Calibri;Consolas;Times New Roman;  We're so delighted that you're here.  For those of you just joining us, I am Margaret Lewis, the executive director of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters.  I welcome you to this very special event remembering the 10th anniversary of 9/11.  Today's afternoon of panel discussions and exchanges is part of our Academy Evenings, a series of talks held throughout the year and around the state.  This Fall we are focusing on the theme of perspectives on a post-9/11 world.  We hope you'll join us for the other events that you can find out more about in our Academy Evenings season schedule.  Please feel free to grab one on your way in, or check our website.  You can also about membership in the Wisconsin Academy in either of those ways, or come to our website at www.wisconsin.org.  So, this is our third and final panel of the afternoon. 

 We turn to the arts for a discussion about how music, art and literature historically have not only helped us through times of crisis, but have also dealt with tragedy in ways that can be particularly revealing.  We're fortunate to have three panelists with us to consider how the arts provide new ways of understanding catastrophe.  John DeMain, music director of the Madison Symphony Orchestra is here with us today, and is also a Wisconsin Academy Fellow.  Valerie Laken, assistant professor of English at UW-Milwaukee, and author of Separate Kingdoms, Stories, and Jane Simon, curator of the Contemporary Art Museum at the University of South Florida, are all with us today.  I think that we're going to start with John.  But I'll introduce all of our speakers.  Or did we agree something else? I lost track of that coin toss, apparently.  We're going to start in the middle, so let me start with the middle introduction first.  I believe that's Jane.  Jane is the curator of the Contemporary Art Museum at the University of South Florida where she is also the professor of museum studies. 

 Previously she was the curator of exhibitions here, at the Madison Museum of Contemporary Art.  Simon has also held curatorial positions at Independent Curators International and MOCA.  Who's the next speaker, did we decide? Is that Valerie? Valerie Laken is the -- Prize winning author of the novel Dream House which received the Ann Powers award and was named among Kirkus Review's "Best Books of 2009." She holds an MFA from the University of Michigan and teaches in the graduate program of creative writing at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee.  Her new short collection, Separate Kingdoms, was published by Harper Perennial in February of 2011.  John DeMain, who needs no introduction in this town, is difficult to describe in just a few words because of so many glittering prizes.  Now in his 18th season as music director of Madison Symphony Orchestra, John DeMain is noted for his dynamic performances on dozens of concert and opera stages throughout the world.  He just arrived an hour ago from Pennsylvania.  The New York Times calls him a "gifted orchestra builder" and how.  He has build the MSO into on of American's leading regional orchestras.  In addition to overseeing it's move to the Overture Hall and expanding the subscription season to triple performances, he has steadily elevated the quality of the orchestra, creating exquisite performances of evermore challenging works. 

 He also serves as the artistic director for the Madison Opera, and until recently, Opera Pacific.  He is a regular guest conductor with the Washington National Orchestra, New York City Opera, Michigan Opera Theater and Los Angeles Opera.  There are probably many others that I'm missing.  During his distinguished 17 year tenure with the Houston Grand Opera, he led a history-making production of "Porgy and Bess," winning a Grammy Award and a Tony Award, as well as France's top award for the RCA recording.  In all, he has conducted more than 350 performances for "Porgy and Bess" throughout the world.  So, let us turn to this distinguished panel to help us think about how the arts help us deal with tragedy.  Thank you again for starting us off, Jane.   >> Thank you for coming.  It's a beautiful day out, and you decided to spend your time with us, so thank you.  I'm going to begin in the past, and then we'll work more towards the future. 

 In 1951, noted scholar and philosopher Theodor Adorno, in response to the tragedies of World War II and the Holocaust wrote, "Writing poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric." I think this sent all of Europe into a tailspin because they thought, well, is there room for the arts? I use this quote because it sets the stage for what is essentially an impossibility.  We experience trauma and we experience hardship and grief, but can an art form encompass the complexity of those emotions? Can it help us heal? Can it provide a form for outlining our fears, anxieties and even silly hang-ups? My guess is, probably not, but many of us are driven to make things out of our own trauma and those things, be it paintings, cartoons or sculptures, whatever they may be, become the repositories of human experience.  Both awful and wonderful at the same times.  I begin with, this is an abstract painting by Philip Guston, that's owned by the Minneapolis Institute of Art.  It was created in 1958.  Guston was a Canadian born painter.  He was born in Montreal in 1913 as Philip Goldstein to Ukrainian refugees.  His father could not make a living in Montreal, so they moved to California as a young child.  His father was a garbage collector, which drove him to insanity.  He actually killed himself and a young Guston found his father in the woodshed out back as a young child. 

 You'll see in his paintings, I'll show you just a few of them, he was dealing with all of these things all the time in his art.  By the 1950s he was painting only in abstraction, as were many painters of that time.  This is an example of one of those works.  He stopped painting for a while, about four years at the end of the 1960s, because he felt like he could not paint actually.  When he returned to painting it was during the height of the Vietnam war.  Here's a painting, on the right, from 1969, and another one from 1973, called Painting, Smoking and Eating.  In the end Guston decided cartoonish figures in a reductive white and red palette, there are other tones in there but basically it's just red and white, would be the only way to deal with life, with his own anxieties, with the death of his father, and with the looming Vietnam war.  He always used, well, he didn't always use, he used these Klan-like figures as a way to deal with it.  The Klan, at the time of his childhood, was rampant in California.  He at one point felt that that had something to do with his father's death. 

 So the Klansmen are, you know, are himself.  He often would paint self-portraits that were himself as the Klansmen.  He could sort of see the evil in everyone.  He didn't sleep well at night I don't think.  He smoked all the time, as one way to deal with this.  In the end he decided to use cartoonish figures in a red and white palette to create realistic but troubled scenes.  The painter smoking, eating, creating, but rattled by anxieties.  His sense of the troubles outside the studio would always impregnate the studio.  They would always leak in.  He would turn to art, but it would fail to soothe him. 

