Author: evanleatherwood

What actors and orators in the classical world knew about the quirks of the brain

Quite a bit, apparently. Recent research suggests that the same part of the brain which helps us see space and navigate through it also guides us through the thinking process. As we remember and reason, we’re taking a spatial tour of memories and possibilities.

This is precisely how classical and medieval scholars, actors, and orators carried knowledge with them. They would meticulously construct memory palaces by memorizing spatial locations, like cathedrals, areas, palaces, and parts of cities, which they would then mentally place powerful images in to help them remember facts and ideas.

It’s easy to think about the power of such locations when we think about our earliest memories. You may not remember what was on TV in a given year of your childhood, but I’ll bet you remember what the TV looked like and where in the room it was placed. Your whole childhood home, or series of homes, is probably indelibly imprinted on your mind. This same fantastic staying power of visual memory can be knowingly harnessed. In the era before paper and Google, it was probably how troubadours memorized long songs on a single hearing, or how orators could speak for hours on end using a predetermined sequence of ideas.

We can’t enter the mansions of memory any more, thanks to information tech in all its forms, but it seems like we’re hardwired to want to be there.

Anybody out there use a memory palace or anything like it?

Commonplace book: Shirley Jackson on writing as a weirdness outlet

“The very nicest thing about being a writer is that you can afford to indulge yourself endlessly with oddness, and nobody can really do anything about it, as long as you keep writing”

The quote is from her delightful essay about writing and the pressures of everyday life. Reading about her days, you can feel a jollity to the weirdness which the claustrophobic atmosphere of her fiction lacks. At least The Haunting of Hill House lacks it. I finished the book the other night in a feverish rush and after closing the final page felt as if the objects around me and the walls and the bricks holding them up were all objects of menace. Thinking that the mischievous waffle iron in her essay might be an ancestor of Hill House makes me feel a bit better.

A bit.

Neil Postman on the built-in irrelevance of news

Yesterday, I wrote about wisdom only mattering if you can remember it in time. Today, I’d like to finish the thought in the context of my own work: journalism, advertising, and public relations.

In Amusing Ourselves to Death, Neil Postman asks why we should care about news if it goes so quickly out of date. If the newspapers and magazines we read are meant to be discarded, what’s to stop us from discarding them the moment they arrive or from ignoring them all together?

The answer is that the meaning of a message changes over time. Responding yes to a friend’s request for a same-day lunch date at 11 p.m. might represent your true feelings but it would be a useless expression.

Eternal truths should be carved in stone, but you can’t simply point to them every time something in the world needs to be understood and acted upon. You’ve got to explain their relevance to the moment. Even the Christian scriptures, which have been styled as the original good news, get a weekly sermon to help them stay relevant. We write and we speak without end because it is a form of understanding simply to do so. To make sense of the world we have to make sense with our words first, in our own minds. We have to keep talking to each other and to the future and looking to the past for context.

That said, most of what passes for language and sense online or in print is neither good language nor good sense. But we can’t stop the attempt to produce it because some people mangle or abuse the language.

If we’re going to be wise in time, we’ve got to understand the times we’re in and that takes a lot of talking. And that’s one thing that keeps me coming back to the keyboard every day, for myself and for my firm. The attempt keeps me thinking and keeps me sane.

Teddy Roosevelt on timing

 

Screen Shot 2018-12-16 at 5.02.37 PMThis is true and not something a literary education teaches you well. When you spend most of your time rightly reading books written long before you were born, you don’t see the point of a thought having value simply because it is recent. Compared to the great books, most things written recently aren’t very good, or won’t have relevance much past their date of publication. In the classroom, it doesn’t matter when something was said, just that it was said well.

In the battle of life outside the classroom, with wealth and reputation always on the line, the timing of a thought, phrase, or action is everything. We read the great books to remember them when we need to. And unless we speak up when we have to or act before its too late, having a wise thought becomes rather a curse than a blessing, because it becomes an occasion for regret. This is something Teddy Roosevelt likely knew from experience, both in regret and in victory.

Review: The magic spell of Hamilton on stage

I had the good fortune last night of sitting in the third row to see Hamilton, Lin Manuel Miranda’s crowning hip-hop opera detailing the life of founding father Alexander Hamilton.

I’d listened to the show a few times and enjoyed the virtuosity of the lyrics and the cleverness of casting complex issues of revolutionary history, like the foundation of the American banking system, into amusing, trash-talking, over-the-top rap battles.

But seeing the show captured what listening to it could not, the moving emotional arc of Hamilton’s story, from obscurity to an early grave, with all the prizes and penalties of life in between.

His life had that quality of drama and scope which seems so often to apply to figures from the long 19th Century. He knew poverty, wealth, fame, peace, war, love, sex, illness, health, ugliness, and beauty. He was an orphan, a soldier, a lawyer, banker, high government official, husband, father, rake, grandee, and, above all, a writer. At every moment in his life, he wrote his way forward, out, and up. His words, like the lyrics that Lin Manuel drew forth from the story of his life, were armor and incantation, a means of analysis and redemption. He made a career and a new nation from them.

The three hours of the show are like a Greek mass I once heard sung continuously from the light of dawn until well into the morning. At the end of the performance, the language and the power of language entranced me.

Love and thanks to Bevan Thomas and my parents for the tickets, and for finally getting me out of my office and into the room where it happens.

On writing: Lyric copywriting v. long-form

To be a bore, one merely has to say everything.

-Voltaire

I’m not the kind of copywriter who tends to write short. I write business-to-business pieces, mostly, which are meant to draw you in, explain the world, and then explain why my clients make something or deliver a service that will make the world better, starting with you, the reader. I want you to read what I’ve written and sound smarter in the next meeting with your boss or client, and that takes time to do. 

When you’re about to spend $8 on a burger, shorter copy is better (“I’m lovin’ it”).

When you’re about to spend $2 million on a piece of industrial machinery, a three-word slogan just doesn’t cut it. The longer and more informative the copy, the better it tends to boost sales or reputation.

But even then, an economy of words is necessary. Every sentence has to balance on a knife’s edge of being informative or soporific. After all, the next sentence might be the one where you stop reading. 

It takes talent to write a short slogan, akin to singing a song or shooting a perfect basket from across the court. But it takes endurance and discipline to write long and not falter.

In the copywriting world, writers of short copy are the rockstars, poets, and abstract expressionist painters. But us long-form copywriters are the novelists, symphony writers, teachers, and genre painters. We are (and I say this affectionately) what Samuel Johnson called the lexicographer: “A harmless drudge.” Our superpower is endurance. Our spells take longer to cast, but are, in my opinion, more powerful for it. 

That said, I have this cartoon pinned where I can see it from my keyboard, to remind me never to overstay my welcome. 

The commodification of everything

Including commodification, it seems, in the form of Andy Warhol’s personal brand. From “Warhol’s Bleak Prophecy” in this issue of The Atlantic:

Maybe it’s never been easier to make the case for his powers of influence because his afterlife has paralleled the rise of neoliberalism—the attempt to turn over all human activity, no matter how sacred, to the marketplace. Neoliberalism is simply Warholism as a theory of governance.

Christmas is everybody’s favorite fable of commercialization, a once sacred holiday turned first into an excuse for excess consumption and then into a dull obligation to engage in it. Leave it up to artists to form the dreams that one day become the creed of nations, as Goethe put it, I think. Except that in Warhol’s case they were airless, ironic dreams. I prefer his sensibility as art, not a daily way of life.

What do you think?