CARRIED AWAY BY OWLS

Thanksgiving is 48 hours away. Already I’m feeling weighed down -- drowning in too much! I don’t want all that food on Thursday. I don’t want to watch a Christmas Parade, the official opening of the  troughs of commerce. Somebody will bring out a cheese tray and shrimp as the last mega-balloon wafts down 5th Avenue. Really? Didn’t we just finish coffee and Rice Krispies a few minutes ago?

Several women will perform the THANKSGIVING MINUET in the kitchen — a ballet of opening and closing refrigerator, ovens, and cabinets with dogs underfoot and the menfolk waiting for the pre-football announcers. Dinner is timed to arrive at the table between televised events.  

Why are we doing this anyway? I get all that ritual, shared ceremony, national day of thanks — all good. But what about the flip side? If I am to be totally honest, I’m not so thankful for that immigration/genocide event. What about our indigenous friends? Anybody else wonder how the Cherokee or Senecas “celebrate” Thanksgiving? I just saw that it’s a “Day of Mourning” for native Americans. Rightfully so.

Radio talk shows this pre-Thanksgiving week aired conversations about avoiding unpleasant topics at the dinner table. On one show, everybody piled on “Uncle Joe”, the typical family blowhard, the obnoxious political outlier. 

Have you ever wondered if you are the “Uncle Joe?” Or the “Aunt Jean?” I confess: it might be me! I’m sick of “everybody does it” and “how do you know your facts are right?” and “yeah, if the world is heating up, how come it’s so damned cold in here?” I rise to the bait when somebody says “$15 an hour? You might as well shut down all small business.” And “women shouldn’t be paid as much as men —they aren’t the bread winners.”  I want to scream “Shut up! Eat you tenth helping of mashed potatoes! White men can’t jump!”

But I won’t. 

We’ve been watching “The Crown” at our house. It’s a quiet series — no wartime heroics, no alarm bell scandals in England during the period (mid 1960s - early 1970). But if you watch and listen, some soul stabbing ideas are buried in those dialogues. An elderly Princess Ann (Phillip’s mother) says “I realized at age 70 that I was no longer a participant. Now I am an observer.”  My 80-something year old friend MaryAnn wrote “She was right. My neighbors never ask me anything about my life — what I did, where I came from and how I got to this place. Our conversations are always about them. But I remember being in my 40s and I never really knew the retired couple who lived next door. I just never bothered.”

Where to go with all this? I am weighed down with memories, with regrets, with longing for those dear ones no longer here. Is “too much" a blessing or a curse?  

Maybe Thanksgiving is less about giving thanks and more about atonement.

THANK YOU, DANIEL L.

A WEEK END IN THE COUNTRY

THE RESIDENT FOX

Abbey and Lucy, the two West Highland terriers that rule our house, went into full-blown, bat-shit-crazy barking at the window yesterday.  A fox went slinking past outside. He didn’t stop to acknowledge the two domestic cousins totally flipping out on the opposite side of the glass. Instead, he circled the yard, and examined the brush pile and the heavily treed back berm. I last saw him disappearing over the edge of the ravine.

Was he scouting for a suitable den — a place to move his bride? Raise the kits? Or only prowling for food? We have a New York City population of chipmunks holed up around us. The neighborhood cat took the summer off. Chipmunks moved here from all parts of the globe. I don’t really mind but Abbey and Lucy, the Resident Canine Green Berets, saw them as Nazi invasive forces. I assume that foxes eat chipmunks and there you have it — the balance of nature in spite of humans and domesticated pets.

ABBEY AND LUCY

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Our bird feeders are back in action. Chip takes them down in May, as soon as we begin seeing bugs and seed heads in the naturalized “meadow,” aka, backyard. Feeders go back into place with the first snowfall — usually the beginning of November. 

I enjoy watching bird politics. Clearly, the red headed woodpecker rules. He eats first — alone — like royalty. Nobody challenges that right. Once in awhile a blue jay lands but decides not to pull a coup and flies away. The smalls — chickadees, finches — swarm the feeders and are pretty democratic. They easily make room for incoming nuthatches, titmouse, redpols. No big deal — one takes a break and waits in the bar next door for a seat at the table. 

Doves are ground feeders  — the cat fish of the avian set. They eat the dregs, the leftovers that fall to the ground. Doves make me sad. They seem so …gray! No sparkle, no grace, no warble. They remind me of homeless people — ever present in spite of liberal intentions. 