 We can see Guston's complicated exploration of the Klan related to California and even his father's death.  Driven to the point, he would say, at the end of his life, "Painting and sculpture are very archaic forms, but it's the only thing left in our industrial society where an individual alone can make something which, not just his own hands, but with his brains, his imagination, and maybe his heart." The next subject that I'm using is a changing things a little bit.  Although Guston himself was very influenced by cartoons.  The next subject is legendary graphic novelist Art Spiegelman, who made his career from creating images from his own life, creating comics came from his family, his father's anxieties, his mother's suicide and even his own life.  He was an only child of two Holocaust survivors and his first three books, The Mouse series, detailed the neuroses of his father.  His mother had died by that point.  As his dad aged he would repeat what seemed to his son, these crazy precautions against starvation, destruction and anti-Semitism.  This is an image of, he takes on the figure of a very small mouse and he's worried about if he made a book about this, that it would just be read as his father a being crazy, racist, old Jew.  It's a wonderful book and won the Pulitzer Prize.  There are three of them. 

 This is from the first one, 1973.  Then these are-- Spiegelman famously married the photo editor from the New Yorker.  Francoise is his lovely wife and she always shows up as a very foxy mouse in his cartoons.  We'll see her in a few minutes.  He lives in downtown Manhattan and so, when the towers came down he was right there.  He spent years dealing with what the trauma was.  He and Francoise are at home and this all happens, and they have to rush further downtown to their daughter's school and they go through this whole panic of whether or not their daughter has survived.  Their daughter, incidentally, actually doesn't panic until she sees her parent's panicking.  It sends Spiegelman on this whole other tirade about, am I just like my father, what does this mean from a diplomacy standpoint? You can see in the center of the picture is actually Dan Rather on the news.  Then at the bottom are people running from commercialism destroying American. 

 On the far right is a cartoon-like image of the towers burning, which of course, everyone thought could never happen.   I'm already at the next thing.  This is another image of the same thing.  The top is Spiegelman freaking out about himself, freaking out about creating a book like this.  At the bottom is the towers burning again.  This book was first published many years later in Der Spiegel, oddly enough a German newspaper.  The Germans loved Spiegelman's work, which is a whole other discussion.  Then by Pantheon in over-size book form.  What is most interesting to me is how Spiegelman turns to many of his father's hang-ups, like anti-Semitism, as almost coping mechanisms.  If your terrified about something else it's easy to displace those angers on to something else. 

 As if to say the world would be all right with all the same old problems.  He didn't want these new problems.  I want to show you one more image by him.  Actually, here we go.  This is actually where he detailed-- he's imagining what his daughter Nadja would have thought during the whole thing.  The school never told them what was going on.  Nadja didn't know what was going on until her parents showed up absolutely freaked out.  Then in 2008 for the New Yorker magazine.  These were published in 2004, four years after he had gone through this supposedly therapeutic thing.  He said I think the most relevant explanation of the whole thing, "There's a therapeutic side to all art-making, but the nature of working is to compress, condense and shape stuff, not to expunge it. 

 And it's not just an exorcism.  Art is about eating your own vomit." This is a cover.  I had to include this, because it's relevant to a local artist's work that I'm going discuss at the end of the talk.  This is the cover of the New Yorker that Spiegelman did for his wife Francoise who was the photo editor of the New Yorker, right after the 9/11 attacks.  There are two towers that are just shadows.  They're just a figment of our imagination.   Turning to the contemporary, I have three artists that we're just going to talk briefly about, who deal with 9/11 in their lives, or in their work.  This is a photo from a two channel video installations that was completed in New York in 2010.  It was ten years, or almost ten years, after the 9/11 attacks.  Elizabeth felt that she could actually release this work of art and release her own take on what had happened in New York. 

 What she did was, just as the towers were happening, she lives in Williamsburg, Brooklyn which is, you know, across the water, even from where the towers had fallen.  She took a battered Bolex camera and went around her neighborhood.  It was a very mixed neighborhood, Polish people, artsy-fartsy types.  She photographed what was going on in the neighborhood.  How people were responding publicly to this tragedy.  Then she went back ten years later and photographed the same places, to see if it was still in this collective consciousness or not.  This is one image of that.  It's a sort of vinyl siding sort of neighborhood.  They're generally two story building, two flats in each building, sometimes three.  This is another image of how people were actually using it-- Osama bin Laden is in the upper right hand corner there. 

 People were publicly addressing this whole Osama bin Laden thing.  Of course, now he's dead so we have whole other relationship to these things.  But this was right after.  Here, this is many years later.  Either somebody forgot to take down the flag, or they intended to leave it up.  There was still this semblance of patriotism.  Elena Del Rivero was not actually in New York at the time of the attacks, but her studio was downtown and the windows were blown out of her studio I guess, when the towers fell.  She was in her native Spain and she came back and was sort of horrified by what had happened to her space.  She felt victimized by that, and she felt that she had been violated because her private space was taken over with this other issue.  Then she was asked by the Corcoran Gallery of Art to create something, which is in Washington D.C.-- to do a site specific instillation. 

 She used all of the things that were left in her studio and sewed them together to hang something from the rotunda.  That's what this is here.  She claims that the act was a therapeutic act and was the best way to make sense of what had been so disruptive.  It took her five years to catalogue everything, then to reassemble them.  That's what this is here.  It's a scroll-like thing which reads as both information but also something very personal.   There's up in the middle of the instillation.  Then here are the letters and other things like that.  So they still read as individual objects but they've come together to be something.  They're not individually interesting at all. 

 There's no narrative in them, there's no personal information about the artist.  Some off them even just say "error" on them.  They're just like receipts and things like that that she kept.  But you realize, you know, your life is made up of these insignificant pieces of paper, of the shards of your economic transactions, the shards of your drawings, of your doodles on the page or grocery list, or things like that.  All of those things were compiled into this one work.  If it hadn't been created from her downtown studio ostensibly it wouldn't even be about September 11th.   Here's another one which was an essay, and then you can see that she catalogued it is her studio to be placed in this work.  It was just recently shown in New York for this anniversary, But before then, it was really made for Washington.  This is a local artist who actually happens to be in the audience.  It's just wonderful. 

 When I put out a call-out if anyone was thinking about this, responded.  I was very happy that she responded to me.  Because she deals with a built environment, she was really thinking about September 11th in her work.  She was really thinking about the grander meaning of all of these things.  She was also very much thinking about the differences between black and white, and what we associate with black.  Thinking back to the Art Spiegelman cover, we do have this morass-like reaction to the color black, which can sometimes be good and sometimes be bad.  My reaction as an art historian or as a curator is always like, well, black is normal.  Black is what we wear.  It's the norm.  But it has a whole other host of connotations. 

