PETER BRANDT
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The Company of Saints

By Joanna Frueh

From the book “Peter Super-T-Art”, page 8-31, 2007.

Saintly Eros

People believe they are sinners. I say, We are saints.

One way to live and work as a saint is to be an artist – whose aesthetic practice heals human beings. Peter Brandt is such an artist. Using various media – sculpture, photography, video, and watercolor painting – he encourages viewers to de-condition their conditioning in sin. Glamour, beauty, kindness, and gender bending, most often visually situated in the specificity of Brandt’s unclothed body, serve to exorcise the damage, ignorance, and ugliness that form the condition of sin. A condition is not necessarily a fact; a condition is often a concept, like sin, that people perceive to be operating in their lives because they believe its truth. In other words, the human mind creates sin. The viewer who is moved by Brandt’s intercessions into her conditioning – that her body is shameful, that the world is unalterably cruel – may awaken to a change of heart, which may release her soul-and-mind-inseparablefrom- body from being bound to the seeming reality of sin.

Brandt’s art is not religious, and perhaps no one but me would call it saintly. When I use the word saintly I am seeing and feeling the spiritual aspect of Brandt’s work. Neither religion nor spirituality are words with which contemporary art professionals are comfortable. The art historian James Elkins devotes his recent book, On the Strange Place of Religion in Contemporary Art, to this fact and concludes that “[m]odern spirituality and contemporary art are rum companions: either the art is loose and unambitious, or the religion is one-dimensional and unpersuasive.”1 In a blunt phrasing of the situation, Jackie Tileston titles her 2007 College Art Association conference session “Unspeakable,” and states in the Call for Participation, “There is currently a black hole around the subject of spirituality in the art world, art magazines, and art criticism. . . This part of the art experience seems taboo or too embarrassing to talk about.”2 Despite the argument that Elkins elaborates throughout his book, he recognizes that because religion is “so intimately tangled with everything we think and do,”3 professionals in art are “irresponsible” not to talk about religion and contemporary art.4 One way to enter the “unspeakable” is by considering the artist as a saint.

Modeling his Lives of the Artists, published in 1550, after the Lives of the Saints, Giorgio Vasari created, according to Julia Reinhard Lupton in her Afterlives of the Saints: Hagiography, Typology, and Renaissance Literature, a “new covenant between narrative genres.”5 Vasari’s Lives is foundational for the creation of art historiography. There and in the criticism of contemporary art, artists are “canonized” as secular saints. The lives and works of artists and saints share other constituents. For example, notions of sanctity change, just as notions do about the most important qualities of art: postmodern irony and aloofness, admired in the late twentieth-century photographs of Richard Prince, are a far cry from the rending emotionalism of Matthias Grünewald’s Isenheim Altarpiece (c.1510-1515). Saints’ cults have gone in and out of favor. Likewise, artist ‘cults’. For example, the ‘cult’ of Pre-Raphaelitism in the nineteenth-century faded as the star of modernism rose, and now, as the Pre-Raphaelite star has risen over the last quarter of the twentieth century, a major exhibition of Pre-Raphaelite works began a two-year tour, in 2005, of the United States and the United Kingdom.6 Some saints appear in the Christian liturgy, and some artists appear in the ‘liturgy’ written by art historians. Relics, such as a body part or an object associated with a saint, have been revered by worshipers. In the ‘church’ of art celebrity, one of Andy Warhol’s signature silver wigs sold for $10,800 in June 2006, and sculptor Chris Burden called attention to the venerated nature of art works when he displayed props from his notorious mid-1970s performances in cases and named the objects relics.

I define spiritual as an experience that is metaphysically true. Your heart and your gut know that all is one – One – and that One is as sweet as can be. I see religion as a corruption through rigidification of the spiritual – an attempt to explain and give advice about the spiritual in terms of principles, doctrines, and beliefs, such as sin.

In my vocabulary – indeed, in my life – the experience of One is erotic. Erotic experience includes the sexual, but is far larger than the languors and lustfulness of sexual desire or the piquancy of orgasm. Connection, in the largest sense, is erotic.

The saint makes a deeply erotic contribution to society.

