Soup Over Art

Dearest Rachel –

I never got to take you to see it, but I discovered it before your time; in Lily Tomlin’s one-woman comedic opus The Search for Intelligent Life in the Universe, Tomlin’s main persona (and framing device), a bag lady named Trudy, tells us about these aliens who have contacted her. On the titular search, they have recruited her to guide her through what Earth has to offer, gifting her (if you can call it that) with a sort of radar to pick up on other people’s thoughts and actions, allowing her to shift between one character and another throughout the course of the show, giving various perspectives from different (but all, ironically, alienated individuals – this is taking part in New York City, after all) for them to consider.

For her own part, Trudy also attempts to explain human culture directly to them, as well. One bit from early on involves her holding up a can of Campbell’s tomato soup in one hand, and a canvas with Andy Warhol’s painting of a can of Campbell’s tomato soup in the other. “This,” she says, brandishing the can, is soup, “and this,” now the canvas, “is art.” She appears to have difficulty getting this message across to her invisible alien friends.

Near the end of the play, in a quasi-meta moment, she takes the aliens to Broadway, where an unnamed comedienne is doing her one-woman show at the Shubert (where, ironically, I took Melissa to see her perform this in person, albeit at the Shubert Theatre in Chicago). Afterwards, she asks them what they thought of it, only to discover that they hadn’t been paying attention to it at all, but rather, had been watching the audience! Frustrated and chagrined, she demands they explain themselves.

“Trudy,” she relates them as having told her, “the play was soup… the audience was art.”

***

It’s not that far removed from Jesus at Bethany, where Martha is so busy making sure that He and His disciples are well-fed when they visit that she misses out on what He has to say. Indeed, she gets quite frustrated at the fact that her younger sister Mary is listening to Him rather than helping her prepare the meal, and tells Jesus to His face that He needs to send her to the kitchen to help out. While she may have a legitimate complaint – there will be no meal if both the sisters sit down to listen to Him, after all – Jesus reproves her, making abundantly clear that He’s providing the real nourishment at the moment, some for the soul.

“Mary has chosen the better thing,” He tells Martha; she has chosen art over soup. And more than art; this is something to take to heart, something to change one’s life and eternal destiny.

***

Now, I am neither alien nor deity. And, to be honest, soup is generally closer to the foundation of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs than art. So I’m more likely to be paying attention to the soup than the art, as a general rule. And this seems to be the case about last night’s party at Jeff and Julie’s.

First of all, the spread. I should mention that I made a point of not bothering with any meal after the Sunday services, so as to not dishonor them by not partaking of their repast. Since I was filling in for an ailing colleague this weekend in the booth, Daniel was already on his own for most of the weekend (although not literally, as he and Logan managed to keep themselves busy throughout, both at home and, I believe, at the cinema yesterday afternoon. But I couldn’t swear to it). Anyway, my point is, he could take care of himself, with regard to mealtimes and the like.

Anyway, they put together a delightful mix of chips and charcuterie, jalapeño hors d’oeuvres and taco-seasoned meats (Jeff makes a – I couldn’t say mean, as it wasn’t particularly spicy – a delectable al pastor). I certainly ate more than I should have – and while it’s not weird for me to say that, it was curious that it felt like I hadn’t pigged out like I used to, but at the same time felt like I’d eaten enough, and a little more than enough. Perhaps I really am training myself to neither need nor want to consume as much as I used to; if so, that continues to bode well for discipline and diet.

And the game itself, while trivial without a team to truly root for (although there was one team whose hometown I don’t exactly fancy, so…) was a real contest, with scoring (if not the lead) going back and forth between them. It’s one thing to watch a blowout when it’s your team stomping the other to a fine paste; for any other viewer, it’s a crashing bore when the conclusion is practically foregone from the initial kickoff. This was definitely not one of those game. Indeed, the team I was less enamored of held the lead (or at least, never trailed – and had apparently never trailed throughout the course of the entire playoff series) until early in the final quarter, and managed to tie it up again with barely five minutes to go. But the others marched down, and with seconds to go, settled for a field goal that proved to be the difference – and a good thing, as their field goal kicker had missed a shot early on in the game. And while he avoided being the goat, I suspect that the losing team will be quite upset with the one fumble on the part of their quarterback that turned out to be key to a score that began to turn the tide. All in all, a worthy evening’s entertainment, if you’re into that sort of thing.

The curious thing was, it seemed that not everybody was. Indeed, most of the guests had said their thanks and goodbyes before the fourth quarter, when the real action started. Goodness, people… this is a Superbowl party; don’t you watch the game? It’s supposed to be the whole point of the thing. And yet, apart from one other couple, it was just me and the hosts when the final gun sounded.

“So,” you might be asking (and quite reasonably, too), “where’s the soup and where’s the art in all this? You didn’t write all this to berate the others for leaving so soon, did you?” Of course not; I’ve got no right to point out what other people do when I have so many flaws of my own. That they missed out on the drama of the game is on them; as Fred Holloway out it, their offenses carry their own punishment.

No, the real miss was on my part. As things were wrapping up, and the favored team received the last kickoff in a vain attempt to regain the lead with a final, desperate play, Julie asked me what I had thought of her friend.

What? Even Jeff suggested that she was ‘ambushing’ me with that question. But it shouldn’t have come as a complete surprise. Even during our trip to Israel, she had mentioned a friend of hers who was single, and who I might hit things off with, to which I made a point of at least listening to and not dismissing at the time. The dating apps have been less than effective; if someone wants to play yenta on my behalf, I’m not averse to it.

But when she invited her friend to last night’s party – and even introduced us early on, when she first arrived – I didn’t think to put two and two together. Even as Julie was asking my opinion, I couldn’t recall who she was (not even her name, so I don’t have to worry about a pseudonym) or what she looked like. I was so caught up in the literal and figurative ‘soup’ of the play (or rather, the plays – but either way, you know I’m a sucker when the television is on) that I missed out on the ‘art’ of meeting someone who potentially could be Megumi, for all I know. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit, but not entirely surprising. Don’t know if I’ll get another chance anytime soon.

But with that in mind, honey, keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. Clearly, I’m going to need it.