 This was installed in Berkeley at the Kala Art Institute.  It was set into the wall.  It's this crumbling downed tower, rickety tower.  This is something else built into the underbelly of a building.  Actually, an HVAC system in the basement.  The city is placed on top of it.  We're imagining, you know, a city that could be vulnerable.  This is another image which is actually in the collection at the Madison Museum of Contemporary Art.  I'm going to end with a quote that bookends more with Guston's than with anything else, but it was written a London based artist, Sadie Smith, who was in New York about a year ago.  She says, "Last Christmas I was standing in an apartment building in New York and I was struck by a hallway where paper mâché stars of David and holy crosses came together in a decorative seasonal theme. 

 These 'people of the book,' whose religious texts overlap and divide us as deeply as either text from the Koran.  They were living peaceably in the same space." Remember they're just symbols in this thing, but she's, you know, having a very sentimental attachment to these Chanukah and Christmas decorations.  She writes, "What enabled this? Maybe this took generations and passed through periods of unspeakable horrors.  Sometimes people forgot.  Sometimes they forgave.  They did both of these things imperfectly.  Practical matters certainly helped.  General economic parity and difficult acts of goodwill on both side, and then a democratic country in which the apparently impossible has the freedom to happen.  It's not a perfect relationship.  There is not such thing, and it took 2000 years to get this far. 

 We forget that these things take time.  'Let us realize that the arch of moral universe is long but it bends towards justice.' said Martin Luther King who resided over a meeting of supposedly irreconcilable peoples.  Not everyone is a monster."  [applause]  >> I'm going to talk about-- I guess I should stand by the microphone.  I'm going to talk about, mostly literature, and the wake of 9/11.  There's been a fair amount of it, so there's a limit to how much I can cover.  I decided to focus on just one or two specific novels.  Also a little bit of art and people's reactions to these things.  There's a curious scene late in Don DeLillo's novel, Falling Man, when his protagonist, Lianne, physically attacks her downstairs neighbor for playing "a certain kind of music, wailing music, lutes and tambourines and chanting voices.  Over and over.  It was beginning to make her angry." Now, Lianne is a mild-mannered sort, a mother and book editor who volunteers with Alzheimer's patients in her spare time, but her husband has just survived the Twin Towers attacks and she is now seeing the world in new ways. 

 In the build-up to that confrontation with her neighbor she thinks to herself, "Maybe the neighbor was Greek.  But the music wasn't Greek.  She was hearing another set of traditions, Middle Eastern, North African, Bedouin songs perhaps or Sufi dances, music located in Islamic tradition, and she thought of knocking on the door and saying something." In his typical, seemingly casual fashion DeLillo highlights a central problem of speaking and writing about 9/11.  In the wake of the attacks many choices of expression and reaction suddenly became taboo.  Added to our shock and confusion was a new, deep fear of saying the wrong thing.  Lianne spends weeks walking past her neighbor's door, enraged by the music but unable to say anything.  She thinks, "Knock on the door.  Adopt a posture.  Mention the noise as noise.  Knock on the door, mention the noise, use the open pretense of civility and calm, the parody of fellow-tenant courtesy that every tenant sees as such, and gently mention the noise. 

 Mention the noise only as noise.  Do not allude to the underlying theme of a certain kind of music as a certain form of political and religious statement, now of all times." When Lianne finally works up the nerve to voice her objections to her neighbor, the woman participates in this dim and willful circumlocution, she expands the blank space where the unspeakable, Islam, 9/11, terror, silently festers.  The neighbor says, "Music, that's all.  I like it.  It's beautiful.  It gives me peace.  I like it, I play it." "Why now? Why at this particular time?" "Now, later, what's the difference? It's music." "But why now and why so loud?" "Nobody ever complained.  This is the first time I'm hearing loud.  It's not so loud." "It's loud." "It's music.  You want to take it personally, what can I tell you?" "Of course it's personal. 

 Anybody would take it personally.  Under these circumstances.  There are circumstances.  You acknowledge this, don't you?" "There are no circumstances.  It's music," she said.  "It gives me peace."  As in DeLillo's book, in post-9/11 America we saw a lot of people pushing for silence, for restraint, for selective blindness or feigned obliviousness on certain matters.  Some people, often purporting to represent the forever silenced victims, argued that certain images and facts were too painful, graphic, or inflammatory to be spoken or shown.  So the shots of the people falling from the towers were quickly exhumed from the live news coverage.  Some of us saw a few images like this one, before TV producers decided to focus instead on the equally shocking but more palatable images of architecture, rather than individual people, under attack.  Photographs like Richard Drew's "Falling Man" flashed once in certain newspapers, sparked outrage, and were basically stricken from the record. 

 But other people, also reeling and devastated by the attacks, went in the other direction.  They grasped for specific, palpable ways to more fully feel and understand what they had witnessed.  They gravitated toward the images that others deemed off-limits.  There was something grotesque and lurid about watching the planes crash into the towers, or the victims fall from the sky, and yet many of us couldn't tear our eyes away.  We stood riveted before our TV screens, watching the attacks from different angles, over and over.  We watched it until we could feel we'd been a part of it.  We watched it in an effort to pull ourselves a little closer.  It has always been the job of artists, of writers, to bring people into closer contact with the world around us, to force us to look at what we'd rather not see, and in so doing to help us more fully understand the world's terror and glory.  Newspaper clippings and history books can transmit every last known fact about the invasion of Normandy, but if you mention the event the first thing that comes to my mind is the visceral opening sequence of Saving Private Ryan.  This isn't because the film gives a more thorough or accurate sense of the events; it's because the film gives a more palpable one. 

 It's because the film brings me closer...  or seems to.  We expect this of art and literature.  Yet those who attempted to write fiction about 9/11 were faced with the daunting challenge of bringing readers close but not too close, faced with the call to say something, but not the wrong thing.  In post 9/11 America, saying the wrong thing suddenly felt like it could get you put on a very bad list somewhere.  When the novelist Jonathan Safran Foer used photographs of one of the falling victims in his 2005 novel, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, many critics rejected the move out of hand.  The photos are placed in reverse order in a flip-book at the end of the novel, so that as you flip to the final page the falling man, a stand-in for the boy-narrator's dead father, rises back up to the towers and survives.  The San Francisco Chronicle critic Tom Barbash wrote, "I imagine that Foer debated whether to include the photograph of the man leaping from, or ascending back into, the building.  I for one wish he'd made a different decision.  It lends to the story a horrific and unearned gravity." Other works of art dealing with 9/11 were likewise slammed for being insensitive, for exploiting pain they hadn't earned. 