The Heart of St. Brandt

The Other Venus, which Brandt considers to be “the most central work in the show,” embodies glamour, beauty, kindness, and gender bending without representing the human figure. This abstract sculpture itself functions as a set of abstractions that evoke the intellectual and emotional heart of Brandt’s exhibition. Scale alone gives the piece centrality, but more importantly, the piece is quiet yet startling, bold yet understated, generous yet spare with a presence that is hugely innocent in feeling. I look at The Other Venus and sigh in relaxation. While being a sophisticated artwork, a minimalist object with feminist overtones, The Other Venus – when I simply let myself observe its materiality and absorb its energy – sweetens my spirit and expands it, as does the energy of a saint.

Glamour: The Other Venus is luxuriously physical. Beauty: the materials – translucent fiberglass and sugar icing for a cake – excite the senses of vision and touch. The white icing is so available to my eyes and my fingers as it’s been spread over 120 centimeters and below eye level. Metaphorically, I am given kindness in the combination of sugar and innocence; I am given the ‘icing on the cake’, the best part of a good experience. Gender bending: sweetness is associated with women and with femininity, and, in Brandt’s words, The Other Venus conveys “reversing roles. Putting me in the position of ‘the other.’”7 That reversal has been a strategy of feminist artists over the past forty years. In the dominant white male culture of Western civilization, two major groups of others have been women, any and all of them, and men who love and make love with men, and Western civilization has commonly gendered both groups feminine. In this essay I use gender to designate the condition of being a human male or female; in other words, the conditioning in femininity – how females are supposed to be – and in masculinity – how males are supposed to be: what does cultural etiquette expect from the sexes? Which, of course, in the common, constricting model, can only be two, as genders also can only be two.

If The Other Venus is a non-representational self-portrait, then Brandt has certainly queered Venus, the ancient Roman goddess of love and beauty, for he is an other – on the outside of frustratingly and fatiguingly simplified norms of gender and of sexual desire – who finds himself through yet more others: heterosexual female secular saints – film star Marilyn Monroe (in a project begun in 1999 and continuing) and, more recently, art star Hannah Wilke (in works dated 2005-2007). He appropriates both women’s glamorous self-styling and Monroe’s persona, in film roles and in public appearances, of innocence, and he looks to Monroe as an avatar of kindness. In a poignant, wistful prose poem titled Marilyn (2000), Brandt imagines her “to be just as much on the outside as me,”8 and elsewhere he calls himself “purely sexual.” 9 Her audience perceived Monroe to be precisely that, and the crystalline Beauty of the phrase “purely sexual” describes innocence as much as it does the animal allure and desire, the unadulterated sexuality, that Monroe’s image conjures up for many. Brandt’s self-designation of “purely sexual” points me towards a different meaning, which is personhood unadulterated by sex and gender categories.10 His appropriation of Wilke’s art includes its engagement in androgyny, its potent sexiness, and its challenge to a culturally sanctioned shame of the body.11 The women teach him how to reveal himself to himself and his audience and ways to touch them through the social, aesthetic, and sexual issues that matter to him.

Gender seems obvious to many people, for they assume that femininity is the essence of females and masculinity is the essence of males. Yet, people’s behaviors, desires, pleasures, and satisfactions are far sweeter and more glamorous than the familiar, conditioned extremes of gender, which appear to be moderate and normal. Cultural institutions, fears, and self-fulfilling prophecies divide gender into soft – femininity – and hard – masculinity: women are naturally more nurturing than are men; men won’t be men unless they act out masculinity; women won’t attract men unless the women underplay their intelligence. Clear divisions, though restrictive, provide comfort because they tell a person where he belongs: he needn’t think about it. At the same time, those restrictions create discomfort by keeping people chafing psychically and erotically in their place. Like gender, sugar icing is both soft and hard – your finger can easily press into its visually stiff surface – as is Brandt’s body in his many photographs. He is muscular – hard – yet the muscularity creates rounded contours – softness. His shaved head is hard while his penis is soft. Brandt, like everyone, is between the normalized gender extremes, for gender is impenetrable, like the fiberglass of The Other Venus to our gaze. The translucence of the fiberglass invites visual exploration, but whatever we imagine that fiberglass structure to hold remains mysterious, not in a hostile or teasing way, but rather, like a lover, whose being is always a shimmering mystery, no matter how much or how clearly we see into it. In actuality, The Other Venus is empty, as is every object, every body, every human being – everything – until we fill it with our own ideas and beliefs. The saint helps us to become aware of what we are filling this every emptiness with.