I count cardinals among the exotics even though I see them in the spruce trees year round. That flash of red — impossible to miss against dark green and the first white of winter. They come to the feeders as a pair — male and female — when no-one else is around. 

Dr. Zhivago and Lara, Heathcliff and Cathrine. So beautiful.

We don’t feed sparrows. And we don’t feed squirrels. The feeders are outfitted with anti-invasive devices. One must have limits. 

(Uh-oh. The blue jay just dived in and took position at the very top of the feeding stand. The challenge is on. He looks around with determination this time. All other birds have retreated into the brush. I wonder if I should shoo him away? Just as I am about to rise to the task, I see that he’d flown up to the nearest tree branch. Is this a tactical move? Is he plotting wood pecker assassination?

Oh no! There’s a second Jay! Now what? I can’t handle the stress. This is beginning to seem like a Quentin Tarantino movie. I need a cookie to settle my nerves. I’ll write about art next time.) 

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THREE CHEERS FOR JJ KAPLAN!

THE GOLD NET PROJECT

We can’t all be Jeremy John Kaplan, can we?  JJ is a middle aged man who grew up in New York City doing the usual things that people do growing up…nothing startling. He didn’t develop an app and make a million dollars —he wasn’t a medical phenom — he didn’t write a best seller when he was in high school — he didn’t speak to the United Nations about inequality (or anything else!)

No, JJ is just a typical guy — school, home, shoot a few hoops on the neighborhood playground, grow up to be ….an artist?

Kaplan is that but his “art” falls into a groove hard to describe. He practices tactical urbanism; it’s a combination of performance and civic responsibility. 

Urban playgrounds nearly all have basketball hoops and nine times out of ten, the net is gone or partly gone or hanging by three threads. So Kaplan began his very own “Gold Net Project.” He dresses all in white, a uniform that looks like a cross between the IceCream Man and your average house painter. He drags his ladder to the spot and attaches a new GOLD basketball net. There’s no significance to the color except maybe to instantly identify the ones he’s replaced. There are 291 gold nets at 112 courts so far. (And he’s repainted lines on two but that’s a little out of his purview.)

Kaplan pays for the whole project by making and selling photographs, prints, drawings — all related somehow to basketball courts and nets. He’s been run off a few times by city officials but mostly, people leave him alone. 

Do new basketball nets change lives? Hard to say but for people playing basketball on those courts, nets are a symbol, a spotlight on a very small piece of life that says someone is paying attention to them, their needs, the quality of their environment… like picking up trash…planting flowers…any effort that adds solace and comfort to the shared public space.  Even better, those nets add quality and aesthetic improvement to shared space. What better art form is there than that?

In this world that we share, are we all required to be a tactical urbanist? Or is this just a newly invented term to describe what our parents taught us as kids, a part of the Girl and Boy Scout mottos, The Golden Rule? Whatever it is, I’m grateful to hear stories about the JJ Kaplans out there. Nice goin’. 

  

THE DIVINE MS. MONK

MEREDITH MONK

Who dips into heavy culture on Monday night? That’s supposed to be “recovery night,” the time to put on the heavy socks, p.j.’s and veg out in front of television. 

But this Monday night was different. Meredith Monk was performing on the University of Rochester campus. It was the rare opportunity to see a legend in action, a woman who has been awarded nearly every accolade possible in the sphere of arts and culture. President Barack Obama presented her with the 2015 National Medal of Arts. 

It’s hard to describe Meredith Monk, even more difficult to describe what she does. First, the physical facts. The woman is 77 years old! She probably isn’t much more than 5 ft. tall and maybe she weighs a bit more than 100 pounds. For last night’s performance, her long brown hair was parted in the middle and plaited into two long braids that hung over her chest nearly to her waist. She looks like a young girl from the cast of some midwestern movie, one filmed in black and white and set in the hard-knock, no-nonsense days of “Little House on the Prairie.” 

She and her stage sisters were dressed totally in white, the kind of clothes with asymmetrical hemlines, off kilter buttons and wide legged trousers, the kind of clothes that looks vaguely homemade but you know comes from small expensive boutiques selling “pieces” with designer labels. And they wore black boots. 

Ms. Monk is a pioneer in what is now labeled “extended vocal technique” and “interdisciplinary performance.” She and the ensemble “sing” — no words but a series of tics and what sounds a little like vocal exercises. (In one piece, they vocalize kitten meowing sounds.) The singers often harmonize; clearly each one is musically talented. A piano is on stage and one of the ensemble goes to the bench and tinkles ethereal fingerings once or twice but mostly the singing is a cappella.  (The hour long piece they performed is titled “Cellular Songs.”)