 Eric Fischl's sculpture, "Tumbling Woman," sparked such controversy at Rockefeller Center that it was quickly covered with a sheet and removed.  Fischl promptly offered a grave apology for, what I think is, a very beautiful work of art.  One passerby said of the sculpture, "I don't think it dignifies their deaths.  It's not art...  It's very disrupting when you see it." Asked about the controversy, Fischl highlighted another key problem that artists faced after 9/11, the idea that "some people have a right to express their suffering and others don't, that there are those in this hierarchy of pain who own it more than you do.  It's not necessarily about witnessing firsthand that makes the experience.  Picasso wasn't at Guernica when it happened, Goya wasn't there on the firing line.  This is what a culture looks to art for, to put image, or voice, or context to a way of rethinking, re-seeing, re-experiencing." The fact that the worlds of art and publishing and cultural criticism are so centered in New York may have made the act of making art about 9/11 particularly perilous.  There were an awful lot of culturally powerful New Yorkers at the top of the hierarchy of pain, and while they didn't want their pain misrepresented, they also didn't want it ignored.  In 2003, in her review of the first book DeLillo published after 9/11, the novel Cosmopolis, the New York Times' Michiko Kakutani captured the high expectations critics placed on New York writers. 

 She wrote, "In novels like Libra, Mao II, White Noise and the magnificent Underworld, DeLillo has drawn a vivid fever chart of American history, showing us, often with uncanny prescience, how random violence and paranoia have insinuated themselves into the collective unconscious, how madmen and terrorists have used bombs and guns and the media to seize hold of the historical imagination.  It is with great anticipation, then, that the reader turns to his latest novel, the first book by Mr. DeLillo to be published since the terrorist attacks of 9/11.  Cosmopolis, however, turns out to be a major dud.  It's not that the novel, which is set in New York City in April 2000, declines to depict our post 9/11 world.  It's that its portrait of a millennial Manhattan is hopelessly clichéd." Although she hedges this last statement, it seems to me, by the very fact that she mentions it, "declining to depict our post 9/11 world" is DeLillo's first misstep.  When he got around, in 2007, to satisfying her desire for a 9/11 novel, she met the book, Falling Man, with the same high expectations and almost inevitable disappointment.  She wrote, "The reader approaches Mr. DeLillo's post- 9/11 work with great anticipation.  Unfortunately, his strangely stilted 2003 novel, Cosmopolis, was a terrible disappointment, and so is his spindly new novel, Falling Man.  It doesn't seem to occur to this critic that DeLillo's two post-9/11 books might have been "spindly" or "stilted," because actual New Yorkers had been struck speechless and numb by 9/11, and DeLillo either wanted to capture it or couldn't, himself, escape it.  After all, writers are just as likely as anyone else to find that they have, as Elif Batumen writes, "accidentally checked out from the human condition." This reminded me of the Adorno quote that Jane mentioned. 

 The line about writing poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric.  I think that a lot of Holocaust literature, I was reminded, is incredible spare.  Very, very minimalist.  It was as though language had been so corrupted and so misused, and beauty had been so debased, that a lot of Holocaust poets especially felt that it was sort of grotesque, sort of vulgar to use language for beautiful means.  It had been put to such awful means in the Holocaust.  We see that again, actually before that.  Hemingway writing about World War I famously said that, you know the language had been so corrupted that, after a certain point, only the names of certain places and the dates of certain battles held any meaning at all.  Anyway, back to Falling Man.  In the Washington Post Jonathan Yardley also skewered the novel Falling Man.  He quotes a vivid description by DeLillo of a character who's been going around New York jumping off buildings head-first as performance art. 

 Then Yardley writes, "Sorry, but that doesn't work.  Once again, DeLillo is merely piggybacking on September 11, counting on those vivid images cemented in our memories to give this novel the force he's unable to instill in it himself." And here we arrive at perhaps the greatest challenge of all, the possibility that the attacks themselves were already such devastating works of art that anything attempting to depict or interpret them can look an awful lot like a pale derivation.  After all, the real terrible and disruptive power of 9/11 lay not so much in the human or architectural destruction but in its imagery, in the spectacle we all witnessed as an audience.  Because it must be said that 3,000 people die all the time, all over the world.  Buildings fall.  Planes crash.  And life goes on; such tragedies merit only a few days or weeks of news.  They are not called cataclysms or apocalypses, as 9/11 repeatedly has been.  August 29th for example, the anniversary of, does anyone know? Katrina is barely remembered.  The cataclysmic power of 9/11 stemmed from the audacity, precision, and orchestration of the attacks, and from the horrific images that played out in real time before our eyes. 

 All of this combined to reconfigure our sense of who we are and how we are vulnerable.  The attacks brought us closer to the elements of the world we had not wanted to see.  But this is another thing that we are not supposed to say.  The composer Karlheinz Stockhausen tried it when he called 9/11 "the greatest work of art imaginable for the whole cosmos." This was 6 days after 9/11 and of course outrage ensued.  He attempted to clarify that "great" did not equal "good" by renaming it "Lucifer's greatest work of art." Yeah.  When that didn't suffice he offered a full apology.  "This whole situation is regrettable and I'm deeply sorry if my remarks were misconstrued.  To offend the grieving families of the brutal terrorist attacks of New York City and Washington D.C. and I will continue to keep the victims of this outrage in my prayers." A year later, the artist Damien Hirst tried to express this again.  He said to the BBC, "The thing about 9/11 is that it's kind of an artwork in its own right.  It was wicked, but it was devised in this way for this kind of impact. 

 It was devised visually." He too was quickly badgered into an apology.  Ten years have passed.  Our fears are subsiding.  Maybe the mass of commentary about 9/11 this week suggests that it's getting maybe a little bit easier to find something, maybe the right thing, to say about 9/11.  Thank you.  [applause]  >> The artist's response to war is thought provoking, both visually and in spoken word.  In music, it's interesting because music has been associated with war from the very beginning.  When you really think about the integral role that music played.  Think about formations, army formations or organizing, launching cavalry charges, bugle calls, drumming, marching bands, celebrations of victory, mourning loss, underlying ceremony.  But I think the number of works where war is actually depicted in music, you could probably count on two hands. 

