Wednesday, October 9, 2013

20th Century Visual American Art Playlist

(I suppose this represents a 'like this most to least' sort of order, or at least artists I want to learn the most about... Albeit any artist I actively dislike won't be on this list. I'm not going to say what sorts of art they do, or what I like about their art. That's not the point of this post. The point is to show their art... and namedropping....)

Joseph Stella



























Philip Pearlstein








Walter de Maria

Jim Denevan 

Perry Hoberman

David Small

David Hanson

Charles Ray

Lynda Benglis

Jennifer Bartlett

Henry Wolf

Phil Ross/

Roy Lichtenstein

Jasper Johns

Robert Rauschenberg

Note from 2025: After 12 years, I'm finally beginning to put back the proper links that apparently I screwed up completely at the time. I've only gotten to Alfred Stieglitz so this will take a while...




Monday, October 7, 2013

800 Words: An Apology Post for Visual Art

I am, without a doubt, one of the least visual people I know. My mother has more than once wondered aloud whether I’m colorblind. And she has ample reason to suspect so: my paternal grandfather was colorblind, but then again, he was also tonedeaf, and I have absolute pitch about as perfect as as a person can have. But I have a particularly odd reason to wonder about my lack of visual sense - my experience of music is synesthetic; meaning that I see colors that correspond to notes, but my mind is synesthetic in the most pedestrian way possible. Whereas other people see different colors with regard to any note they hear, I see only two colors - white if the note is above middle C, and black if the note is under, with a greyish hue in the low notes if I catch any overtones. Rather than colors corresponding to the notes or keys, I see shapes corresponding to the tone color of the timbre. A sharp rhythmic attack will produce shapes or lines in my head with lots of jagged angles, whereas a rounded, soft sound will produce shapes or lines that are almost completely rounded. It is, frankly, nowhere near as interesting an experience as your run of the mill synesthetic, who can produce a technicolor light show in his head with the barest three chord pattern.


My experience with “art” is like the straight-A middle-school student who realizes in high school that she’ll never be able to master calculus. I can write hundreds of thousands of words, I’ve been able to play the violin since I was three and have dabbled in nearly a dozen other instruments - some more seriously than others; I can sing and act well, I’ve directed plays and short movies (not well), I can tell stories and jokes and I’m a good cook; but I have many pieces of paper from doctors assuring me that my spatial reasoning is not much better than a small child’s. I nearly failed 11th-grade ceramics, and to this day, my attempts to draw are roughly as successful as the ones on this website (oh my god he’s still posting new entries!!!). Though I forget when I dreamed it, I’ll never forget the dream I once had that I drew the entire skyline of Jerusalem on my childhood bedroom wall in a gold magic marker.  


The truth is, I was probably much too hard on the art scene yesterday. I have no business commenting on an artform which everybody does better than I, and have still less business commenting on an artform that I have so little experience or knowledge with. I know what I like, but I certainly should not insist on imposing my own tastes on anyone else. There was one line I was unsure about including in the post, which, of course, was the line that another musician friend decided to scrawl around my facebook wall for everybody to see. Furthermore, like so many people claim with hearing classical music live vs. hearing a recording, I have no great affection for abstract art until I’m actually in the museum and seeing the piece upfront. Once you see the piece in person, it can in fact make sense and give pleasure in a way it never could on a 2-dimensional page or screen. I even (god help me) once had a good experience with Rothko at the National Gallery in DC, and for a few minutes I managed to convince myself that a two-tone blot of color could be genuinely affecting.


