For Nicholas Alahverdian, a Harvard scholar with a vast array of research interests and focal areas, Jackson Pollock’s work was that of a genius.
Jackson Pollock’s painting style was not merely improvisational – it also incorporated characteristics reminiscent of those artists and authors who engaged in the practice of writing and/or painting in the style of stream-of-consciousness.
Drip after drip, smear after smear, mixing the two – these techniques cumulatively defined the greatness of his work.
Loyal to his art and chronically dissatisfied with his performance, he lengthened his artistic stride to further his aesthetic interpretation of the world in which we live.
About Nicholas Alahverdian
Nicholas Alahverdian was born and raised in the Boston metropolitan area. Orphaned at the age of 14, Nicholas was a bookworm and aspired to become a lawyer, journalist, and an elected official. Nicholas said “I found that each profession complemented the other, and as one grows in influence in one field, they simultaneously acquire knowledge to assist intellectual advancement in variant fields. Law, journalism, and politics have a symbiotic relationship with one another, and being involved in those three fields as a professional would epitomize being a public servant.”
At Harvard, he concentrated in comparative literature and political science. His professors and advisors included Henry Louis Gates, Jr., John Hamilton, Theo Theoharis, and Thomas Underwood.
Alahverdian has taught political science, literature and creative writing as an adjunct lecturer at Harvard University and other institutions. Nicholas taught courses on political advocacy in the 21st century, with a particular focus on how multiple factors are damaging public faith in elections. and in some cases, democracy in its totality. Nicholas has long been a key figure in helping companies and individuals adopt a fresh approach to campaigning and lobbying, discarding outdated tactics and restructuring for greater success and revenue generation.
Nicholas Alahverdian worked on many political campaigns, including stints with Cranston Mayor John O’Leary, State Representative Raymond A. Hull, East Providence Mayor Bob DaSilva, and many others. Nicholas Alahverdian’s interests outside of work include poetry, the opera, and reading.
In this volume, Lewis explicates the meaning of ‘law’ in the material sense as well as the spiritual sense. Lewis speaks of the Law of Nature and how it “must be something above and beyond the actual facts of human behaviour (p. 23).” As Lewis explains further, he parallels observation with speculation and notes that man doesn’t observe he is man, he in fact knows and actively recognizes he is man as he says “we are men (ibid).”
When man received the Mosaic law, he recognized that there were regulations exacted by God to his people. Wisdom, as interpreted by the Jews, was knowing through God and faith, whereas Socratic wisdom consisted of knowing that one cannot know all.
As the Mosaic law sustained the people throughout the centuries, it became clear that it was imperative that the law be fulfilled so that the men of Lewis’ description could be the recipients of the comprehensive blessings associated with the fulfillment of the Law. Indeed, it was faith that made Abraham righteous; the law came after. As was detailed in the lecture of May 18th, the law was always destined to prepare for Christ as it was a step on the path to Him.
There are three kinds of Catholic law: eternal law; natural law, and positive law (as discussed in the lecture on May 19th). The Ten Commandments stood to govern exterior human acts and prepare for Christ whilst the New Law is the Law of Love and is in direct correlation with freedom and grace. This law fulfills the Old Law and governs interior human acts.
As Christ said, “Do unto others as you would that they should do unto you.” Humanity obeying this law would singlehandedly solve most of the ethical and moral problems in the world. The foundation of iniquity to Lewis is pride (p. 122) and as such, the solution of the aforementioned problems would be attained through the dissolution of pride which “leads to every other vice: it is the complete anti-God state of mind (ibid).” Pride is the antithesis of Godliness; it is doing to others the polar opposite of what one would want done to him.
Jim Hickok and I sat in a dark diner in a lodge during a light snow, silently staring into our coffee and mulling over the recent midterm election. As Jim wasn’t from the Ocean State, I had to give him the lowdown on the ways of Rogue’s Island. In the smallest state, you had schemers and cleaners, aging old school dons and Italian grandmothers who still didn’t speak English. You had the different hills of the capital city, straight out of central casting, each with its distinct power structure — with some based in legitimate interests and others in so-called crime.