Bending his ‘correct’ gender to bond with Monroe’s and Wilke’s femininity, Brandt places himself in the company of saints. In her lifetime, Monroe was a secular saint, like Willie Nelson is today.12 A black cocktail dress that Monroe wore during The Misfits filming brought $66,000 during the same Manhattan auction at which Warhol’s silver hairpiece sold. Perhaps that relic is the dress worn by Monroe in one of the clips from The Misfits that Brandt uses in his video Please Don’t Kill Anything (1999). In scholars’ recent writing of art history – publications in this century – Wilke, who died in 1993, is a canonized feminist artist. Hannah Wilke: A Retrospective, the first book published about her work, in 1989, has become a collector’s item. The book, which includes my first writing on Wilke, has long been out of print, and the other day, when a philosopher friend of mine was looking to buy a copy, his research revealed that he would have to pay at least $500.

Supposedly, saints smell sweet. Examples abound in Western saint lore, from as early as the fifth century – St. Simeon Stylites, for example – into the seventeenth century with the scent of Venerable Benedicta of Notre-Damedu- Laus. The divine perfume of saints’ bodies – the so-called odor of sanctity – resulted from spiritual goodness.13 Wilke subtitled one of her works Memoirs of a Sugargiver (1977-1978; the complete title is I Object: Memoirs of a Sugargiver), thus naming herself as a giver of sweetness – the pleasure of her own glamour-girl beauty, which viewers could enjoy or with which they could identify. Brandt, too, presents a body for viewers to enjoy through identification and amorous desire. He, too, is a glamour-girl; and he is also a glamour-boy. Both of those appearances mean that he is a pin-up of indeterminate gender.

Wilke named herself Venus, the sugar-giving goddess par excellence, as in her self-portrait nude Venus Pareve (1982), carved in chocolate whose delicious scent caught me off-guard on a visit to her studio. Learning from Wilke, Brandt becomes the goddess in Black Venus (2006), a small inkjet print of himself nude, sumptuous thighs disappearing into a shell, which was the vessel on which Aphrodite, the Greek precursor to Venus, arrived on the shores of Cythera, known not only in myth but also in Western art as the island of pleasure, where, as in Antoine Watteau’s Return from Cythera (1717-1719), lovers could voyage in order to envelop themselves in the sweetness of love and its bodily pleasures.

Since people imagine making love with lovely bodies, Brandt’s pin-up nudity calls such pleasures to mind, even in his Scars & Stars (2005) series, from which he chooses one of the three to use in Black Venus. Brandt darkened his body with theatrical pancake makeup, then covered himself with olive oil. His naked blackness, whose sensual luminosity highlights opulent patterns of body hair, along with his dramatic and self-protective hand and arm gestures, radicalizes the pin-up, so that it departs from the notions with which people generally fill the pin-up – that it is simply and simplistically sexual. Brandt’s compassion for black males – another group of others – who are envied in a white Western vision that hypersexualizes them into objectified things without feelings or consciousness, opens us to the black male’s vulnerability and pain. Indeed, the look in the eyes of Brandt’s black Venuses ranges from suspicious to fearful to just this side of tears.

Stars & Scars is indebted to Wilke’s S.O.S. Starification Object Series (1974), in which she poses as a pin-up in many costumes and attitudes, always marking or ‘scarring’ her body with her signature cunt sculptures – in this piece, made of chewing gum.14 S.O.S. points out that women, such as Wilke herself, whose beauty makes them ‘stars’ of their sex, are simultaneously scarred by that stardom because they provoke the envy of women. Wilke also illuminates another social/sexual issue – that simply by being embodied with female genitalia a human being is scarred; for example, marked as an object to be raped and a drudge to perform domestic chores and the emotional labor in intimate relationships. With Wilke as a guide, Brandt creates a self-portrait that fits the art historian Maria Elena Buszek’s definition, in her book Pin-Up Girrrls: Feminism, Sexuality, Popular Culture, of a pin-up used by women to “mime, reword, and resignify the signs and stability of specifically female sexual ideals.”15

In one after another of Brandt’s works, a ‘star’ of the male sex – Brandt, himself, because he is beautiful – shows not only that men are scarred by notions about gender, but also that those notions need to be transformed. In work after work, Brandt desires that transformation, the “downfall of masculinity.”16 Needed-Erase-Him (2006) very pointedly works towards that goal. There, Brandt covers his head and torso with a black-and-white plaid blanket, and text from Valerie Solanas’s brilliant and devastating critique of masculinity, the SCUM Manifesto, surrounds him.17 Black-and-white: like the normalized extremes of sex and gender. Gray: the more subtle tonalities of Brandt’s experience of his own gender and sex. S.O.S. is, of course, a call for help, and Brandt, in his response to Wilke’s distress and its cultural roots and ramifications, answers that call with his saintly artistry.

