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Rethinking Roosevelt

Workmanlike history recounts. Good history explains. Outstanding history does all and provokes new thought.

Jean Yarbrough, Gary M. Pendy, Sr., Professor of Social Sciences and Professor of Government and Legal Studies at Bowdoin College, has a new book out: Theodore Roosevelt and the American Political Tradition. Can anything more be said about Colonel Roosevelt? Absolutely, and in this outstanding work, Yarbrough weaves together traditional biography, intellectual history, and astute political analysis. Zeroing in on Roosevelt’s development as a political thinker, Yarbrough makes clear the contradictions between his rhetoric, action, and values. For those of us who have read a lot about and by Roosevelt (and count me among them), Yarbrough’s study is a refreshing analysis that makes clear the thread of radicalism in the founder of the Bull Moose party.

Historians have long found Roosevelt a difficult president to analyze. A leading progressive, he also claimed the mantle of conservative. Embracing the tradition of Hamilton and Lincoln, Roosevelt nonetheless adopted ideas and policies that were extraordinarily anti-Hamilton and anti-Lincoln. Yarbrough traces the evolution of Roosevelt’s thinking on these matters. Hegel, race, and a particular understanding of the law and republican values figure prominently. Yarbrough also shines a light on Roosevelt’s lack of understanding economic thinking and motivation.

It is a lucidly written biography, a book that will be informing and provoking for many years to come.

David Potash

May 4, 2013 Reviews

Urban Violence And The City of Scoundrels

Does history happen or happen to you? Historians like to focus on turning points, on dramatic crises, on changes that interrupt continuities. In City of Scoundrels, Gary Krist looks at twelve sweltering days in the summer of 1919 in Chicago.

The scoundrels were mostly Chicago politicians, especially “Big Bill” Thompson, Chicago’s mayor. Recently reelected due to a split field, Thompson was much more interested in campaigning and deal-making than governing. Thompson was poorly equipped to deal with the dramatic events that hot July.

A blimp caught on fire and crashed into a Chicago office building, a girl disappeared engaging the populace in a city-wide hunt until her killer confessed, a series of bombings targeting the black population swept the city, Chicago’s transit workers went on strike, and finally, a race riot erupted after when five young black men went swimming and their makeshift raft crossed into a “white” area. One of the young men drowned after being hit on the head from a rock thrown by a racist on the beach. His was the first death and thirty-seven more would follow in what is now known as the Chicago Race Riots of 1919. Wide swaths of the city were wrecked and burned as gangs of whites and blacks fought each other with clubs, bricks, and guns.

Where was the government? Thompson and Illinois’s governor, Frank Lowden, played politics with the idea of calling out the militia.

From this maelström, Krist argues, a modern Chicago was born. The city recovered and began a period of growth and expansion. True enough, but the real message of his Chicago history is its insights into the struggle between violence and governance in city life.

For most Americans living in cities, violence was an ever-present threat. It was no imaginary fear. Any general review of urban life across the United States reveals common themes: growth, dynamic economics, and mobs wreaking havoc. Race conflict often drove the violence, with class and labor issues not far behind. Every major metropolis in America has wrestled with urban violence at least one point in its history before the 1970s. Many cities have had multiple riots. Bombers and arsonists terrorized people in the 1800s and 1900s, but we did not yet call them terrorists. American identity was forged in revolutionary city violence – the Boston Massacre and the Boston Tea Party.

We no longer seem to fear urban mobs. Krist’s book helps us remember that urban violence is an important part of our heritage.

David Potash

April 28, 2013 Things someone who grew up in NJ might write

Skeuomorphs – Much More Than Clicks and Faux Paneling

My son, an avid Kickstarter, recently received a brilliant new piece of technology, the Pebble watch. Internet and Bluetooth ready, this wristwatch customizes with a slew of apps, with more on the way, and talks with your smartphone. It looks pretty cool, too.

How does the watch tell time? A variety of ways and traditionally with two hands and a dial.

When objects consciously reference other objects or design, it’s called a skeuomorph. It is most common today when new technology includes older technological features, most likely to make the change more comfortable. Pay close attention and you’ll find skeuomorphs all around – and they have been with us for a long time.

Check out the Ford Country Squire, the classic suburban station wagon. Built first as a “woodie” with wood sides, the car retained stick on wood paneling for decades. Horrendous and wonderful – but mostly horrific if you were assigned the far back on a road trip.