 One of the early ones, and I think one of the big influences on composers, was Napoleon.  That inspired Beethoven to write "Wellington's Victory." Now, what's interesting is that Beethoven was commissioned, he was paid to write about that war.  Of course in that piece we have fanfares, cannonades, themes from British patriotic songs.  The other obvious work that we listen to quite regularly, which has an aspect of war inside it, is of course, the "1812 Overture." Again, that is related to Napoleon, and that of course has cannons written into the piece, and then a tradition of fireworks associated with it as well.  Haydn wrote his mass in a time of war.  That's distinguished with the sort of militarists trumpet fanfares and timpani rolls that are a part of the piece.  The final movement is also a prayer for peace, as is Beethoven's Missa Solemnis, a prayer for inner and outer peace.  I think that often composers have a response to war by going away from war.  By not wanting to actually depict war.  But by actually hoping that, you know, never again. 

 One for the great pieces written in response to war was Britain's "War Requiem" in 1962.  It had poetry from Wilfred Owen, a British pacifist killed before the end of World War I.  In which he was quoted as saying, "All a poet can do is warn." Another very important work that I think depicts war, or at least written effected by war, was Shostakovich's "Seventh Symphony", the "Leningrad Symphony." Written in 1941, composed one month after the invasion by the Nazis.  This work is filled with references to terror and slavery and oppression of the spirit.  This composition became the icon of the resistance, suffering and hopes of the Russian people.  These works were written specifically in response to victory or defense.  The end of this week we will be presenting John Adams' commissioned again, asked to write a piece, in memory of 9/11.  He wrote it a year later, 2002.  It won the Pulitzer Prize.  It is on the transmigration of souls. 

 It's interesting in his description on this piece, he calls it a memory space.  It's written for chorus of adults and children and a massive orchestra, and a tape of the city sounds of New York, including sirens, people walking and the names of victims.  It's a very, very powerful piece, and it also though, has the sounds of war.  As I said before, war has an obvious audio component, and music deals with sound.  What's interesting today to listen to CNN where CNN will say now during the Arab Spring they'll say let's just pause and listen to the sounds of war.  And we just pause and listen to the volleys of gunshots.  And I thought that was rather unique that we're doing that now, that we're supposed to sit and just listen to this horrific noise.  But the point is it is noise, and music, of course, is some kind of noise, cultivated or less cultivated.  And it's interesting to see and to contemplate what effect war has had on music in general.  And I think that we have to be careful because I think the trends in music happened not necessarily parallel to war. 

 I think what's happened after the 20th century, the end of Romanticism, at the end of the 19th century, more happened because of people like Freud and movements in Paris and the world of art and is also with -- paving the way, changing the harmonic palette of music, the rise of technology and machinery and the noise that's associated with machinery.  A lot of these things came into the 20th century to influence where music went, not just the fact that there was a world war, two world wars.  So I think that we cannot, in itself, say that music was affected, in general, by the world wars, but certainly composers were both collectively and individually influenced.  For example, Ravel served in the war.  He wrote his "Left Hand Concerto" as a response to someone who lost their arm in the war.  So there, for example, is a very specifically war associated work.  Vaughan Williams, incredibly affected by the war, wrote both his symphonies number 4 and 6, the war effect is quite audible in his music.  The music is much more dissonant, much more intense.  Some composers went the other way.  Richard Strauss, who had given us this beautiful "Der Rosenkavalier" in 1910, but before that with "Salome Elektra" was aiming towards a much more abrasive kind of musical style, actually retreated after the war, almost as though not wanting to have dissonance because of the dissonance created in real life. 

 But I think as we got through to the second half of the 20th century, we have to take a look at, in addition to not only classical composers and their response to war, but Rock and Roll as started with the people like Bill Haley & His Comets progressed into something much more intense, something much more serious and Rock took on connotations of serious art.  And I think that what has happened is we can go back to the Civil War when we had songs like "Dixie" and "Yankee Doodle" already associated with war, and then as we progress we look at some of the songs in the '40s that were written while the second world war was going on, but nothing compares to the antiwar protest song that developed as a result of the Vietnam War.  And if you look at the list of songs associated with the first world war and the second world war and then you look at the songs written in response to the Vietnam War, it's 15- 20-fold.  It's unbelievable.  And that has continued through the Gulf War and the so-called War on Terror.  The popular music world has taken on a lot of the moral outrage and response to war, and we find this much more depicted than before.  I think that there's few pieces of war that were sort of pro-war, the Lincoln Portrait, Prokofiev's Alexander Nevsky.  In the world of opera, we are able to depict war, or at least set stories with war in the background.  So, for example, Verdi actually wrote an opera about Attila, Attila the Hun, Attila in Italian.  Of course, Handel's Giulio Cesare, Julius Caesar, and Otello is returning from battle coming off that ship, the fight between the Venetians and the Moors, and so war becomes a backdrop. 

 Tosca with the Roman Republic on Broadway.  Vietnam served as the backdrop with that famous helicopter landing in Miss Saigon, and, of course, the magnificent South Pacific is set against the backdrop of World War II.  And in this most recent production, the addition to the sounds of war through the scene changes and the recent revival in New York which brought an even more urgent sensibility to the work.  Possibly one of the greatest process songs of all time was Beethoven's "Ode to Joy," as he contemplated the need for peace and for the brotherhood of man.  I think that this afternoon we had in Overture Hall a very beautiful memorial service where we sang pieces that oftentimes become associated with the way we mourn and the way we mourn loss, and, as I said, a lot of times we make an impassioned cry for peace or we sing a requiem and, of course, the "Barber Adagio" for Strings, which was played this afternoon, and that's probably no more greater performed piece associated with tragedy, national tragedy, loss, than that work.  When I was thinking about commemorating 9/11, I don't want to say that that would be the easy road for me would be to play the "Adagio for Strings" and move on.  But I was curious to find out if there were event specific works.  And, of course, the only big large-scale event specific work that I could come up with was the Adams' "On the Transmigration of Souls." However, today in San Francisco by the wonderful composer Christopher Theofanidis, who I've performed a couple of times here in Madison, his opera Heart of a Soldier is being premiered by the San Francisco Opera and is about the fireman from Texas who was in New York and pulled 2,000 people out of the towers.  And so here we are 10 years later getting a major work of art.  And I think that sometimes you have to have a passage of time to have an appropriate response or want to depict something. 

