Final Pitch: Mark Bittman profile

Thesis: Mark Bittman’s wealth of culinary knowledge and no-nonsense writing style has made him more than just a food writer. Bittman is a teacher who comes from the same position as most Americans who cook, which gives him the hard attained ability to make people care about food.

Why it’s relevant now and why I should write about it:
Discussions about food are on the rise. There are more local food/locavore cooking classes, farmers markets, and the return to home-cooked meals from scratch. Bittman has been a home cook since the sixties, and is committed to making that experience creative and not a chore.
Bittman recently published a book called Food Matters. This book interests me, because his other books are cookbooks, and this text seems to show Bittman changing the definition of “food writer” by crossing over from journalism into the study of food systems.
Mark Bittman is one of my inspirations for cooking and for food writing. I don’t want to paint him as the greatest food writer and home cook in the world, but he has done a lot for both of those things. It is not Bittman’s activism that is the impetus for this project, but his stretching/testing the boundaries of the definition of a food journalist that interests me. I think that Bittman’s work will pave, if it hasn’t already begun, the way for a different type of food writer.

Sources: How to Cook Everything, Food Matters, "The Minimalist" articles form The New York Times, and interviews with Mark.

Hate and Love are One in the Same: An Essay on Pauline Kael

When Pauline Kael (1919-2001) retired as The New Yorker’s film critic in 1991, she was met by the applause of disdain and of praise. She is loved by many, hated by an equal number, and occupies the minds of all those people enough to inform their thoughts on Art. Pauline Kael is worth discussing because her bold writing style and unabashed personality incited discussion throughout her life, and continues to today.

In “House Critic,” Renata Adler scathingly denounced Kael’s work based on her use of rhetorical questions and her use of “I,” “You,” and, “We” in her reviews. Though it is where Adler finds fault that Kael’s great strength can also be found.

In Kael’s 1989 review of The Little Mermaid, she asks her readers, “Are we trying to put kids in some sort of moral-aesthetic safe house?” Kael has her opinion already, and makes it clear, yet she asks her readers so that they may dialogue with her, or at least talk about it within their social circles.

Similarly, these ‘faults’ help Kael draw her authority from her life, not from an academic approach to film. She reflects personally on the films, using the first and second person to preserve herself as a member of the audience, just like her readers would be. Certainly, she has seen numerous films, and, as a critic, knows a great deal more than most of her readers do about the minutiae of film, though she presents that knowledge without being pedantic.

It is her brazenness that has captivated readers for so many years, and has made Kael so prominent. When reading Kael, her thorough injection of her personality into her work reflects her waiting for a response about her work, and herself. Both of which are welcome, and are important for a continued discussion of Art. Art is a discussion, and, as Oscar Wilde wrote 100 years prior to Kael’s retirement, “Without the critical faculty, there is no artistic creation at all worthy of the name.”

Kael’s critical writing should be talked about so that the discussion about the art of criticism can continue to develop by a new cache of voices and perspectives, and so that her subject, film, can also grow. As long as Art develops and responds to the changes in society, criticism must do the same. In doing so, Kael, and Adler, must be remembered and talked about, love or hate, and the art of criticism will continue to change based on the lessons learned from Kael and her colleagues.

The Jazz critic Francis Davis writes in the introduction to Afterglow, his book documenting his final conversation with Kael, that, “Pauline’s insistence that art happens in the real world and that it should be an instrument of pleasure has become a governing principle in writing about rock and pop.” Her influence across genres speaks to her relevance to criticism as a whole, and her protégés are as important as her enemies in enriching this art.

Pauline Kael and the Critic’s canvas

NOTE: This article was written for an audience of people who consider themselves critics in the 21st century.

Oscar Wilde wrote in 1891, “Without the critical faculty, there is no artistic creation at all worthy of the name.” In 1991, Pauline Kael retired from the New Yorker. Passing away in 2001, Pauline Kael bequeathed to the world of Art an estate of shrewd writing that equally affected Journalism and Filmmaking.

The least that can be said of the late critic is that she was influential. Kael’s bold claims about the institutions of film and cinema, as well as about individual films have made tremendous contributions to the Art of Criticism. She is loved by many, hated by an equal number, and occupies the thoughts of all those people enough to inform their discussion of Art.