The real rise in skeuomorph design came with the digital world. We don’t recognize bytes and code. Skeuomorphs are the bridge to analog and authenticity. They are the backwards-looking matrix that allows for digital notepads, turntables, building blocks and calendars. Look on your desktop for digital wood and digital leather. Smartphones click like a mechanical camera when taking a photo. Apple was famous for its skeuomorphic designs.

Ironic use of skeuomorphism is common and can be effective with the right touch. I sometimes have my smartphone ring, not beep, chime or gong, and it often leads to smiles. It is a way to have our new technology cake and eat it, too. The difficulty comes into play when skeuomorphic design is neither ironic nor thoughtful. Skeuomorphism can be lazy. Why should a computer screen look like a typewritten page on a yellow legal pad?

Evaluation of skeuomorphic design has to acknowledge intent. If the desire is for authenticity, failure is certain. “Authentic reproductions” always fall short and ring false. If a design deceives with integrity, it stands a fighting chance of success.

And fake wood paneling is always in bad taste.

David Potash

March 19, 2013 American Culture Today, Curiouser and Curiouser

Sloppy, Anyone?

New Orleans has muffalettas. Providence has grinders. Proust has madeleines. For those of us from northern New Jersey, we have something better: the sloppy joe. Just thinking about that taste of the Garden State makes me smile and want to sing Springsteen lyrics.

No, it’s not ground beef and barbecue sauce in a bun. I remember the first time I had one of those and it simply wasn’t right. The real sloppy is a triple-decker sandwich with meat, Swiss cheese, Russian dressing, and coleslaw. The bread is usually unseeded rye. It’s messy but still controllable. Done right, it as an absolutely delicious sandwich, a balanced mixture of sharp cheese and creamy dressing. The bread holds up to the moisture and the slaw provides an appropriate degree of crunch.

I wasn’t in double digits when I had my first sloppy – several of the delis in the Madison, Chatham and Livingston area made them. Meat choices are ham, roast beef or turkey. I have always been flexible about the meat. It is good to mix things up, just as it is always exciting to try a different deli’s sloppy. Not all delis make them and not all do them well.

If you ever find yourself talking with a denizen of Morris, Essex or Bergen county and you want to go deep, ask about their favorite sloppy. A genuine long-term Jersey denizen will always have a few favorites. I give a completely unsolicited and uncompensated nod to the Hickory Tree Delicatessen in Chatham Township. They usually have some pre-made – and if you are looking for a treat, call ahead and order the platter.

What exit indeed.

David Potash

March 16, 2013 Things someone who grew up in NJ might write

Another Good Reason We Won the War

Harry Hopkins is one of those historical figures that pops up in correspondence, photographs, history books and television shows about World War II. He’s in the text, in the captions, but it is difficult to know exactly who he was or what he did. David L. Roll remedies this in an immensely readable book, The Hopkins Touch: Harry Hopkins and the Forging of the Alliance to Defeat Hitler. A big volume that is easily handled, The Hopkins Touch chronicles the life and influence of a Midwestern reformer who became one of President Roosevelt’s most trusted advisors.

Hopkins was a progressive reformer who found a home in the New Deal. As he became known to President Roosevelt, the two men hit it off and became very close. Hopkins was discreet with a real sense of humor. He did not need the spotlight and he had an unerring gift for discerning the true matter at hand. Loyal, smart, and extremely effective, Harry Hopkins was an extension of FDR.

Hopkins was also a very ill man. Following intestinal troubles as a young adult he had much of his stomach removed, leading to a lifetime of complications and pain. A chronicle of Hopkins life is filled with trips to hospitals, consultations with physicians, collapses and near collapses. At death’s door for the last two decades of his life, Hopkins nevertheless was able to engage and persevere. His ability to focus and work through extremely stressful and demanding responsibilities while in great physical pain was acknowledged by all around him.

Roll’s work highlights Hopkins’ diplomatic skills. He made a great impression on Churchill, Stalin, and many of the other wartime leaders. His charm was certainly enhanced by his relationship with Roosevelt, but it also was quite effective on its own. In many ways Hopkins’ communication ability and smarts was critical in bringing the Allies together and helping them fight collaboratively. That was no small accomplishment. So even though Harry Hopkins lacked a formal title through much of World War II, he is well worth considering, remembering, and above all, thanking.

