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I don’t really know how to write about art. I also find that I don’t always enjoy what is written about art. Like any form of review or critique, I find the actual critique to be more about the author’s ego that the item being reviewed. Reviews of art shows tell me how I should feel and what I should look for. I want to discover these things for myself. I sometimes enjoy a narration of a show, but only if it done by the artist themselves. When I do listen to these, however, I find I miss out on all the banter and conversation inside the gallery.
Tim and I have been fortunate to have seen some extraordinary art in the past month. We won’t tell you what to like or what to look for, we will only encourage you to check out the shows, if you can.
Tara Donovan at the ICA in Boston through January 4, 2009. Ms. Donovan uses everyday items, plastic cups, buttons, tape, drinking straws and creates stunning pieces of art with them. Tim and I went and were speechless at the beauty of some of these things we use day in and day out. None of pictures do her work justice, but these are the best I’ve seen so far.
William Eggleston at the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York City though January 25, 2009. Mr. Eggleston is credited with bringing color photography to the forefront of the craft. The show is exhaustive and chronicles the evolution of this work 1961 to the present. As notable as the photographs, was the energy at the Whitney. The Whitney is located in New York’s Upper East Side, Madison and 75th. It does not get more Upper East Side or more posh. Tim and I went on a Friday evening during the “pay what you wish” window. We were greeted with a crowd so diverse, so full of positive, fun energy that I remember wondering if we were actually in the right place. There was music downstairs, people standing around socializing in the lobby. There were elderly people, kids and people from all walks of life. There is an acceptance of others in NY that I witnessed that night and remember from living there. That feeling, is what museums should strive for. Art is not just about education and what is on the wall, it is about a public, shared experience. The Whitney has found a way to facilitate this and it is wonderful.
Elizabeth Peyton at the New Museum in New York City through January 11, 2009. Of the three shows, this was the least interesting for us. Ms. Peyton received an enormous amount of publicity for the show. There are some slides here. We were glad we went. I was most interested in the change of the Bowery as a street and New York City neighborhood.
Tim and I are delighted to have Cathy back for another guest post. She really knows how to capture the essence of a moment, a place, a neighborhood. Welcome back, Cathy. We want to hear more from you. We hope to have some posts from the music obsessed husband you mention.
Tom Perrotta joins Bill Janovitz on stage at Toad in Cambridge, MA on July 3, 2008
Toad is the approximate length and width of a pinball machine, if you can imagine yourself standing in one. On particularly crowded nights, like the Thursday nights of the weekly Bill Janovitz residency this summer, if I found myself waiting outside during the first few songs, I would look through the windows at the lit-up backstage, hear the muffled commencement of rock, and wait until it was my turn to be launched into play.
Once inside, in some respects, it often felt like I was crashing a private party. After nearly twenty years I’ve grown accustomed to being one of the hundreds of nameless faces that has stood in the largest of Boston’s rock clubs, shoulder-to-shoulder with others like me, who were unknowingly building a history and defining their lives on shows seen and records bought. Music is the foundation on which my husband and I have built our relationship, with Buffalo Tom being a load-bearing beam. One of our first shows as a couple was Buffalo Tom and My Bloody Valentine at Axis, in 1992, and how great is that? Not as great as claiming seniority over my husband for seeing Buffalo Tom at the Channel, with Come and American Standard, in 1991, before they were even on his radar. A big deal when one has an obsessive music fan for a husband.
All of this personal history is just one layer of the strata of people who dig Bill and I can’t help but realize this as I squeeze by inspired musicians, authors aspiring to be musicians, and Bill’s brothers, a seemingly endless supply of brothers (unabashedly his biggest fans), who are all awaiting the moments when they will be invited to sing covers from The Kinks and The Replacements; The Beatles and The Stones.
I am handed a Smuttynose Summer and begin my creep towards the cords and amplifiers. Not a sip from my glass is lost, which is remarkable because it requires the collective intuition of the masses, pressed together on these sweltering nights. Hands are placed gently on backs or shoulders, in attempts to part the sea just enough to slip by without rocking the boat. We are all in this together.
Each week, the same lone chair sits empty beside the keyboard until I claim is as my own; it puts me in a place where I won’t miss a beat, yet not feel as if I’m standing toe-to-toe with Bill, looking to start something. The only person I can’t escape is the random drunk guy, looking for a female accomplice to turn the remaining square foot of floor space between the stage and room into a dance floor.
