Camille Paglia at ROM- Religion in Hollywood

Camille Paglia is exhausting. Whether running to and fro from the dictionary or simply trying to keep up with her passion, she’ll wipe you out. In all my years of university, lectures, courses, conversations, and time spent hobnobbing in various book circles and coffeehouses, no one and nothing has taught me to think vigorously the way this woman has.

Paglia rose to infamy with her shocking treatise on Western culture, Sexual Personae, way back in 1990. The sweeping history of art, sex, biology, religion, and paganism offended just about everyone, but two decades later, feminism is slowly conceding that Camille’s been right all along: sex is dangerous, dirty, and dark, and extremely hot. A woman’s best shot isn’t prudery and naivety, but an arsenal of historical knowledge about archetypes, war, prostitution and art. Camille said out loud what the simpering victim mythos of the men suck feminist brigade  knew but couldn’t face: that history is what it is, that biology is what it is, whether or not we like it or think it’s pleasant. Our only hope for personal and political empowerment is to face reality.

Last night the guerrilla scholar left a sold-out audience at the Royal Ontario Museum half mesmerized and she did try our patience- lecturing for two solid hours. The topic was religion in old Hollywood, merging two of Camille’s favourite subjects, and we got a jam-packed history of Christian paganism from dawn’s early light through until  20th century cinema.

She’s the feminist who loves sex, the lesbian who loves men- but this lady doesn’t swing either to the left or to the right- she’s carved out a roost for herself quite apart from the masses. She harshly critiques the left for their artless, sexless humanism- man cannot live by bread alone, after all. She critiques the right for any notions of theocracy- the separation of church and state is vital for an evolved civilization. She’s an atheist who vigorously defends religion- how can we interpret culture if we don’t understand culture? Stories from religion are culture’s fabric- the journey, the hero, the dark night of the soul.

It was fascinating stuff. Twenty-four hours later I’m still taking it all in. My admiration for Ms. Paglia knows no bounds, and I’ve studied all of her books carefully. I confess she stretches the limits of my neural plasticity- intellectually, I’m afraid I’m something of a lightweight. But there’s nothing wrong with growing new brain cells, and I’ve underlined umpteen copies of Sexual Personae to death. I’ve read every poem she has referred to and tried to understand it if I didn’t. Or just to feel it- Paglia knows for sure the cerebral is not always as valuable as the sensual.

I’m indebted to Camille as a writer. Many of my approaches to popular culture as mirroring archetypes of the pagan pantheon are clearly influenced by her thinking. She’s not the only one to put this together- Christians have been burning art, music, literature for two millennia for the same reason. But that flexibility she gives us to escape elitism and leave the classroom to experience life in the body, below, with the masses, is utterly liberating. She exalts the popular and participates in its rituals. I’ve come to see so much of history, ironically, by being so present.

Now, many argue with Ms. Paglia and I would contend that there’s no point because she will out-shrill you with bigger words, more obscure quotes from yet another thing you’ve meant to read but never have. It’ll just be embarrassing. In my humble opinion, those who object are just making fools of themselves. So instead, just keep an open mind even when she gets your ire up. Agree to disagree, and be open to learn.

The first time I got this impression was way back in a Playboy interview. It was the mid-90s and I was all in a dither over the more controversial portions of some of her essays. Those were the days when I thought shaving my legs was oppression. Riled up. Who did this lady think she was, saying women weren’t artists because they couldn’t ejaculate? I was infuriated. I knew the true reason women weren’t artists or inventors or doctors or anything else was because they were stuck with the bloody babies.

Camille had said some stuff about obsessive behaviour breeding both the great art and the most troubling serial killers. We didn’t have a lady Mozart because we didn’t have a lady Jack the Ripper. And I was outraged along with most everyone else. I couldn’t for the life of me understand what she was talking about.

But I came around, all right. I mean, what’s not to get? The moment of revelation for me was reading her comments on Germaine Greer’s idea that you don’t get great women artists very often because “you don’t get great art from mutilated egos.” And then Camille said that actually, you ONLY get great art from mutilated egos. And it was so obvious. How could Germaine Greer possibly think that- when every artist is a total whack job, ever, especially the best? As an artist myself, I know that in the gut. I know it my bones, in the dark nights of my deepest obsessions and turmoil, in my most sexual and alive and dark parts.

Clearly, Camille was going to hit us over the head with the obvious for years to come.

And since then, I’ve dreamed of meeting her face to face, but as Playboy said, she is harder to get a hold of than the President. I’d been at a lecture once before, but last night I was determined to deliver copies of my books to her. I was second in line at the signing. I didn’t know what to expect, but as Camille signed my book, I handed her my present. She was gracious but aloof, racing with adrenaline from the lecture, petite and charming and volcanic. Her handwriting was large, with flourish, as I suspected it might be. Thank you, my mistress, for teaching me how to think. I have a long way to go, but we’ve come a long way, baby.

If you like art, literature, madness and interesting people, you’ll love Lorette C. Luzajic’s books. Her first book is “The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos.” Her second is “Weird Monologues for a Rainy Life (Irreverent Ramblings from the End of the World.)” Her poetry and her collected blogs, musings, reviews, memoirs, notes, eulogies, requiems, interviews, profiles and more are both devastating and hilarious romps through one woman’s wild mood swings. Lorette proves that there’s life after death, even for manic-depressives. “Think Courtney Love meets Margaret Atwood,” says Donnarama, Toronto’s premiere performance artist.

Visit the author’s link at Amazon to order your copies today!