David Potash

March 3, 2013 Reviews, Things someone who grew up in NJ might write

This Bud’s For Bud – Buddenbrooks It Ain’t

Tabloids satisfy our curiosity of the famous while delighting in their miseries. The fall of the wealthy, after all, is often sad and sweet. Consider the story of the Busch family. Bitter Brew chronicles 150 years of family lore and the brewery they used to control, Anheuser-Busch. It is a tale of egos and excess spanning more than a hundred and fifty years. The author William Knoedelseder pays attention to the business but his heart is in the personalities, drama, and scandals. Not hard to figure out why – the family history is chock full of philandering, emotionally bruising conflict, excessive consumption, and deeply flawed people sitting atop an extraordinarily profitable enterprise.

One of many St. Louis breweries operated by German immigrants, Anheuser Busch stood out in the years after the Civil War thanks to the leadership of Adolphus Busch. Married to the daughter of Eberhard Anheuser, a wealthy manufacturer, Adolphus was the first to pasteurize beer, to ship beer in refrigerated railroad cars, and to build an integrated distribution network. Adolphus created new beers, too, including Budweiser, a premium beer with national marketing behind it. The quintessential American success story, Adolphus was a benevolent potentate in St. Louis, famous for his extravagant lifestyle. He threw massive parties, lived in a castle, and died just before anti-German sentiment swept through America as World War I erupted.

A solid heir, Augustus A., weathered the war and Prohibition. His son, August II, led the brewery through the Great Depression and World War II, as well as multiple marriages and innumerable mistresses. His first son from his first wife, Augustus III, was born in 1937. August II married again, to a beautiful 22-year-old Swiss blonde who would provide more children and a measure of stability. Passionate about his brewery, his pleasure and the trappings of the role, August II had all the traits of a Bourbon king.

Girls, cars, and guns were always present and often trouble. At age twelve August III took several rifle shots at some neighborhood girls. He favored fast cars and pretty girls, just like his father, and he, too, had multiple marriages. The battles between the two men over the years for control of the brewery is reminiscent of a Jacobean drama done as a television miniseries. There was no easy transfer of power. It was ugly and mean, with threats and lies. After several attempts August III gained control of the board and forced his father out. Deposed CEO’s are often given severance packages. August II’s face-saving gift was control of the St. Louis Cardinal baseball team.

History repeated itself with August IV, a playboy drawn to weapons and women. August IV was bad news for many around him. A pretty young woman bartender died after accepting a ride in his Corvette. No charges were pressed, even though August IV left the scene of the accident and claimed that he could not remember what had happened. He spent much of his time partying and bedding countless women, eventually marrying as his role at the company solidified. The marriage did not last. Through all his mistresses and misadventures, family money and connections kept him protected – or minimized the damage. Later in life another girl died under mysterious circumstances at his home.

The apparent reason for the takeover of the business by a Brazilian conglomerate was August IV’s lack of attention and substance abuse problems. Knoedelseder paints a picture that the family’s longstanding interest in personal gratification and horrible interpersonal dynamics made it inevitable. He does not argue the point, though. Clever advertising and good fortune can only take a company so far. Infidelity, mistrust and greed compromise the best strategic plans.

Knoedelseder’s sharply drawn portraits are based on serious research. The narrative is tight and the tone carries just the right mix of objective reporting and lurid fact. Missing from the history, though, is message and meaning. No catharsis emerges from the fall of a family without greatness or heroism. Like bottle of Bud, the Busch family lacks substance and taste.

David Potash

February 17, 2013 Curiouser and Curiouser, Reviews

Yes Sir, Chef

Marcus Samuelson’s memoir, Yes, Chef, is a tough and unsentimental book that carries with it an unexpectedly emotional punch. Born in Ethiopia, adopted and raised in Sweden, and then a wildly successful chef, Samuelson is famous for who he is and what he has done. His story has appeal. It to speaks to opportunity and advancement, fitting within a comfortable western middle class narrative. But that is not really his story.

Samuelson steadfastly resists simple narrative arcs. He does not present his life as rags-to-riches, or as a testament and example of the benefits of hard work. He is appreciative of where he is now, to be sure, but the memoir is not a work of gratitude. Samuelson’s book is a critical look at self and personal history. Although he is not a particularly self-reflective man – he tells us how he repeatedly bottles up deeper emotions – Samuelson challenges himself in this very engaging work. He challenges the reader, too.

