The Comic Section
The artist and writer Harry Hay, had an opinion piece published in 2017, by Abcrit, on the painter Philip Guston. Reams have been published on Guston, particularly after his last act. He is an artist about which nothing needs to be said. His work speaks for itself. The original angle, by Hay, is that Guston reminds Hay of Ivan Goncharov's novel “Oblomov.” First published in 1859, it is available to read in a 1915 translation, now in the public domain. For kicks, let's read some Oblomov, and the reader can decide if it doesn't fit Guston (in his mature phase) to a tee. To make it more curious, the Gutenberg text starts with an abstract, copied verbatim, here. The last line of the abstract admits it was composed by what was, probably, an AI program -although that is not explicitly stated. Nonetheless, it certainly sounds like an AI-generated synopsis. It is very well written, in my humble opinion:
The story revolves around the life of Ilya Ilyitch Oblomov, a somewhat lethargic and disenchanted man in his thirties, who embodies a sense of existential inertia and dissatisfaction with social expectations. The novel explores themes of laziness, the struggles of the aristocracy in a changing Russia, and the contrast between active and passive approaches to life. The opening portion of the novel introduces us to Ilya Ilyitch Oblomov, who is depicted as a gentle but deeply apathetic individual, lying in bed and contemplating his life. Despite having opportunities and resources, he struggles with inertia and indecision, often making excuses to avoid taking action regarding his responsibilities. He receives troubling news from the overseer of his estate, which adds to his overall sense of despair and reflects his larger struggle against the pressures of societal life. Throughout the first chapters, we witness Oblomov’s interactions with his servants and friends, who highlight his sense of detachment from the world around him and the growing burden of expectations he feels reluctant to meet.
Replace the name Ilya Ilyitch Oblomov with Philip Guston and the synopsis is a fair fit. The comparison doesn't need to be an exact fit, because it will not come as a surprise to those who are familiar with Guston that his parents were Jewish immigrants from Ukraine. As said, his background is thoroughly researched, and is not in need of repeating. He is an interesting case, if I may presume to say so. I have argued against making the artist the subject, not the art. I maintain the direct approach contributes more to understanding what matters.
Fitting Guston's work into an art-historical context is the challenge. After reams have been written (as I said) about Guston's artistic apostasy (the abstract paintings were great) opinion is divided in two: those of us who ponder the enigma, and those who consider Guston's last work a practical joke. My own contribution is a synthesis. Guston's last body of work is neither serious art, nor is it “just a joke”; rather, it is both: it is comedy. What it is not is tragedy -or a melodrama. It is a unique channel of comic humor—which is not, incidentally, Guston's alone—and which is certainly not appreciated by all. It is decidedly an “acquired taste.”
My clue came from the words of the novel, quoted in the essay, “...lying in bed and contemplating his life.” It was my luck, because if Harry Hay had not cited the 19th Century Russian novel “Oblomov,” I might not have made the connection. And yet he did. Repeating Harry Hay's quotation from the novel;
“Why am I like this?” Oblomov asked himself almost with tears, hiding his head under the blanket again. “Why?” After seeking in vain for the hostile source that prevented him from living as he should, as the ‘others’ lived, he sighed, closed his eyes, and a few minutes later drowsiness began once again to benumb his senses… He was passing from agitation to his normal state of calm and apathy… So he never arrived at the cause, after all; his tongue and lips stopped in the middle of the sentence and remained half open. Instead of a word, another sigh was heard, followed by the sound of the even snoring of a man who was peacefully asleep.
This writer wasn't able to locate the exact paragraph, re-quoted above, however, in the course of searching the text, I read more of the original. The irony of the story—the punchline—seems to be the tendency of well-to-do people nodding-off from having nothing to do. It's not just the narrator Oblomov; everybody in the book is sleepy. The joke appears to be on the reader which, likewise, appears to be Guston's approach, as well. When I read Hay's quote I immediately thought of Guston's 1973 painting titled, “Painting, Smoking, Eating,” which is in the Stedelijk Museum of Art, Netherlands.
Ivan Goncharov's writing is beautiful—a pleasure to read—expressing eloquently the narcolepsy of idleness. It's not a climactic novel. It is episodic, goes nowhere, the last page the same as the first. It is an early experiment in abstract writing, writing for writing's sake. It would have saved the Surrealists much trial-and-error if it had been more widely known. That's the trouble with Russian literature. If you hadn't noticed, “Russian” is an adjective. That's not meant to be facetious. There is an essence to Russian literature, a distinctive family resemblance between the various authors.
