The Rake Magazine

Year: 2004

  • Thankful For: Good Design!

    We were chatting yesterday with an editor at the New Yorker,
    and the conversation turned on the role of design in modern magazines.
    The New Yorker, of course, is an old-fashioned magazine that has not
    changed in any major way for more than seventy-five years. To be sure,
    there were some dramatic touches added under Tina Brown in the late
    nineties—photography appeared for the first time, bylines went to the
    tops of stories, a table of contents and letters to the editor were
    published for the first time. But these were dramatic only in context.
    Compared to all other magazines, the New Yorker remained an
    intransigent old-timer that persisted in its jazz-age stylings. Most of
    us still thank God for that.

    Now
    it was the view of my New Yorker friend that readers simply do not care
    about design the way editors, publishers, artists, and designers do—in
    other words, it’s only people in the publishing industry who care about
    something so frivolous as page layout. I’m not sure I agree completely
    with that view.

    It’s easy to say there is little interest in
    design when your magazine is the gold standard of narrative journalism
    and cartoons, and when the design has not changed in three-quarters of
    a century. My friend and I agreed, though, that design that is used to
    cover up a lack of substance in a story is a bad thing. But I think it
    should be possible to do both at the same time. (There are magazines,
    like ESPN, for example, that are emphatically about image rather than
    text— ESPN magazine was, after all, modelled on its television
    namesake. They play by different rules, of course, or create their own.
    Personally, I read Playboy for the articles, but I can see how some
    people might look more to the art.)

    In most magazines, there is
    a rough balance between words and pictures. Good design is what marries
    a good story to good art. You can’t just plop down on the page a big,
    full-color photo, and then flow a story around it in whatever space
    remains and expect it to “work.” It is a careful, exacting thing—more
    art than science, surely—to make text and image play nicely and
    complement each other. Even at a place like The New Yorker, where text
    is king, there are still very serious design quandries every issue.

    Their
    particular cross to bear is that they don’t fit stories to space, but
    vice versa. In other words, a story is written at whatever length it
    takes to tell the story properly, and then the space on the page is
    fitted to the words. All those clever little postage-stamp drawings?
    They are called “space shims” to make a story end at the bottom of a
    page, and not some other random place in the magazine. Carmine Peppe
    was the legendary layout-editor at the New Yorker , one of its great
    unsung heroes. For more than fifty years, he was responsible for the
    incredibly delicate craft of space shimming, not unlike a master
    carpenter.

    So. Even when you think design doesn’t matter, design still matters.—The Editor in Cheese

  • Radio Flyer

    Last night, the wife noticed that WCAL has now changed hands,
    and is being operated by MPR. The wife is a contrarian in all things,
    and she said the new announcers sounded “robotic.” But the wife is,
    like us, a St. Olaf graduate. She is predisposed to resist change (like
    us), especially when it involves her alma mater. Many non-alumni
    listeners may be pleasantly surprised to learn that the classical
    programming continues—at least for the time being.

    Around here, we’ve already received one angry letter for our “Good Intentions”
    which mentioned the controversy. In that piece, we did not so much
    mourn the passing of WCAL—it’s not really going anywhere, after all.
    And if you insist that WCAL IS dead in body and spirit, then MPR is
    certainly the best possible heaven you could go to if you were a
    deceased radio station. What we were complaining about was St. Olaf’s
    decision to sell it in the first place.

    It turns out that MPR may be the hero of this story. Despite the broad grumbling we hear among honorable people—
    that MPR is growing more conservative and homogenous and powerful—we
    suspect that St. Olaf would have sold the station to just about anyone,
    so desperate were they to liquidate this asset. (St. Olaf alumni are
    familiar with this strategy going back at least to the eighties, when
    then-president Melvin George sold many of the priceless Persian rugs
    that hung on the walls of Ole Rolvaag Library, just to drum up a little
    cash.) In a press release issued yesterday, MPR made it clear that they
    bought the charming little station “in an attempt to save the frequency
    for public service programming. Other bidders proposed more narrow,
    targeted program services.”

    Coincidentally, we happened to
    pick up Tom Wolfe’s new novel last night. It bears all the earmarks of
    a classic Wolfe read— so many details so wrong, so much clanging
    language, and yet so irritatingly readable. “My Name is Charlotte” is
    set in a fictional college called Dupont. One of the things that Wolfe
    gets exactly right is the strange form of loyalty that a good, solid
    college generates in its students and alumni. These are, after all, the
    formative years of our adult life. If you’re lucky enough to attend a
    somewhat prestigious private college, and engaged with it enough to
    hold on for four years, its astonishing the things you find yourself
    remembering and saying about the experience later.

