by Robin Morgan
I thank those who were honestly surprised at my answer to their question about influences on my work: the Metaphysical Poets of the seventeenth century, especially Donne and Marvell; and Pitchford and Raine and Jeffers and Wylie and Crane and Mew and Yeats and Plath and so many others the list could go on for hours. In prose: Kafka and Faulkner and Eliot and the Brontes, Austen and Hawthorne and Cather and James and Olsen, to be admittedly eclectic. In theater: the Elizabethans and Jacobeans, and Shaw, Sophocles, Anouilh; Sartre, too, and Bagnold and Hellman. And Brecht. And Williams. And all such lists are ludicrous.
My listeners were thunderstruck. I had cited some men. In certain feminist circles it is not yet fathomed (for understandable if maddening reasons) that there has been a peculiar synchronicity even in some male artists (fine ones, that is), a symbiosis between art and real understanding of all human beings. Henry James’ female characters are more profoundly feminist, to me, than Isadora Wing. Furthermore, I’m afraid that if I am forced to choose between Donne’s complex braiding of respectful misogyny and uxoriousness on the one hand and some new volume called Riding the Red Rag to Amazon Nation on the other, I shall not be un-Donne. If, in our expectable nationalist phase, we feminists forget that the most sublime art is mercilessly sexless, raceless, and ageless, then we shall be in danger of losing sight of our own eventual goals—and what is perhaps even worse, we shall never produce great artists, or we will destroy those we do produce.
Successful revolutions are as well known as their recently overthrown previous regimes for treating two groups in particular with especial vengeance: revolutionaries and artists. On a bad day I can look at the Feminist Movement and see some alarmingly familiar tendencies, despite all my self-assurances, that we shall do this differently. (Another way of saying “It can’t happen here”?) Artists, a feisty lot, have generally responded to suspicion from others with a manner defiantly calculated to provoke such suspicion all on its own. We do get shot, of course. We also get the last word, albeit one uttered posthumously.
Can women artists and feminist revolutionaries change all this? Tune in next century, if there is one. If you find on your futuristic tele-screen klutzy statues in town plazas memorializing conveniently massacred feminist artists whose works are no longer available, you’ll know that nothing much has changed.
On good days, I know you won’t find this nightmare, though. On good days, I know that god, whether or not she’s a feminist, is at least an artist.
THE AMUSEMENT
Cast of Characters:
(in order of appearance)
THE POET
The Nine Muses:
URANIA, the Muse of Cosmic Science
THALIA, the Muse of Comedy and the Pastoral
EUTERPE, the Muse of Lyric Song
POLYMNIA, the Muse of Sacred Song
TERPSICHORE, the Muse of Dance
ERATO, the Muse of Love Poetry
CLIO, the Muse of History
CALLIOPE, the Muse of Epic Poetry
MELPOMENE, the Muse of Tragedy
THE POET
The Time: The Present
The Place: Rafters above THE POET’S desk
(As the Curtain of our consciousness rises, we see THE POET sitting at her desk. She is hunched over her typewriter, and something about the curve of her shoulders bespeaks a certain weariness, yet she peers, squinting, at the ceiling, and her expression is one of apprehension. Above her, assembled in various postures and perches, THE NINE MUSES float, cushioned on their own portable ectoplasm. With the exceptions of MELPOMENE and POLYMNIA, THE MUSES are all chattering animatedly at once)
URANIA (raising her voice to be heard above the amiable din) Sisters, Sisters! Please, can we have some order? There is a most important subject under discussion at tonight’s meeting. We have a full agenda, and we really must begin. (THE MUSES settle down) Thank you so much for your cooperation. (Then, a bit sternly, to THALIA, who continues whispering to TERPSICHORE) I said THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION. (THALIA accepts the rebuke and is silenced) Now. Let us start, as ever, with The Toast.