But what makes me uncomfortable about the experience is precisely what makes the concert hall so deeply discomforting for others, and it would probably be discomforting for me had I not grown up in it. What’s troubling is the sense that we’re all there as passive watchers, and that the experience is operating independently of our feedback - it really doesn’t matter what we think or how we look at it so long as we do. What a dispiriting thought that is, that we’re supposed to care so little that it doesn’t even matter what value we attach to anything. To be endlessly discussed is not a virtue within itself if the viewer doesn’t find the piece rewarding. This is the laissez-faire approach which is the same as in so many scenes in Baltimore and so many other cities in so many artforms, in which people go from show to show and you’re there to appreciate the… well just take what you want out of it. Within every scene, there are wonderful people and bad people, extremely smart people and idiots. The smart people will always find something meaningful in a meaningful artist, perhaps the idiots who make superficial comments are there for a good reason, but I don’t want to find out.


(Collecting videos of Robert Hughes when he’s grumpy has been a long ongoing activity of this blog)


But even so, I’ve been enormously curious about art since moving back to Baltimore. To my surprise, I’ve somewhat fallen in with a crowd of MICA graduates, and as such am looking at and discussing more modern art than I have since college. With some help from Robert Hughes’s trusty history of American Art (“American Visions”) and an enormously talented artist friend of mine, I’m beginning to try to get to wrap my head around this thing called ‘American Art’, and understand what it really is. I should have made a much longer list of painters I like yesterday, because all that list did was display how woefully illiterate I am about art, and American art in particular. There are all sorts of painters I’m curious of knowing more about: from Stuart Davis to Rockwell Kent to John Sloan to Max Weber to Alfred H. Maurer to Jacob Lawrence to John Steuart Curry to Thomas Hart Benton to Jack Levine to David Smith to Larry Rivers to Romare Beardon to Tom Wesselmann to Edward Keinholz to George Segal to Mark Tansey to Richard Diebenkorn (How’d I forget him?) to Philip Pearlstein to Walter de Maria to Philip Guston to Leon Golub to Kiki Smith to Louise Bourgois to Allison Schulnik to Mark Tobey to Edmund Teske to Lou Dorfsman to Lucas Samaras to Will Burtin to Robert Arneson to Jess Collins to Ken Knowlton to Charles Csuri. But I can’t claim any great familiarity with any of them, and certainly not much familiarity as I have with many American artists I don’t like.


And then there are the famous American artists that I’m sort of neutral on - Jasper Johns, Roy Lichtenstein, Willem de Kooning, Frank Stella, Louise Nevelson, Claes Oldenburg, Bruce Naumann (Naumann was my first introduction to modern art when I was roughly twelve… anybody who can put the word ‘fuck’ in neon lights to a twelve year old has captured a part of his heart forever) - but I can’t claim I really love what they do either. Even Rauschenberg can be enjoyable, I just think it’s absurd to call him a kind of genius as it’s often claimed.


The art world is something I feel like I know very well even if I don’t know it at all, because it’s so similar to the classical music world. Visual art is clearly less diseased than classical music (everything is). I was at a few art shows this weekend with a perfectly engaged audience and a community which rallies behind one another when the artists have talent, and when I compare them to concert at Shriver Hall I went to Sunday evening to watch Mischa Maisky give a truly awful performance of a Schubert sonata, only to hear dozens of old ladies wax poetically about what they heard during intermission, I know that the art world is going to be in much better shape than classical music will ever be in my lifetime.


But even if the art world is a lot (leagues) cooler than classical music, there is the same dispiriting lack of enthusiasm. I suppose that’s part of the ‘cool’ aesthetic, but if there isn’t at least one or two people who look like they want to bat down the hatch to get into a show, what’s the point of staging it?




Abstraction is a perfectly legitimate medium so long as the abstraction expresses something coherent. From artists like Frank Stella or Anselm Kiefer, I get a genuine sense of something being expressed behind the painting - as though the patterns and the colors express some sort of emotion. But obfuscation for its own sake is as much technical exercise in art as it is in classical music. In both cultures, there is a huge distrust of American ‘superficiality’ and ‘vulgarity,’ as though to take the smallest part in representing any America which we’d recognize is to somehow be contaminated by it. I don’t think it’s ever occurred to many abstract artists (or musicians) that embracing the superficiality around them for exactly what it is is the best way to elevate one’s surroundings into something more palatable. When Jackson Pollock splatters paint on a canvas, I don’t see the emptiness of existence or any particular playfulness or dream-like ecstasy, I just see a shitload of paint. Nor do I see anything different when Rothko does the same in his particular way.


