Volume 27 - Issue 3

STUDENTS SLEEP IN CLASS ....

TheNewJoumal P u BLISHER

Monica Fong A CTI NG EDITOR- IN- CHIEF

Suzannt Kim MANAGING EDITOR

David Gtrbtr B u si NESs MANAG ER

. . . AND COMFORT ON A RUBBER MATCH FUTON. IT'S VERSATILE-A COUCH, BED, AND LOUNGER ALL IN ONE. PLEASE SHOP EVERYWHERE ELSE FIRST. SHOP US LAST. VOTED # 1 FUTON STORE FOR BEST QUALITY AND PRICES IN 1993 AND 1994 BY THE NEW HAVEN ADVOCATE READERS POLL. RUBBER MATCH FUTONS-WE'RE MATCHLESSI

Dan Andrujtk DESIGNE R

Kate Schultr PROD UCTION MANAGER

Ttd Gtsing PHOTOGRAPHY EDI TOR

Katit Brandi C O NTRIBUTING EDITORS

joshua Civin jay Porur A sso c iATE PuBLISHER

Christina Lung REs EARCH DIRECTOR

Mtlissa Mosko/ A SSOCIATE PRODUCTION MANAGER

GabritL Snydtr Min Chm •• Brooke Conti•• jackie Cooperman jackie Go/Jbrrg john Gorham • Dan Murphy"• Rosemary Hutzkr • Ben Lumpkin• Sothy Tia' Horling Wong•• E/ana Ztitk •ekcttd to staffNovtmbtr 27, 1994 Membm and D11·mon: Edward B. Bennett lii Constance Clement • Peter B. Cooper • Andy Court • Brooks Kl'lly • Patricia Pierce: • Kathy Reich • Fred Strebeigh • Thomas Strong Jose Manuel Tesoro

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TheNewJournal Volume 27, Number 3

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The magazine about Yale and New Haven

4

About this Issue

5

Points of Departure

38

Between the Vines: Mixed Messages by Jay Porter.

Don't Fence Me In by Karen jacobson. A group of sophomores convene to resurrect an old Yale tradition and face some new Yale challenges.

The Next Stage by Robin Kemper. A reknowned graduate drama program, a vibrant undergraduate theater communiry-a perfect match?

18 25

28 33

December 2, 1994

Burying the Colonel by joshua Civin. A quest to discover the final resting place of Revolutionary War. artist John Trumbull takes one writer to the basement of Yale's art gallery.

Won't you be our Neighbors? by Ann Sledge. Yale has been drawing residents into the New Haven area, but keeping them here poses another problem.

Trailing Behind? by Kate Schuler. A quiet controversy rages over plans to turn the Farmington Canal into a linear park.

Medical Miracles by Dan Murphy. Dr. Bernie Siegel heads the movement in medicine to do more than just fix bodies; he strives to heal-through the combination of mind and body.

TN N,., J•,.m•l i• publtohcd fiv< um., dunng th< school )at by Th< New Journal at Yak. Inc., P.O. Box 203-432 Yalt ~uuon, New Ha>en, cr 06520-}432 Offia: address: 252 Put< Strcrt. Phon.-: (203) 432-1957. All con«nu cop)·nght 1994 by Th< ~o:w Journ.J ot Y.J<. Inc. All Rights R<Krv«l R<producuon <•th<r tn whol< or tn pan wnhout wnn<n ~rmiuion of ch< publi.h<r and C'dicor tn chttf u , prohibned. Whil< thl> magot~n< '' publuhed by Yal< Coll<g< uud<nU, Yalt Untvasity IS noc r.,pon11blt form con~tnu Ttn chouund copto of tach issut art diStributed frtt co m<rnbas of cht Volt a.nd No:w Havm communny. Sub.cnpuons art .-.. hbk co thoS< oucud< cht ar<a. R. ..., Ont y.ar, S 18. Two ytars. $30. TN Ntt11 ;.,.,./is pnnced by Turlty Publiauons, Palmer, MA; bool<lc«ptng and btllang sei'Vled art provided by Colman Bookk..pang of New Ha>·tn. TN NN J•wm~~/tncouragts letttrs co cht C'dicor and commtnu on Yalt and New Haven iuua. Wmt co Suunnt Kim, Edicorial$, 203432 Yale Sue ion, New Ha.·t n, Cf 06520.3432. Allltnert for pubhc:auon muu tnclude addr<U and signacure. Wt rtxrv< cht nghc co edu allltc«l1 for publicacion.

A B 0 U T

T H I S

I S S U E

eing a news and features magazine with a healthy lead time between issues offers unique complications-like the fear of being scooped-.but the format's flexibility make everything worth it. We value, above all else, the ability to cover more than just the stories of the hour. This sometimes means breaking the "let sleeping dogs lie" rule: stories that could have gone unnoticed can spring to life in unexpected ways as eye-opening articles for our readers.

Occasionally, TN] stories also hatch into minor obsessions for our writers. Robin Kemper has been haunting the Drama School for the past couple of months; Dan Murphy playe~ numerous rounds of phone tag with occult oncologist Bernie Siegel (and his guardian angel George); Kate Schuler's article about the Farmington Canal had hei- traipsing through tunnels under the abandoned railway at strange hours; and Ann Sledge, desperate for the latest information on the Yale Homebuyer Program, besieged her sources' voicemail for weeks on end.

Josh Civin's article about John Tr~mbull wins this issue's prize for reportorial persistence bordering on the pathological-but then again, the¡ strange adventures of the patriot-artist seem to inspire uncommon intensity. From the Battle of Bunker's Hill to London art studios to his (somewhat) final resting place beneath the Yale Art Gallery, Trumbull's little-known story begs to be told. To untangle the story behind Trumbull's life, death, and multiple burials,¡ C ivin pored over the manuscripts of Theodore Sizer, a Yale art professor who devoted much of his scholarly career to caquoguing Trumbull's work. He credits much of the story's rich detail to his conversations with Caroline Rollins, Sizer's assistant in this project at the time of his death in 1967. Civin's superimposition of the art historian's work on the painter's creations provided a structure for the piece-with apologies to Simon Schama. (Schama's recent book Dead Certainties seeks to unravel the complicated relationship between painter Benjamin West and an art historian studying his work.)

Civin recreates the Revolution as it would have looked through the eyes of Trumbull-and Trumbull as he would have appeared to Sizer. Although Civin's article treads the line between history and historical fiction, we believe his extensive research has kept him firmly grounded in the available facts. His journey to the bowels of the Art Gallery to make rubbings of Trumbull's tombstone for the cover may mark the end of his year-long obsession with the old colonel. At least we can hope.

-The Editors.

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T HE NEw JouRNAL

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Start Your Engines If that young man walks down to the New Haven Coliseum on November fourth through sixth he too can join the thousands of satisfied visitors at Auto Expo Ninety Five. For a mere seven dollars he can see futuristic concept cars and world class racing cars and he can test his skills on the all-new Virtual Reality Racing Simulators. If char's not enough he can meer Fred Flinmone Rally Raven and his favorite sports stares from the New York Jers New Yo rk Rangers Hanford Whalers New York Yankees and rhe World Wrestling Federation all in an excicing and friendly armosphere.

But first he can fill out a Personal Quesrionnaire for a chance to win one of 150 Car Phones 25 pairs of Ice Hockey Tickets or Discount Cruises. Then he can look at the 1995 Lincoln Continental featuring the same classic lines with all new safety features. But that's for a Mature Crowd. He probably wants to look at the Escort-the third best-selling car in the U.S.A and the number-one selling car in the world.

Meanwhile he can chink abour what kind of driving he'll do-cross-country or comm ute or off-road. The Wagoneer 2000 is perfect for all of rhese. It's all Jeep.

D E PA RT U RE It's outfitted with an Omni-Trac AllWheel Drive System. A 5.2 litre 220 horsepower engine moves the Wagoneer 2000 wh ile Anri-Lock Disk Brakes with Engine-Modulated Traction Control bring ir to sure stops. Add rhe comfort a nd convenience of an inrerior with all the "necessities" to make driving enjoyable a nd the young man has a vehicle chat gives him command of any driving siruacion.

Ac ross the showroom Oldsmobile wants to make his shopping experience as suaightforward and hassle-free as possible.

Each vehicle has a low sricker price every day so a retailer can give him rhe besr price up front-such a good value that tradit ional discounts and rebates are jusc no t necessary. Oldsmobile's new Aurora is anything bur rradirional. It is desrined co c hange the way rhe young man thinks about luxury cars. Wich a curvaceous yet stro n g m u scular shape its exrerior is entertai n ment and its underlying body struct u r e is a Wonderful Marvelous Thing.

If he's a Sophisticated Buyer the young man can listen for thar distinctive sound of qualiry when he shuts the door. Then he can take h o m e the laresr Porsch e Carrera Cabriolet for $74,147. Then he can spin the Jeep Ski Wheel. Then he can fill out another Personal Questionnaire for a chance to win one of 150 Car Phones 25 pairs of Ice H ockey Tickets or Discount Cruises. T hen he can consider the Dual Climate Control Console-with no ozone-depleting CFC's of course. Then he can spin the Jeep Ski Wheel again. Then he can capture those days of the love affair with the hot rod and take it a step further with the Plymouth Prowler. Then he can fill out another Personal Questionnaire for a chance to win one of 150 Car Phones 25 pairs of Ice Hockey Tickets or Discount Cruises. Then he can tell his auto dealer he saw it all at auto expo.

-David G~rb~r

DECEMBER 1., 1994

Eurail through Yale While working in New Haven chis summer, I finally got the chance to see Europe. I didn't exactly go to Europe rather, Europe came to me. For two weeks a little bit of rhe Continent descended upon Old Campus in the fo rm of 1,100 high school exchange students, hailing from var ious pares of Wesrern Europe, forming a scaled-down version of t he European Communiry within the confines of rhese Ivy walls. And my Eurail pass co t hi s European Community was the position I held as an Resident Assistant in this Continental gathering known as the Edu catio n Foundation Language and Culture Camp, t h e largest of many o rganizations chat use Yale facilities over rhe summer.

The Camp provided exchange students a two-week orientation to rhe English language and Amer ican culture before rhey d ispersed co host families all over rhe U n ited States. Like Yale's fres h man orientation period- a.k.a. "Camp Yale"this Camp saw O ld Camp us teeming with excited studenrs, ready to e mbark on a jo urney into ano ther wo rld. Alo ng wit h chis excitement also came the fear of the unknown, which pro mpted the studenrs to move in packs of 10 or 20 (resembling a frosh class). These roving packs, moving in amoeba-like fashion, proved frustrati ng for some pedestrians, who were engulfed by "pseud opods" of blond-haired kids, speaking Swedish or German.

What was my role in a ll this? My duties as an R.A. entailed supervising and providing assisrance to the administrators higher up, much like a camp counselor.

However, underlying these standard tasks, the most important aspect of my job was trying to dispel their misconceptions of Amer icans and American culture. This proved to be an interesting experience, as

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educational for me as it was for them.

Much of what these kids perceived to be American was gathered from the American pop culture imported into their countries. When I told one student I was from Southern California, she inquired whether or nor my address included the zipcode 90210. She assumed that since I attend Yale, I must be rich. And the rich in · California live beside the Walshes in Beverly Hills. Hence, by the transitive property of equality, I must live in Beverly Hills. It wasn't long before I informed her that student loan repayments would eat a hole in my pocket for a long time to come. For two German aficionados of gangsta rap, America was a fantasyland , occupied by gangbangers with big guns and loose women. The lesson they learned was that not every American packs a rod or drinks 40 ouncers. And not everyone watches television each waking hour or at least not more than five hours a day. And not everyone frequents fast-food restaurants daily.

To my surprise, there were a sprinkling of people of Asian descent, as well as other non-white Europeans. Although the numbers are small relative to North America, diversity is slowly breaking ground in European soil. The kids represented a variety of national cultures, each rich in irs own traditions, history, and differences. Not every Swede sees Ace THE NEw JouRNAL

~::!nese of Base as a great benefit to his or her country's trade balance. Not every German watches Baywatch fervently. Not every French person watches Jerry Lewis movies religiously.

After an exhausting but fun two weeks, I (and hopefully the kids as well) left th e Camp with a greater understanding of each others' societies. By doing so, we all gained insights into our own society. If nothing else, at least I know not every European is a cardcarrying member of the David H asselhoff music fan club, and they know I'm not a gun-toting, 40-ounce-dri n kin g surfer living in BH 90210.

-Sothy Tia

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624-3250 • 268 College Street, New Haven , CT 06510 ·At one time or another, Room F 735nicknamed the Gold Coast- probably served as an office for JE. Long and rectangular, the common room is twice the normal size of most other rooms in the college. Located on the first floor, it seemed perfect those days when three flights of stairs stood between me and a forgotten English notebook. My three roommates and I didn't particularly want the big calf muscles developed from running up and down stairs, and we liked the space. When we moved in, we found that it came com plete with a fireplace, two lamps,· plenty of electrical outlets, and a couple of friends named Walter and John.

Walter and John are the homeless men who sleep on top of the two platforms directly beneath our windows. The hissing steam from the water heaters down in the JE basement rises, keeping the platforms warm on chilly nights.

We first met John when he poked his head through the open window and asked us if we had an extra blanket. In response, two of us jumped up and flew across to the

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other side of the room. Somehow, I don't think we made a very good first impression.

