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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.
Not to seem too “cup half empty”, but it is the season for family, excessive shopping, stress and sickness. Everyone in my office has been sick — twice. Less light, less exercise, less outdoors make for weakened immune systems and more chance of illness. I make sure to stock up on good food, good tea and get enough rest. In addition, I make sure I have the following:
1) Manuka Honey — I use it whenever I feel a cold coming on. I put a spoonfull in a cup of hot water or spread a little on toast. I also use it during allergy season to stave off attacks. Manuka honey has been used topically for minor and more serious wounds. I cannot give you a first hand account of this however. More information about the honey is here, but be forewarned, the research was funded by the honey industry . Don’t take their word, take mine. It works. It is also not the price of your run of the mill honey, budget $25 per jar.
2) Umcka from Nature’s Way — This is tincture made from a South African medicinal plant, pelargonium sidoides. There have been double blind studies and clinical trials, etc. Bottom line is that I found it helpful is not curing a cold (does anything?) but it relieves symptoms and in my opinion shortens the duration. I use it like the honey, if I suspect a cold coming on, I take a few drops several times a day. I give it to Aidan as well.
3) Kold Kare — This is actually andrographis paniculata. I basically took this one year on blind faith and now always have it around. It is an herbal supplement of sorts. I do not give this to Aidan.
Who knows what really works when we are sick. A little extra attention, good movies, bedside care and comfort go along way for me. And, a good old fashioned Coca-Cola with ice and a straw.
There are a few readers (you know who you are) who know a lot more about this stuff than me. I hope to hear from you in the comments section.
Tim and I are delighted to have a guest blogger. We hope to have more. Look for some on guest posts relating to music and art in the coming weeks.
Cathy’s post, Why I Run, is about more than running. It is about community and having a sense of place. It is about loving where you are, no matter where you might be. Enjoy. Cathy is a librarian and resident of Somerville.
Shepard Fairey mural in Union Square photo by Jonathan O'Toole owner of Grand
In my teens it seemed as if I would forever be stepping on Andre the Giant’s head. Clearly it was graffiti; the ubiquitous sticker or stencil of this man’s gigantic head spared no lamppost or street corner in Harvard Square. But I was too caught up in buying Depeche Mode CDs to fully understand what I was really seeing: a massive graffiti art campaign of the ’80s.
Shepard Fairey, the artist responsible for branding Andre’s head into my memory, well beyond when I stopped watching him wrestle on Saturday mornings, is about to have an exhibit at the ICA in February. In the meantime, he is spreading his street art around the area once again and recently installed a mural on the building that houses Grand, a great gift and home furnishings shop in Union Square. It is now the latest bit of eye candy I pass by on my Rocky Run – the 5K loop of my life in Somerville.
The run usually begins in front of my new home on Beacon Street, a place I still pinch myself for living in after almost two years, after a lifetime of drifting around the city of my birth wondering if I’d ever be able to drop anchor. I usually start running up Beacon to Porter Square, past the smell of burgers wafting from O’Sullivan’s and the guy I often notice sitting on the bench in front of Petsi’s Pies with a coffee. I thump sidewalk grates that seem out of place, this being Somerville, not Manhattan. This is the time, these first few minutes, when I’m usually dreading the endeavor. My muscles are fighting my will, the tree roots are tripping my rhythm, and my joints could use a squirt of oil.
When I reach the top of the street I turn right onto Somerville Avenue, glad for gentle slope in the pavement. I’m beginning to warm up and hoping to hear one of the few hip-hop songs on my Shuffle, specifically Missy Elliott, explaining to me, yet again, why she’s a smooth chick. Off to the left, just two traffic lights away, is my gym, Healthworks. My gym. The place that helped me lessen the burden of an incredible amount of weight I had been carrying. How much, you might wonder? A lot. More than you could reasonably conceive. A shitload, essentially. It’s a place that’s broken me down and made me mighty. Even after eight years I can still be brought to tears when I think about what’s been left behind on spin bikes and treadmills. Heavy bags and hand wraps. Dumbbells and jump ropes. Sometimes my run starts here, after a spinning class, when I really want to feel invincible. I love that I have the option.
Somerville Ave. is still the Somerville Ave. of my childhood: gritty. I run around soapy sidewalks from the car wash, broken glass, and litter. At the moment, construction paraphernalia guides me along my run, reminding me that change is coming, as if I needed it.
I run by Conway Park, where I tried out for little league as a fat 8 year-old tomboy who only knew she liked Fred Lynn because he was a lefty (I didn’t make the team), and the ice skating rink beside the park, where I used to skate not-very-well. An eternity ago, my brother and I walked home from the rink on a cold-ass, slushy, winter afternoon fighting about something that eventually had us flinging our skates at one another, until someone pulled over and told us to stop.
