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This is the first chapter of my magnum opus on Mina Loy’s migration from Italian Futurism to New York Dada. First let me tell you who she was:

Artist. Writer. Entrepeneur.

Born in London to an English mother and German Jewish father, she was raised in an aspiring middleclass Victorian household. She did not fit in. Artistic, dreamy, and headstrong, she was the problem daughter. Her parents sent her to a series of art schools, first in London, then in Berlin, and then in Paris. In Paris, she was elected into the prestigious Paris Salon, and seduced by Stephen Haweis, whom she married. Disastrous. Then she moved to Italy where the Futurists woke her out of her lethargy and depression. Affairs. Also disastrous. Then she moved to New York, where she found more amorous, amicable relations in the Arensberg cirlce, a proto-Dada cadre.

December 12, 1913. Five thousand spectators crowd into the Teatro Verdi in Florence, Italy, to witness an unprecedented event: a Futurist serata or “evening,” orchestrated by F. T. Marinetti and Giovanni Papini. The mood is electric. The theatre-goers are restless with anticipation, whetted by the flood of publicity spread around the city via posters, fliers, and newspapers.

Marinetti ascends the stage and launches a barrage of insults at the audience. The crowd erupts, hurling oaths, cheers, and rotten vegetables. Standing impervious to the chaos, Marinetti suavely catches an egg vaunting toward him and shouts back: “Your frenzied behavior gives me pleasure. The only argument the passatisti have is a horde of dirty vegetables” (qtd by Burke 156).

Papini takes the stage and attacks the entire city of Firenze for being “marked by the past as by a disease” and requiring “the fresh air of futurism” to rid it of the “disgusting passé-ists who make their home here” (qtd by Burke 156).

The crowd roars with applause. Somewhere in its midst, a tall, striking woman “with grey-blue eyes,” “waved black hair,” and “strange, long earrings” sits smiling, lips closed and eyes wide open (qtd by Burke 173).

Three days later, the Futurist newspaper Lacerba declared the event a triumph, proclaiming victory over the crowd, whose “overwhelming vulgarity… drunken frenzy… [and] raging stupidity” they had transformed into “a magnificent spectacle” (qtd by Burke 156). Mina Loy—the tall woman with strange earrings—shared their sense of accomplishment, feeling as cleansed and exhilarated by the event “as if she had benefited by a fortnight at the seashore” (qtd by Burke 156).

But she was not convinced that the Futurists controlled the crowd. She teased her lover Marinetti, telling him he had no identity apart from his audience: “Even there you are a spurious entity, drawing ‘something’ out of an audience to give back to them in your superb pretentiousness as yourself” (qtd by Burke 156). Far from having mastered the audience, she suggested, Marinetti was utterly dependent upon it for his identity and power. Her taunt must have struck a nerve, because he countered by forbidding her from attending any more seratas. He could not risk having the keen-eyed gaze of a woman puncture his ballooning sense of ascendency over the audience.

This anecdote, recounted by Carolyn Burke in Becoming Modern: the life of Mina Loy, complicates the oft-told story of Loy’s artistic and erotic entanglements with the Italian Futurists. Loy was powerfully attracted to the Futurists—so the story goes—she was electrified by their energy, but repelled by their misogyny (Burke 178-9, Arnold 84, Augustine 92, Schmid 1). Loy was entangled in a triangulated affair with Marinetti and Papini between 1913 and 1916, while she was living in Italy. When these affairs soured, she packed up and moved to New York for two years, shifting affiliation to a proto-Dada set that included Marcel Duchamp, Francis Picabia, Beatrice Wood, and the love of her life, fighter-poet Arthur Cravan. Scholars attribute Loy’s disaffection to the Futurists’ misogyny, but she was also critical of their chauvinistic attitude to their audiences—their assumption that they could orchestrate mass audiences without being subsumed by their unruly energy and power.

December 15, 2012

Dear friends and family,

As I sit here slavishly tied to the computer, Suzanne is off gallivanting around England on another one of her modernism junkets.  I never realized what a gravy train early 20^th century poetry could be (or that my wife could manage to convert a 45 minute lecture into a week-long extravaganza from Oxford to the Cotswolds and London).  But I am not one to complain—supportive spouse that I am.  I jumped into single parenting wholeheartedly last Monday night, serving up a dinner of grilled chicken and salmon, with two vegetables besides! But by Friday, I’d run out of steam, leaving Zac to forage his own dinner of 3 frozen waffles and a banana. But at least he had real maple syrup.