After that uncomfortable introduction, we tried to avoid thinking about our honorary guests. The windows in our common room are high and small, with thick metal screens criss-crossing the inside of the glass. So even if we tried, we would have difficulties seeing what was happening

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on the outside; we never knew if "those two men" were lying out there. Every so often, John's single cough echoed as our only reminder of our guests in those rare moments of silence in Room F 735.

I had always prided myself on my community involvement and sensitivity. I was involved with the Yale Hunger and Homeless Action Project (YHHAP) and tutoring for English as a Second Language (ESL). I didn't isolate myself from the community around me; from time to time I would stick my head out from that glass barrier called "campus life." But no amount

of volunteer work could deny my fear of the man who asked me for a blanket.

About a month after school started, I fi nally found out more about Walter and John. One of my friends, a fellow student, having spent many an evening talking to some of the people on the streets, had gotten to know Walter, John, and other homeless people. Walter and John-they sleep next to your window, she explained.

John doesn't like the shelter,-. He thinks they're too noisy; he thinks there are roo many loud people. He even told me he likes jail more than the shelters.

But it's hard this year because the policemen are cracking down, my friend complained.

Maybe that's why I haven't seen many of my buddies ou'tside recently.

But maybe it's because they've found a place to sleep.

The first time I met Walter, he was sirring on the steps near the Pierson walkway. I couldn't tell how old he was, but he reminded me of a very old man. He didn't say much. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but I was afraid to break his concentration. His eyes stared down on the ground as if intently watching something. I wondered what he watched.

Sometimes when I see Walter on the street, I stop to say a few words. He doesn't say much; he usually nods "yes" or "no" to my questions. I'm not able to give him food and blankets every night, but in our conversations we may exchange something better.

-Kathy Hsu

THE NEw jouRNAL

As groups of so ph o mores attempt t o res urrect th e o l d Yale instit utio n of the Fence Club, ' 90s Yalies may cry ...

Don't Fence Me In

W

en the Fence Club closed in 1979 the New York Timt'i ran an article tided "The Passing of a Club for

he Elite at Yale." The piece described the club as "a astion of privilege, where a man of means could go for a good meal, to shoot some pool or have a quiet drink with a few college buddies." The description of the club evokes an antiquated vision of Yale, when it was overwhelmingly homogeneous and before women had been admitted. Last spring a number of then-freshmen began contemplating the notion of resurrecting the club.

Nathaniel Fogg (BK '97) had grown up hearing about the Fence Club from his father, Joseph G. Fogg III (BK '68), and his father's friends, who had belonged to the club in their Yale days.

The "Fence" of old retained much of its campus renown eveQ after its closing. The original building, which still stands off of York Street, has been used by student organizations in recent years for informal parties. In its heyday, the Fence building contained a bar, large dining room, ballroom, billiard room, and a stage.

could not transfer meals to different residential colleges, so the club allowed students from different colleges to eat together. Fence's popularity peaked in the mid 1960s, with as many as 150 members.

It served as a sponsor for social functions, a place of retreat, and as Fogg recalls his father saying, a place to "cement friendships." In the late 1960s Fence even had a surplus of $120,000 from bar revenues, according to the New York Times. .

Yale changed in the 1970s, following a national trend against the establishment and tradition. Fence lost its attraction. Yale began to emphasize residential college life and accepted female students in 1969. In that year the Yale Banner described fraternities as "benign irrelevancies." In 1972 6KE closed, and Fence was left with a mere 20 members.

I

nitially, Fogg and a few of his friends began to talk about the idea of finding a place of retreat. They envisioned a house offcampus: a place to enjoy an afternoon snack, watch television, and hang out with friends. Throughout the summer and this fall, their vision has evolved into a new Fence Club. However, the utopian vision of the society they wished to create contrasted with what many would consider a legitimate purpose for forming the group. They lacked a unifying principle or cause for which to fight.

Fogg and his friends sought only to get a house.

The Fence Club began as Psi Upsilon, a junior fraternity formed in 1839. In 1934 it became the Fence Club, named for the fence surrounding the Old Campus which was once a social hangout. The fence was more than a gathering place--it also operated as a site of social conflict; social cliques and classes claimed their own sections of the fence.

Fence chose to break its affiliation with the national Psi Upsilon organization and, like most of the junior fraternities on campus, set up a foundation. The Trumbull Trust Fund, regulated by a small group of Fence alumni, supported the society's activities. In the 1960s, Yale had two major fraternities-Delta Kappa Epsilon (6KE), which attracted the so-called jocks, and Fence, home of the "preppies." Members dined several times a week at the house. At that time students

Although Fence had a few major drives to increase membership in the late 1970s and accepted female members in 1972, it never again attracted the numbers or the dues needed to cover expenses. In 1979, with a debt of $26,700, Fence closed its doors and turned the building over to ¡the university. Fence had no place in contemporary Yale. "The profile of the undergraduate body seemed to have permanently shifted, and there simply was not enough demand for the fraternities to keep them operating," noted Joseph Fogg III. Fence's imminent resurrection raises questions about what role it could fill at Yale in the 1990s. Over the last decade Yale has become increasingly diverse, with the highest percentage of female undergraduates of any Ivy and a vocal minority population. The Fence of old hardly seems appropriate in today's sening.

While most students at Yale do not identify with IOD

by Karen Jaco

DECEMBER 2,

1994

b

9

the Old Blue that rhe Fe nce Club represents, interest in exclusive membership socieites may be on the rise. More than ten fraternities and sororities have appeared in recent years; all have sizeable memberships and parties packed with undergraduates on the weekends.

Along with renewed interest in fraternities, membership in ethnic and cultural groups has increased. Whether it be the Greek system, cultural houses, or literary discussion societies such as Sr. Anthony Hall , srudems are searching for a place where they can retreat from the relentless pace of Yale life.

The students reviving the Fence Club also fed Yale is coo large for them to meet a variety of people. By the end of their freshman year, Fogg and John Levinson (SY '97) felt trapped by their socia l activities. Both wanted to meet people outside of their residential colleges and chosen activities. However, neither found the external venue to have real conv.ersations and form friendships. They had considered joining fraternities, but neither wished to align himself with a single fraternity, as that might offend friend s in other fraternities.

Over the summer, a group of six students officially planned to open the Fence Club again. As they wrote in one of their original pledge commitments: "We are not dreaming anymore and it is time that we band together and operate as The Fence Club. We will raise the money we need to buy a house, from the alums, bur until then we will starr operating just as the old Fence did, with members paying dues, organizing weekly dinners/meetings, and whatever else it is we decide to do for fun. It is important that we look ro the future with a house and a smooth operaring program but it is more important rhar we deal with what is going on right now and not lose sight of the fact that we are a solid number of people committed to a common goal." ogg, Levinson, and others began a subtle recruiting process, talking to close friends who, Fogg says, are

10

"good people, with motivation."

Most of the core members al ready knew each other from a pool of friends seif-described as having good judgement of character and the right goals in mind. The first meetings , held in restaurants, swdents' rooms, and the Berkeley College Swiss Room, informed the invited few about Fence, and pur plans on the table to form a statement of intent.

With wood paneling and low ceilings, the Swiss Room captures the Old Blue aura of the emerging Fence club. At the first official meeting, each guest received a commitment form. Fogg, designated president of the emerging club, sat at the end of the long table, flanked by a few core members. The group sought to form a committee of 20 students-ten men and ten women-willing to do the legwork and planning required to organize a club from scratch, and who shared their vision.

At the end of the meeting, the men and women present were asked to sign a form pledging their service to the reincarnation

of the club and committing $200 each .

The original group of six felt that more energy would be put into the organization if members had a financial stake. With the sense of an important adventure, the commitment form ended with the "Let us now dispense with the, 'I hope we can ... ,' 'Maybe we' ll be able to ... ,' and, 'Wouldn't it be nice if.. .. ' It is now time for rhe, 'We need ... ; 'We will... ,' and 'We can... !"' Not everyone signed.

The club then focused on financial concerns and the house. The group consulted a lawyer and hired a broker to search for a house, still the major priority.

The group decided to form a Trumbull Trust modeled after the old Fence Club's.

Dues and alumni donations would be placed in the account and overseen by a group of alumni trusrees.

Despite initial efforts, only five of the final 20 steering commiuee members are women, and two of them were not invited until a few weeks later, when rhe Steering Committee attempted for a second rime to

THE NEW JouRI"AL

attract females. Of the final 20 on the Committee, four had fathers in the old Fence.

The club continued to aim to reclaim a part of the past, a past that involved the camaraderie and community that fence members felt had disappeared from Yale.

Graham Boettcher (PC '95) began to search the archives for articles on the old Fence. Yet after the steering committee was formed and the members began to approach more students and spread the word that they were restarting the club, the group realized that in contemporary Yale they were less likely to d raw the individuals they wanted if they relied merely on tradition.

By the time the first statement of interest appeared, the generalizations of "common goals" and "having fun" had grown into a concrete vision. Their new statement began: "Fence shall be a group of women and men made up of individuals of differing backgrounds who shall come t ogether to create and to cemenr friendships that might not otherwise be made. Fence offers a social opportuniry at Yale for individuals to gather together across lines dema rcated by other extracurricular circles that might not otherwise be crossed. Thus, Fence shall create a relaxed, non-university, social environment."

The group also intends to get involved in community service p rojects. Both Levinson and Fogg had participated in highly structured community service groups in high school. Jhey hope that the club will attract individuals willing to get involved in the communiry, given the right opportuniry. As Fogg envisions: "I believe that communiry service is about showing up, about being there for the communiry, not just one time, but all the time in general. I believe we can make both a group effort and an individual one. In ot her words, let's make it clear to people that community service is something that should be incorporated into everyone's lifestyle, in some form or another, and that the Fence club is a club that supports that view."

DECEMBER 2 , 1994

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ence supporters also want to offer scholarships to students who otherwise would not be able to join for monetary reasons.

Finally, with a viable vision and a steering committee, the group began contemplating expansion. The group looked to Mory's, singing groups; St. 1\s, and senior societies as models for their own rush process. After much deliberation among the steering committee, Fence decided that any regularly enrolled student, graduate or undergraduate, may become a member of the Fence Club. After attending a rush event, an individual may ch~ose to submit an application, declaring interest in joining Fence. As the membership form reads, "The main objective during this rush process is for you [the rushee] to decide whether Fence is right for you." After submitting an application, the student attends rush events to get to know currer.t.members and other interested students.

Once a member of the Steering Committee has gotten to know a rushee well enough to judge his or her character, the member may sponsor the rushee. Once three members have sponsored the rushee, the rushee will be considered by the whole

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The utopian vision of the society contrasted with a legitimate purpose for forming the group. Fogg and his friends sought only to get a house.

Steering Committee at the end of rush as a potential member. The rushee will not know the sponsor. Steering Committee members felt this would encourage individuals to get to know the pledges more in depth, helping them judge character and form strong friendships. As it stands, Fence forecasts a class of 35 sophomore inductees each year, for a total club membership of about 100.

Dues will be about $590 per year, over $200 more than most of the Greek societies and St. Xs. However, even with this higher cost, Fence will not offer cooked meals to members. Even one meal per week would raise the dues to $833 per year. At that cost, the Steering Committee does not feel jt could attract a wide spectrum of students.

To improve involvement, the committee recently decided to divide the group into five standing committees: the Financial Committee, the Membership Committee, the Entertainment .Committee, the Community Service Committee, and the Public Relations and Alumni Committee.

These groups investigated issues separately and then reported to the full committee to · address major decisions. For instance, the club has decided not to acquire a liquor license. Members will provide their own alcohol at parties. The group also organized a tailgate party for the Yale-Princeton footb~l game.

Yale University has no involvement with the group. Early on, Fogg approached the university to ask what conflict the new Fence Club might raise with university policy and how that might be avoided. As Dean Richard Brodhead said, "If any group however constituted decided to create an association without official affiliation with the university, Yale's policy would be that it would do nothing to support the effort, but that it would not be its business to attempt to block it." In day-to-day terms, this means Fence will receive no monetary support from Yale.

The Fence Club has set out to create a new social organization for Yale students.

The group hopes to give its members opportunities to organize activities that might not otherwise occur because of funding problems.

With its energy and many ideas, Fence will become a reality by next fall, with a rush process this January. The coming months will either see the growth of a group with an identity distinct from existing organizations or the failure of a club that seeks to graft a bit of Old Yale onto the new.

Kilren jacobson is a sophomore in Jonathan Edwards Coikge.

I8IJ

THE NEw JouRNAL

Does the world -fa mou s School of Drama see coo peration with undergraduate theater as

The Next Stage? n the office of Stan Wojewodski (pronounced Voya-VUD-ski), Dean of the Yale School of Drama, hangs a framed needlepoint sign with rhe Bantu phrase, "A person is a person because of orher persons." The greeting conveys a sense of the community which the drama school faculty and students hail as one of the finer points of their institution. But gaining entrance into the commu nity requires, in the single word of Associate Dean Earl Gister, "Talenr." Wojewodski adds, "We look for talenr, passion, and intelligence." Only accepting 67 srudenrs out of last year's applicant pool of l, 164, the Yale Drama School boasrs a gifted dire whose alums include Meryl Streep and Henry Winkler.