Although it is to Harry Hay's credit that he “picked up” on the Russian humor inherent in Guston's last phase, he does not mention “Painting, Sleeping, Eating.” That's my contribution. Not to quibble over trifles, the big story is the emergence of a pattern of humor joining both Guston's lazy artist paintings, and the lazy well-to-do Russians of Ivan Goncharov's “Oblomov.” The bored, lazy, nodding-off theme of Oblomov is not the important aspect, but the deadpan humor of both Guston's comic strip paintings, and the entire library of Russian literature. I will be direct: it is easier to find humor in Russian literature—as a whole—than the expected serious, tragic, outlook. It is a tradition rooted in ancient sagas, verily, in oral tradition, and certainly not a clever publicity stunt. I never heard of Ivan Goncharov before now.
Perspicacious aficionados of art, literature, and more, don't need my explaining “the joke” to give Guston's last paintings honored place in the roster of post-modern art. The reversal, or trope, which instigated this analysis is the boost of electricity Guston's droll sense of humor gives to the incidental likeness with Oblomov. It would be smashing if everybody who reads it thinks it funny. Somehow I doubt it. We expect from Russian literature “War and Peace”, and “Notes from Underground,” and “Dead Souls,” and similarly daunting titles.
Either I'm going mad, or that assumption is wrong. I will attempt to give an example. Of Guston, Harry Hay writes in his essay:
At times I wonder whether in some way he thought himself a kind of Geppetto of painters, and that he was making the content of his work more real by refusing to acknowledge the limitations of the picture frame, and attempting to spare his painting the inevitable fate of remaining a mere work of art. Far fetched I know, but he spoke often of the Golems in Jewish folklore, these animated statues, and that he wanted to be like Rembrandt, because his portraits were alive, that they were Golems.
Golem? Indeed, that's a very specific cultural reference. What the Western world seems unaware of, or would rather not think about, is the complex interconnectedness of Russia—including Ukraine—as well as most of the Eastern European countries on the periphery, with Jewish culture. It is the close association of Jewish culture with the Russians which puts-off Westerners, because the same Jewish diaspora overlaps the countries of the West -including the United States. This overlap, in turn, helps Westerners understand Russian culture.
Much of the Jewish sensibility familiar to the West was inoculated in the Jews by their long habitation of Russia and Ukraine. Not surprisingly, that all the Jews of Russia have not emigrated—despite trials and tribulations—is because they love their country. A colony of the Hasidic diaspora can be found in New York, preserving picturesque traditions as faithfully as the Amish of Pennsylvania. The Yiddish traditionally spoken by the Hasidic people has informed current English with a long list of expressive words and phrases which is almost taken for granted.
My incidental encounters with Russian literature give me the impression of being the source of what we familiarly call “Jewish humor.” Does anybody not know what Jewish humor is? Great! You are well prepared to appreciate Russian literature. The standard text of Yiddish-Russian humor is Martin Buber's “Tales of the Hasidim.” The AI summarizes the collection of tales better than I can, even if it has no appreciation for it, whatsoever:
Tales of the Hasidim was translated into English by Olga Marx and published in 1947 by Schocken Books in New York. This translation was based on the original Hebrew edition, titled "Or HaGanuz," which was published in Israel in 1946. The work was later released in two volumes: "The Early Masters" in 1947 and "The Later Masters" in 1948. The translation is considered the definitive English version of Martin Buber's collection of Hasidic tales, which were compiled from both written and oral traditions. The translation is noted for its fidelity to the original material, though some sources suggest the English version may have been translated from a German original, as Buber's philosophical works were composed in German, although the first publication was in Hebrew. The complete work, including both volumes, is available in various formats, including a free digital version hosted by the Internet Archive. The early tales originate from the founding era of Hasidism in the early 18th century, emphasizing mystical joy, community, and direct spiritual experience over rigid scholarly study. The later tales reflect a shift toward organized religiosity and the application of Hasidic principles to everyday life, with more literary refinement in their expression. Buber gathered these stories from both written and oral traditions, aiming to preserve the spiritual and communal essence of Hasidism rather than provide a theological analysis.
No, indeed, these short, comical sketches have little to do with theology -which makes them accessible to English-speaking readers. Comedy is the one factor which unites them. It's too much comedy to read-through, like a book, rather it is a compendium of Jewish humor. And, unless I'm mistaken, they owe their inspiration to the folk life of Russia. It is both “Jewish” humor, and “Russian” humor, at the same time. It is the key to Russian literature.