Zac doesn’t have much to complain about, however, as he has a new dog, Josie Doodah Churchill, and a new middle school, Woodlawn, both of which he loves.  Josie is a Havanese puppy that we acquired not from a mere breeder, but from a Southern “puppy ministry” (they use profits to cover the costs of adopting international children).  When we visited the ministry to pick up our puppy, we met the roundest, most placid, redheaded baby named Josie Doodah, who grinned (and drooled) at us toothlessly for 30 minutes straight.  Meanwhile, Josie’s brother Harry (yes – Harry Doodah) and the ministry’s recently adopted Chinese daughter ran around smacking each other’s heads with plastic light sabers. We were hoping our puppy would take after baby Josie, but she seems to have the spunk of Harry, even if she lacks the doodah.

Woodlawn is a small, private school with plenty of Davidson College connections—e.g. Zac’s English teacher is a former student of Suzanne’s who likes to regale her students with traumatic tales about cat sitting our other family pet, Fergus.  It’s the type of school where the first 6^th grade assignment is to sew school mottos into burlap-type material for use as erosion barriers.  The students then install the barriers around the campus so that the words become part of the foundation of the school.  I, of course, had some great suggestions for Zac like, “Where would the top 1% be without lawyers?,” but his group came up with something pathetic like “There are no short cuts.” Ah, youth.

Luke and Thomas are juniors at a large, public high school (school motto: Will you just graduate already?), and they are launching into the throes of the college search. On our annual pilgrimage to Massachusetts and Maine last summer we hit a few safety schools like Princeton, Yale, and Amherst for campus tours and info sessions.  The highlight for me was the Yale campus tour, where the cheerful student tour guide asked the prospectives to tell him their hometown and personal interests so that he could tailor his remarks accordingly.

Thomas was up first:  “Hi, I’m Thomas Churchill. I’m from Davidson, NC, and I like to play soccer.”  Definite Yale material.  But this is where it’s great to have twins.  Even if one strikes out, you still have that second chance, right?  “Hi.  I’m Luke Churchill.  I’m from Davidson, NC, and I also like to play soccer.”  Maybe not.  Of course, the other prospectives then proceed to discuss (at length) their interests in the human genome, neuroplastic re-engineering, transnational politics, and experimental poet Mina Loy’s migration from Italian Futurism to New York Dada as evidenced in modernist little magazines (oh wait, that last one came from Suzanne).

Suzanne loved Yale – she’d enroll there in a heartbeat, if they’d take her. At the Beineke Rare Books library, her nose was pressed up against the glass like Josie’s when she sees her boyfriend, Gus, outside.  Meanwhile, Luke, Thomas, Zac and I were busy plotting the route to the Dairy Serv – the soft-serve ice cream joint in our hometown of Durham, Connecticut.  But I guess that’s why the gentlemen in our family aren’t getting invited to give talks in England.

Luke and Thomas are not just soccer studs— they are also learners-permitted, teenage drivers, tooling about in our stylish 1998 Honda minivan, aka “the dank tank” (a moniker derived from the lingering odor of sweaty soccer gear).  They had “summer jobs” last year as a substitute lifeguard (Luke) and a volunteer at a local guitar lesson studio (Thomas), which netted them about $100 in the aggregate but bestowed on them a great tan and a certain vibe.  And they’ve reached an age where their math, science, and music knowledge (actually, pretty much any area of knowledge other than THE LAW and modernist poetry) dwarfs that of their parents.

When not dancing in London clubs with the British boy band, One Direction, Suzanne continues to enjoy teaching at Davidson College, as well as yoga, occasional painting, and a daily constitutional with Josie.  I continue to practice law in Charlotte, and I’ve joined a fitness group (which Suzanne affectionately calls “The Cult”) that holds boot camp workouts at the ungodly hours of 5:30 a.m. on Tuesday and Thursday, and 7:00 a.m. on Saturday.  So if you see a good-looking, super-buff guy running past you early in the morning in Davidson, wait about 10 minutes and I’ll come puffing along behind him.