The undergraduate community also harbors great theater. James DePaul, the director of undergraduate studies for the rheater studies departmenr, esrimares he saw 67 student productions lasr year; he missed at least 20. "They're enthusiastic and inspiring, " DePaul says of the undergraduate dramatists. Acting instructor Bill Walters attests, "They're extremely intelligent and really capable." Their talents create one of the most vibrant undergraduate theater scenes in the country. , Despire the quality and virality of both theater communities, surprisingly lirrle interaction occurs berween them. As actor Max Chalawasky (DRA '96) admirs, "The Drama School is a litde world unto irself." This lofry and rarefied world firsr came inro exisrence in 1924 as the simple Deparrmenr of Drama at the School of Fine Arts. Students registered in rhe fall of 1925, and the first Masrer of Fine Arts in Drama was conferred in 1931. In 1955, rhe Yale Corporarion reorganized the depanmenr as a separare professional school offering both a master's degree and a docroral degree. The school founded the Yale Repenory Theatre in 1967 to enhance srudenr training through rhe experience of working in a professional rhearer.

I

The drama school course catalog derails a list of priorities for students: "(I) Yale Repertory Theatre; (2) classes; (3) major productions of the Yale School of Drama." The primacy of the Rep may surprise more academically focused undergraduates. Elizabeth Cohen (DRA '95) explains: "The school has an intricate, symbiotic relationship ro rhe Rep." Ray Inkel (DRA '95) describes rhe Rep in less philosophical rerms: "They've made an old church inro a rremendous place ro learn."

The Rep, a member of rhe professional League of Residence Thearres, gives srudenrs in all disciplines of rhe school rhe opporruniry ro collaborare wirh fellow srudenrs, professors, and rhearer professionals on six full-lengrh producrions annually. By the end of rheir rhree years, all srudenr direcrors have assisrant directed -.; Rep shows, all srudenr stage managers have ~ assistant stage managed Rep shows, all ~ technical design and production (TD&P) ~ scudenrs have been rechnicians on Rep ¡"' shows, and all dramarurgy srudenrs have ~ wrirren about Rep shows; many acting ~ srudenrs even acr in Rep shows. In rhe ~ words of Joyce Friedmann, press and 'i publications Director for the Rep and rhe 6 Drama School, "The Rep is a kind of 1l teaching hospital," a forum for practical ~ learning about aJI aspecrs of professional f rheater.

The School's emphasis on practical rraining, both ar the Rep and in School producrions, makes for grueling schedules. Srudenrs rypically have classes from 9 a.m. ro 2 p.m. and rehearsal from 2:30 p.m. to II p.m., rhough rehearsals often run until 1 a.m. Catherine Mardis (DRA '98), a firsr year srudenr who began working on a producrion a couple of weeks into rhe semester, describes her commitmenr ro the Drama School in Faustian terms. ''I've sold my soul ro Yale for rhree years." Chalawasky is even more blunr: "Ir's hell." But few studenrs would be willing ro give up rhe rremendous production

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experience for a little more sleep.

Chalawasky feels that the Rep's hectic schedule forges internal strength: "You find resources inside yourself and you gain selfconfidence."

The rigors of the program often require moments of release. When asked about drama student social life, actor Trevor Anthony (ORA '95) jokes, "I didn't know I had a life." Drama students hang outal m ost exclusively with other drama students-at Kavanaugh's, the Cabaret, and monthly all-school parties. "We throw a wild party when we want to," says director Derek Jones (ORA '95). "First year you go crazy; second year you reign it in; and third year you know when to drink and when not , to.

Jones adds, however, that the raucousness of drama student life is countered by a tendency to become "hermetic." · Students consistently lament their isolat-ion from the rest of Yale, especially with respect to the undergraduate theater community. Most students view the ·separation as a product of their hectic schedules. Others see it as a result of the school's exclusive claim on their talents and time. The course book spells this out: "Acting in projects outside the School is discouraged and permission to do so is rarely given." Such restrictions, whether explicit or implicit, extend to many other drama school departments.

Cooperative efforts between the Drama School and the undergraduate theater community occur only rarely. Last year witnessed playwright Karen Ackerman's collaboration with three seniors in a Silliman D ramatic Attic production. In addition, Alessandro Nivola (BK '94) was cast in two Drama School productions. Such undergraduate involvement can be beneficial for both parties-the school receives needed help, and the undergraduate gains knowledge. Miriam Crowe (CC '96) served as assistant light designer for a Rep show last spring. "It was great experience," says Crowe, "because the show was bigger, more organized, and more professional than the other shows I've worked on." She also gained technical knowledge that she could

THE NEw JouRNAL

not have received in an undergraduate show.

But Crowe's experience remains quite unusual. Few undergrads work on school productions and even those few who do participate only in a limited technical capacity. And if you ask most of the undergraduates involved in theater about the Drama School, they will confess that they do not know much about it. Most have never met anyone who goes there.

Such ignorance reflects both the Drama School's insularity and the undergraduate theater communiry's self-sufficiency. Almost all undergraduate shows are run exclusively by undergraduates with financial support from residential colleges and the Sudler Fund. Although a core group of the theatrically involved exists, the productions attract a diverse cross-section of the undergrad population, as well as a wide variery of theatrical experience and academic interests. Productions exist independently of the theater studies major, and theater studies faculty members do not advise undergrad productions outside of senior projects for the major.

The Drama School shares space with the Yale Dramatic Association, the major undergraduate theater organization. When the school was constructed in the 1930s, the Dramat paid for 30 percent of the building cost. In exchange, the Dramat secured a meeting space in the school and access to the school theater space for productions nine times per year. Relations between the Dramat and the Drama School have fluctuated. A close alliance before World War II gave way to hos.tility in the late 1960s. Relations are strong today, thanks in pan to an agreement signed five years ago that articulated both groups' responsibilities in sharing school space. Yet the Dramat and the Drama School continue to function as completely separate entities. Although the Dramat's technical advisor, Mark MacDonald, is a school faculty member, little contact between graduate and undergraduate students occurs. School students occasionally work as designers for Dramat productions, but such work is often discouraged by school administrators.

Rasmus Johansen {BR '95), former secretary

of the Dramat, characterizes the interaction between the Dramat and the school as "tiny." But Dramat President Nicholas de Moncheaux (CC '95) suggests that the scene may be changing. "The barriers of ignorance are slowly breaking down."

The possibiliry for collaborative projects lies mainly in the Cabaret. Founded in 1968, the Cabaret, an extension of the Drama School , focuses on innovative performances unsupervised by faculty. The Cabaret hires undergraduates as waiters and currently has 221 undergrad members who subscribe to all twenty shows. J.] . Hickey (ORA '95), a theater management student who serves as artistic director of the Cabaret, suggests the possibility of a benefit Cabaret in which undergraduate actors can participate. "We do feel isolated from the Yale community," he admits, " but we're always looking for ways to be more involved," he says.

Another realm of increased undergrad interaction with the school's faculty and students is the classroom. Several classes in the design, dramaturgy and dramatic criticism, TD&P, and theater management departments are open to undergraduates; courses in acting, directing, and playwriting are not. Last year Shannon Emmerick (PC '95) was one of rwo undergrads who took Drama 6, Survey of Theater and Drama; her freshman year, she took Theater Studies I1 0, which covers much of the same material. "It was completely different from IIO," she asserts. "The drama students have so much to bring to class. They're not afraid to speak up and be passionate, even if they just want to say a play is boring." She is now enrolled in the school's American Theater Practice course.

Graduate students v1ew classes with undergraduates as a positive experience. ¡ Designer Daphne Klein (ORA '95) recently rook a costume class

that included undergraduates. "The undergrads seemed to get a lot out of it," she notes. "And I learned fro m them-they had no preconceived notions about the theater, so their ideas were very exciting. " For the first time this year, the Drama School and the undergraduate theater studies department are teaching Drama 6 and Theater Studies II 0 to a joint audience.

After a 50-minute lecture, the rwo groups separate and have discussion sections on alternate mornings. The professor, Marc Robinson, has an appointment in both programs. Still the classroom provides one of the few places where graduate students and undergraduates can forge friendships; Emmerick still keeps in contact with the drama students she met last year in Drama 6, and they try to see each other's productions.

Drama School Dean Stan Wojewodski DECEMBER 2,

1994

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Some see the dual teaching effort of Drama 6/Theater Studies 110 as indicative of the two programs' attempts to work more closely together. The faculty of both schools have established a dialogue; in addition to Marc Robinson's dual appointment, James DePaul attends Earl Gister's acting classes, and Drama School faculty give guest lectures to undergraduates. "There are great and enlightening teachers at the Drama School," says DePaul, "and I hope our students look to them as role models." But DePaul is quick to point out the differing philosophies of the two programs: "Theater Studies strives to combine theater stuqy with the breadth and depth of a liberal arts education. The Drama School has the specific agenda to focus on technique and process." Dean Wojewodski sounds even firmer on the topic: "The relationship between the two is certainly cordial, but they must work indepeQdendy because of the nature of the schools." But Wojewodski suggests that there may be a path from theater studies to the drama school. "The theater studies focus on liberal arts is good preparation for Drama School. It produces richer, more informed students than ones that focus strictly on theater practice."

Obi Ndefo (BR '94, ORA '97) exemplifies the link between theater studies and the Drama School. He regards the theater studies program as fine preparation for the Drama School, though he admits that he knew little about the Drama School before he began the application process.

"The Rep is a kind of teaching hospital," a forum for practical learning about all aspects of professional ,theater.

Ndefo would now like to see more interaction between the two communities he holds in high regard. But he, like other Drama School students, wonders how to combine the two programs. As Anthony asserts, "It's hard to bring undergrads who are mainly doing theater for the fun of it to a ·program where we're processing our butts

off."

Acting student Chalawasky proposes a complex, but intriguing, solution: a joint program which targets both groups' needs by providing a B.F.A. for undergraduates and an M.A. for graduate students.

Although the classes would be separate, the physical union of the schools would foster more of a coherent theater community, co~bining the passion, talent, a n d inteUigence of botli groups. "Both programs need to get to the next place," Chalawasky

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THE NEw JouRNAL

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Currently, no plans exist for melding the two programs. But after seei ng playwright Ackerm an's successful collaboration with undergraduates last year, Mark Bly, Associate Artistic Director of the Yale Repertory Theatre and Drama School instructor, seems in trigued by the possibilities. "I see a very talented group in Yale College that we'd be interested in working with," he says. Asso ciate D ean Gister sounds a simil ar t o n e: "We are constantly looking for ways for our students and those undergraduates who are similarly interested and motivated to function more harmoniously. The t~o groups have different levels of experience," he notes, "but they do ultimately sh are t he same experience." As Gister hi n ts, a new collaborative effort may be waiting in the wings.

1111

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Burying the Old Colonel Joshua Civin embark s o n a qu est t o di scover the final resting place of Revolutionary War arti st john Trumbull- and end s up in the basement. on't expect any help getting there. The guards at the Yale University Art Gallery are not very cooperative, to say the least. The best way to find it may be to come upon it ¡accidentally. Glimpse a three-cornered hat around a winding gallery corridor and investigate. At the far end of the third floor-past the Neptune statue and the furniture exhibits-the Trumbull Gallery conjures up a vintage nineteenth-century museum.

Plush red walls and creaking pine floo rs house statuary, potted plants, and canvases in gilded frames.

The framed pictures only come into focus once the feel of the Trumbull Gallery seeps in. But don't rush the transformation.

Wandering around art galleries, like hunting treasure, always promises one more masterpiece tucked in one more dusty corner. On the rear wall of this third-floor room lies a thrill among tucked-away masterpieces. Hanging in symmetrical rows, The Declaration of

D

Independence, The Battle of Bunker's Hi/~ The Surrender at Yorktown,

-..-

and the rest of these patriotically over-exposed images glow intensely despite their cracked oil paint. Don't be overwhelmed by the sheer bulk of Americana. Nose right up and point to the familiar founding fathers portrayed in Colonel John Trumbull's American Revolutionary War paintings.

Make sure not to miss the rear wall, center. Experiencing the signing, battles, and surrenders requires peering closely, but standing back is the only way to appreciate this strong vertical. In Trumbull's 92V2 by 63 inch portrait, vivid patches of Continental blue and faded-breeches yellow define the uniform of His Excellency, sometime General George Washington. With distant eyes, the General beckons. Out-stretched hand clutches field-glasses. Forget the copies in the U.S. Capitol Rotunda, the General implores: here a re the originals. Forget Williamsburg and Disneyland: step into history.

Roxbury, Massachusetts, after 3p.m.:]uly 17, 1775.

B

ooming cannon shot puffed overhead. Back over the stone fence, retreat had been signaled . A soldier crumpled and cried out, " I've been killed."

Kneeling down to support him, the adjutant to General Spencer's First Connecticut inspected t he groaning Continental. No, he could n't

18

be dying, reasoned John Trumbull-for that was the adjutant's name.

There was no blood. He bade the man rise. But the fallen soldier would not budge. Trumbull-no expert himself, as this was his first skirmish ever- called for a stretcher. He promptly returned to supervising the rear of the regiment as it abandoned its exposed position.

Their maneuver had only been a diversion. No use wasting bodies; the real struggle was four m iles away, or a,r least it appeared that way from what Trumbull could make out with his field glasses.

He peered through the gunpowder haze that covered the distant hill across Boston harbor. Parches of color betrayed the enemycharging, retreating, and rallying again. But as Trumbull squinted, he could not prevent his one good eye from blending the distant battle's Continental blue, faded-breeches yellow, and redcoat scarlet into a shape that bore an unavoidable resemblance to that fallen soldier.

