Clare Harmon

A Series of Parables

The Parable of the Spectator

1.

Once upon a time on a stage in a hall, a violin played a concerto. This is an old story.

On a stage in a hall, a violin played a concerto never asking its violinist, “what do you think of this?”

In the hall in the audience in the first row of the first balcony seated upon seats upholstered in velvet the color of sumac fruit, a woman and her husband watch as a violin plays a concerto.

The husband asks the woman, “Have you played this concerto?” The woman responds, “Yes, I have played it.”

2.

This happens later.

On the stage in the hall the violin, having played the concerto, is still and silent.

On the stage in the hall the violinist, having moved in service of the violin, is still and silent.

In the hall in the audience in the first row of the first balcony seated upon seats the color of sumac fruit, the woman and her husband applaud.

The husband asks the woman what she thought of the performance. The woman says the performance was touching.

“I was touched,” the woman says, rising from her seat upholstered in velvet the color of sumac fruit. The woman knows that the basis of sound is vibration and pleasure is an imposition.

The woman knows that although she says “touched,” what she means is “penetrated.”

3.

This happens later.

The woman and her husband, touched by the performance, venture the night. The husband, hungry for drink, has made reservations at a restaurant he cannot afford to patronize. The husband desires an outward expression of the status to which he feels entitled.

At the restaurant the husband cannot afford to patronize, the woman pays for the husband’s litany of drink.

“You would not be in this position if I did not have to buy you such expensive gifts,” the husband says.

The woman, clutching her designer handbag, replies, “I never asked for this.”

The husband says, “Perhaps not, but if it were not for me, you would walk around looking like a slut or a pauper.”

4.

This happens later.

The woman and her husband, himself having consumed a litany of drink at the restaurant he cannot afford to patronize, return to their home, a one-bedroom apartment in a high-rise in the center of a city famous for its orchestra.

The woman and her husband arrive at the entrance to the high-rise; are greeted by a doorman in service of the building, itself in service of larger, more powerful buildings, themselves the functional objects of an intricate system designed to control labor and commodity and the creation of value.

The doorman opens the door and calls the elevator. The doorman performs both tasks with the skill of an expert.

5.

This happens later.

The woman and her husband ride the elevator to the building’s seventh floor, travel a corridor, and arrive at their home, a one-bedroom apartment in a high-rise in the center of a city famous for its orchestra.

Standing before the door to the one-bedroom apartment, the husband cups the woman’s left buttock.

The buttock, already dissociated from the woman, says, “I do not want this.”

The woman unlocks the door to the one-bedroom apartment; the husband, desirous of that to which he feels entitled, slaps the left buttock.

The buttock, already dissociated from the woman, says, “I never wanted this.”

6.

This happens later.

At the foot of a pillow-topped king in the bedroom in the apartment on the seventh floor of the high-rise in the center of the city famous for its orchestra, the husband says to the woman, “I enjoyed the concert, but I wish you still played. You would look so beautiful on a stage in a hall in a dress adorned with sequins the color of night.”

The woman responds with the silence of acquiescence.

The husband, pleased by the idea of the woman on a stage in a hall in a dress adorned with sequins the color of night, pulls the woman toward his drunken body, pressing her belly against his pelvis; pressing too, his spit-soaked mouth to the woman’s rose-red lips, dry from the dehydration of drink.

The woman says, “I want to go to sleep.” The husband replies, “You always say that.”

7.

This is simple.

The husband, holding and pulling and pressing, pushes the woman, spine-first into the pillow- topped king, itself white and smooth as the skin of a sun-seasoned crop.

The woman says, “Please don’t.”

The husband replies, “I must. How can I stop myself when you are so beautiful?” It is important to be blunt about all of this.

The husband, desirous of that to which he feels entitled, rapes the woman with the confidence of a master.

8.

This happens later.

Having satisfied his desire, the husband regards the woman upon the pillow-topped king, itself white and smooth as the skin of a sun-seasoned crop.

Naked and curled and unmoving, the woman is regarded by her husband. The husband says, “You are most beautiful when you are still.”

The Parable of the Natural Philosopher 

1.

Once upon a time, in the new age of modernity, scientists created difference by naming and sex by the bad science of analogy.

Here, it is important to note, we say “scientist” but what we mean is “natural philosopher”; we say “natural philosopher” when reason decouples from evidence.

2.

This happened earlier.

Once upon a time, in the second century A.D., a scientist named Galen considered the eye of the mole and posited, it is made of the necessary and appropriate parts but lacks even the most basic fundament of sight.

The scientist named Galen identified the disparity of function and form; was vexed but pressed on.

The scientist named Galen identified, too, the structures of vision, themselves necessary and appropriate, within the eye of the mole: there is a lens, a retina, a nerve, a cornea, a pupil, and a muscle—the iris—to control the amount of light let in.

About the eye of the mole, the scientist named Galen stated simply: “They do not open, nor do they project, but are left there, imperfect.”

Although he could not yet articulate it, the scientist named Galen was enamored of the stillness of the eye of the mole.

3.

Vexed by the disparity of function and form; having considered the eye of the mole, having identified its structures, themselves the stuff of sight, the scientist named Galen deployed the eye of the mole stating, “The sexual organs of women are but the human equivalent of the eye of the mole.”

The scientist named Galen, then, posited the mole like a woman and, for comparison, the dog like a man.

The scientist named Galen posited that the dog sees, like any mammal, with the structures of vision described above: a nerve, a cornea, a pupil, and a muscle—the iris—to control the amount of light let in.

