility as a serious film critic, but I never grew up wanting to be Gene Siskel. Hell, not even Gene Siskel wants to be Gene Siskel right about now. I mean, the dude’s dead; I’d much rather be somebody who’s, well, not dead, like Roger Ebert. I mean, seriously, who dies? That’s pretty lame. Two thumbs down, Gene. Way down. Anywho, after watching Grandma’s Boy so many times that I began seeing Nick Swardson and Shirley Jones mid-coitus constantly in my mind, and not just while I was jerking off, I began to think that my Shock-O-Meter was stuck on “numb to life." I thought that, in order to feel that sort of jaw-dropping experience again, I would have to resort to drastic measures, like snuff films, or Phyllis Diller. I became listless and melancholy, and I longed for something to fill the void of tasteless, sick humor in my life. Enter Borat. One of only two things to ever make me tweak out while totally sober (the other is, incidentally, the music video for “Total Eclipse of the Heart” by Bonnie Tyler. It just may be the most amazingly ‘80s and epic thing ever, and it comes highly recommended). I literally didn’t watch half of the movie; I spent a good chunk of time writhing in my seat, and, as my friends can tell you, repeating the words “Oh my freakin’ God!” like some sort of mantra, or as if I were some high school freshman chick trying to convince herself that she’s pretty. Of course, in that case, I’d probably be repeating the words, “I’m just big boned.” So it’s not the same thing, but you get the idea. To put it mildly, this movie is straight-up iconic. This will be the movie your shithead of a little brother will try to quote around your friends to look cool. The movie normal people will quote while it’s still funny, and the movie the douchebags of society will quote in attempts to be funny long after the lines have been totally gutted of humor. In short, it’s the new Anchorman. For those of you unaware of the concept of Borat, the movie revolves around Kazakh television reporter Borat Sagdiyev as he, and his producer Azamat Bagatov, travel coast to coast to explore the cultural diversity of America and report their findings back home. Borat, of course, is the brainchild of Sacha Baron Cohen, who uses his alter egos (Borat, English rapper Ali G, and gay Austrian fashionista Bruno) to exploit the gullibility and ignorance of the people he interviews. In this movie, we see everything from a college frat boy saying “I don’t give a fuck!” when presented with the age-old question, “Should I, or should I not, stuff cheese in my dick hole?’, to an elderly rodeo hand saying “Yea, we’re trying to finish off the homosexuals here too.” Only in America, folks. He may seem a little out of touch with reality, but way down deep, Borat is a person we can all relate to. I know I heard little bits of my soul reverberating in his words. For instance, let’s just look at some of his opening lines: - “My name a Borat. I like sex!” Good news! I like sex too. - “I like you!” I like me as well. So far this dude’s batting 1.000. He also reveals himself to be a little less than alright with Jews and women. But, if we can all be honest with ourselves, isn’t that just the American Way? I mean, if this country wasn’t founded by anti-Semite women haters, Mel Brooks wouldn’t have a career, and Ann Coulter wouldn’t be such a stark-mad raving bitch. Actually, she probably still would be, but there would be less of a context for it. If you haven’t seen this movie, go see it; you will thank me. If you’ve already seen this movie, see it again; Sacha Baron Cohen will thank me. Besides, dude needs the money to pay for the legal proceedings. That’s right fans, Borat is getting sued. Apparently a few people didn’t take too kindly to his Kazakh charm and naïveté. The frat boys have filed suit saying that the Borat team got them liquored up before they were filmed, and the producer of the morning news show that Borat infiltrated got fired shortly thereafter. I guess some people just can’t take a joke. But fear not friends, this promises to be just a minor legal scuffle for Borat, as we live in a society with a level headed judicial system and the waiver release form, which everyone in that damn movie signed. Besides, the $67.1 million that Borat has grossed in the first few weekends ought to be enough to keep Cochran on retainer. And being engaged to Isla Fisher must soften the blow a touch. …Isla Fisher? The hot chick from Wedding Crashers? No, no, not Rachel McAdams, she’s cute. Isla Fisher is hot. The one who Vince Vaughn picked up and who then raped him on the bed? Yea, that one. I’d totally hit that, wouldn’t you? ‘Scuse me? Yo, I don’t care if you have a girlfriend. I could be married and I’d totally tap that shit. Don’t give me this lame-ass “girlfriend” excuse. “Nah, man, I wouldn’t, I already have my girl.” Pussy. Commitment. What a funny thing.

RV Directed by Barry Sonnenfeld Starring Robin Williams, Cheryl Hines by Steve Brachmann | Age: 19 | Boston, MA There are a number of things that will/should stand out to you as you watch this movie. First of all, Jeff Daniels is stupendously cast. There may not have been a better role for him on the planet. In my own humble estimation, Mr. Gornicke may have even been a better fit then that guy he played in Dumb & Dumber. You know, Roy or Lloyd or Jeb or some other inbred name. All you need to know about his performance can be summed up in one word: chagrin. That’s right, chagrin. It may not mean much to you now, but much like the crucifixion of Christ, it’ll all make sense in a few days. That is, if you see the movie within a few days. Otherwise, that metaphor goes from tasteless but accurate to just plain tasteless. Oh, and Daniels’s moustache? That baby is straight up Ron Jeremy-rific… …Ron Jeremy-tacular… …Ron Jeremy-tastic… you know, there’s really no good way to turn his name into a superlative, is there? Anywho, moving on. Porn star ‘staches aside, RV relies on Robin Williams to stir the drink that is the cast of caricatures, be it the bitchy 16-something year old hot daughter (hey, Williams’s boss was the only guy checking her out), the 8th grade ‘wiggah’ who looks like an 8 year old (“I don’t want to look freakish.” Well then you should have grown more, tyke), and the backwoods Gornicke family, probably up from the Alabama region (what happens between the Gornicke children stays between the Gornicke children). Honestly, let’s just call a spade a spade and rename this movie Robin Williams Owns An RV. Same movie, but now I know to look out for those uniquely Williams-esque stand up monologues that occur once or twice in every one of his films. Well, maybe not every one of his films; I didn’t catch them in Insomnia, and I don’t think that One-Hour Photo left many rolling in the aisles with laughter, not unless you find stalker photo developers funny… Okay, so maybe I chuckled. Sue me. This movie has just about everything folks. You have your daughter’s friend who hugs trees and, despite eating tofu and soy and other “Enviro-friendly” chick food, just happens to be 250 pounds. I half expected her to moo at certain points during her five-minute cameo. You have Robin Williams, in what appears to be a metaphor explaining his entire career, being covered in a shower of shit. You even have a decent couple of MILFs, including Kristen Chenowyth, who can strum my ukulele all night if she wants. No, seriously, I have a band and we’re looking for a ukulele, and she seemed to play hers pretty well during the movie. I didn’t mean that as a double entendre. Honest. I mean, afterwards, when she’s done playing the ukulele, of course I’d like to shag her rotten. She is a MILF, after all. But, until that point, I have only the purest of intentions. Is this the best comedy I’ve ever seen? Holy crap, no. The undisputed champion there is Grandma’s Boy, with Wedding Crashers in place and Old School coming in show. But I do think that, in a few months, this will make for a decent DVD rental and a much better way to spend your time than masturbating and crying because your “girlfriend” won’t return your calls. Just a thought: maybe she didn’t find it all that endearing when you laughed hysterically during Frasier re-runs, pretending to get the jokes. Oh well, live and learn Niles. Live and learn.