Oscar Wilde once wrote, “All art is useless, except that it is intensely admired”. If so, then what is the use of painting? Sculpting vases, panels or jewelry? What makes them so special that The Museum of Metropolitan Art would exert so much of their resources into obtaining almost over 150 pieces for an exhibit?

The answer lies quite simply in the title of the exhibit. “Love and Romance in Renaissance Italy. All these objects were created as everlasting symbols of status, piety and love. As I trembled in the slightly chilly marble hall where most of the exhibit was housed I could not help but embrace how aptly titled it was.

  The painting of a beautiful woman probably commissioned by a doting husband stared across a blue and white ceramic vase. Celestial cherubs and gods like Venus, commissioned by those who tried in every way to be closer to God were recurring motifs. It is difficult not to generalize or to be overly sentimental in analyzing Renaissance art because the artists themselves deliberately exaggerated the subjects. Immense oil paintings of partially nude women of impressive proportions gazed the viewer out of countenance. This was considered beauty! Past tense is used because standards of what stands for love or beauty has drastically changed in a society that is so insecure.

            Historically, the High Italian Renaissance was a period where the pursuit of perfection was channeled through the skill of artists and their craft. Looking at their preindustrial era surroundings they saw potential for beauty and divinity reminiscent of the grandeur that was Rome. One such man was Fra Fillipo Lippi. He was a painter and monk. I recognized his style instantly as I my eyes skipped across the room. He specialized in profile paintings of Italian nobility and mostly couples as seen in the painting “Portrait of a Woman and a Man at a Casement”. In his pursuit of idealization he focuses on the details of an elaborate headpiece and dress rather than the woman that wore it. Her exaggeratedly high forehead, lack of eyebrows, and wan pallor though disconcerting the viewer was considered beauty. On her right arm he wrote the word “Leal” in Italian. Understandably to further emphasize her perfection as a loyal wife. Lorenzo Lotto also undertook to paint in this time and his portayal of “Venus and Cupid” is awe inspiring. Venus as the godess of beauty reposed and completely at ease with cupid at her feet gives and indescribable sense of serenity and peace. This was art and love in renaissance Italy.

This romantic idealization went beyond the human form. In the artist’s eyes and in my minds eye it transcended into human nature itself.

“Les Ecailles De La Memoire”, better understood as “The Scales of Memory” at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, better known as “BAM”, was a disconcerting piece of African interpretive dance.

An enviably muscular dancer in her late twenties wearing an turban oddly reminiscent of an onion proclaimed “Je suis Creole!” to start off the night. “Ben, Je le crois!” I murmured back to her half jokingly, half in earnest. Loosely translated in English she said she was Creole, and  I said I believed her. Swelling slighty with a strong sense of self satisfaction I reflected on my French. It is a strong point I am rather proud of.

Yet there is little room to be irreverent or cheeky when it comes to the forehead creasing issues of African history that danced before our eyes at this performance. Featuring seven Urban Bush Women and seven men of the Senegalise compagnie Janti-Bi respectively, it was a mixture of interpretive dance, historical retrospection, and yes a bit of romance for entertainments sake.  A company collaboration between leaders of African interpretive dance Jawole Willa Joe Zollar and Germain Acogny proved nothing short of visual and moral punch in the face.

There was no clear story line or narration but later we learned from our programs that it was meant to reflect the social and geographic journey of African Americans. It spanned the time of freedom, diaspora, slavery and the general cultural diffusion of the race. The Senegalese men flexed their ripped limbs in crouching positions all the while uttering shiver inducing guttural grunts. Their physical antics were undestandibly difficult and thus appreciated but it did not address clearly its purpose in the play.

One moment in particular where I felt befuddled was when five dancers were positioned separately so as to fit the points of a five point star and they all proceeded to execute steps deserving of a solo performance.  Audience members winced as one member of Janti-Bi proceeded to beat his bare back with a long wooden rod. It was taken to be a reflection of the abuse and hardships African Americans went through in slavery. Elevated on platforms of different levels these numbers were really an overdone visual assault.

There was too much matter and not enough art. The actual number of the dancers detracted from the attention to their execution of dance steps. Women were separated and distinguishable from the men with billowing robes of various rosy hues.  The men, in togas of varying cuts made a comical picture as they strenuously danced their way into couples. After all the hardships that they suffered they still were connected by their culture and dancing chops. In one mellow moment the couples relaxed the difficulty of their steps and just swayed along to a soft drumbeat, like the padding of feet on a bare floor.

