I'm switching my blog to Tumblr.
It's easier, more versatile, prettier (a big consideration), and plus I'm a sucker for shiny new toys.
Henceforth:
gathermeman.tumblr.com
Also the hope is that I can use the new site as a little more of an artistic forum, as well as indulging the journal aspect.
Let me know what you think - most recent Maine posts are there.
Love,
Michaela
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Quarry Backstory
A video by Paulette Moore, Pavreen Chhetri, and Steven Stauffer, our delightful film crew. Pavreen composed the music for his band back in Nepal. It's a totally different tonality. When the vid was made, the crew hadn't yet captured the show's audio -- quite a stretch between this soundtrack and a steel drum calypso. I love it. So the video is not the show promo proper, but a way for the dancers to get a line on their own work, and audiences to have an intriguing glimpse of it. It's been great working and playing with the film crew. Lots of wasabi peas, coffee ice cream, quote gathering, band name bartering and children's book reminiscences. The product of their late nights at the dining room table:
Quarry Backstory from Paulette Moore on Vimeo.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Show Day
Today is the first performance of Q2: Habitat - Alison is still making last minute changes, which suits me just fine. We had a very productive rehearsal yesterday after a topsy-turvy Sunday of show changes, most to allow the piece some breathing room. Not only was it coming in short at 30 minutes (rather than the requisite 45), but the events, musical cues, and entrances were piling on to such a degree that there was no clear arc or stage picture. When everybody arrived at once: porcupines, seagulls, the excavator, birdwatchers, UHaul - their relationships didn't show up. The spaciousness of the new beginning really allows the audience to settle into the natural world of the Quarry before its augmentation and disruption through the human elements. So I was pleased! Also pleased that the community members accepted big changes and created something cohesive and clear out of them. They caught on quickly and were all about investing in the piece and seeing it thrive -- so I feel like we're doing something right. A little bruised by the subsumation of my circus vocabulary into the (far better) creative vocabulary of one of the community members, I got the necessary reminder from them as well as Alison: in a project like this, it is all about teamwork -- the generation of ideas that are improved upon by others, and may ultimately be perfected and performed by someone unconnected with the original thought.
The idea of community responsibility for art (and art's reciprocal responsibility to community) is central to what Alison and Mia have tried to accomplish with Q2, but for me it is better embodied in the process we've taken to get here. There's an added layer every time a new person jumps in. Right now, Paulette Moore, a documentary filmmaker and educator, is staying at the house and filling my head with restorative justice, art in research, and this big web of people who are doing creative vital things in the world. She pointed me to a colleague, John Paul Lederach, who recently spoke on the "Art of Peace" for Speaking of Faith. I pointed her towards some readings for her class on media and culture, most culled from Shevchenko's great syllabus in Memory and Identity. Delightful symbiosis begins anew.
Also, Tupelo Press's This Lamentable City was featured as one of the "Books of the Times" in the New York Times last week. More excitement in my expanding world of independent arts!
Dependent, in fact, on a special blend of circumstance and choice -- today, for instance, we're doing the sun dance to ward off downpours on our natural amphitheater. Add your soft-shoe, and check out some pictures and words from the Quarry, via the Bangor Daily News.
The idea of community responsibility for art (and art's reciprocal responsibility to community) is central to what Alison and Mia have tried to accomplish with Q2, but for me it is better embodied in the process we've taken to get here. There's an added layer every time a new person jumps in. Right now, Paulette Moore, a documentary filmmaker and educator, is staying at the house and filling my head with restorative justice, art in research, and this big web of people who are doing creative vital things in the world. She pointed me to a colleague, John Paul Lederach, who recently spoke on the "Art of Peace" for Speaking of Faith. I pointed her towards some readings for her class on media and culture, most culled from Shevchenko's great syllabus in Memory and Identity. Delightful symbiosis begins anew.
Also, Tupelo Press's This Lamentable City was featured as one of the "Books of the Times" in the New York Times last week. More excitement in my expanding world of independent arts!
Dependent, in fact, on a special blend of circumstance and choice -- today, for instance, we're doing the sun dance to ward off downpours on our natural amphitheater. Add your soft-shoe, and check out some pictures and words from the Quarry, via the Bangor Daily News.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Incidentally (Pt. I)
-- The Chases all swear very gently (except when they swear very violently). The most common word in the household is "shitskys."
-- Whenever I put my hand in the fridge, it comes out smelling like fish. This applies whether I am reaching for grapes or grabbing the skim milk. All to do with the constant conditions of a Downeast refrigerator.
-- The Brooksville market doesn't sell "Morning Glory" muffins; it sells "Glorious Morning" muffins.
-- I know more about this neighborhood than I do my own, in some respects. As we drive around - and we drive for hours every day - Alison points out homeplaces, shops, and local lore. I know the house of the woman who has early-onset Alzheimer's at age 50. I know the wine shop of the former high-school music teacher who had an affair with the superintendent's wife, and the circumstances of its revelation. I know the drama of the Deer Isle/Stonington Elementary School (what necessarily happens when two communities are nearly indistinguishable - a radical attachment to distinguishment).
-- Whenever I put my hand in the fridge, it comes out smelling like fish. This applies whether I am reaching for grapes or grabbing the skim milk. All to do with the constant conditions of a Downeast refrigerator.
-- The Brooksville market doesn't sell "Morning Glory" muffins; it sells "Glorious Morning" muffins.
-- I know more about this neighborhood than I do my own, in some respects. As we drive around - and we drive for hours every day - Alison points out homeplaces, shops, and local lore. I know the house of the woman who has early-onset Alzheimer's at age 50. I know the wine shop of the former high-school music teacher who had an affair with the superintendent's wife, and the circumstances of its revelation. I know the drama of the Deer Isle/Stonington Elementary School (what necessarily happens when two communities are nearly indistinguishable - a radical attachment to distinguishment).
Friday, July 30, 2010
Hitting the Trail
I have never liked the phrase "going for a run," because it seems to imply that there is some sort of Platonic ideal, a run that is out there waiting. Likewise, I've always thought of "going running" as an intimidating activity requiring advance preparation -- the procuring and donning of runners' shoes and runners' duds, maybe even a special watch or water bottle, and probably some sort of public announcement: "Going for a run!", as the runner, hair up and already jogging, heads out the door.
