Volume 11 - Issue 4

Volume eleven, number four

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2

the new journal, May 2, 1978

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volume eleven, number fou r

L. Jane Dickinson Editrix

Beatrice H. Mitchell Publisher Mark Sheehan Designer Aaron Betsky Managing Editor Marilyn Achiron Assistant Editor Karen Sideman Graphics Editor Armand LeGardeur Designer Emeritus Editorial Staff: Mary Schwarz, Snee, Lizzie Grossman, Peter Baldwin, Agnes Kolakowska, Johnny Ross Business Staff: William H. Wood III, Steve Rogers, Caroline Mitchell, Jim Clark Graphics Staff" Amy Reichert, Alfred Sturtevant, Eli Johnson Friends of the New Journal: Bill Tarbell, Dick Foote and The Banner, David Brewer, Lucy Hood, Penelope Mason, Mr. Muller, Julie House, Martha Hollander, Curt Sanburn Best Friend: Brenda Jubin

The New Journal is published by the New Journal at Yale, Inc., partners in publication with the Yale Banner, Inc., and is printed at Chronicle Printing Co., North Haven, Conn. Distributed free to the Yale community.

Copyright o 1978 by The New Journal at Yale, Inc., a non-profit organization.

Letters and unsolicited manuscripts welcome. 3432 Yale Station, New Haven, Conn. 06520 Phone 432-0939

. th .•a•t a•f•t e•r •a •d•ay• •o f_._.

Th e Great W h ite Wall Project for New Haven: The wrapping of Harkness Tower in the shiny silver fabric normally associated with astronauts and the ski jackets worn by a certain type of person, to be tied with clothesline in a manner reminiscent of the packages your mother sends. (No doubt Frank Uoyd Wright would approve.)

This is a blasphemer's vision of the art of Christo, though it retains something of his spirit; in even the most monumental of his projects, the Running Fence, there is an element of mischief, a self-conscious sense of the glorious fun of it all. Like Harkness Tower, Christo is impossible to ignore, having gotten his name in every newspaper, a lo ng with accusations of publicity-seeker, because of the very hugeness of some of his work.

T he monumentality of Running Fence, a twenty-four mile long, eighteen foot high curtain of white which meandered through and transformed the hills north of San Francisco for two weeks in 1976, will soon be paralleled in a book documenting the project. A deluxe limited edition of Running Fence, designed and signed by Christo himself, will be available from Abrams sometime this fall, for a very long song, at least as long as the fence itself: $150. The book will include the letters, environmental impact reports, Christo's conceptual sketches, technical drawings, permits for the project, as well as the minutes of the county meeting which led to them. Not to mention a piece of "the fabric actually used in the Fence, a heavy patterned nylon which was originally made for General Motors "airbags."

The book's detailed history of the project seems pedantically ridiculous (do we really care, after all, what was said at the December 16, 1975 meeting of the Board of Supervisors of the County of Sonoma?) unless seen as part of the minimal and sequent art of Running Fence. The artistic, technical, political and building processes which contributed to its realization were, for Christo, more than necessary distractions, but part of the act of sculpture. In defense of the project at that very Sonoma County meeting, he said. "the work is

_contents___________ 2

comment: Christo's running fence, joy and sorrow at A & A, why don't they leave poor

hanna alone?

3

Letter from Cambridge

James Snead

tea for tutors 4

The Boys on the Bus

Dick Pershan

jock rot?

5

The True Story of Bonzo Quarnucci

Snee

jock trot 7

Bring Your Sister for Malone

James S. Patrick

a story 8

Boola Boola Building architecture builds character nine different ways

A aron Betsky

not only the physical object of the fence. The work of art is really right now, and here. Everybody is a part of the art, that is, through the project of the running fence, and it is most exciting thing (sic)." This explanation verges on a discouraging trendiness, due perhaps to the California climate, but the point is made. Running Fence was an art of process, resulting in a massive but temporary transformation of a landscape, and this book is the permanent record of that unrepeatable event.

A more affordable paperback, also from Abrams, is currently available.

Werner Spies' introduction to the book and to Christo's work: is comprehensive for its short length, if somewhat effusive. The Running Fence Project does not pretend to definitiveness, but the diagrams and pictures chosen by Christo speak for themselves in an inevitably titanic language.

three classes, two meals, one library, and homework, I put aside an idea I had been meaning to work on, because I lack the necessary energy.

Frustration sets in.

2. It is very costly to be an artist at Yale. Ever-emptying tubes of paint, ink, paper, steel, wood, glass, and other materials of the sculptor, printmaker, and photographer must be replaced with little or no help from the art school, in contrast to the extensive funding available to science departments. Four years of supplies at New Haven prices can be very expensive.

3. We must cope with the "classic artist" stereotype. "Artists are supposed to be disorganized" or ''Oh you look like an art student today," are phrases I have heard many times. I will not deny that Art School fashions are often unusual, and sometimes deserve adjectives like sloppy, kinky, messy, or bizarre. Anyone who uses ink or paint would look "messy" after a while, and after mixing with the tuxedoed gentlemen, flappers , vegetables and indescribably masked characters at the Beaux Arts Ball, I believe "bizarre' is a very suitable ~ord.

So much for the costume, costs, and schedule of the undergraduate artist and on to the heart of the artist, if I can get there. When I use the word "artist" to name myself, I pay attention to the responses of the people around me. I have noticed that close friends, people who have grown up in an "artsy" environment, and people who just dwell in the philP ortrait of the Student as a osophy of art approach an artist personally, peering into their photoYoung Ar tist graphs or paintings, while asking many "why" questions. They do not "Artist" is one of the most puzzling words one can u;;e to describe oneself. assume that you do art simply because you are good at it, and they I , like many other students who are look for the artist in the art. Other considering calling themselves artists, people look at artists as they might am constantly trying to figure out regard priests (a dangerous compariwhat the word implies. I don't have son, but entertaining for anyone who too many good answers and when I enjoys mulling over the question "has do hit a provocative idea, I usually decide it's truly worthless within a few art replaced religion?"). Most people do not know what the two professions weeks. I do know that my role as an are about. Why should someone artist at Yale is quite different from devote their life to something which my role as a student, the artist in me offers no material gains, no clear being more misunderstood and nemeasurement of success, and nothing glected by the people around me. but one's own mind and heart for There are a few superficial, basic features which are part of nearly every decision making? Although Yale students are not mysterious ascetics art major's life. just yet, they are looked upon by I. We put in time. To make fellow students as having "powers" of progress and do a satisfying amount a sort. Acquaintances often say, "I of work, an art student must put wish I could draw" or ..1 wish I were evening hours and weekend time into their projects. Most of the 29 students more creative," but there is nothing who assisted me by filling in question- more peculiar than the look on someone's face after you say you will naires said there is not enough time draw them. It is as though you were for the amount of work they would going to do something to them, or like to do. This is an especially large reveal a secret through the drawing. problem for freshmen and sophoAlmost all undergraduate art1sts are concerned with their relationship to 1M New Jountlll ia a valuable alternative the art school administration and maprine for ltUdeata iD Yale Collqe. To date, faculty. The school's structure, its we bave depeoded almo.t solely oa advertiaiaa lectures, classes, critiques, and obserre\ICDoet from some of New HaYeD'• beUer atora vations are all geared to make the art aDd reat.auraDta. Ow lack of a coaailtcDt fin.wnc:i_, school an agreeable worthwhile place buc c:oaliaoea to bamper our dforu to rep.larly · ' d 1 pab&h •llilb a qulity maprine • we would for a young artist to work an earn. like. we -w like to~ ....-..of If a student does not feel the art ~ New J- - ' to be lpOMOft. Foe a ( tuschool, or Yale in general, is a good cled1K:tillllt) .._lioa o1 120 or .,... we wiD ICDd place to be, then he or she would do yoa a&. ,_.. a.- .ipticHI bJ mail We allo well to study elsewhere, leave school ill~~ · !•.ce ~ ~ at:udcDb_oc entirely, or move to another field such frieDdl-..locatia& po.ble llllboGal a.dw:rWCt'L as law or medicine.

T'ba.a.k you.

Y. ,.-.,., The art school administration T'IM Pubtiaber shows a lack of interest in the underJ.432 Yale StaboD graduate population. No gallery space

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3

the new journal, May 2, 1978

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Letter from Cantbridge

77 B.oodwoy. H•w Haven

they will feel a colder coldness come wintertime. Tea (like the Deutsche Bundesbahn in Germany) is still the only thing in England, except for the Greenwich Observatory, that you can definitely set your watch by. 4:30 is time for tea.

*

by James Snead Springtime really blooms here, but tQ.ighs and shins stay white long beyond that. A good friend who just graduated from Saybrook came to .. visit me at the May Ball last June (the 'May' is British misdirection) only to ask why no one p layed Frisbee in Cambridge. "A question I asked myself at first, too," I said to her.

Spring brings knifeblades of bulbshoots onto the perimeters of smooth carpeted grass that keeps its green long into fall; she, like I, had been accustomed to seeing oil-basted bodies browning by Berkeley wall, to watching the Cross Campus lawn pulverized, replanted, and annihilated again by over-calloused feet. It did not matter which way the bodies were turned or entwined - they were all white bodies in a supine line-up: you saw only a swath of hair and a pair of Polaroid sunglass lenses with mockGucci frames.

"Why don't the English lie out in the sun here?" she asked; no o ne was in sight.

"Because they want to stay English," I answered.

* Every clo~d has a silver lining.

E,nglish skies have mostly clouds.

"Didn't you know," advised my plump Tutor, in his stately, cold room at St. John's College, "that the secret to enjoyi'ng England as a country is learning to get the most out of its teas?"

"Its teas?"

"Precisely. Its teas."