Considering and conceding all the drama, pain, confusion of the African experience, The Scales of Memory left us oddly at peace and curiously looking to the future. Of course the future could be choreographed by Ms. Zollar and Mr. Acogny or we could write it ourselves.

I titled my collage “The Cage” because I feel that there are two different parts to me. This duality is demonstrated by my mixed use of media and dimensions. I choose first off to put a set of red lips the same proportions as mine. I feel that they are literally the feature that stands out the most in mean and I betray most of my emotions by twisting and scrunching them up by turns. I choose a woodcarving I made to symbolize my ability to create something beautiful out of a simple block of wood using my hands and a chisel. It serves as a pedestal of sorts for my lips as my creativity holds up my sensitivity. 

I choose to include a packet of “sazon goya”, chamomile tea and a basil leaf as a tribute to my Hispanic heritage and personality, both spicy and calm. I have a blue triangle on the bottom to represent the stability that I hope to attain. I have a band of iron to symbolize my strength and my straight back. This hold up the “Calm” Tea in a paradox of sorts. The virgin Mary is included because I am in the process of trying to connect and relate to religion. A print of a set of eyes from Sweeney Todd is right above my lips because so much emotion can be revealed from the eyes. They are the portal to the soul. I included a plastic surgical glove to thrust its fingers out from the cage bars symbolizing my desire to attain some measure of freedom. The bars aren’t very strong in fact they are made of a very luxurious chenille and lace. They hold back but hold everything together. 

Finally the background is a combination of only three colors, platho blue, alazarin crimson and goldenrod acrylic paint. It is my reference to my most recent, and I believe final, artistic love, painting. By mixing these three closely primary colors and components so many permutations of color and shape were made. This is my maturity and my mutability.

 Susan Meiselas’s decision to pursue photography has taken her around the world. From Nicaragua, El Salvador, small towns and even South Bronx Mieselas had focused on capturing the horror of war ravaged and impoverished nations. In her series “Carnival Strippers” she focused on following the itinerary of carnival strippers. She took pictures not only of their performances but their own personal moments when they stopped being entertainers on stage and started being human.

Meiselas’s ability to capture this gritty realism and humanity in her subjects had earned her accolades. She is the winner of 2000 Cornell Capa Infinity Award for for distinguished achievement in photography. Her work has solo exhibits at the International Center for Photography and even shown in the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris. Susan Meiselas’s career as a photographer is distinctly successful and eventful.

Many of Meiselas’s prints caught my eye but there were two black and white shots that stood on their own and engaged my attention

In Prep at Mass Shelter 1979, Susan Meiselas captures a not so festive holiday scene from Volunteers of America. Two elderly people in the background are framed in the window frames. An old man sits listlessly on a chair and watches as lady in a tweed suit adjusts a white Santa Claus wig on a patiently resigned young man. In the background a tinsel decked tree adds to the supposedly festive spirit of the photo and occupies two thirds of the picture. Meiselas successfully captures a Santa Claus in the making and addresses the fabrication of many beloved holiday traditions.

In Prince Street Girls she captures Pebbles, JoJo and Ro on Baxter Street in 1979 New York City. These young girls are all positioned in attitudes that reflect their nonchalance and naïveté. Ro is lighting a cigarette for JoJo. They are all sporting classic 1978 year jean jackets, bellbottoms and print collar shirts tightly starched. Their fly away hair gives them a rushed and inconsistent air. The black and white tones of the photo give them a mature and older look. The clothes they were wearing were probably bright and their faces as well but the black and white give them a more somber mood. Pebbles leans on the front grill of the Cadillac her chin jutted out and tilted ever so slightly to the left. To the passing stranger these girls would have been passed by Meiselas captures their rebel spirit and defiance.

Meiselas may have been known better for her coverage of political and war related subjects but her lens reveals the frankness of her human subjects and he strength lies in that honest portrayal of them.

             First and foremost Samuel Freedman is know to the world as a widely read New York Times columnist, author and professor at Columbia University’s School of Journalism. To our IDC class and to anyone who has read his book “Who She Was”, he is a penitent son.

            Courteous as befits a man of his intelligence he entered our class a few minutes late with an apology and a reminder to Professor Bernstein that he had sent her two messages to alert her to his lateness. Even with deadlines earlier that morning he still took the time to come speak to our class. Mr. Freedman showed us immense presence of mind.           