Last summer, I was at Middlebury for seven weeks. Middlebury, VT, for those of you who don't know, can completely elude the eye if you're not watching for it. The landscape goes something like: pasture, pasture, barn, cow, woods, pasture, Middlebury, woods, pasture. What that means is that walking off campus in any direction lands you on a trail within 5 minutes, and these trails are beautiful, through fields and by falls. I was lonely; I hadn't access to my mother or my mother tongue, so I started taking long walks -- 1 hour, 2 hours, sometimes 3 -- every day after classes. And what started happening was that, on certain of these ambles, I'd feel a sudden urge to go faster. At these times, I would, casually and without advance preparation, begin to run. When I no longer felt like going fast, I would slow down. And I had an obvious but late realization (what I call an elevator moment, when you finally think about the phrase enough to get that an elevator is called an elevator because it elevates you): You can run whenever you want. You can stop running whenever you want.
For the past three mornings, I have run, and walked, on the Breezemere Rd. and on a beautiful trail down to the coast. And I plan to keep running every day. I never thought I'd be "a runner," and I still don't think I am. But I have a little bit of the high that also gets peculiarly ascribed to that group -- and I'm feeling new appreciation for a way of being that, as it turns out, is less about the Platonic ideal than the need to go just a little bit faster.
Last summer, I was at Middlebury for seven weeks. Middlebury, VT, for those of you who don't know, can completely elude the eye if you're not watching for it. The landscape goes something like: pasture, pasture, barn, cow, woods, pasture, Middlebury, woods, pasture. What that means is that walking off campus in any direction lands you on a trail within 5 minutes, and these trails are beautiful, through fields and by falls. I was lonely; I hadn't access to my mother or my mother tongue, so I started taking long walks -- 1 hour, 2 hours, sometimes 3 -- every day after classes. And what started happening was that, on certain of these ambles, I'd feel a sudden urge to go faster. At these times, I would, casually and without advance preparation, begin to run. When I no longer felt like going fast, I would slow down. And I had an obvious but late realization (what I call an elevator moment, when you finally think about the phrase enough to get that an elevator is called an elevator because it elevates you): You can run whenever you want. You can stop running whenever you want.
For the past three mornings, I have run, and walked, on the Breezemere Rd. and on a beautiful trail down to the coast. And I plan to keep running every day. I never thought I'd be "a runner," and I still don't think I am. But I have a little bit of the high that also gets peculiarly ascribed to that group -- and I'm feeling new appreciation for a way of being that, as it turns out, is less about the Platonic ideal than the need to go just a little bit faster.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Lazy Sunday...
Never.
Last weeks's "day off" was full of sailing and a late dinner (preceded by the frustrations of failed communications media). Nothing to complain of the day's activities -- just full motion and full company. Today, the dancers are invited over to the Chases' (the many Chases, Nigel this time) for a cookout on the point, with sauna and kayaks. We're about to go grocery shopping. Last night, we heard Paul Sullivan jazz (why do they seat people for this kind of thing?) with a big black woman wailing and a gawky 15 year old with an overdone operatic tone, but a nicer, looser swing once she got rolling. But after coping with a peevish and aggressive primo donno newly introduced to the cast, sitting lumpishly in the quarry with nothing to do or running around covered in a felty piece of turf, labeled an "ideal community member" (that's a big insult), and pulling 13 hour days before finally sitting down to family dinner at 9 and figuring out how to exit (not so hard, they're kind and I can yawn)...well, I'm ready for some down time. I'm ready to be with my family, to fly to Oregon, to catch up with Dara, to head out to the middlest nowhere of this middle of nowhere and sketch, alone.
Not to say that I haven't had amazing experiences. This week:
Monday's pan dance,
Tuesday's live drawing class (my first ever, probably a fuller post on this and other things to come),
Thursday's dancer get-together (hilarious game of "Celebrities," world's best guac, and the cast's good couple: "Don't diss yourself."),
Saturday's bona fide burger and better jazz.
But as you'll see, most of these experiences have nothing to do with my purported purpose in being here. Is that a so what? Or is being seen as less a dancer than anything else a real reason to feel that this is not what I came for? Well, it's not what I came for. I'm focusing more on relationships, and that's been helpful, but it's also dangerous. It's too tied to emotion, too out of my control.
I've made a list of ways I can be helpful. None of them are creative beyond the point of writing PR, but I'm good at writing PR. So I can be helpful. I'm trying to interrogate Alison about ways I can plug in; being active rather than waiting for the thing to come to me. Enjoying small triumphs (oh, but really, do I want to be the girl who's just glad she remembered to pack the emergency peanuts?) The problem is, rehearsal is not the place I'm most useful. And by the end of rehearsal, my plans to write and send a report, figure out all the cues for the dancers, etc. are essentially shot because I can't keep my eyes open, having been on the run from 6:30AM to 7:30PM.
So today (the "day of rest"), is compulsory partying and my own burgeoning to-do list, which has to be done if I am to feel at all useful, imaginative, on-the-ball. It's already rolling away from me ... but there a few causes in which I need to let it roll. To pray, to read, to speak with friends. I can't forget who I am, since it seems the project here is more and more about figuring that out in action. If you've written me, thank you. I mayn't have responded, somnambulist that I am outside the quarry, but it mattered to me, and I will write back soon.
Last weeks's "day off" was full of sailing and a late dinner (preceded by the frustrations of failed communications media). Nothing to complain of the day's activities -- just full motion and full company. Today, the dancers are invited over to the Chases' (the many Chases, Nigel this time) for a cookout on the point, with sauna and kayaks. We're about to go grocery shopping. Last night, we heard Paul Sullivan jazz (why do they seat people for this kind of thing?) with a big black woman wailing and a gawky 15 year old with an overdone operatic tone, but a nicer, looser swing once she got rolling. But after coping with a peevish and aggressive primo donno newly introduced to the cast, sitting lumpishly in the quarry with nothing to do or running around covered in a felty piece of turf, labeled an "ideal community member" (that's a big insult), and pulling 13 hour days before finally sitting down to family dinner at 9 and figuring out how to exit (not so hard, they're kind and I can yawn)...well, I'm ready for some down time. I'm ready to be with my family, to fly to Oregon, to catch up with Dara, to head out to the middlest nowhere of this middle of nowhere and sketch, alone.
Not to say that I haven't had amazing experiences. This week:
Monday's pan dance,
Tuesday's live drawing class (my first ever, probably a fuller post on this and other things to come),
Thursday's dancer get-together (hilarious game of "Celebrities," world's best guac, and the cast's good couple: "Don't diss yourself."),
Saturday's bona fide burger and better jazz.
But as you'll see, most of these experiences have nothing to do with my purported purpose in being here. Is that a so what? Or is being seen as less a dancer than anything else a real reason to feel that this is not what I came for? Well, it's not what I came for. I'm focusing more on relationships, and that's been helpful, but it's also dangerous. It's too tied to emotion, too out of my control.