Teas flowing in and out of every pore; weekly trips with other Americans on fellowships to London stores or hotels where tea is a ritual of much weight - Fortnum and Mason's, Brown's (where Faulkner always insisted on staying), Harrod's; big teas and little teas; with demerara and granulated sugar; black or white; one or two; strainers to keep tiny tea leaves out; sweet, medium-dry, dry sherries after; exotic Oriental teas, • murky, despotic, opium-smoking Fu Manchu teas; teas steeping placidly in teacups and teapots of china teaware, admist saucers full of crumpets and scones, livening Britain's chilly circulations.

I am now lost to Cambridge. It is a sign of healthy adjustment. Last month, crossing the Cam in the Basil Rathbone fog, I realized that I have become invisible to Cambridge as Cambridge had been to me. Invisible, because I no longer make mistakes here. I have grown used to hearing otherwise normal people say: "I could sure use a fag tonight," meaning 'cigarette'; or "I'm pissed," meaning 'drunk'; or "I think I'll go knock up a girlfriend of mine tonight," meaning 'to visit'. lt was invisible to me for so long ... Sir Kenneth Clark ...

Propert's Saddle Soap . . . Harvey's Bristol Cream: a potpourri of stereotypes, unseen, unheard as such. Now I end every statement with an interrogative, consensus-producing " ... isn't it?" Now I am not overtly curious about anything. Nothing exists outside of England, except Wales, Scotland, and, remotely, Ireland. The sun never sets here.

'MAL&.

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"You Americans at Cambridge have it easy," said a pipe-smoking, phlegmatic American friend of mine at Oxford, who had been a nice guy at Yale. I wanted to leave, but there was only the infrequent and unreliable bus to ferry me back across country over the Midlands to the Eastern fens, and I knew I could not get back to Cambridge (so invisible that I call it 'home') unless I waited for him to drive me. "You all only have to put up with the British. Sure, they're boring and talentless. But we here at Oxford have the Americans and Canadians, too. What could be bloody worse? One doesn't have a single English friend here. You might as well be going to Yale again, mightn't you? Every third jacket in Oxford is of down, isn't it? Every sixth foot is sitting in an L.L. Bean hunting shoe or topsider. You haven't as many Americans as us down in Cambridge, have you?" I would have answered "No, we haven't," but I realized that the cultural interrogative was only a British effect, and rhetorical questions should always remain unanswered.

e e

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*

~

None of it drives the English clouds away or the English out of doors. "It sure was awful when we had that drought here, back in the summer of '76," I heard one British student say.

"Nothing but sun, sun, and more sun.

I'll be damned if I didn't get so brown I'd turned into a Paki." This is a culture of the indoor life: clouds and the dribbling grey rain on chilly windowpanes. No one dares to go out in the Springtime heat for fear that . they will find what they have missed before, that their bones will thaw and

Political wines here are very thin.

There are five South Africans living with me in my hostel who tell me that blacks have ruined America, and they won't let that happen in S.A. in a million years. The new Master of King's College is a celebrated English Marxist. He is served nightly on High Table by staff waitresses and servants making a pound an hour garbed in dour black robes. Pass the snuffbox, won't you? Cambridge owns Cambridge lock, stock, and barrel. New Haven, you never had it so good.

Jamie Snead is currently completing a second year of graduate work at St .

John's College, Cambridge. He has completed a novel, Night Shades, soon to be published.

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4

the new journal, May 2, 1978

I Cricket, Moon Beamy, Goldy Lox and the Three Hags, Uncle Wiggly, Third World, Silver Wheels, Karen, O.B., O.C., M.D. These ate the men and Karen of Yale baseball. These are the unsung suitors of Eli's spring. Of their travels and travails, their losses and their win, their days and mostly their nights, I sing. I am their muse.

My music is their song.

The Boys on the Bus

by Dick Pershan Saturday, March II. First of all, I should let you know. I'm no good that's both on the field and off it.

Case in point: I just showed up fl.fteen minutes late (and without a pillow) for the bus (nicknamed Sputternick, after an incredibly sad knuckleball thrown by Ivan, our ambidextrous Russian transfer student) which is to chariot us to Florida for our aimual spring trip. This is no good. I'm not a starter and I don't have a pillow.

Sputternick waits for no one, unless he has an ERA under 2.00 or a BA over 300. Or will eventually go on to play professional football. In the entire history of Yale baseball only two men have missed the bus and survived to tell about it - Brian Dowling and Dick Jauron. But I don't want to play professional football, and am, in fact, destitute of a pillow.

At the bus I discover that everyone else is late as well, mostly hung over from a Rookie party held the night before. At 8:30A.M. Sputternick finally pulls out of Phelps Gate. We are heading down Route 95 to North Carolina, South Carolina, and Florida in order to play an eleven game schedule which is our version of the major league's spring training. Only our games count on our record, and we don't get paid. Our first day is to be spent entirely on the road, getting to know our Sputternick. With great circumspection we choose our seats and settle ourselves in cosily. We discover our Sputternick's innermost secrets, plumb her deepest caverns, and explore her tiniest crevices. We stop to check her pulse. Every so often we let her drink at a fast-food fountain. Once we pull'over to the side of Route 95 and let her relieve herself.

Choice of seats is actually quite important. A certain subtle hierarchy is mysteriously established as boarding proceeds. The front rows are occupied by Coach Kenzie (ex Eli, ex Met, and ex Expo) and his gang of card sharks, backgammon wizards, and assorted sycophants. These are the "moving men" of Eli baseball, the high-need achievers, the hustlers trying to crack the starting line-up or win millions of dollars in Topps chewing gum cards. All of them know that playing with Kenzie they can only win. If they whoop Coach at a game of black-jack, they can bribe him with the profits; if Coach whoops them (which never happens) they have succeeded in feeding his starved

appetite for victory; they will be in the starting line-up the next day. . In the middle of the bus are the vets. The guys with the pillows.

In the back of the bus is Third World. And me. The rookies. When I selected my seat - with astounding forethought - for the privacy, quiet, and roadscape vista it apparently, and, indeed, actually affords, I failed to notice the large grey stall perched next to it in the corner. The notorious dumpster. Sputternick's tin tummy. I had unknowingly picked my place on a fully air-conditioned, all-windowclosed bus - next to the most beloved seat. Some teammates drop by to visit. At first I think I'm popular. Later I detect a vaguely euphoric smile on the faces of my teammates as they return from the dumpster to their seats. Odors emanate. I consider emanating. I consider becoming odorous, but elect to become odious. I bar the aisle with the barricado of my legs and I rend the air with the howling of mystic incantations.

A pit stop at a,.. hot spot somewhere in Virginia. Now we're on the road again. I have a baseball bat with me this time - just in case the howling isn't enough of an arsenal to ward off any would-be defilers of the dumpster.

I notice that Sputternick is beginning to lose velocity and fade anemicly to the right. Flashing lights. Some skinfead type in a navy blue get-up has pulled us over to the side of the road.

"What's the matter,~ I moan drearily.

"Copper," comes the reply from the front of the bus.

"Quick, stash the stuff."

Coach Kenzie turns around, befuddled. ''Bribe him," the shout goes up.

"Yea, yea," peals of approval.

Quickly, we pass around a baseball to get signatures from everyone on the team. Outside of the bus, the cop suddenly decides to let us go. The ball is ruined.

The guys from Massachusetts make themselves evident. "Hey, look, aren't the trees weird down here."

"Wait till you see the grass down in Kentucky." One of the vets.

"No?" the Mass. boy replies, "Is it really blue?"

"You bet," says Coach, "Our alums pay them to paint it for us."

We are about to arrive at Wilmington, North Carolina. It's II :30 at night and we've been on the road fifteen hours. Sputtemick sputters to a halt and the boys (and Karen) emerge woozily from their lofts and

perches. Bodies descend from the luggage racks and crawl forth from beneath the seats. We enter our lodging for the night, and for the following three nights - a former army barracks consisting of one dumpster and twenty-eight bunk beds lined side by side in a rectangular cell.

Everyone grabs the bottom bunk except Moon Beamy (who likes the sensation of being high up). Once in bed, Cricket, a freshman, whips out a teddy bear, O.C. , an Irishman, whips out his rosary, and Alvin, a music major, whips out something underneath his sheets.

Suddenly, Coach Kenzie bursts into the barracks with Corporal Stanton, our trainer. Deferentially, I tap my heels together and salute. .

"At ease, Private Pershan," allows Coach Kenzie. I put down the baseball bat and tuck it back under the sheets. I like sleeping with it; it makes me feel secure, like a clean-up hitter. And it reminds me of the Eli baseball motto: "If God had meant for his Elis to be hitters, they would have been born with bats between their legs." No wonder we can't hit.

"Taps will be at midnight tonight, men," Coach announces, as a cannon goes off in the distance. Then Coach about-faces, and heads into town. As soon as he's out the door all the guys crack up in giant, jock giggles. "Chain dream, chain dream," comes the call from one of the beds. Uncle Wiggly, who is everyone's uncle and the best fairy-tale teller on the team, fishes out one of the rookies from his bed, and we proceed.

"I'm thinking of something red and white with dots," Big Hags opens.

"I told you not to get down on my mother," comes a shout of indignation from one of the beds.

"Oh, oh, so you finally admit he got down on her." . "Oh, foul ball, foul ball." The voice of Uncle Wiggly, who is also. our Captain and spiritual counselor.

"She was, she was," the voice of Lowty, our general man-about-town, spiritual corruptor, and favorite guy.

We got Lowty _through the Admission Office's special "You Name Him, We Tame Him" mail-away service.

"That's enough fellas, knock it off," comes the stentorian voice of our leader, "We got a game tomorrow."

"Jees, captain, did you have to spoil it," Goldy Lox, seconded by a chorus of whimpers.

made a spectacular diving catch and hit a home run. Neither of these events, of course, counted: the first occurring out of play, the second, in batting practice before the game.

March 13. Our second day out and it's a beaut. We're on our famous sandwich schedule - baseball, then a sandwich for lunch, then baseball.¡ But this time we win and there's champagne and euphoria in the locker room because we're spared our usual post-game jogging. That's real incentive. We vow to win again the next day.

