I was suspicious, even cynical, about what the world insisted was vital to the life of my unborn child. I was partly sceptical because so much of the advice I was getting was contradictory. But I was also suspicious because I'd spent most of my 20s reading Nietzsche. Nietzsche is not, perhaps, a natural choice for a young mother. But he helps to fuel certain questions about values, and purpose, that are central to questions of care.
This sprawling installation (or in the New York gallery's parlance, "spatial collage") had transformed the Wooster Street space into a warren of rooms and hallways that resembled a series of stage or film sets, including a "clandestine drug lab," a Chinatown basement store, and a pirate radio station. I gingerly navigated through half-destroyed walls and over uneven floors strewn with detritus, escaping with vivid memories of one of the strangest contemporary art experiences to be had in those years.
"One of them caught our eye, the one in the center," Herzog explains as he narrates the documentary. "He would neither go toward the feeding grounds at the edge of the ice, nor return to the colony. Shortly afterward, we saw him heading straight for the mountains, some 70 kilometers away. Doctor Ainslie explained even if he caught him, and brought him back to the colony, he would immediately head right back for the mountains. But, why?"
Philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, unfortunately, didn't have much to offer us in his consolations about death, but, more importantly, he succeeded in helping us believe that life was worth living, even if this was somewhat unintended; he was a nihilist through and through. Philosopher David Bather Woods, in his new book Arthur Schopenhauer: The Life and Thought of Philosophy's Greatest Pessimist, chronicles Schopenhauer's life and thought in a manner resembling a parable.