I've made a list of ways I can be helpful. None of them are creative beyond the point of writing PR, but I'm good at writing PR. So I can be helpful. I'm trying to interrogate Alison about ways I can plug in; being active rather than waiting for the thing to come to me. Enjoying small triumphs (oh, but really, do I want to be the girl who's just glad she remembered to pack the emergency peanuts?) The problem is, rehearsal is not the place I'm most useful. And by the end of rehearsal, my plans to write and send a report, figure out all the cues for the dancers, etc. are essentially shot because I can't keep my eyes open, having been on the run from 6:30AM to 7:30PM.
So today (the "day of rest"), is compulsory partying and my own burgeoning to-do list, which has to be done if I am to feel at all useful, imaginative, on-the-ball. It's already rolling away from me ... but there a few causes in which I need to let it roll. To pray, to read, to speak with friends. I can't forget who I am, since it seems the project here is more and more about figuring that out in action. If you've written me, thank you. I mayn't have responded, somnambulist that I am outside the quarry, but it mattered to me, and I will write back soon.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Visual Aids
Eric readies the mainsail for my maiden voyage aboard the Freda.
Jessiedog pads through our favorite room.
A remembrance of Thimble Summer.
Primordial in the Quarry: The Seaweed Man.
Semi-blind charcoal sketch from my first life drawing class.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Community Building
Thursday night, Franny made dinner at the cabin and I joined the sailing staff for pasta and kielbasa, then square dancing at the yacht club. To me, yacht club sounds shi-shi, but theirs is old Maine, wood cabin, punch and animal crackers and thirteen year old kids. Essentially, a hop. First dance, I was paired with the caller, a middle-aged mustached feller who never looked me in the eye. He did an oddly close swing your partner and an oddly distant promenade. Though a few of us were tipsy, there's not too much trouble to be had at an old-fashioned square, and when the fog rolled in heavy, we rearranged our cars to accommodate the families unable to sail back across the cove.
The Chase's eldest, Becker, has a great bookshelf from which a volume dropped into my hand when I was fumbling about without my glasses - Paris to the Moon, which I'd been planning to read! I've been enjoying it every morning between 7 and 8, with a cup of coffee in the reading chair. Sometimes I mutter in French and Eric asks me for translation. This morning Amelia, nephew Nigel's partner, swung by with snacks for rehearsal and was companionably pleased to find out what I was reading.
The cat, whose name is apparently "Smudge," whom I call "Wonky Cat," brushed up against me for the first time today. Being thus objectified as a convenient back-scratcher has solidified my place in the family.
I'm finding a realer friend in Q2's stage manager, who went to Muhlenberg and has been working in NYC. She likes long letters and long books and Gershwin and Nina Simone. She's living by her lonesome in a little cabin, and since I'm rarely alone, and she usually, we're planning to join forces.
Today the dancers, the SM, and I went to the lily pond and swam and lay on the shore, then cleaned up and went to a Very Fancy Dinner in Blue Hill. The first place we tried, Barncastle, was closed because their electricity had suddenly failed. Plan 2: Table, where I had the best risotto of my life - lobster and chevre and 3 kinds of fresh-picked local mushroom (including the same chanterelles Alison and I pluck from the woods). The bites of dessert (deep chocolate torte with sea-salt; ricotta icing on a lemon cake; perfect crême brulee) were similarly divine.
I'm really enjoying the group I'm in. The dancers are interesting people, from a professional cheerleader (a boy one) to his half-Italian girlfriend (not me) to the ballroom dancer and founder of an arts-outreach in Zimbabwe. One has a tattoo of his partner's initials and a beautiful face and the kindest questioning manner; a good teacher. They are very real. They have very real bodies that work for them, that they have trained and demanded and that are imperfect and exciting. I am such a perfectionist - in many ways I've been saddened and corrupted by expecting bodily perfections of myself and never achieving them, by finding a narrow range of beauties in a world of them. I love that I'm seeing these dancers and thinking, look at the strangeness of that body, look at what it can do! It's simultaneously a more deeply aesthetic, artistic, and curious impulse and a more loving one. I don't feel depressed or jealous or other, but welcome, dogged, inspired!
I'm also loving the new community members, whom we met today. A bunch of fun broads! Some are frighteningly recognizable (Alice=Gretchen Hall, Sue=Betty White, Jeannie=Aunt Peggy/Beatrice Arthur), all are a little skewed and enthused. A thing I know. Our transition into working with them was smoother than we anticipated, in part because again, these groups of people are falling into place really well. There's intentionality in it I appreciate, as I appreciate each night planning the morning ahead.
To bed now, because my morning plan includes early tea, that book I'm cuddling, weeding the garden, and my very first sail! And soon, a post on reading habits and local histories, sweet swearing and architectural debate. I'm on the lookout for a coffeeshop in which to write my notes.
The Chase's eldest, Becker, has a great bookshelf from which a volume dropped into my hand when I was fumbling about without my glasses - Paris to the Moon, which I'd been planning to read! I've been enjoying it every morning between 7 and 8, with a cup of coffee in the reading chair. Sometimes I mutter in French and Eric asks me for translation. This morning Amelia, nephew Nigel's partner, swung by with snacks for rehearsal and was companionably pleased to find out what I was reading.
The cat, whose name is apparently "Smudge," whom I call "Wonky Cat," brushed up against me for the first time today. Being thus objectified as a convenient back-scratcher has solidified my place in the family.
I'm finding a realer friend in Q2's stage manager, who went to Muhlenberg and has been working in NYC. She likes long letters and long books and Gershwin and Nina Simone. She's living by her lonesome in a little cabin, and since I'm rarely alone, and she usually, we're planning to join forces.
Today the dancers, the SM, and I went to the lily pond and swam and lay on the shore, then cleaned up and went to a Very Fancy Dinner in Blue Hill. The first place we tried, Barncastle, was closed because their electricity had suddenly failed. Plan 2: Table, where I had the best risotto of my life - lobster and chevre and 3 kinds of fresh-picked local mushroom (including the same chanterelles Alison and I pluck from the woods). The bites of dessert (deep chocolate torte with sea-salt; ricotta icing on a lemon cake; perfect crême brulee) were similarly divine.
I'm really enjoying the group I'm in. The dancers are interesting people, from a professional cheerleader (a boy one) to his half-Italian girlfriend (not me) to the ballroom dancer and founder of an arts-outreach in Zimbabwe. One has a tattoo of his partner's initials and a beautiful face and the kindest questioning manner; a good teacher. They are very real. They have very real bodies that work for them, that they have trained and demanded and that are imperfect and exciting. I am such a perfectionist - in many ways I've been saddened and corrupted by expecting bodily perfections of myself and never achieving them, by finding a narrow range of beauties in a world of them. I love that I'm seeing these dancers and thinking, look at the strangeness of that body, look at what it can do! It's simultaneously a more deeply aesthetic, artistic, and curious impulse and a more loving one. I don't feel depressed or jealous or other, but welcome, dogged, inspired!
