[Brueghel's Harvesters]
Oblomov is a funny book, for Oblomov is a funny man. Ivan Goncharov's tale of poor Ilya Ilyich Oblomov mirrored perfectly my month of May. It began lugubriously, and restlessly. In between terms, free from teaching (freedom which has turned out to be an unforeseen burden), supposedly researching and rewriting a paper on Spinoza, lazily reading Hume's Treatise (is that possible?) and deeply, deeply, restless.
I was feeling quite sunken until I began reading Oblomov's tale. He was a man far further sunk than I, and far more willing to remain in such a state. He longed to be left along in his shabby dressing gown, free of the odious intrusions of 'venomous' Zakhar, free of the responsibilities of '300 hundred souls,' free of the demands of ever-visiting friends, free to rest on his sofa, staring or not staring, dreaming or not dreaming, sleeping or not sleeping.
The more I read of Oblomov grown dusty and fat, then gleeful and refreshed, then lovesick and conscience-torn, then plump and ignorant, and so on, the more I felt the itch to be at my work, to be doing and not resting. I thank Oblomov for my own reinvigoration, and for being the surprisingly charming fellow that he is. Perhaps it was also the descriptions of the ever-industrious landlady, with her plump elbows, bare neck and constant smile -- baking, ironing, sweeping, grinding -- always making and mending.
I found myself making and mending -- pulling out the sewing machine, baking bread, pickling onions, ironing clothes (something I have never, ever done). I also found myself volunteering to work at the aquarium here, happy to participate in 'icebreakers,' group brainstorm sessions, and the ubiquitous team-building, group-cementing activities of training.
From whence this industry? I'm not too concerned with origins, but rather happy with the results. It also got me to thinking about handiwork, about how many of the blogs I love to read speak of baking and canning and sewing (not of writing and reading). I thought about the resurgence of handcraft -- of carpentry and metalsmithery, artisan baking, homemade butter, mushroom foraging, and garden-planting. People are made happy through these activities, they are, for many, the substance of a life well-lived. A life lived in small scale perhaps, but with good people, good food, and houses that are homes.
Then I thought of what these small movements are a turn away from -- they are a turn away from the mechanized, packaged lives that many hate to live. A turn away from microwave dinners, evenings in front of a television, of a life made faster, more efficient, more productive, to the exclusion of all other virtues. They are a turn away from the life advertised to us. It was strange to think of how many modern conveniences were made to help the newly liberated woman -- the woman still seen in those awful KitchenAid commercials, who will have a career, raise a family and put the pot roast (or the cupcakes) on the table at 6 sharp. There was even a denigration of the household work -- it was the sign of woman's all-too-recent enslavement.
As I watched Oblomov's landlady through his eyes -- her busy elbows, covered with flour, dimpled, never ceasing, while he lay upon the sofa watching and admiring and dreaming his little dreams -- I thought of how drastically we swung from homemade lives to machinemade lives. I thought of how unhappy those lives can be -- and of how unhealthy they can be. We perhaps skipped over the many spaces in between, and in doing so, handed over a great deal of our control over our lives -- how we cooked and what we ate, how our children played and learned, what we had in our homes and how we spent our days, evenings, weekends.
I count myself endlessly lucky to have grown up in a family where there was no full-scale transition, where the pasta was homemade when it could be, where vegetables came from the garden, where pies were baked and muffins made, where cushions, pillows and curtains were often sewn and not bought, where the house was most definitely a home. I count myself lucky for the knowledge I have because of that life -- not just the helpful facts about planting or cooking or making, but of what will last in memory and in life -- of what makes a life well-lived. Handmade is often well-made, and almost always well-loved.
I was feeling quite sunken until I began reading Oblomov's tale. He was a man far further sunk than I, and far more willing to remain in such a state. He longed to be left along in his shabby dressing gown, free of the odious intrusions of 'venomous' Zakhar, free of the responsibilities of '300 hundred souls,' free of the demands of ever-visiting friends, free to rest on his sofa, staring or not staring, dreaming or not dreaming, sleeping or not sleeping.
The more I read of Oblomov grown dusty and fat, then gleeful and refreshed, then lovesick and conscience-torn, then plump and ignorant, and so on, the more I felt the itch to be at my work, to be doing and not resting. I thank Oblomov for my own reinvigoration, and for being the surprisingly charming fellow that he is. Perhaps it was also the descriptions of the ever-industrious landlady, with her plump elbows, bare neck and constant smile -- baking, ironing, sweeping, grinding -- always making and mending.
I found myself making and mending -- pulling out the sewing machine, baking bread, pickling onions, ironing clothes (something I have never, ever done). I also found myself volunteering to work at the aquarium here, happy to participate in 'icebreakers,' group brainstorm sessions, and the ubiquitous team-building, group-cementing activities of training.
From whence this industry? I'm not too concerned with origins, but rather happy with the results. It also got me to thinking about handiwork, about how many of the blogs I love to read speak of baking and canning and sewing (not of writing and reading). I thought about the resurgence of handcraft -- of carpentry and metalsmithery, artisan baking, homemade butter, mushroom foraging, and garden-planting. People are made happy through these activities, they are, for many, the substance of a life well-lived. A life lived in small scale perhaps, but with good people, good food, and houses that are homes.