Ever since the warship Somerset's guns sounded daybreak, . Trumbull had spent hours in rapt fascination along with the rest of the regiment's ¡:piquet-guard." Placed on alert, the entire minuteman army gazed toward that distant summit. Like the others-called Sons of Liberty this side of the fortifications, traitorous rebels on the other-Trumbull and his regiment had only recently arrived.

Pitching camp in Roxbury, they had joined the swelling ring of Sons of Liberty surrounding H is Majesty's forces quartered in Boston.

T ired of merely taunting redcoats, Trumbull looked over to the blazing hill, yearning to play a part in provolcing the British to sally forth from fortress Bosron.

Then the orders had passed down the ranks: form up and parade.

The British cannoneers responded co these colonial displays shortly.

Less than eager to precipitate an engagement on another flank, Spencer's regiment retreated and saw no further action. It was not until far into the night t hat Adjutant Tru m b ull discovered that the little hill in his field glasses was known as Bunker's (or Breed's) Hill, and that on its summit , a detachment of the Sons of Liberty had resisted three Br itish charges before succumbing-a moral victory against seasoned professionals.

But while fellow Sons of Liberty proved themselves in fierce hand-to-hand fighting on that day, Trumbull 's regiment had watched the

The framed pictures only come into focus once the feel of the Trumbull Ga llery of t he Yale University Art Gallery seep s in. But d on't ru sh th e transf ormation.

THE NEw JouRNAL

encounter four miles away without incident. Without incident, except for one lobbed cannonball that hit its mark.

That cannonball imprinted the shape of groaning deathtinged with Continental blue, faded -breeches yellow, and redcoat scarlet--{)n the novice soldier Trumbull's memories of Bunker's Hill.

George Washington at the Battle of Trento

by John Trumbull. Yale University Art Gallery; [Right] Self-Portrait, by John Trumbull; [Below left] Yale art historian and Trumbull chronicler Theodore Sizer.

Bmjamin Wtsts Studios, London, b1gland: winur. 1786. ( ( N ature has but t h r e e primitive Colours, Yellow, Red & Blue, from which all others arise by composition." Reciting the lessons of his teacher, the wellrenowned Benjamin West, Colonel Trumbull laid out the pigments on his wooden palette. Except he omitted blue; he never started out with pure blue. Palette in one hand, hog's hair brush-which he referred to as his pencil-in the other, he surveyed the halffinished canvas. His eyes roamed over the year-old sketches strewn about his easel.

He always felt he had started painting so late in life.

On the

canvas, Bunker's Hi II sloped in the foreground if

rumbull's eld glasses on that day 11 years ago had gained exceptional powers of resolution. Such placement, thought the Colonel-for that was his rank when he left soldieringallowed him to wrestle with the most significant image he remembered from his first skirmish-the shape of groaning death in Continental blue, faded-breeches yellow, and redcoat scarlet. But still something was lacking.

Save an hour for dinner, and some time studying anatomy in the morning, Trumbull spent all his days at West's studio on Newman Sueet. Obsessively he sketched, always preparing. Inspiration ~ lined the walls, for the English : art world had crowned West its finest history painter. And to cover canvases with history was the task to which Trumbull aspired.

This was Trumbull's second stay in England. While the Revolution was still raging, he crossed the ocean to reach : London, West, and his artistic future. For Colonel Trumbull, soldiering was but a diversion. He had set aside the art books from his Harvard years to make himself the worthy gentleman that his prominent Connecticut family expected. But passed over for promotion, he found himself with an honorable excuse to tum from sword to pencil. Just after he reached London, though, a pounding at. the door summoned him to prison. Suspected of treason, the Colonel was deported.

19

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As soon as the peace treaty was sealed, Trumbull went against his venerable father's wishes and found his way back to art, to West, and to London. But standing in front of the splotched canvas, Trumbull could hardly denounce the earlier adventures his father had forced on him. Before his eyes, the colonies had transformed into an indep.endent nation. He had been there while it happened, even served as an aidede-camp to his idol General Washington.

The upper echelons of American, and even European, society were his domains by birth, by military distinction, and by his privileged position as an emerging painter under the tutelage ofWest.

Still, what was to be his life work? West, with one painting- Th~ Death of General Wolft, had catapulted himself to fame.

Departing from classical material, West had shocked the cultured classes by depicting a modern event: the tragic death of General James Wolfe just as a messenger announced the British victorious outside Quebec.

West's work, though, could only be copied so many times. With West's and Thomas Jefferson's encouragement, Trumbull hit upon a plan. He wrote to a friend: "I am now...employ'd writing, in my language, the History of our Country." His own language was painting, and he resolyed to preserve the scenes he had witnessed.

But 11 years was a long time. Trumbull probed his memories, recalling the terrain and the faces which contributed to the young nation's founding moments. To commence what he envisioned as a grand series of Revolutionary War engravings, he chose that first encounter with death on that memorable day of the Battle of Bunker's Hill.

His paintings were hardly eyewitness accounts. Trumbull searched for the battle's central drama. Ever emulating West's D~ath of Gen~rai Wolft, the Colonel knew he needed a glorious martyr. Dr. Joseph Warren, President of the Massachusetts General Assembly, was the logical choice.

Despite protests that a leading patriot was too valuable to endanger, Warren insisted on staying on the hill. As the British overran the summit, a bullet slammed into Warren's head.

20

A dead unknown soldier, a dead patriot leader-as Trumbull sketched they meshed into one transcendent image on the canvas.

Through his own experience, Trumbull penetrated the action on Bunker's Hill. History sprang from the pallettinged with Continental blue, faded-breeches yellow, and redcoat scarlet.

Still something was lacking. No amount of squinting could capture the actual likeness of the personages of this event.

Trumbull realized he would have to hunt On the canvas, Bunker's HHI sloped in the fo down as many of the go had gained exceptional powers of resolu participants as possible For Trumbull, the same lofty expression to balance his historical drama with some crossed his animated countenance as he degree of historical accuracy.

So Colonel Trumbull rolled up the painted. Fame would be his, he insisted. Hel would be the painter of the American rough versions of the major historical works.

Revolution.

He left West's studio and set off to persuade those he knew, had known, or could meet, Trumbull Gallery Construction Site, N~lf to pose so he could fiJI in the oval spots left blank in anticipation of facial portraits.

Haven, Connecticut: 1831.

Obtaining an interview, he did not waste hose eminent patriots, would futurt time sketching. While Alexander Hamilton generations preserve their or Sam Adams sat, Trumbull found the remembrance? Despite the little proper oval, picked up his pallet, and gallery rising before his eyes, the Colond commenced. Even Washington was had reason for concern. To Trumbull's great impressed. In a letter to Lafayette, he commented, "Trumbull has spared no pains distress, the American Revolution had ceased to fascinate the public by the time be in obtaining from life the likenesses of those finished casting about for portraits co characters who had a conspicuous part in complete his historical series. Ne\1' our revolution." revolutions in France had stifled memorid From country to country he pursued his of events now almost a half-century pas! subjects. Each person who sat for him, Trumbull The result had been a financial disaster. persuaded to recall the events in which he or she Faced with growing debts, Trumbu1 starred, thus annotating his version of these confined himself to his studio, bitte moments. Remembering how Washington despondent. Younger artists seemed to ste. recalled the Battle of Trenton as he posed, all the painting commissions. And wher Trumbull wrote in his A.utobWgraphy. "He looked Trumbull installed large-scale reproduction the scene again, and I happily tranSferred it ro of his history series in the Rotunda of rJ. canvas, the lofty expression of his animated new Capitol building in Washington, m~ countenance, the high resolve to oonquer or ro agreed that they lacked the liveliness of rbc . perish."

THE NEW JouR.NN

originals. Humidity necessitated temporary removal of the huge canvases; bur few in the rapidly expanding democracy much concerned themselves with how to enshrine the past.

Hoping to secure his legacy, Trumbull set about to find a home for what remained in his possession, the history series originals-the paintings that had traversed the globe with Trumbull, seeking a cast of characters. He sensed a sympathetic soul in his nephew-in-law, Benjamin Silliman, Yale professor of chemistry, whom he regaled with tales of his woes and made an offer of his paintings. Silliman and then Yale College President Jeremiah Day could not refuse. Yale committed to a $1,000 per year pension for the debt-ridden painter. Failure to pay it, Trumbull threatened, would prompt him to transfer the works to his alma mater Harvard. Trumbull moved in with the Sillimans and designed a neoclassical gallery to house his collection.

And now that he claimed the title of oldest surviving Revolutionary headquarters officer, he could afford to saunter over to watch the gallery construction, confident that Yale students would point when his erect figure swept by and say, "There goes DECEMBER 2,

1994

the old Colonel."

Touching up The Battle of Bunker's Hill for the new gallery, Trumbull resigned himself to face the shape of groaning death-tinged in whatever colors-when it came for him. Leaning on his maulstick-a convenient arm-rest for the aged painter-much as Washington leaned on his walking stick in one of his portraits, Colonel Trumbull felt confident of his own place in history. This gallery would guarantee that.

No matter what they said about his painting, future generations would not be able to remember Bunker's Hill without turning towards his paintings tucked in the little gallery. In spite of them aJI, he had become the Patriot-Artist, the painter of the American Revolution.

Strut Hall Gallery of Fine Arts, Yale University. New Haven, Connecticut : April 1J, 1928.

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reaking shovels scraped against the ust-uncovered brick tomb. Steady, now. Raise the mahogany coffin slowly. The old Colonel Trumbull did not appreciate disturbing. Kneeling down for a better view, Theodore Sizer-recenrly appointed associate director of the Yale Gallery of Fine Arrs, inspected the coffin's shape. Were those bones he glimpsed through a crack? He quickly turned away.

The grave had been long in the finding: no one had thought to note down irs exact position for posterity. Berween Vanderbilt HaJI and Street Hall (built in 1866 to house Yale's growing art collection), they had excavated a huge hole without much success in finding the bodies of Trumbull and his wife. Then someone suggested they try inside. Sizer supervised, as the "little company" abandoned the exposed hole and

retreated into the basement of the building.

Ha!-As he surveyed the solemn parade of dignitaries, Sizer suppressed a grin under his black mustache and felt fedora. The old Colonel had them yet. Digging for the Colonel was a ceremony that absolutely had to be fulfilled before the college art collections could be transferred from the Street Hall building to the new museum being constructed across High Street. Sizer loved the stares as he led his audience along the path to TrumbuiJ's bones. It all stemmed back to a troublesome promise John Trumbull had exacted from Benjamin Silliman and Jeremiah Day when the historical pictures were installed at Yale in the little neo-classical gallery that once stood on the Old Campus.

A connoisseur of tales, Sizer never missed a chance to recount this bizarre encounter. "The tragedy of the bilingual, one-eyed soldier-turned-painter was that most of his good work was produced before he was forty and he lived to be eightyeight." Sizer spoke, as he wrote, in flourishes. After finding his art a final resting place at Yale, Trumbull ensured one for himself and his wife. "It is my wish," Trumbull told Silliman, "to be interred beneath this Gallery... these pictures are my children-those whom they represent have all gone before me." Part of the agreement drawn up by the college required that the bodies of Trumbull and his wife be buried beneath the gaJlery.

"Some centuries hence," Sizer quoted from Silliman's journal, "when the firm scones of the Trumbull Gallery have fallen, those who dig among the ruins will discover the tomb in the obscure crypt and will be warned not to violate it when they read the: inscription."

But the Colonel trusted the succeeding generations less than his nephew-in-law Silliman. Remembering the: blows the: younger painters had dealt his reputation, he: inserted a clause in the agreement forbidding that his or his wife's bodies be moved from underneath the 92Y.z by 63 inch portrait of George Washington at Trenton.

And the: old Colonel's suspicions, Sizer explained to the assembled company, had

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proved well-founded. Only 34 years after Trumbull built his Gallery, the Yale art collection had outgrown the existing space.

Completed in 1866, Street Hall at the far corner of the Old Campus became the new college Art Building, and the trustees voted to remove the Trumbull bones from under the original gallery.

As for the present search: once again there was a new art gallery under construction. That spring of 1928, the little company had assembled in Street Hallfulfilling the Colonel's explicit request, once more. They could not move the paintings again and leave the bones behind. The 1928 "translation of the relics"-Sizer employed a Biblical allusion to heighten the dramaoccurred during spring recess to avoid feared student protests.

And yet secrecy generated legends. "As they were carrying the very decreed coffin from one building to another and had got halfway across, the bottom fell out and out came John Trumbull!" wrote the Saturday Review of Literature. "Of course there was great consternation but the janitor of the school, a crabby old fellow named Enos, had a bright idea. He rushed out with a dustpan and broom and swept John Trumbull back into the coffin, which was turned upside down for the purpose. " Slander, Sizer cried, though he loved to include these inaccuracies in his story.

According to him, not John's but Sarah's coffin gave way. Wh.atever the case, the bodies just barely made it across High Street to their new grave-site in Yale's third art gallery.

And that's where we leave the old Colonel, Sizer concluded. But somehow, Sizer could never quite dismiss Trumbull as a mere story. The little company watched the body transfer without incident. Without incident, except for the small accident with Sarah-and the glimpse that Sizer caught of the remains of the old Colonel himself One glimpse imprinted the shape of groaning death on the new curator Sizer's memories of Trumbull.