 And I think that was the point made by these talks is that it's so overwhelming, the event in the beginning, that to have something to say about it or to sing about it or to play about it is very, very difficult.  So I think what John Adams has done is a very difficult piece to get through because of not only hearing the names of people but hearing the cliched but absolutely heartfelt responses that people make and that the chorus will sing through this.  However, also, the orchestra explodes twice in this piece, and the brass do some sustained playing that makes you feel a little bit like the sounds of an airplane.  And I'm sure John Adams would deny it, but there is this feeling of, and also the way there is an electric keyboard, there's cellist, there's these instruments playing these tinkly, almost as though there's shattered glass, and in this world that we're brought into and that we're asked to remember.  So I think that, just in conclusion, I think that, as I said, music has been associated with the army, has been associated with a war, armies, navy, all of them in general, with military.  Music has always been a part of it, from parades to memorial services.  I do think that it's important that we're careful not to associate musical styles as directly resulting with war but rather than larger forces going on, and at the same time recognize those pieces which composers were moved to give us as their response to the horrors and outrage of war.  Thank you.  [APPLAUSE]  >> Thank you, all, for taking time to be here with us today.  It's now your time to ask questions. 

 We have about 15-20 minutes to have a conversation with these special experts that are here today, and we ask that you wait or raise your hand so the microphone can be brought down to you so that all may hear.  So please, Ronnie, I see a couple of hands already, and I'm sure she'll get around to just as many of you as she can.  Thanks so much.  >> Thanks.  Valerie, when you talked about how critics reacted to the war, I'm curious about your thoughts about how much each of us experience events now because of the way they're so accessible.  None of us know what it was like to be in World War II.  A lot of us kind of have a sense of the Kennedy assassination, and we were close to that.  But 9/11, we all saw it.  We all felt closer.  We all have a very sort of personal experience associated with it. 

 And so much now we all see these things firsthand in a way we never did in the past, and does that alter, do you think, our ability to sort of allow others to share their takes of it and take offense at? >> Yeah, I think absolutely our access to documentary coverage of tragedy is now so much more pervasive and easy.  And, actually, Kakutani, in this past week's New York Times was talking about how probably the most, what she considered the most successful books that came after 9/11 or dealt with 9/11 were the non-fiction books, and that there hasn't yet, in her opinion, been the great 9/11 novel.  And I think on some level, yeah, that artists are competing with that raw footage, and, A, there's only so much that an artist can do or a writer can do against that backdrop, and, B, I think it does mean that, this is just my opinion, but it seems to me that we all feel more ownership of those events that we watched unfold before our very eyes, particularly with 9/11 because it was happening, so many of us sort of turned on the TV and saw that second plane hit the building.  And so you really feel as though you, you know you weren't there but you can remember where you were and you saw it in real time and you felt like you participated in some way that we don't feel about World War II or Vietnam or these other events unless we were really there.  And I think that's a tricky circumstance.  It means that more and more people, I guess maybe a larger percentage of the population, feels that kind of ownership that the victims feel.  Whether that's accurate or inaccurate, a lot of people feel that way.  And so they have a stronger sense of whether the artist is getting it right or not getting it right or doing it justice or not doing it justice or being insensitive or insensitive.  >> Just a few comments and anecdotes.  Since you mentioned "Ode to Joy," I think that another application of that song to peace is the fact that it's now the national anthem of the European community. 

 Let's see, and also regarding the question of selective memory and how certain things are forgotten, as we know or as sometimes is brought up now, 9/11 has other negative associations historically.  It was, of course, the coup in Chile in 1973 that brought down a democratically elected president to bring in a military coup, and it was also the date, I believe it was in 1940, that Charles Lindbergh made one of his more, I guess, racist or anti-Semitic or non-interventionist addresses talking about the importance of keeping the US out of the war in Europe.  So there's a lot of nefarious events associated with 9/11, and also your comment in response to the first question, the question of perspective and having personal memory of a given time, I find that I'm almost in a minority now in that when I go to panels and discussions on the Vietnam War, I'm practically an old-timer because I'm one of the few in the audience that has memories of it and that contribute that way even though I didn't fight there.  I was never in the military, but I still have very strong memories of it from the home front.  So it's just interesting to me that in that way one develops different perspectives depending on what you lived through or not.  Thanks.   >> I actually have two questions.  One is, in the first panel today there was some discussion by the participants of how the War on Terror, which resulted from the events of 9/11, was different from other wars because there was not a nation state that had a standing army that was involved, and I'm wondering if you think that the art that is coming out in terms music or literature or film, visual arts, is different because this was not a traditional war as we have seen.  And then my other question is we don't have a representative here from film, but it seems to me that film is the quintessential medium for depicting war.  And we've had, ever since we've had film, we've had films about war. 

 And I'm thinking that there's something about that medium that really is able to portray in ways that, perhaps, the music or the visual arts or the literature is not.  But I must say, in terms of music, one of my really striking memories of the Bosnian/Serbian conflict is there was an image and I think it was a cellist playing "Adagio for Strings" in a very empty stadium.  It was interesting that today, if you were watching the TV, that the musicians they chose to perform were Yo-Yo Ma and I can't remember her name, a flutist, and James Taylor and Paul Simon.  So music, I think, is very evocative.  >> You know, Apocalypse Now is one of the great war movies in our time, and The Hurt Locker, incredible in terms of the kind of realism that a movie can do.  But I think music, certainly art music is more abstract in the way it congers up memories inside you that you create the visions, the visuals, where I think the movie sort of creates it for you.  I do think we've seen, in theater and in television, suddenly these CSI and these various series now all of the sudden there might be a plot about terrorism, Homeland Security.  That's permeating our culture in the last several years in terms of subject matter.  Same thing with plays on Broadway.  We've seen some plays where terrorists have captured someone. 

 And so the subject matter is there.  I think, by the way, there have been quite a few chamber music works created with 9/11.  And there was a work today that was premiered in Houston by Jake Heggie.  There is, I think Richard Danielpour has written.  There's quite a few chamber works.  I just haven't noticed a huge amount of symphonic work written specifically in response, and I think John Adams was the big one.  It was written for New York Philharmonic, won the Pulitzer Prize, and is incredibly specific to that event to create a contemplation.  But, you're right, film is, and of course music is always part of film as well.  >> I think that there are a lot of films that deal with that, actually.  And you think about even something like Batman wouldn't look like it does. 

