VITALLY YOURS [by Peter Fortunato]

Lately, I spend considerable time “beating the drum” for my newly published novel, Carnevale, hoping to call people’s attention to what I’ve done. I like the drum metaphor, since I am a drummer and know that the instrument can be played in various ways—rhythmically, above all, but depending on the music to be made, either softly or somewhat more loudly. So this is another thing I’m learning, having produced a novel: I’ll have to do plenty to get my book the attention it deserves, and do it in ways that feel good to me. Publishers these days can rarely afford publicity campaigns for their authors, and so I’m “branding” the book and branding its author; that is, being myself and advertising my book without braying like an ass.

I’m a fan of the TV series Mad Men, as are some other readers of The Best American Poetry blog. I’ve seen all the episodes at least twice, and over the years I’ve drawn various sorts of inspiration from the show. I admire the quality of the writing and acting, and the details of the mise-en-scène, which are so evocative of an era I remember well: in the 1960s and 1970s, as our society changed profoundly under the influence of economic prosperity and media saturation, kids of my generation were initiated into the consumerism that continues to dominate American life. Products became virtual members of our households, and this was achieved due to the intelligent, although sometimes unscrupulous, efforts of advertising copy writers and creative teams like those depicted on Mad Men. The show is a reminder of how our economy has come to depend on product consumption, and also, the necessity of ever more, ever new imagery to keep this yearning uppermost in the collective consciousness. This is one theme I take seriously in Carnevale.

I myself am not the typical American consumer, having long ago made it a discipline to determine the difference between what I need and what I want. I’m not prudish about my decisions, and in fact I like to think I’m a connoisseur of my pleasures. I dare say other artists would also consider themselves as such, and agree with me on how great the pleasure is of making our art. Why else would poets especially carry on with their work, given how the majority of our fellow Americans ignore it? Well, as I said a while ago, a novel is a different kind of writing from a poem—for one thing, it has commercial potential. Is it a luxury? Can I convince anybody of the necessity to read Carnevale? Here’s a link to what one reviewer recently said about the book: https://booktrib.com/2019/11/go-on-carnevale-with-this-debut-literary-mystery/

One of the best poetry writing students I ever had in class at Ithaca College was a marketing major who went into advertising. After college, I received a small handmade pamphlet of poems from him, but then I never heard from him again. I have no idea if he continued to write poetry, but it wasn’t surprising to me that a person gifted with wit and verbal dexterity would choose to go into advertising. Whether or not a steady job on Madison Avenue fed or drained his creativity, whether or not like some of the characters on Mad Men, the profession consumed him as if he were only a thing called “a creative,” in this connection I remember that the poet Lew Welch did mange to live off the royalties from a famous product tag he wrote: “Raid kills bugs dead.” As for me, I’ve learned that beating the drum has to be done consistently and rhythmically in order to be fun.

I believe in Carnevale, for many reasons: it’s a good story, it has a cast of compelling characters, and it addresses serious issues, both personal to the characters and pertinent to society as a whole. For example: just what is the role of art in a capitalist-consumerist culture? How can institutions of higher education prepare young artists to stay true to their visions in the marketplace? What are the rewards for creating works whose raison d’être is simply that the works demand to exist?   Among other things, as Guido goes forward seeking happiness in love and work he wonders if he’s wasted his energies “with confusion and despair, two whores who suck me dry.” Many of us in the course of our lives will ask similar questions.

Carnevale doesn’t provide easy answers.   It’s a celebration of life, its tempo mostly allegro, but I hope it will make readers think as well as laugh and cry.

(My painting below is titled Vitally Yours. You can see more of my artwork at my website peterfortunato.net)

 

Comments

[The Best American Poetry]

Thank you, Peter, for this and your other thoughtful posts. I agree with you on "Mad Men," one of the best things I have ever seen on television. Like you I've seen every episode at least twice. I like the painting, too. And the story of the marketing guy who took your course at IC. -- DL

[Kent Johnson]

I haven't read Carnevale, but best of luck with it, and thanks for your posts the past couple weeks. If you don't have a marketing agency or a big press campaign behind a novel these days, it is a tough road to get it in front of readers. I like the painting very much. It almost seems like a collaboration between late de Kooning and early Boccioni. Excellent.

[Peter Fortunato]

Grazie mille, Kent and David!