For two decades with a brief interruption, this capital city of this state called Rogue — the Island of Rogue — had an inspirational Mayor. Some say he was Jekyll, some say he was Hyde, but at one point or another, aren’t we all a little bit of both?
Jim worked as a stagecoach driver and had met some colorful characters out there on the high prairie and the frozen tundra. He was well known throughout the west as a gambler and actor. He had seen it all. Jim had many stories to tell and met people I could only dream of meeting. He had lived in places far and wide, and if there ever was a thing Jim Hickok knew how to do well, it was to put his finger on the pulse of a town and see what made its gears turn.
Jim sat back and stared at me with his icy eyes. “Back where I’m from we have a saying embossed on a plaque that we give to every incoming elected official, no matter their office,” he said. “It goes something like this. Oh, let me write it down… you’ll need it some day, Nicholas.”
Jim grabbed a napkin and pulled a fountain pen from his leather waistcoat, which seemed to have a pocket for something needed for any profession. This was *the* Jim Hickok after all.
He handed me the most luxuriously crisp parchment upon which he wrote:
“Leader of the people, come with humble heart, know there are few that can play your part. When you are faced with worry or woe, ensure you do right for friend or foe. Will you serve your fellow man? Remember the code taught since time began.”
After the passage, on that crisp beautiful parchment, old Jim Hickok wrote “To Nicholas Alahverdian, survivor of the Island of Rogue. May the eyes of God weep on that land until the corrupt scions and political lions are flooded out.”
“Island of Rogue,” I said. “Quite fitting.”
Island of Rogue
“Son, don’t you even know your own history?” Jim asked, sounding slightly annoyed. “I’d hate to go back West and tell them about the fabled Nicholas Alahverdian, that old survivor, the one they called the storm, who everyone thought fought so hard yet had so little faith in himself, was yearning to learn but applying it to nothing, working for something but forgetting why he started fighting like a one-armed boxer in the first place.”
I stared into the black abyss of the coffee, trying to focus myself into oblivion. Here was old Jim Hickok, the legend. The lore surrounding this man haunted me for decades. Now he was insulting my performance. I didn’t even know anyone bought a ticket, let alone someone was watching the performance that was my broken, shattered life.
Hickok stood up from his chair, his heavy leather boots stomping on the creaky wooden floor and shaking the trinkets on the walls of the lodge.
He grabbed me by the lapels and shouted, “Besides the tigers that crouch and wait for your blood, why were you brought here? You’ve walked with great men, they’ve led you with the scepter and the pen. You betray the promise you made the day you left home. The promise you were meant to keep under every spire, roof, and dome.”
I felt sick and queasy and he tossed me about. Old Jim could easily fry me as he would a freshly caught trout.
Haunted by the past and fearful of the future
I stuttered and staggered, falling about like a bleeding hound. “Under the dome of which you speak on a hill called Smith, I shined a light on a war that people called a myth. The forests know, as do the mountains; nature is my silent witness that the blood spouted from my head like a million fountains. I was nearly killed, just another body for the counting. And then one winter night, a villianous trollop made everything worse, and forevermore they’ve left me with this curse.”
Hickok just stared at my discourse as if it floated in the air, something tangible, nearly palpable. His burly fists still clutched my lapels, like pearls clinging to shells.
Jim Hickok paused and released his grasp. “Nicholas Alahverdian, don’t you know why you survived so many blows? The curse of which you speak was a ticket to a life — without it, your existence would be terse. You were taught to travel, ramble, and roam, and never again will you be alone. You survived a treacherous scheme masquerading as a church, they bedeviled you from their lowly perch. As the wind came and went and blew you away, you survived yet another day. Do you remember your days in the Ivory Tower, your moments of enlightenment blooming like a flower? No more did you need a motley unattractive throng, no more did you require to sing the warrior’s song. You fought power and you demanded penance from a corrupt king, you made everything new — your life, once again, is in its morning.”