But even so, popular art has got to be as absurd an overreaction to abstract art as is possible. I can certainly think of many painters I prefer to abstract artists; and obviously, there are many ways to bend the rules of the genre, and some artists like Rosenquist and Tom Wesselmann can be pretty brilliant at it; but the simplicity of it is completely limiting. Who needs art you can just as easily see on the street? I’m entertained by the idea of a 40-foot clothespin, but I don’t, as Robert Hughes does, see Brancusi’s The Kiss in it, nor do I think there’s any deeper meaning to Oldenberg’s piece than a giant fucking clothespin. I get that Andy Warhol did something different than any artist did from his era, but was it an improvement?


To me, the goals for painting and sculpture, just like the goals for symphonies and operas, are necessarily less ambitious than they once were. Even here in America, the kick which one derives from a piece like Winslow Homer’s The Life Line is probably impossible in any later painting. Because in an era of photography and particularly motion picture, it would never occur to most artists in ‘old forms’ to dare to compete with more realistic genres in the realm of action. And if few people are trying, there’s still less chance that someone will succeed so brilliantly.

When you see early photographs by pioneers like Jacob Riis and Matthew Brady, you see a level of veracity which it’s doubtful that any American painter ever reached - and frankly, a level of veracity which later photographers like Man Ray or Ansel Adams, for all the beauty of their shots, never cared to reach. Painting was a proper, ‘old school’ hobby for talented children of privilege. But it would never occur to such painters to look at tenement housing or fresh Civil War battlefields. With a snap of a camera and a little bit of dark room work, a photograph could expose the more horrific and dangerous parts of life which no amount of brush strokes had since Goya and Turner. Or compare the paintings of Thomas Eakins to Eakins’s photography. All that painting technique must have taken years to acquire, yet I’m not sure that a single painting by him feels anywhere near as exciting as any of his photographs, which are clearly more visceral, more erotic, and less generic. His painting nudes feel like academic portrayals of flesh, but in photography, those same nudes are shocking and dangerous. Furthermore, for all the horrific racism of Birth of a Nation, the movies of D. W. Griffith was a further example of how exciting the new technology was. If you look at Birth of a Nation today, it seems both both incredibly silly and incredibly disturbing. We watch as the heroes of the Ku Klux Klan charge to the rescue against barbarian hordes of white people dressed in black face who lust after white women and drink copious amounts of liquor. But even now, there is a visceral charge to it which only a great movie can provide. Only greatness could make people care this much, and Birth of a Nation both caused black people to riot outside theaters and caused white people, millions of them, to join the Klan (to say nothing of the lynchings these people instigated). Such are the dangers of art when used irresponsibly, but even so, it’s only possible when greatness exists in the first place. What film today could possibly make people care so much that the entire world becomes a different place after it’s released?


The silent era of movies was an age for visual artists. There were no writers to give interest with dialogue, so virtually everything one saw on the screen had to be done through the language of visual art. It should be no surprise that the Silent Cinema came at the same time as the Golden Age of Ballet. After a century when painters like Goya and Delacroix and Turner gave us whole new ways to view the earth, the most revolutionary idea was to put their poetry into motion. For all the excitement of visual art in the age of Picasso and Matisse, the work which truly excited the public was done in the movies. Even going into the early sound era, you look at Chaplin features like Modern Times, or Busby Berkeley musicals, or horror movies like Frankenstein and Freaks, and you see the kind of creativity that changes the world  At the time, no country saw more potential for the possibilities of cinema than Germany, and there was hardly any visual technique to be found in the art of the 1920’s for which an equivalent techniques couldn’t be found in the work of directors like Fritz Lang, F.W. Murnau, and Robert Wiene,  When things got particularly dicey in Germany, directors like Lang and Joseph von Sternberg made their way to America, and their influence upon American cinema was enormous. There’s no Orson Welles without the German example, and even Alfred Hitchcock, that eternal beacon of Britishness, went first to Berlin to break into the film industry, and the influences of German expressionism are everywhere in his work.  