As they sing, the company of women move around the stage in a minuet, weaving in and and away from one another, sometimes stamping the floor with booted feet to mark a tempo. One member does a stunning dance solo, lying balanced across a stool.

As we left the theater, I was asked “Well? Did you like it?”

It was a question I could not answer. I don’t think “like” has much to do with great art.

In that auditorium, for an hour, nobody breathed. There were no sounds from the audience — no rustling, crackling candy wrappers, scrapping seats, coughing. All eyes were on that stage. Those women held the attention of that audience as completely as if they were conjurers and had cast spells on every observer. We didn’t know what we were hearing or seeing but we knew it was extraordinary and we were grateful to be among the lucky observers.

DIAMONDS ON THE SOLES OF HER SHOES

My daughter just returned from one of those fancy vacation resorts, the kind where people play golf, lay beside a pool and drink exotic concoctions of rum and fruit juice. Then they go shopping for gold, diamonds, expensive watches, tiaras. These things are cheaper there. I don’t know why. 

Sure enough, her husband loaded her up with gifts enough to cover anniversaries, birthdays, Christmases for the next five years.  No more surprises but plenty of sparkle.  My daughter likes sparkle.

I have new jewelry too, gifts from two friends. One necklace is made from knotted rubber. The other is paper. I really like these necklaces. I’m not a sparkly kind of woman.

Rubber and chain, Boo Poulin

So, you ask, if a diamond necklace costs $1000, how much should one expect to pay for a necklace made of paper? Or plastic? Or rubber? Does the price of any object — wearable or not — depend on the rarity of the material from which it is made? 

(I can see some readers saying “YEAH! WHY?” While you read this, think for a minute. Why is a Tesla 4 times more expensive than a Ford? Both do the same exact thing — takes you down the road on rubber tires inside a metal shell.)

Precious material — gold, diamonds — is valued on the basis of an international standard based (in theory at least) on its rarity. This rarity is overlaid by a system of measurements: clarity of stones, purity of metal, weights and color. 

The rarity thing is manipulated by international decisions not entirely clear to me. But historically and even today, the scheme smacks a lot of a patriarchal system of values. If rarity is the only yardstick, then why isn’t a recently discovered mushroom — the only one ever found — the most valuable thing on the planet? (Here’s more food for thought: if suddenly people discover 8 of such mushrooms, will they immediately begin establishing value by some standard of size, or color, or solidity? My guess is: yes, we humans like profiling; we invent all kinds of “categories.”)

Back to jewelry. After you get past the materials thing, what you have left is design and that’s where the rubber meets…well, you know.

"Jealous Husband" by Alexander Calder, 1976

The sculptor Alexander Calder was one of the first ARTISTS to fuse fashion (wearable) with Art (sculpture, painting). He apparently made wire jewelry for his sister’s dolls when he was a mere child of 8. During his lifetime (1898 - 1976), he designed some 1800 documented pieces of jewelry — mostly made of twisted scraps of copper and brass. Today, these pieces sell for many tens of thousands of dollars, certainly not because of the value of the material but because they are significant pieces of sculpture.

Good designers turn the wearers of their jewelry — whether the art is mainstream or radical — into pedestals. 

Early (1971) brooch by Albert Paley

Albert Paley’s formal training was as a jewelry maker. He incorporated gemstones and sometimes, precious metal. But the true hallmark of Paley jewelry — aside from those amazing designs — was scale: pieces kept growing until they became gates! Compare photographs of his early jewelry with those of his gates, and pedestals. (Or the Strong Museum sculpture! Shrink it and it could be a kilt clasp.)

(His early art was very ‘art nouveau’ but muscular. Curiously, many of those pieces would look totally at home on “Game of Thrones.”)

In his 1976 book THE NEW JEWELRY, writer Peter Dormer says “Jewelry is a decorative art and what matters is…whether or not it gives pleasure to the wearer and spectator.”  

Paul Simon’s song “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes” is one of my favorites. And I’m delighted with my new necklaces. 

Thanks, Alex. Thanks, Boo.

THE ARTFUL HABIT

I bought this wood lath sculpture Saturday at a barn sale. The artist is Jim Morris. 

