{"id":4108,"date":"2026-07-16T23:10:44","date_gmt":"2026-07-17T03:10:44","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/uq\/?p=4108"},"modified":"2026-07-16T23:10:46","modified_gmt":"2026-07-17T03:10:46","slug":"mahler-fact-and-fiction","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/uq\/2026\/07\/mahler-fact-and-fiction.html","title":{"rendered":"Mahler: Fact and Fiction"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\"\"<\/a><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

The books of Robert Seethaler, one of Europe\u2019s pre-eminent novelists, include a 2020 novella about Gustav Mahler:\u00a0Der letzte Satz<\/em>. It\u2019s just appeared in English as\u00a0The Last Movement<\/em>. It seeks to explore the final turbulent years of the Mahler odyssey. So does my own 2023 Mahler novel:\u00a0The Marriage<\/em>:\u00a0The Mahlers in New York<\/em><\/a>. Scanning the similarities and differences observable in these fictitious recreations of an actual life, does a coherent \u201cMahler\u201d emerge?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Last Movement, <\/em>I would say,<\/em> studies an exceptional personality who happened to have been a famous composer and conductor. Seethaler spends little time with music. He makes no particular attempt to align Mahler\u2019s compositions and performances with personal attributes. Rather, he exercises a novelist\u2019s imagination to bring a story vividly to life. When Mahler sailed home to Europe for the last time, in 1911, did he lean against a deck container upon which a coil of rope sat \u201cwith an iron hook sticking out\u201d? Was the hook \u201crusted at the tip\u201d and the rope \u201cfrayed and black with oil\u201d? It matters not. I would hesitate to call The Last Movement<\/em> \u201chistorical fiction.\u201d Rather, it\u2019s an exercise in fiction that happens to deploy an actual historical personage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Marriage<\/em> is also an exercise in fiction. But the incidents I relate, and the characters I describe, are invariably matters of historical record and many passages incorporate Alma\u2019s letters and reminiscences verbatim. Also, Mahler\u2019s music and music-making are major topics; rather like Thomas Mann, I find myself using words to describe not just the affect of music but the sounds themselves. What is more, I have an agenda \u2013 to juxtapose the Mahlers, Gustav and Alma, with a new environment: New York City, where between 1907 and 1911 Mahler conducted both the Metropolitan Opera and the New York Philharmonic. Mahler\u2019s continued ignorance of the city\u2019s musical life (which unfortunately also afflicts his biographers) furnishes an illuminating commentary on Mahler the man. The resulting novel, I would say, is less \u201chistorical fiction\u201d than \u201ccreative non-fiction.\u201d Its author is a cultural historian seeking new avenues of inquiry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And yet the two books have much in common. Both writers deploy first-person narratives to explore what\u2019s inside Mahler\u2019s head. And both situate Mahler aboard a trans-Atlantic vessel, where the contemplation of sky and water inspires philosophical reverie. The entirety of The Last Movement<\/em>, in fact, transpires in April 1911 aboard the Amerika.<\/em> Terminally ill, Mahler is heading home to die in Vienna. The turbulence of his recent personal affairs is recalled in flashback. In The Marriage<\/em>, there is a single ship-born episode midway through, but it crucially limns the essential interiority of the Mahler persona.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Here\u2019s a sampling of Seethaler: <\/p>\n\n\n\n

     Sitting on the sundeck, Mahler contemplated the meaninglessness of life with a twinge of baleful resignation. Life was little more than a brief exhalation, a breath in the storm of the world, yet he loved it so much that his sadness at the futility of this love almost broke his heart. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cIt could have all have gone quite differently. We should have swum across to the other shore. It was a mistake to turn back halfway. Who does such a thing?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      Mahler spoke into the wind. His head jerked up, and he blinked in the bright sunlight . . . <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      The cloud had vanished; the sky was white and empty. Mahler leant against the steel wall at an angle and tried to bear it. He could hear voices again on the lower deck. People were talking over each other; someone laughed, and then it was quiet again, apart from the wind and the sound of the sea.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      Tears suddenly sprang to his eyes and he sobbed into his palms. He thought of the others, their faces and voices, and his guilt.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      \u201cI would so have liked to live longer,\u201d he said out loud.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      This made him feel ridiculous, and he was embarrassed. . . .<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      It\u2019s full of life down there, he thought. Quite unlike the heavens. Up above, it\u2019s all empty and dead. Strange, really, for people to hope that\u2019s where they\u2019ll go. . . . <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