    So our own
    attachment to WCAL had quite a lot to do with its affiliation with that
    old college on a hill. But it’s useful to remember that many people who
    never knew or cared about WCAL’s ownership loved the station for what
    it was, sui generis. They can take some consolation that some of the
    station’s signature programming will live on, including “Favorites on
    Friday” and—something MPR secretly coveted for decades—the St. Olaf
    Choir Christmas Concert. Sometimes our self-important view of ourselves
    and our institutions actually comports with the outside world’s
    view.—The Editor in Cheese

  • God Bless Me

    This weekend, I was hanging around the house trying to beat
    this nasty rhinovirus—a convenient excuse for laziness, I know. I
    happened to be listening to MPR, and felt lucky to have the house and
    the radio to myself for “This American Life,” one of life’s
    serendipitious little pleasures. (I wouldn’t want to arrange my life
    around a radio show, even if its host and I have a mutual appreciation society [that’s The Rake in his in-box there, thanks IG!].)

    Anyway, the show was about amateur spying, which is a great subject.
    The prelude was about a friend of Ira Glass’s who was a newspaper
    reporter in the 1980s. He happened to be working late one night,
    screwing around the way everyone does in an idle moment. When he
    rebooted his computer, he used his boss’s username and made up a likely
    password—and it worked! (I could go on at length about how depressing
    this is that our lives are this predictable. For God’s sake, do NOT use
    your spouse’s name, your child’s name, or your pet’s name as a
    password.) Without even wanting to, he succumbed to what you could call
    the hacker’s rush—the pure joy of trespassing with no other purpose in
    mind than being where you aren’t supposed to be.

    Well, the
    reporter inevitably found the spreadsheets that listed the entire
    company’s payroll. He was shocked to learn that he was the lowest paid
    reporter on the paper, even though he had considerable seniority. This
    forbidden knowledge poisoned the workplace for him; it even poisoned
    his own self-image. Now you could argue that the truth, no matter how
    painful, is better than functional delusion, and you’d have a point.

    On
    the other hand, I think it is possible to get too much information, and
    to thus convert self-love into other-hatred. There are simply some
    things you would rather not know about yourself, particularly what
    others might think of you in the privacy of their own minds and emails.
    You forget that others lack perspective on your life. You have to trust
    that if they felt you really needed to know you’d screwed up, or that a
    character flaw of yours was so distracting that it was ruining their
    life, they’d be a man about it and tell you out loud.

    When I was
    a boy, I used to fantasize about reading other people’s thoughts. The
    fantasy had obvious origins in being frustrated with understanding
    where other people were coming from, and how they saw me—I didn’t even
    know how to see myself, and it might have been useful to get access to
    what others thought. But with adolescence, I realized just what a
    terrible thing that particular super-power would be. You realize how
    much of your interior life would be an embarassment if it screened in
    public—most of it.

    In this month’s cover story
    about Eric Utne, we revisited an old newspaper article in which
    employees of the Utne Reader confessed that they had made fun of their
    boss. This phenomenon is universal, of course, but usually no one
    intends for it to go public, because it can be so hurtful and prone to
    exaggeration. When the private becomes public, the ugliness of the
    human condition reveals itself—and only a true mensch like Utne can, as
    he did, turn it into an opportunity to reflect and evolve.

    Me? I would have fired the little shits.—The Editor in Sneeze

  • Desert Island Duffel

    Boehlke, the Jungle Theater’s artistic director, is currently hard at work reprising Under Milk Wood, Dylan Thomas’ radio play that takes place in Llareggub, a fictional Welch fishing village. Despite its name, which happens to be “bugger all” spelled backwards, Llareggub is a quaint, charming place where everyday folks just happen to speak in Thomas’ sprawling poetic tongue. Even though Boehlke was immersed in all things Welsh, we persuaded him to prepare a shopping list for an imaginary exile to an unpopulated tropical isle (which would probably be most welcome come January).

    1) The Complete Works of Shakespeare because, well, I would want to read something that has great variety and density of subject matter, that is both lightweight and profound, with comedic and tragic elements to it. Plus, when I finally got off the island I would have some plays I had all worked out in my head!