The dog lives above ground. The dog fetches and hunts and carouses; the dog plays and fucks and sees just like a man.

The scientist named Galen, then, posited, for comparison, that the eye of the mole is a mockery of the eye of the dog and thus, too, a mockery of seeing: a non-functional aberrant of that of the dog, and too, the man: the mole, like its eye, itself like a woman, impotent and decorative and languishing in darkness.

4.

This happens later.

Once upon a time in the new age of modernity, a book was published, and another, and a third book, and many books that described, in the form of an atlas, the inner workings of the universal body.

We say “universal” because Galen’s theory of the mole, the creature like an aberrant of a dog, persists; because mastery means that in the end, everything and everyone are the same.

As was fashionable and appropriate, the content of these books, themselves a map to conquer the universal body, was preceded by a frontispiece, itself intricate and beautiful and skillfully wrought.

As was fashionable and appropriate, the frontispieces depicted in etchings an anatomy theatre not unlike that of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp, itself depicted in a very famous painting by Rembrandt.

It is important to be blunt about all of this.

As was fashionable and appropriate, the frontispieces depicted the anatomy theatre.

On the stage in this anatomy theater, the sexual organs of a woman are surrounded by the curious gaze of a group of scientists, themselves men in a long line of men.

The curious gaze and the group of scientists to which it belongs, marvels at the sexual organs of a woman, herself headless, vivisected, and splayed on a table.

The curious gaze, marveling at the sexual organs of the woman says, “It is right that you serve me in this manner, in this, the act of spectacle.”

The organs, long since silenced by the violence of representation, acquiesce but think to themselves, “We never wanted this.”

The Parable of the Romantic Artist

1.

Once upon a time there was a man, both put-upon and fragile, who believe he communed with the gods.

The man, both put-upon and fragile, believed this communion entitled him to the privilege of representation.

The man knew that mimesis is next to godliness; that rendering likenesses is the innovation of a newly audacious subject.

The man knew that beauty, like everything, is about power.

2.

This happens later.

The man, both put-upon and fragile, worked for many hours over many days over many weeks and months and years in a studio on the ground floor of a villa.

The man, both put-upon and fragile, rendered first in charcoal, flowers and an orange peel and dead foul and a serving set made of silver, itself representative of a wealth to which the man was, ultimately, denied.

The man, then, having rendered in charcoal, rendered too in graphite, rendered finally in paints made of a pigment suspended in oil.

The man rendered, never asking the pigment, “what do you think of this?”

The man, both put-upon and fragile, rendered, a privilege he deployed because, he believed, his communion with the gods deigned him to do so.

3.

This happens later.

In a studio on the ground floor of a villa, the man, both put-upon and fragile, having rendered again and again and ad infinitum flowers and orange peels and dead foul and the serving set made of silver, itself representative of the wealth to which the man was, ultimately, denied, said, “This is not enough.”

The man, both put-upon and fragile, sought a living specimen to render.

The man considered a hunting dog and the man considered a military horse and the man considered a lion, itself a spectacle from the north of Africa about which he once read.

The man, both put-upon and fragile, considered the elephant and the rhinoceros and all the creatures he wished to master.

The man considered, too, the body of a woman.

4.

One day, in a studio on the ground floor of a villa, the man, both put-upon and fragile, communed with the gods and asked for guidance:

“I have rendered flowers and I have rendered orange peels and I have rendered every possible dead foul and my pictures are sufficiently accurate but nothing more. I wish to render a living specimen, but I do not know where to begin.”

The gods said, “You must imbue the objects you produce with the spark of creation, like the woman who births babes from her most protected insides.”

The gods continued, “You must conquer the body of a woman through the intimate violence of representation. With the gaze you have trained on the flowers and the orange peels and every possible dead foul and the silver serving set representative of wealth, you must, too, render a woman.”

The man, both put-upon and fragile, agreed.

5.

This happens later.

In the studio on the ground floor of the villa, just as he was instructed, the man, both put-upon and fragile, renders the body of a woman, itself covered in a robe made of silk the color of night, black and reflecting nothing.

The man first instructs the body of a woman to sit in the center of the studio on a chaise longue upholstered in velvet the color of ochre.

The studio is populated by animal skulls and discarded drapery and flowers, themselves in varying states of decay; orange peels and dead foul and the silver serving set representative of wealth, to which the man is ultimately, denied. The studio, too, is populated by the tools of mastery: stretchers and canvas and charcoal and papers newly pulled from a press, themselves hanging and wet. The studio on the ground floor of the villa is too, filled with the pigments suspended in oil, themselves poised to render.

“Sit there, so I may watch you,” the man says.

The body of a woman, long-since acquiescent to men and their gaze, then, sits.

The man, both put-upon and fragile, says the body of a woman, “Remove your robe, so that I may render you.”

The pigments, suspended in oil, long-since acquiescent to the man and his rendering, say to the woman, naked and cold and still; bound by the man’s gaze to a chaise longue

upholstered in velvet the color of ochre:

“What comes next will be, by necessity, very difficult.”

Although it is not allowed to articulate it, the body of the woman knows that, the problem with artists is that to them, flesh is both surface and opportunity.

Clare Louise Harmon is a writer and a music educator. They are the author of The Thingbody (Instar Books, 2015). Recently, their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Poetry Northwest, The Sycamore Review, The New Delta Review, and Tammy. Their chapbook, The Day I Quit Western Art Music: First-Hand Accounts of the Performance and Pedagogy of Mozart's Violin Concerto #5, was a finalist in the Bateau Press 2019-2020 Boom Chapbook Competition. Clare can be found online @thehegelproject.