And here \u2013 from an earlier stage in the story — is a bit of Horowitz:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0“Vita fugax.” This fleeting life. My work unfinished.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      And yet: How beautiful the world is! How can any clod claim indifference? How detestable is a \u201cworldly\u201d cynicism! Man is such a marvelous machine. When we see a complex mechanism \u2013 a motor car \u2013 do we assume that no means of propulsion is present merely because none is visible? So it is with Nature.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      He was leaning on the railing, facing sky and water. The great ship was asleep. The enveloping blackness signified the hidden presence both of stars and clouds \u2013 and also no doubt of an impregnating deity. Left behind was the concrete of the city, its rackets of noise and miniature facsimiles of lake and forest. Soon he would return to the wooded seclusion of his composing hut the thought of which caused him to sink far into himself, a narcotic sensation laced with the sublime privacies of creative introspection. Lost to the world.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      Gradually a half moon appeared, its outline diffused by drifting wisps of colored air made visible by the pale yellowish light. Directly underneath, darting specks, also yellow, lit the Atlantic: Kantian ephemera, a flickering, fickle world of appearances masking the elusive profundities of existence itself. . . .  <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      The opening pages of the new symphony \u2013 his Ninth: dangerous epochal number \u2013 had for some time congealed in his ear: a cradle song for violins, harp, and quivering violas \u2013 a waterscape, clear or turbid, light or dark in hue, whose tolling brass and timpani intimated shoals of foreboding. . . . <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the world of external events, both novels use dialogue to recreate the marriage crisis of August 1910: Mahler discovers a love letter from the young architect Walter Gropius, addressed to his wife. Here is Seethaler:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

      He thought back to the previous summer. On the way to Toblach he had grabbed Alma by the arm to confront her. She looked at him, and a shadow flitted across her forehead, although the day was hot and cloudless.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      \u201cIt\u2019s not true,\u201d he said. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      \u201dLet go,\u201d she said. \u201cYou\u2019re hurting me.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      He let her go, and for a moment they stood facing each other in silence.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cIt\u2019s not true,\u201d he said again.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cStop it. I\u2019ve told you everything.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cNo, you haven\u2019t. I read the letter.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cIt\u2019s just words on a piece of paper. People always read what they want to read. Why did you have to read it, anyway? It was my letter you should have kept your hands off it.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cIt was addressed to me.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cBy mistake. You know that.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cYour architect is an idiot. You\u2019re the lover of an idiot.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cI\u2019m not his lover.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cWhat are you, then?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cI am what you could see, if you ever really looked at me properly.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     Her dark eyes were very wide. There was expression in them that he had only ever seen once before, and it frightened him.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      \u201cDo you think I like being like this?\u201d he said. \u201cI don\u2019t recognize myself any more. But maybe I\u2019m just imagining it, and I\u2019ve never really known myself at all. I\u2019m jealous. I hate you. And I love you. You\u2019re my light.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cMy God, you\u2019re so dramatic.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cI only ask one thing. Don\u2019t lie to me any more. Tell me about him. Tell me who he is.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cHe\u2019s a person. He moves and speaks. He breathes. He has a little hollow in the muscles of his arm, just above the elbow. I haven\u2019t worked out what it is and I haven\u2019t yet dared to ask.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cYou bitch!\u201d he said.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cWhat do you expect? Everything I once believed in has ceased to exist. Maybe it was never there. They did warn me. All he thinks about is his music. . . . \u2018\u2019<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cWill you see him again?\u201d he asked abruptly.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cWhat if I did?\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m a woman. He\u2019s a man. It\u2019s that simple. Of course, you have no clue about that. A genius doesn\u2019t concern himself with such things. . . . \u201c<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cForgive me,\u201d he said. He abruptly thudded to his knees and clasped her hips in his hands. \u201cPlease, please forgive me!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     Alma\u2019s whole body trembled. She put a hand on his head, and at the same time made a feeble attempt to pull away.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cGet up,\u201d she said. \u201cPlease, get up!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     Mahler pressed his face to her belly Then, slowly and with difficulty, he unclenched the fingers he had dug into her skirt and got to his feet.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

And here, incorporating Alma\u2019s actual correspondence with Gustav, is Horowitz:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

