THIS IS THE LIMIT!

I'm taking jazz piano lessons.

Twenty-five years ago, my two best friends and I quit smoking. We didn’t smoke to look cool or to follow the crowd or smoke with our spouses (our spouses were non-smokers.) We didn’t care that smoking was bad for us. We ignored Surgeon General’s Reports and public shaming. 

We had a few rules: I never smoked in the bedroom I shared with my husband. Another of us never smoked in the car. But one of us couldn’t get out of bed in the morning before having her first hit.

We smoked because we were addicts. We loved the smell. We loved the release — that pulling into our lungs the smoke and  — ahhhh, the release, blowing away all our tension, all our pent up rage. We liked the rituals. Talk on the phone, light up a cigarette. Begin painting — light up. THINK about something to paint (or write) — light up a Kent. Smoking unlocked the idea gates and lowered the self-enacted prohibitions. It was our best friend.

But we quit. It was hard. We got hypnotized. We went to “Cessation Clinics.” We got chewing gum and arm patches. We sucked on straws and hard candy. We invented reward and challenge games. We tapered off; we quit Cold Turkey. We finally made it across the finish line. We became reformed smokers.

A year later, we made a pledge. “When we get really REALLY old…so old that we have one foot in the grave anyway…we will take a carton of cigarettes into the woods and smoke until we pass out. We’ll do this when we get REALLY REALLY OLD…75!!!” 

Now what? I’m 75 and I don’t feel REALLY REALLY OLD. I don’t believe I have one foot in the grave. And I don’t want to smoke — at all!  

It’s hard escaping all the “when we get really old” stuff. In January, I convinced my husband that we really needed a brand new car — one with current safety features. We are not as agile as we once were. Our reaction time isn’t as sharp. We are the consumers for flashing lights and warning sounds that alert drivers about crossing lanes, and on-coming anything. 

And while we were talking “cars,” maybe it was time to become a single-car couple. Our schedules are self-made and therefore, adjustable. We don’t have jobs. We could live easily with one car. 

So we took the logical steps. We now have one vehicle with all the safety gadgets in the world. I hate the new car; the safety gadgets drive me insane. As I calmly drive down the street, the car begins tooting and flashing and I wonder “what the hell is going on and how can I save myself?” It’s taken me months to figure out that those warning screams are merely because I’ve crossed some insignificant line in the road.

And the one car life? I know I am spoiled. I get that most of the world is starving while I kvetch about having one car. Set that aside for a minute and examine the process that led to the decision. It was made on the basis of age. We’re “supposed” to lead quiet lives — we’re old. We’re “supposed” to have limited social engagements, limited volunteer obligations, limited …everything!  

Enough already! I accept some limits but not all. Give me a break. I’m only 75!

The new color - "Salvage" - dining room wall...just because

MAG FINGER LAKES EXHIBIT, 2019

John Elliott, Ithaca, American Elm

Here’s a math problem.

I moved to Rochester in 1969. The Memorial Art Gallery Finger Lakes Exhibition is held every other year. Assuming that I have seen every single Finger Lakes Exhibit, how many shows have I viewed? 

Did you get 25? You are more or less correct. Actually, the Finger Lakes has not always been a biannual. For a long time, it was held EVERY year. Then somebody had the bright idea to segregate “fine art” from “craft art” and tried to alternate the two from year to year. That didn’t work out so well.

Once or twice, the show was cancelled altogether for reasons I can’t recall and some of us gave it up for dead. But we were wrong and here it is again — crafts and non-crafts together in wedded bliss thanks in large part to this year’s judge. 

And therein tells the tale.  Any juried art exhibit is the direct subjective opinion of the juror — one person or sometimes a small group of people. If that person happens to know a lot about ceramics, sometimes there will be fewer ceramic pieces because he/she is a sterner critic. If that person loves, loves, loves all animals…well, I don’t know…they should walk down the road to the County Fair I guess.

You are all smart readers. You get the point! Art is personal. End of story — almost. Let’s assume that you are an electrical engineer. You’ve never taken a class in aesthetics — design or art. But you do see the beauty in circuitry. Does this qualify you to judge a major competitive art exhibition? Or you’re a security guard for Walmart. Same question. 

See where I’m going with this? The answer is “maybe.” Your opinion is actually important and you probably have great innate instincts. But this year’s actual juror was Marilyn Zapf, assistant director of the Center for Crafts in Asheville,North Carolina. She’s spent her adult life studying design. So she got the job of picking pieces for this show — approximately 75 from the 800 submissions.