The classical deities revived mortals with deliciously perfumed ambrosia and nectar.18 Just as queer theorists ‘resurrect’ philosopher and activist Michel Foucault (1926-1984) in order to awaken their intellectual, political, and Everyday activism for the transformation, the sweetening, of gay lives, so Brandt resurrects Wilke’s sugargiving Venusian sweetness – the sanctum, for him, of her work – in order to revive people’s faith in their own ability to be and to give sugar. One resurrection that strikes me as particularly sweet is Read My Lips Before They Are Sealed (2006). (The title’s words, Brandt tells me, are from a 1992 art work by Zoe Leonard and Suzanne Wright.) On a big wool blanket that looks cozily soft, the bold red words of the title, printed on cloth, are themselves softened by the unsophisticated stitching – in pink thread – that attaches the cloth to the blanket. Embroidered flowers further soften the words’ poignant harshness. Read My Lips... references Wilke’s Needed-Erase-Her (1974), composed of cunts shaped from kneaded erasers. Soft as the blanket is, Brandt’s piece combats the cultural erasure of others. Indeed, for the saintly warrior, who is the spiritual warrior, softness is of the essence.

Pink, a traditional symbol of love, comfort, and sweet femininity, is one of the blanket’s colors, and pink appears again in Elective Affinities (2006), a watercolor series titled after Wilke’s Elective Affinities (1979), a large group of small ceramic cunts. In Brandt’s piece, the eye can easily find phallic forms, contoured in red, the color of passion, surfacing from the nuanced pink ground. They are one of various shapes that can be read as parts of the body, from ear to breast to organs. In a field of pink and in its own pinkness, the penis assumes particularity but no dominance.

The penis, ‘enlarged’ in cultural imagination into the phallus, an anatomical abstraction that we joke about – cigars, for example – and that we ‘see’ in skyscrapers and the weaponry of knives, guns, rifles, and missiles, dominates the contemporary unconscious through divisive division: we can laugh at phallic references, such as the ones that I’ve listed, yet the inequality between the sexes may startle us when we realize that vulval and vaginal references, privately or publicly made, are comparatively nonexistent. What a saintly kindness to tart up the male body19 – Brandt as a pin-up; to ‘erase’ its phallic grandeur – Brandt’s Aftermath (2005), in which, appropriating Wilke’s own self-representation in I Object: Memoirs of a Sugargiver, he tucks his penis between his legs to display himself, still hairy and flat-chested, between female and male, masculine and feminine. What glamorous activism: to show that the truly human nature of being a person is to be in-between the normalized extremes. The current meaning of glamour as elegance, allure, and charm comes from the archaic meaning of magic: Brandt handles his body and our cultural notions about bodies in a magical way.

Miraculous Indulgence

The saint is human. However, because saints are known to work miracles, they appear to be superhuman. But that belief stems from people’s thinking that miracles are difficult to create and are beyond their own capacity: miracles happen every once in awhile, or maybe never. We might change our ideas about miracles.
Scholar David Halpern, author of Saint Foucault: Towards a Gay Hagiography, declares, “As far as I’m concerned, the guy [Foucault] was a fucking saint”20: because Foucault worked – and is still working, after his death – miracles, not only for self-designated queers, but also for the queer in all of us: the ways that we all depart from our femininity and masculinity, from the ‘ correct’ acts and practices of males and females, from the agony and sheer impossibility of being always and forever straight: straight-arrow; straight-laced; straight-jacketed by convention.21 In such straightened conditions, we weep as we walk a straight and narrow path, on which miracles – from a deliciously hot sun touching the top of your head to the greeting of a stranger whose unexpected warmth draws both your heart and your desire to him to your transformation into ever-growing sweetness – do not occur. When we fail to recognize miracles, we forfeit the release from sin that St. Brandt’s art is offering to us.