 The one with Heath Ledger.  It wouldn't look like it did now if 9/11 hadn't happened because they're imagining the destruction of Gotham, which was of course New York City.  It would have entered people's minds, Godzilla and things like that included that, but it's totally different now.  There are even more popular films that imagine an apocalypse that is totally different now after 9/11.  >> And I think you're right, that film is the medium.  It's interesting how well film is adapted or suited for war coverage.  Because it's one of the things about literature about wars is challenging because we can't show the explosions so well and the fast pace doesn't quite come across as well.  So film is really the ideal, or may be in many ways ideal for that.  I do think that your comment at the beginning about whether the fact that we weren't fighting a nation complicates the presentation of the war in art and literature and film.  And I think it does because it's easy enough to say in a TV movie or in a film he's a German and so we're supposed to kill him in this war. 

 German equals bad guy.  With the 9/11, with the wars after 9/11, it's been very difficult for people to find ways to portray the enemy that aren't sort of stereotyping Arabs or stereotyping Middle Easterners, and so they had to kind of find, I guess, either they have sort of stereotyped and it's made some people uncomfortable or the better films have kind of found ways around that.  It's interesting to me that some of the better or more remembered Vietnam films came out several years after the war, and there was sort of a spade of them in the early '90s, late '80s even.  And it's a similar thing with novels and films about the war now.  A lot of the films that have been about 9/11 or the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan haven't done very well.  And The Hurt Locker is one that has and I would argue it's the same thing that happened with novels, that the ones that deal very directly with the events, like the Oliver Stone film, what was it called? 9/11 or Twin Towers? Does anybody even remember the title of this film by one of our major filmmakers? That nobody wanted to see.  And the novels, the same thing, the novels that dealt very directly with the event, and Falling Man is one of them, a lot of people didn't want to see, weren't ready for, but the stories that were sort a few steps removed, like The Hurt Locker, those did a lot better.  Audiences were more receptive to them.  >> And I would argue that's because they can't.  They can't encompass the tragedy or the trauma or the grief or the destruction that happened, and yet somehow we can eat our own vomit, as Art Spiegelman said. 

 We can deal with, if we set the perimeters correctly, as The Hurt Locker did, we can deal with that.  We can deal with these moments, these snippets or lightning flashes, as Eudora Welty called them I think, we can't deal with the whole thing.  We just can't.  It's way too big.  I think in some sense Eudora was right.  We can't.  >> It's also fascinating to me that film doesn't have to be politically correct, and literature probably can do that too to a certain extent.  Theater and live performance seems to be much more cautious about just how real they get.  But film, somehow that screen, you can say and depict politically risky positions, and yet somehow the way you can depict racism in film, the way you can depict all kinds of issues.  It's always fascinating to me why we can do that in movies and we have a hard time of doing it and accepting it in a live situation. 

 And somehow, I don't know, maybe it's just that screen or the fact that it's so realistic that there's nothing impressionistic about it.  It's trying to be so true to life.  >> I'm not sure whether it has to do with realism over a similitude or if it just has to do with the fact that, particularly longer narrative works of art tend to be dialogic in their construction.  They involve many voices coming together to create one truth, but those voices can descend and contradict and offend one another.  So an author can create one character who is stereotyping and discriminating against their Muslim neighbor because they're shocked after 9/11, and another character who argues with her that that's not the right thing to do, and the audience can see many layers and not, if it's done well, not assume that the author or director or producer agrees with one character more than another.  Whereas, I suppose I would imagine that's harder to do in music.  [INAUDIBLE] >> No, I'm thinking about this "Transmigration of Souls." It's not going after the outrage of what happened as much as the feeling of loss and the people left behind.  But the music, certainly, is layered because you have, John Adams was a minimalist, and you have moments where his essential minimalism comes through in a very tonal, very beautiful sounds of the children and the chorus make about how they loved these people and he was the apple of our eye, as I said, cliched things that are so true, and then at the same time, the orchestra just fiercely erupts and in gigantic volume and it's terroristic.  And so I think he's making his statement about that but, of course, nothing in text that will be offensive or go after the perpetrators of this but more the people left behind and the memory of those who were lost.  So it's an interesting point. 

 But I think you can, certainly your imagination can go where it wants depending on what the music does to you.  >> I have a question for all three of you, I think, because it's kind a stew of a question, and it's two-part.  Just recently I saw a special on Nat Geo, I think, and it was really interesting the way this documentary was done because they were talking heads of people who were in the buildings that got out.  And it was, of course, a reenactment in the building about the smoke and horror and people breaking through the wall, the drywall, because they couldn't get the door open.  We've heard those stories, but it was the first time in my memory that I can think of, like, oh, that's what those people looked like.  And to your point, Valerie, I feel like it did become so much about the architecture and the ash and material flying through the air, but there wasn't this real up-close connection to people.  And that also threaded through this documentary was the story of these two men that kept climbing up and climbing up, and I think they were with the Port Authority and they kept going up and going up and going up, and one of their wives was actually coming out of the building, and she said I knew he wasn't coming back and he didn't.  And so that is this rhythm that's tying this whole documentary together is going on and on about these two men who were singular heroes even though there were hundreds, if not thousands, of heroes that day.  They really chose to follow these two men that you only see snapshots of with their kids and their family because they did both perish.  And I think, I'm curious about this idea of the somatic response that there's a somatic thing that happens when we see pictures of people that doesn't happen when we see pictures of other things. 

 And I think there's actually neurosciences looking at this really close right now, like an actual physical location in the brain that creates a somatic response when we see pictures, images, of people, of touch.  Not to be crude, but that's why porn works.  It does some work, obviously it does some work.  So part 2 or B of this stew is, I wonder with all the reality shows, and again I have a bad time line in my head, but I don't remember reality shows like I do these last 10 years, and that's a lot of budgetary stuff going on, but I wonder if there's, since 9/11, if there's some way that we are unconsciously, consciously, reframing reality to make it not so real because everyone that watches reality TV shows, whether it's the housewives of wherever, we don't believe it as reality, yet that's the same medium that's broadcasting what we need to think about 9/11 that came to us there.  I don't know if there's any connection.  I don't think it's a conspiracy, but I was just wondering if you can speak to the visual in that way.  And, Jane, I'm thinking about you in particular in terms of the way that that's working in video, in fine art, and sort of the way we've seen the way artists use the moving image and video shift in the past decade.  It's kind of open-ended.  >> I think ideally, ideally we know more of the back story, and so if we know more of the back story, of course reality television isn't going to work.  We do have several outlets of news that do occasionally, if they do their job, give us the back story which can govern our response to something. 