Then I thought of what these small movements are a turn away from -- they are a turn away from the mechanized, packaged lives that many hate to live. A turn away from microwave dinners, evenings in front of a television, of a life made faster, more efficient, more productive, to the exclusion of all other virtues. They are a turn away from the life advertised to us. It was strange to think of how many modern conveniences were made to help the newly liberated woman -- the woman still seen in those awful KitchenAid commercials, who will have a career, raise a family and put the pot roast (or the cupcakes) on the table at 6 sharp. There was even a denigration of the household work -- it was the sign of woman's all-too-recent enslavement.
As I watched Oblomov's landlady through his eyes -- her busy elbows, covered with flour, dimpled, never ceasing, while he lay upon the sofa watching and admiring and dreaming his little dreams -- I thought of how drastically we swung from homemade lives to machinemade lives. I thought of how unhappy those lives can be -- and of how unhealthy they can be. We perhaps skipped over the many spaces in between, and in doing so, handed over a great deal of our control over our lives -- how we cooked and what we ate, how our children played and learned, what we had in our homes and how we spent our days, evenings, weekends.
I count myself endlessly lucky to have grown up in a family where there was no full-scale transition, where the pasta was homemade when it could be, where vegetables came from the garden, where pies were baked and muffins made, where cushions, pillows and curtains were often sewn and not bought, where the house was most definitely a home. I count myself lucky for the knowledge I have because of that life -- not just the helpful facts about planting or cooking or making, but of what will last in memory and in life -- of what makes a life well-lived. Handmade is often well-made, and almost always well-loved.
8 comments:
Claudia,
Even as I come here to be soothed, I can't help offering a little comical agitation prompted by the happenstance of your use of the word “lugubrious.” I read your post within moments of reading this hilarious excerpt from the likewise hilarious novel Modern Baptists by James Wilcox.
“Listen, Emmet, please don't look so lugubrious,” Mr. Pickens said, anxious to try out the new word he had learned in the Reader's Digest. “There's no call for lugubriousness.”
“Sorry, sir.” He tossed the wrapper of his Eskimo Pie into a flowered wastepaper basket. “You know, Mr. Pickens, I love Burma and all that sort of thing. I'm just scared that after we get ourselves hitched, these urge things won't go away. She says she ever catches me straying, she'll scratch my eyes out.”
“First of all, move that vase away from your elbow.”
Emmet was sitting at the dressing table next to the bed. A glass vase of paper daffodils looked ready to slide off onto the rug. Emmet pushed the flowers away from the edge.
“Now,” Mr. Pickens said, “go on, son.”
“Every time I see a girl, I get the urge thing. Like just walking down the hall in the music building at St. Jude, these piano majors come by―they ain't even that pretty, not half as pretty as Burma―but still it happens. I can't think of but one thing day and night. I mean, Burma's just great in the sack, but then she goes off to work, and I'm at school and...well, I done lapsed three times this week. Not with the piano majors―they're too snobby. See, there's this―”
Mr. Pickens snapped the Bible shut. He did not want to hear the sordid details, so he assumed a lofty expression as he buttoned the top button of his polka-dot pajamas. “This is probably just a phase you're gong through, Emmet. Soon as you hit thirty―”
“I done hit thirty already. I done hit thirty-five. See, I was in the Army ten years 'fore I went on to college. I couldn't make up my mind what to do, so I stayed on in the Army all that time. It was only when I had that jeep accident, when I was flying headfirst through that windshield, that I decided it might be fun to play the clarinet. That;'s what was flashing through my head, a great big clarinet, then everything went black.”
“Hmmm...” Mr. Pickens was deep in thought. “Ah yes,” he said finally. “Polygamy. You're suffering from polygamy.”
“The doctor said it was a concussion.”
“No, Emmet, I'm referring to your sexual constitution. Polygamy is a sexual disorder that affects a tiny percentage of the adult male population. It was more common in ancient days, especially in hot climates, but evolution has weeded it out as we've evolved into more civilized types of [people. By the way, you do believe in evolution, don't you?”
Emmet shrugged.
“Now, Emmet, don't look so lugubrious.”
Thank you for this. The value of the handmade, and the rejection of packaged, advertised, lightning-fast efficiency, is an interesting way to define a "life well-lived."
Thanks for this wonderful post--as it touches on so much.
I love to identify and pick wild berries and fruit to make jam and jelly. I made dandelion wine like my great-grandmother did but nobody will drink it and Cassis liqueur(black currant)everybody drank.
You're so right about the pleasure and even solace of the particular and handmade.
The 'real' simple life (more).
You've touched my heart once again!
It is so wonderful to know and hear that some of the little things we've done have great meaning and influence on you.
Just this morning Dad was picking fresh blueberries for his breakfast.
A paper on Spinoza? I'd love to hear more. As for Hume's Treatise, I'm jealous you're scratching your way through it again. I read it in grad school, and it's effect on me was so salutary - I had acquired some sloppy intellectual habits which needed undoing - that I mark Hume as the first step in my philosophical detox program. Wonderful, really. Lastly, your riff on the simple things reminds me of Rimbaud's "the true life is elsehwere" comment, or so I believe it was him... Cheers, Kevin
true and simple:) perfect!
Lovely blog Clavdia!
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