In popular misconceptions, the sweetness of saints places them above the rest of us. Those imaginings align goodness and goody-goodyness, sweetness and meekness. Historians disabuse us of those notions. The following descriptions, given by two historians, picture saints as people who were often overwhelmingly attractive in acts and being and who endangered the social norms: the saint has been an individual “possessed of a charisma that is patently dangerous and anarchic,”22 “at heart a non-conformist,”23 the “most vocal member of society,”24 and “hardy, forceful, even aggressive in ... enthusiasm.” 25 As saints have assailed political and religious orthodoxies and intervened in the ritualized narcoses of everyday behavior – the neuroses of I-know-what’s-going-on, when, really, this every emptiness of human existence is a mystery – they have been boldly self-inventing and self-authorizing. In other words, the saint is a model of creativity. To be abundantly creative is to be unlike most people and consequently, to be queer. St. Foucault, St. Wilke, St. Brandt: saints are some of the queerest people on planet earth, because, unlike many people, they are themselves and no one else. Being that way, they serve as beacons for all of us, so that we can be ourselves, luminously.

We mistake saints as saccharine beings, when, indeed, it is our overly sweet sentimentality that cannot imagine a saint being severe with us. Some of Brandt’s work may seem harsh, such as So Help Me Peter ... (2005) with its pistols, dynamic poses, and facial tensions and anger. Looking to Wilke’s So Help Me Hannah, a video (1979) and photos (1979-1981) in which the artist poses nude in standing, crawling, and prone positions while holding a toy gun, Brandt, like Wilke, works to disarm the power of the phallus by instilling the series with a melancholic violence whose despair will, hopefully, through the miracle of catharsis, move the viewer away from neurotic, narcotic replication of social rituals of cruel power.
We imagine that the saint is self-effacing. Some of Brandt’s work may seem self-indulgent. Maybe his self-portrait pin-ups demonstrate vanity; maybe his sexual politics are arrogant: maybe he is all ego. Halpern discusses the charge that Foucault’s politics were fashionable and therefore self-indulgent. 26 Art critic Lucy R. Lippard charged Wilke with indulging in her own beauty.27 The “constantly increasing absentness of Heaven,” which writer William Gass notes, leads me to love the self-indulgences of a secular saint such as Brandt, who brings us the miracle of Heaven.28 To indulge oneself is to be a good friend to oneself, and by virtue of that fact, to be a good friend to others. Indeed, St. Brandt is a friend whose art fits Aristotle’s descriptions of friendship. “With friends,” he states, “men are more able both to think and to act.”29 (Let’s read “people” where Aristotle said “men,” both here and below.) St. Brandt helps his viewers to think and act for ourselves, as individuals and in community, no matter if we live in Copenhagen, the European Union, or across an ocean or a continent from the Nikolaj, Copenhagen Contemporary Art Center. The effect of St. Brandt’s art is strong, because love – the sweetness in The Other Venus and so many of his works – is strong, and, as Aristotle knows, “loving seems to be the characteristic virtue of friends,”30 so it is the basis of friendship, which, for Aristotle, “depends on community.”31 Why might viewers of St. Brandt’s miraculous self-indulgence be joined in community? I use Aristotle to respond: “men address as friends their fellow-voyagers . . . and so too those associated with them in any other kind of community.”32 I imagine that St. Brandt addresses his fellow-voyagers – in the glamour, beauty, kindness, and gender bending of his art – as friends. Wilke is Brandt’s friend, Brandt is my friend.

Foucault is Halpern’s friend, and as Halpern understands, secular sainthood is not about the saint living a perfect life – a perfectly moral life – but rather about providing a “compelling model.”33 A good friend awakens us to excellence, which is where the poet Robert Lax compelled his friend Thomas Merton, a writer who became a Trappist monk. Merton recalls Lax asking, “What do you want to be, anyway?”34 and Merton’s response, “I guess I want to be a good Catholic,” was, according to him, “lame enough” and unacceptable to Lax, whose love for his friend directed this strong suggestion to Merton: “what you should say is that you want to be a saint.” Like most people would, Merton thought this was “a little weird,” and asked Lax, “How do you expect me to become a saint?” Lax replied, “By wanting to. . . . All you have to do is desire it.”

I do desire a company of saints. Which is why I evoke one in this essay. Saints help us awaken to the miracles that are always in our path. When we let them, saints help us to be more receptive to One. Miracles have no measure, as indicated in my little list of miracles above, for they all belong to One. Miracles deliver us from sin, which is a condition of separation. Vision helps people to see One. The saintly vision that challenges cultural blindness. Text from John 9: 24-26 appears in Brandt’s video On The Other Side of Venus (2006). The last line is the justly eternal “I was blind but now I see” (spoken by, simply, “a man” who had been blind). Friendly sight is saintly sight. Friends join together in a community of One.

St. Brandt, be patient, be gracious. A company of saints: all we have to do is desire it.

