Shock of Recognition

This posting sort of dovetails with the prior one as it further underscores the dilemma of traditional media – how to price their product as the pressure of “free” information and opinions from the blogosphere rises. Mine is just one lonely voice in that universe and its lack of focus (a serious flaw as the Web rewards specialization) is a detriment to developing a following. But a “following” was not my main concern when I began this journey. So, I was surprised, and of course flattered, to be cited by two blogs that I admire, Telecommuter Talk and Got Shares? (GotShares.com).

I’ve mentioned other blogs before (Financial Views from the Blogosphere), but those are investment oriented. Emily’s Telecommuter Talk is subtitled “Ramblings of someone who used to be a telecommuter and who now has grand delusions of being a writer” and Matthew’s Got Shares? (GotShares.com) is subtitled “Quiet Highway: Saga of a Gentleman. A blog about finance, law, and the journey of an amateur economist.” These two blogs couldn’t be more different, but here is what they share in common besides covering some of my main interests, literature, economics, and public policy: they are written with passion, honesty, and understanding. Although I have my opinions, I realize how much I have to learn from the blogosphere, and I am thankful that there is such an alternative place to turn to for information and opinions.

This “recognition” is a reminder of how far I need to go to improve my own contributions, and my blog’s features, and I’m sort of exasperated on our boat for the next couple of months, using wireless dialup, and dealing with a petulant keyboard, the cursor jumping all over the place like a jumping frog, while Google is pulling the plug on my music links. In other words, it’s going to be a painful period – improvements I need to make as well as planned postings delayed until I return to the Halcyon land of my desktop and broadband.
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You Get What You Pay For

Malcolm Gladwell’s “Priced to Sell; Is Free the Future?” in the recent issue of the New Yorker brings up fascinating issues, ones I dealt with my entire career – should “information” be “free.” Part of his article is a critique of Chris Anderson’s new book, Free: The Future of a Radical Price,”which argues that given the inexorable downward price pressure in technology, there is an inevitability that the content itself will become free. Anderson suggests that musicians learn to make their money “through touring, [and] merchandise sales” and newspaper writer retool to become coaches to unpaid writers who will work “for non-monetary rewards.” Fame, crumbs?

No doubt the newspaper industry is under siege, and is probably the most threatened during this Great Recession. But Gladwell’s scathing dissection of the YouTube “business model” points the way to the inevitability of two universes, a subscription model such as the successful Wall Street Journal, one that offers a level of professionalism or specialization people are willing to pay for and then the free one like YouTube, a commodity aimed at a mass market, supported either by advertising or by the provider being satisfied by cornering market share/eyeballs (Google in the case of YouTube).

The New York Times had attempted a subscription model for its Op-Ed Columnists, miscalculating that this is the unique value of the Times. That value, though, as with the Washington Post, is its gestalt and by charging for a part of the paper and not all is to devalue the sum total of its parts. Pay per view is not feasible but dedicated followers will pay for access to such well established icons.

Similarly, newspapers that do not have a national standing, have an opportunity to expand their coverage of local issues – to create the specialization needed to buttress their own brands. Of course, content is not the only issue, it is the subscription model itself. Giving print subscribers nearly free access to the on line version is one approach, particularly as technology such as the iPad become ubiquitous. The pricing of an online version (only) is the more critical issue for these publications, and that will be dependent on their own distinctive market position. The devil is in the details, but Gladwell’s article is a good reading.

Do We Cry for the Sloth?

Coffee House Press, the innovative US Publisher of Firmin, saw my blog piece on their book and asked if I would like to review the author’s forthcoming novel, The Cry of the Sloth (To be published Sept. 1). Sure, I said, thinking that I might be graduating from reading about a lovable rat to an equally lovable sloth, and sloths are much cuter to begin with, sort of an upside down koala bear. The advance copy arrived as we were getting ready to leave for the summer so I looked forward to kicking off the summer reading season with Sam Savage’s new book. Not only did I love Firmin, I was more than curious about the author as he is about my age and it brings hope to us old guys; who knows, there might be a first book in each of us still.

The Cry of the Sloth is an epistolary novel, set in a Midwestern town during the 1970’s, quite a departure from Firmin written in the first person by a very literary rat. It is the first such novel I’ve read since 84 Charing Cross Road, which is actually not fiction but an exchange of letters between a New York book buyer and an antiquarian bookseller in London. The one thing all three books have in common is that they are about the literary world, although the “Sloth’s” world is faux literary.