I’m trying to write a story — it’s called flash fiction — for a competition. 1000 words max. I am struggling. I have a hard time writing fiction. I “see” the character in my mind (In this case, her name is Maxine.) I can scrutinize the bejesus out of her. But as I get down the road with Maxine (approx. 500 words) BOOM! No clue what she does next. As in life, too many choices. Poor Maxine!  Poor me!

Earlier this summer, I wrote a piece for a similar competition and used all 700 words describing the fictional library (presumably where something happens.) But I never got to the place where the “something” happened.  Or who did the “happening?” Or why? Major failure. (I thought it was rather “Mrs. Dalloway-ish.” Obviously, the judge missed that point. “The Library” didn’t get in.)

I sent the library piece to a friend who’s a great reader. She said “I can see every detail of that room.” That’s good, right? Judy was too kind to say “but what happens?” (Judy should be an art critic. She’s very diplomatic.)

A good friend once painted rather well. She stopped in 1985: life stuff took her in another direction. She’s retired now and I asked her why she isn’t painting again. She said “I forgot how.” 

I wonder if it’s possible to forget how to write? 

Books about creativity all have similar advice: 

No matter that you have nothing to say — or nothing to paint or draw — do it anyway!  (Keep showing up in acting lingo.)

Face up to the blank canvas/page/laptop screen. 

Make that first mark/ brush stroke. Type out a first sentence.

Don’t revise or edit — just do it. Make the mistakes. Sometimes they’re the best part.

Anne Lamott in her book “Bird By Bird” says to hold your fingers together to form a small open square and write about whatever is framed inside that square. Don’t worry about anything outside. That works for drawing or painting too.

These are exercises. The big clue: form the habit of creative work. If I’ve learned one thing in my years is that I am a creature of habit. I need to form the habit of writing every day — same place, same time. But will a story plot open up? Will tension appear as in some vision? Will Maxine suddenly shout “What the hell? I would never wear that dress! Put me on the train and for god’s sake, get out of my way!” 

(Maxine had better watch it! Linda is right around the corner.)

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GRACE and THE TALKING HEADS

Baby bird fell out of the nest. Mom and Dad to the rescue. Photographer unknown.

Wild thistles are in bloom in my naturalized back yard. Each evening, tiny goldfinches arrive to dine on the seeds. The tall skinny thistle plants wave around in the wind but those little yellow birds hang tight. Not even the circling hawk disturbs their dinner.  

Some of the purple thistle blooms have already ripened into cottony heads; the air nearby is full of weightless flying bits of fluffs. I assume these seeds predict an even bigger thistle crop next year — good news for finches.

Meanwhile, along the side border, other birds focus on more civilized flowers. My theory is that the gardening practice of “dead heading” (trimming off and discarding spent blooms) originated from a pre-Martha Stewart neat freak who didn’t want browning plants to disrupt the perfection of her perennial garden.

But dead heading removes a winter food source for little feathered co-habitants — the snow birds. I don’t cut back and this is not merely a sign of my admitted laziness. It’s also an aesthetic decision. I like the visual of standing browned stems and shriveled flower heads in winter. Nature draws strong graphic contrasts if left alone.

I was asked to define “grace” yesterday. It should be an easy question! Grace was the theme of Chautauqua lectures for five days. I was there and I listened to every one. But like Chinese food, two weeks later, I’m running on empty.  So the question jolted me into focus. I reviewed some notes.

First: FIERCE INTROSPECTION (the preliminary to “Grace”)

What does it mean to be human? How do we want to live? How do we want to live together? (BIG QUESTION!)  “A “wise life” is one that leaves a positive imprint on lives around it.” Is that the same as attaining grace?

Basically, yes. That’s all there is. Leave a positive imprint — as much as possible — on lives that you touch — oh, and on the earth — and on people not like you — and animals.

So why should this flight of philosophy matter to me and this blog whose title promises discussion of art? Because I believe that art (in all its renditions and definitions) serves as a bridge to shared common humanity — fear, love, loss, loneliness, awe. The poet Richard Blanco said “art begins as a self-centered urgency to understand and react.” (He also said  “My poems are smarter than me.” I love Richard Blanco!) 

When I write, there’s a tiny voice whispering “is that what you really want to say? is that true?” I wish I was better but I’m pretty clear about my objective — add something positive to the human conversation. 

Painters — dancers — guitar players — lucky you guys! You are more than half way to Graceland.

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David Byrne of The Talking Heads has begun a web site/online magazine called “Reasons to be Cheerful.”  I wonder if he watches chickadees eating flower seeds in his garden? Maybe I’ll send along that suggestion.