He confessed in our class, as he looked down at his black patent leather shoes and nondescript dark slacks, “He wasn’t a very good son”. This confession is the first part to an explanation as to why he would write a book about his mother. Mothers are very interesting I suppose because everyone has one it is a universal subject. It was not impulse that drove him as he realized at her burial that he did not know her, it was guilt.

Running his hand back against his prickly salt and pepper hair he admitted he was “complicit on the silence of that subject”. He sugar coated his confession with a lower more even tone as he shifted side to side at the edge of the table at the front of the classroom, that he was at times uncommunicative and condemning of his mother. As he smiled at our questions and raised his shaggy eyebrows at some of them it was clear that he hadn’t quite gotten over this guilt in writing this book. He was as he put it “filled with shame and remorse at not being a more attentive son and better to her when she was sick”.

            I believe his guilt motivated him to research the aspects of her life with a “fanatical” attention to detail. He “knew what she was” but not “how she got there” and in saying that he acknowledged that he unfairly cast judgment on her. According the Professor Freedman if you “write about your own specific experiences and if done right, readers bring own experiences with reading and find connections”. It is sad for a young, idealistic student such as myself to admit this but theme of a son unable to reconcile with a parent is universal. Any adult with that much influence and proximity to a young child is bound to create disputes and disagreements. He believes in the “Periodic table of human nature – everything in material world can be broken down to finite elements; no matter what happens in human existence, everything breaks down to love, hate, disappointment, human personality, as long as you’re true to those, people will find the points of connection”. These themes are not all sad but Samuel Freedman is correct in his assertion that human beings sometimes relate to each other less in aspects in happiness and more in aspects of suffering because the later is just so much more prevalent.

            His final piece of advice to a group of idealistic and high achieving students that compromise Professor Bernstein’s Art’s In New York class addressed the future. As young individuals we will all eventually become parents ourselves. He warned us to be careful of denying our children of their “hearts desire”. If it is not something that “will kill them like drugs or something be careful of denying them that”. His mother was denied a chance of a happy marriage based on her love for Charlie and that is how she changed. I still find it unsettling how he could write in such a detached manner about his mother, someone who was in his life for so long. Only in addressing her past and sharing it was he able to find some sort of redemption. In forgiving her for her he forgives himself for the lack of communication between them. The book is written and published and he can move on to the future now.

Deep in the bowels of the Macaulay Honors College Building on November 11, 2008 we were privy to a small and intimate reading of Frances Richey poems by none other than Mrs. Richey herself.

She smiled somewhat nervously at the audience and adjusted her purple cardigan set. She beamed at them with her eyes smiling through her square lenses. There was not much to set her apart from an average benevolent looking middle age woman as I observed her from the second row. That was until she started to talk about her son directly and through her poems.

She described her place in history as a Vietnam War dissenter and acknowledged that, “I am very liberal.”  She then paused as she described her son as part of the military, a green beret, “you know one of those guys”. Although her son is currently no longer in the military it is almost as if she never fully reconciled that fact. Her son went against her ideals of peace. In her attempt to express her sadness and emotion at the disintegration of their communication and relationship she wrote these poems. She wrote a series of poems that were written into and collected into the book “The Warrior”.

              She firmly asserted that this book was not “a political book”. In the “Aztec Empire” she compares the gore of war to the crude sacrifices of the now extinct Aztec Culture. She read, “Before he was a warrior, he was a boy/Before he drank blood, he drank milk” with a barely discernable tremor in her voice. Her ambivalence to the war in Iraq is reflective of her son’s participation in it. He may be a warrior but he was also once an obedient son. Before her son killed people, she gave him life. She could not condemn her own son even at the expense of compromising her own “liberal” beliefs. The love of a mother to a son is stronger and more resilient even when it comes to compromising views on a war.

Mrs. Richey and her son had their disagreements as he grew up and that even though he was born in a pacifist household he chose to go to a West Point, A military school. Richey is her own individual because of her son.

Frances Richey’s plight is none other than that of a mother trying to reconcile her differences with her son through her art. Her art is poetry. Her form is free, as it fits no other mould. Her writing took a departure form industrial sales where she first started career wise to the refuge of free verse.  The grief of a mother estranged from a son who seemed determined to undermine her ideals in every way, cannot be labeled so simply. Her ability to successfully share her fears and forge a connection with not only with her son but everyone in general is inspirational.

Not everything looks worse in black and white.  In the case of David Fenton’s small gem of a photography collection “The Eye of the Revolution”, worse could be more loosely translated to more serious.