The “action” mainly unfolds by following our protagonist, Andrew Whittaker, over a four month period, through his letters and other miscellaneous writings, including his interpretations of his correspondents’ replies (in the rare cases when he received one), as well as just about everything else he writes, including fragments of a novel (“meant to be comic [but] it has acquired an overlay of desperation”), notices to his tenants of apartments he inherited (“Do Not Throw Cigarette Butts in Flower Pots”), apartment ads (“Enjoy a Family Lifestyle!”), grocery lists (“t.p”. – toilet paper being prominent on each), fragments of ideas for stories, and notes to himself.

Mainly, his letters are to the contributing writers of his failing literary magazine, Soap, A Journal of the Arts, of which he is the Editor, his ex-wife, Jolie, to whom he owes alimony and on whom he was obviously entirely dependent for keeping his life organized when Soap began, Vikki, a contributor and perhaps Soap’s only donor, creditors who hound him for money, the Rapid Falls Current, the small town newspaper with which he is at war, and successful novelists, some old friends who obviously do not answer his pleas to participate in a spring literary festival. He obsesses on the festival as his salvation, much as Gogol’s Akaky Akakievich saw his Overcoat.

It is a lonely, solitary journey, kaleidoscopic in nature so we, the reader, see only parts of the mosaic and always through the eyes of the 43 year old Andrew Whittaker. But through that prism we witness his slow slide, progressing through various states of mind, with his ranting and ravings, paranoia, even writing letters under pseudonyms to the local newspaper praising “That Andy is a quiet, dignified, private man,” and then responding to his pseudonym under still another one.

His obsessive compulsive behavior leads him to perform all tasks, explain all his actions in minutiae and repetitively, sometimes hilariously but always to the point of sadness. He becomes fixated on why there are no photographs of him between the ages of seven and fifteen in the family album, pursuing an answer from his sister, from whom he is estranged (what else), and from his dying mother who is in a nursing home. “If everything we do not remember did not exist, where would we be?”

While packing up his books he finds an encyclopedia of mammals and it is there he comes across the “ai,” a variety of a three-toed sloth which he sees as having a head too small for its body, “something I have thought about myself” obsessing to the point of having his head measured. But, he happily reports to his friend, Harold, that he moves his “…bowels once every day with clockwork regularity. I mention this because the ai shits and pisses only once a week.”

His wife has run off with an old novelist friend on a motorcycle who he remembers saying “she would never marry anybody as ambiguous as I am.” And there is an amorphous quality to Andrew and the novel itself, leaving the reader with more questions than answers, part of Savage’s intent.

Towards the end of the novel, he writes to Vikki “I have sunk back into all my old vices – slovenliness, sloth, and gargantuan pettiness,” perhaps his most insightful introspective epiphany. In the Christian moral tradition “sloth” is also one of the seven deadly sins, characterized by wasting away and entropy, the essence of Andrew Whittaker. The punishment in hell for such a sin is to be thrown into snake pits and, interestingly, he finds a pair of snakeskin boots in his basement, ones someone had accused him of stealing.

Savage’s writing is precise and engaging, weaving satire and pathos. He portrays an inexorable path for our protagonist, a fascinating, tragicomic portrait of isolation and personal failure, in the tradition of Gogol and Kafka. “All around me things are in decay, or in revolt. If only I could walk out of myself the way one walks out of a house.”

As Andy says at the end of one very long letter: “Imagine a man in a room talking about himself, perhaps in a very boring way, while looking down at the floor. And while he goes on with his monologue, which as I said is of interest only to himself, one by one the other people in the room tiptoe away until he is all alone, the last one shutting the door silently behind him. Finally, the man looks up and sees what has happened, and of course he is overcome by feelings of ridicule and shame. Maybe this letter is now at the bottom of your wastepaper basket, a tiny trivial voice in the depths of a tin well, rattling on and on.”

Are we still in the room listening to Andy? Yes, or no, Savage has established himself, with Cry of the Sloth, and Firmin, as an important “new” literary voice at the age of 67.