     He looked up at the vacant room and in a choking voice cried: \u201cAlma!\u201d She duly appeared. \u201cWhat is this?!\u201d He stood and handed her the letter. She briefly examined it, blanched, pushed it in her pocket, and replied:<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cI met a young architect at the sanatorium. Purely by chance. And he fell in love with me.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     She spoke in frozen tones. Her husband\u2019s stricken countenance, the neediness of his bulging reddened eyes, registered the unmediated child in mocking contradiction of the deep furrows of his pale and sunken cheeks, the scarred lines of his high forehead, the incipient graying of his thick and unkempt forest of black hair. His strangely large head, its sallow color and parallelogram shape, looked suddenly reptilian.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cI had been living like a monk, on lettuce and buttermilk. Exercising in the rain, bathing in the hot springs,\u201d she continued. \u201cThen the doctor prescribed dancing. He introduced me to a young German — a student of Behrens, who had been a friend of my father\u2019s.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     She realized with relief that he was not angry. That he was panicked made her guilty and confused. She felt pity. She felt revulsion.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cAn architect?!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cGustav: you sent me to Tobelbad for nearly a month. You told me to stay \u2018as long as possible.\u2019 You wrote every day, complaining about your stomach, complaining about your arm, complaining about the noisiness and unruliness of the village children here at Toblach. Informing me that you were eliminating butter from your diet. Lecturing me about Plato and \u2018Platonic love.\u2019\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cAnd anxiously inquiring why you were writing so seldom, and so impersonally. . . . Alma: Do you love me still?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     Involuntarily, even \u2013 in his panic \u2013 subliminally, he observed her altered appearance. Since the marriage, her buxom shape had turned more monumental, her face puffier, blurrier. But now her skin resumed its marble luster. Her chiseled lips and firm chin were softer. A sultry allure he had quite forgotten had like a dangerous ghost reinhabited her visage.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cFor eight years I have been a hermit. Your Hausfrau, rolling up my sleeves, your book-keeper, your maid, at your beck and call. . . .  I am depressed. I drink. I faint. My heart complains. Now it is my gall bladder, Fraenkel says. And my body \u2013 it has all but dried up. At Tobelbad I played the piano every day \u2013 \u2018Du dist der Lenz.\u2019 The Liebestod!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201c .  .  . What is his name?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cWalter Gropius.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cAnd why in the world would he have addressed this letter to me?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      \u201cI do not know.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cIt could only have been deliberate.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI do not know.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cAlma — What will you do?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201dI must think about it. I must think about it alone.\u201d\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     And she was gone. The room was mute. Prior to her departure, neither of them had moved so much as an inch. She had seemed to him unapproachable, inviolable. He looked to the piano, for the letter, then remembered it was in her pocket. So she is reading it now. The piano was trembling. He sat. His pulse was pounding. Was this it, the heart attack he had so long anticipated and feared?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     He did not care.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

If the role of Alma Mahler looms far larger in The Marriage<\/em> than in The Last Movement<\/em>, it is because Seethaler\u2019s topic is Mahler and mine is indeed the marriage \u2013 and its response to  stresses and opportunities posed by a new environment. That said, Alma \u2013 demonized in many a Mahler biography — emerges in both books as a victim of her husband\u2019s self-absorption, itself an understandable dimension of his genius. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Early on in The Last Movement<\/em>, Mahler remembers observing his wife \u201cwaiting, just as she has been waiting for something or someone ever since childhood, while life just passes her by. That, at least, was what she often said when she spoke of her \u2018half-lived life.\u2019 He couldn\u2019t take his wife seriously in this regard.\u201d When Alma expresses a desire to experience the novelty of a New York City drugstore, Mahler instructs himself: \u201cNo idea what that is, but don\u2019t forget. Don\u2019t forget, don\u2019t forget.\u201d In the wake of the Gropius crisis, he thinks: \u201cShe had been right. He hadn\u2019t seen her. He had looked at her as you might contemplate a vase.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In The Marriage<\/em>, Alma encounters a couple of professionally fulfilled women: the Wagnerian soprano Olive Fremstad, who was the Maria Callas of her time; and Natalie Curtis, who trekked West to document the songs of Native America. Of Curtis, Alma muses: \u201cHer mission in life is settled.  For Mahler, by comparison, composition is a lonely necessity. It is his way of communing with himself, and now more than ever. . . . Though he swears that he needs me, I am an appendage merely. When he creates \u2013 what he feels set upon the earth to do \u2013 he is the epitome of self-sufficiency. His very being teems with as much activity as he can tolerate. He bans conversation at dinner. He insists on separate bedrooms. But I require the stimulus of human contact: people.\u201d She subsequently asks herself: \u201cHow is it possible that I remain so hollow and indistinct?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Late in life, Mahler was interviewed by a journalist from Etude<\/em> magazine and carelessly revealed how little he knew of America\u2019s composers, and how little thought, generally, he had ever given to American music. Ignoring the influential advocacy of \u201cNegro melodies\u201d by Antonin Dvorak in New York two decades previous, and the assiduous investigations into \u201cAfrican-American folk song\u201d by his New York nemesis Henry Krehbiel, Mahler tactlessly added: \u201cThat the Negroes in America have accomplished so much is truly amazing. In their music they doubtless copied and varied the songs of the white households to which they were attached. Their love for singing and their sense of rhythm assisted them in this. But to expect that they would evolve an original folk song is preposterous in itself. . . . Surely American music based upon the \u2018slave songs\u2019 of the African American, or the crude dances of red-skinned aborigines, is no more representative of the American people today than are the Indians or the Negroes representative of all Americans.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In The Marriage<\/em>, I envision Mahler\u2019s interlocutor from Etude<\/em> as a knowledgeable young man who necessarily speaks German, and who discloses a keen interest in Mahler\u2019s own Fourth Symphony. Caught off guard, Mahler\u2019s stops pontificating to inquire: \u201cWould you perhaps like some cake? Some coffee? . . .  Put away your book and tell me about yourself. Almschi, bring us something to nibble for Mr. . . . What is your name<\/em>, by the way?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In The Last Movement<\/em>, Seethaler, too, invents a young man who penetrates Mahler\u2019s self-involvement. He is assigned to look after the dying composer on board the Amerika<\/em>. An early exchange reads:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