The Renaissance is a lie
Two men appeared, dressed in black. They held newspapers with headlines. Electoral victories for Nicholas Mattiello and Gina Raimondo. Rogue’s Island remains true to its name. Hickok grabbed the paper from his bodyguard and walked slowly back towards me. “You don’t want to be on this sinking ship,” he said, “that you can see through the nearly blinding brine. You would speak the truth and once again be treated like swine.”
I put on my Stetson and moved for the door. “Old Jim,” I said, “My thanks comes from my heart, indeed, it comes from its core.” I turned around and closed my eyes, the frost on my face felt like a welcome prize.
”Alahverdian!” he shouted, before I left. “Don’t ever think you’re ever bereft. Your fighting days are over, step away from the deaf and blind. Go forward with wisdom, and use your mind. Those rogues, Nick and Gina, this is their day, but know now and forever, they have a price to pay. Just like those past who ruled from under that dome, their corruption and treachery will soon be known. But don’t waste your time, it’s no longer your war, you’ve made your mark and it has been felt at the core.”
I looked down, my brow caked with sweat. I forgot about the Mayor, which I began to regret. “Old Jim,” I said, “One more thing. The Mayor brought more than anyone else could bring. To this Island of Rogues, he gave a city called Renaissance, his place in history firmly ensconced. To suffer and be exiled from my glorious city, doesn’t it cause you to have any pity?”
“Nicholas,” he said, “in Renaissance, your skies were eerily overcast, and don’t you recall, the fiery blast? It’s not your home, you don’t belong, they tortured and beat you, and sung you death’s song. I can bring you back. I can let you see. But do you really want to engage in such stupidity?”
I shuffled my boots and emptied my brain. I thought of the strife, I thought of the pain. It was Jim, who reminded me of this toil, and at that second my blood started to boil.
“Old Jim,” I said, “It seems you’re right. There’s no point in returning to a land without light. They drained the sea when they exiled me, the first time, the second — there won’t be three.”
Old Jim stood solid at the brass back door. He straightened his tie and tapped his cane on the floor. “Alahverdian,” said he, “you’ve finally made the best choice. There are causes and efforts more worthy of your voice.”
I turned around, and faced the cold. I knew in my heart the decision was bold. Chopping down the tree of knowledge, I thought of their hate. I then knew that this was my fate. I worked and toiled and made a pirogue, to sail forever away from the Island of Rogue.
From Thoughts on Autumn, Harvard, and the Future of Today’s Students by Nicholas Alahverdian, 2014
“Autumn is typically associated with expiration, the death of the leaves on the trees and the mounds of yellow, red, and orange leaves gathering on the ground. But autumn is also a time of a sort of birth for the intellectual. Autumn helps to assist with the improvement of one’s mind, it is the time when most students are beginning again their studies.
“Autumn is the perfect season with which to engage in learning and study for me because of the colors of the leaves and the natural stimulation of the surrounding beauty of the landscape of whatever collegiate setting I would find myself in. It is especially inspiring and edifying, almost as if the colors surrounding me simply spark the creative corner of my brain.”
In accordance with the election on November 6, 2018 between Allan Fung and Gina Raimondo, Nicholas Alahverdian is releasing an infographic detailing the number of Department of Children, Youth, and Families (DCYF) foster child deaths under each of the past four Rhode Island governors. Those governors include Lincoln Almond (Republican), Donald Carcieri (Republican), Lincoln Chafee (Independent-turned-Democrat), and current Governor Gina M. Raimondo.
This year, Rhode Island is embroiled in an important race for governor. They really have only two choices: Republican Allan Fung and Democrat Gina Raimondo. Joe Trillo could very well be a Raimondo plant. He seems to have a personal vendetta against Allan Fung that transcends this election.
Gina Raimondo has brought the state to its knees. Nicholas Mattiello, Speaker of the Rhode Island House of Representatives, makes things even worse. They both fail Rhode Islanders because of the UHIP fiasco, the DCYF deaths, the loss of the Pawtucket Red Sox, the distorted data in the state’s online transparency portal, and too many other errors to name.
