in the Union, reject their business leaders’rnpromise of economic progress? Andrnwhy make such a controversial choice forrna symbol, a mere flag?rnNon-Southerners habitually underestimaternthe importance that Southernersrnattach to their heritage. No doubt thernp.c. crowd thought it would be a simplernmatter to use the media monopoly tornpropagate the notion that the current flagrnis a symbol of racism, which hinders economicrninvestments in Mississippi. Withrnnear-absolute control of the media, thernleft believed a quick and sure victory wasrnat hand. The scalawag politicians beggedrnthem to attack, the media cranked outrntheir propaganda, the self-appointedrnblack leadership declared war on the flag,rnand the state’s “conservative” politiciansrnbravely declared their neutrality. Thernflag was left to defend itself Still, thernroad to victory was not as smooth as expected:rnThe people began to take theirrnstand. Public hearings organized torndrum up support for changing the staternflag became large and strident pro-flagrnevents. The liberal former governorrnheading up the effort to abandon the staternflag claimed that these people were an insignificantrnneo-Confederate minorityrnthat did not represent the desire of thernpeople. But polls conducted by the state’srnnewspapers before the vote demonstratedrnthat over one third of the state’s black populationrnsaw no reason to change the flag.rnThings are never as simple as black andrnwhite—especially down South!rnAt last, the ballots were cast, and supportersrnof the ancient symbols and traditionsrnof the South won. Outside of thernSouth, there seems to be little appreciationrnof why the people of Mississippi decidedrnto keep their flag. Most of the mediarnpundits attributed the vote to somernform of explicit or latent racism—the liberalrnparty line that Southerners havernlearned to expect. But is this reality?rnThe love that Southerners have forrntheir heritage and region is more thanrnsymbolism; it is more than a handfid ofrnneo-Confederates reftising to accept thernarbitrary rule of the imperial federalists.rnIt encompasses more than the lore of thernWar for Southern Independence. It includesrna unique regional culture that stillrnsurvives in a hostile world, a culturernwhere people still maintain and cultivaternkinship beyond the “nuclear family.”rnFamily includes not only those presentrnbut those past and those yet to come. Dutyrnto the past, present, and future is notrncompartmentalized —it is indivisible.rnChurches are still the center of most nonurbanrnSouthern communities. Southernersrnare, in fact, a “folk” —a peoplernwho recognize themselves as differentrnfrom (as opposed to better than) otherrnpeople, people whose conservative politicalrnvalues are established upon a historyrnof adherence to the original Constitution,rnstate’s rights, limited federalism, andrnindividual liberty.rnThe enemies of Mississippi’s flag spentrnalmost three-quarters of a million dollarsrnin their effort to destroy it. They promisedrnMississippians economic development ifrnthey would abandon their heritage. Yet,rngiven the opportunity to select betweenrnthe material or the spiritual, the people ofrnMississippi voted in overwhelming numbersrnto reject their scalawag political leadershiprnand to ignore the attempts of thernbusiness community to bribe them withrnpromises of economic gain.rnThe people of Mississippi looked withinrnthemselves and saw that there was nornWal-Mart sale tag on their soul. By thernstandards of this world, Mississippiansrnmade an unprofitable choice; by the standardsrnof the traditional South, however,rnthey made the only choice that honorrnwould allow. Thank God for the peoplernof Mississippi!rnWalter D. Kennedy, with his brotherrnJames, is the author of The South WasrnRight!rnLetter From Palermornby Andrei NavrozovrnUntitledrnAsked in ever more incredulous tones,rnthe question is warm with sympathy onrnthe lips of friends and cold as Damaskrnsteel in the mouths of enemies. “WhyrnPalermo?” One frivolous reply is that,rnback in Venice, the crab season is nowrnover; the white-sneaker hydra of packagerntourism is about to hot-millipede it overrnthe bridges; and our cook, having justrnwon $3,000 after translating her dream ofrna school of fish into lottery numbers, hasrngone on holiday. Another is that our newrnapartment in S. Stae, which had beenrnfound at the 11th hour just as the proprietorrnat Palazzo Mocenigo was threateningrnto call in the law, has a sitting tenantrnwho will not leave before autumn. He isrnPaolo Costa, and I can’t very well call inrnthe law to throw him out because he isrnthe mayor of Venice.rnStill another explanation is that oncernevery two years, in high summer, myrnbeloved Venice loses face and becomes arnkind of cultural sewer. This is the seasonrnof the Biennale, the witches’ sabbat thatrnbrings all the world’s scum to our canalsrnby way of the art galleries, the charitablernfoundations, and (for all I know) the realestaternagencies and the massage parlors ofrnNew York and London. I was there forrnthe opening dinner, held on a convertedrntugboat belonging to the director of thernGuggenheim, and was so repulsed byrnwhat I saw—not that I am easily repulsed,rnmind you, least of all by massage parlorsrn—that I took the next flight to London,rnfiguring that everybody I loathernthere was already busy networking inrnVenice. Fate was swift to reward me forrnmy good judgment with a new insight.rnSome months ago, at the countryrnhouse of a mutual friend in England, Irnhad met a young painter by the name ofrnSophie de S—; now, as soon as I arrivedrnin London, it transpired that she wantedrnme and my Russian friend Gusov to sit forrna double portrait. We are still unsurernabout the title. Two Losers? Last Bets?rnRussian Roulette? Neighbors by a Hundred?rnBut anyway, the idea is clear. Sophie,rnwho has been painting since shernwas 17, began her life in art as a model forrnLucian Freud, an inveterate gambler, andrnwas well acquainted with Francis Bacon,rnwhose profligacy at the tables was legendary.rnFor us, it was the once-in-a-lifefimernchance to be immortalized, in attitudesrnso long cherished, by someone whornunderstood. Hence Gusov, who cannotrnstay still for a minute unless he is playingrn(we once sat side by side in the gamingrnroom of Aspinalls for 14 hours withoutrneating, drinking, or using the toilet),rnturned up as scheduled at Sophie’s studio,rnhis picturesque hair dutifully on end.rnThe studio itself, where the painterrnsleeps, wakes, and works from dawn torndusk, can be described as a kind of modern-rnart installation entitled Insult to Modernism,rnor Far From the Venice Biennale.rnThe floor is a recrudescence of paint thatrnbrings to mind the term impasto, andrnevery surface of the attic rooms bears witnessrnto the daily, exhausting, and deeplyrnphysical struggle between pigment andrntemperament. My conversation with Sophiernbegan when I threw a cigarette buttrnon her floor and she, with the polite sar-rnSEPTEMBER 2001/37rnrnrn