Perhaps classical music is now entering its ‘pop art’ phase in which people decide that they are going to reproduce the musical content of the world around them with not much difference between pop products and classical (more on that in a few days I hope). Contrary to popular belief, classical composers are not yet in a phase where 'anything goes.' We are now getting a second, populist/minimalist dogma growing around the atonal dogma as yet another pole through which young composers can be trapped. The result is just another dogma which artists have to break in order to create anything of value. Perhaps that’s inevitable that dogma will arise, maybe many artists need those limitations in order to thrive. But for those who don't, such a box makes it that much harder for artists to think outside of it.


Sunday, October 6, 2013

800 Words: How to Prove John Adams Wrong - Part 1 - Visual Art

I wasn’t there for Baltimore’s World Premiere of John Adams’s Saxophone Concerto. I had my own pitifully small musical career to attend to. But it seems that the music itself did not draw a tenth so much attention as an interview he gave with the New York Times shortly before in which he had some none-too-nice things to say about composers of my generation:


“We seem to have gone from the era of fearsome dissonance and complexity — from the period of high modernism and Babbitt and Carter — and gone to suddenly these just extremely simplistic, user-friendly, lightweight, sort of music lite,” he said. “People are winning Pulitzer Prizes writing this stuff now.”
Acknowledging with a laugh that he might sound like a curmudgeon, he added, “If you read a lot of history, which I do, you see that civilizations produce periods of high culture, and then they can fall into periods of absolute mediocrity that can go on for generation after generation.”
On the subject of commercialism and marketing in new music, Mr. Adams said, “What I’m concerned with is people that are 20, 30 years younger than me are sort of writing down to a cultural level that’s very, very vacuous and very superficial.”
This has got to be one of the oddest moments in recent music history. John Adams, John Adams (!!!), the composer who was accused every day for a quarter of a century of selling his musical soul to easy access tonality, is now the undisputed summit of his profession, and is using his soapbox to accuse his successors of dumbing down with precisely the same invective that was used against him. It’s still only five years ago that Pierre Boulez called one of his operas “bad film music.”


But the truth is that John Adams’s complaint isn’t wrong, it’s just completely ridiculous. Adams is right that there are plenty of composers who pander to crowds. But it’s as true of every generation as it is for mine. In Adams’s generation, composers pandered to the American Modern Art crowd. For so many composers of the Boomer and pre-Boomer generation, the goal was to create an aural equivalent to abstract artists who paint in a manner pleasing to the eye without concessions to representational artwork. Fifty years after composers began making inroads to the modern art community - it still hasn’t occurred to many of these composers that the vast majority of modern art’s audience is made of pseudo-sophisticates who don’t know what they like unless it’s told to them, and even now don’t seem to like any equivalent music with the same passion they reserve for art which few people enjoy outside their ghetto. I’m certainly no expert on the Art World, just an enthusiastic outsider to it who has far too few problems calling a spade a spade, even if I too often realize later that the spade is actually a club.


America has produced a number of indisputably great artists in the 20th century whose work either is or should be universally beloved, from George Bellows to Joseph Stella to John Marin to Edward Hopper to Andrew Wyeth to Robert Colescott to James Rosenquist to Ernie Barnes to Eric Fischl to Kerry James Marshall - and that list doesn’t even begin to cover the much more relevant and dynamic world of graphic art. But within the difference between graphic art and the old plastic arts lies the fundamental problem of the Art World - for generations whose conception of art begins with comics, and animation, and photography, and cinematography,and video games, what spiritual purpose is there to painting or drawing or sculpture or printmaking that can’t be derived more relevantly from art forms with far less history and definition?