Now I know this letter has gotten a bit long, but that’s what happens when your editor is lolling around London giving twins advice to William and Kate while you write the dang holiday card.  So I will end it with a heartfelt thanks to all of you for being part of our lives and with best wishes over the holidays and in 2013.

Please come visit soon – Josie needs a walk!

xo

Matt, Suzanne, Thomas, Luke & Zac

December 2011

Dear friends and family,

2011 has been a difficult year for our family, mainly due to the sudden loss of my Mom, Jane Churchill, in October.  She was still working at the Durham, Connecticut public library when she died, and we were fortunate to gather as an extended family to celebrate her 80^th birthday in June.  However, her full life and quick, peaceful passing simply do not fill the void left by her loss.  I thought about whether my traditional holiday letter would be appropriate given the circumstances, but I decided that since my Mom enjoyed the letters so much (or at least pretended she did), that I’d subject you to another installment – The Churchill Family 2011 Year in Pictures.

2011 kicked off with a couple of celebrations, including my law firm’s 50^th anniversary gala and an Autism Speaks charity event that we attended with Davidson friends.  While Suzanne and I looked quite presentable at the start of the charity event, the bad influences in our South Street neighborhood contributed to late night debauchery on the dance floor.  (It’s strange that our neighbor, Charlotte Neal, appears in both photos, don’t you think?)

After reviewing these pictures, Suzanne fled the country to serve as resident director of Davidson’s summer program in Cambridge, England.  We met her for a week in England and a travel week in Provence, France, where we were joined by Uncles Bruce and Scott (see below with Thomas – that’s Bruce saying “Call me!”). Before we arrived, Suzanne hiked the Lake Country (way to crawl up that mountain, Suzanne!) and sampled the fashions of Bath (that’s not exactly what I envisioned when I asked her to model a corset for me).

When the boys arrived, they also felt the need to model the fashions of medieval France.

While visiting the seaside, Suzanne got the latest French coiffure, and I stuck a couple of French baguettes (and a chocolate croissant) up my shirt. Very attractive, I know.

Thomas and Luke, both 15, are now sophomores in high school, obsessed with athletics (soccer; winter track), music (guitar for Thomas; piano for Luke; awful attempts at freestyle rap for both) and, of course, technology (many of you probably Facebook and play “words with friends” with them).  Here’s a typical picture of them (left).  That’s Luke hiding his face with an iPod Touch, while Thomas simultaneously texts on his phone, surfs the net on the laptop and gives the camera a gorgeous smile.

Zac is 10 years old, in 5^th grade and similarly obsessed with soccer and technology (see his “obsessed” self-portrait, left).  He was on his school’s “Odyssey of the Mind” competition team, where he designed a striking costume (right), and he is a proud member of his school’s safety patrol, which is teaching him responsibility and self-sufficiency. For example, after repeated requests to take down written phone messages, Zac finally succeeded in leaving me the following note earlier this year:  “Dad, Somebody called.  Love, Zac.”

So, as you move into the New Year, rest assured that “Somebody wrote.” Write back soon!

Happy New Year, with love from,

Matt, Suzanne, Thomas, Luke, and Zachary Churchill

December 2010

Dear Friends and Family,

Now don’t you just hate receiving those holiday cards that brag about how son, Tyson, made straight A’s at Brown University while dating Emma Watson (Hermione Granger) and how daughter, Brittany, when not starring in her own reality T.V. show, has found a cure for halitosis?

“Wait a second, Matt.  I don’t mean to interrupt your rant, but is that a picture of your son, Luke, with President Obama?”

I’m a little embarrassed that you’ve brought that up, dear reader, because I hadn’t planned on highlighting it, but, yes, that would be Luke consorting with the leader of the free world.  There’s a strange coincidence between the release of this picture and President Obama’s downward spiral in popularity ratings, but I’ll leave the political science analysis to others.

The photo op resulted from Luke and Thomas’ 8th grade “Future City” team winning a national engineering contest focused on designing, you guessed it, a futuristic city.  I just asked Luke to highlight a few of the engineering marvels from the city, and he replied, “I don’t know, Dad . . . it’s been like a year since I thought about that.  We had beaming energy, virtual reality, walls made of cellulosics, fish poop fertilizer . . . stuff like that.”  Sounds like a place I want to live.