Davenport College, Yale University, New Havm, Connecticut: fa/~ 1948.

ndless lists itemizing ~ ~ portraits, sketches, ;; and copies-~ 2. researched, rough-drafted, ~ annotated, and revised. ~ Hand-scrawled notes, tentative short-tide ~ check-lists, galley proofs, all lead to The g WOrks of Colonel john Trumbull¡ Artist ofthe American Revolution-the comprehensive Trumbull canon-except even that would not be final. Information kept pouring in; there was always another forgery to expose and discredit.

"Have you a portrait of an ancestor, painted by John Trumbull of revolutionary fame tucked away in your attic?" wrote Alice Lawton in the Newton Bee. "If so, Theodore Sizer at Yale University would greatly appreciate hearing from you." With much fanfare, Sizer issued a public appeal for details pertaining to the whereabouts of missing Trumbull paintings. And so the hunt began.

On Sizer's roll-top desk, John Trumbull's self-vindicating Autobiography sprawled before him. He combed rhe pages for painting references. And he seldom missed the opportunity to editorialize. On page 246 of the Autobiography, Sizer underlined a typical Trumbullian criticism: "President Jefferson... no more qualified to lead in naval defense, than he was in warfare on land... he possessed no military talents." With a characteristic flourish, Sizer scribbled beside it, "This 30 years after [Trumbull] left the army. What a crack!"

Never one to absorb himself in one endeavor for too long, Sizer turned to dash off a note to his oldest daughter-an illustrated affair, gently poking fun at hi~ own mustache which his wife was forcing him to shave again. Pausing, he glanced over his white office walls. No pictures hung for inspiration, not even a Trumbull. Odd for an art professor, but it was not that he enjoyed a spartan office. He just liked art too much-"I don't care how, when, why, or where it is made." Sizer simply could not choose a single image to live with.

Not even a Trumbull? He brushed off the old Colonel, matter-of-factly. "You know how one gets into these things." Ever since the reinternment early in his Yale

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career engraved in his memory a glimpse of Trumbull's bones, the crusty old Colonel had been in the air. While Sizer served as the director of the Art Gallery, every request for information about the painter crossed his desk. Discovering a mass of Trumbull tidbits crowding his office, he resolved that nothing was more logical than to wade through. He would be damned if he could not squeeze a book or two out of the old Colonel.

Surely no one expected Tubby-for that is what Sizer's friends called him-would fail to fulftll this impetuous promise. Bustling across the campus, he spurted war m greetings, inviting one and all out to the family farm in Bethany, Connecticut, which he had titled Sizergh Castle. A similar flourish had landed him at Yale years ago.

On a steamer to Europe in the summer of 1925, he responded to a gentleman who

"He rushed out with a broom and swept Trumbull back into his coffin, which was turned upside down for the purpose." asked his opinion of the new Yale Art Gallery. "It stinks," he spurted out without a second thought. The gentleman happened to be Yale legend Anson Phelps Stokes, and Sizer's daring won him a professorship.

For Sizer, a career as art professor was hardly predetermined from the start.

Though no one could keep him from indulging in art books during his years at Harvard, his father had determined that he would join him in business. Concluding that the import-export business was not his calling, Sizer found work at the Cleveland Museum of Art. Livid, his father did not reconcile himself to his son's scholarly pursuits until much later.

Teaching pursuits were only one facet of Sizer's life. Besides entertaining, tending to his family and his farm, and corresponding diligently with friends, he managed to devote time to designing his family's Christmas cards, not to mention the banners DECEMBER 2,

1994

for each of Yale's residential colleges, and an assortment of maces, seals, and stonecarvings throughout the campus. His art · could be used; that is what he relished.

Indeed, that is why he admired TrumbuU: the old Colonel was most concerned that students would study his work and would learn from their past.

Trumbull's own past was occupying more and more of Sizer's learning time.

Resigning as director of the Gallery in 1946, Sizer devoted every free moment to responses to his public appeal that poured in from across the country. Addressing Sizer "Dear Tubby," someone wrote, "I will see if I can find out who ' I.M.' might have been....These things are always amusing. P.S. I went to Cambridge for the Club dinner and found it wearing, but highly enjoyable."

To each letter, Sizer replied and made sure copies were available for posterity.

"Bravo!" he congratulated a notable find, "More strength to your arm!"

But Sizer's own arm needed all the strength it could get. Sizer had found his life's work. Besides dating and filing this voluminous correspondence, he traversed the East coast traE:king Trumbull. Back in his Davenport office after hours of crossreferencing, he shouted in his self-mocking, third-person style. "The old Colonel.

Tubby's sick to death of the old Colonel." ~tt"Tans

HospitaL, west Havm, Connt cticut:

Not many matters in these last days occupied Sizer's mind besides his familyand the old Colonel. Publishing preliminary findings, he had come to tolerate Trumbull as a half-crazed aristocratic uncle. What had started out as a quest for Trumbull's works of art developed into a search for Trumbull's work as historical record. Seventeen years before, in the first edition of his catalogue, he celebrated Trumbull as an artist of history rather than an historical artist: "The colonel concerns us today not so much as a master of the brush, but as the portrayer of 'Very Important Persons."'

But he still yearned to dig up Trumbull the man who lurked somewhere beneath Trumbull the artist. Even before he began to focus on cataloguing Trumbull, there had been signs of this desire. Soon after Pearl Harbor, Sizer had volunteered for active dury in what he called the style of those Sons of Liberty. "You will remember," he told his friends, "that Colonel John Trumbull 'Gave his sword and his pencil to his country.' I had neither weapon nor tool; nothing but a romantic urge."

After the war, the Colonel- for that was the rank Sizer had attained when he was discharged- was never quite the same.

Bouts of nervousness oppressed him with increasing frequency. The image of museum after guttedmuseum haunted him. If this .; could happen to the artistic treasures of ~ Europe, what about those of Yale- and ~

1967.

Tru~i~:~l:ook solace in art. He learned to ·f

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hook rugs from a grande dame of New Haven. For him, " Daddy's fancy work" as his children called it, was a most therapeutic endeavor. He covered the rugs with elaborate testimonials satirizing his friends.

he mislabeled French officers, would anyone remember to correct the mistake? To Sizer's great distress, he was stuck in a blasted hospital and the second revised edition of his Works of Co/ontl fohn Trumbull was due in bookstores any day now. He called his research assistant promptly at 7 a.m. every day to remind her about the officers he bad mislabeled in the first edition and other matters occupying his mind.

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Yet he never quite managed to hook a rug satirizing a certain old friend. Instead, he settled for compiling all the foibles of Colonel Trumbull, from his illegitimate son to his lower-class wife Sarah, whom he was embarrassed to introduce to society.

Rehabilitating the Colonel's reputationthat was his obsession. But no matter how far he waded into Trumbullian artifacts, Sizer could never recapture the initial glimpse of Trumbull's bones. Would he ever trace the still-missing paintings?

If he could just last to see his revised second edition published, then his flourishes would regain their vigor. The meticulous letter-writer, doodler, and rug-hooker would return . to his crafts. Ha! Digging for Trumbull-his predecessor stiU haunted the 'air. Years ago when the new act gallery had finally been completed, Sizer remembered ceremoniously placing Colonel Trumbull's maulstick beside his tombstone. "The old colonel, who appreciated protocol, would have liked chat!" The ever-enthusiastic act history professor, who also appreciated protocol, wished he still had the PatriotArtist's maulsrick to lean on and survey his life's toil. Colonel Sizer was but 75. The bones remained in a tomb under the painting of George Washington at Trenton, and soon his second edition would be in libraries and bookstores. He would outlast old Trumbull yet.

Yale University Art GalLery, New Haven, Connecticut: November 26, 1994. on't expect any help getting there. It might be possible to stumble unawares upon Trumbull's paintings, but it rakes a keen detective to locate the other items he left to Yale, namely his bones and those of his wife Sarah.

Bidding farewell to Washington and the rest, make sure to maintain a good sense of place while tripping down the stairway. Don't forget: Trumbull insisted that his bones lie directly beneath the 92~ by 63 inch portrait of beckoning George Washington at Trenton.

The first piece of burial evidence: a sunken slab in the floor of the Grear Sculpture Hall of the older section of the gallery. The Sculpture Hall itself, though, appears unused, almost forgotten, certainly

D

devoid of the wellspring of tourists inhabiting the newer wing.

Bur discovering the slab does not mean reaching the final resting place. Don't be discouraged by the unfriendly guards-they have to remain silent for security reasons.

Bur security or not, the evidence continues to surface: a stairway leads below. Check that no one is watching, and then plunge into the basement. The same Continental blue and faded-breeches yellow that painted Washington's military uniform adorns cobwebbed corridors. The Colonel would have appreciated that. Sir.ens have not yet sounded: relax and peer through the dusty haze.

In one glass display case, a sarcophagus is... No, it's empty. The bodies lie beyond.

The only remnant: on one wall hangs what Sizer claimed was the original 1843 grave plaque. Two doors stand ' on either side as sentinels. One smells of Trumbull Gallery pine. A minuscule key hole entices-and it has been too long a pilgrimage to resist temptation. Kneel down and squint within.

If few visitors reach the far-off room where the Trumbull paintings lurk, much less find the black memorial slab-still, have faith: bones and galleries do not confine a PatriotArtist. As Trumbull hunted for portraits during his own life, as Sizer hunted paintings in his, their spirits now forever scour the Yale air for successors. George Washington beckons...Trumbull guides his hand...Sizer picks up the maulscick. Who's next? Step into history.

Col. John Trumbull Patriot and Artist Friend and Aid of Washington, Lies Beside his Wife Beneath this Gallery of Art Lebanon 1756 New York 1843 To his Country he gave his Sword and his Pencil.

joshua Civin, a junior in Calhoun Colkge, is contributing editor ofTNJ THE NEw JouRNAL

Won't You Be Our Neighbor?

President levin's bold new homebuyer program lures Yale employees to New Haven, but will it be enough to make them stay?

P

rofessors, administrators, clerical and maintenance workers: if you are a Yale employee, you may be eligible for this one-time offer. All you have to do is buy a house in N ew H aven, and we'll give you $2,000 a year for the next ten years-no strings attached! But don't delay: offer expires January 1996.

Essentially, President Levin made suc h a pitch wh en he ' announced Yale's New Haven Homebuyer Program on Ap ril 20, 1994. So far, 79 employees have taken the President up on his offer.

An accountant for 15 years in the medical school's department of neurology, Diane Steel had never before considered moving to New Haven, but the program allowed her to buy the perfect-sized house in a "nice" neighborhood. The incentive fit perfectly into D iane Robinson's plans. She had already applied for a mortgage for a ¡ new house in N ew Haven when she discovered that her status as a university library service assistant entitled her to an unexpected benefit. The Homebuyer Program also turned administrative assistanr Brenda Carr from a tenant on Lawrence Street into a Fairhaven home owner. For dermatology administrator Jill Schneider, living close to work and downtown attractions opened up a whole new set of opportunities.

Now that the program has been in place for over eight months, the stories of its beneficiaries do not fully mesh with Yale's original vision. When President Levin first spoke about the Homebuyer Program, he claimed that it would benefit both Yale employees and various New Haven communities and would further improve town-gown relations.

"This is the first time that any Yale benefit program has been dire cted especially to employees residing in New Haven," he said. "We hope it will attract additional residents to the city who will be active in their neighborhoods and who will , of course, contribute as caxpayers and customers ro the economic health of the city." The program has brought new residents to New Haven, but a new house and the incentive are

not necessarily ingredients for ensuring that these citizens become active neighbors. T he program projects an important image: it shows the university's commitment to providing employees with bonuses, and to involving them in the community; however, these noble goals threaten to generate an empty symbol- a program that does not actually effect any monumental change in Yale-New Haven relations.

Sociology professor Paul Johnston stressed that in order to bridge the Yale-New Haven gap effectively, Yale employees who apply for homebuying incentives should not simply move to New Haven but should invest in their new communities as well.

Image is fundamental to selling homes. Barbara Pearce, director of a local realty company, stressed that the H omebuyer Program encourages people from outside the area who work at Yale to live in the city. "[T he incentive] sends out the message that Yale cares where they live," she explained. The plan's popularity has increased as this message has spread. Everyone seems to be praising the program for its originality and the way it t ies together benefits for Yale employees with benefits for New Haven. O ne employee, thankful fo r Yale's increased invo lvement in improving employee standards of living, admitted: "I really didn't think Yale cared about its employees that much."

by Ann Sledge

ile t he p rogram seems to ccomplish a great deal, each f its benefits includes some sort of catch . Michael Boyle, C h ief Steward for Local Unions 34 and 35, pointed out that the program may not target one group of people it is supposedly intended to help--namely, less wealthy employees who are first-time or lower-cost home buyers. According to a press release, a University Task Force convened by University Secretary Linda Lorimer chose the $2,000 flat-rate incentive because it intended to support lower-cost home buyers more. Proport io nally, $2,000 comprises a larger fraction of the cost of a $50,000 house than that of a $150,000 house.

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Distribution of Yale Faculty Residences Furthermore, lower-cost home buyers are more likely to need an extra infusion of cash than wealthier buyers. The Yale Daily News reported last April that President Levin did not necessarily intend the program to relocate Yale families already seeded in the suburbs. Instead, Levin hoped to appeal to first-time home buyers, who tend to purchase in a lower price bracket.

Despite the task force and Levin's intentions, statistics compiled by rhe Secretary's Office present a different story.

