6A — Monday, February 25, 2019
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
While reading Maria Popova’s “Figuring,” I was thinking a
lot about the old science of alchemy, the medieval precursor to
chemistry. Before we knew about atoms or different theories of
electron orbitals and magnetism to explain why materials work
the way they do, there was alchemy — the practice of trying to
transform one substance into another. One of the most legendary
and mythical alchemic practices included the process of making
an ordinary substance into liquid gold.
“Figuring” isn’t quite a work of science fiction or biography.
It’s also not quite poetry, not quite prose, not exactly a short
story collection — and yet it’s also kind of all of these things. It’s
a work of alchemy in the oldest, most classical use of the word.
It’s a tapestry, woven out of the stories of various scientists and
writers throughout history, connecting history, memory and
personal experience to theories of astronomy, theoretical physics
and ecology. Maria Popova transforms scientific logic and reason
into poetry and poetry into calculus. In her hands, biography
becomes liquid gold. Popova examines the lives of the people
usually excluded from science writing (mostly queer women) and
in doing so, crafts a narrative about the way people move through
history and the way they perceive the scope of the universe. As
Virginia Woolf would describe it, “Figuring” is “no longer rooted,
but gold flowing.”
It would all be painfully overwrought and embarrassing if
Popova wasn’t such a skilled writer and scholar, or such a deeply
empathetic and human storyteller. “Figuring” doesn’t succeed in
spite of its grand ambition and scope, but because of it. Clocking
in at over 500 pages, “Figuring” is a dense and intricate read, but
Popova’s writing is clear and simple, designed to draw people
in rather than alienate. She doesn’t obfuscate for the sake of it.
The complexity is earned, even necessary for the tapestry she’s
creating.
The book takes a semi-biographical structure, with each
chapter marking a new intersection of a different person’s life
and work. Where other writers might draw a line between
personal and professional lives, Popova finds such distinctions
counterproductive to authentic discourse. In an early chapter
about the famous 19th century astronomer Maria Mitchell, Popova
imagines the woman who would go on to become the first working
female astronomer, the woman who would later discover a brand
new comet, at 12 years old, staring up at the sky. “I imagine this
contained young woman surprising herself with a spontaneous
gasp when she sees what she saw at half past 10 that first day in
October in 1847,” Popova writes.
The book is full of quiet moments like this. Science to Popova
is anything but clinical — it’s full of wonder, emotion and love.
She approaches discovery as a reverential space where people
are at their very best, describing it as, “ ... the ecstasy of having
personally chipped a small fragment of knowledge from the
immense monolith of the unknown, that elemental motive force of
every sincere scientist.” The sincerity is key here: Popova isn’t just
uninterested in cynicism — she actively combats it. Each story she
tells and each figure she highlights is a testament to achievement,
to bravery, to the exact point where memory and future meet. If
her language is flowery and poetic, it’s on purpose. She explains
this with a quote from environmentalist and ecologist Rachel
Carson’s journal, writing that “If there is wonder and beauty and
magic … science will discover these qualities. If they are not there,
science cannot create them. If there is poetry in my book about
the sea, it is not because I deliberately put it there, but because no
one could write truthfully about the sea and leave out the poetry.”
In another break from traditional science writing, Popova
is entirely uninterested in the myth of the unencumbered lone
genius. “There is no such thing as a self-made person,” she writes.
It’s a breath of fresh air in the face of decades of science writing
that insists on the brilliance and self-sufficiency of men, whose
ideas just apparently popped out of thin air one day. When she
writes about Johannes Kepler, she acknowledges that yes, he was
undoubtedly one of the greatest physicists in the world, but consider
how he had people who supported him — a mother who paid for
his education, teachers who trained him, a family who sustained
him. Popova’s thesis — that absolutely every moment, person and
action is connected — extends from concepts as esoteric as the
Big Bang and dark matter to ideas as seemingly simple as a young
scientist’s support network. “The human mind,” Popova writes,
“seems unwilling to wrap itself and its prosthetic of language
around the notion of pure impartial probability. We imbue even
the word chance with a constellation of subjective meanings … as
serendipity’s accomplice … as free will’s counterpoint.”
Popova’s insistence on connection, on not telling linear stories
but creating three dimensional spaces for narratives to live in, has
few artistic precedents. Milan Kundera, maybe, but his tangents
on philosophy, science and history are crafted more like asides
rather than interwoven as an integral part of the story. The
closest counterpart in my eyes isn’t a novelist at all, but actually
the musician Joanna Newsom. Like Popova, Newsom doesn’t shy
away from tackling ambitious themes like death and creation,
writing sprawling narratives that transcend the chosen medium
(biography and folk songs, respectively).
Newsom’s work, like Popova’s, invites a warm but complicated
intimacy, pulling an intricate series of seemingly disparate
narrative threads together to create art that’s demanding, yes,
but ultimately beautiful. A passage from Newsom’s 2015 single
“Sapokanikan” could easily serve as a summary thesis of Popova’s
work: “And the records they left are cryptic at best / Lost in
obsolescence / The text will not yield, nor x-ray reveal / With any
fluorescence.”