Like classical music, the traditional visual arts never came to terms with the fact that they no longer holds a prime position in Art’s ‘Temple.’ The worlds of painting and sculpture come to us like vestiges from another age - a series of painstaking techniques that have no greater guarantee of a quality product than visual genres whose production is far more expedient. And since the slow processes of painting and sculpture can’t possibly keep up with the high-speed vitality of electronic media, the world of the old plastic arts retreated into irrelevance decades ago, with its practitioners ignoring the wider world instead of embracing it, and best rewarding those artists who confirm most readily the prejudices of its decadent naval-gazing.


Neither talent nor genius is any guarantor of fame, and still less in the Art World. None of the aforementioned artists, not even Hopper, inspires people’s passions the way duller artists do - artists like Warhol and Rothko and Basquiat and Schnabel and Rauschenberg and Jackson Pollock and Jeff Koons. None within the former group is spoken of as often as just one within the latter, and certainly none of them have generated as much ink. The contemporary art world has been so blinded by its dogmas, so paralyzed by its attempt to answer the question ‘What is Art’, that its members seem more concerned with finding art which justifies the continued production of art itself than in celebrating any artist that demonstrates true vitality. Within the art world’s basic polarities, art has been made to either forswear the world and everything in it - a la Rothko and Pollock, or blandly reproduce the contents of the world as though a profound statement is being made by doing so - a la Andy Warhol and Jeff Koons. And from those two polarities emerged an obvious third. Since visual art was more preoccupied with the questions of art than questions of the world, it was only a matter of time before some clearly incompetent artists would be lauded. Neo-expressionists like Basquiat and Julian Schnabel and Damian Hirst were not honored in spite of the fact that they clearly didn’t possess the most basic technical knowhow. Many artists of striking vision have all manner of terrible technical weaknesses which they can turn into strengths. But it’s difficult to escape the thought that many artists from the ‘postmodern’ era are lauded not in spite of their technical difficulty, but because of it.

The Art World’s problem was that it’s been a world unto itself, cut off from the wider one to the very best of its ability. So when an American artist appeared who took the world upon himself and created work that reflected the world in all its extraordinary energy, nobody cared. The modern Art World has starved America of images. Because they continually asked the question ‘what is art’, the question ‘how good is it?’ never really occurred to many people. The result was a lot of overrated art which is endlessly discussed only because people have been told to like it so often, yet can’t.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

800 Words: How We Met The Mother



This week, most TV bloggers want to write about Breaking Bad, but I don’t feel comfortable writing about that show. My relationship to it began this summer when I binge watched the first four seasons. I haven’t watched a moment of it since, and while I haven’t been totally successful, I’ve done what I could to avoid any fifth-season spoilers. So instead, I want to talk about a show that is just as important to the zeitgeist that will join Breaking Bad soon in TV afterlife.




One of my favorite episodes of How I Met Your Mother was made just last season, a rare admission from a fan of a show which everybody agrees has gone downhill in recent years. In this episode, the characters sit down to watch the Star Wars Trilogy in a single day, something they do every three years. The narrative of this episode is so sophisticated that we get flashbacks and flash-forwards to past and future viewings of the Star Wars Trilogy, and we also get flash forwards from every flashback to the characters’ expectations of what the next three years will bring. When I saw this episode, I was kind of speechless. LOST had done many similar things, but unlike LOST, this episode was completely coherent, and utterly without any of LOST’s heavy-handedness.


Like Star Wars, How I Met Your Mother is almost more interesting because of its fans’ reactions than because of the work itself. I have no idea if anyone over the age of 40 watches the show, and I rather doubt it. But in this era when there are thousands of TV options, it’s the one show which nearly everyone in my generation has watched. Its a show which is clearly influenced by the highest-brow great art imaginable, and yet it’s still completely accessible to the largest possible public. It's a Mary Tyler Moore-type show for the Seth MacFarlane generation, and it just might be the greatest ‘bad sitcom’ ever made.