The victory resulted in what we lovingly refer to as the “Geek World Tour” – a White House visit for Luke (Thomas still thinks that if he’d met Obama the Democrats would continue to control Congress), dinners with local engineering trade groups (yowza!), a visit to Houston for the eco-marathon (a trade show focused on fuel-efficient cars), and a weeklong trip to Space Camp in balmy, Huntsville, Alabama.  The Space Camp trip was actually pretty sweet, as they were teamed up for the week with a group of Chinese scholars (English a bit spotty, but great present givers) and a cool, artistic girl from Ireland (how can you go wrong there?), and they got to try various simulators and mock space shuttle missions.

When not consorting with the President, Luke and Thomas (both 14), started high school, opened FaceBook accounts (please let us know if you see anything obnoxious on their “walls”), harassed their parents for unlimited texting (not yet, but we’re crumbling), played endless amounts of soccer, and made their parents drive them everywhere listening to Eminem, Bruno Mars, and similar drivel.

On many of these rides, I’d hear a catchy tune by “Far East Movement” with the lyrics, “Like a G6.  Like a G6.  Now I’m feeling so fly like a G6.” Unfortunately, when I heard the song, I didn’t realize they were describing something as “fly” (cool) as a Gulfstream 650, a private jet with an estimated price tag of over $58 million.  I’m thinking snack food.  So I’m singing, “Like a cheese stick . . . like a cheese stick . . . now I’m feeling so fly like a cheese stick.”  That went over well with L & T.

Zac (age 9) caught the reading bug after devouring the “Mr. Gum” books by the British author Andy Stanton.  When asked why he likes the books so much, Zac says, “Because they’re so random.  If Mr. Gum doesn’t take care of his yard, an angry fairy shows up in his bathroom and hits him over the head with a frying pan.”  Good stuff.  Zac seems to have taken the “random” storytelling to heart.  He wrote a tale recently that starts, “An explorer was out on his ship exploring the ocean.  Suddenly, there was a crash and everything went dark.  When it was light again, two of his crew members were gone.  The explorer didn’t care about other people so he started munching on some virtual crackers and cheese.”  Strange how cheese snacks feature so prominently in the creative lives of Churchill men.

Zac loves soccer and his school’s Odyssey of the Mind club.  But mostly he just runs from house to house in our neighborhood seeking out his 9-year-old buddies and reporting progress en route.  “Dad, I’m going to Wesley’s.  Dad, Wesley’s not home so can I go play with Jackson?  Dad, Jackson’s not home, so can I go over to Tilly’s?  Dad, Tilly’s not home, can I go down to Jay’s?  I’ll call you when I get there.  I’ve written a sticky note and put it on my hand.”  No call.

Inspired by Zac’s travels, Suzanne and I thought we’d like to take a trip — without kids. Suzanne’s invite to a colloquium on the photographer Alfred Stieglitz in Normandy, France, provided just the ticket. After great visits with friends in England, we traveled to a small Chateau in Normandy that has historically hosted conferences for French intellectuals and was branching out to include North American scholars for the first time.  But this conference didn’t do much for Franco-American relations.

The first paper was given by a French professor, who explained why the year 1913 was a critical year for modernist intellectuals.  As soon as she had finished, an American scholar raised her hand and said something to the effect of, “Well, that was a nice, introductory paper for people not familiar with this period.  But I question the choice of 1913.  If you’d read my paper, entitled ‘I Know More Than You Do, And I’m Here to Tell You About It,’ I think you would’ve chosen 1917.”  Touché.

Fortunately, the conference went uphill from there, and Suzanne and I enjoyed rustic French food, the stunning countryside and coastline of Normandy, and moving side trips to Mont St. Michel, the Bayeux Tapestries, and the American military cemetery.

Suzanne and I lost two, young friends to cancer this year, and too many others who we care about have been struggling through difficult times.  So we’re ready to put 2010 behind us, but we also realize how fortunate we are.  And one of our greatest gifts is to have friends and family like you.

So happy new year.  We truly hope that your 2011 will be as fly as a cheese stick.