It’s hard to read words like that and not feel a sense of loss
over all the art and science and discovery that’s been destroyed
by popular consensus and history, especially in the context of
work created by women. A lot of the time, telling one story means
silencing another. Holding one man up as a genius destroys the
work and discoveries of all the women he learned from and
collaborated with. But reading “Figuring” feels like a warm
affirmation that women have always been there, at every turning
point of every great discovery and achievement. No matter what
happens, no matter how constricting the circumstance, the
curiosity of a 12-year-old girl staring at the sky in wonder will
never break.
Both Newsom and Popova seem to be asking questions like:
Who do we remember? Why do we remember? Can we build a
story out of a forgotten memory? In reading “Figuring,” you get
the sense that the answer is an emphatic yes, as long as you don’t
mistake a myth for a history, and as long as you have the time,
patience and delicate touch needed to dig through the rubble and
make the text yield. If you dig long enough, and if your mind is
open enough, Popova argues, you might find a hidden treasure — a
story everyone thought was lost forever.
Finding magic & alchemy in Maria Popova’s ‘Figuring’
BOOK REVIEW
ASIF BECHER
Daily Arts Writer
One of the most common
descriptors of Mexican rock
band Café Tacuba’s (stylized
Tacvba) album Re is that is
the Spanish-language “White
Album” of the Latin rock
movement. The comparison is
not too far off from the truth.
Diverse, eclectic with
a mix of new and more
traditional
Mexican
sounds,
the
hour-
long, 20-song album
is
a
self-contained
epic. Even if it may
not have reached the
cultural status of the
“White Album,” its
unbridled sense of joy
and passion gives the
album a leg up on its
Liverpudlian cousin.
Lead singer Rubén
Albarrán has one of
those Billy Corgan/
Julian
Casablancas-
esque
voices
that
have
no
business
sounding that good.
Squeaky and nasally,
it’s
utilized
quite
skillfully by Albarrán
in tracks like “Esa
Noche,”
a
bolero-
influenced
track
scorns
an
ex-lover
(“No
me
hubieras
dejado
esa
noche,
porque
esa
misma
noche encontré un
Nuevo amor”). The
track features beautiful vocal
harmonies during the chorus,
and the smattering of strings
contributes
to
the
overall
melancholy.
It’s important to note that
Café Tacvba’s music is not
itself a perfect representation
of traditional Mexican folk,
but a catchy synthesis of more
traditional elements with the
Western rock canon that the
band
members
themselves
were
quite
familiar
with.
However, they borrow from
more than just bands like The
Beatles. “Trópico de Cáncer”
has a distinctly Brazilian tinge
to its chord progressions. “La
Ingrata” is heavily influenced
by norteño music, a regional
Mexican style of music itself
heavily
influenced
by
the
music of European immigrants
from Germany and Poland.
Simply
listening
to
the
wide variety of styles of music
present on Re made me want
to explore the genres and
references that are littered
throughout it, from the form of
the corrido to ranchera music
from the rural parts of Mexico.
Re strikes me as essentially
a love letter to the music and
culture of Mexico. Even though
I have read that several songs
are in fact parodies of these
traditional styles, I can tell
that they are parodies borne of
love rather than mockery.
My personal favorite on this
magnificent album is “Las
Flores” (the flowers). I don’t
normally
trust
ridiculously
sappy songs. In my admittedly
stupid way of viewing things,
they can’t be as aUtHeNtic as
songs borne out of some kind
of darkness of some kind of
emotional pain. But that’s all
bullshit. I mean, listen to “Las
Flores.” “Ven y dimes todas
esas cosas … Escucharé a todos
tus sueños” (“Come and tell
me everything … I’ll listen to
all these dreams”). Ugh. “Yo te
eschucharé con todo el silencio
del planeta, y miraré tus ojos,
como si fuerran los últimos de
este país” (“I’ll listen to you
in all the planet’s silence, and
look at your eyes as if they were
the last left in this country”).
God no, stop it. But
I can’t stop listening
to it. Maybe it’s so
damn corny that it
comes
full
circle,
and the feelings that
it expresses simply
can’t be made up in a
crude pastiche of love
song lyrics. Maybe
the words on paper
don’t convince you.
Well, just listen to
Albarrán
earnestly
scream at you, with all
the sunny guitars and
accordions
leading
him on. Personally, I
hate it and love it too
much to describe.
Another
standout
soon
after
“Las
Flores” is “El baile y
el salón” (“The Dance
and the Ballroom”).
