45 years ago, Mad Dog exulted in the news that his first book was accepted for publication.
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Gustave Wiegand, Blue Lake |
It was an improbable story, taken off the "slush pile," after having been rejected at 20 New York publishing houses, but one reader, an oddball gig worker named Brendan Boyd, who read manuscripts for a publisher with offices in Boston and New York, read it on his breaks at a Boston bookstore, where he worked, and told the publisher to publish it, and Mad Dog thought his ship had finally come in.
"Publishing is not a dream fulfilled," Brendan told Mad Dog. "It's a nightmare."
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Gustave Wiegand, Springtime, New Hampshire |
Mad Dog was too delirious to listen, but then he got sent down to the annual Booksellers Convention, this one in Washington, D.C., and he rode up on the escalator to the 2nd floor, where all the publishers had their displays, and stepping off the escalator, he looked around and saw Brendan's point. That year, 1981, there were 50,000 books published. Mad Dog looked around, and it was like trying to find one penguin among those throngs on the beach in "Planet Earth."
Then it hit him: his one book, although published, printed, was a single peep among a huge expanse of birds.
In 2024, there were roughly 2.2 million books published.
How do you ever get heard, even if your idea, your voice, your story is the most magnificent of the year?
In fact, Mad Dog's book was nowhere close to the most magnificent of that year, and it was never heard of again. It was ignored, hardly reviewed, unnoticed, likely deservedly.
Actually, that's an over simplification, for purposes of clarity: The book did get one single, glowing review in the Washington Post Book World, front page, but what the reviewer liked about the book was its verisimilitude, its dark depiction of a hospital and the doctors, a sort of Nordic Noir, but Medical Noir, and the droves of people who streamed to local bookstores discovered the book had a bodice ripper cover which belonged on a romance novel, and so they left without the book, and if it ever had an audience, it never found it. So there is a case of a voice heard as a chirp, but then lost in the vicissitudes of marketing. So many things have to go right for a rocket to be launched.
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Gustave Wiegand |
This Spring the Boston Museum of Fine Arts will do an exhibit of Van Gogh's paintings from his time at Arles, when he lived with the Roulin family, and he painted its members and he painted a number of scenes around their home. When you get off the boat along the Seine, at Arles, you walk past a church and outside the church is a one foot square display of a Van Gogh painting of that church, and the town is dotted with other such displays in front of places he painted and you look at the things he painted, and you look at how he saw them, and you realize he was seeing things you could not see.
Pink House, Obadiah Youngblood |
Van Gogh was virtually unknown in his own time.
But, somehow, years later, we can all see his brilliance.
Andy Warhol gave away his paintings, strategically. Mad Dog was part of a group of friends from New York City who rented a summer house in East Hampton and one day, a woman named Nancy, lying on her back in a bed in one of the rooms focused on what looked like a child's painting, which was unframed, but mounted on a board on the wall next to her bed. At the bottom of the painting was an inscription: "For Linda, From Andy."
Nancy pulled on her bikini and wandered out to the dining room table, where Mad Dog was mangling a bagel, and she asked, "What was the name of that family on the lease for this place?"
Van Gogh and His Brother at Arles |
As it happened, Mad Dog had signed the lease, and he somehow remembered: "Eastman," Mad Dog told her. "I remember because it's East Hampton and the name was Eastman. East, Eastman. Get it?"
Warhol |
"Come with me," Nancy instructed, and Mad Dog followed her down to the bedroom, his hopes and curiosity rising in tandem--Nancy was a good looking woman. "Look at that," Nancy said.
Mad Dog looked at the painting and said, "So?"
"So!" Nancy said.
"Some kid painted..." Mad Dog said.
"To Linda," Nancy said, "Linda Eastman."
"Paul McCartney's Linda Eastman?" Mad Dog said.
"Yes, of course! Who would likely own a place in East Hampton she didn't use in the summer? And what Andy would give her a little sketch?"
"Andy Warhol?"
"Absolutely," said Nancy. "Who else?"
And that is one strategy for getting noticed. Give your stuff to famous people, rich famous people, and hope they hang it in their homes and then other people will want your stuff.
If only Van Gogh had thought of that.
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Three Hawks, Obadiah Youngblood |
Somehow, some people with talent do get noticed.
Bob Dylan pursued Woody Guthrie, and he got Pete Seeger to put him on the stage at the Newport Folk Festival, and he played the Bitter End in Greenwich Village.
Linda Ronstadt hung out with the Eagles, Joni Mitchell and Jackson Browne.
Sometimes, groups of people can help each other get noticed.
But what if you want to start a political movement?
Hitler hung out at the beer hall in Munich.
Hamilton hung out with Aaron Burr and a bunch of friends in New York.
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Locke 8, C&O Canal Obadiah Youngblood |
But how many Van Goghs, Dylan's, Hamilton's never get noticed, never get heard?
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Gustave Wiegan, The Birches, Schroon Lake |
In a Democracy, a government of, by and for the people means everyone has a voice, but if everyone is speaking and not enough people listening, what happens?