Lots of love,

Matt, Suzanne, Thomas, Luke, and Zac

December 20, 2009

Dear Friends and Family,

2009 was a year for weddings.  Now some of you may be wondering how a couple of 43-year olds would get involved in a series of nuptials.  While we do live in the South, even down here Luke and Thomas (age 13) are still a bit young to get hitched.  And most of our college and high school friends got the marrying bug out of their systems in their twenties and early 30s.

Ah, but you forget about gay weddings!  My brother, Bruce, and his long-time partner, Scott, tied the knot in a beautiful ceremony on the roof of a hotel on Beacon Hill in Boston in May, and my good friend, Robert (from law school), married his partner, David, in the fabulous Mount Washington Resort in the White Mountains of Vermont in October.

And let me tell you, gay men really know how to throw a party!  Incredible venues; top-notch food and wine; an attention to detail Martha Stewart would envy; and no spared expense.  In fact, Obama may want to consider gay marriage as a fundamental building block of his next stimulus package (although I have to admit that a speech discussing a “package,” “stimulation” and gay weddings may be political dynamite).

In all seriousness, these were two great events, because in each case, in spite of societal pressures and bigotry, two talented, successful, kind and strong men were able to declare and affirm their love.  As my brother said in his wedding speech, “We did not choose to be gay . . . but we DO choose to marry in front of family and friends and we are lucky to live in a state which allows us to do so.”  Amen, brother.

Setting all that love stuff aside, gay weddings have the added advantage of making me a much more popular wedding guest than Suzanne!   In fact, Suzanne couldn’t even attend the Vermont ceremony because Thomas and Zac were struck down by the swine flu, or according to today’s New York Times article on buzzwords of the year, the “Aporkalypse.”  Just so you know how “with it” we are for attending same sex weddings, “Gaymarry” is also a New York Times buzzword of the year for unconventional relationships: e.g  “I love my new cellphone so much I want to gaymarry it.” . . . Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

There was also an important “straight” wedding in my life this year, as my brother Ian married his French bride, Hermine, in a Parisian suburb.  But was I invited to Paris?  Of course not – I only get invited to the same-sex ceremonies.  One of my brothers was invited to “witness” the ceremony and spend a week trolling along the Seine eating French culinary masterpieces – while I sat at home eating my barbecue and cheese-whiz sandwiches.  Tres unfair!

Continuing with the “left out” theme, Suzanne managed to land a fellowship from the Freeman Foundation this year supporting a three-week Japan-studies program in Hawaii.  Conveniently, the program specifically forbade spouses and children from joining in the fun.

So while I watched the kids (admittedly, with great help from Suzanne’s Mom, Valerie, and our “second family” college kid, Kennesia, who graduated from Davidson in May), Suzanne was kind enough to “include” me in her Hawaii experience by sending emails like:

“Today I went snorkeling with sea turtles and dolphins at Turtle Bay on the North Shore of Oahu – wish you were here!”

“I was lying on Waikiki beach today, watching the beach volleyball players in their very brief swimsuits, and thinking of you.”

“Hiking with friends along ocean cliffs today, I met a handsome, bare-chested, National Geographic photographer who volunteered to give us a tour of the “wildlife” on the Island!”

But being home with my own “wild” offspring wasn’t so bad, as they’ve been great to watch this year.  Luke and Thomas are in 8^th grade (kings of middle school), playing soccer, participating in a state champion engineering club, and looking more like men than boys every day.  They were playing computer games last night (surprisingly!), and Thomas gave me one of my parenting highlights of the year when I overhead him say, “You know, Luke, we’re lucky to be brothers and such good friends.”  Awww.

Luke did have to prove he’s still a dumb teenager by breaking his wrist on Super Bowl Sunday.  I wish I could say he was playing tackle football in preparation for the big game (“Dad, I was like, Brett Favre, and Thomas was like, Lawrence Taylor, and I went back for the game winning throw and . . . snap!”).  But no.  He ignored the old adage, “If your friends told you to jump off the roof of a shed, would you?” to his peril.

Zac (8 years old and in 3^rd grade) is as happy-go-lucky as ever and now matches his enthusiasm for soccer with a passion for Harry Potter books.  Zac also appears to have matured past the “potty mouth” stage that I wrote about last year – although that maturation process continues to be entertaining.  While walking through a mall to a birthday party with a friend’s mom recently, Zac appeared to be inspecting the local Victoria Secret’s store quite carefully.  When the mom moved Zac along and averted his eyes, he turned to her and said, “It’s like a magnet . . . I can’t take my eyes off of it.”  So probably no gay weddings in Zac’s future – although I guess we don’t really know if he was looking at the models or the lingerie.