That evening, at dinner, an Ivy Leaguer manque wearing topsiders and a Cornell crew sweat shirt sidles over to our table and introduces himself as Mark Davis. Now, we already know a Mark Davis, he's an outfielder on the Yale baseball team and one of the people to whom Mark Davis II has just introduced himself.

Mark's southern twin ivy-league-ally slithers into some glib talk and winds up inviting the whole team to a southern-hospitality bash the next night.

After dinner I trek across a sea of pine cones to visit the UNC library.

My visit is made not so much out of any curiosity or need (I have; in fact, imported my own books from Yale, smuggled out of overnight reserve from CCL), as out of spite. It. makes my gut feel good. It makes Harkness Tower look taller. I sit in the reference room and smirk. I go to the bathroom and am happily appalled at the paucity and pissity of the grafeetity. On the walls of the stall I doodle tiny vignettes of Handsome Dan the XIV asserting himself manfully over Silly Willy III, the UNC mascot, a seagull. I feel honorable, pr..md, Bool-ish.

Tuesday, March 14. I feel miserable. A New-Haven-like day.

The air has that ubiquitous grey hue and sensation which makes us feel at home. Almost like eating at commoos.

The game is frustrating, depressing, wounding. But we have agreed to attend Mark Davis Il's party afterwards. He zips by at 9:00 in a TR7 two-seater. It takes nearly fourteen one-guest trips to shuttle us, but we finally arrive and, with the coldblooded calculation that only a Yalie could summon at such a moment, proceed to get totally trashed. The evening is very illuminating. At last we find out who the real hitters are.

Sunday, March 12. At 11:00 we suit up for practice and sally forth to the battlefields. It is the first day we've been outside all season, so the guys all dress in T -shirts and gym shorts and try to ignore the cruel taunts of the scant spectators and the even crueler buffets of the wind. It is forty degrees warmer than it was in New Haven, or about 40° . Since this account is limited to what happened off the field, I cannot offer any report of the game, except to note that Moon Beamy

At 12:00 curfew we drive back to the barracks, but Moon Beamy, Big Hags, and Lowry stuff their beds with clothing, sticking caps on their pillows, lower themselves out the windows with a rope improvised of bed sheets, and scatter into the woods. When they reappear the next morning, each sports at UNC at Wilmington T -shirt. Trophies. I make a mental note to visit the UNC bookstore first thing in the morning continued to page 13

5

the new journal, May 2, 1978

The True Story of Bonzo Quarnucci

by Snee

•

Many people question the credibility of Yale's admission policy towards athletes. Like all issues that appear to have a loose end somewhere (the Warren Commission, for example, or whether Farrah is really a lesbian), Yale's recruiting policy invites skepticism. Ever since I saw John Pagliaro taking notes with crayons, I've had my own doubts.

Having proven myself a poor investment on the football office's balance books - I was a hopelessly undernourished, overconfident passing quarterback, a gazelle in a herd of buffalo, as I like to think of it - I can still imagine people looking at me with the same skepticism. And I am basically familiar with the processes which bring the objects of this · ::kepticism to Yale.

The NCAA and Ivy League recruiting guidelines, which are changed more often than my underwear, rule the procedure. The Ivy League, because of its ideal philosophy of intercourse between athletics· and academics, offers no scholarships. ("Ideal," as far as I can tell, means athletics should be forced into a meaningful love affair with academia, instead of a casual erotic affiliation.)

Through the graces of the NCAA, Yale nevertheless competes for athletes with reichs like Michigan, USC and Notre Dame. Any athlete on financial aid in the Ivies is considered in the same light as someone at a Big Ten School on a "full-ride," which is legally defined as tuition, room and board, period. Each school is limited to a total of 105 scholarships for all sports, though only varsity athletes count. (How Carro must have twitched with delight when my name went off the roster.)

The alums foot most of the bill for this operation, and Yale's recruiting dollars come directly from Old Blues all over this great country of ours.

Tigers and Cantabs do the same for their Alma Maters. And while Ray Carazo and Carro enjoy a bottle of wine somewhere, Old Blues scour the sports pages looking for talented young studs and studettes with good grades. A major conference school like Michigan has an astronomical number of dedicated alums, and regional loyalties are involved.

Carro and Ray get the scoop from the alums and, in the words of a Times Square vendor, "check it out."

The impressior.able youths in question are then inunJated with form letters, phone calls and good advice: if you don't go to Yale, you'll be a ditchdigging Cleveland State dropout. The various football coaches get the proper information and then it's their ball.

Like sailors in a brothel on payday, the coaches actively pursue the available talent and meet the recruits in one-horse towns everywhere, if possible. They assess all the available facts, watch movies, talk with coaches about the recruit's attitude and potential: my own high school coach was a convicted con man. Some sports, such as gymanstics, fencing and women's as gymnastics, fencing and wome~'s softball recruit via phone and mat! for the most part. simply because of lack of funds. Translated, that means lack of alumni interest, which may be due to lack of success on the playing field, or may simply reflect overall attitudes towards sports which are less extr~va­ gant in terms of spectator populanty.

(Quick: who was the captam of the

fencing team the same year John Smoot was the football captain?)

Enter once again the NCAA. The impressionable youths will want to see the holy temple of higher education they've been hearing so much about, but there are strings attached. Supposing Jimmy (Bonzo) Quarnucci; allOhio, brick-eating fullback with 800 SATs wants to see Yale? You can bet your mother's padded bra that Carro will invite him up. Carro calls Nathan Sterney Whitling Osborne the fifti.eth, rich Old Blue, and sings Bonzo's praises. Bonzo receives a plane ticket to Hartford, gets a ride to Yale, stares at his first Gothic building and, openmouthed and drooling, shakes hands with Carro. He eats lunch with "real, live college football players!" and gets drunk for the next two days. Needless to say, he goes back to Waponetka highly impressed. This is what is known by the NCAA as a "paid visit": the recruit receives food, lodging and/or transportation a Ia University, which in Yale's case means the alums. Bonzo was sponsored by Osborne.

-

Now, supposing Ringo Slowrunner, a lackluster place-kick holder from New Rochelle, wants to visit. In spite of his acne and crooked eyes, Carro will invite him up. "Ringo," he'd say, "Get in your father's Rambler and come on up." Ringo will drive up, get lost on Dixwell A venue, shake Carro's hand (maybe) and get a free lunch with an assistant coach who will yawn frequently. Then Ringo will drive ·back home, also a highly impressed youth. This visit is known simply as a "visit," and Ringo can come back every day for a year to do the same, and as far as the NCAA is concerned, he hasn't had a "visit." Woody Hayes won't have Carro assassinated for feeding the likes of Ringo. "Paid visits" are for the blue-chippers.

A university (Division I to the NCAA) is allowed to have 95 such youths come on "paid visits." These ninety-five are a select group who A) Probably qualify academically, B) Want to come here, C) Weigh about 250 pounds, D) Are favorites of the alums who want to "sponsor" their visits, E) Eat a lot of raw meat.

And there is no way someone who hasn't already applied to Yale will get the Bonzo Quamucci treatment.

Bonzo, or Ringo, or anyone else is allowed six of these paid visits to various schools, according to the NCAA, so he must also assess the situation.

Now that the leg work is done, the Ringos and Bonzos sorted out, Carro and his boys (all the athletic departments' coaches) sit back and wait for

Bonzo is a "highly diversified young man with many interests outside aca~emics" women, booze, tying his shoelaces.

Worth David's crew at the Admissions Office. Sort of.

If you believe that Worth and the friendly folks at admissions haven't heard about Bonzo's talent, then you're an idealist who probably boycotts everything and eats wheat germ. For the record, there is a ~'very formal" liaison between Admissions and Ray Tomkins House. (Her name is Margot and I bet she's a looker.) It is her responsibility to find out from the various coaches who's a Bonzo and who's a Ringo, and she gets the word from Gib Holgate, Associate Director of Athletics, who gets his info from the horses' mouths, the coaches. Gib might tell Margot that Bonzo is "a highly diversified young man with many interests outside of athletics" - women, booze, tying his shoelaces. Margot, not being a moron, will report to Worth that Bonzo is "a highly diversified young man who eats bricks and kills small animals for kicks."

The whole mess is now in Worth's lap. Now, from my own experience as a recruit, I know that certain aspects of the admissions process are not as airtight as they seem on paper. For instance, I was allowed to send in my application on February 2, though the deadline plainly reads "January 1." I asked Mr. David about this, expecting him to break into a cold sweat and offer me a few C-notes not to let on.

He sat back, smirked, and stated that the deadline was an ideal and that it might be extended for anyone. (A

definite retroactive blow to my ego.)

Idealist, strike two. When you were sweating it out over a Yale applica• tion while your family enjoyed Christmas dinner, you could have been munching wheat germ instead of developing ulcers. The deadline, as Mr. David puts it, is "to give us a reasonable amount of time to review all the applicants." It is not, alas, a life-and-death boundary.

People like Bonzo, who kill small animals and eat bricks, are part of what Worth calls "a representative class, not 1300 statistics." He also says that "not everyone we admit is a potential Phi Beta Kappa." (The idealists shake bony fists at the idea.)

Could Worth be avoiding the question? When asked if the admissions office, i.e., W.D., had any thought in general on athletic recruits, Mr. David replied, cool as ever, that, "First of all, we don't admit anyone who isn't capable of doing the work at Yale.