(THE MUSES all float to a standing position and raise brimming goblets which are suddenly manifest in their hands. POLYMNIA leads them in their ritual, which they chant with great dignity)
ALL THE MUSES (in unison) To The Mothers from whence we, Creatrices of all creativity, have been created. To the Old Ones who began us all. To Melete, She who is Meditation. To Mneme, She who is Remembrance. To Aoide, She who is Song. To the Three, who became the Nine, who became the soul of the world.
(THE POET shudders with awe. Something ancient and chilling is so palpable in the room that she pulls her shawl tighter about her shoulders)
URANIA Let us begin our meeting, then. The central concern tonight—
THALIA (interrupting) I apologize for the interruption, Urania, but I must lodge two teensy protests. First, garrets. Can we never find a more comfortable meeting place than a garret? (CLIO opens her mouth to reply, but THALIA burbles on) I know, I know, darling Clio. I realize the situation of most artists on this particular barbarous planet. Didn’t my own beloved Mozart starve to death here? Didn’t my gem Dorothy Parker have to survive by writing Hollywood screenplays here? But when are we going to do something about this situation?
URANIA Thalia, this is a subject for another whole meeting. Please—
THALIA And then there’s this abominable wine. (She holds her goblet at arm’s length, eyeing it with contempt) It isn’t that I’m a hedonist, you know, but there was a time when we could get a decent ambrosia for our meetings. This stuff isn’t a fitting refreshment for us; there’s no ecstasy in it. It merely gets us tiddly—and you all know Melpomene when she gets tiddly: Ms. Morbid herself. I mean, with all due affection, Melpie—
EUTERPE Thalia dear, Melpomene does not become morbid. As for you, though, you are permanently in a tiddly state, you irrepressible wag. Oh, Thalia, do try to be kind. And quiet.
THALIA Very well, quiet perhaps. (She smiles at EUTERPE) For you, Euterpe. But kindness I can’t promise. That is too often a form of hypocrisy, which isn’t in my nature. I’m a country girl at heart.
POLYMNIA Sisters. (There is a solemn quality in her bearing which seems to command everyone’s attention) I suggest to you that, loving banter aside, we have a sacred duty to perform here. The issue we are to examine could be called “Art and Feminism” or “Female Culture” or perhaps “Women and Art” or a thousand other such titles. Indeed, the title is less significant than the urgent need for our concern; this subject is of vital importance to our children below, in particular our precious Daughters.
TERPSICHORE Well, then, let’s do begin. What shall our form be tonight? Shall we go around the room in personal testimony, or have a Chair, or shall we do free-floating space? I prefer the last; I think we do it so well.
ERATO Oh, I agree. After all, we’re not doing C-R in a strict sense this meeting, so we needn’t hew to personal testimony. Terpsichore’s right. Besides, free-floating feels so good.
(There is a chorus of approving comment for use of the free-floating form of discussion. CLIO interrupts, waving a cautious finger)
CLIO I would remind you all that our past experience with free-floating discussion, while at times most fruitful, has not been without difficulty. Certain of us tend to dominate the conversation. Terpsichore, on the other hand, says very little (although her gestures are of course so eloquent), Polymnia retires almost completely into meditation, and Melpomene sits quietly in some dormer cranny and weeps without uttering a sob. This has happened, you know.
URANIA A valid point, Clio. Perhaps we should have a firmer structure. I think a Chair would be an excellent idea—
THALIA I don’t. Sorry to be a bucolic bother, but it’s almost always either Chair or Testimony, Testimony or Chair, and I get bored. Are we the Muses or not? De we create creativity or not? Also, we always wind up with either Urania or Clio as the Chair. I’m too naughty, Euterpe’s too gentle, Polymnia too con
templative, Terpsichore too nonverbal, Erato too excitable, Calliope too long-winded, and Melpomene too severe. So it’s Clio or Urania. Poor things, they’ve both been Chairs so often we could upholster them and have a matched pair—Louis Quatorze, I think.
(There is a clamor to be heard from every voice, including that of TERPSICHORE. But it is EUTERPE who manages to gain the floor—or, rather, the ether)
EUTERPE Sister, Sisters. Surely we can compromise. Do let us have a free-floating discussion, but let those of us who babble on (everyone looks at THALIA, who is not in the least disconcerted) restrain our verbosity, while others of us who tend toward less active participation strive to be more, well, present. Surely we can manage that, can we not?