    2) A simple kitchen kit: A really good knife, cutting board, and hand juicer to prepare some simple and beautiful meals on the island. I suppose one could rip at the food, but I would like to retain a modicum of civilized behavior. I once was a caterer so I know how important a good knife is. I used to bake gourmet desserts for the Loring Café right before I founded the Jungle. Also, with a knife I could carve a pan flute. As Shakespeare said, “Music soothes the savage breast.”

    3) A hatchet to make a charming bamboo hut with a palm leaf roof that would provide shelter. I think there is something innate in us as humans that insists on building structures for protection from the clime.

    4) A clothing kit: a hat with a brim because I’m fair, so I could enjoy the sun; white shirt and white pants made of natural fiber to protect me; and a string to create a necklace of driftwood or a stone to hang about my neck.

    5) Pencil and paper tablet to write, because we all have a need for self-expression and a way to record the philosophical and poetic considerations we formulate. Since there’s no one but me on the desert island, but because one’s need to communicate is still intact, I would need to write to be fulfilled.

  • Susanna Clarke

    That eight-hundred-page bulge in many a geek’s stocking this year is Clarke’s first novel, Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, whose titular characters are magicians who decide to redirect British history. Clarke’s incredibly detailed and ambitious work weaves real and imagined history, mythology, and period manners into a sly, often humorous narrative. Her book has been called “a Harry Potter for adults,” but, since we often saw adults reading the Harry Potter series in the first place, consider this a lengthy and highly entertaining continuation in the literate public’s attempts to escape reality. Clarke talked to us from a German hotel room as she settled in for a night of solitude after a long day on her book tour.

    THE RAKE: Fantasy literature isn’t usually highly regarded, but Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell was a contender for this year’s very serious Booker Prize. Do you think attitudes towards the genre are changing, or is there something different about your book?

    I certainly think attitudes are changing a bit toward fantasy and toward genres in general. A few years ago when Philip Pullman’s was longlisted for the Booker, some people questioned the book’s right to be there, simply because his book was a children’s book. But no one blinked when Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell made the longlist. Barriers between categories are breaking down a little. It helps that “literary” writers are borrowing from different genres—finding a vitality there, which is perhaps sometimes missing from literary fiction. I suspect it helps that Strange and Norrell is a bit of a blend of genres. Sure, it’s fantasy, but there’s also some historical fiction, adventure, and mystery. So the fantasy comes wearing an interesting post-modernish dress.

    Who is most like you: Jonathan Strange or Gilbert Norrell? Who did you enjoy writing more?

    Neither is much like me. But there are a few similarities between me and Norrell. We both like staying at home, surrounded by books and being quiet. In that way, Norrell is quite like lots of writers—except that he doesn’t write anything. I probably enjoyed writing Strange more, because I suspect he has more good dialogue, by which I mean more funny dialogue. But Norrell was good to write, too, especially when he was being ridiculous.

    Your book is heavily footnoted and as carefully researched as a made-up world can be. What are your favorite reference sources?

    I particularly like secondhand books on social history, English folklore, and old country ways and beliefs. For example, there’s a Welsh author, George Ewart Evans, who interviewed English country people in the fifties and sixties about what they could remember about past customs and beliefs. Some of their stories reached back to the mid-nineteenth century. He talks about things like horses’ skulls buried under floors and beliefs about bee-keeping, stuff like that. Horse-whispering was once quite a big thing in Eastern England and Scotland.

    For the behavior and ideas of the country gentry in the early nineteenth century, Jane Austen can’t be bettered. There’s also a series of little books published here [in England] by Shire Books on all sorts of odd subjects: spoons 1645-1930, candle lighting, mausoleums, smocks, smoking antiques, and so on. I collect these compulsively. But what I like best is the research I’m going to do next. Once you’ve begun and you’re seriously into it, it becomes a bit like homework, but the research you’re going to do next is always interesting.

    I hear you’re a fan of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Did you take any lessons from its writers as you worked on your book?

    The things I loved in Buffy are the same as the things I love in other literature and films. A pushing-together of light and dark, comedy and themes of death, madness, loss. A wonderful quirky style of dialogue. Wonderful characterization and plots that come out of the characterization. I hope that I got some of these things into Strange and Norrell. I’m actually expecting Buffy to influence my writing a little more in the future.