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Google Gall

Microsoft has been called the Darth Vader of the software world but watch out, Google is gaining ground. I’m pretty POed at Google as I’ve relied on Google Pages to host music links for my blog, a process which, for the non-techie, is complicated enough, without Google suddenly pulling the plug on me. For months I’ve been receiving an occasional email from Google alerting me to their intention to “move” my links to a new location, “Google Sites,” implying this will be automatic without any concerns on my part. Nuts, I thought, still another thing to learn, but OK, I’ve gone this far and I can do that.

However, this is not going to be automatic by any stretch of the imagination and, contrary to previous communications, this change will apparently render my music links inoperative. Here is their most recent email:

Dear Google Page Creator User:

As was previously announced, Google will soon be discontinuing operation of the Google Page Creator product. We will be migrating your Page Creator sites over to Google Sites so that they continue to operate with no work on your part. However, we've identified you as using Google Page Creator to host files that Sites doesn't support. We are writing to inform you that, as part of this migration, if you take no action to address this, your hosted files will likely break. If they are important then we suggest you move them to a different hosting service.

Contrary to what was posted in the blog post, the shut down and migration of Google Page Creator has been extended and will begin in a few weeks.

Thank you for your patience during this migration.

Sincerely,

The Google Sites Team

Google, Inc.

1600 Amphitheatre Parkway

Mountain View, CA 94043

You've received this mandatory service announcement email to update you about important changes to your Google Page Creator account.

Had I understood their intent months ago, I would have sought an alternative solution when I had broadband access. We’re now living on our boat and I’m dependent on a wireless dialup with slower speeds and bandwidth limitations. Therefore, these links will fail at a certain point. Thanks Google.

I’ve identified the music and their locations and here is a list, something I have to do anyway as a first step to address the matter:

Music: Annie’s Waltz. Location: Annie’s Waltz

Music: Ol’ Man River and Oh What a Beautiful Mornin’ Location He jes' keeps rollin’ along

Music: Not A Day Goes By Location: West Palm Beach Hosts Sondheim

Music: Smile Location: Music For Our Times

Music: Love is Here to Stay and Selections from Porgy and Bess Location: Practice Sessions

Once I find a solution to the problem Google is leaving me with, I will correct the links. In the meantime, they may not work. Sorry about that!

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Citigroup Raises Pay as Unemployment Rises

It is a tired old argument in the financial service sector, raising salaries “to retain the best talent.” Today the New York Times reports Citigroup Has a Plan to Fatten Salaries .

It goes on to note “industrywide, total compensation is expected to rise 20 to 30 percent this year, approximately to the levels of 2005, before the crisis, according to Johnson Associates, a compensation consulting firm.” It was during that time the instruments of financial destruction began to flourish, so why not roll back the clock to then?

Having run a business in both good times and bad times, we all benefited from the former and we all had to tighten our belts during the latter. Why should the financial services industry be except from the financial laws of gravity and why does the Board of Directors approve such policies while their shareholders suffer and their businesses take government funds? Bank of America and Morgan Stanley are also raising base salaries. Guess they too are concerned about “retaining the best talent.” All of this as unemployment rises -- where does this logic end? It almost seems like a back door form of price-fixing, as isn’t it inevitable that the expense of these coordinated salary increases find their way into the cost of financial products?

Juxtapose that to an article in the same edition of the Times: Despite Recession, High Demand for Skilled Labor. Some jobs such as registered nurses, geological engineers, and welders are going unfilled, even during the recession. These are jobs that actually produce something and are critical to our society. One might as well work in the financial services industry where compensation is immune to supply and demand.

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Practice Sessions

A couple of months ago Ann and I saw a remarkable piano concert at the Norton Museum of Art , Alexander Wu performing a program of Fascinating Rhythm: Music of the Americas, 20th century pieces by composers from Brazil, the Dominican Republic, and as the title implies, works of Gershwin, including his Three Preludes.

The highlight after the intermission was his virtuoso performance of Fantasy on Porgy and Bess, an arrangement by Earl Wild of Gershwin’s classic opera, as a solo concert piano composition. It is an extraordinary piece: delicate and powerful at the same time, and extremely difficult to play, befitting the talents of Gershwin himself who was a gifted pianist in addition to his genius as a composer. Rare is the composer who can transcend both the popular and classical worlds and one can only wonder where his gifts would have taken him had he not died at only 38 of a brain tumor.