It’s 42 paces across Milk Row Cemetery and I’m just hitting my stride at the Ellis Island of supermarkets: Market Basket, with it’s perpetually jammed parking lot and sawdusted floors. For many years my Saturdays involved mandatory trips to Market Basket with my mother, where I would be instantly separated from her, the woman who blew past everyone on a mission to get the fuck out of there as fast as she could. An ocean of aisles between us, I would eventually call out, “Ma?!?,” only to have a bunch of ladies looking up from their shopping carts to see if I was their kid.
Things begin to change at this point and my run starts to mean something more than the distant past. Behind the cemetery and beside Market Basket is the building that, until recently, was home to the Somerville Boxing Club. The boxing club uses an historic ring, supposedly the oldest active ring in the world, that has the memories of Joe Louis, Sugar Ray Robinson, Muhammad Ali, Rocky Marciano, and Marvin Hagler reinforcing it’s aluminum frame. I was standing in this ring when Papa Ray, a former professional boxer-turned trainer told me I had a beautiful jab. It’s also the ring where I bloodied someone’s nose for the first time in my life and hugged it off at the end of the round.
The past is wicking away and the present is right in front of me as I run by the new mural, enjoying the flat path and breath of fresh air it affords me. Union Square. I look to the left and can see the space where the farmers’ market is held on Saturdays. I think about how my guy and I go every week and how much we love the routine. But I’m turning right, onto Washington Street, past one of my favorite cafes, Sherman. Some days I might be tired enough to run in and get a sip of water if it’s a particularly hot day, or I might be thinking about how just hours before my run I was sitting inside, with a latte and a book, enjoying a much needed hour of peace for lunch.
Before I know it, I’m up and over the hill by the brand new Argenziano School, which use to be the old Lincoln Park Community School my friend Ellie went to, wishing the run was over but still having to reach the Wine & Cheese Cask, where I am rounding third and heading for home. Past the used car lot that haunted me as a child, the clown-like creepiness embedded in its dirty white paint and soiled, rainbow-colored plastic flags. I’m panting now, running faster, telling myself to run as fast as I can until the sidewalk turns from old, chewed-up concrete to new.
One of my favorite gifts in life came in a box and was from John Evans of Lemuria Bookstore. Possibly, I’d sent him some rare gems I knew he valued; I cannot recall exactly what prompted his sending it. I do recall it was soon after selling my bookstore, and I also recall that the box was filled with his favorite books for the mind and soul.
Though I’ve read and finished several, many still wait for me. On John’s advice, I decided to read one of them daily and enjoy each morning as a way to start my day. It is Mountain Home: The Wilderness Poetry of Ancient China (published by New Directions). Selected and translated by David Hinton, the book explains the rivers-and-mountains tradition of Chinese poetry through the works of nineteen poets spanning from the 5th century through the 13th century. What has struck me most about the poems thus far is how they remind me that the experience of living is—or should be—an integrated part of the natural world around us. Reading one is for me an act of being quiet, being still, being thoughtful and being present. Finishing one offers a wonderful moment of feeling awake and aware as opposed to consumed by what there is to do and worry about. I thought I would begin sharing my favorites with you on occasion. I hope you enjoy them.
Wandering at Oblique Creek
By T’ao Ch’ien (365-427)
This new year makes it fifty suddenly
gone. Thinking of life’s steady return
to rest cuts deep, driving me to spend
all morning wandering. Skies clear,
air’s breath fresh, I sit with friends
beside this stream flowing far away.
Striped bream weave gentle currents;
calling gulls drift above idle valleys.
Eyes roaming distant waters, I find
ridge above ridge: it’s nothing like
majestic nine-fold immortality peaks,
but to reverent eyes it’s incomparable.
Taking the winejar, I pour a round,
and we start offering brimful toasts:
who knows where today might lead
or if all this will ever come true again.
After a few cups, my heart’s far away,
and I forget thousand-year sorrows:
ranging to the limit of this morning’s
joy, it isn’t tomorrow I’m looking for.
I just recently finished An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, a memoir by Elizabeth McCracken. The book is part tragedy, part travelogue, part love story. The tragedy is present front and center throughout the book and is the death of Ms. McCracken’s first child (nicknamed Pudding) late in her pregnancy. The story is not linear. You start the book knowing what happened. Because of this, the story is not overly dramatic or somber. It is sad but not maudlin.
When reflecting on a dinner party she attended after losing Pudding, Ms. McCracken shares how difficult it is to be present to grief and how she has failed others who have grieved, “I’ve done it myself, when meeting the grief-struck. It’s as though the sad news Rumpelstiltskin in reverse. To mention it by name is to conjure it up, not the grief but the experience itself; the mother’s suicide, the brother’s overdose, the multiple miscarriages. The sadder the news, the less likely people are to mention it. The moment I lost my innocence about such things, I saw how careless I’d been myself.”