For a long time Toad remains crowded and jittery and there are about 10 songs I’m hoping not to hear. Not yet. Empty pint glasses are spied, collected and transported back to the bar by the armful, clinking along the way. Bits of conversation rise above the din, accompanied by pointing fingers, to help those in-the-know explain to novices things like who originally sang “That’s All It Took” (Gram Parsons), or who the Janovitz brothers are, and where they fall in the hierarchy of the Boston rock scene. Cameras are pointing and clicking. Tiny microphones are placed by the bar to capture and share the evening at some future date. Patrons bob and weave their way to the bathrooms behind the stage, timing their moves to carefully slip by the bass player, who is standing by the door, moving his head to the rhythm of the songs like a turtle ducking in and out of it’s shell.
Eventually Cinderellas yield to strike of midnight and husbands on-the-clock depart, all reluctantly. The atmosphere starts to feel well-worn and broken-in. This is the time where anything can happen. I’ve witnessed songs pulled from the ether, decided upon between swipes of sweat and gulps of beer. A hastily slapped together interpretation of “Kiss,” sung by John Powhida, of The Rudds, is performed with just enough musical accompaniment for him to channel his inner Prince and challenge the stamina of the swoon prone. Gutsy Corin Ashley, of The Pills, bares his soul for an exhaustive cover of Sam and Dave’s “When Something is Wrong with My Baby.” Sean Staples inspires a driven version of Buffalo Tom’s “Summer” that leaves me a bit breathless and thinking it was the best version I had ever heard.
Throughout the night there are plenty of false starts with guffaws ensuing. Rousing renditions of “American Girl” leave even those who aren’t Tom Petty fans (okay, me) singing along. Those who can sing harmonies do, whether invited to or not, and Bill is always the accommodating host – sharing microphones and giving away solos to everyone in the band with a nod of the head. In a 1822 essay, “The Fight,” William Hazlitt writes, “Give a man a topic in his head, a throb of pleasure in his heart, and he will be glad to share it with the first person he meets.” Bill seems to love these songs, love the people he shares the stage with, love sharing his love of music with anyone who will listen.
It’s late. The beginning of the third and last set of the night. It’s very likely after 1am now, Friday morning, and reality is about six hours away. I refuse another beer because there is no way I can stay until the end. Again.
“Michael, I can’t stay for another set.”
The look I get back doesn’t need words: You know you’re staying. It’s one more song, one more sip of my husband’s beer and, happily, the song I was dying to hear without even realizing it. Hush. Hush. Somebody’s calling name. I’m not going anywhere. Pleasantly tispy and sleepy, I’m wishing The Staple Singers’ song was a lullaby tucking me into bed. If I lived here, I’d be home now.
Lately, I find myself unsettled and often by the world’s events from the terrorist attacks in Mumbai to the collapse of industries in the U.S. Yet each time I learn of another friend who has lost a job in the face of our current climate, the sense of being unsettled find new depths inside me. I feel stripped of any wisdom or ability to make a difference for them.
I’ve recently been reading a book recommended on the Lemuria Bookstore blog by my friend John Evans. John is often my source for conversations and books that provide or rekindle spiritual insights and wisdom. His latest recommendation is The Ocean of Dharma: The Everyday Wisdom of Chogyam Trungpa (Shambhala 2008). This work was compiled and edited by Carolyn Rose Gimian, and it contains 365 quotations from Trungpa’s teachings. In Gimmian’s preface, she states that Trungpa taught that wisdom can only be taught in the form of a hint. I find that reading one or a few of these quotations each day provide that kind of a hint. These reflections provide me the courage to face life not only as an individual but as a compassionate part of life around me.
As I plan to do with the poetry from Mountain Home, I would like to share selections from it with you on occasion.
A Good Journey
Our life is an endless journey. It is like a broad highway that extends infinitely into the distance. The practice of meditation provides a vehicle to travel on that road. Our journey consists of contant ups and downs, hope and fear, but it is a good journey. The practice of meditation allows us to experience all the textures of the roadway, which is what the journey is all about. Through the practice of meditation, we begin to find that within ourselves there is no fundamental complaint about anything or anyone at all.