After the concert I met Mr. Wu and asked him about the difficulty of the piece, something he acknowledged. Unfortunately, he had not yet recorded Fantasy on Porgy and Bess (he said he will in the future), but I found one by Graham Scott, Wild Fantasy, which includes other Gershwin pieces as well. So I bought it as a downloadable MP3 and now have the pleasure of listening to Wild’s magnificent arrangements.

It is hard to explain what it is like to passionately love something you think you are on the cusp of being able to do yourself, but the remaining distance between where you are and your goal is only an illusion of closeness. You are looking through the ocular lens of the binoculars, whereas, in reality, your age and ability renders the real view through the objective lens, your dream much, much more distant in reality.

We’ve all been asked the question of what ideally you would have done with your life if you could wave that proverbial magic wand. I’ve always answered the question unhesitatingly: a jazz pianist and not too close behind a baseball pitcher. Luckily, what I actually did do professionally, publishing, would have been third choice.

Well, my pitching days are long over and the Yankees will have to go it alone without me. On the other hand the piano is something one can play for life, and since retiring I have devoted more time to it, even having recorded two CDs in a studio, just so I have something for friends and family.

After hearing the Wild arrangements I focused more effort on playing some of the music from Porgy and Bess, but my interpretations are marred by my limitations as a pianist, and while I can practice from here to kingdom come, there is just so far I can go without the requisite skills to even remotely go to the place where Wild, Wu, and Scott can bring Gershwin, not to mention the composer himself who was a highly accomplished performer. In fact Gershwin said in a preface to his own arrangements in the Spring of 1932: “Playing my songs as frequently as I do at private parties, I have naturally been led to compose numerous variations upon them, and to indulge the desire for complication and variety that every composer feels when he manipulates the same material over and over again. It was this habit of mine that led to the original suggestion to publish a group of songs not only in their simplified arrangements that the public knew [from traditional sheet music], but also in the variations that I had devised.” Just one look at those “variations” reveals the technical difficulty of his arrangements, the confluence of his jazz roots and his classical training.


The hands of the master, himself, George Gershwin

Nonetheless, I wanted to record my own practice attempts. The CDs I’ve recorded were in a studio, all relatively short pieces in a controlled environment, so they don’t sound half bad. But for my “practice sessions,” I wanted an inexpensive digital recorder for home recording, a means to establish a baseline, something I can try to improve upon over time. Therefore, I bought a Sony Digital Voice Recorder with 1GB Flash Memory that handles MP3 recording and playback and plugs directly into a USB port (and is not much larger than a USB storage device). Talk about “practice sessions” – just getting up to speed with this technology was daunting in itself.

And listening to these home recordings, so far removed from the idyllic conditions of a studio, with all the “warts” of background noise, the turning of pages of sheet music, and the mistakes, none of which can be airbrushed out with editing software, is painful for me. And as I can no longer sight-read music other than the melody line, I have to sort of make up arrangements as I go along. But Wild’s arrangement of Porgy and Bess obsessed me, so I continued to practice six songs from Porgy, playing them without pausing with little transitional phrasing, recording them on the Sony. Because of upload limitations I had to divide one such practice session (although played continuously) into two digital files, and here they are, “warts and all,” the first including Summertime, My Man’s Gone Now, I Got Plenty O’Nuttin’, and the second including Bess You is My Woman Now, It Ain’t Necessarily So, and I Loves You Porgy.

As we live on a boat over the summer, I will be without my piano and any means of making improvements, other than studying some theory, until next fall. In fact, this blog will be brief or go silent for a while, as we will be in transit. Perhaps next season I will take the lessons I should have had decades before, become less reliant on the sustain pedal (something Gershwin criticized amateurs for when playing his compositions), and take time to practice scales, something I haven’t done since I was a kid. But it will be difficult breaking bad habits, so I will be looking to make small improvements and have no illusions about making major leaps.

I’ll conclude this entry with my studio recording of Gershwin’s Love is Here to Stay, the last song Gershwin ever wrote. He and Ira were working on Samuel Goldwyn’s film, The Goldwyn Follies in Hollywood even as his headaches were increasing to the point of his having to be admitted to the Cedars of Lebanon Hospital on June 23, 1937. He died only a few weeks later. The range and volume of Gershwin’s work are staggering for such a short life; his brother’s lyrics say it all…

Love is Here to Stay

It's very clear
Our love is here to stay;
Not for a year
But ever and a day.

The radio and the telephone
And the movies that we know
May just be passing fancies,
And in time may go!