Hard job, huh? So as you walk around the show, what you “get” is Marilyn Zapf. She likes near-obsessive repetition. She loves pieces made from many, many identical - or almost identical -  parts. She adores graphs - precisely drawn, cut, or folded. She also likes black and white photography of urban scenes and I can’t begin to explain that except maybe it’s the graphic nature of derelict streets and rusting signage that she likes. 

And you see what’s just happened? I begin explaining Marilyn Zapf based on what I suspect could be true. Dear readers, I’ve just cracked the case for you concerning “art criticism.” Any judged show reflects the eye of the beholder.  Like the old Tom Paxton song lyric: “I picked up a pickle and said ‘I don’t know much about art but I know what I like.’” 

Well, there it is. I did vote for my favorite piece in the show and I’ll share that with you. It’s John Elliott’s huge chunk of American Elm, doing a ballet on one smallish branch. This piece has guts! Presence! Tells me an entire story! Makes me want to know its story! Brings tears to my eyes! I love this piece. (Did I recommend you read “The Overstory”? I am steeped in tree lore this summer. There are worse things to be.) 

Let me know your pick.

OF IRISES AND FAIRIES

Siberian irises are blooming. Quick! Go see! There they are! Have you ever seen anything as beautiful as they are at this exact minute? They will last only a day or two. But until they wither, the structure, the color — they are the very definition of “perfect.” 

I look for words to explain this miracle but nothing comes. Then I remember a Bible reference about lilies: ‘Not even Solomon in all his glory was clothed as one of these.” And I know that I am not alone — that other writers struggled just as I am flailing around now, prodding my brain to find an adequate descriptive language of love and awe. 

Summer is just beginning. You don’t need to remind me that the extravagant burlesque of peonies, cone flowers, daisies, roses and sun flowers is right around the corner. Wait for your particular moment of zen. Mine is right now. 

You and I may not be around for the next cycle of these miracles. We all know that there are no guarantees. How do we cope with this reality? 

Before I reach the very bottom of despair, I remember. Slow down. Listen. Smell. Look more. LOOK MORE!

Chinese elm trees grow throughout the woods in the ravine behind my house. They release seeds this time of year.  Actually, the seed itself is tiny, cushioned in the middle of a diaphanous membrane almost like a round punched out, dried onion skin. The engineering of these little floaters allows them to skim across the slightest wind current, spreading the seeds — and trees — into new possibly fertile homes. 

As I walked Abbey and Lucy around our property today, I happened to glance into the woods. There’s a slight clearing in the middle of the trees — a space where sunlight coming down nearly reaches the ground unobstructed. Today, the air was full of elm tree seeds, free floating like dust motes. The sunlight caught each one. They glittered!  At first, I thought I was seeing lighting bugs — impossible in the middle of the day. The vision was so unusual — so magical! — that my internal computer scanned but had no reference. The closest I could come — tiny fairies! 

A numinous experience: “surpassing understanding” — “filled with a sense of supernatural presence.” 

As I review my picture library of past years, I notice that I photograph the Siberian irises every spring. I’ll undoubtedly photograph them again next spring if I am able. I’ll try to keep my eyes open for floating fairies.

I BOUGHT A DRESS

Last year I bought a dress. 

I don’t buy dresses.  

I don’t wear dresses. 

Before this one, the last dress I bought was for my daughter’s wedding. She’s been married 24 years. 

I bought the “wedding dress” while on vacation in South Carolina. It was southern — filmy chiffon, rusty colored with flounces around the bottom — mint julep-y southern.  Never buy a dress while you’re on vacation. Vacation purchases are nearly always a mistake. I feel the same way about vacation artwork. When you get home, you spend days wondering if you lost your mind. The answer is obviously “yes." 

 The Tara Dress was on my body exactly 4 hours. Then it was relegated to a spare bedroom closet. We moved three times — three times the garment bag moved - unopened - with Scarlet O’Hara untouched. 

I finally sent the dress off to the consignment store. It got sold. Somebody else is wearing the flounces. I got a check for $22.00. All in all, a good trade. Consignment stores are better than catholic confessionals.  You get to erase the guilt and you get a refund at the end.

So, you rightly ask, why did I buy another dress? Because I’m old. Because I go to a lot of funerals these days. Because I looked in my closet and counted 14 pairs of black pants and wondered if I’d fallen into a rut. Because I discovered on line shopping! 

I like the newish dress and I’ve worn it three times already — once backwards. (That was a tiny mistake. The material is stretchy. Each section has a slightly different black and white print. It looked perfectly fine backwards! Except the pockets were pointed the wrong direction. I was at a funeral and reached for a tissue. That’s when I knew.)

Sue's Unique style

“Don’t pickle things.” I tripped over this sentence in the New York Times today. I love that sentence. It means don’t save the good china for “special.” Or the good undies. Or the dress. Life is short. You bought the dress so wear it. If you can’t bear to use the good china, give it away to somebody else. Your grandmother won’t care.