Secondly, we know that athletes have successfully demonstrated their energy and motivation and we know that this motivation may be adapted to fit into their Yale experience. We want to admit someone whose Yale experience will be fruitful even if athletics fade from the picture," for instance because of injury, or undernourishment and overconfidence. (I was beginning to like this guy.)

continued to page 14

The Saybrook "Round Table," although a recent tradition, is ... well, formidable. In the general dining hall scheme of things, the Round Table carries a great deal of weight, about a ton, by recent estimate based on the number of bodies and their relative size. How Saybrook, and the Table in particular, has amassed so much ... presence, shall we say, is the subject of debate on evenings at dinner when the only other thing you can think of to talk about is how much work you have. One theory claims that the dining hall floor is lower at this point than at any other, and that the football team has collected there by sheer force of gravity. This would be difficult to prove, but it is certainly true that the Round Table is closest to the kitchen, and is so situated that no one can pass in or out of the dining hall unobserved by its denizens. It is also true that, when an alternative arrangement of the table was suggested to the dining hall manager, he demurred on the grounds that "The Round Table wouldn't like it." The Round Table is always spoken o'f in capital letters. The Round Table is impossible to ignore. Not that anyone would want to. Like a bouquet of Yale's biggest and bestest, the Round Table adorns each meal in Saybrook, the focal point of the dining room. A must for the home decorator, in five different colors. A certain quality of monumentality presides over Saybrook with the Round Table, a quality for which the college is justly renowned. Who else can boast the combined presences of Vito, Nubes, and Ziroccoco at breakfast, lunch and dinner? The Round Table is a legend in its own time which, like the phoenix, dies each May, only to reappear again in the fall with a few new faces but the same approximate poundage. The mysterious self-perpetuation of the Round Table is only one aspect of its myth, which will, we fervently hope, go down in Yale History like the old Brick Row.

1'1

Pick vou,. up at the BOok Departtnent of the Yale Co-op.

Banners Will nor be SOld Bt the Co-op. Banne,. tnay be Purchased onty Bt the Yale Banner office, on the third flOor of WOolsey Hal/, hou,. 9:30 AM-2 PM on Mondavs.

436..865o.

Tu<>sdavs alld ThuTsdavs through Saturdavs. Telephone

Yale Banner Publications Wishes to thank the Yale cornrnunity.

Co-op for distributing The 1978 Ya/e Banner to the Yale

7

the new j ournal, May 2, 1978

Bring Your Sister for Malone

by James S. Patrick The jungle silence is broken by the sound of my shit hitting the ground from up here. Not real busy in the middle of the hot afternoon so I keep crapping and radio Malone at the next position to let him know he owes me fifty big ones on the Ohio State._ Michigan game. I squat up in the tree. " Come in, Monkey 3, this is Monkey 4. You owe me fi fty bucks, Malone."

Monkeys do it this way and so do I. " Roger, Monkey 4, this ii Monkey 3, Skremsky speaking. Malone says you're lyin'. He hasn't head any score yet."

"This is Monkey 4 a nd you tell Malone to quit smoking that mindkillin' weed and that he owes me fifty clams." "I heard it on my little transistor radio. Tell him to catch the six o'clock Radio Saigon Sports Show."

I wipe my ass and wait for a reply.

They gave me a plastic bag so no one could smell me up here, but those gooks can smell a white man a hundred yards away and they don' t need to smell his shit to know he's there. I dump it out of this little treetop bungalow so I can't smell it. " Monkey 3 to Monkey 4. That's a negative. It's against orders to have .,. any non-Army equipment in sniper nests. Over... Malone's voice. ··You damn, welching lifer, Malone, I'll transmit it to you then. That'll be flfty bucks on Wednesday. Over and out ... Malone'd pimp his mother to avoid paying off a bet. An RA, royal asshole or regular army, lifer, in for . life or till he dies, whichever comes first. Enlisted, not drafted ass. Christ, it still smells up here, and no matter what I do I can smell it.

Even so, it's an amazing set-u p, up here. I get a two week supply of food, a radio for transmitting troop movements to artillery, a first-aid kit, water, and it's all laid out on top of a big net which is home for two weeks.

Sniper Nest. Almost invisible from the ground too, but even so I better bit any gook that gets close enough to smell me or I'm a treed 'coon with a hundred little yellow dogs on my tail.

It'd be pretty hard for that to happen.

There's a whole line of sniper nests 1 here. Huh, I got stuck next to Malone.

Nothing to fJie at so I clean my weapon. It's quiet now. Amazing weapon, the M-16, capable of firing two hundred rounds in a few seconds, ten ..bullets" in each shot, like a cannon full of nails. You can control the bullets like water with a garden hose. Real wide spray for short range, real narrow for long range. I use long range. My targets usually show up two hundred yards in front of me on the Big Trail, and the poor suckers never know what hit 'em. I never miss, and seeing as how I can get off ten rounds in a wink ifs just a sealed package when I pull the trigger.

Getting a little darker now, almost six,' and I transmit my Korean transistor to Malone to remind him that even though be outranks me a notch, be still owes me. The sound of the score confirms my kill on his money.

So I sit up here smoking cigarettes 1 and listening to Radio Saigon. Maybe take another shit, who knows? Right

;on the DMZ and the big trail looking :for the little fellas to walk down the ·thirty foot section that I can make out clearly. Thirty feet ain't that much, but soon as I see a gook pra ncing along I just take the old M -16 and put the lights out on him, hear the rest hit the dirt. I radio artillery and it's just a matter of the pansies shelling the daylights out of 'em.

Works pretty good, too. I've had the little devils shelled fifteen times in the last three days. Hasn't been that busy since the New Year's fJieworks last year. Gooks must be moving in.

Two more days for me until they send up ·another group of snipers for this line. Two men to a tree. I'm alone, though, because my partner got nailed four days ago. Fragments from a stray U.S. shell. They're a lot more dangerous than the gooks. I had to dump him out of th e tree too, and when there's no wind I can smell him dead down there. No replacement for him. Didn't want to give away the pos1tion with the heavy VC activity and all. Eighty yards each side of me are teams doing the same job as me, but I hear me shooting a lot more than I hear them shooting. North of me there's my sector leader, RA, dopehead and welcher all in one Malone, and Skremsky. They rarely shoot anything and when I hear their shots I keep my eyes wide open because whatever they missed will show up in my sector, sometimes wounded, and I doubt if they've ever had a clea:t kill. Not like me. I kill now. The guys South of me are connected to a different artiiiery group so I don't have much to do with them and besides, I have the gooks on their asses before they get that far down the trail. I'm a damn good sniper.

Now in sniper training the first thing they tell you is Don't Smoke.

Group leader emphasized the fact that smoke coming from a tree is a dead giveaway of a sniper position. Tough beans, lifer. The second rule is No Radio Contact, except for artillery or first aid. The static of a radio's sound carries like a ..son of a bitch," he told us. That's life, lifer. I'd go loony without Radio Saigon, bad as it is, up here with me. Right now I can hear The Cowsills singing some stuff about long hair, which I used to have.

Maybe next I'll bear Bing Crosby.

Just as good as that Crosby, Nash, Stills junk. I don't need big musical experiences, just noise. The silence can drive you batty. It'd be nice to get out of here soon. I ate all the decent food they gave us like Hershey bars and peanuts and about the only thing left that I can stomach is powdered milk and some nasty beef jerky. I get more money for working in this penthouse.

It's completely dark now and I have to use the infrared scope to see much of anything. A human body looks like a little red outline in the infrared scope. Cute little outlines too. No such thing as darkness for the infrared scope. Last night was pretty quiet, only five targets spotted. Five kills.

Well, I'm going to catch a few hours sleep. I'll fire a few rounds in the vicinity of the trail and have artillery send a few big boomers over that

way. I'll try and get the potheads to cover my section and keep me informed if anything serious comes up, while I'm sleeping. Then I'll grab some powdered milk and go back to work. I hope my ex-partner's smell isn't too bad tonight. I'm getting sick of smelling a corpse. I sleep.

Mostly I dream of other things when I sleep up here. No army uniforms, no slant-eyes. Just women, sexy, soft women inside warm rooms with fur-lined walls. Come on baby, love those fur-lined walls, and just check out the beautiful women I see in my sleep. Busty blondes, leggy redheads, brown-eyed Italian brunettes. Just a few hours of beauty. . .

I know it's going to be pitch black out when I wake up, but I make sure my mind knows what I'm going to see before I open my eyes. The darkness changes nothing I see in daylight. I have the infrared. I'm convincing myself that what I'm about to see is real because if I don't I'll be grouchy all day, or night, as the case may be.

Tonight in the black I bear gunfire before I'm ready to open my eyes, making me have to open them and know I'm going to be grumpy. It's coming from a couple hundred yards south of me. Odd, I should have heard something on the radio. The gooks never get that far down the trail. I'm confused. Better wake up.

Gunfire waking me up makes my stomach want to scoot out my butt.

Maybe I'm dreaming, but there's usually a notable absence of gunfire in dreams about naked women. Still, I feel- safe due to experience. I call the nest north .of me ... no answer.

Scope my section of the trail and the whole scope lights up red like a Christmas tree. Heavy, heavy movement. I radio artillery. No need for me to fire at that many gooks, let the big boys do it. .. Monkey 4 calling for heavy artillery barrage at coordinates R 15 by Z3." I try and be quiet. "Come in, Peashooter?" ..Negative Monkey 4 . . . uh ...

You still up there?" ..No, I'm in Cleveland. I need heavy barrage now, Peashooter."

"Ub, artillery is mobile in a westward direction. No possibility of fiiing barrage at those coordinates ... Ub, retreat was ordered two hours ago ... urn ... Monkey 3 said you was dead when we radioed them. VC offensive moving in .....

.. Retreat? " Shit. ''Could you give me some mortar fire?" ..Negative, Monkey 4, out of range.

Get out of there. New sniper line is being set up at Z7 line with artillery support. Retreat at once." ..Send me a chopper with rockets, Peashooter." .. Roger, Monkey 4. Will call airborne. Over and out ... Good luck."

Oh Jesus. Malone. I light a cigarette and immediately bear distant voices and a few leaves ripping with pellets zipping through the trees.

Some gook must have seen the match light, but be's lost me now. Gooks must still be pretty far away. Minutes go by and I hum a little tune and think. No chopper pilot's going to fly into this at night, he'd be a sitting duck, and a rea.l noisy one. If be came he'd have to blow up the whole area, including me, just to get close enough to drop me a chair, if he could see me. Shit. Hell no, I'm getting out.

Malone and Skremsky, kiss your asses goodbye. Now for business.

Z7 is four miles due west. Trail number two beads that way. Booby traps on the trail. In the dark yet.