Driven and extraordinarily competitive, Samuelson’s personal journey began when his mother, dying of tuberculosis, walked for 75 miles to deliver him (then named Kassahun Tsegie) and his sister to medical care. As child in Sweden he desperately wanted to be a professional soccer player, and it was only after he was cut did he turn to cooking. All his energy and passion turned to food; he was, and remains, obsessed. He writes of food and its preparation with enthusiasm that leaps from the page.

Samuelson’s commitment to his career was not without cost. It prevented him from maintaining a close relationship with both of his adopted parents and from developing a meaningful relationship with a child he fathered. With ever greater successes, particularly at Aquavit, ,an extremely successful high-end Swedish restaurant in New York City, came more work. It was only after the success that he was able to work for himself, enabling the possibility of this book and a return to his past. Samuelson takes a tough look at his choices. He also stakes out a claim for trying to become a more complete person. He possesses a very powerful fundamental human decency.

That same integrity shapes Samuelson’s many descriptions of how his race has shaped his life. The book is not a polemic or an airing of grievances, yet it conveys – with directness and clarity – the insidious ways in which he was not seen, listened to or respected. A triple-outsider, Samuelson is aware that his search for identity will never resolve. His past will always be, in many ways, inaccessible. The memoir is a powerful way that he can assert his own identity and change the expectations of others.

Samuelson’s current restaurant, Red Rooster, is in Harlem and “celebrates the origins of American food.” Samuelson found an appropriate location, and it is close to his home, too. I finished the book looking forward to a visit and possibly some of Helga’s meatballs – delicious and prepared with thought and care, I’m sure.

David Potash

January 30, 2013 Reviews

Political Cartoons and Oliphant’s Lament

Is it just me, or have political cartoons lost their punch? One would expect that in our visually rich society we would be awash in popular cartooning. Animation is everywhere, to be sure, but political cartooning – or “editorial cartooning” as the professionals call it, does not seem as relevant.

It could be that shrinking influence of newspapers has undermined the access of political cartoon. The rise of corporate culture, too, has been cited as a corresponding deterrent to stinging political cartoons. But other factors are at play.

It was not always such. From Thomas Nast’s Tammany Tiger to Pat Oliphant’s caricatured Nixon, talented political cartoonists have been able to reduce complex political situations into easily recognized images. When they get it right, their visuals are widely copied and repeated. Yet in 2013 there has been no viral cartoon and no one image that sums up last year’s presidential election.

After reading Oliphant’s Anthem, a companion book and website to the Library of Congress’s 1998 exhibition (note – the website is live and worth a gander), I believe that the underlying cause of the political cartoon’s wane reflects a broader shift in American popular culture. Oliphant, an Australian native who won a Pulitzer way back in 1966, is one of America’s most influential political cartoonists. His work is reproduced nationally and readily available. Along with MaNelly and the late Herblock, the trio were the most influential American political cartoonists of the last 50 years.

Most political cartoons, from the 1800s through the early 2000s, shared a common purpose: to shine a light on hypocrisy, to knock the pompous off their perch, to mock. Politicians are often the target, but not exclusively. Political cartoons’ energy derives from the difference between what is and what is proclaimed. That difference is all the easier to portray if our leaders access and utilize the language and imagery of the ideal, the preferred. The more ambitious the claims of a political leaders, the more energy available for a political cartoons. And ambitious assertions – especially moral testaments – are unusual in our ironic age. When the proud fall, it is far too often medicalized and pathologized. Elliott Spitzer and Anthony Weiner serve as prime examples.

We have come to expect our leaders to cheat, to philander, to obfuscate, and to lie. We have low expectations for presidential candidates a lower expectations for Congress. Without much faith in the system or the people closest to it, we gain little pleasure or insight from the humor of political cartoons. We have been habitually disappointed too often – and there are few professing optimism.

Ironically, we need a little more idealism for political cartooning, with all its dark humor, to gain traction.

David Potash

January 21, 2013 American Culture Today, Things someone who grew up in NJ might write

No Shaming This Shrew

Alisa Valdes is a prolific journalist, blogger and author. Fearless when it comes to writing about herself and affairs of the heart, she has fashioned a career of being an outspoken feminist. Self-reflection and self-disclosure can take an author far. It takes an extraordinarily life or talent, however, to do more than describe.