I’m taking seven pairs of black pants to the consignment store. Then I’m looking in the very back of every closet. Maybe some things just need some fresh air and new eyes.

Here’s a picture of Sue. I’ve always admired her unique, individual style. I’ll bet she doesn’t own 14 pairs of black pants or a Tara chiffon dress. That hat? Leather jacket? She’s had as long as I’ve known her. She doesn’t pickle things.  I like that about Sue.

EASTER CONVERSATION

watercolor by Kyle Mort "Low Battery" (will work for food?)

Yesterday, sitting around an Easter dinner feast with friends, conversation steered to one of the all-time philosophical questions: You come into a pot of gold (millions of dollars? billions?). What will you do?

Sure, you go to your attorney, financial advisor, and spiritual leader for advice. Of course, you pay all your debts and set up safety nets for family members. And then?

What’s stopping you from doing all those things now…even if on a limited scale? Start again.

Schweinfurth Art Center in Auburn, New York, is an exquisite little architectural gem sitting nearly in the shadow of infamous Auburn State Prison. It’s named for a young (rich) man who died in 1931 leaving a bequest to build an art museum in his home town. The Art Center opened in 1981.

Schweinfurth is unpretentious. It doesn’t own a thing except the space where it sits. A small staff of fewer than half dozen women run the place. Nearly all their exhibitions feature New York artists except the annual prestigious national quilt exhibit. I haven’t seen a financial report. My guess is that the place “makes do” with a combination of funds: memberships, donations, a few grants, a modest endowment. 

Its existence is a gift, a “feel good” escape for stressed visitors. In my fantasy, this could be my “what next.”

"Continuum" by Russell Serrianne (very Victorian!), wild vine tendrils with clear shellac surface

Last week, the horror of watching Notre Dame burn, one of the world’s architectural treasures, unified France and the world in grief. Few events are big enough to achieve that these days. The last time? 9/11…and the U.S. was forever changed in ways that would astound former generations.

Immediately, pledges of millions of dollars began pouring into France to restore the 600 year old spire of Notre Dame and for an entire 24 hours, we thought “there is good will across the world after all.”

In a blink, protestors in Paris took up the cry “Wait! Money for a building but not for people? We are the working poor and we deserve attention.”  

There you have the age-old conundrum: Feed the physical or feed the spirit? 

Why must this be a choice? Isn’t it possible to take care of the physical needs of the world’s population with enough left over to enrich the spirit? The most insane thing I read last week was our President actually saying that our country “is full — no more room for immigrants.” That follows another official’s view that “solar energy will use up the sun” and “wind turbines cause cancer.” 

It’s the division that’s the problem — not the supply.

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The Svalbard Globle Seed Vault in Norway

Speaking of supply, there are 1700 seed banks in the world. These are repositories to insure against strains of plants becoming erased.  In past years, crops have died out due to blight, insect infestation, and climate change. Now, new crop diseases are increasing faster than world scientists can diagnose and stop infestations. Seed banks are life insurance policies meant to keep the human race from starving.

But seed banks themselves are always under threat. Several were looted for their plastic containers in Afghanistan. Others in Syria were destroyed by war and the typhoon that hit the Philippines destroyed another. Others have failed through lack of government funding.

(HUNGER, a novel by Elise Blackwell, describes a group of scientists who work in a seed bank in Leningrad during World War II. In 1941, Germany completely isolated Leningrad. People were without supplies for 900 days and resorted to eating bark stripped from trees, animals in the zoo and moss growing on rocks. Sex was traded for teaspoons of sugar and invaluable art treasures traded for cups of flour. The novel follows scientists faced with starvation or defending the seed bank there.)

In 2008, the Svalbard Global Seed Vault was officially opened in Norway. Cold and dryness are the required preservatives for seeds  and the Norwegian seed vault is located a mere stone’s throw from the northern most populated outpost on earth. It is deep within mountains surrounded by permafrost where the average temperature is -18%C.

But sometimes insurance policies fail. The earth is warming faster than anyone predicted and faster especially at the upper northern hemisphere. The permafrost is melting and water from melted ice has already entered the outer entrance to this fortress. Scientists are scrambling to shore up the entrance but how long can they bail? 

Nothing is a “sure bet.” 

EVERYTHING IS EVERYTHING

Robert Rauschenberg, The ¼ Mile (detail) 

“I remember rainbow-colored grease spots on the pavement after a rain.

I remember laundromats at night all lit up with nobody in them.

I remember Lois Lane. And Della Street.

I remember the sound of the ice cream man coming.