I'm also loving the new community members, whom we met today. A bunch of fun broads! Some are frighteningly recognizable (Alice=Gretchen Hall, Sue=Betty White, Jeannie=Aunt Peggy/Beatrice Arthur), all are a little skewed and enthused. A thing I know. Our transition into working with them was smoother than we anticipated, in part because again, these groups of people are falling into place really well. There's intentionality in it I appreciate, as I appreciate each night planning the morning ahead.
To bed now, because my morning plan includes early tea, that book I'm cuddling, weeding the garden, and my very first sail! And soon, a post on reading habits and local histories, sweet swearing and architectural debate. I'm on the lookout for a coffeeshop in which to write my notes.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
The Daily Grind
Here's my schedule, as it's unfolding:
Mornings we wake up between 6 and 7. Whoever is up first brews the coffee, and then Alison and Eric and I putter around. Today I was up at 6:30 and took my coffee and books to the porch to get a morning breeze and an ocean view from the couch.
On Monday, Thursday, and Friday (except, as today, when Alison's meetings interfere), we'll be attending corps training from 10-12. They're going through basics -- partnering, weight sharing, lifts, improvisations. Stuff I get, as it's similar to the kind of work I did in '06 at Governor's School. Here's a place where I'm jumping in as often as possible, which Alison supports. (She also thinks I should take salsa classes on Monday nights, which I support.)
On Tuesday mornings, we work at the office/hit the farmer's market/do chores/run errands/take walks. & on Tuesday evenings, we'll go to street dances in Blue Hill, one of the little coastal towns nearby.
On Wednesday mornings, we do "old babe" yoga at Alison's studio, with ball rolling. This is awesome, and results in flexy backs and comfy toes.
Every afternoon, we have rehearsal with the corps dancers 1-6, generally in the elementary school, though we'll begin working at the quarry next week. I make the coffee, take notes, send emails, join the improvs when I can and hang out with cast and crew.
Every weekday we eat dinner at home around 7. Dinner is lengthy and always delicious. Last night we sat on the porch til bedtime, which comes between 10 and 11 every night.
Saturday rehearsals are 10-2 with full cast (musicians, puppeteers, and community members), and take place on site, weather permitting. I anticipate a lot of running around at these rehearsals, as I'll be both assisting Alison and fielding questions from the community members/moving alongside them. (In general, given the age and skill range, these parts fall under "movement" rather than "dance").
Sundays are free. This Sunday, Alison and I plan to work in the garden, and she has promised to show me some of the good beach walks nearby. The Chases sail, so there may some boating as well. And here's when I can read my books and write my letters and speak to friends as I try to find reception in the wilderness/paradise of Maine.
Mornings we wake up between 6 and 7. Whoever is up first brews the coffee, and then Alison and Eric and I putter around. Today I was up at 6:30 and took my coffee and books to the porch to get a morning breeze and an ocean view from the couch.
On Monday, Thursday, and Friday (except, as today, when Alison's meetings interfere), we'll be attending corps training from 10-12. They're going through basics -- partnering, weight sharing, lifts, improvisations. Stuff I get, as it's similar to the kind of work I did in '06 at Governor's School. Here's a place where I'm jumping in as often as possible, which Alison supports. (She also thinks I should take salsa classes on Monday nights, which I support.)
On Tuesday mornings, we work at the office/hit the farmer's market/do chores/run errands/take walks. & on Tuesday evenings, we'll go to street dances in Blue Hill, one of the little coastal towns nearby.
On Wednesday mornings, we do "old babe" yoga at Alison's studio, with ball rolling. This is awesome, and results in flexy backs and comfy toes.
Every afternoon, we have rehearsal with the corps dancers 1-6, generally in the elementary school, though we'll begin working at the quarry next week. I make the coffee, take notes, send emails, join the improvs when I can and hang out with cast and crew.
Every weekday we eat dinner at home around 7. Dinner is lengthy and always delicious. Last night we sat on the porch til bedtime, which comes between 10 and 11 every night.
Saturday rehearsals are 10-2 with full cast (musicians, puppeteers, and community members), and take place on site, weather permitting. I anticipate a lot of running around at these rehearsals, as I'll be both assisting Alison and fielding questions from the community members/moving alongside them. (In general, given the age and skill range, these parts fall under "movement" rather than "dance").
Sundays are free. This Sunday, Alison and I plan to work in the garden, and she has promised to show me some of the good beach walks nearby. The Chases sail, so there may some boating as well. And here's when I can read my books and write my letters and speak to friends as I try to find reception in the wilderness/paradise of Maine.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
from the apogee
since sunday, and for the next month, i am alison chase's personal assistant. a co-founder of pilobolus, she recently started her own company, apogee arts, and has been working on a site-specific piece each summer in a quarry in stonington, maine. it's a big community endeavor, with professional dancers offset by kids and old ladies and a steel drum band. in addition to assisting alison (writing press releases, making to-do lists and keeping her on task, lining up schedules, sending emails and doing odd jobs), i'm training with the company and acting as chief of the community players (fielding questions and dancing with them).
i'm installed in the attic room at the chase's gorgeous home in tiny brooksville. lots of wood and warm colors and interesting accents. our families would appreciate the style. there's a fantastic drawing above my head -- a gothic house with a flapping laundry line that her architect husband drew. we (the chases, the dancers) had one of the best dinners ever on our first night: chicken, rice, salad (all with amazing dressings) and blueberry pie courtesy of alison's nephew's wife (she used a whole key lime, little sugar, and low-growing maine blueberries).
we're in the middle of nowhere. i honestly couldn't tell you the direction i came or the streets we took -- seems there were lefts and rights at random, all leading us to a very densely wooded road opening up to this great house.
everybody's been incredibly welcoming. the chase family owns this whole end of the island, a point running out to the water. joining us tonight at dinner were the nephew, wife, and kids, along with alison's daughter frances, who went to bates. i like her. she's an environmental science major, just graduated, at the moment splitting living here and in a cabin down the street, along with trip to visit "her honey," ben, at the summer camp where he's counseling. i think/hope we'll be friends.
there are 3 dogs running around the property, as well as a terrifying grey house cat who was once mangled, then resuscitated, and now is kind of wonky in the head. i've been warned that she scratches.
alison also warned me that she "does not serve breakfast." what that means is just that i have to make my own from the ingredients she bought me. i'm being plied with interesting things. this morning i picked highbush blueberries to add to my gluten-free granola. we stopped at a farmer's market and bought spelt sourdough and veggies, and supplemented them with fresh raspberries and strawberries from a roadside stand.