(EUTERPE is so winning in her earnestness and grace that THE MUSES subside into agreement. Good will appears to prevail)
CALLIOPE I see only one last objection to this choice of form. Remember, Sisters, why we are in this particular garret. (THE MUSES exchange glances) Yes. And as soon we open her ears, that Daughter will find herself seized with our thoughts and our presences. If we choose free-form discussion, will she be able to grasp us at such a speed? Can her mind dance with light?
MELPOMENE No. (She has not spoken before, and now we notice that the other Muses regard MELPOMENE with a grave respect, all except THALIA, who, oddly, gazes at her tall sister with love born of a sense of intimacy) She will hear only our echoes, read only our footprints. But we will be no clearer to her should we take a million different forms. It is no matter. In her striving to understand what grasps her she will grasp us. That is all she can hope for. It is sufficient.
(The Nine are silent. Then, a glance and a nod passes from one to the other, until exchanged by all. The communication ends at POLYMNIA, who then rises, leans down toward THE POET, and lightly claps her hands once. THE POET rubs her eyes and runs her fingers jaggedly through her hair in a suddenly nervous gesture. Then she gulps a mouthful from a coffee cup on her desk, grabs a fresh sheet of paper, inserts it in her typewriter, sits up straight in her chair, and takes a deep breath. It is as if she is listening to an internal voice)
POLYMNIA Let us begin.
(As CALLIOPE begins to speak, THE POET starts typing. She continues this activity soundlessly but without cease throughout the dialogue, except where indicated)
CALLIOPE The question is raised as to female culture. Has there always been one? Is one possible only now? Surely the Muses have always been female—and feminist, too, to the degree this foolish planet would recognize that—but how much of ourselves have we been able to communicate to our children? Is there a feminist culture, a feminist approach to art? There are those who answer flatly that there is not.
THALIA They are called men.
CALLIOPE Thalia, please. That is not necessarily true. Besides, we mustn’t get diverted from our subject. There are those who say that there is such a special approach, but some of them seem to trivialize it, defining it solely in terms of uterine shapes, or eternally self-justifying confessions, or the numbing overuse of such words as menstruation, struggle, labia, consciousness, teardrop, and liberation.
EUTERPE Dear me.
CALLIOPE But there are also those, so far almost entirely women, who feel committed to the creation of what might become a feminist culture. Even some of these children lack the realization of how real that woman’s culture already has been, for eons. So when they are asked the basis for their commitment, they fall silent with their faith alone. The question goes, “How can you speak of female culture when in fact culture differs from group to ethnic group? You cannot think, for example, that the culture of a white woman in, say, North America, is the same as the culture of a black woman, even in the same continent, country, city—can you?” The answer at first is “No. They are not the same.”
MELPOMENE Different. Separate. Isolate. Not the same.
CLIO The answer is deeper, and older, and simpler. They are separately sprung from one root. Look, Sisters, at a single example. Let us try to find a meaningful difference between this quilt (a patchwork quilt of mandalic beauty materializes across CLIO’S lap) and this bowl (a clay bowl shaped in perfect balance and painted in hues of startling intensity appears, similarly, in CLIO’S cupped hands). Let us, for the sake of argument, restrict ourselves to that North American continent—although precisely the same point could be made about any two or ten or thousand cultures on the planet Earth. That point is this:
Quilting, in North America, began as a frontier necessity. As the years passed, it became less of a necessity and more of a leisure occupation—needlework. We could characterize this, at least from the (by patriarchal date-reckoning) (THALIA sniffs in derision) nineteenth century on, as a part of white middle-class women’s culture.
Now let us move backward in time to that age when this continent of which we speak was cared for by its native peoples. Let us examine the handiwork, especially the pottery, of those Native American peoples. Today such pottery is displayed in the museums of those who conquered and destroyed the creators of the work, and in these displays it is labeled “Native American art and culture.”