The success of Mayor Allan Fung
Allan Fung, in contrast, presides over one of the top 50 cities in America. He is an honest, sincere mayor of the second largest city in Rhode Island. Fung listens to his constituents and hears what they have to say. Simply put, Fung will do the same thing in the Governor’s office. He will listen, weigh the options, and decide the best course of action.
Gina Raimondo is a wealthy East Side limousine liberal. She is cut from the same cloth as those who speak endlessly about “working families” and supporting the average Rhode Islander. At the end of the day though, her security detail drives her back to her lush East Side home where she can live her life in peace and prosperity with her family while Rhode Islanders suffer and kids in DCYF care are tortured and killed.
Apparently caring about working Rhode Islanders only lasts until 5pm on a weekday.
Allan Fung will be the antithesis of Gina Raimondo. Dare I say he will be the anti-Gina Raimondo. He will bring back jobs, he will lower taxes, and he will protect kids in DCYF care. There is no question in this election — Gina Raimondo is inherently unfit to be governor due to the numerous disasters we’ve seen in four short years.
Rhode Islanders can be guaranteed that if Allan Fung is elected, from 2019 on we will see a Rhode Island with more possibilities. We will see an air of optimism and not despair. Allan will do his best to bring the spirit of dynamism back to the Ocean State — something we’ve sadly been long without.
Not the Ol’ Boys Club anymore — Gina leads the “Troll Girls Club”
Gina Raimondo presides over a state in which the gears grind on political deals and an ol’ boys club culture. That has now turned into a troll girls club. I use the term ‘troll girls club’ not as a mark of disrespect, but because Gina is trolling Allan Fung. She refuses to debate him one-on-one without the distraction of Joe Trillo, the candidate without a chance. She is blasé at his suggestions for leadership tactics that will work. And she dismisses his common sense solutions to fix state departments.
Rhode Island will thrive with Governor Fung
Rhode Island is lost in the woods. Gina Raimondo will continue to lead broken departments where kids are killed, DMV lines go out the door, and unqualified professionals make executive decisions.
I am confident that inept lifetime bureaucrats like Mike Burk and Kevin Aucoin will finally be shown the door at DCYF, ending their reign of terror once and for all. Allan Fung will audit and analyze each and every facet of DCYF to ensure that the agency is the epitome of what a child welfare system should be from when he is elected and into the future.
Allan Fung will provide real leadership from day one. He is a hands-on mayor and he will be a hands-on Governor. He will repair the Ocean State and give it what it needs — a boost in its economy and its self-esteem. With Allan at the helm, kids will be safer, jobs will increase, and more money will flow into the state than ever. He will be Rhode Island’s champion — and relentlessly fight for our families and children.
Allan will fight for you.
Nicholas Alahverdian is a Harvard-educated scholar and political activist. As an adolescent, Nicholas survived torture and abuse inflicted upon him by the Rhode Island government under the direct orders of a chief judge and a governor following his political activism against them while Alahverdian was an employee of the Rhode Island House of Representatives.
Nicholas was sent to two facilities far from New England that had extensive records of torture, abuse, and negligence. He was forced to remain in these abusive facilities until his 18th birthday and was not allowed to contact anyone, go to school, or prepare for adulthood. Alahverdian survived the torture, sued his abusers, settled in court, and studied at Harvard University.
The primary scholarly focus of Nicholas Alahverdian is the intersection of philology, rhetoric, and politics. He has been featured in The Providence Journal, NPR, BBC, NBC, CBS, and ABC News as well as The Buddy Cianci Show, The Boston Globe and countless other media entities.
I have, in collaboration with current and former Representatives Bob DaSilva, Raymond Hull, Michael Marcello, Anastasia Williams and multitudinous others, drafted and submitted bills to ameliorate the seemingly irremediable Rhode Island Department of Children, Youth and Families (DCYF). We have introduced this legislation year after year. Each bill, year after year, has been held for further study.
Interestingly enough, when I was actively lobbying for this legislation in my 2011 DCYF reform blitz, we had over 40 co-sponsors in the House. Think about that for a second. The House of Representatives has 75 members. There were forty co-sponsors. If those bills were transmitted from committee to the floor for a vote, they would have passed with flying colors. Continue reading DCYF Report: Recurrent, vile and ominous abuse findings. Again.