     Mahler gazed out over the sea, which still lay grey and empty. . . <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cCan I do anything else for you, Mr. Director, sir?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cYes, throw me in the sea.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cI\u2019m not sure I understand . . .  ?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cNever mind. Bring me another tea.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cCertainly, Mr. Director, sir!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     The boy left.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Forty pages later:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cMr. Director,\u201d said the boy.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cYes?\u201d said Mahler. He had half-closed his eyes and was listening to the pounding of the engines.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cWhat kind of music do you make? Will you tell me something about it?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

      \u201cNo. You can\u2019t talk about music; there\u2019s no language for it. As soon as music can be described, it\u2019s bad.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     The boy looked at him with big, shining eyes.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cI think I\u2019ll go now,\u201d he said. \u201dShall I bring you another pot of tea?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     Mahler shook his head.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cMake sure you stay warm,\u201d said the boy. \u201cMind your feet, especially.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cYes,\u201d said Mahler, \u201cHave they told you that I\u2019m dying?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cNo,\u201d said the boy, and Mahler could see it was a lie.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

And near the end:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYou should sit down again . . . \u201c<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     Mahler looked the boy straight in the face. He wanted to tell him to go to hell, to go and get on someone else\u2019s nerves, but he looked serious and sad, and Mahler\u2019s fury disappeared as quickly as it had come.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

     \u201cYou\u2019re right,\u201d he said. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Finally: are these two Mahlers, rendered as fiction, the same? The soprano Lilli Lehmann, who was worldly and never na\u00efve, wrote of Gustav Mahler that his coats were missing buttons, that he was \u201ca nervous fanatic of art,\u201d that he \u201chad no talent for handling people, or for business. . . . There was much that, as a practical friend, one had to teach him.\u201d That is more the Mahler of The Marriage<\/em> than of The Last Movement<\/em>, I would say. But both Mahlers, mine and Seethaler\u2019s, so sporadically aware of others, are outwardly captious, ironic, neurotic. Inwardly, essentially, their naivete is consumed by honesty. It anchors a capacity to feel and to love. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The books of Robert Seethaler, one of Europe\u2019s pre-eminent novelists, include a 2020 novella about Gustav Mahler:\u00a0Der letzte Satz. It\u2019s just appeared in English as\u00a0The Last Movement. It seeks to explore the final turbulent years of the Mahler odyssey. So does my own 2023 Mahler novel:\u00a0The Marriage:\u00a0The Mahlers in New York. Scanning the similarities and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4108","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","category-uncategorized","entry","has-post-thumbnail"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p2QLHN-14g","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/uq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4108","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/uq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/uq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/uq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/uq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4108"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/uq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4108\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4113,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/uq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4108\/revisions\/4113"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/uq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4108"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/uq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4108"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/uq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4108"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}