Unfortunately, I’m out of room or I’d fill you in on our travels and our 25^th high school reunion.  (We certainly aren’t the most successful alumni due to that darn classmate who had to hit Forbes’ 100 most powerful women in the world list, but at least we’re still recognizable based on our high school pictures!)

But you’ll have to come down to North Carolina to hear more about all that.   Please come see us.  We think you’ll like the trip so much, you’ll want to “gaymarry” it!

Happy holidays!

Matt, Suzanne, Thomas, Luke and Zac

December 2007

Dear Family and Friends,

I might as well start by breaking the bad news: this year Matt is taking a sabbatical from writing our annual letter. On the bright side (for me, anyway), I’m on sabbatical for the academic year, so I have plenty of free time for reflection.

To celebrate my release from the academic grind, we took a big family vacation this summer, spending two weeks in Paris and Switzerland. One of the many highlights of Paris was a bike tour, which allowed us to see all the famous sites without waiting in line to enter any of them. We were less successful in avoiding crowds in our follow-up visits—as you can see from the photo (below) of our sons gazing in rapture at the Mona Lisa.

The boys loved the city and didn’t complain about long lines and walks (provided we kept them fueled by $10 Cokes and chocolate croissants). The Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe were big hits. Notre Dame proved less impressive, even though we timed our visit to catch the free organ concert: as the pipes began to boom, Zachary shouted, “When are they going to shut that off?” We had a lot less trouble getting the boys to appreciate French food. In fact, they put me to shame with their culinary adventurism, gobbling up everything from mussels to mousse. I even got them to try the escargot first to tell me whether I would like it (I didn’t). I was on safer ground in Switzerland, where I could subsist on chocolate and cheese. There, we joined up with my parents, siblings, and their spouses and children, staying in a big chalet. Rainy weather gave us plenty of time for playing games and, of course, eating chocolate and cheese.

On the home front, Thomas and Luke are 11 and are (gasp) in the 6^th grade at middle school. Thomas, who has begun to wear his hair long, his pants low, and his ears attached to an I-Pod, is exhibiting the first signs of FLEBHS—that’s pronounced “Flee-bus,” and it’s the name of the school sex ed program. Although it sounds suspiciously like an STD, Thomas tells me it stands for “Family Living, Ethical Behavior, and Human Sexuality.”  Luke, who spends much of his waking hours buried in books, has managed to remain largely oblivious to the terrors of FLEBHS, though he did display cunning insight into sexual difference, explaining, “Girls are complicated. They have hundreds of thousands of emotions, and they can switch to them at light speed. Boys are simpler. They have four basic emotions: happy, mad, tired, and hungry.” (Apparently, “sad” is merely a facet of the predominant emotion “tired.”) Zachary, at 6, illustrates this rule. Fortunately, his chief emotion is happiness. He did give us a bit of a shock, though, when his first grade progress report came home indicating that his joie-de-vivre was taking precedence over his studies. But after a long, stern lecture and a brief display of remorse (perhaps better understood as fatigue), he came home the next day, announcing happily, “Mom, I think I got all excellents on my progress report today!”

Matt continues to toil at his law firm, and he’s gotten involved with local community groups, serving on the Davidson Housing Coalition and a Public Arts Task Force, where he’s unanimously appreciated for his free legal advice (among his other fine attributes).  I, meanwhile, am dedicating my sabbatical to doing as little as possible. I’ve been playing around taking a portrait drawing class and illustrating a couple of children’s books. The first of these, Dinosaurs Drive Fire Trucks, was conceived by Zachary and co-authored by Thomas and Luke. Published courtesy of our local Staples photocopiers, it’s reportedly a big hit in Zac’s first grade classroom, where its release was carefully timed to coincide with the Dinosaur-land study theme.

As I write this letter, it’s sunny and 75^o outside—in December! Despite global warming, regional drought, and FLEBHS in our very own home, we are happy and well. We wish you “all excellents” on your progress reports in the new year.