I remember movies in school about kids that drink and take drugs and then they have a car wreck and one girl gets killed.”

These are random quotes from Joe Brainard’s 167 page book “I Remember.” The entire book is written — one sentence after another — beginning with “I remember..” 

Last week, I took a writing workshop. The leader asked each of us to share our name and why we were there.  One woman said that she had worked for more than 20 years on her memoir.  She was determined to finish it. This class, she hoped, would give her a little shove to the finish line.

Wow!  The irony: life happened while she was trying to write her memories. The finish line? Isn’t that “death?” I didn’t have a copy of Brainard’s book with me at the time: I would have handed it to her.

Part of the installation at LA Mus. of Art

Robert Rauschenberg’s collage “The ¼ Mile” is installed at the Los Angeles Museum of Art through mid-June. It’s the first time this piece has been exhibited in its entirety. I’m checking out airlines and scheming: can I afford both the time and money to fly to LA? Do I have the stamina for such an adventure? (I’m not a particularly good traveler.)

The painting/collage is 190 panels with 3-D sculptures inserted along its length.  It represents 17 years of Rauschenberg’s life.  One critic described it as “ a self-contained retrospective.” 

Aha! A memoir!! 

(Rauschenberg said “There is no reason not to consider the world as one gigantic painting.”)

A few weeks back, I sent a message to a friend of mine. I wanted her to read my last blog posting. When I began the blog in 2008, I titled the site, “Rochester Art Review.” I’ve since wondered about changing the site name and wrote my friend “today’s blog has nothing whatever to do with Rochester or art!’

She wrote back “Everything is everything.”

If I could return to last Saturday morning, I maybe could help that one writer. Then again, maybe not. Process can be a form of meditation. Who’s to say if one method of reflection is superior to another? if one style of ‘memoir’ has more gravitas? for whom? 

There's "wallpaper" and then there's WALLPAPER! I added this "just because." 

STORIES FROM THE 'HOOD

My woods

I am reading Annie Dillard and Mary Oliver — poem and prose writers inspired by nature. Their words drip with profundity in beautifully artistic ways. I want to be them — to observe the spiral of a hawk, disturbing the air enough to set off tornados worlds away from his and my suburban nesting ground — to discover a universe in frozen puddles and to rejoice at the pregnant budding of pre-spring apple saplings. 

I want to find meaning in the mundane. Instead, I’ve spent the winter watching Netflix.

A thaw arrived this week. For a few days, my neighbors were tricked into believing that winter is ending. We are easily fooled. But sure enough 97 year old Shirley who lives two doors over, stood on her back deck and fired off golf balls toward the woods. I looked up from lunch and there she was, using her 7 iron as a walking stick, wandering down the hillside in search of her balls.

I sent my husband out to help her. She likes him better than me. He’s tall. She likes to lean on him. Shirley told him that she’d recently been in the hospital but she couldn’t remember why and that she didn’t realize she’d walked so far away from her back deck and was now wondering how she’d ever get back home. Thank goodness he showed up!

Shirley doesn’t watch Netflix. She practices Chinese brush painting. And she drinks Vodka. I wonder if Dillard and Oliver drink Vodka?

Doug, next door to Shirley, taps and collects tree sap near winter’s end. In time honored practice, he boils the sap down in his outdoor “sugar shack” to make his very own syrup. Doug invites his church “men’s group” to a Saturday morning breakfast of campfire pancakes and fresh syrup. My husband goes too. The pancakes aren’t very good. 

There aren’t too many maple trees in our back woods so Doug taps a whole variety of trees. Boiling down sap to make syrup requires a lot of sap! He should host a “taste off.” Identify and compare the tree whose sap made which syrup. I have a friend whose neighbors plan a monthly wine tasting. Same thing.

Pancake Day is a full party day at Doug’s house. Late in the afternoon, his elderly parents arrived to share the fun. I wonder why they thought they could drive their Lincoln into the woods? The path back to the shack is narrow; wooded ravines fall off on both sides. The shack sits at the end of the path on its own small island pad. But there they went. 

Half way back, the Lincoln took a nose dive off the path and now its front end dangles over the edge of the ravine, back tires anchored in the muddy path. Tow trucks came and went — a sheriff or two. My husband went over to “look things over.” (It’s a “man thing.”) He suggested calling the fire department but Doug is pretty embarrassed. How to explain that a Lincoln is stranded in his woods? I mean…who would try such a thing? Maybe  they should consult Shirley. She’s been around the block a time or two. At least, she could give them all a shot of Vodka. 

It’s lunch time again: Day #2.  The car’s still there. I don’t know what became of the parents. Doug is still boiling tree sap. My life.