Maybe Malone got a bamboo stick up his nose. Better scope the entire area.

Big trail's running with the suckers.

More than a hundred. No use shooting that mob. A few shots coming in my direction now and then.

They can smell me. I know it. Scope the northern end. Damn near thick as grass a hundred yards up there. The gooks are moving heavy, real heavy.

The southern end. Lots of them, but the whole concentration is over a hundred yards east of my position.

Cover everything from there to here with the scope. Picks up any body heat. Ab, five little outlines flfty yards north and moving this way. Got to freeze 'em. I nail three of them with a burst of flfty rounds. Now the rest of the gooks are shooting at my area.

Lots of stuff getting ripped up in the trees. Gooks ain't got infrared. But I hear the zips getting closer now. I better get out. I put the rope out of the nest, turn up my transistor radio.

Hope the gooks still think I'm up here. It'll at least make the sound of me less obvious.

Halfway down my foot gets zipped and it's numb. Now it's starting to hurt, but I'm down. I empty a few hundred rounds aU over the place and pop a flare up into my old nest. Tree lights up. They shoot about a million rounds at it and I make tracks down • continued to page 11 ·

8

the new journal, May 2, 1978

Boola Boola Building a polemic paraphrase When you enter your o~k-paneled, carved-stone bedroom, or approach the altar of Sterling Library, or ascend the Kline Spaceport, or penetrate the jewelbox of the British Art Center, you are, whether you like it or not, defining your existence as a Yale Man: Race, sex and political beliefs have nothing to do with it. The stones and concrete of this little piece of the Ivy League care only about the way their imagery can transform you into a loyal son of Old Eli. The last three presidents of Yale and half-a-century worth of Yale architects all believed in the conscious or unconscious program shared by almost all Yale buildings built in this century. The campus of Yale University is an everlasting tribute to the power of architecture in helping to form Men or, as one graduate student defined it, to "the ability of a lot of money, very tastefully applied, to co-opt absolutely everybody."

Although the bulk of the Yale undergraduate experience takes place in an environment created by 路one architect and several capitalists - the Gothic of James Gamble Rogers, built with the money of Harkness, Sterling, Cross and several others in the twenties and thirties - Rogers and his donors were already working in a fairly well-established framework.

Architects since then have continued to refine their images in terms of that framework, which can only be defined as the Yale Tradition. . Yale's first buildings were unprepossessing structures that might have housed any large New England enterprise. Typified by the Old Brick Row, they were square blocks in the reserved Colonial and Federalist style.

It wasn't till after the Civil War, when Yale started to be both a major force in the city of New Haven and a large institution with its own traditions and identity, that the Yale buildings, mainly on the Old Campus, started to become more identifiable.

The first Post-Bellum impulse was to be proud and open. Osborne Hall, which stood on the corner of Chaoel and College Streets, reflected this 路 opturusm, opentng up to the city with wide steps and poly-chromatic stone facade, large arches bending around the comer. Other buildings, such as Farnam Hall and Durfee, exploded with neo-Gothic turrets and beautifully carved stone. YalC was no longer a somber divinity school, and its architecture, spearheaded by the f'rrst architecture school in America, was as bold as the young men immortalized on the walls of Mory's and in the yellowing pages of old class records.

They have a stem look, are well dressed, athletic and careless, and their environment matched this bold and colorful image.

But the buildings, by their very nature as institutions. discinlined with 'their tall walls, narrow and heavy moldings. They did so even more when the city of New Haven discovered exactly how carelessly self-confident these Yalies were feeling, and reacted against them in, among other incidents, the famous riot of 1914. Yale, as an institution, started to close itself off from the city and became a bastion, a closed castle on the highest

by Aaron Betsky side of the Green, a protective and aggressive stronghold of New England capitalist values. ~n the roaring twenties, Yale became more democratic, more open to the bright and the rich of all levels of society, as its outlook and dimensions expanded. The money that fueled this expansion came from some who didn't belong to the old families, who were not dedicated to the preservation of the White Anglo-Saxon Protestant Capitalist way of life, but to the pursuit of wealth, period. However, they felt that Yale and all it represented was absolutely necessary. Yale made a young man of talent into a Henry Luce or a Cole Porter or a Harkness: a successful member of this country's elite. The Yale Man became a definable being, commemorated in American folklore, whose central attributes were success, power and creativity.

Arch1tecture was a pnme tool in th( acculturation which built this image.

James Gamble Rogers (himself a Yale Man) and his network of donors

probably understood this better than anybody else and expressed this process and these values in their buildings.

For its expansion, Yale adopted the system which had successfully kept the self-perpetuating elite of Oxford and Cambridge going for several hundred years. Somewhere in Yale's voluminous archives, there allegedly exists a box of postcards and drawings from which Rogers used to steal ideas - often quite literally - for his designs on the Yale campus. But Rogers' own adaptation of that Gothic language helped to define the Yale Man. 路 The two most obvious features of Rogers' architecture here are the tower and the courtyard, and since his time they have become the most dominating themes in all Yale architecture. The courtyard derives directly from its English models, but here has a very special meaning. Its potential was perhaps suggested to Rogers by the success of the great sheltered courtyard of the Old Campus. Always set off of the axes of New Haven and controlled not by open colonnades or by entrances through large public spaces, but by comparatively small and threatening gates, it represents the private, introspective and elitist side

The Yale Man became a definable being, commemorated in American folklore. . .

Architecture was a prime tool in the acculturation which built this image.

of Yale. Magnificently scaled, these courtyards are controlled by several distinct landmarks: the dining hall, the entryway-passage and -axis, often including subsidiary courtyards or narrow paths between forbidding walls, and the wasteful space of the towers, great masses of stone given over wholly to the message of a proud university displaying its wealth and intellectual power, in contrast to the inner sanctum of the courtyard itself.

The courtyards and the dining halls were and are the places where the Yale Man is celebrated and formed by social accultqration.

Rogers was playing historic games with the language of his towers and the statues with which he filled them.

They are the spires of a new church of knowledge, whose body, the dining hall, takes the place of the church in the original monastery model as the place of public gathering. (Battell Chapel is Yale's only surviving church, and it doesn't even have a spire.) In the basement of Beinecke, there is a series of drawings by Rogers' office of some of the walls of the Harkness complex (Branford and Saybrook Colleges) in which every stone is carefully rendered in its casual uneveness, and then numbered for exact duplication by the stonecutters. These walls and their openings are meant to be complex in both 路historic and architectural terms, gently revealing the tradition and the future available here. Nowhere else has such a beautiful marriage of private and institutional objectives taken place in the creation of space.

On the outside, these colleges have reached a perfect understanding with New Haven. They do not loom over the street; in fact, they meet it with very humanly scaled walls. But they clearly define the character of Yale.

On the outside they conform and tell New Haveners about their values; on the inside, the New Haven street axis is often shifted slightly and the world of the courtyard envelops the Yale Man like a womb. .

The architects bu'ilding along with and after Rogers all conformed to thi~ plan - as Calhoun College and the Hall of Graduate Studies show. But Rogers was the master in this language and his greatest work, the Sterling Memorial Library, is a monurpent to all of these themes. Sterling is a religious paean to Alma Mater, Our Lady of the Circulation Desk who looms over the dispensing-place of knowledge, symbol of the spirit which built this place, which inhabits it and which will form all of the library's partakers into its devout followers.

Ironically, rebel forces have penetrated this Sanctum Sanctorum of the Yale Man. in the left-hand comer of the mural, a carpenter holds up a hammer and a sickle to the Lady.

After the second world war, when America ruled the world and Yale,

9

the new journal, May 2, 1978

•

Harvard and Princeton ruled America, a new university president set out to further expand Yale, selfconsciously using the architecture to convey the proper image. A. Whitney Griswold, a scion of the best Yale families immersed in both the realities and the tradition of Yale, thought of the university concretely as having "buildings as lessons," reflecting the philosophy of Thomas Jefferson.

Jefferson thought that his campus for the University of Virginia would teach its students the new values of enlightened, humane rationality.

Griswold believed that Yale's buildings should show the diversity, the unbounded possibilities of architecture and, by implication, of Amencan society. As one member of the Architecture School said, in an article/ interview with Griswold: "The administration views the architecture of the university as an integral part of the educational process.... It is understood that architecture is largely a matter of intangibles, and that cost, while it is ill'\portant, is not the most important consideration."

These were heady days for Yale and Yale architecture. While the university expanded r~pidly, it began to strain the boundaries of its walls, bursting out in the late fifties and early sixties with a great flood of buildings: the new art gallery, Science Hill, including the massive Kline complex, the Whale, the Art and Architecture building, CCL and the monstrosities plunked down at the medical school.

It was university policy to attract the top architects of the country to do at least one building at Yale, creating a stellar display of whatever American architecture had to offer. Yale quickly became, and remains, one of the centers of architecture in the country - every single 'name' architect having either graduated from here, taught here or built here, often all three. Overlooking the dazzling panorama of talent, in which each building supposedly represents a stvle absolutely and polemically inimical to !he structure next to it, one nevertheless feels that all of these buildings have done no more than {urther define the image of the Yale Man. There is a very obvious reason for this: the most architecturally influential man at Yale during Griswold's presidency was Yale graduate Eero Saarinen, of whom Griswold himself said: "[I] came to have a great feeling of confidence in his opinion. I used to have long conversations with him about Yale ... from then until his death, Lhe) became the most influential spirit and voice in our site planning ... and in our building program." One becomes conscious of that famous "old boy network" which partially controls everything from the people who teach at the Architecture School to the architects who get the big commissions here. As any good

America's favorit~ corporate architectural firm Skidmore, Owings and Merrill, discovered that there was not enough commercially available onyx in the world to build this monster, they chose translucent marble; it is still, according to rumor, the most expensive building per square foot ever built. (These last facts cannot be verified because of Yale's secrecy in such matters.) At the same time, Beinecke broke all of the traditions, destroying a . courtyard, conforming to the axis of the streets and to a single scale. Like the average Yalie in the corporate world, it is hard, inhuman and yet magnificently cogent on the outside, meticulously detailed, luminous and elegant on the inside.