Though Kael is not the end all be all of Criticism, for such an end would end Criticism. As long as Art develops and responds to the changes in the larger discourse of society, Criticism too will develop and respond. In the 21st century, the youngest generation of critics has had almost no exposure to her work nor knowledge of her existence, and the show must go on. The little acquaintance with Kael we get through assignments or suggestions by our seniors, though speaks to her relevance in making critics think about what it means to be a Critic. Regardless of the subject we criticize, in spite of vehement hatred, or undying adoration, we have Kael and she informs our passion for Criticism.

The Jazz critic Francis Davis writes in the introduction to Afterglow, his book documenting his final conversation with Kael, that, “Pauline’s insistence that art happens in the real world and that it should be an instrument of pleasure has become a governing principle in writing about rock and pop.” Her influence across genres speaks to her relevance to Criticism as a whole, and her protégés are as important as her enemies in enriching this art.

Art is a discussion, and each painting, film, and critical piece are unique statements in that discourse. These statements beg us to not neglect them, and we, as artists, must recognize their importance or forsake our expressive medium.

In Renata Adler’s “House Critic,” she broadsides Kael based on her vulgar vocabulary preferences, and Kael’s use of rhetorical questions. Adler also points out that Kael has made some flagrant errors as a writer, namely Kael’s neglecting to rectify her criticism of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid’s use of an indoor studio for shooting, though the film was in reality shot outdoors when appropriate. This last fault certainly tarnishes Kael’s reputation, though the majority of Adler’s attacks merely reflect her distaste for tactics that Kael sees as central to her artistry.

Despite Adler’s total denunciation of Kael in house critic, the time Adler spent writing her essay solidifies Kael’s relevance to art, in that her existence has fostered discussions about the Artist. It is these discussions and manifestos that have survived into the 21st century discourse, and it is these discussions that will sustain our own.

Tough Acts to Follow: The English Department Reading

Last week Wednesday, students and the English Department faculty gathered for the annual department reading in the Olmsted Room, on what professor Gail Griffin called a most “godforsaken night.”

Featuring readings of creative and critical pieces by all of the department’s faculty, Griffin explained to the standing-room-only crowd that this annual reading is a time for the department faculty to “show off, and make the faculty just a bit vulnerable.”

Department chair Andy Mozina started the reading with an excerpt of his short story, “My Non-Sexual Affair,” a moving tale about the chilling fear of accidental infidelity, love, and explaining how someone could be so absentminded as to forget about the spilled chocolate sauce down the front of their shirt.

Next, visiting professor, and local poet, Elizabeth Marzoni delivered a sultry, and gripping, reading of her poem, “Rothko’s Room,” insipired by expressionist painter Mark Rothko’s work. Like Rothko’s brushstrokes, Marzoni’s reading blanketed the room in ponderous waves of words.

Gail Griffin followed, with a compelling excerpt of her upcoming book about the Murder-Suicide that occurred in DeWaters Hall 10 years ago. Her impeccable attention to detail immersed the audience in her story, letting them walk alongside her as she travelled back in time.

Glenn Deutsch contrasted wonderfully with his short story, “Monkey Version of My Father,” about a young boy growing up in 1969 New York City. Deutsch’s awkward young New Yorker took the crowd with him on a car trip across the city to share his fascination with Chichen Itza, human sacrifice, and his belief that being stuffed into subway cars is the ultimate cool.

Amy Rodgers, who is only on campus for the year, read the only dramatic piece of the evening. Known for her impressive scholarship, her piece, about Robert Frost’s son who committed suicide, was a refreshing, deeply personal, and moving, surprise.

Also a well respected critic, Babli Sinha followed Ms. Rogers with an excerpt of a conference paper about the power of women in media and the South Asian novel. Also the chair of Media Studies, Sinha’s scholarly writing was an impressive, engaging, and informative, bridge between creative pieces.

The ever popular Di Seuss returned the reading to creative writing with two poems from a forthcoming collection. The first was titled, “It Wasn’t a Dream, I knew William Burroughs,” who is of “Naked Lunch” fame. The piece is daringly written in the largely unpopular form of a confessional poem, blurring the lines among poetry, written documentary, and free-writing.

Before the sea of heads dissipated, Bruce Mills concluded the evening with two excerpts from a memoir in progress about his son’s autism. His work arguably made him the most vulnerable faculty member of the evening, and gave sound confirmation that every member of the department fails only at disappointing an audience. His storytelling, which is, if anything, earnest, left the room yearning to hear more, just how Mills described the yearning in every sound his son utters.