there will be 10 corps dancers, once matt and the frenchman who'll do the central role, a heron, join us. most are in their 20s, but there are a couple in their 30s, a woman in her forties, and of course, felix the french, who's 69 (with what a record! including, most interesting to me, a couple of productions with john turturro). half/half women/men. plus a stage manager, myself, mia (pronounced mie-uh, co-director/puppet choreographer), nigel (alison's nephew, composer/steel drum band conductor), the puppeteers and community members.
one of the dancers, tawanda, just got his masters in dance, but is most interested in dance theater/grotowski/suzuki/lecoq. he's also living with a williams alum, to whom i'm s'posed to be introduced. cool, no?
all of the dancers, despite their impossibly beautiful, strong and flexy bodies, have been sweet. i spent monday training/improv-ing with the dancers, who graciously supported my participation. i'll be learning so much!
last night, we had dinner with franny, alison's daughter, in her cabin down the street. we 3 had a beautiful meal (complete with prosecco, white whine, or for alison, rum&oj) and franny picked up her laundry from the house and headed back down, with the promise of an invitation to a party later this week at the cabin.
alison shares lots of fun and good advice, and i'm looking forward to becoming better friends with all parts of this little community. in the morning we linger over coffee on a screen porch, grey wood. the view is of a garden, rocks, forest, the coast in the distance. already, i feel at home. imagining a life in community like this, with days creating, nights reading and writing, big meals with friends and early morning walks.
i'm installed in the attic room at the chase's gorgeous home in tiny brooksville. lots of wood and warm colors and interesting accents. our families would appreciate the style. there's a fantastic drawing above my head -- a gothic house with a flapping laundry line that her architect husband drew. we (the chases, the dancers) had one of the best dinners ever on our first night: chicken, rice, salad (all with amazing dressings) and blueberry pie courtesy of alison's nephew's wife (she used a whole key lime, little sugar, and low-growing maine blueberries).
we're in the middle of nowhere. i honestly couldn't tell you the direction i came or the streets we took -- seems there were lefts and rights at random, all leading us to a very densely wooded road opening up to this great house.
everybody's been incredibly welcoming. the chase family owns this whole end of the island, a point running out to the water. joining us tonight at dinner were the nephew, wife, and kids, along with alison's daughter frances, who went to bates. i like her. she's an environmental science major, just graduated, at the moment splitting living here and in a cabin down the street, along with trip to visit "her honey," ben, at the summer camp where he's counseling. i think/hope we'll be friends.
there are 3 dogs running around the property, as well as a terrifying grey house cat who was once mangled, then resuscitated, and now is kind of wonky in the head. i've been warned that she scratches.
alison also warned me that she "does not serve breakfast." what that means is just that i have to make my own from the ingredients she bought me. i'm being plied with interesting things. this morning i picked highbush blueberries to add to my gluten-free granola. we stopped at a farmer's market and bought spelt sourdough and veggies, and supplemented them with fresh raspberries and strawberries from a roadside stand.
there will be 10 corps dancers, once matt and the frenchman who'll do the central role, a heron, join us. most are in their 20s, but there are a couple in their 30s, a woman in her forties, and of course, felix the french, who's 69 (with what a record! including, most interesting to me, a couple of productions with john turturro). half/half women/men. plus a stage manager, myself, mia (pronounced mie-uh, co-director/puppet choreographer), nigel (alison's nephew, composer/steel drum band conductor), the puppeteers and community members.
one of the dancers, tawanda, just got his masters in dance, but is most interested in dance theater/grotowski/suzuki/lecoq. he's also living with a williams alum, to whom i'm s'posed to be introduced. cool, no?
all of the dancers, despite their impossibly beautiful, strong and flexy bodies, have been sweet. i spent monday training/improv-ing with the dancers, who graciously supported my participation. i'll be learning so much!
last night, we had dinner with franny, alison's daughter, in her cabin down the street. we 3 had a beautiful meal (complete with prosecco, white whine, or for alison, rum&oj) and franny picked up her laundry from the house and headed back down, with the promise of an invitation to a party later this week at the cabin.
alison shares lots of fun and good advice, and i'm looking forward to becoming better friends with all parts of this little community. in the morning we linger over coffee on a screen porch, grey wood. the view is of a garden, rocks, forest, the coast in the distance. already, i feel at home. imagining a life in community like this, with days creating, nights reading and writing, big meals with friends and early morning walks.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Boston, Pt. II
Abbreviation will be necessary, as I'm in rehearsal with lots to report from Maine. Not wanting to neglect what I began...
The end of Boston, visa visit:
- The Boston Public Library, in addition to its travel poster collection (see below), is currently featuring street photography by Jules Aarons, an internationally known BU physicist whose black and white scenes were similarly acclaimed. Check 'em out (I lack time to find and post, but I'll add later if a sudden windfall gives me hours).
- Dioramas of artists in the Wiggins Room at the BPL. Those of Muirhead Bone (what a name!) and his Manhattan Excavation and James Mebey (Dawn: The Canal Patrol Setting Out) are gorgeous. The concept is inserting artists into the settings they made famous. M.B. is placed in such a way as to make the excavation workers look like Lilliputians.
- A little girl (4?) in the wading pool. The other kids were outfitted in bright bathing suits. She didn't have one, and was in her underwear and a gold cross necklace. Her dad was taking pictures as she splashed. A little girl ran over her mother to point out the "naked" girl -- "she's just got underwear!" Other child deeply upset, as of impropriety. When did little kids get a sense that nudity was shameful? Of course she's not wearing anything, she's a baby! The old "if you're covering something, there's something to cover." But there isn't. Just a little girl. It made me sad.
- Old South Church: an historic site, opposite the BPL. Jazz services Thursdays, "The Garden of Eden" providing vegetables to weekly lunches for homeless mothers. I sat in the cool and read the stones on the wall (from 1600s).
- Sargent murals, recently restored, depicting the Judeo-Christian history, pagan gods, sacraments, resurrection. Someday I'll post notes as given at the library. Fascinating symbolism and image. The chaos panels were far more compelling in richness of color and movement than the resurrection panel, which must be what little children see (or grown-ups) when they imagine being bored in heaven. The prophets and Mother Mary - ornate and compelling, steeped in Catholic ritual.
- Lowbrow: 15 cent York patties continued to pay the parking meter while I splashed around and sat by the tortoise and hare statues in Trinity Square. I thought about going to Wendy's. Instead, recognized that time had come to speed out of town by St. James Rd. Straight shot to 90, spilled lime Polar water all over my lap, felt sophisticated.
Gee, I'm growing up.
The end of Boston, visa visit:
- The Boston Public Library, in addition to its travel poster collection (see below), is currently featuring street photography by Jules Aarons, an internationally known BU physicist whose black and white scenes were similarly acclaimed. Check 'em out (I lack time to find and post, but I'll add later if a sudden windfall gives me hours).