Other disasters befell Yale: Becton, Helen Hadley Hall, and the new D.U.H. building sent such defenders of the sensitive Yale tradition as Vincent Scully howling in outrage.

Another debacle, somewhat later in date, was Cross Campus Library, given over to Edward Larrabee Barnes, the favorite architect of the next president of Yale. Though it managed to surrender to the great Yale tradition, it is a badly designed building which gives in to that tradition without adding any creative elaboration of its own.

By the time of President Kingman Brewster, Yale had come up with a grand plan for its further development. This plan, unveiled in January of 1965, called for the expenditure of no less than $100 million for the construction of what amounted to a completely new campus. Cross Campus was to be extended across College Street, breaking through the

Yalie knows, it is who you know that counts, perhaps because it is easier to trust a commonality of values and outlook than the cold facts of a resume.

Saarinen understood what Yale was all about and, in designing the two new colleges paid for by Paul Mellon, our present-day Harkness, he followed the Rogers System. Using his own historical reference, the Italian village of San Gimigiano, he built the same off-axis courtyards opening up from narrow paths of entry and focused on the great volumes of the dining hall and the towers. The complexity with which the walls recede and advance matches that of Rogers' accidental stone walls. Saarinen wanted these modern, poured-concrete colleges to parallel those of his great predecessor.

He had stones fitted into the forms of the concrete, around which the pour.:. ing was done. Later, judging the finished walls not 'stony' enough, he had workmen chisel away at the concrete and place more stones in the already set wall. Saarinen preached sensitivity and controlled monumentality, and he successfully created a beautiful new home for the Yale Man with those terms.

In the over-confident years of "The Best and the Brightest," when America was over-reaching itself in Vietnam, Yale over-reached itself on Beinecke Plaza. Dedicated to that arcanest aspect of Yale, the careful preservation of endless tomes of rusty knowledge, this scaleless wonder was originally conceived of, according to local folklore, in green onyx. When the architects, representatives of

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New Haven street plan once more, and the whole block from there down to Temple Street was to house a massive set of social science buildings.

Becton had already been planned. ·Kline Science Center was the second of the projects, together with the new math building, transforming Science Hill into a monolithic monument to the computer, the test tube and the slide rule. The third project called for the massive expansion of the facilities at the medical school.

Obviously and, some would say, luckily, this plan was never fully carried out. Yale realized, in the late sixties, its limitations. Its own students, the city of New Haven and the demographics and economics of America each revolted against the transformation of the creative Yale Man, housed in a humanistically scaled cainpus devoted to the humanities, into a technological master of computers. For the first time in a century, Yale had to rework its role in maintaining the creative elite: the failure of "the best and the brightest" and the failure of some of the new buildings at Yale can be seen as · parallel processes.

The students and some of the faculty openly rebelled against the Yale image at this point. In the dead of night they erected Claes Oldenburg's great Lipstick, a selfproclaimed comment on our capitalist society, in Beinecke Plaza. Oldenburg had predicted that a placing of one of his works on the Yale Campus (he, too, studied here) would signal the coming of the revolution. Unfortunately, this time the power of the image failed, although as a platform the lipstick became an integral part of the May Day riots.

Only one building managed the intrusion of the sciences into the hearts and the curriculum of the Yale Man, precisely because it worked within the architectural language ,already set up by Yale. Philip · J ohnso.n, himself a vital link in various good old boy networks, envisioned the Kline Science Center as a bold tower, slightly but very confidently off-axis, built from materials meant to blend with the rest of • he campus, enclosing a courtyard. But this courtyard is a sterile, wind-swept spaceport where all social focus is ;nissing, perhaps because t~e whole complex of buildings was never completed.

The Art and Architecture Building, designed by Paul Rudolph, was the other major building of the sixties, and the capstone of this architect's extensive involvement with New Haven and Yale, which included a deanship at the School and numerous civic and Yale buildings. Striking a tower's pose and creating only courtyard spaces on the inside, it is an extremely compact statement and a part of the bastion motif: its walls are rough, its structure forbidding and domineering, its sheer play of forms an academic game with its own history (Frank Lloyd Wright, for one). These walls were formed, at grea.t expense, by attaching triangular pieces of metal inside the forms which mold the concrete and (here rumor starts), once the forms were taken off. having two hundred workmen pQund the not yet set concrete with jackhammers to achieve the proper degree of roughness.

The passage of Rudolph and his aggressive view of Yale building in the _ continued to page 12

10

the new journal, M ay 2, 1978

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Green g rass edges the billow of my sister's d ress She is flagra ntly on the ground, hours of sunlight On her face , a mind for daring and murmuro us speech.

Anxious to know a cloud's configuration, She will dance about now, pointing to the sky.

I said, "No, Mary, your beauty is excessive.

You will spin off like the petals on everyone's Favorite fl ower." She said, "Yes Yes Yes, Brother, for each there is love."

She is t he woman that I don' t know.

She is in chic silks in Asian cities At the moment. Pushpins hold her postcards. " Ma ry, do you see the broad slapdash cloud?

It is a furious modern painting, tears of a tree."

Had I been introduced I would have known her.

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the new journal, May 2, /978

Black Bodies continued from pa[!e 7

for Malcolm and Janet Thompson

the trail and reload my M-16 and keep on running. The foot hurts like hell, but keep on running. Fire a few rounds back but they can't see me and I'm going west. Their movement is north-south. They'll leave me now.

I'm getting near Z7 and my foot is bleeding like crazy. I better find a place to crash until daylight. White man looks the same as a gook in the infrared and the new sniper line is up here. I smell lifers. A few yards ahead is a bush. Head for it. Just going for it ... CRACK-ck-ck-ck-ck. M-16 fire and I'm on my back. Silence. Blood.

No pain yet. Flashes were straight ahead of me thirty yards. Sniper fire.

"And oh," says one child, "look at it!

Spoon-moon." It is only soundless, Intimate, perfect as a roof Of closeness itself; whether a Window on the unbearable Brilliance of elsewhere, other skies Behind our own, or a tilted Face thrust in our midst, or even The blank centre of our lone eye, ._. It is too large to hang. But then See - its wavering bit of edge Brings the memory of a dead World pictured suddenly, for it Gives itself away with movement.

The children run about the yard.

As the light dims and thickens, each Tick of awareness in daylig~t Clouds, freezes, hesitates even; They become bolder and blinder In their running. Withdrawn into The glory of their own skins (thought Shells around the soft, weighty huH< Which is robbed of light: a body), They escape in night. They stamp, shout And pound sightlessly at dumb ground, Halting only when something like A great telescope, there outdoors, Makes them remember, holds their moon.

1\ Then the children play warrior.

In the midst of theatrical Death, when stones, grass, stars still hover In balance at her falling head, One little girl remembers the Image she saw; she sighs, wriggles With delight, and shocks the others, Who cry, "But you're dead!" for she Gives herself away with movement.

-

Martha Hollander

My legs ain't movin' when I tell :~m to and I can hear the trees. Faintly.

"Monkey 3 reports lone troop in Rll by Z7 zone. No other activity.

No artillery needed. Over and out."

The M-16 still by my side and my

lights going out. Scope the trees.

Starting to feel the pain now. Never feel the pain until a minute after. Set the nozzle on medium spread. Scope it again and watch the two little Christmas fairies move. Radio me dead . . . Aim . . . then shoot me, you welcher . . . lifer . . . Pull the trigger and hundreds of rounds eat the tree ... listen. Leaves, twigs and shit hitting the ground, then the biggest shit around...

Forget it now ... a real nice sexy woman is coming down a long furlined hallway. Come on baby, I'm ready like a bride on wedding night.

Nice sexy soft woman. Come on baby and bring you r sister for Malone ... come on you fine thing ... I empty my gun, aimed into darkness.

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continued from page. 9 sixties was followed by the selection of Charles Moore, the king of creative, humane and zooty modem architecture, as Dean of the Architecture School. Yale became a focus of a movement of architectural design which has since swept America; the university's strong faculty and long history of architecture as a series of sensitive images constructing a carefully defined world placed it in a leading position. It is no coincidence that such men as Robert Venturi ("Complexity and Contradiction in Modern Architecture"), Charles Moore, Louis Kahn and Vincent Scully were all connected with Yale.

The most obvious product of this movement was Venturi's design for the new mathematics building and the competition which produced it. The design called for a re-use of some of the materials prevalent on Hillhouse Avenue and a graceful gesture to the mansions up the hill. It represented a complete surrender to the desires of the present and future users of the building and, as such, it was an unexciting structure symbolic of Yale's retrenchment. The money for the math building was to come from that left-over plan from the corporate image days, the dismally faltering Campaign for Yale.

The most successful and most succinct modern statement of the Yale image which this new awareness produced is the British Art Center.

When Paul Mellon gave the money and the collections for this center, he envisioned the building as a transmitter of the values of humanist order that were to him the central feature of seventeenth century English culture.

To Mellon, Yale is very clearly a continuation of this elitist, creative, humanistic and rationalistic society, and the design of the Center was to be, as Director Jules Prown put it, "suffused with these qualities." Architect Louis Kahn, a former faculty member, emphasized over and over again his view that our present-day society could only be saved by reimbuing its institutions with meaning, a process in which architecture was extremely important.

The building he created focuses very heavily on courtyards and the importance of the interaction of human beings in a public space. It also creates a world that is completely understandable to the human mind and recalls the luxurious setting in which a Yale Man, along with his spiritual ancestors at Oxford and Cambridge (Mellon attended this last institution) would feel at home. The aggressive tower is gone from the traditional imagery, perhaps because

of Yale's new humility. Instead, the tower is inside, in the form of the great concrete stairwell which is the actual and spiritual focus of the building.