 So at least in terms of reality TV I think that we know those things are doctored in this big way.  And so how do we deal, then, with things that are not doctored? And I think sometimes that's why we don't want to see things, like the people actually falling out.  I think in many ways, at least in art, we don't want it to bite that hard.  There are very few works that really tell us something truly awful.  We don't necessarily want that dialog all the time.  >> I think what's interesting is that in my research thinking about this relationship between composers and writing and response to war and noticing that, for example, surrealism, atonality, this was on it's way before World War I.  -- was already beginning to establish so that certain things were happening irrespective of war.  But I think that this idea of reality television, which has become so prevalent in the last 10 years, is obviously a response to the fact that we're able to witness events in a different way than we could, you had to get you Movietone News in the '40s if you went to the movies or something like that.  You got caught up after the event.  Now we're being taken to these events sometimes as they are happening, and I think that has created a world, it has lead to this idea of reality experience, even if it's fake, the idea of it is an --, I think, of the way we perceive events in the world through the media. 

 And 9/11 was, we had already been perceiving events.  Wasn't it interesting? My wife and I were in California, turned on the TV and you heard this, from more than one person, saying that, what science fiction movie is this? When you first turned it on, you think what were you watching and then all of the sudden.  It took me a long time, by the way, to realize that it wasn't a piece of science fiction.  >> Yeah, that's the response that I had heard over and over again when I was reading up for this, so many people saying they thought it was a bad fantasy film when they saw the footage of the towers because that was our only context for that sort of image was terrible Hollywood films that exploited violence and explosions.  And so, to see the reality of it suddenly, I think it did change our sense of what reality could look like.  >> I'm also thinking back to what you were saying.  The only person who really dealt with this, even on a filmic level, was Spike Lee with Katrina.  Which was this awful thing to sit through it even is just dramatic because it's four discs or something.  It's nine hours worth of film.  It was supposed to be even digestible. 

 And about the Holocaust, there was show which was equally as difficult to watch as Spike Lee's show.  >> But people will watch nine straight hours of "The Real Housewives of New Jersey" or something.  [INAUDIBLE] >> It's much easier.  It's much easier.  It's much easier.  There's not doubt that entertainment is much more easily digestible than these things that are trying to get at what's worst about mankind.  >> And it may just be a coincidence of timing that in our increasingly pervaded, our lives are so pervaded by media right now, and real time media, that our sense of what is real or what's really happening right is different.  We used to think of stars as people who did something a few months ago and that ended up in a magazine and then we read about it a few months later.  Now, it's like, well, did so and so from "Real Housewives" have her baby yet? We interact with those characters as if they are our second cousins or something, that they're real people who are living in the same time continuum as we are, which, in a way, they are.  Although, I think it's several months lag time. 

 I think the coincidence also is that "Survivor" started just after 9/11 or soon after, around the same time, and was so much more successful financially than any other reality show had been that everybody else said oh, my god, look at how much money we could make doing this.  At the very beginning of your comment, though, you had a note about how few faces or actual human victims we have associated with all of that footage, and it strikes me that because the bad guys were killed or disappeared afterward, all we really had were all those images of, and we didn't have images of actual victims being pulled out very often, if they were they were quite covered up, there became this sort of grand lionization of the firefighters and of the first responders.  I don't know.  In my lifetime I haven't seen anything like that.  And we didn't see that with the first responders in Katrina.  But there became, I think in the absence of any other faces to look at, we looked at what we could human-wise, and that was firefighters.  >> It was way more complicated with Katrina because some of them weren't so blatantly heroic.  >> I was very moved by the fact that because of the immediacy of our communications capabilities, cell phones, etc, and the six degrees of separation, this event happened in New York and yet the entire nation, well for obvious reasons the entire nation would be affected by it, but across the country people were directly, personally, affected by it.  And I was scheduled to do a concert that week, an outdoor concert, and I had a big decision to make whether to continue the concert or cancel it, and I chose to do it and raise money for the Red Cross.  And since it was a very late romantic concert of the music of Verdi which dealt so much with, like "Va Pensiero" became, practically, Italy's national anthem, and so much of Verdi's late work is set against a political backdrop so it wasn't a flippant kind of concert to do. 

 But when I got to the rehearsal, my cellist was deeply upset and I said, did you know someone? And he said when I'm not playing the cello, I work in the financial markets.  I can't remember what company he was working for, and he said so my colleagues were in the World Trade Center and we talk every day.  And he said it was just unbelievable.  He said this guy called me in tower two and says this plane just struck tower one, and of course a little while later, this person lost their life in the other tower.  But the cell phone conversations from the planes and all of that kind of immediate, that could have never happened in the second world war or probably not even to the extent in Vietnam that this immediacy is able to happen now because of our various ways of communicating which changes so that people felt connected in a way.  >> We felt more connected, and the question is, were we? And I don't have answer for that.  Like, on the one hand, yes, of course we must have been more connected because we felt we were.  But I also feel connected, some people feel connected to "The Real Housewives of New Jersey" and are they? [LAUGHTER] It is this curious phenomenon of our current media situation.  >> Interesting.  >> But isn't that one of the things that art does, that it allows us to feel connected and to make connections. 

 >> To make connections.  >> Even if the actual purpose of the artist is not to make these connections but that's the wonderful thing about art is it allows those connections to be made whether they were intended or not.  Last night here, there was a discussion between two artists who have exhibits and they were saying we weren't political.  We were doing art that turned out to be sort of political, but we did not have discussions about politics.  We were doing art.  And I think that's the wonderful thing about art and why it's so powerful.  >> And I'm so sorry to have to kind of bring us to a close here, but I think that leaves us in a very good place in terms of the connections that art brings to us.  And I just want to remind you again of a photography reception downstairs at the Playhouse Gallery that is featuring the work of three Wisconsin photographers that is reflecting on 9/11 that will be, I think, up for another month or whatever.  But if you have time and want to stop by today, that would certainly work well.  Thank you, again, to our panelists and this special afternoon of reflection and remembrance. 

 Thanks to the panelists from all three sessions: John Hall, Don Downs, Louise Cainkar, Charles Cohen, Asifa Quraishi, John DeMain, Valerie Laken, and Jane Simon.  We really appreciate your taking the time to connect with us this afternoon.  [APPLAUSE]