Yet it was the women who invented pottery; the women are still the great artist-potters in Native American societies. In some Native American nations it is tabu for men to throw pots at all; only the women may create from clay.
So, my sisters. Is that women’s culture or Native American culture? I say it is women’s culture, women’s art. Predominantly. I say this because of the connective between the purportedly middle-class quilt and the ostensibly primitive pottery. (CLIO lifts a corner of the quilt in one hand, and the bowl in the other, as if finding a balance in their weight) Both combine beauty and use. The patriarchal overculture has usually dismissed anything which was both beautiful and useful as a “craft.” Yet our Daughters, restricted to materials that were perforce useful, invented the techniques to make them articles of loveliness.
URANIA More than loveliness—meaning. They invented the techniques to universalize these materials into art. And this, while weaving a means to keep the children warm in bed. And this, while molding a means to carry food for nourishment.
MELPOMENE And these, while the weaver of the quilt was raped and murdered by the brother of the potter, and while the potter was raped and massacred by the husband of the weaver. This quilt. This bowl.
CLIO So say I, then, that there has been from time before time something which can be called a female culture. Let those who will deny it!
THALIA Don’t exercise yourself, they will. But many of those same unfortunate souls deny the existence of art itself, all art, any art. If I must overhear one more combat-boot-brained young woman asking if all art isn’t “inherently bourgeois,” I shall find myself fleeing to the Establishment—and you know how I feel about it. All I would encounter there would be self-indulgent ignoramuses who regard art as A Good Investment or The Met Opening or who are too busy jockeying for the newest award or biggest foundation grant to divine my presence.
CALLIOPE Come come, Thalia, none of us have visited such people since the days of Tiberius. You know that. We could march before them as in armies, wave on cresting wave of us, artist and artisan alike—they would not recognize us for who we are. We could descend openly as Muses—massive, magnificent, mellifluous—and they—
THALIA —would patronize us with their attitudes but not with their alms? Ah yes, Calliope. But before you spin more images to demonstrate how all unknowing these reactionaries are, look to the revolutionaries, and defend art, too, against the slings and arrows of this audience.
EUTERPE How much more painful to confront those who claim to be devoted to new forms, to change!
THALIA This is the hook that gets us every time. And then they bark, “Bourgeois!” and exile their best hopes.
CLIO Surely the concept that culture is irrelevant to radical change is itself born of a sexist, classist, racist, and elitist attitude (all the venalities of which they accuse culture).
CLIO (drawing herself up in stately fashion) I am not trying to impress you with my mimetic talents, Thalia. I am merely trying to point out how breathtakingly stupid is the notion that art is “bourgeois” because, ostensibly, the poor don’t like or understand it. How does this attitude account for the Italian immigrant who, no matter how penniless, somehow managed to possess a musical instrument or a phonograph and some cherished recordings of opera?
CALLIOPE And what about enghettoed Jews who died of starvation rather than sell their books?
POLYMNIA Where does the black slave fit into this theory, the slave who forged the soul of American music, who would not be silent, who swallowed pain, alchemized it in the forge of the throat, and spit it out again as sung glory?
URANIA Yes, you are right. I too have been repelled by this idea that the poor somehow are dullards who hate art. The thought itself is middle class and middle-brow and … middling. And why?
CLIO It is that same white middle-class liberal guilt we saw so much of in the decade called the sixties.
ERATO Or is it something more? Is it a virulent resentment that, despite the Marxist formulae about alienated labor as the rule under capitalism, the artist alone has managed to perform unalienated labor everywhere, at all times, and under all systems? As if it were an act of love?
POLYMNIA Or an act of prayer.
EUTERPE You mean it could be envy, then? At the artist for being the intrepid exception? Ah, I see …
MELPOMENE … the intrepid exception who pays with her life, and who could even, if given a chance, prove the rule better than the formulae—since a real revolution could make artists of everyone. Or is that the fear?
EUTERPE Everyone an artist. How exquisite.