On the outside, the building's greyness is a combination of a grey flannel J. Press suit and a grey New Haven day, the reserved elitism of Yale and the realities of a Northeastern big city. The Center is a large jewelbox, like Beinecke, protective of its valuable interior, but, like the Rogers colleges, it helps define the city in opposition to and in interaction with its process of selfenclosure. As such it is perhaps the finest statement of modern architecture at Yale, the complete model for the present-day Yale Man. Yale architecture continues to search for ways of expressing the university's role in a dialogue with the city. "We let the city in very early on in the design process," says Ed Dunne, Yale's Director of Facilities Planning. "We are very concerned . with the quality of New Haven life."

"Yale has opened up considerably," agrees John McGuerty, head of New Haven's City Planning. "We are consulted pretty early on .... In general, I'd say that the buildings on the Yale campus are among the most successful urban structures of the country. They really define the street, the courtyards are magnificent....

Now Giurgola in the design for the Whitney Avenue Colleges was going to have these external courtyards.

That's baloney, it just doesn't work."

Yale's courtyards are obviou~ly not meant for New Haven.

There are some areas of tension. A large institution means a lot of cars, and McGuerty believes the parking lots that surround Yale destroy the city environment. "Hell," he says, "I've got to keep pushing." There also remains an undying hatred between such men as McGuerty and Scully, who tried to save City Hall from the zealous hands of city planners: two different value systems clashed, and probably will continue to clash, though the city seems to have grown more sensitive to the Scully-esque arguments for the preservation of urban identity, as Yale tries to respond to New Haven's outcries.

Yale has committed itself to a policy of "filling in the gaps between the teeth," as Barnes puts it. No major new buildings are planned. The emphasis is now on the extensive reuse of existing buildings. The foremost example of this is Herb Newman's and Barnes' design for the Old Campus renovations. "We tried to bring back the atmosphere of the original rooms," Newman says. His

j_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __

design - six units around a very large communal living room - is a miniature version of the courtyard .

Just as noteworthy is the set of fashionable East Side images evoked by the new rooms: smooth white walls, highly polished wood floors and skylights looking out over the city.

They seem a promise of what the modern Yale Freshperson has to look forward to after graduation - a nice reward for fulfilling Yale's objectives.

The rooms are also interesting in that they were designed in close cooperation with the students, faculty and administration. Everybody is now concerned about what building means at Yale, what its values and implications are. Dunne and Newman like to point out the degree in which the total Yale population is now involved in the design of Yale buildings. As Dunne says: "We do talk about what a Yale building means, what that involves in the design, with everybody. We think that the talented architects who have built here have each come up with their own interpretation, and that they have built, without exception, quite successful buildings." "Yes," Scully affirmed, "there is very definitely a way in which Yale architects have worked in a great tradition, within the framework of what Yale as an instittttion means, worked with the image of the Yale Man." The students and faculty have resigned themselves to this elitist tradition, or have decided to work

within it. The Lipstick has been quietly moved to a corner of Morse College, where it sits facing the Master's House and Saarinen's great tribute to the Yale Man, while almost no one remembers its revolutionary meaning. Yalies seem to accept their world of images, their fairyland, with varying degrees of pleasure and agitation, once again molding themselves in the images the buildings provide for them.

The contradictions of architecture at Yale continue nevertheless, for example at the new complex of buildings under construction for the School of Organization and Management on Hillhouse and Trumbull Streets. For a branch of the university that expresses the pure power of the Yale image, Barnes designed a building that tries to hide itself completely behind the older, more humanistic order of the houses on Hillhouse, while asserting itself with a curious little pavilion reminiscent of a Pizza Hut. "One of Yale's problems right now," says Susan Ryan, an expert on Yale architecture who has taught a course here on the subject, "is that they realize that as an institution with a message their buildings have, in a sense, to be monuments. But the times we live in and their awareness of the problems of putting a new building in an old context leads them to deny that monumentality." Yale wants to state its meaning in its buildings, yet a

)

continued to page 15 (/

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Wednesday, March 15. Another get-to-know-your-Sputternick day, all fifteen hours worth from Wilmington to Winter Park, F lorida. Certain things become evident to me. Those hustlers up at the front of the bus don't play simply because they want to crack the starting line-up. They dO' it because they're all getting rich. At least that's what they say. Lowry, who wears Coach's jacket, is getting rich; Big Hags, who sleeps with Coach's pillow, is getting rich. Certainly M.D., who eats Coach's Big Mac, is getting rich. We all wonder who's not telling ~ the truth.

The ethos of the day is the southern smuggle. Every hour or so, Walter slides Sputternick off the road and slips her through the trees, down some dirt road. Each of the dirt roads looks identical to me; all have a strange looking tree, kind of like a hybrid cigar, jutting up every hundredth marking. Even stranger, there's a sign fixed to each "Welcome, Yale Baseball" - above a mysterious logo: a Y pierced by what 'looks like a baseball but is actually a cigar. Eventually, each one of these roads leads to a one-room shack, where we stop while Walter, the pilot, hops down from his cockpit and snaps for a few assistants to follow him. Soon some of the guys come back bearing armfuls of cigars.

Mysteriously, O.B. opens up the luggage berth in Sputternick's midbelly and removes the bat bag.

Squatting on the grass, the guys .._. proceed to remove the plastic caps from the ends of all of the bats. I didn't even know they came off.

Inside, they're entirely hollow. Walter instfucts his men to stuff the bats with cigars. They do so, re-cap the bats, return them to the case, and return the case to the luggage berth. Walter makes a final trip to the shack to settle financial matters and comes back to the bus, puffing blissfully on a Louisville Slugger.

Thursday, March 16. Rollins College. Wind wafted palm trees, a campus constructed around a swimming pool and dedicated to one purpose, the sun. Courses in water polo, water skiing, and pool strutting.

We - the men and Karen of Yale baseball - make ourselves conspicuous. We are the only people camped about the pool before 7:00 in the morning. We are also, with the exception of Third World, the only people who sport our native coloring: the Yale pale. By game time this condition is rectified, but with severe consequences. No one can budge a limb. We try to-cancel the game, but are denied our request. I nstead we play under protest and sunscreen.

The solaces of losing a game at Rollins College are many and soothing. Most involve fluids of some sort.

At 9:00 Cricket, Moon Beamy, and I begin the evening's revels with a • skinny dip in the officially closed Rollins College swim pool. By 4:00P.M. we are all fast asleep.

Friday, March 17. Our last d ay at Rollins, so we strive to maximize ~he ray absorption and leave town with a good bronze. In a morning swim, underwater in the deep end, I notice a poster enclosed in glass, planted on the bottom of the pool. Unbelievably, it turns out to be an advertisement for a singing concert the next evening.

The photo depicts a cadre of twenty, typically rude-looking long hairs, clad in bikinis and posed in V formation in front of Sterling Library. Deja vu?

Sun stroke? Drowning and an afterlife? Not with that crowd. The twenty bikini-bottom bad boys turn out to be for real, none other than the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus, more generally known as the SOB's. Among the motley contingent there snickers my roommate. Immediately I resurface and begin to plot. The SOB's

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We at Baskin Robbins know the realities of the "cold cruel world." So here's your last break, seniors - save a dollar now and use it towards your first loan payment! clip a nd save are to sing tomorrow, but Yale baseball is to leave tonight. I won't have a chance to dispose of my roommate myself, but I will have immunity once I arrange for someone else to dispose of him for me. I get hold of pen and paper and compose a one-line letter, "David, kiss me, you ghoul, now." Next I seal the letter in an envelope and scout about for suitable game. She must be blonde and the sheer weight of her mammary mass must make not only me, but my roommate, David, giddy and grateful.

I find such a person, who identifies herself as Dolly. I say "Hello Dolly," and dissolve into my Carol Channing imitation. Dolly sits, resplendently and abundantly. She is nonplussed.

How could she be more plussed?

Finally, after I settle down, she consents to deliver the note. My only regret is that I cannot learn the results until I get back to school. Not to disappoint the reader, however, we shall leap forward in time and get the inside story a week in advance. Dolly, dolt that she is, lost the letter, went up to David in the middle of the show anyway, and was immediately snatched up by David, who was giddy, grateful, and quite ga'llant. · Saturday, March 18. A short flash of the Sputternick brings us to Lakeland, Florida, an eight lane strip of highway lined with palaces of plastic nre-cooking. Hamburger Row. Hardy's, Burger King, White Tower, Gino's, McDonald's, the Calhoun Cabaret. The American zip dream run amok. Paroxysms of hamburger phobia, until I remember - today is an off day.

The guys splinter in several directions, some the way of Disney, others the way of Tampa Bay, and still others the way of the motel swimming pool. I select this last route and sit chaise-lounged by the kiddy pool.

I wiggle my toes in the shallow end.

I think about Eli. I remember I'm supposed to prepare something for our annual rookie talent show. Since I don't know how to yodel and find it repugnant to dress up in drag {unlike Cricket, Wheels and Baby Hags, who perfume and perform admirably as the "Point-

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BASXIH-KDSSIKS ICE CBEAM STOlES less Sisters"), I have to resort to my only talent, plagiarizing second-rate poetry. The result of my effort, "Kenzie at the Fungo," the longawaited sequel to "Casey at the Bat," is printed, in part, below: There were saddened hearts in Mudville.

For a week or even more There were muttered oaths and curses, Every fan in town was sore.

"Just think," said Hags, "How good it looked with Kenzie at the bat And then to think he'd go and pull a bush league move like that."

(Kenzie had whipped with the bases full.)

The Elis are now in the last half of the ninth, down 3-2 to Harvard. Their numero-uno slugger, the mighty Kenzie, currently, as noted above, out offavor with the fans, is about to come to bat, with the tying run already on first.

A dismal groan in chorus came A scowl lined Walter's face As Kenzie walked up, fungo in hand And slowly took his place.

But fame is fleeting as the wind And glory fades away; There were no wild or wooly cheers, No glad acclaim that day.

At this point, Kenzie works the Harvard pitcher to a 3-2 count, then ·takes a wicked rip at a fastball. The poem concludes:

Oh, somewhere in this favored land Crimson clouds may hide the suo And Mo's harmonica sadly play And Beamy have no fun.