Ms. McCracken is brutally honest, funny and self-deprecating. When, during her second pregnancy, Ms. McCracken is in the doctor’s waiting room, she reflects, “I wanted a separate waiting room for people like me, with different magazines. No Parenting, or Wondertime or Pregnancy, no ads with pink or tawny or pearly smiling infants. I wanted Hold Your Horses Magazine, Don’t Count Your Chickens For Women. Pregnant for the Time Being Monthly.”
The memoir is the appropriate length. Ms. McCraken is an accomplished novelist and at this point an accomplished traveler. Her story could have been longer and full of self importance, but it is isn’t. At 184 pages, it is tight and focused. My congratulations to Elizabeth McCracken on the extraordinary accomplishment of writing such an honest and loving memoir. More importantly, my congratulations to her for getting to the other side of a tragedy without bitterness or hatred. You can read more about Ms. McCracken here.
Keeping track of financial crisis as well as what the Fed and our financial institutions are doing (as well as not doing) have become an obsession of mine. My MBA mind is percolating with interest and recollection of past studies, and my blood is boiling by the audacity of our government and banking industry’s leaders.
Just today, we learned in a NYT article by Edmund L. Andrews that the Fed once again cut it’s interest rate in the hopes of stimulating the economy and avoiding a deeper recession. Yet the article’s author noted that the “…Fed’s biggest weakness at the moment is that the economy’s problems have less to do with interest rates than the reluctance of banks and financial institutions to lend money. Even though the Fed has lent almost $600 billion to financial institutions in the last month alone, banks are still reluctant to lend to businesses or consumers.”
What are they doing with all that money? They sure as hell do not plan on lending any to consumers for new mortgages or for refinancing current mortgages at lower mortgage rates or for small business opportunities. A few days ago, the NYT also ran an article by Joe Nocera who learned and reported that “…the dirty little secret of the banking industry is that it has no intention of using the money to make new loans.” The same article highlights that the Fed is even giving tax incentives for banking institutions to use the government subsidies and cash injections to encourage bank mergers and acquisitions.
Are you kidding me? Major promises were made in front of Congress and to the American people. We are being sold a bailout of billions (nearly a trillion at this point) that basically helps financial institutions and their executives better conquer the world and position themselves to make even more fortunes in the future.
No help is coming for the rest of us, and more pain is on its way. As Eric Dash notes in a NYT article, the next crisis for consumers will be found in the credit card industry. An industry that strongly encouraged and created massive personal debt now begins to “…aggressively shut down inactive accounts…” and reduce “…customer credit lines by 4.5 percent in the second quarter from the previous period, according to regulatory filings….” Those once friendly lenders “…are shunning consumers already in debt and cutting credit limits for existing cardholders, especially those who live in areas ravaged by the housing crisis or who work in troubled industries.”
What does this mean? Well, for one thing borrowing is not an option if you are in financial trouble. The other thing is that once credit card companies begin shutting down inactive accounts and reducing credit lines, everyone’s credit rating will be lowered. Why? One strong measure (30% of your rating to be exact) of a credit score is based on outstanding debt in relation to available credit. As your available credit is reduced, this ratio begins looking much less attractive that your previous ratio and—presto!—your credit score now stinks without your doing anything to deserve it.
Are we having fun yet? Feels like time for some a major revolt on our industry and government.
Part I
A few months ago, Tim and I discovered the music of Bon Iver. Bon Iver (can you say good winter in French) is Justin Vernon and his cd, For Emma, For Ever Ago was written in three months while in the remote Wisconsin woods. It was recorded with a few mics and very little equipment. The cd is as sophisticated as it is simple. Take a listen to Skinny Love and let us know what you think.
Part II
1) A pair of Levi’s caught my eye as I was walking by the Harvard Square Urban Outfitters. I stopped in and grabbed a few pairs to try on. They were “skinny” jeans. I like the way they look and they are nice to wear with boots in the winter. I find Urban Outfitters a little intimating these days. I can’t decide if the store is the same as it always was and I am just old or if they have really changed their approach to selling clothes. I walk around the store asking myself questions like “who in their right mind would wear that?” “do people wear this to work?” “am I supposed to wear something under that?” Back to the dressing room, I proceed to try on the first pair which seems to look like the right waist size and leg length. In goes one foot and it will NOT come out! My leg and is stuck and my foot is stuck and I am getting increasingly concerned that I am going to need to call for assistance. No one would have heard me over the really loud music I could not identify with. I managed to get my leg out and my own clothes back on. I am vindicated when I return the jeans to the shelf and see that I had been wrestling with a size 1 instead of my normal size 4 or 6. Still, I am humbled and have vowed to shop online in the future. It must be that I am simply getting old.
Our small way of showing support for Barack Obama.