But, oh my dear,
Our love is here to stay.
Together we're
Going a long, long way

In time the Rockies may crumble,
Gibraltar may tumble,
They’re only made of clay,
But our love is here to stay.


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Fathers, Sons, Distance, and Memories

My older son Chris called today as well as my younger son Jonathan to wish me a happy Father’s Day. Nice to hear from them, but it was a reminder that life has become more complicated, more mobile and, for many, gone are the days of being able to get together for such occasions. Chris is in Worcester, Ma, 1,163 miles from here and Jonathan is visiting Shanghai, China, 8,195 distant miles (mileage courtesy of WolframAlpha, the “computational knowledge engine” – a useful site).

Their absence reminds me that when I was their age, we were able to visit my father as we lived only fifty miles apart. So, in addition to missing my sons, my thoughts are with my Dad who died some twenty-five years ago. I wish I could turn back time and tell him how important he was to me, in spite of our going our separate ways in life. There was always an expectation that I would join him in his photography business, which I did not. I wrote a piece about him soon after he died, sort of an apology in the form of an explanation. I posted that a couple of years ago but I include it below, with love, to my Dad…

Up Park Avenue we would speed to beat the lights from lower Manhattan in the small Ford station wagon with “Hagelstein Bros., Commercial Photographers since 1866” imprinted on its panels. The Queens Midtown Tunnel awaited us.

It is some summer in the late 1950s and, once again, I’m working for my father after another high school year. In the back of the wagon I share a small space with props, flood lamps, and background curtains. The hot, midtown air, washed by exhaust fumes and the smoke from my father’s perpetual burning cigarette, surround me.

My father’s brother and partner, my Uncle Phil, occupies the passenger’s seat. They have made this round trip, day-in and day-out since my father returned from WWII. Their discussions no longer center on the business, but they speak of the city, its problems, the Russians, and politics. I think of where my friends and I will cruise that evening in one of their cars, a 57’ Merc, probably Queens Blvd., winding up at Jahn’s next to the RKO on Lefferts Boulevard.

Over the years, as a summer employee, my father believed I was being groomed for the business, the fourth generation to carry it on. My Uncle was a bachelor and I was the only one with the name to follow the tradition. There were cousins, but none at the time had any interest in photography, so the obligation fell to me.

This was such an understood, implicit obligation for my future maturation, that nothing of a formal nature was needed to foster this direction. Simply, it was my job to learn the business from the bottom up, working first as a messenger on the NY City streets, delivering glossies to clients for salesmen’s samples and for the furniture show (the primary commercial product photographed by my father). Then I graduated to photographer’s assistant, adjusting lamp shades under the hot flood lamps so the seams would not show, and, then, finally to an assistant in the color lab, making prints, dodging shadows to hold overexposures of glass tables. Osmosis was to be my mentor.

At work I see my father, as the camera would reveal contrasts with different filters. These were normally invisible to me. At home he was a more contemplative, private person, crushed into submission by a troubled marriage. But I see him strolling down the halls of his business, smiling, extending his hand to a customer, kidding in his usual way, “How’s Biz?” he would say. His office overlooks the reception area and there he, my Uncle, and his two cousins would preside over lunch, a burger and coffee from the nearby luncheonette.

In spite of my obligation to learn the profession from the inside, I inveigled his support to go to college – with the understanding I would study business. By then I think I knew that this would be the first step to take me away from HIS business, a step, once taken, would not be taken back. The question was how to reveal this to him.

But as silently as I was expected to take over the business, my retreat was equally stealth. We both avoided the topic as I went to college and I continued to work there during the summers. Once I switched majors from business to the humanities, we both knew, but still, no discussion. This was territory neither he nor I wanted to visit at the time.

My reasons were clear to me. In the hallways of the studio he was larger than life but he was also provincial in his business thinking. He, his brother, and his cousins had developed an inbred view of the future of photography. Like Willie Loman, they had bet the future of their business on producing prints for salesmen, unconscious to the developing mass media and its impact on door-to-door sales. Entering the business would mean conflict with beliefs that were sacrosanct, a battle I would surely lose. So, I kept my silence and progressively moved away.

Why he never brought up the subject I will, now, never know. Ultimately, I married, and began a career in publishing, with an office, ironically, only three blocks from his studio. I still joined him for lunch occasionally, with his greeting me when I arrived, “So, How’s Biz?”

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