Bobby Thompson, And Breugel ( after Lydia Millet)

6/23

Breugel's Triumph of Death

Last week, I attended a reading by Lydia Millet

Lydia Millet

from her new book, Fight No More. My good friend artist Heide Hatry organized an after party. My contribution was a reflection inspired by "Bird-Head Monster" from Fight No More...followed by my Apple Tree Blues....here is the reflection.....

I was a child. Can't remember how old I was. Or if I could read. I was home alone. I found a magazine. One I liked because the pages were large. And brightly colored. Worlds I felt I could step into. Live in.

But this time was different. I had no way to understand what I was seeing. Skeletons. Corpses. Demons. Pain and anguish. I was transfixed. Terrified. Traumatized. I could not look away. And I felt I could walk into this painting. This world. And be surrounded by skeletons. Corpses.Demons. I would remember this painting for a very long time.

You know when you're watching a cable tv show and an announcement contains an "advisory: portions of the following program may be too intense for younger viewers?" Like that.

Parenthetical note: When I read Lydia Millet's story, I was convinced the painting I had seen long ago in Life Magazine was "The Garden of Earthly Delights" by Hieronymous Bosch, the inspiration for her story. But I know now it was "The Triumph of Death"

"Garden of Earthly Delights" by Bosch

by Peter Brueghel, the Elder.

This memory would come back   to me the first time I read Don Delillo's Underworld. The preface is set on a cold, raw fall day in upper Manhattan. At the Polo Grounds. The New York Giants are playing the Brooklyn Dodgers to determine who will meet the New York Yankees in the World Series. 

In a box on the first base side are four men. Restaurateur Toots Shoor. Frank Sinatra. Jackie Gleason. And FBI Director J Edgar Hoover. As the game winds to its dramatic conclusion, in the bottom of the ninth, Bobby Thompson hits a home run, the shot heard round the world. And hoarse voiced, sore throated Russ Hodges shouts The Giants win the pennant. The Giants win the pennant. The Giants win the pennant. I do not believe it. The Giants win the pennant. 

And from the upper reaches of the Polo Grounds grandstand, a shower of confetti begins to stream. A cascade of torn and shredded paper. And one large piece lands on J Edgar's arm. And when he looks at what has landed there, everything else in the stadium fades away. Disappears. A second page lands. He holds them together. Stares. He is transfixed. He feels every emotion that young boy felt. And knowing J Edgar, something deeper. Darker.  Desperate. We know he would later commission a copy of the painting. To study. To live with. To live in.

I think of this as I read Lydia's words.

But there's one thing more. On an old dusty slide carousel there is a picture of my not yet 30 years old father. Holding his child. The boy is wearing an oversized felt 1951 New York Giants hat. In honor of Bobby Thompson.  His first baseball cap. 

Today when I wear my vintage New York Giants reproduction, I think of my father. And Bobby Thompson. And Peter Breughel. The Elder.