Perhaps I’m biased. I graduated college just a few months before How I Met Your Mother premiered. But I can’t help seeing this show as the perfect show for the Millennial generation - its characters growing into reduced expectations at the same rate that its viewers are doing so. Ted, Marshall, and Lilly were all born around 1978. This means they would have matriculated at Wesleyan in 1996, and graduated in 2000. Ted and Marshall would have been fresh New Yorkers when the Twin Towers fell and by the time we meet them, they’ve became seasoned Gothamites during the first period in a century when New York was ‘just another huge city.’ They already knew disappointment when the show began, but the disappointments only grew.


It’s worth noting that the show first aired less than a month after Hurricane Katrina (think of how important a Hurricane is to the plot of the show…). The show followed us into The Great Recession, the Tea Party’s emergence, and Obama disillusionment - not at all literally, but the gloom of these years can’t help but have influenced the show’s pallete. It was the perfect show for its time because Ted Mosby was wondering if life would ever grant him his fondest wish at the exact same time that most Americans his age were wondering the same. For millions, literally millions, of young Americans, How I Met Your Mother was the show they turned on every week to assure themselves that it’s OK to still believe that life will turn out the way they want it to.


I watched the last episode of Season 8 a day late, when pictures of the ‘Mother’ were plastered all around the internet. Perhaps the shock which RomCom America felt at seeing the mother was muted for me. In any event, I figured it was inevitable that we’d get a glimpse of her going into the last season. We’ve been delayed the meeting of the titular character for eight years, had it been delayed any longer, the world’s sorority population would have rioted. Somehow, a first sight of the mother in the final scene of the show, while all too fitting, would have felt so anti-climactic to the show’s fans that it would be an even larger disappointment to many fans than The Sopranos going black, or Seinfeld sent to jail.


For me, the shock of meeting the ‘Mother’ only came in the last ten minutes of an hour-long episode, when we see Ted and the ‘Mother’ together for the first time - in flash forward. At one moment, the ‘Mother’ looks in the direction ‘present’ Ted, who’s heart-shattered and forlorn, as though she’s trying to imagine the despondency he felt a year before. Too often, I find myself rolling my eyes during the show’s mushier moments, and I think I’m far from the only one. But this moment felt so haunting, so real, that I must have watched it online nearly ten times over the course of the next day. For all the gooey emotional manipulation of the show, it occasionally does something so devastatingly poignant, and rendered so artfully, that you can’t possibly say that this is just another mediocre sitcom.


(A devastatingly emotional moment which HIMYM truly earned - and a clear homage to Akira Kurosawa’s Ikiru. Unfortunately, along with a good show comes its fans, further proof you don’t choose your allies…)


How I Met Your Mother, thankfully, was never actually about Ted Mosby’s various romances. Nor is the show actually a comedy - which is equally relieving since there were always much funnier comedies on television. How I Met Your Mother is a romance, and the subject of the show is romance itself. Love is only one among many romances which the show celebrates - it also celebrates the romance of New York, the romance of being young, the romance of bars, the romance of clothes, the romance of lust, the romance of friendship. But more than any other quality, HIMYM has been about the romance of possibility - about that brief moment after college when you’re completely aware of just how large the world is, and completely unaware of just how inadequate you are to the task of experiencing the world, only for the realization of that inadequacy to gradually dawn upon you. For a show about romance, it can be shockingly mean-spirited and glum, and seems to have become glummer with every passing year.


(Ew.)


