LiteraryTraveler.net

We recently covered one aspect of 1960s society with our article on counter-culture and the influence of writer and merry prankster Ken Kesey.  This week we turn to AMC’s hit television show Mad Men to help illustrate another, more mainstream, side of the American coin.

A friend of mine once described  Mad Men as being about “nothing more than a bunch of white men drinking, smoking, and sleeping around.”  While this may appear true to a casual viewer – and certainly, much has been made of these less savory aspects of the series – Mad Men is about so much more than the characters’ vices.  It is at once an exploration of our culture of consumerism, a study of the lives of several representative characters, and a portrait of the rapid changes that shook America throughout the 1960s.

In our newest feature article, Paul Millward takes a look at advertising culture and the significance of the American dream, a phrase that has become so common that it has almost lost all meaning.  But with a little help from Mad Men and Millward, it becomes possible to see how advertising appeals to the same portion of the human psyche that is willing to invest in something like the American dream.  Consumer culture is only one type of wish fulfillment, yet it represents our near constant need to always seek out something more, something greater, something forever beyond our grasp.

If you’re anything like me, there is no such thing as too much Mad Men.  However, even a veteran watcher like myself can appreciate a new, fresh take on the much-discussed show, which is why I suggest you take a moment this week and read Millward’s ode to Don Draper, New York, and the dream merchants of the 1960s with his piece Mad Men: Creating a Perfect World on the Avenue of Dreams.

After I finished Patti Smith’s memoir, Just Kids, I put my hand over my heart and wept. After that, I ordered a dress-form and a swath of gold leather online, dumped all my paints, pencils, brushes and duck cloth onto the floor, called my grandma, and downed a glass of chocolate milk.  My erratic behavior somewhat resembles Smith’s lifestyle in New York City in the 60s, process of creation and collaboration with artists passing in and out of the Chelsea Hotel, and travel-induced writing style. Smith’s Romantic, serious phrasing, reminiscent of the French poetry she obsessed over, would seem contrary to her rock and roll vibe if she weren’t so sweet natured.  Instead, it comes off strong and declarative, a sharp anchor in a world of excess.

As Patti Smith is a voice on behalf of our environment and human rights, her warm words peal apart the most sensitive passages of her life so we can observe the moist-letters and slimy rocks of our own. My desire to create since reading Just kids is springier and takes greater form, because my fascination with beauty is shared.

Smith’s friendship with Mapplethorpe was saturated with sad comforts and colors. Before he died, Smith promised Mapplethorpe she would write their story.  The friendships they shared with New York artists helped produce art and joy where dirt and disease once was. Smith is an incredibly believable character–she travels and grows, sours and butterflies in a categorically common way. She quickly harps on regular frustrations like her day job, then graciously extends her hand when we can’t believe her luck. Mapplethorpe was on her arm throughout it all.

While reading, I kept a list of names, ideas or art work I wanted to remember:

Robert Mapplethorpe
Godard
Brian Jones
Midnight Cowboy
Williams Burroughs (Lee Burroughs)
Anthology of American Folk Music
Crazy Horse
Anna Kavan
Virgil Thomas
Arthur C. Clark
Oscar Wilde
Dylan Thomas
Thomas Wolfe–”You Can’t Go Home Again…”
The Golden Bough
Tim Bukley
Ossie Clark, designer
Wages of Fear (film)
Banny Fields
Water and eucalyptus leave for floors
Of Human Bondage
Jackie Curtis
Ray Roussel, Locus Solus
Gautier Michaux
Thomas de Quincey
Gregory Corso
Bobby Neuwirth–Don’t Look Back, “Bring It All Back Home,” Dylan
Patty Waters
Clifton Chenier
Albert Ayler
Blonde on Blonde
Genet
Arthur Rimbaud