    Not to give anything away, but you wrap up your book in an unusual fashion. What was your intention with this?
    One of the things I tried to avoid in Strange and Norrell was the usual big fantasy showdown between a clear source of good and a clear source of evil. It’s much more about people with good and evil in them. I think that that is reflected in the ending.

    Susanna Clarke reads December 9 at Barnes & Noble, Har Mar Mall, 2100 N. Snelling Ave., Roseville, 651-639-9256 and December 10 at Bound to Be Read, 870 Grand Ave., St. Paul, 651-646-2665

  • The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou

    A welcome Christmas gift from Wes.
    If you measured the success of a film director by the number of cool actors who stand in line to work with him, Wes Anderson would surely win by a long shot. And why not? If you pay close attention, you quickly understand why a film like Rushmore or The Royal Tenenbaums is so beloved by character actors and movie critics alike. These films are rich in humane humor, and they feature some of the smartest writing and show off one of the most charmingly quirky sensibilities in major motion pictures today. These are qualities you cannot buy through special effects or soundtracks or even a twenty-million-dollar leading lady. They are the unique sensibility of a true auteur—and Anderson is head and shoulders above pretenders of his generation like Spike Jonze and Sofia Coppola. The color palette alone of Anderson’s newest Bill Murray vehicle is making our mouths water—pastel blues, grays, and pinks frame a wacky story about an oceanographer who is slightly more Clouseau than Cousteau. As for our own Bill Murray worship, this film will be a welcome relief from his temporary setback of Lost in Translation, a grossly overrated exercise in directorial vanity.

  • Mu Daiko's Taiko Blizzard

    According to Japanese folklore, Taiko drums can carry the prayers of their players to heaven. As disciples of this tradition, this collection of drummers use enough force to wake the Samurai spirits who initiated this ritual. The annual Taiko Blizzard festival—featuring Mu Performing Arts’ Daiko drum core and the renowned Winnipeg-based Fubuki Daiko squad—blends pulsating beats with rhythmic, athletic dancing and action-packed stunts. Given such gushing intensity for both the eyes and ears, it’s no surprise that sold-out shows are as much a part of this tradition as the concert itself. 1420 Washington Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-340-1725; www.southerntheater.org

  • Ballet of The Dolls' Cinderalla and The Glass Slipper

    So maybe some of us do want sparkle and magic at the theater this time of year—and that’s OK! Especially if it’s done by Dolls frontman and master choreographer Myron Johnson, who playfully integrates old-fashioned ballroom dance and avant-garde compositions, giving his work an off-kilter texture. His throwback charms are well-suited for revitalizing a familiar fairy tale, and he has vowed to follow closely Cinderella’s enchanting storyline. Still, while you might not expect a cross-dressing showgirl as the Fairy Godmother, it’s hard not to be suspicious about Johnson’s intentions for the belle of the ball. And yet it is a family-friendly show, so bring the young ’uns to revel in the Dolls’ madcap dancing, screwball costuming, and offbeat tunes—spiked, no doubt, with a few surprises. 345 Washington St., St. Paul; 651-224-4222; www.balletofthedolls.org

  • Inherit The Wind

    True life is the stuff of great art—an axiom put to great use in Inherit the Wind, a play loosely based upon the infamous Scopes “monkey trial.” Written in 1955, the script re-imagines the plight of John Scopes, the high school biology teacher who, in 1925, was famously prosecuted for teaching evolution theory. Both the sixty-year-old script and the ninety-year-old trial are still timely, with evolution versus creationism continuing to dog our public school teachers. (All of this makes us question any theory that suggests humans—especially lawmakers—might actually be evolving.) This staging is part of Fifty Foot Penguin’s “anti-Christmas show” tradition, offering a dramatic courtroom battle a la The Crucible and Twelve Angry Men. Cedar Riverside People’s Center, 425 S. 20th Ave., Minneapolis; 612-381-1110; www.fiftyfootpenguin.org

  • Santaland Diaries

    The 1992 telling of this anti-holiday tale on National Public Radio launched the career of author and commentator David Sedaris. His look at Christmas from the perspective of a verbally abused adult, one wearing the curly-toed shoes and green tights of a Macy’s Christmas Elf in New York City, is hilarious and uniquely Sedaris. Bryant-Lake Bowl’s version of his modern classic will make you think twice before you stand in line to sit your kids on the lap of a strange fat man. 810 W. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-825-8949; www.bryantlakebowl.com