Only nine participants bought real estate valued under $50,000, whereas 22 people bought houses worth over $150,000.

Moreover, only 30 clerical, technical, service and maintenance employees received benefits, whereas 49 faculty and management professionals rook advantage of the incentive.

This discrepancy stems from a restriction hidden in the text of the initiative. The program applies only to employees who work 20 hours or more per week for the university.

Since custodial workers typically bold 17hour weekly jobs, they remain ineligible for the program, though many of these workers actually do work for Yale far more than 20 hours per week on a temporary basis. Chief Steward Boyle stressed the important role such incentives could play for these workers, most of whom now live in New Haven as tenams. The Homebuyer Program would allow them to purchase the homes in which they already live. Extending the program to these additional workers would provide much-needed stability to economicallydisadvamaged areas including Newhallville, the Hill, and Dixwell neighborhoods, where

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Distribution of Yale Clerical. and Technical Empl(l)lee Residences demographic maps show a concentration of service .and maintenance employees. As a result, perhaps the program would come closer to reaching one of the goals outlined by the University Task Force and President Levin: to benefic lower-cost home buyers.

The current beneficiaries, though, come from the opposite end . of the income spectrum. Realtors rema~k that the program has affected wealthier home buyers who are looking at houses in areas on the edge of the city, such as the St. Ronan-Edgehill Road neighborhood, which spans New Haven and Hamden. According to Barbara Pearce, the incentive "makes people feel good about choosing" houses on the New Haven side of these areas, despite the much higher property tax on city housing. With the added monetary incentive, higher properry taxes become less of a deterrent. leviating property taxes in itself roves one of the program's biggest enefits.

Before her move, university accountant Diane Steel lived in a West Haven condominium with her husband and two children. The family decided that their living space was too small, and Steel looked for a new house in the Hamden and North Haven area for about a year. Steel did not even consider moving to New Haven until she heard about the incentive. "I didn't want to live in New Haven; I really didn't," she declared.

She explained that the incentive allows her to live in one of what she calls New Haven's "nicer areas," in a comfortable ten-room house, and afford the property tax. Her tax

is, in effect, lowered from $3,600 to $1,600.

Since most of the participants reinvest their incentive money in the city through property tax payments, the Homebuyer Program becomes another one of Yale's indirect subsidies co New Haven. One professor argued that the incentives could substitute for Yale's failure co pay fully irs own property _taxes. Currently, Yale does not pay taxes on most of its property, though Connecticut reimburses New Haven for a percentage of the income lost.

The program should help New Haven's slumped real estate market by attracting more customers. Would as many Yale employees have moved to New Haven regardless of the program? Eighteen participants closed on their houses in August. Many closings occurred in May, June, and July as well. These figures are rypical, since the summer is always a popular time to buy a house.

Although information on how many faculty and staff moved co New Haven during previous summers is not available for comparison, realtors claim they have seen an increase in New Haven sales since the incentive plan went into effect. Pearce said that last summer three people connected to Yale placed bids on a New Haven house that had been on the marker for two years. Yet some of the 79 participa nts would have bought houses in New Haven even without the incentive. Robinson had already applied for a mortgage when she found out about the program, so the extra $2,000 did not influence her decision to move.

Here resurfaces Professor Johnston's point about bridging the Yale-New Haven gap by

THÂŁ NEW JouRNAL

encouraging as much employee involvement in the city as possible. Program participants, now new urban citizens, do not necessarily invest in facets of New Haven communities other than real estate. Fully involving Yale employees in long-term commitments co New Haven will necessitate university contribution to a more inclusive concept of city life chat includes improvements in public transportation and public education.

Pearce and program participant Jill Schneider both mentioned that the Homebuyer Program could be expanded through public transportation subsidies.

Pearce pointed out that people living in the city are more likely to ride the Yale Shuttle Bus. This change in commuting patterns frees up parking spaces and cuts down on pollution from fuel exhaust. Schneider strongly advocates implementing additional Yale programs to encourage employee involvement in New Haven. She stated, "The more you link Yale and New Haven, the more support each side will have from the other."

Going further, Boyle suggests chat Yale extend the Homebuyer Program co include pan-time workers and people already living in New Haven. As a result, Yale employees might decide to remain in the city rather than move to the suburbs after the ten years have elapsed. Boyle cites a program at Stanford University as an example of providing enhanced benefits for people purchasing homes in less stable neighborhoods. Thus, the program could

•

effectively target those New Haven communities most in need of citizen involvement.

Yale employees with children might be encouraged to stay in the city if improved educational opportunities became available.

Pearce suggests that Yale provide p rivate school vouchers for all children of Homebuyer Program participants. Professor Johnston refused to go as far in abandoning public education. He felt that Yale should review the kind of support families and educational institutions need in order for Yale employees to feel comfortable about sending their children to public school in New Haven. Johnston explained chat such actions constitute an important way for Yale employees to invest themselves in the community.

Overall, the Homebuyer Program is a "good starr, a good piece of the puzzle," as Schneider stated . The intentions Yale advertised as part of the program are admirable: to increase Yale employee benefits and participation in the community.

However, co benefit New Haven, these citizens must become loyal to their new communities, and invest more in the city where they live and work. Making New Haven more attract ive to employees who already live in the city, and retaining chose newly-arrived, is just as important as attracting additional citizens.

Ill)

Ann Sledge is a freshperson in Ezra Stiles College.

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27

After years of contention and del ay, pl ans to co nve rt t he Fa rmin gton Canal into a "linear" park are

Trailing Behind

by Yale and downtown.

Grassroots effom usually drive such "rails to trails" movements he New Haven region stands ready to take advantage of as they evolve with little leadership from government or parks innovations in American park design that promise to officials. The Farmington Canal Rail to Trail Association (FCRTA) be n efit urban communities. G r assroots efforts to transform the Farmington Canal, an abandoned railway, began in 1987 when a group of citizens in Hamden organized to into a linear park greenway have been gaining momentum in New oppose a plan to build a shopping mall in the town. They Haven since 1987. However, a discovered that the proposed site "Whoever pays the bill makes the for the mall rested on old railroad quiet controversy surrounds the decisions-aesthetic choices, tracks, the Hamden portion of the Farmington Canal project and old Farmingron Canal line. Nancy questions remain about the programming, and use hours are Alderman (FOR '98), member of extensive planning involved in then determined by a group of like. the group rallying against the develop ing a pa rk running minded individuals, often from the through both Connecticut's shopping mall, current president same socioeconomic group, whose of FCRTA, and now a first-year richest suburbs and poorest vision narrowly defines the life in forestry student, believed that the inner-ciry neighborhoods in New common; with this limitation, possible historical significance of H aven. Questions persist because the city seems to be blindly the railway could help stop the public space becomes less public" construction of the mall. She moving forward in implementing sought help from the newly t h e trai l-city officials are formed National Rails to Trails applying for funding from the Conservancy, whose lawyer, Charles Montagne, helped sue the federal government, yet the process of assessing the feasibiliry of the Interstate Commerce Commission (ICC) for allowing the illegal project and drawing up a plan has not begun. abandonment of the railroad. A federal law required the ICC to Planners wane to build the greenway on the site of the old offer the land to the Department of Transportation and the Farmington Canal and rail bed, which runs 83 miles from New Department of Environmental Protection. After these agencies Haven to Northampton, Massachusetts. The canal, which opened in 1829, was transformed into a railroad in 1848. When floods passed up the offer, the tract went to the governments of each town ir r eparably damaged the tracks in 1982, the railway was the trail ran through. FCRTA worked to lobby the city abandoned. The path intersects New Haven for three miles, governments of Hamden and New Haven to convert t.he railway running fro m Cheshire to Hamden into Dixwell, Newhallville, into a recreation trail.

Science Park, Yale (through Prospect, Hillhouse, and Church FCRTA made little headway on the trail project under the Streets), and down to the Audobon Arts Block and New Haven administrations of Mayors Biagio DiLieto and John Daniels. Mayor Harbor.

John DeStefano has supported the trail project by working with the The greenway concept has emerged in the last ten years as a Trust for Public Land to purchase the land from developers who acquired it during the DiLieto administration. The ciry finally response to both continued suburban sprawl and increased purchased the canal land in December of 1993, with the intention abandonment of railroad beds. The greenway aims to connect the of building the trail. City officials have begun work on a grant suburbs and inner ciry neighborhoods with the resources and jobs proposal co obtain federal funding for the construction of the trail, concentrated in the central downtown area. In the New Haven but FCTRA paved the way for the ciry to act and has no intention area, the greenway would provide residents from the suburbs of H amden and Cheshire and from city of relinquishing control of the project.

Given the current financial problems and neighborhoods like Dixwell and Newhallville easy limited resources of cities, such private, non-profit access to jobs and the cultural resources provided

T

by Kate Schuler

1.8

THE

Nt:w JouRNAL

sector involvement may be the only way for many parks to thrive.

Diana Balmori, Yale professor of architecture and principal designer for Balmori Associates, points out in her essay "Park Redefinitions" that, "Whoever pays the bill makes the decisions-aesthetic choices, programming, and use hours are then determined by a group of like-minded individuals , often from the same socioeconomic group, whose vision narrowly defines the life in common; with this limitation, public space becomes less public." A glance at the list of the board members on FCRTA, who oversee the portion of the trail passing through New Haven County, shows that of the 22 members, seven reside in New Haven. The others come from the suburbs-exclusive areas in Woodbridge, Hamden, and North Haven. Since FCRTA has been the main lobbying and fundraising force, it will be its board's money and ideas that will shape the trail.

FCRTA's brochure clearly spells out its utopian vision of "biking or hiking along a historic canal line, safely tucked away from traffic, passing through city and suburban neighborhoods, over old stone arch bridges.

Considering the diversity of the areas the trail will run through, this vision seems unrealistic and na"ive. As FCRTA focuses its energies on implementing the linear park, it fails to address many of the issues that come with urban environments, such as safety.

Members argue that increased traffic along the canal will force illicit activities to other areas.

Tatum Nolan (DC '97), a trail proponent, researched studies that show crime rates have not significantly changed in areas where greenways were built. He cites repons by the Department of the Interior and the State Trail Planner of Colorado that show crime either decreases in areas with trails or remains steady. However, Nolan said the Farmington Canal "is unique because it joins poor neighborhoods to very wealthy neighborhoods. All of the reports done so far are for suburban trails." A study done by the Trust for Public Land (TPL) offers statistics that show that recreation areas can deter crime. The report reveals that "crime plummeted 90 percent in a Philadelphia precinct after police helped volunteers clean up vacant lots and plant gardens" and "juvenile arrests

declined by almost one-third in Fort Myers, FL, after the city began a youth academics and recreation p.rogram." In the TPL study the implementation of these recreational areas included specific programs and distinct efforts by the cities to reduce crime. Open space alone will not reduce crime. From their experience with urban parks, such as the New Haven Green, some would say that open space would make things only more dangerous.

FCRTA's vision for the greenway diverges from city residents' vision for the trail's use. Alderman calls the accessibility to the Arts Block on Audobon Street from Dixwell and Newhall ville one of the biggest advantages of the greenway. Yet a series of concerts and sculpture events targeted toward these neighborhoods drew few residents from those areas, said Sharon Hausam (FOR '95), one of the organizers of the projects. This could indicate that using the canal land as a place for arts and cultural activities is not a high priority.

Forestry students interviewed many Dixwell residents and found them to be "apathetic" about the greenway project. Many residents viewed the project as an idea imposed upon them by outsiders. Those who were aware of it often "belittled it by labeling it the 'jogging track' or 'bike path."' Most residents expressed interest, but many mentioned a need for types of recreation facilities other than a greenway. Instead of a bike path, one man suggested building basketball courts or installing swings.

Others concerned with improving general living conditions suggested using the land for purposes other than a park-building housing, homeless shelters, or stores. One resident said, "Housing, we need more housing... on second thought ... put stores there. We need grocery stores for people."

Residents bring up over and over issues of safety and policing along the trail. Hausam said, "Safety is a major, major concern for Dixwell residents." Another resident of Dixwell, who works at Dixwell/Newhallville Menral Health and Family Services, says, "We don't need submerged parks. It would really be a recipe for muggings, for disaster. You would be making it easier to commit a crime. There would be muggings a mile long."

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students that he was concerned with the potential use of the canal as a shortcut to the "mudhole," a noted gathering place for gangs and drug dealers. He also stressed that the canal is an easy way for suspects to flee from police and that robberies might increase when the path is cleared of debris.

An architectural plan for the canal developed by Balmori Associates includes a proposal for the trail that lies somewhere berween the vision of the FCRTA and the expressed needs of the Dixwell and Newliallville residents. Balmori's idea for the park transcends the somewhat limited vision of FCRTA, yet it still does not offer satisfactory plans for all of the park. A statement in the plan for the canal addresses many of the issues of building the greenway. In this original design plan, Balmori wrote, "The needs, concerns, development plans, and individual character of each section of, and neighborhood along, the canal corridor must be recognized and incorporated into the project" in order for the greenway to be effective as a continuous whole.

Such ideological visions translate into policy with difficulty. Indeed, the proposal features specific plans for the cultural opportunities the trail will provide-the Yale Collection of Musical Instruments, the Arts Council Building, antique fairs, a proposal to build a museum of industrial technology, and mile markers stating the historical significance of each area the canal passes through. Running a light rail train through the canal was another idea presented by Balmori.