A tender, romantic
piece about two men
falling in love on the
dancefloor, it features
some of Albarrán’s
best
singing
and
lyrics: “Yo que era un
solitario bailando, me
quede sin hablar, Mientras tu
me fuiste demonstrando que
el amor es bailar” (“I was just
a lonely dancer left speechless,
while you showed me that love
is dancing”). The band is even
more impressive live than in
the studio, and “El baile y el
salon”’s live versions are some
of their best work.
Re is not an album that
consistently
reaches
the
heights it is capable of reaching,
but it is tremendously vibrant
and sunny nonetheless. A love
letter to the world’s music,
dancing, Mexico and life itself,
it is a valuable introduction
to the world of Latin rock and
Latin music in general.
Over two decades after its
release, ‘Re’ remains iconic
WORLD MUSIC COLUMN
SAYAN GHOSH
Daily World Music Columnist
Maybe it’s so damn corny
that it comes full circle, and
the feelings that it expresses
simply can’t be made up in a
crude pastiche of love song
lyrics
‘Figuring’
Maria Popova
Pantheon Books
Feb. 5, 2019
Pablo
Supply.
Astroworld.
October’s Very Own. Gucci.
Louis
Vuitton.
The
21st
century has made these brands
synonymous
in
terms
of
luxury, and the homogeneity
of the prices reflect this. Social
pressure is mounting for young
people to be up to date on the
latest fads, and specifically
those generated by artists. This
is where the artists we
know and love come
into play. Kanye West.
Travis Scott. Drake.
With prices ranging
from $100 to $200
for a hoodie, what is
driving people to pay
so much money for
such a conventional
item?
If you haven’t heard
of Astroworld yet, I’m
going to be honest,
you’ve probably been
living under a rock.
The masterpiece of an
album by Travis Scott
made its debut last
summer
and,
since
then, has captivated
listeners
whether
they’re bobbing their
heads up and down
to “Sicko Mode” on
an elevated surface
or playing “Yosemite”
on repeat on their
way to class. Travis
Scott has become a household
name among millenials and
the popularity of his limited
merchandise only demonstrates
this further. The Astroworld
“Wish
You
Were
Here”
sweatshirts hit Scott’s website
for $95 (not including shipping)
only a few weeks after the
album went out. Looking at
the sweatshirt, it is difficult
to understand why millenials
are so eager to splurge on
something that, to be frank,
isn’t that exciting in its design.
In fact, if the design had been
entirely different, the number
of sales would likely stay the
same. This is because customers
are buying the brand and what
it means rather than the design.
Sound familiar? This almost
parallels the marketing behind
designer brands like Gucci and
Louis Vuitton.
Now, before someone calls
me out on diminishing the
expertise that goes into creating
designer
brand
clothing,
consider the customers rather
than
the
creators.
Certain
individuals are going to buy the
new Balenciaga shoes whether
they like them or not. This is
because the attention they get
and the impression they give
off to those who see them wear
the shoes compensates for the
price or the look. The same
can be said for sporting an
Astroworld hoodie or wearing
an “I Feel Like Pablo” shirt. For
many millenials, owning these
merchandise items creates a
grey area between who that
own the boots are actually
die hard Travis Scott fans or
merely following a trend. All
of a sudden, the Travis Scott
hoodie has become a way to
prove oneself even though some
purchasers
know
no
songs
besides “Sicko Mode.”
The
importance
of
showcasing ones love for “I Feel
Like Pablo” or Astroworld can
be seen in the fact that Greek
life organizations on various
campuses have adopted their
branding. Some sororities and
fraternities
have
promoted
rushing their organization by
posting Facebook cover photos
that have their organization
written in the same font as the
album. Since these artists and
the albums in question have
become so popularized, this is
an effort to attract audiences
using something that people
automatically view as cool,
likable, and hip. This goes on
even
further
into
apparel; people can
essentially
purchase
an Astroworld hoodie
for a marked down
price that says “Alpha
Phi”
instead
of
“Astroworld.”
But
for
some
customers
this
purchase
not
only
signifies
to
those
around
them
that
they have listened to
the album thoroughly
enough to showcase it,
but also that the artist
is of great importance
to them. Even the most
frugal fans hold these
artists in such high
esteem that buying
their merchandise is
their way of paying
their respects while
also finding a way to
be close to them.
Though this may
seem to contradict my
earlier point about the parallels
between
the
customers
of
designer
brands
and
those
of popular artists’ merch, it
only further proves it. Not all
customers of designer brands
are swimming in wealth and
mindlessly making purchases.
Certain customers have placed
a great deal of thought into
their purchase.
Therefore, the 21st century
reflects
this
transition,
or
rather addition, of treating the
merchandise of artists at the
same level of designer brands.
Whether or not customers are
buying these luxury items to
gain status or feed their passion,
let’s be real, the outrageous
price tag isn’t stopping anyone.
Travis Scott’s ‘Astroworld’:
Album or a luxury brand?
STYLE NOTEBOOK
SOPHIA HUGHES
Daily Arts Writer
Certain individuals are going
to buy the new Balenciaga
shoes whether they like them
or not