- Dioramas of artists in the Wiggins Room at the BPL. Those of Muirhead Bone (what a name!) and his Manhattan Excavation and James Mebey (Dawn: The Canal Patrol Setting Out) are gorgeous. The concept is inserting artists into the settings they made famous. M.B. is placed in such a way as to make the excavation workers look like Lilliputians.
- A little girl (4?) in the wading pool. The other kids were outfitted in bright bathing suits. She didn't have one, and was in her underwear and a gold cross necklace. Her dad was taking pictures as she splashed. A little girl ran over her mother to point out the "naked" girl -- "she's just got underwear!" Other child deeply upset, as of impropriety. When did little kids get a sense that nudity was shameful? Of course she's not wearing anything, she's a baby! The old "if you're covering something, there's something to cover." But there isn't. Just a little girl. It made me sad.
- Old South Church: an historic site, opposite the BPL. Jazz services Thursdays, "The Garden of Eden" providing vegetables to weekly lunches for homeless mothers. I sat in the cool and read the stones on the wall (from 1600s).
- Sargent murals, recently restored, depicting the Judeo-Christian history, pagan gods, sacraments, resurrection. Someday I'll post notes as given at the library. Fascinating symbolism and image. The chaos panels were far more compelling in richness of color and movement than the resurrection panel, which must be what little children see (or grown-ups) when they imagine being bored in heaven. The prophets and Mother Mary - ornate and compelling, steeped in Catholic ritual.
- Lowbrow: 15 cent York patties continued to pay the parking meter while I splashed around and sat by the tortoise and hare statues in Trinity Square. I thought about going to Wendy's. Instead, recognized that time had come to speed out of town by St. James Rd. Straight shot to 90, spilled lime Polar water all over my lap, felt sophisticated.
Gee, I'm growing up.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
The Gentle Art of Civilized Living Reaches the Highest Degree of Perfection
Yesterday, I woke up at 4:15 and by 5AM was on the road to Boston for my visa appointment at the French consulate. The drive was gorgeous along Routes 43 and 22 -- mist coming up from the fields and spilling across the road and crows flying through it, great twisted trees by the river, farmhouses and heath. By the time I got to I90, the sun was up and the road was zippy and clear almost all the way. Sat in traffic for the last 45 minutes and negotiated the toll plaza crunch with aplomb. My exit got me one street off the Park Building, and I found a space right in front.
The French consulate is tucked away at the end of a hall on the 7th floor, flanked by a number of corporate offices. First revelation as the elevator doors parted: a huge Williams banner. Turns out the Williams Investment Office is also on Park Building 7th. Kansas, Toto?
I stood with an old Italian man and his son as we waited for the consulate to open. The father had spent 6 years living in Paris, and was at the consulate to collect his pension check. They advised me, in one accent unintelligible and the other distinctly Guido, that Paris was a great city.
Once in, the visa appointment took all of ten minutes and was conducted in English. Like cake. After which, I was free to roam the city. I knew I was near Copley Square, and thus the public library, and after filling up the meter (strategy: buy 15 cent peppermint patties, pay for parking with the change), I followed my nose over one street and up. I followed my eyes to an ornate church all in red brick - Trinity - which was in fact back on the street where I'd begun, and directly facing the library.
Mom had passed on Dad's injunction to visit the Sargent murals (restored!) in the Boston Public, but first I detoured into its current exhibition, vintage travel posters advertising all sorts of exotic locales. "Away We Go!", with posters from the 1920s-50s, featured gorgeous color:
and oddly unappealing taglines:
Also, the incredible story of the Paricutin Volcano, whose birth was witnessed by a farmer in Mexico in 1943 - within a week of the eruption, in what was then a cornfield, the volcano reached a height of five stories. Over eight years, it gained 1400 feet.
Amid invocations of exotic locales and village cultures, mine eye espied this sterling sophisticate:
All while playing "See The USA in Your Chevrolet" and Fred Astaire on "Flying Down to Rio."
After poking around the gallery and the courtyard, I headed up the main starcaise, flanked by lions, to the "Puvis de Chavannes Gallery," the second floor corridor whose walls are covered by murals of the nine muses, executed by the aforementioned artist. My pamphlet informs me that the muses are hailing a male figure "representing the 'Genius of Enlightenment'." I do not know whether they mean genius in the modern or Johnsonian sense.
I wandered into a ballroom with fireplace and dark wainscoting and checkered floors ("of Istrian and red Verona marble"). I learned all these things later from pamphlets - I have also learned that it is possible to be married in the Boston Public Library, either in the Abbey Room (the ballroom) or the Bates Reading Room, which spans the length of the building:
I spent an hour here. The inspiration attendant on such a setting is incomprehensible to the self who works on a bunged-up PC in Sawyer Library with its industrial tans and rubber and failing carpets. Long wooden tables and green lampshades enable sketching and marveling and a sense of beautiful, shared scholasticism. Everyone around me is reading or writing, except for two Asian girls (sisters?) at the table to my left. They are busily and efficiently applying makeup, observing one another like mirrors (twins?). One catches me staring. I switch to sketching architecture. I draw a very nice chair back that Dad might've done. I'd show it, but the camera cord eludes me. As does the time. Tune in soon for church history, Sargent murals, dioramas, street photography, and a wading pool. Plus a short rant on the sexual marketing of childhood and more York patties! Don't miss it.
Boston's wonderful.
The French consulate is tucked away at the end of a hall on the 7th floor, flanked by a number of corporate offices. First revelation as the elevator doors parted: a huge Williams banner. Turns out the Williams Investment Office is also on Park Building 7th. Kansas, Toto?
I stood with an old Italian man and his son as we waited for the consulate to open. The father had spent 6 years living in Paris, and was at the consulate to collect his pension check. They advised me, in one accent unintelligible and the other distinctly Guido, that Paris was a great city.
Once in, the visa appointment took all of ten minutes and was conducted in English. Like cake. After which, I was free to roam the city. I knew I was near Copley Square, and thus the public library, and after filling up the meter (strategy: buy 15 cent peppermint patties, pay for parking with the change), I followed my nose over one street and up. I followed my eyes to an ornate church all in red brick - Trinity - which was in fact back on the street where I'd begun, and directly facing the library.
Mom had passed on Dad's injunction to visit the Sargent murals (restored!) in the Boston Public, but first I detoured into its current exhibition, vintage travel posters advertising all sorts of exotic locales. "Away We Go!", with posters from the 1920s-50s, featured gorgeous color:
and oddly unappealing taglines:
Also, the incredible story of the Paricutin Volcano, whose birth was witnessed by a farmer in Mexico in 1943 - within a week of the eruption, in what was then a cornfield, the volcano reached a height of five stories. Over eight years, it gained 1400 feet.