Specific issues such as safety, however, have received only vague coverage in the

30

Balmori plan. Balmori's notion of safety differs from the Dixwell residents' ideas.

Alan Planus, Yale professor of architecture ancl a consultant on the initial Balmori plan, dismisses the possibility of criminals using the canal as an escape route. "Drug dealers are more sophisticated than thatthey have cars." The design plan focuses on preventing cars from accessing the trail, while allowing emergency vehicles to pass ¡ through.

Balmori suggests, "The best policy is patrolling by policemen on bikes, and closing the park at dark ... also neighborhood watch associations along the linear park." Her suggestions conjure up an unfathomable image for some. With city resources already strapped, the prospect of police officers patrolling the trail on bicycles appears unrealistic.

Balmori also maintains that increased traffic on the trail would decrease crime activity in the area. Balmori said, "The work done by the Rails to Trails [Conservancy] in Washington, D.C., which has looked at many trails recently done, shows that heavy use by bikes and pedestrians makes places which have undesirable activities too visible and they tend to move away."

Since the 1988 plan by Balmori Associates, Balmori, along with forestry and environmental studies professor William Burch, has worked with srudencs from the School of Forestry to develop a more comprehensive plan for the Farmington Canal. The students' work reveals a concern that any plan for the canal needs to recognize the unique problems that accompany building a park through urban

communities. Hausam said, "[Balmori] is a firm believer in the idea that if we don't get the community involved, [the trail] won't happen. " Using census data, personal interviews, and walking observations, the students assessed the canal neighborhoods.

The students' report, "Farmington Canal Community Needs and Constraints Assessment," found the main concerns of residents in the urban neighborhoods focused on issues of security, maintenance, and feasibility (money and community support). The formula- necessary to make a successful trail in Dixwell and Newhallville is ambitious and complex. The report "Strategies for Management of the Farmington Canal Greenway," which makes recommendations for developing the canal, begins with the ominous statement, "Any attempt to transform this section of the canal into a greenway must be linked to the redevelopment of the parcels of land surrounding the canal. If the greenway were built today, the lack of people living and working in the immediate viciniry would make it a dangerous, and thus seldom used, area." The students then call for "urban renewal programs. " Broad-based urban renewal programs carry large expenses and have generally been unsuccessful in the past. The efforts of the Forestry School provide no means to support all of the programs they suggest. There is no plan for the "urban renewal" that they demand for the Dixwell and Newhallville portions of the canal.

Largely theoretical, the recommendations do not sufficiently acknowledge the complexities that would be involved in urban renewal. The recommendation for the mudhole area of Newhallville, perhaps the biggest cause for concern, is especially vague. "The mudhole provides a unique challenge for the greenway. With proper design and consideration, the greenway can restructure the area encompassing the mudhole and reclaim this area for the citizens of Newhallville. The greenway, therefore, will not only overcome a design obstacle, but will also resolve a lingering problem for the city."

In making these vague

THE NEw JouRNAL

recommendations, the students did not even investigate the area closely. "Site observations were made from a distance as the area was deemed too dangerous to enter," their report states.

The Fo restry School report also suggests that the canal wou ld benefit educational progra ms and schools in Newhallville and Dixwell. The Forestry School has already begun work on this idea.

In the spring of 1994, they worked with classes in two high schools and one elementary school, to teach about various environmental concerns, historical aspects, and issues of maintenance and use of the canaL Beyond that, little actual work has been done to implement these kinds of programs.

The limitations of a group of Yale students working to come up with a plan for implementation of such a controversial project are obvious. Yet to date, the 1988 design by Balmori's firm and the work of the Forestry School have been t he only attempts made at specific planning.

Though their reports and conclusions have been made available to city officials and anyone involved with the Canal project, the Forestry School 's "work was never meant to be an implementable plan," said Leigh Shemitz, president of Urban Resources Initiative.

Alderman, while cautious not to insult the Forestry School students, said, "Their work was not really helpful-except as a good case study. " Although the forestry students have come closest to addressing more of the wide-ranging issues of the greenway implementation and suggest that FCRTA's build-it-and-see-what-happens attitude needs to be reevaluated, FCRTA has virtually ignored their work and has continued to push the ciry to build t he trail.

The city is not presently undertaking any efforts to assess the feasibility of the trail. Pam Kressman, Deputy Director of the New Haven Parks Department, said, "The city hasn't done any planning for the trail, t hough we have knowledge of t he work of the Forestry School."

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little research by the city, and only vague recommendations from the Forestry School, a grant is currently being written

by Kressman, Janet Lindner, an official in the Mayor's office and other city officials to apply for federal money to implement the trail. The city's positive reception of the idea may be due to the fact that the federal government would contribute money to the project. But federal money will only pay for the design and construction of the greenway. The city would have to pay for upkeep, management, and policing.

Considering the city's already strapped resources, concerns about the fate of the trail are justified. , According to Mark Phillips, TK of the Transportation Department, funds could come through the l ntermodal Service Transportation Efficiency Act (ISTEA).

The act established a Transportation Enhancement program which delegates a certain percentage · ·of a state's transportation budget be used for "enhancing the system, doing something a little different with the money-bicycle and pedestrian paths, landscaping," said Phillips. New Haven is preparing an application for ISTEA funds for either fiscal year 1996 or 1997. Alderman claims that the application process is "probably just a fo rmality," saying that "the inclination is to finish a project that has already been started, to link [the canal) to Hamden and Cheshire."

The three blocks passing through Yale's property are the only remaining obstacles to the project. Recently, the Board of Aldermen threatened Yale's hold on the property while considering Yale's request for a permit to begin building a cogeneration power facility. The Board tacked on an amendment stating that Yale would have to settle its differences with FCRTA before the city would grant the permit.

Though the amendment was eventually repealed, the Board seemed to be sending a message to Yale that it disapproves interference in New Haven interests, and that the city wants to build the greenway.

Taking a wait-and-see stance on the project, Yale does not want to address the

issue until the city makes a more concrete commitment to building the trail. Susan Godshall ('73 LAW, '75 M.ARC) assistant university secretary, said that since the city has just begun to address the monetary and land acquisition issues of the trail, and has not made much progress on the actual plans, it is not necessary for Yale to act immediately.

The corner of Prospect and Trumbull Streets, according to Godshall, "remains one of the prime building sites on campus."

That site is one of theJew spaces of undeve.loped land on central campus, and Yale would understandably be reluctant to give up such property.

Yale is reluctant, though, to open more of its land to the city without the knowledge that its use will be regulated.

Godshall recognizes the concerns about safety issues, "We certainly support the trail, provided that concerns about access and security are addressed."

The Forestry School report cautions that "the city of New Haven has limited . resources for maintaining or patrolling the greenway. The physical condition and social life of the Farmington Canal Greenway will therefore depend almost entirely on the initiative of the people living and working near it."

The future of the Farmington Canal now lies in the hands of the city and its decisions regarding community needs. The issue of the park remains a challenging one.

In a Nov. 14, 1994 statement Balmori wrote, 'These new parks reach the pitch of their social significance-and consequently, of their political challenge-when they converge with the centers of cities." Her statement rings true in the current debate about the canal project in New Haven. Yet hope for the canal project is not lost, for she continues, "It is here where the division between nature and human creation, between country and city can be bridged rather than sanctioned."

-

Kate Schuler, a junior in Saybrook College, is tksigner of TN]

THE NEw JouRNAL

Medical Miracles Dr. Berni e Siegal head s the move ment in medicine to do more than just fix bodies; he strives to heal- through the combination of body and mind .

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ernie Siegel?" says Roseanne behind the counter at Atticus Books on Chapel Street. "His books just Ay off the shelves."

The only thing that moves faster than Bernie Siegel's books is Bernie Siegel himself. At 63, the former Yale professor of surgery, bestselling author, and self-help therapist has just competed in his third marathon.

Siegel also just happens to have a guardian angel named George. Siegel believes in the healing power of the color purple and shaves his head bald to uncover what he calls his "emotions, spirituality, and love." His car bears vanity license plates proclaiming "MD-LOVE." Siegel once told the supermarket tabloid Tht Midnight Globt that the mind can cure cancer. Perhaps Bobbie, Siegel's wife of thirty years described him best when she told Ptopk magazine, "He's always been different."

Even with all of his personal quirks, Siegel would likely still be a relatively obscure New Haven surgeon, teaching surgery at Yale, if not for his radical psychoneuroimmunological ideas about cancer. At a time when soaring health care costs have necessitated radjcal reform in medicine, Siegel presents a return to the cost-effective laying on of hands. As the technology of standard medical practice expands, Siegel stands on the scientific fringe. Mainsrream medicine appears reluctant to embrace a man who places miracles above machines.

Siegel has not always trusted in the power of miracles. Beginning in 1960, he held a New Haven surgery practice with Dr. Rjchard Selzer, whom he

by Dan Murphy

DECEMBER 2,

1994

met while a surgical resident at Yale. But what would appear like success to many fell far shore for Siegel. "I felt like a failure," he writes in his 1986 book Lovt, Mtdicint and Miraclts.

He saw himself as a mechanic trying merely to fix people, and when he failed, it left him in a state of despair.

Lovt, Medicint, and Miraclts cites a journal entry from the mid 70s: "I operate on person after person and I can't cure them. What good can I do anyone?"

Two separate sets of changes brought Siegel out of this state, altering his life forever. The first changes came gradually. He shaved his head for the first time. He moved his desk against the wall so he could sit closer to his patients. He encouraged his patients to call him Berrue instead of Dr. Siegel. He extended his new warmth to fellow physicians, medical students, and residents. " He was personally warm a nd delightful," remembers Dr. Barbara Ward, assistant professor of oncology at the Yale School of Medicine, who worked with Siegel during her residency at Yale. " He was always listening to the patients and the residents." Ward recalls an occasion when Siegel drew a rainbow on her name.

"That sort of thing was typical of him," she notes.

Yet even after this personal transformation, Siegel still felt something lackjng in his practice. He was still seekjng answers in 1978 when he attended a workshop entitled "Psychological Factors, Stress, and Cancer."

During one of the workshop's gujded meditations, Siegel first encountered his guardian angel George, whom he describes in his fll'St book as "a bearded, long-haired young man wearing an immaculate

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flowing white gown and skullcap." Since that moment George has served as Siegel's inner guide, adviser, and invaluable companion.

With George's help, Siegel came to the realization that eventuall y laid the groundwork for his current theories. Siegel turned his attention to the exceptions of individual cures and away from the vast statistics of the uncured. In essence, he

"And maybe someday Bernie will perform miracles. And then won't I fall down on my knees," says Dr. Richard Selzer.

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those seeds will grow. If the individual lacks purpose or love in his life, cancer steps in to fill the void. Within the context of the central nervous system, t h e endocrine system, and the immune system, the mind activates "live" or "die" messages. Frame of mind determines which message the body receives. "Peace of mind sends to the body a 'live' message, while depression, fear, and unresolved conflict give it a 'die' message," Siegel writes.

Siegel defines "healing" as separate and distinct from "curing." Healing involves the individual's mental and emotional health, while curing pertains only to the direct physical aspects of disease. Cancer treatment begins by changing one's attitude towards life. H ealing the angry and the unfulfilled parts of one's life establishes a new frame of mind more receptive to "live" messages.

Drugs and radiation, integral to the cure of disease, can help patients live long enough to reach this change of heart, but no "curing" of a disease can take place without an init ial "healing. " Some people never

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ideas r a p i d 1y accumu lated upon this miraculous groundwork. In Lov~.

M~dicin~, and Miracks, Siegel asserts that the source of-as well as the re med y for-a disease lies within the individual. Siegel's assertions follow this scheme: cancer- and all disease for that matter- r es u lts p rimar ily fro m personal tension and unhappiness. Genetics and environ m ental factors plant the molecular seeds of cancer in everyone to varying degrees, but the individual's state of m in d determ ines if

THE NEw JouRNAL

reach the cure, but in Siegel's view, everyone can attain personal healing. "In achieving peace of mind," writes Siegel, "cancer may be healed, sight may be resto red, and paralysis may disappear," writes Siegel.

Siegel's prescriptions for healing follow logically from his convictions: bring peace and love into your life; forgive yourself and others; don't harbor resentment, anger, or fear; be calm, centered, and focused; don't fo rget the joy; do what makes you happy; find the childlike quality within you; play.

To help people achieve these intermediate goals on the path to healing, Siegel outlines methods of introspection such as keeping a journal, analyzing dreams and drawings, and meditation. In his second book, Peace, Love, and Hef!ling he offers a five-step program t hat integrates hypnosis, b iofeedback, creative visualization, prayer, yoga, music, and poetry. Siegel says these treatments allow the patient to participate in the healing team process with the doctors and nurses. "They let the patient see thei r intuitive beliefs from the unconscious. If

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there are negative symbols then they can be corrected," he says.

Siegel's direct contact with cancer patients has decreased since he retired from surgery in 1989 to devote himself full-time to lecturing and writing. "If I manage to influence training doctors, I help more people indirectly through the ripple effect," he says. In addition to Love, Medicine and Miracles, and Peace, Love, and Healing, he also authored How to Live Between Office Visitr in 1993.