It’s worth pausing here to clarify, in case it seems likely now, that this is not a blogpost which argues that How I Met Your Mother is some kind of immortal artwork. The show is a two-dimensional Fairy Tale, and like all American Fairy Tales never misses a chance to Disneyfy the messiness of human nature for another shot at showing how wonderful and generous human beings can be. The show is delightful, and sometimes that delight can spoil us with a stroke so diabetic that its sugariness threatens to make you swear off sugary shows for the rest of your life. Far too often, we’ve gotten moments straight out of the playbook of Friends, or Scrubs, or Dawson’s Creek.


But even more troubling is the reason we ultimately know that HIMYM is not quite serious about its emotional manipulation. The show artistically gets away with many of those the cynically heartstring-tugging maneuvers which Friends and Scrubs didn’t because of one quality which neither of those other shows ever exhibited - an amazing, grotesque, savage, and not even concealed hatred of women. If some more knowledgeable TV critic called HIMYM the most misogynist show in TV History, I wouldn’t utter a word of protest (in case you’re wondering, the most feminist show in TV History - it’s The Sopranos, I’m serious, watch it again…). The show is not misogynist because of the obvious reason - Barney Stinson gets his comeuppance in virtually every episode. The misogyny lies with every other major character. Ted remains friends with Barney because on some level, there’s a part of him which clearly believes that women are as worthless and dumb as Barney alleges.


Barney Stinson’s maturation as a character was long overdue. Most viewers became hooked on the show by watching him, but I always thought he was the show’s weakest link. For the first three seasons, his character was so one-note that it got incredibly tiresome. And no one on the show seemed in a position to notice. Every other character was annoyed by him, but nobody took a stand and told him that he was worse than a psychopath, he was a tiresome psychopath. And the reason they didn’t was because none of the other characters were in a position to notice. Ted was too resentful of women and his inability to find the ‘One’ to not consider that Barney might be right. Marshall had no reason to care because he had a near-perfect wife who managed to be sexy, loyal, and self-effacing all at once. Lily is basically a 1950’s housewife transferred to 21st century New York - at least when she isn’t acting like a narcissistic harpy - and Robin is every misogynist’s scotch-soaked tomboy wet dream of a woman who smokes cigars and fires guns in her spare time. The only character who might be in a position to call Barney out for what he was was the ‘mother’, every potential one of whom would probably have set Barney on fire.


None of the characters on the show have ever been memorable as anything but archetypes, and it says legions about its high level of acting from the cast that people have never tired of these characters. If there is a better principle cast in a current comedy, I have yet to see it. In this way, How I Met Your Mother is like Friends, but in no other...


Friends was only a seminal influence on How I Met Your Mother’s exterior - a premise no doubt used for a pitch meeting and nothing more. Friends was like How I Met Your Mother’s douchey and overly successful uncle who sends nice presents but can’t be bothered to show up to your wedding even though you’ve shown up to all three of his (Ross’s). Friends is little more than a focus-tested exercise in taking cheap shots at the sentimental weaknesses of not-particularly-intelligent Generation X’ers. The eponymous friends were incredibly dull characters who occasionally bungled their way into humor that was smarter than they were aiming for (with Seinfeld playing a half-hour after them, how could their playbook not be poached?). Friends possessed little in the way of real complexity, or even qualities that were ever meant to put their principles in a truly unflattering light. The characters on HIMYM,are real people, sometimes really unpleasant people, who unfortunately sometimes act like Hallmark Cards. But the most damning problem with Friends is that like HIMYM, Friends had a great cast. But unlike Friends, HIMYM knew how to use them. Whereas How I Met Your Mother always had new tricks up its sleeve which it could use with a magician’s (Barney’s?) sleight of hand, Friends had the same half-dozen basic comic and romantic situations. No one would accuse How I Met Your Mother of not endlessly trodding the same romantic ground, but there were always new comic situations in HIMYM. And even if the comedy wasn’t as funny as South Park or It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, it’s certainly more enjoyable to watch than either.