Amid invocations of exotic locales and village cultures, mine eye espied this sterling sophisticate:
All while playing "See The USA in Your Chevrolet" and Fred Astaire on "Flying Down to Rio."
After poking around the gallery and the courtyard, I headed up the main starcaise, flanked by lions, to the "Puvis de Chavannes Gallery," the second floor corridor whose walls are covered by murals of the nine muses, executed by the aforementioned artist. My pamphlet informs me that the muses are hailing a male figure "representing the 'Genius of Enlightenment'." I do not know whether they mean genius in the modern or Johnsonian sense.
I wandered into a ballroom with fireplace and dark wainscoting and checkered floors ("of Istrian and red Verona marble"). I learned all these things later from pamphlets - I have also learned that it is possible to be married in the Boston Public Library, either in the Abbey Room (the ballroom) or the Bates Reading Room, which spans the length of the building:
I spent an hour here. The inspiration attendant on such a setting is incomprehensible to the self who works on a bunged-up PC in Sawyer Library with its industrial tans and rubber and failing carpets. Long wooden tables and green lampshades enable sketching and marveling and a sense of beautiful, shared scholasticism. Everyone around me is reading or writing, except for two Asian girls (sisters?) at the table to my left. They are busily and efficiently applying makeup, observing one another like mirrors (twins?). One catches me staring. I switch to sketching architecture. I draw a very nice chair back that Dad might've done. I'd show it, but the camera cord eludes me. As does the time. Tune in soon for church history, Sargent murals, dioramas, street photography, and a wading pool. Plus a short rant on the sexual marketing of childhood and more York patties! Don't miss it.
Boston's wonderful.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
ENFJ, Etc.
Last Friday night, I tapped into white whine & spaghetti, cross-legged on the porch, with Maddy '09, Emma '10 and friend Charles. Somehow, Myers-Briggs came up, those personality tests, which I hadn't knownt to be a) so accurate or b) such fodder for hilarity. Charles' "type" matches that of (apparently) Mother Mary and St. Luke. Emma's matches Steve Urkle. Charles owns a large book called Please Understand Me that gives full explications of each of the four major types. The qualities are Extraversion v. Introversion, INtuiting v. Sensing, Thinking v. Feeling, and Judging v. Perceiving. Turns out I'm an ENFJ. In addition to the accuracy of these readings, they're actually tremendously helpful in muddling out some of the different characteristics and communication styles of my friends. I've become quite a pest: what's your Myers-Briggs type? Before you know it, I'll be accosting young ladies in bars and saying, "Hey, baby. What's your sign?" Thank goodness I'm too young to go to bars, other than dairy bars.
Speaking of, Chuck took this pic during "Mt. Hope," when we improvised a very classy dinner event, followed by bowling and ice cream. It's not summer, per se, but it gets the mood.
Speaking of, Chuck took this pic during "Mt. Hope," when we improvised a very classy dinner event, followed by bowling and ice cream. It's not summer, per se, but it gets the mood.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Teething
First night back in Williamstown (what a different kind of W-town is it now) was Friday. Drove all day to hit the coffeeshop 15 minutes before closing and dawdle through Paresky, griping about facilities. Can't be legally let into my room until Monday because of a snafu with paperwork. By snafu, I mean, facilities says: "What day do you start work?" and I answer honestly and my card can't be activated or key obtained til then. How unkept and unhoused do you want your tourguides to be?
On Night 1, though, at our shiny best, Mom and I hit MassMoCA for the Roomful of Teeth works-in-progress concert. RoT is phenomenal vocal ensemble founded and conducted by Brad Wells, who is on the Williams music department faculty. (Check them out, with full vids of last year's MassMoCA residency, here: www.roomfulofteeth.org). Briefly, the ensemble is composed of eight classically trained singers, 4 men, 4 women, who are introduced to global vocal styles (thus far, Tuvan throat singing, yodeling, belting, and Inuit throat singing) and then work with a few young scruffy gracious composers -- all present at Friday's performance -- to create a variety of vocal pieces within the frame of 2-3 week residencies. This is a very dry way of saying, they will change the way you think about music and musical performance.
I imagine it's best to see them live: in a crowded, non-air conditioned warehouse performance space, in midsummer, in exhausted evening, they were riveting. The pure movement of the vocalization is pretty cool. Making the sounds requires full-body engagement, such that even the most sedate pieces really foregrounded breath, and each had a dramatic arc that was a pure product of sound. On top of which the compositions were across-the-board awesome (I am going to except one piece, a chant which the composer reassured the audience was "really happy," with a German text meaning "Man is God." The exclusively male cast and stomping + two-finger conducting style that accompanied this piece were unfortunately and, I pray, unintentionally, neo-Nazi). As a dancer, or perhaps more specifically, as someone who experiences music as a physical impulse, I was blown away by the choreographic possibility of the work, which I think is not incidental: among the composers is a group member who also improvises with NYU dance students. I spoke to another one of the composers after the show about a witty piece entitled "High Done No Why To" which left a series of picture stills (and movement, throws) in my head. The same guy put together the night's penultimate performance, a setting of a poem about Bear Bryant, football coach, who died 28 days into retirement. He'd suggested that he might - die - to fill his time (true story). It featured a discombobulating/awe-inspiring belt solo that wouldn't stop, with a really catchy hook: "There is no subtlety in death, it's like a hurricane, it's like Farrakhan..."
The brief Q&A that followed the show highlighted the playfulness of the group as a whole. They're occupying space in what I guess might be a new wave of collaborative performance. In the same way I hear tell or see evidence of groups like Satori (Williams/Yale alums), new theater house, Apogee, SITI Company, I'm witnessing the value of an artistry that is process and community-oriented, and that produces really exciting work because of it. Somehow the impressions I had of "the business" leaving NCSA were primarily commercial; I'm glad to be reworking that into a more human model of how you live, how above what you do, how informing what (is possible). And obviously, I'm still working on articulating this. The mulling is incidental: point is, a really exciting performance. I wanted to share it.
On Night 1, though, at our shiny best, Mom and I hit MassMoCA for the Roomful of Teeth works-in-progress concert. RoT is phenomenal vocal ensemble founded and conducted by Brad Wells, who is on the Williams music department faculty. (Check them out, with full vids of last year's MassMoCA residency, here: www.roomfulofteeth.org). Briefly, the ensemble is composed of eight classically trained singers, 4 men, 4 women, who are introduced to global vocal styles (thus far, Tuvan throat singing, yodeling, belting, and Inuit throat singing) and then work with a few young scruffy gracious composers -- all present at Friday's performance -- to create a variety of vocal pieces within the frame of 2-3 week residencies. This is a very dry way of saying, they will change the way you think about music and musical performance.