Siegel has also reached out to people through Exceptional Cancer Patients (ECaP), a group he founded soon after meeting George in 1978. Siegel writes that an exceptional cancer patient "refuses to play the victim" and instead demands "dignity, personhood and control." ECaP, which recently moved its headquarters from downtown New Haven to Middlebury, operates today as a support group for exceptional patients. The patients meet in g roups to meditate and exp ress their feelings, thereby beginning the internal healing process. Siegel c ites a number of independent medical stud ies, including a 1989 exper iment showing that women with breast cancer who participated in group therapy lived longer than those who did not. Siegel also quotes an experiment which found that men with heart disease were less likely to suffer LESSONS LEARNED ABOUT relapses if they participated in group SELF-HEALING FROM A sessions.

SURGEON'S EXPERIENCE T hese facts and figures are secondary, WITH EXCEPTIONAL however, to Siegel's PATIENTS personal experiences.

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analyzing data. Siegel remembers John Florio, a landscaper with cancer. "John said, 'I'm going home t o make the world beautiful and if I die that's okay,"' recalls Siegel. "He refused all treatment and went home and worked on his garden, and today he's over ninety years old."

Love, Medicine, and Miracles also mentions Linda, a patient who refused chemother'a py and whose doctor told her that she'd come crawling back to beg for it.

Linda said to herself, "That S.O.B.! I won't die, just to prove he's wrong." Linda lived ten years without chemotherapy before beginning chemo to live even longer.

Through letters he receives, Siegel has heard of countless such cases. "One woman wrote that after she was diagnosed she wrote a will, gave away her treasures, laughed, took some vitamins, bought a dog, and planted a backyard landscape. She joked that she had beat the disease, but was so busy that she was killing herself," recalls Siegel. "That's what you have to do, though: burn up, not burn out." Siegel believes that living life to the fullest beats disease. "If you can beat the cancer for one year, by living the life you chose, then you will have shown all your family and friends how to live and how to die," he says.

36

E

ven though Siegel's books may fly off bookstore shelves, they aren't landing in the hands of the disbelieving medical establishment. Siegel's initial assertion-that the primary cause of cancer is found in che mind consistently-comes under fire from ochers who treat cancer. Dr. Ronald Merrell, chairman of Yale's department of surgery, notes, "For myself, as for most physicians, the importance of the mind in disease is subliminal, not paramount, as it is for Dr. Siegel."

Dr. Joseph Germino, assistant professor of oncology also considers Siegel's ideas extreme. "Maybe for some patie.nts, mind over matter works, but for most patients, emotional therapy alone is just not effective," he says. Even Selzer, Siegel's forme r partner, characterizes himself as "naturally skeptical," preferring to place his faith in science and, "what actually can be done." ¡ .

But even those who ¡criticize Siegel for his lack of scientific basis do acknowledge that the mind holds some influence over the body. Yale psychology professor Kelly Brown ell emphasizes that, despite his personal belief in Siegel's ideas and Siegel's course of action, as a scientist, the lack of verified data prevents him from asserting Siegel's effectiveness. Having witnessed firsthand the power of the mind, most doctors qualify their criticism of Siegel. Merrel says, "Like all surgeons, I've seen inexplicable recoveries, and I've witnessed the deaths of patients who simply gave up."

The medical community also questions the consequences of Siegel's celebrity status.

Siegel has presented his ideas on Oprah!, Donahue, and Good Morning America, among other shows. "Fame forces you to present yourself in a certain way," notes Selzer. Some doctors fear that Siegel has condensed cancer and treatment into oversimplified soundbites for the purpose of self-promotion and popularization. "H e's only dealing with the issues and the problems on a surface level with the general public," says Germino. Siegel contends he goes on these shows "to awaken people to the mind-body connection," so that they will go and exam ine his theories more

In his first book Siegel describes his guardian angel George as "a bearded, long-haired young man wearing an immaculate flowing white gown and skull~ap." closely. Siegel says that he resents his portrayal in the popular media as a professional eccentric. n criticizing the basis and the content of Siegel's ideas, doctors seem to view him as a well-meaning man with a misdirected message . .But a few critics go beyond the contention that his message is seriously_flawed and assert that Siegel may actually pose a serious danger to ca~cer patients. Dr. Thomas Fynan, associate research scientist in medical oncology at Yale, says, "The basic message behind Dr. Siegel's ide.as is that if you try harder, you could prevent or cure your disease, and diis is simply not true. The causes of cancer are molecular and genetic, and there's a limit to how effective 'seminars' can be."

Siegel's instruction for a patient to ask herself "Why do I n~ this disease?" might include elements of self-condemnation and blame. "Empowerment over certain elements of sickness is good," notes Fynan,. "but you cannot empower people over the disease of cancer." " It's about examining your life, not blaming yourself," contends Siegel. "'False hope' is an oxymoron. Besides, what's the alternative, no hope?" According to Siegel, since each individual is different, each experience of disease is unique. Siegel declares that there are no incurable diseases, only incurable people. "Statistics can help you make choices, but statistics do not apply to individuals," he says.

W h ile Siegel puts his faith in hope, other doctors fear that patients will never accept the danger of a disease if they adhere

I

THE NEW JouRNAL

New Haven Brewing to Siegel's assertion that no condition is 100 percent terminal. As Selzer put it, "There must be a rime to say 'enough."' Dr. Merrell echoes, "Sometimes, there's nothing that can be done, and it's best for the patient to peacefully accept the future."

S

iegel's zeal in advocating his theories appears limitless. "I know a patient is ready to fight cancer if I see they have my book and they have the Bible," he says.

He also believes that within ten years science will have uncovered information supporting all his theories.

Siegel's faith in himself has only distanced him further from the medical mainstream. "With so much enthusiasm, this type of thing is likely to take on all the ¡flavor of a religious revival," says Selzer.

"Part of the popularity lies in Bernie's magnetic personal charisma, and I think there's a real danger in dispensing hope by the mouthful to those without hope, in the way a priest dispenses absolution."

Bernie Siegel does like to speak in absolutes, but discussing cancer and the human mind presents dual realms of uncertainty. Bernie Siegel dwells amidst this uncertainty. Accordingly, the motto of ECaP reads, "In the face of uncertainty, there is nothing wrong with hope." That intangible, immeasurable hope may have helped many cancer patients to live better lives. As Selzer puts it, "Bernie has served a great purpose and filled a need for so many people that even the skeptic has to marvel and commend him. I certainly do. And maybe someday Bernie will perform miracles. And then won't I fall down on my knees."

Bernie Siegel believes that he has performed miracles. Every time he witnesses a cancer patient changing his or her life and learning to fight the disease, he sees a miracle. Until the medical profession embraces miracles, however, Siegel's enormous popular acclaim will dwell in the shadow of professional doubt.

..,.

Dan Murphy. a freshman in Timothy Dwight College, is on the staffofTNJ.

DECEMBER 2, 1994

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37

BETWEEN

T H E

V I N E S

Mixed Messages IF your life were a movie, what would the soundtrack be? But would anyone listen to the words? comes to expressing love, longing, or loss, we're more likely to do t all started my senior year of high school. After I got so by throwing together a dozen songs than by penning a sonnet or my first CD player for Christm~s, my descent into recycled some v~rs libr~. In my case, at least, it seems to have boiled down to sentiment began almost immediately. I developed an either/or: during my most prolific mix years, I didn't ear for the perfect transition, developed a shorthand for disc and track numbers, learned to tally at a glance the 'B;~::=~~=::::::~-write a single poem. Junior high and high 'f.. school left in their wake scores combination of songs that would fill a given length of tape. I became a mixmaster, able to communicate not of inspired works of with my own words but with other people's music. I poetic creation-teen wooed and wept to the tune of personalized angst at its best-praising soundtracks; every car trip demanded the various objects of my correct accompaniment. If I had a problem, respect, ¡ revulsion, and deep, true, abiding love. making a mix would help me solve it. If While the wider world will I needed to tell someone something probably not miss the two important, my own voice was the years' worth of highly last one I would think of enjambed melancholy, I us mg. know I would have been As my freshman year better off wnung roommates unpacked their .own specthrough my emotions tacular music instead of splicing ;;; collections, other people's lyrics ~ in place of my true ~ my heart beat faster. I felt that feelings. ~ my mtxes were The realization that I was .J::"' limited only by the mixing rather than writing has made me t::: think seriously about what it means to mix. ~ number of voices that I could add to them, and When I began asking people about their ~ mixes I found an eerie ?ameness, a .a : among the people on my floor upwards of 1,000 COs featured claustrophobic language of cliche and ~ canned sentiment. But at the same time, the hundreds of performers as of yet people I talked to spoke about the mixes they give and unknown to me. Most importantly, I receive with fierce emotion. They serve as totems and turning found dozens of friends who shared my points in relationships, affirmations of friendship, and important passion for mixing as well as my sense of its emotional import. One friend coping devices that help people wrest meaning from a confusing presented me with a heartfelt mix to console me about the death of environment. Their reactions convinced me that mixes and the my family's dog; another assembled 90 minutes ¡of vaguely phenomenon of mix-making mean something, but that this meaning is provisional and changing. misogynistic music to ease the pain of another romance gone awry.

Dead dogs notwithstanding, romance or the lack of it inspires My research started close to home. I called old friends and the vast majority of all mix tapes. Call us children asked them to search around for the mixes I had of TV, COs, or MTV-call us Generation X if given them over the years. First of all, for all the you must-but, alas, don't call us poets. When it uniqueness I thought to imbue each tape with, ten

I

by Jay Porter

Tru: NEW JouRNAL

to rwenty songs make up a constant core: The Indigo Girls' "Closer to Fine" and U2's "With or Without You" turn up with embarrassing frequency. The liners feature the same scrawl with elegant pretensions, the similar feints at catchy titles. My friend Anne laughed as she psychoanalyzed song choices in hindsight of my coming out: my reliance on Erasure and the Pet Shop Boys seems hilariously stereotypical to her now. Julie, a friend from home I had tried doggedly to fall in love with, dug out six tapes of an increasingly less-subtle romantic bent; she informed me that she had been clueless because she never listens to song lyrics. I had to smile, remembering hours spent in my overdetermined Englishmajor mode weighing the meaning that she would rake from a certain track by Natalie Cole or Jesus Jones. The answer: none. But she assures me she loves my mixes anyway.

I also looked, with a measure of regret, at a mix I made upon my return to New Haven this fall. It has sat unsent on my stereo for months: before I could get it in the mail, the relat ionship whose joys and pains it catalogues had devolved into a series of angry phone calls. There is something pathetic about the unsenc mix: like an unmailed letter but weightier, the black tape coiled inside the plastic shell like the memory of kisses and broken promises.

Unlike poetry, which is generally seen as having some meaning, mixes have the singular ability to be transparent. It may be too easy to listen to the music and ignore the words .

y roommate Sara has her share of unsent mixes, too.

They play like a diary or a travelogue, marking the transit of a life full of changes. She struck upona good title early on and stuck with it: she has countless volumes of Colkgt Lovt and Othtr Anomalits. I know the songs mean different things in the context of her life, but her choices resemble mine more than they differ: heavy on the Indigo Girls, Peter Gabriel, and the Cowboy Junkies, with a little Mary-Chapin Carpenter thrown in for good measure. Her mixes, however, are much more artfully labelled than mine.

Another friend tells me of the stack of tapes in his room that documents the story of a long-term relationship recently gone sour.

T he early stages, predictably, include "In Your Eyes" and "AJI I Want Is You," along with darker notes that make the whole affair seem doomed to failure. But that, again, is hindsight. When you receive a mix from your girlfriend, he tells me, you want it to be a love letter.

M

D ECEMBER 2, 1994

I like the the way a mix can make people treat pop songs like poems to be analyud and decoded. But unlike poetry, which is generally seen as having some meaning, mixes have the singular ability to be transparent. It may just be too easy to listen to the music and ignore the words-just ask Julie. That's a lesson I had to learn the hard way.

This may be a noble efforr on the personal level, but it is likely to be a fatal strategy. I can almost see the culture-vultures circling.

As fellow rwentysomethings take over the entertainment industry, the mix-making ethos is flourishing: no high-concept movie can make it without an equally high-concept sountrack album. The songs need not have been in the movie anymore-they need only conjure up an appropriate mood or convey emotions germane to the film. Some soundtracks-like that for Rtality Bim-even have the feel of a good mix tape, with lots of different artists' styles jostling against one another. Buying it is kind of like opening your mailbox to find a mix from Ethan Hawke. Don't be fooled. It's a lesson that should be included in any pop-culture primer.

B

eyond the personal and psychological qualms I have with my mix-king phase, the entire phenomenon seems to point toward a serious shift in the means and methods of selfexpression. Posrmodern theory, for all its occasional abstruseness, offers strikingly clear terms with which to discuss mix-making. As popular culture becomes both the primary arena for the discussion of personal and political issues, and the common language in which these issues are framed, traditional notions of the individual na~ure of creativity become much less stable. To what extent are rwo people relating as individuals if their speech is colonized by references to Tht Brady Bunch, Madonna, and ~ynts World? Does my selection of other people's songs count as an act of creativity, or is it mere bricolagt-a scavenger's attempt at second-hand sentiment? Does mix-making represent a courageous attempt to personalize and make meaning from received pop-culture forms, or does it represent the abdication of creativity to well-publicized puppets of the music industry? These are questions I can't begin to answer. But I do know that I will never again allow the mixed message to replace my attempts at original expression. If my mixes can coexist with my writing (emphasis on my), fine; if I ever return to putting together collections of random songs instead of stanzas of finely tuned verse, I'll just have to stop buying blank tapes. 18)

jay Porur is contributing tditor ojTNJ.

39

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