One of the reasons this show works so well is because it takes a very old school approach to entertainment. How I Met Your Mother is not a comedy of laughs but a comedy of high spirits. What’s important to it is not the laugh lines but the banter itself. It’s very rare that you laugh uproariously at anything on the show, but you consistently enjoy it. In its own ‘bro-ish’ way, HIMYM is High Comedy of the same variety as Bernard Shaw and Oscar Wilde.   


If Friends is HIMYM’s douchey uncle or emotionally abusive grandparent, then the real DNA encoded on HIMYM, like any great show, is comprised of much more diverse and interesting influences. To my mind, the true parents of the show are Arrested Development and Sex and the City. Its grandparents might be said to be Seinfeld, Friends, Frasier, and Ally McBeal. One can go further back in its TV lineage and probably find Cheers, or The Wunder Years, or All in the Family, or M*A*S*H, or Thirtysomething, or Mary Tyler Moore. Close relatives might include Freaks and Geeks, Modern Family, the Joss Wheedon shows (so I’m told…), and obviously all the Seth MacFarlane comedies (the co-creators had a stint writing for American Dad). It might also include certain movies produced by Judd Apatow or written by Charlie Kaufman. You could probably trace its lineage back through Woody Allen movies (obviously) and Nora Ephron (Harry met Sally, and there’s no Barney Stinson without Vinnie Antonelli from My Blue Heaven), John Hughes and Cameron Crowe (Ted Mosby is practically a clone of John Cusack in Say Anything), Frank Capra and Howard Hawks, or novels like Love in the Time of Cholera (a man spends 53 years awaiting his true love’s husband to die and sleeps with thousands of women along the way), The Great Gatsby, and pretty obviously (I mean it) all the way back to 18th century picaresque novels like Tristram Shandy (an autobiography in which the author digresses so much that it ends at the hero’s birth) and Tom Jones, or perhaps even back to Gargantua and Pantagruel (the original novelistic tall tale). Hell, Robin’s last name is Scherbatsky, which is Anna Karenina’s maiden name. I’m not the first person to wonder if the writers didn’t originally intend Ted and Robin’s relationship to be modeled after Anna Karenina’s sister Dolly and Levin’s from the same novel in which Dolly initially spurns Levin only to eventually find herself in something resembling an ideal marriage to him. Which then, of course, begs the question - was Barney originally meant to be Vronsky?


The co-creators of HIMYM, Carter Bays and Craig Thomas, worked on a Fox show in the early 2000’s called Oliver Beene, an interesting but ultimately unsuccessful comedy about a family in lower-middle-class Queens during the mid-1960’s. The plot is of course closer to Mad Men, but many of the most important trademarks of HIMYM are there in embryo - the voiceover of a protagonist recalling his youth (incidentally narrated by David Cross) narrating it to us as a long story in which events are remembered out of order with all the narrator’s exaggerations enacted, forgotten details omitted, and tangents which seem to go on forever.

But at the time, the two writers were not their own bosses. They were working under a longtime TV writer named Howard Gewirtz. They were two aspiring writers who met in writing classes at Wesleyan College and then came up together in New York through the world of TV entertainment. In fact, Carter Bays is from Shaker Heights, Ohio - better known as Ted Mosby’s town of origin, while Craig Thomas is from rural Wyoming (it’s not rural Minnesota but I’d imagine they’re similar…) and has been married to a woman he’d been dating since he was a college freshman. When they got their own sitcom, they used Gewirtz’s formula to create precisely the sort of show which two midwestern kids would make if they became English majors at a Northeastern Liberal Arts college. In these fifteen years after Seinfeld, an era when hip sitcoms by big-city natives strive to be ‘about nothing’, How I Met Your Mother came to us with a shockingly old-fashioned dose of Middle-America 'aw shucks(idoodles)' earnestness. But How I Met Your Mother’s writers created one of the most sophisticated and urbane shows ever made, not in spite of the show's earnest belief in emotional connection with the viewers, but because of it.