Notes
1 James Elkins, On the Strange Place of Religion in Contemporary Art (New York and London: Routledge, 2004), 115.
2 Jackie Tileston, Unspeakable, in 2007 Call for Participation (New York:College Art Association of America, 2006), 22.
3 Elkins, 115.
4 Ibid., 116.
5 Julia Reinhard Luppton, Afterlives of the Saints: Hagiography, Typology, and Renaissance Literature (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996), 143.
6 Waking Dreams: The Art of the Pre-Raphaelites has traveled or will be traveling to the following museums: Portland Art Museum, Oregon; Nottingham Castle Museum and Art Gallery, England; Marion Koogler McNay Art Museum, San Antonio, Texas; John and Mable Ringling Museum of Art, Sarasoto, Florida; Philbrook Museum of Art, Tulsa, Oklahoma; Frick Art and Historical Center, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; Cincinnati Art Museum, Ohio; Saint Louis Art Museum, Missouri; San Diego Museum of Art, California.
7 Peter Brandt, information given to the author in a listing of exhibition artworks, 2006.
8 Peter Brandt, Marilyn, 2000.
9 Peter Brandt email to Joanna Frueh, 19 July, 2006.
10 I thank Robert Stewart for helping me to clarify my ideas about Brandt’s phrase “purely sexual.”
11 See Elspeth Probyn, Blush: Faces of Shame (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2005), for an intellectual sanctioning of shame.
12 In mid-June, 2006, I heard someone call Willie Nelson a “secular saint” on National Public Radio’s Here and Now.
13 See Constance Classen, David Howes, and Anthony Synnott, eds., Aroma: The Cultural History of Smell (London and New York: Routledge, 1994), 52-54, for information about the odor of sanctity.
14 In the late 1960s artists such as Wilke began to create work that abstractly represented female genitalia. By the early 1970s the term ‘cunt art’, used by feminist artists, art critics, and art historians, designated those art works. The intention of those art professionals was to reclaim the word ‘cunt’ from its pejorative naming of female genitalia. ‘Cunt art’ and the use of the word ‘cunt’ were intended celebrations of the female body.
15 Maria Elena Buszek, Pin-Up Girrrls: Feminism, Sexuality, Popular Culture (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2006), 12.
16 Peter Brandt, statement about his video On The Other Side of Venus, 2006.
17 SCUM stands for Society for Cutting Up Men. The SCUM Manifesto was originally published by Solanas in New York in 1967. The first commercial press publication was by Olympia Press (New York, 1968). Solanas appeared in films by Andy Warhol, and in 1968 she shot him. Her explanation for the shooting was this: “He had too much control of my life.” See Valerie Solanas, SCUM Manifesto (Edinburgh and San Francisco: AK Press, 1996). That edition contains a concise biography, “About Valerie Solanas,” by Freddie Baer.
18 See Classen, et al., 45-48, for a discussion of deities and scents in antiquity.
19See Joanna Frueh, Tarts, Stars, Jewels, and Fairies, Art Journal (Winter 1999): 88-89, for a lyrical and scholarly tribute to the beauties of tarty queer men.
20 David Halpern, Saint Foucault: Towards a Gay Hagiography (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 6.
21 Halpern, 134-35, brings to the reader’s attention Sartre’s sanctification of another queer icon, Jean Genet, in Jean-Paul Sartre, Saint Genet: Actor and Martyr, trans. Bernard Frechtman (New York: George Braziller, 1963).
22 Stephen Wilson, ed., Saints and Their Cults: Studies in Religious Sociology, Folklore and History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 14.
23 Edith Simon, The Saints (New York: Delacorte, 1969), 108.
24 Ibid., 108.
25 Ibid., 22.
26 Halpern, 23-24.
27 See Lucy R. Lippard, The Pains and Pleasures of Rebirth: European and American Women’s Body Art, in Lucy R. Lippard, From the Center: Feminist Essays on Women’s Art (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1976), 126. Originally published in Art in America 64.3 (May-June1976).
28 William Gass, On Being Blue: A Philosophical Inquiry (Boston: David R. Godine, 1976), 3.
29 Aristotle, The Nicomachean Ethics, trans. David Ross (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 192.
30 Ibid., 205-06.
31 Ibid., 207.
32 Ibid., 207.
33 Halpern,7.
34 All quoted statements in this paragraph are from Thomas Merton, Seeds, ed. Robert Inchausti (Boston and London; Shambhala, 2002), 153.