These serious images of the seventies revolution are pocketed away in the nondescript Steven Kasher Gallery. This small exhibit is in a high ceiling room with the black and white photo prints interrupting the otherwise stark white walls. Their somber gray tones draw the unsuspecting viewer in with a note of concern. After a closer inspection they either draw back with indulgent smiles. John Lennon and Yoko Ono onstage together, Mick Jagger doing a power jump, bare feet dancing girls with long flowing hair.

When one thinks of the hippie and rock and roll revolution all the monochromatic tones of black and white photography do not come to mind. Flowers do not come in black or white. That being said, it is unfair to stereotype the revolution of the seventies to the movement for peace. Spine straightening social issues such as the fight against racism and “Nam” plagued what “The Who” referred to as “my generation”.

David Fenton was part of that generation. When he prowled the streets, parks and concerts of New York City he could not have known how people would view the history he captured on film as the “revolution”. He himself had access behind police lines to capture all these pictures of protest. Now a few decades older I believe that David Fenton uses this medium to add a sense of timelessness and credibility to the subjects of his photos. Yet these icons of youth and freedom are now parents and adults in positions of power that they themselves rebelled against in their youth. I find that a full

The print that stood out to me not just because of its size but its subject is the aptly titled “Policemen on Horseback Chasing Boy Who Burned an American Flag”.  Two policemen are chasing a small boy who can’t be older than 7 or eight across the lawn on horseback. Fenton chooses not to center the boy in the frame because the larger issue at hand is the abuse of authority over civilians. The burning of an American flag is in fact illegal but in those times of protest the little boy was not the only doing such rebellious things. The fact that he was chosen to be made an example of simply because of his age is all captured in this photo almost as proof of something otherwise incredible.

My favorite photo by far is of the lead singer of one of my favorite bands, the Rolling Stones. Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones in New York City is captured in a midair power leap. The point of view is from the audience so the shot comes out with his figure at the top of the frame. This causes the viewers to find themselves looking at him in the eyes of an audience member in 1972. The lighting is not deliberate in Fenton’s part as most of the concerts the Rolling Stones had and have coordinated lighting. The light outlines Young Jagger’s features and his lithe, wiry frame is a lighter gray than the dark background was the crowd watches him. The music of the Rolling Stones was important in that time period to the generation of the 1970’s and Fenton chooses to convey him as the center of attention by placing in the center of the shot

            The Rolling Stones and a boy who burned a flag may not have much in common but they are literally brought together in David Fenton’s aptly titled exhibit the “Eye of the Revolution”. Just like the name implies the music and youth of the seventies was at the center of the story social issues that young people faced in the seventies.

“Let me introduce you to my man Clay!”  The hip one man musical with hip hop, yes hip-hop.

Now any skeptic or Broadway buff that might scoff at the idea of hip-hop or any non traditional form of music on a stage.  They might even deign to hide a condescending laugh at the idea of a white guy going to a bookstore of all places and rapping his way to self-actualization. Just watching the first five minutes of “Clay” can change those judgmental notions and there lies the power of Mr. Sax. Matt Sax’s refreshing rhymes and contagiously energetic performance joins the ranks of such musicals as “In the Heights” a Broadway musical with the enterprising Lin Manuel Miranda.

In his performance the set becomes secondary to the point of existing only to complement his acting. The cushy red curtains add to his dramatic acting and there are books to give the impression of a bookstore but that is where the set reaches a limit. Clay’s rush of energy can only be described as a live wire that hit a puddle of water. That small puddle is the stage at New Street Studio’s on 42^nd Street. Their productions in general are geared towards attracting “new” younger audiences and after quickly scanning the demographics of the audience it is apparent that their endeavors are successful. Needless to say, he left us all electrified.

Matt Sax’s sensational story line for a poor rich kid from upstate to a lyric spitting machine in Brooklyn is somewhat incredulous but it only serves to enhance his emphasis on performance. He did not just memorize these lines, he also wrote them. The lost youth that finds guidance in an older crabbed version of him self is predictable. It is something of a Hollywood feel good cookie cutter plot.  Yet when one is part of the audience just 6 feet away from him, Mr. Sax makes one forget this. His performance leaves one transfixed on his trembling form.

