Summer 25

Inspired by Marguerite Duras, Summer 25 explores a world in revolt through the prism of art and writing. One of ten.

A yellow-crowned night heron stalks along suburban Dallas streets. He stops to survey his surroundings: standing on long, leathery legs atop concrete pavers radiating with the heat of a Texas summer. Like myself, this is not its natural habitat but one this yellow-crowned night heron has made home. Yard after yard of maintained, watered lawns provide ample hunting for grubs beneath the grass—a DMZ of dirt separates lawn from sidewalk, the green and the gray run along perfect parallel lines. Nothing seems to rattle the bird, including the presence of two humans and a very skittish dog named Benji: he shares the name of the youngest son in the Faulkner I’m rereading. This time around I can follow Benji’s time jumps, and I can understand Quentin’s stream of consciousness, but where I struggle is with Jason’s hate—The writing in his chapter is simple; his words are simple and smooth, smug and righteous. Hate is that way. It’s easy to grasp, easy to understand. I haven’t read any further.

Yard signs warn of the impending threat of gambling on the city of Irving–pretend bogeymen seeking out souls like grubs with neon claws luminescent like the belly of a firefly. Never mind the legality: what have facts ever to do with fear-mongering? Don’t you know gambling attracts those types? I count the signs. A yellow-crowned night heron pecks at the base of the yard sign–the exposed lawn reveals excellent prey. The corrugated plastic shakes and shimmers with the dull yellow street lamp overhead. His majesty looks up at us, turns away—simply the passing of peasants in the presence of royalty. He wobbles, stops, looks around, stands still and stares.

There is no ground more hallowed than a used book store–I love to stalk the stacks, listening to the murmur of prophecy. I have found the right book at the right time too often to believe in coincidence. I find a book of illustrations in the wrong section of the flagship Half Price Books in Dallas–I’ve not heard of the artist, but I’m enthralled by the graphic, grotesque caricatures. In 1923–the year of Hitler’s failed Beer Hall Putsch– the German Government suppressed this book by George Grosz on grounds that it defamed German morals. A day after buying the book, we learn the Kimbell art museum in Fort Worth has an exhibit of banned, degenerate art from 1900-1945 Germany. Tomorrow is the last day. We get up early and go first thing.

I see George’s name written on the wall separating the exhibit from the lobby. The promotional artwork looks so much like my friend Kayla’s wife that I send her a photo of the giant banner. Inside the exhibit, it’s as busy as you’d expect on closing day. I find the portrait and wait for the old couple in front of me to move so I can get a clear photo of the actual painting. The informational placard informs me that the painting is titled Sonja but the model is named Albertine–I think of Proust. She has a pack of Camel Cigarettes in front of her; I have no idea if Jenny ever smoked, or what her brand was, or would have been. Albertine was a Jew. The artist Franz Herda hid her in his studio until she could be smuggled out of Germany. Albertine Disparue. Her eyes haunt me until I turn away.

This is one of many, many paintings.

It’s overwhelming and I can hardly read the little placards without feeling déjà vu. I see reflected in the eyes and features and deportment the familiar faces of my friends. I’m horrified to think we’re no further one hundred years later–my hand balls itself into a fist; a silver bracelet of interlocking links dangles from my wrist. I wear a bracelet because Valentino wore one. The press considered Valentino’s bracelet to be a symbol of his effeminacy and degeneracy. Men didn’t wear bracelets until World War I–a war I see depicted before me: a soldier in a shattered gas mask dying in a tangle of barbed wire. I relax my hand and step to the right.

The next painting reminds me of a character in my writing partner’s novel–like the character Sophia, the subject is dressed like a flapper and represents the Neue Frau. The painting depicts the importance “of women in public life, in party life, in illegality, the resistance movement and in the fight for freedom and peace.” On the adjacent wall hangs a large triptych depicting the utter inhumanity of concentration camps. And I think of the Holocaust, and I think of the internment camps, and I think of Guantanamo, and I think of the Joads and I think of the migrants, from the Dust Bowl until today, searching for greener pastures and finding only hate and persecution; finding only police violence and terror. And I think of what I see every day in my news feed: on X, on Bluesky, on Instagram, on Facebook: In Gaza, in California, in Texas, in Georgia. And I think and I think and I think and I think and I think.

All around me is art created under greater danger than I’ve ever faced; artists who showed more courage than I’ve ever mustered. Art made because it had to be made: made in the face of hate, made against threats, made not despite of, no–In spite of a crumbling world. These artists had to create; they were compelled to create art in an artless, ugly world. Defiant, despairing, dreaming, degenerate: it doesn’t matter the emotion. What matters is art reaching out to the observer, offering human connection, offering human understanding in spite of being separated by time and space. It doesn’t matter the medium–art doesn’t exist only in a museum or in a used book store: theater, music, dance–sand castles defiant against the tide–

Art exists on stages, on street corners, in parlors and living rooms–performances that live on only in recollections, in a quickening heartbeat, in a mischievous smile. Art doesn’t exist in its permanence but in its aftermath–it is the spark that vanishes into flame.

What is it about June? June 10th, June 16th, June 24th—

A culvert runs behind the houses. There’s no water except when it rains, otherwise it’s been pretty well diverted. Across the culvert is a green space with two park benches, one of which is in the shade. You have to cross over a bridge to get there. I stop on the wood and iron bridge and stare at the bone-white, bone-dry culvert, and I think of Quentin staring out on the Charles River, flat irons in his coat pockets. And I think of Stephen Dedalus staring at the Atlantic, lost in his crisis of unfaith. Eyes staring on the same waters, separated by the sea, by time. I wonder if they could have helped each other, if Stephen could shoulder some of Quentin’s despair.

Sweat drips from my brow–I swat a mosquito on my calf. I sit on the shaded bench and write. I have forgotten how oppressive and unforgiving the Texas sun can be. Along the culvert comes a breeze: stiff and forceful. The pages of my notebook flutter and my pen clatters across the pavers, the ink seeping from the nib into the concrete. I want to keep writing but the wind has other ideas. I put the top on my pen, slip it into my front pocket then close the notebook, picking up my paperback and putting it on top. The wind blows hard and refuses to let up—a cooling, forceful breeze cutting through the June gloom.