color, the lush black-and-white confers more artistic gravitas, which seems to be the idea. But that gilt-edged paper tries too hardâitâs gravitas jammed down your throat.
Ron is determined that he and his muse will go down in history arm in arm: his website, which advertises a new collection called Jackie: My Obsession (available for $300, or in a limited edition for $2,000), asserts rather gracelessly that âour collective memory of Jackie would be non-existent if it werenât for Ron Galella.â But graceless or not, posterity is still calling, and Ronâs there with the prints.
Â
Juicers
I struggle with an embarrassing affliction, one that as far as I know doesnât have a website or support group despite its disabling effects on the lives of those of us whoâve somehow contracted it. I canât remember exactly when I started noticing the symptomsâitâs just one of those things you learn to live with, I guess. You make adjustments. You hope people donât notice. The irony, obviously, is having gone into a line of work in which this particular infirmity is most likely to stand out, like being a gimpy tango instructor or an acrophobic flight attendant.
The affliction Iâm speaking of is moral relativism, and you can imagine the catastrophic effects on a criticâs career if the thing were left to run its course unfettered or I had to rely on my own inner compass alone. To be honest, calling it moral relativism may dignify it too much; itâs more like moral wishy-washiness. Critics are supposed to have deeply felt moral outrage about things, be ready to pronounce on or condemn other peopleâs foibles and failures at a momentâs notice whenever an editor emails requesting twelve hundred words by the day after tomorrow. The severity of your condemnation is the measure of your intellectual seriousness (especially when it comes to other peopleâs literary or aesthetic failures, which, for our best critics, register as nothing short of moral turpitude in itself). Thatâs how critics make their reputations: having take-no-prisoners convictions and expressing them in brutal mots justes . Youâd better be right there with that verdict or youâd better just shut the fuck up.
But when it comes to moral turpitude and ethical lapses (which happen to be subjects Iâve written on frequently, perversely drawn to the topics likely to expose me at my most irresolute)âitâs like Iâm shooting outrage blanks. There I sit, fingers poised on keyboard, one part of me (the ambitious, careerist part) itching to strike, but in my truest soul limply equivocal, particularly when it comes to the many lapses I suspect Iâm capable of committing myself, from bad prose to adultery. Every once in a while I succeed in landing a feeble blow or two, but for the most part itâs the limp equivocator who rules the roostâcontextualizing, identifying, dithering.
And hereâs another confession while Iâm at itâwow, it feels good to finally come clean about it all. Itâs that ⦠once in a while, when Iâm feeling especially jellylike, Iâve found myself loitering on the Internet in hopes ofâthis is embarrassingâcadging a bit of other peopleâs moral outrage (not exactly in short supply online) concerning whatever subject Iâm supposed to be addressing. Sometimes you just need a little shot in the arm, you know? Itâs not like Iâd crib anyoneâs actual sentences (though frankly I have a tough time getting as worked up about plagiarism as other people seem to getâthatâs how deep this horrible affliction runs). No, itâs the tranquillity of their moral authority Iâm hoping will rub off on me. I confess to having a bit of an online âthing,â for this reason, about New Republic editor-columnist Leon Wieseltierâas everyone knows, one of our leading critical
Ron is determined that he and his muse will go down in history arm in arm: his website, which advertises a new collection called Jackie: My Obsession (available for $300, or in a limited edition for $2,000), asserts rather gracelessly that âour collective memory of Jackie would be non-existent if it werenât for Ron Galella.â But graceless or not, posterity is still calling, and Ronâs there with the prints.
Â
Juicers
I struggle with an embarrassing affliction, one that as far as I know doesnât have a website or support group despite its disabling effects on the lives of those of us whoâve somehow contracted it. I canât remember exactly when I started noticing the symptomsâitâs just one of those things you learn to live with, I guess. You make adjustments. You hope people donât notice. The irony, obviously, is having gone into a line of work in which this particular infirmity is most likely to stand out, like being a gimpy tango instructor or an acrophobic flight attendant.
The affliction Iâm speaking of is moral relativism, and you can imagine the catastrophic effects on a criticâs career if the thing were left to run its course unfettered or I had to rely on my own inner compass alone. To be honest, calling it moral relativism may dignify it too much; itâs more like moral wishy-washiness. Critics are supposed to have deeply felt moral outrage about things, be ready to pronounce on or condemn other peopleâs foibles and failures at a momentâs notice whenever an editor emails requesting twelve hundred words by the day after tomorrow. The severity of your condemnation is the measure of your intellectual seriousness (especially when it comes to other peopleâs literary or aesthetic failures, which, for our best critics, register as nothing short of moral turpitude in itself). Thatâs how critics make their reputations: having take-no-prisoners convictions and expressing them in brutal mots justes . Youâd better be right there with that verdict or youâd better just shut the fuck up.
But when it comes to moral turpitude and ethical lapses (which happen to be subjects Iâve written on frequently, perversely drawn to the topics likely to expose me at my most irresolute)âitâs like Iâm shooting outrage blanks. There I sit, fingers poised on keyboard, one part of me (the ambitious, careerist part) itching to strike, but in my truest soul limply equivocal, particularly when it comes to the many lapses I suspect Iâm capable of committing myself, from bad prose to adultery. Every once in a while I succeed in landing a feeble blow or two, but for the most part itâs the limp equivocator who rules the roostâcontextualizing, identifying, dithering.
And hereâs another confession while Iâm at itâwow, it feels good to finally come clean about it all. Itâs that ⦠once in a while, when Iâm feeling especially jellylike, Iâve found myself loitering on the Internet in hopes ofâthis is embarrassingâcadging a bit of other peopleâs moral outrage (not exactly in short supply online) concerning whatever subject Iâm supposed to be addressing. Sometimes you just need a little shot in the arm, you know? Itâs not like Iâd crib anyoneâs actual sentences (though frankly I have a tough time getting as worked up about plagiarism as other people seem to getâthatâs how deep this horrible affliction runs). No, itâs the tranquillity of their moral authority Iâm hoping will rub off on me. I confess to having a bit of an online âthing,â for this reason, about New Republic editor-columnist Leon Wieseltierâas everyone knows, one of our leading critical
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