In the Feminist and the Cowboy, her latest book, Valdes recounts her turbulent relationship with a handsome New Mexico rancher of few words, a dominant personality, and a cleft chin. Part memoir and part polemic on gender roles and identity, the book is a first-hand account of a slow-moving train wreck of a relationship written by a passenger in first class. She’s a liberal feminists. He’s a libertarian Republican. She wears Uggs. He wears cowboy boots. Can they find love? It might be possible, but for the lovers’ respective problems and conflicts. Valdes is high-functioning and consistently self-destructive. The cowboy is controlling and damaged.

Shortly after the book was published, Valdes revealed that her romance with the cowboy had ended. She then briefly posted and quickly pulled down an account of abuse at the hands of the Cowboy. It was not rape, she later attested, but many in the blogosphere disagreed. In fact, the post-publication woes of Valdes generated a high-number of blogs, comments and articles (See here , here and here).

I have no desire to write about Valdes’ love life, past or present. If that interests you, read the book. I found it frustrating, entertaining, and shallow. It is neither profound nor substantial, and suffers from a “just written” feel. But Valdes’ talent is keeping the attention on her and the discussion about her going. In fact, her gift is an ability to turn self-absorption into a career. It may only be the knowledge that at the age of 40 she was living in her father’s house and dating a control freak that keeps one from jealousy.

Why do so many of us pay attention? Because Valdes’ open and trusting narrative, her raw emotions, her lightly edited vacillations, echo the language of an old friend. For a traditional memoir, unedited connotes sloppy. For a blogger/journalist/author, an unedited memoir means that nothing is held back. Valdes is definitely not discreet.

So many of us work too hard, run around too much, and simply lack the time and opportunity for sustained interaction with friends. Humans are social animals, though – there is no denying our nature – and we want friendship and trust. Valdes offers her story couched in the familiar language, structure and genre of a friend.She trusts, she cajoles, she argues and she explains. You can almost hear the pauses in the text where she waits for us to nod, to ask a question (“you did what!?”), and to console. Valdes is well-practiced in the perfect genre for an age with few rules protecting privacy and no meaningful understanding of intimacy.

David Potash

January 19, 2013 American Culture Today, Reviews

Ann Hamilton – Hanging By A Chain

Since 2006 the Park Avenue Armory in NYC has been a mecca for performances and site-specific art installations. It is a difficult commission, for the building has a history and scale that competes for attention and can easily overwhelm.

Ann Hamilton’s Event of a Thread at the Armory was a complex “multisensory affair” featuring 42 swings connected to a large flowing curtain bisecting the Drill Hall, and a conglomeration of creative ephemera: caged pigeons, newspaper-wrapped radios, a daily song captured in vinyl (which was played back the following day), and some somber looking functionaries, dressed like extras in a Margaret Atwood dystopia, focused on various tasks with great seriousness.

Hamilton very cleverly coupled the swings, each of which could seat two comfortably, in the ceiling. This dampened their arcs and made for some very interesting patterns in the curtain, which moved in relationship to the swings. Part steam punk, part Stevie Nix, the exhibit was both an invitation to play and a challenge to experience. What do you look at? And what do you take seriously?

New York State built many armories after the Civil War when wide-scale street violence was a near memory. Armories were military training grounds, repositories of weapons, club houses for militia, and visible reminders of the power of the National Guard to maintain domestic tranquility. The wealth of the NYC’s upper East Side insured that the Park Avenue Armory was much more than a very large military shed. Some of the period’s most successful designers contributed to the Armory’s lush and elegant social spaces. Its drill hall is enormous with 55,000 square feet unobstructed space. As a point of contrast, Tate Modern’s famous Turbine Hall in London is significantly smaller at only 36,600 square feet. The sheer size of the Drill Hall infantilizes most pieces. It is indifferent to the largest of objects.

The swings in Hamilton’s exhibit kept me busy for the better part of an hour. The swings, playful and childlike, belonged. There was not question about their purpose or integrity. As for the extras, pigeons and the prose, I have not a clue. The complexity of the work rendered it inaccessible. The disparate activities may be related by some common reference, a shared thread of meaning. Or they may not.

Sustained engagement is a necessary but not necessarily sufficient criteria for art to succeed. Hamilton’s simple was far more effective holding attention than her complex. Isn’t it interesting how often that turns out to be true?

January 12, 2013 Reviews, Things someone who grew up in NJ might write

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