The mentor he finds in the hooded character of Sir John dubs him “Clay”. “Clay” has an elasticity in his facial features that does credit to his name. Mr. Sax innocently widens his tawny hazel eyes and bends down on his knees emulating the innocent young child Clifford that he used to be. For his parent roles he morphs into the stereotypical busy and nervous types. As the father Mr. Sax slacks his jaw and lowers his voice to a nasal hum. His interpretation of the mother, a cigarette brandishing bundle of nerves with a high-pitched breathy voice to boot ensues hilarity in the crowd.

His ability to adapt and slip in and out of character is chameleon like. It is seemingly effortless with the flexibility of his facial features almost to the point of being enviable. This in not however what Matt Sax tries to do. In writing, acting and composing a one man play he gives himself multiple identities to do justice to the range of characters he can play. It is obvious in the enthusiasm and his laughter that he is not only successful in his career but that he has fun-at plays.

           If he wasn’t working he was driving. Driving south, every few months after the divorce from his first wife Marilyn McClure and the separation from the son he always wanted, he just dropped everything and drove. On his way there he thought of her, how when he married her she looked just like Diana Ross- she still did. He thought of Bryan, their son Bryan who was so bright in everything.  It was the thought of them that kept him awake and heartened on the road. From New York City to Orlando he didn’t even make a stop at to sleep at one of the motels that lined the highway.

            He drove down that highway in a trusty brontosaurus of an Oldsmobile station wagon, his Chips sunglasses glinting in the sunlight. Gold rimmed, green tinted Rayban Aviators that he bought right after seeing “that guy from Chips” wear them. He checked the gas, looked left before making a turn and adjusted his rearview mirror as he turned his Ms. Ross’s best tune “Do You Know Where You’re Going To?” up. As he arrived closer and closer to Florida he felt himself grow warmer. Even for early spring it seemed unnaturally warm almost as if the earth were letting off steam. Or maybe it was the warmth emanating from the sheer goodwill of his intentions. If he worked it right he thought, “this might be the last trip I have to make….”

           His son Bryan turned eleven and started his first year of junior high that year. Instantly the corners of his lips turn upwards, he relaxed the tautness of his jaw and his eyes crinkled. He remembered the conversation he had with him the week before, “Dad I am going to SeaWorld next week, on a class trip, two whole classes are going, and our teacher asked us if our parents, you know our mothers and fathers, want to volunteer to help out. Hey dad, when are you coming to visit us dad?”

             As he pulled up to the junior high school he was stunned at the space between the separate buildings. To him they resembled simple one-story houses widely spaced on a thick green grass carpet– a far cry from the stone catholic schools of his youth.

            He strode up to the front desk where a secretary looked up from her paperwork gave him a strained smile. “Excuse me can I help you?”

            ”Yes, my name is Julio Alarcon and I am here to get my son Bryan for the class trip to Sea World” His chest puffed out a bit as he anticipated an expression of recognition from her.

          ”Bryan? I’m afraid we don’t have a student here by this name…” She trailed of as she saw his smile crumple, “Wait, we have a student named Jules Alarcon is he your son?” At that he let out a loud swoosh of air from his lungs thanked her and mechanically followed her instructions. Even though his son was his namesake, no one referred to him as Jules, not even himself.

          As he opened the door to the classroom he didn’t even have a chance to alert the teacher as Bryan came bounding into his arms with an impetuous hug and a  “DAD!”. It was worth it he thought, as he had to explain to the bemused teacher that he really was his father. Bryan’s mother Marilyn, although of mixed race herself was considered African American. Although America liked to think of itself as racially unprejudiced even in 1979 his marriage to her raised eyebrows. His son was just caught in between these social forces he had no control over. All you need is love.

          In a flurry of commotion he found himself on a bus and then off it, shepherding students from on exhibit to another. All the while he made sure to catch Bryan’s eye and smile reassuringly at him, as if to say he would never leave. His son appreciated that and rewarded him by flashing him a dimpled smile and a wave. “Hey dad, do you know the difference between a killer whale and an orca? There is none! They’re both the same!” The front row of his teeth mischievously peeped out and his eyes shone as he grinned broadly at his own wit and father. He then ran back to sit with his whole table of friends. Julio tried to capture that moment in a photo but at the last minute the whole group decided that they were camera shy. All that remained was hands in front of faces hiding almost as if they wanted to be forgotten.

        As they drove home in his car Bryan jabbered on ceaselessly. Julio was regaled with tales about his latest high score about hoops and his new high score in Mega man. As he pulled up the clean white driveway of 17 Columbine Drive his indulgent glowing smile turned into one of bemused despair as he realized that he had forgotten his keys to the house. Ever handy and prepared from the last time he forget his keys, he pulled out a piece of wire from the glove compartment a proceeded to pick the lock of his own house. Again.