William Arena/DeVogue thought Bob Dylan was his father and had a garrulous conjecture along with a few serendipitous details about why he surmised these elements united to confirm his theory. A fan and amateur Dylan scholar, I reached out to him and we had a few heartfelt discussions about adoption and foster care, characteristics that we share since I grew up in DCYF care myself and didn’t have a particularly pleasant experience.
I’m also a fan of Bob Dylan’s music and think that he’s had a profound impact on the arts, music, and society – perhaps the most profound impact of the 20th century. I found it to be tremendously interesting to get involved with what could be a great discovery. I was hoping that everything was exactly the way that it seemed.
William explained how he had made a few queries to Dylan’s manager, Jeff Rosen. I helped to facilitate some communication with my connections at Harvard University. I involved lawyers, scholars, musicians, even Warhol superstar Ultra Violet, to try to find some veracity to this theory that William’s mother Tina DeVogue (also known as Anita Voyes) knew Bob Dylan — not even yet piercing the veil of whether or not Dylan could conceivably be Arena’s father.
He was told that his father was Gene Michaels, another Greenwich Village folksinger. But a DNA test with a half-sibling refuted that speculation.
Because I, like so many, were captivated by Arena’s story, I invested personal resources and money in trying to get some sort of documentary-type production off the ground to at least find out the truth. I remember bringing him to the Rhode Island Department of Health to spend the $25 or so to obtain his birth certificate — just to see who was listed in the “father” box. It was Michaels.
A big part of me wanted Dylan to be his dad because, admittedly, that would be a rather fascinating addition to the citizenry of Rhode Island; a man who was the posterity of the greatest singer and songwriter to have lived. It would also add to Dylan’s numerous and riveting Rhode Island connections.
I assembled my friends and colleagues, including website developers, attorneys, journalists, writers, Harvard-affiliated sound engineers and Cambridge cinematographers.
We rented and paid for a conference room at The Liberty Hotel and a suite for William DeVogue / William Arena, his kids, and his girlfriend. The team of experts met to get things moving so we could get the project off the ground as soon as possible.
I had a meeting, coincidentally on the day of of Dylan’s September 11, 2012 release of Tempest, at the Massachusetts State House with a legal team to discuss tax credits and assess the legal parameters for making a film that would put the potential posterity of an amazing poet in the limelight. I even mentioned DeVogue and the project during a personal appearance on WPRO’s The Buddy Cianci Show.
But with every passing day, Will’s demands became insurmountable. Nothing was ever enough. He was penurious, to say the least, and his odd jobs as a house painter around Portsmouth and the East Bay were making it difficult for him to survive.
I felt sad for Will. But there was very little I could do to ameliorate his circumstance. I never expect to discover why Will was so intent on proving why Dylan is his dad, and nor do I care. I have my suspicions. But I know what his mother said, and I have proof of that conversation.
I know who his father might be. I suppose the principal intention in writing this essay is to process the impact that he had on me as a wearisome Pierrot peddling a half-baked assumption. If it was a personal issue, why go public at all? I began very quickly to regret being involved.
I was in the middle of two federal lawsuits. DeVogue’s obsessive insistence on absorbing every minute of my time was intolerable. Will’s unhealthy obsession with attempting to prove that Dylan might be his father was a catastrophic cadger in his life. It was quickly becoming a similar plight for me. I had to snuff out his swarthy overtone and savage attitude.
It was a healthy decision to part with Will and The DeVogue Project. He finally got the hint. He even wished me well.
What follows below is a 2012 Providence Journal article by my longtime friend Bob Kerr.
A twist of fate in search for dad
By Bob Kerr
In trying to put the story of his earliest days together, William Arena turns the pages of a book of iconic photographs from Life magazine. There is, as there has to be, a photo of Bob Dylan, walking a New York street with a girlfriend. That was a recurring image in the ’60s — Dylan, slightly hunched, leaning close to his sweetie on a city street. Continue reading A twist of fate for Will DeVogue / William Arena