And somewhere over rookies' lives There may hang a heavy pall, But Eli hearts are happy now, Cause Kenzie jacked the ball.

Unfortunately, the delivery of this chef-d'oeuvre was frustrated when, later that night, the rookies decided to restrict their show to a one act dousing of Uncle Wiggly in the motel pool.

Sunday, March 19. All I remember is some girl knocking on the door to my motel room. I let her in.

Monday, March 20. Her name is Jasmine. The rest of the trip is lost in a swirl of color and sun-tanned limbs.

Now, nearly a month later, I am in love, and needless to say. no longer playing Eli baseball.

Jacked to the fence in center field In rapid whirling flight The sun grew dim, both spheres were trashed And then. both lost to sight.

Five thousand Elis mid-terms forgot Five thousand threw a fit But no one ever. found the ball That mighty Kenzie hit.

Dick Pershan has a suntan and a BA under 300.

14

the new journal, May 2, 1978

. ~~~~------runover~-----------------------------------­ continued from page 5 Even good old Nathan Sterster Brewling Osborne doesn't have any input into the admissions process.

Nathan can harass Carm all he wants, but he can't touch Worth David.

There is an aura of something sacred in the admissions office, and when Worth says, "representative class," it sounds tragically sincere. I know five or six Bonzos who were recruited here, none of whom were accepted, and all of whom received "paid visits." Penn's football uprising is partially due to three of these Bonzos.

Recruiting and success are selfperpetuating. Carro can look better than Columbia's or Princeton's coach simply because of his record. A good year on the field means a good year recruiting, which means another good year on the field. Princeton's and Cornell's women's teams succeed on the same prin<(ipal. Yale, by postWorld 'War II standards, still has football facilities which would do justice to any nationally ranked university, while the basketball facilities are not worthy of a serious high school program. And the women's facilities seem to be basic men'!! facilities after a poorly executed sex-

change operation. How can the women's coach leave her recruits drooling the way Carm left Bonzo?

She can't, but women's sports are gaining a closer look from alums.

Athletic recruiting can only be seen as a necessary evil or good. Yale's tradition, image and financial wenbeing depend on a "representative" student body which is superior to the "representative" student bodies of other colleges and universities, fistshaking idealists included. Paul Newman didn't become a star because he had a lisp and knew Hegel insideout.

For the time being, Carm can rest easy while the other coaches kiss alums and give away cigars to get the won-lost percentages in the black.

And the Bonzos and Ringos, as well as the Bonzettes and Ringorinas, will be accepted and rejected like everyone else, though the Bonzos may have an advantage. Even if John Pagliaro stares aimlessly a lot, he added something to this place. So, as a close associate of mine once told me, "Shut up, Snee." Remember, without creeps like me you'd have to bitch at inanimate objects.

Question I When a bolt strikes and cuts with its volts ¡ coring the carcass left to rot and shrivel in its smallness, the charged air steals a spirit before it dissipates and settles, suffocate cry, under the rumble.

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the new journal, May 2, 1978

continued from page 2 was scheduled for undergraduate shows this year because no time was left on the schedule. It does not feel good to be forgotten. Students who feel the need to exhibit their work have taken the initiative themselves.

Some students are attempting to secure a new permanent undergraduate ~;a llery space, while others have worked to organize shows independently of the art school, for example, the recent show of undergraduate women's art at the Women's Caucus in Hendrie Hall. There have been three open houses organized by students. The students' unified efforts call attention to the lack of effort the administration puts into integrating the undergraduates into art school and Yale activities.

This lack of interest implies a lack of respect for undergraduates. One of my art teachers calls us "kids." I am not a fanatic over vocabulary, but I do not like the tone of "kids," which implies a popsicle-box producing arts and crafts shop instead of a studio. I call attention to this because the belief that "undergraduates are not serious" is manifested in a variety of ways. The painting studios are "not conducive to serious painting," as one student put it. Two studios are in the basement of the building with no windows, poor ventilation, overcrowding (as many people know, art classes are often overcrowded, and it is almost impossible for a non-art major to get into most of them) and lights which seem better suited to growing Spider plants than painting. The advanced studio on Chapel Street is only slightly better. Students speak positively of the Hammond Hall sculpture space and the photography facilities, but again all students complain of the lack of show space.

Uther comments on the art department: "Studious, pressured, academic, sort of stifled, not overly creative in outlook ... in general I think there is too much verbal self-justification, putting one's work in historical context."

"I think we're encouraged to paint pretty 'acceptable' pictures and not to eXplore the world through paint."

"The more art courses I take, the more I enjoy them and get something out of them, regardless of teaching quality..."

â&#x20AC;˘

Almost all art students would agree that the graduate students are a very positive part of the art school. I have had some truly excellent and concerned T.A.'s. The art school's guests are first-class, and the lectures and critiques given by visitors and faculty are nearly always worth attending.

I expect that my own need to make and build things out of what I see in the world will be with me long after I leave Yale. If it is, if I am truly filled with ideas of art (that may mean colors, sounds, concepts), I will have no qualms about calling myself an artists. I am not sure I will ever know whether I am "good" or not, and it is not a major question for me now. As one student said, "The people I respect, respect me and my work and in the long run that's all that matters."

- Julie Sclm¡art=man

threatening forces of American society. Note how the centuries separating the Mona Hanna from the kore have de-emphasized the idealized schema of the maiden, yielding a more naturalistic depiction of twentieth-century woman.

The evolution from kore to Mona Lisa to Mona Hanna is remarkable, transcending the differing media; "Hanna from Heaven" constitutes the culmination of this stylistic trend.

Thucydides said that history repeats itself; this is true for the history of fine arts as well. A group of statues now in the University of Chicago Museum, dating as early as 2700B.C., resemble Hanna in the motif of crossed arms (Fig. 4). Or could this be an ancient representation of a Yale Corporation meeting?

In purchasing Mona Hanna, the University of Chicago adds a truly exceptional objet d'art to its collection. However, Chicago has obviously recognized the importance of Mona Hanna; it is attempting to acquire a work from each phase .in the evolution of strategic arm location.

- Robert R. Roman

Mona Hanna The Yale University Art Galkry recently announced the auction and sale of a veritable masterpiece, virtually unknown in art circles, entitled "Hanna from Heaven." (Fig. l) She has been purchased by the University of Chicago for six million dollars. Little art-historical criticism has been published about the work, and the artist is unknown, although, judging from stylistic and compositional characteristics, the photographer plays off a well-developed theme: "Hanna" is a direct descendant of Leonardo da Vinci's "La Joconde" ("Mona Lisa"), dating 1503-1505 (Fig. 2).

Leonardo's masterpiece is best known for the enigmatic expression on Mona Lisa's face. She sits comfortably, her gaze directed toward the onlooker, breaking through the twodimensional painted surface of the canvas to establish a mysterious rapport with the viewer. In this respect, "Hanna from Heaven" (or, the "Mona Hanna," as it is more commonly known) differs from its predecessor: the smile has widened, yielding a perplexed look; her eyes peer heavenward, requesting divine intervention (but not non-binding arbitration).

Mona Hanna feels threatened by some unknown force and reacts by crossing her arms protectively. Note the more warm, welcoming hands of the earlier Mona Lisa: the caressing hands convey a maternal gentleness which Mona Hanna lacks, her hands hidden securely away; one might never shake hands with this tightfisted woman. In contrast to the motherly Mona Lisa, Mona Hanna is no Mother Yale.

That "Hanna from Heaven" is closely related to "La Joconde" is unquestionable, but other copies and alterations of the Mona Lisa have been created over the years. The Dada movement of the post-World War I era ,_qoasts the Marcel Duchamp "ready-made assisted version" of the Leonardo masterpiece. Duchamp added mustache and beard to the Mona Lisa, entitling the work "LHOOQ," a crude French play on words. "Hanna from Heaven" is also subject to violation by a modem artist - with mustache and beard, Mona Hanna would be labeled " LHOOQ2- ("Elle a chaud aux coudes"), translated loosely as "She's got bot elbows." Perhaps the unknown photographer foresaw this future addition and seated his subject with her arms in this conspicuous pose.

"La Joconde" was the inspiration behind "Hanna from Heaven," yet the great Leonardo masterpiece itself evolved from an even earlier work, the Archaic Greek Auxerre kore, c.

650B.C. (Fig. 3). The female figure displays a similar, albeit Archaic, grin, despite severe damage to a major portion of the face. The statue itself expresses a monumental stoicism which is repeated by Leonardo, but somehow lacking in " Hanna from Heaven." Most important, however, is the statue's arm; it crosses obliquely in front of the figure, a motif which Leonardo continued and developed , including both arms in a tnJly gentle configuration. In the modern composition, Mona Hanna crosses her arms more st. r'ly, in reaction to the

continued from page 12 part of that very meaning is the fact that, in our democracy, the powerful elite must hide its power utterly in the fabric of society. Though Yale's buildings must be an aggressive bastion, they may not be too visible to the village below.

One person who feels he can work out all of these difficulties is the university's consulting architect, Herb Newman. To him, Yale is a world unto itself, scaled for the pedestrian Yale Person, a treasury of great architecture and of ideals, one that he will work very hard to preserve.

"Yale," he told me, "and Yale architecture have a knitting kind of quality, they form a network of ideas.

That's what the Old Boy Network is all about: it's about human relations, putting the person in the center, and it's about the pursuit of excellence.

The network has gone beyond being WASP; it includes people like Giamatti, and me, a Jew from the neighborhood here.... It's about the preservation of a humanistic tradition of values, a kind of elitist making you aware of the fundamental value of architecture, the fundamental issues at the heart of education. The architecture doesn't deal so much with specific people like Griswold or Brewster; the architecture here is selfperpetuating, we are only trustees."

Since Yale has been successful in creating such a cogent, ever-changing model for the Yale Man, the fmal question is what we as trustees want to do with that model, and bow we are to deal with the inner contradictions which not only give it elegance but might, in the end, destroy it. ,.

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