         “Mom! Dad is home!”

And so it began again. He smiled confidently and tried to catch her all the while explaining his surprise visit.  She only had eyes for the exhilarated expression of joy on her sons face as ran back and forth between them, a merry pendulum with long limbs and Cheshire cat grin. All he had to do was wait for the right moment to ask her to come back to New York. All they needed was love.

                Dinner was always a silent affair but on that particular night everyone chattered on as if to dance around the giant elephant in the room. Technically they weren’t married anymore. Technically Julio was free to remarry or move on with his life. Technically Julio could forget he ever had a son and no one would judge him for it. Technically that is what any stereotypical free willed man would want, to ramble on into the world unencumbered by the worries of domestic life.

            This wasn’t what he wanted.

        He told her right after dinner, right as he watched her rinse the dishes with that poised air and efficiency he loved so much and right as Bryan walked into the kitchen. For what reason no on ever remembered, not even him.

          All there was….all there was left for him, was a silence.  In that moment of “damn communication breakdown” as he put it, he knew he had to go.

            ”Marilyn could you make me a carrot cake? and upside down pineapple cake you know the ones you always made for me?….before I go….?” He started the question off strong just like anything he undertook and then the uncertainty in the air came stinging clear as he saw the incredulity in her eyes. He trailed off…

              “You want me to bake all that now, Julio look at how late it is! I just got out of work!”  Her left hand worked up reflexively on her right hip yet even as she grumbled she set to baking. His mouth watered from the cinnamon smell as she set them out to cool later that night. By morning he was gone.

As he drove into Virginia later that afternoon he hit the break, pulled over, cradled his forehead onto the steering wheel and cried.

He had forgotten the carrot cake.

And the upside down pineapple cake

But not his family, he never could.

            If he wasn’t working, he was driving. After that last trip, he decided to take a break from driving. He thought back to his homeland Bolivia and that girl, oh girl *intake of breath…girl he took there, and left behind. When he got back to New York he bought a one-way ticket there and left.

             Little did he dream he come back to New York the following year with that same girl. Her name was Ada, now an older woman and in that year she was carrying in her womb his very first daughter, Katie. It would be just like starting over. If he failed then he would try again and again, and again.

http://www.marionettlinger.com/images/gallery/30-prose.jpg

            “She was so beautiful and doomed and she had a death wish” no, this is not Francine Prose but Myra, an insane character from “Hansel and Gretel”; one of her short stories from the collection “The Peaceable Kingdom”. The real Francine Prose held the audience captive during the reading with her soft, deep intonations. Her hair curtained her face as she drew it back occasionally to reveal the intelligence and wit written not only in her story but also on her face. She peered up to regard the audience that was intentionally shocked into attention by the image of Hecuba and her cat.

                During the talkback, Prose stated she started writing stories as an indirect result of the unruly children she had to babysit as a child. Her face drew back in a smile when she recalled she “did a lot of ghost stories” to entertain the children. Her use of logic and sense of humor led her to discover that if they were scared they might be less restless. Many of her ideas for novels including “Hansel and Gretel” came from personal experience. Prose explained, “As a child I was a huge reader”. She readily cited the highly relevant Hans Christian Andersen and Little Women by Louisa May Alcott Her influences were a revelation. Hans Christen Andersen’s tales even though irreverent, sometimes have dark undertones just like her work. Alcott’s novel is an almost biographical account of a female writer who falls into “vortexes” and “writing fits” and supports herself with them. Francine Prose’s character is such that she remembers staying up all night to start a novel. Initially to her writing was not so much about the freedom of expression but also her livelihood. She admitted she could not “imagine doing anything else” and “just didn’t have a chance for writer’s block”. Her approach to her profession is not only realistic it is admirable

 Her independence is admirable and her spirit shows in her book “Reading Like A Writer”. Prose emphasizes the importance of reading not just for plot but also for the originality of the writer. In opposition to the nature of a short story, a novel focuses more on the character development.  To Francine Prose writing is a novel is “scarier” because there is a chance that it might not go anywhere”. When questioned about her writing methods,” I just write on sentence after another” Her approach at writing maybe considered unorthodox. Yet when she writes, every word is deliberate, and every thought is concise, even at times humorous, just like her.