I imagine it's best to see them live: in a crowded, non-air conditioned warehouse performance space, in midsummer, in exhausted evening, they were riveting. The pure movement of the vocalization is pretty cool. Making the sounds requires full-body engagement, such that even the most sedate pieces really foregrounded breath, and each had a dramatic arc that was a pure product of sound. On top of which the compositions were across-the-board awesome (I am going to except one piece, a chant which the composer reassured the audience was "really happy," with a German text meaning "Man is God." The exclusively male cast and stomping + two-finger conducting style that accompanied this piece were unfortunately and, I pray, unintentionally, neo-Nazi). As a dancer, or perhaps more specifically, as someone who experiences music as a physical impulse, I was blown away by the choreographic possibility of the work, which I think is not incidental: among the composers is a group member who also improvises with NYU dance students. I spoke to another one of the composers after the show about a witty piece entitled "High Done No Why To" which left a series of picture stills (and movement, throws) in my head. The same guy put together the night's penultimate performance, a setting of a poem about Bear Bryant, football coach, who died 28 days into retirement. He'd suggested that he might - die - to fill his time (true story). It featured a discombobulating/awe-inspiring belt solo that wouldn't stop, with a really catchy hook: "There is no subtlety in death, it's like a hurricane, it's like Farrakhan..."
The brief Q&A that followed the show highlighted the playfulness of the group as a whole. They're occupying space in what I guess might be a new wave of collaborative performance. In the same way I hear tell or see evidence of groups like Satori (Williams/Yale alums), new theater house, Apogee, SITI Company, I'm witnessing the value of an artistry that is process and community-oriented, and that produces really exciting work because of it. Somehow the impressions I had of "the business" leaving NCSA were primarily commercial; I'm glad to be reworking that into a more human model of how you live, how above what you do, how informing what (is possible). And obviously, I'm still working on articulating this. The mulling is incidental: point is, a really exciting performance. I wanted to share it.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Lemons and Lymes
One way life can hand you lemons is by giving you Lyme disease. In this situation, lemonade is inappropriate. Yesterday I was diagnosed with LD from a tick bite on my inner thigh. The ladies at the doctor's office were hugely intrigued by my "interesting rash!" In addition to the physician's assistant and nurse practitioner who were actually supposed to examine me, another nurse and a doctor came for the fun. I'm now on doxycyclin, which will alleviate the symptoms (muscle ache, headache, fever, fatigue) and also cause sun sensitivity. Ideally, you avoid the sun for three weeks. However, the next three weeks I'll be leading tours of Williams outdoors. Ergo the new maxim: when life gives you Lyme, buy a floppy hat.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Wagon Summer
One for hopping on or off them. I'm not quite sure how I'll be using this blog, other than that I will. I'd like to start taking some pictures again, and I'm sure I will once I'm up in Maine, out in Portland, and otherwise bopping about Williamstown.
The summer schedule is full. Right now I'm at home. That's been full of unexpectedness, blessings mostly. Chelsea walked in all of a sudden and surprised me. I've seen good friends and been getting things done. I'm starting my summer reading projects, which tend generally towards theological study. I've begun Wilfred Cantwell Smith's The Meaning and End of Religion, my first serious book after the school year's end (the others were Jules Feiffer's autobio which I read to give myself a snarky but satisfying break, and his The Man in the Ceiling which again proves my point about great literature coming packed for kids). Anyway, the Smith book begins with a history of the word religio and is thus far pretty fascinating and intelligible. Eben and I are also reading N.T. Wright's The New Testament and the People of God, and I'm trying to keep up with him in Wendell Berry's Home Economics and a rereading of some Marilynne Robinson, always provocative and deeply moving.
Next week late I head back up to Williams to tourguide for three weeks. I'm living with good friends, a harp, a bunny, and a banjo (mine, restored, an 1890s Stewart that now out of Eben and Nathaniel's more competent hands will be free for my bungling - I can't wait). The plan is long days at work and no home assignments apart from a visa for France and what else I choose: more reading; some memorization of poems and scripture, to keep them indivisibly with me; writing poetry, finishing a children's book, working on a concept for a show; movies, long overdue, with various buds; working out to get ready for:
Apogee Arts in Maine! (More info about them here: ). Alison Chase, the founder (also of Pilobolus), has taken me on. I'll be dancing in a site-specific piece in a quarry (with a live steel band and giant tractor puppets), as well as living with Alison in a house on the coast and acting as her personal assistant. There will also be kayaks, a sauna, and several large trucks I'll need to learn stick shift to drive. I couldn't be more thrilled about the project, or the people I'll be working with -- it's a big show with company members, community members, and local farmers driving the tractors, all headed up by a very very nice dance-theater luminary. So I'll definitely be writing about my experience there.
Til that time, this blog may fill with ruminations or it may lie dormant. The last days of school and graduation are still keeping my thoughts, but I have to trouble through them in my own mind first.
The summer schedule is full. Right now I'm at home. That's been full of unexpectedness, blessings mostly. Chelsea walked in all of a sudden and surprised me. I've seen good friends and been getting things done. I'm starting my summer reading projects, which tend generally towards theological study. I've begun Wilfred Cantwell Smith's The Meaning and End of Religion, my first serious book after the school year's end (the others were Jules Feiffer's autobio which I read to give myself a snarky but satisfying break, and his The Man in the Ceiling which again proves my point about great literature coming packed for kids). Anyway, the Smith book begins with a history of the word religio and is thus far pretty fascinating and intelligible. Eben and I are also reading N.T. Wright's The New Testament and the People of God, and I'm trying to keep up with him in Wendell Berry's Home Economics and a rereading of some Marilynne Robinson, always provocative and deeply moving.
Next week late I head back up to Williams to tourguide for three weeks. I'm living with good friends, a harp, a bunny, and a banjo (mine, restored, an 1890s Stewart that now out of Eben and Nathaniel's more competent hands will be free for my bungling - I can't wait). The plan is long days at work and no home assignments apart from a visa for France and what else I choose: more reading; some memorization of poems and scripture, to keep them indivisibly with me; writing poetry, finishing a children's book, working on a concept for a show; movies, long overdue, with various buds; working out to get ready for:
Apogee Arts in Maine! (More info about them here: ). Alison Chase, the founder (also of Pilobolus), has taken me on. I'll be dancing in a site-specific piece in a quarry (with a live steel band and giant tractor puppets), as well as living with Alison in a house on the coast and acting as her personal assistant. There will also be kayaks, a sauna, and several large trucks I'll need to learn stick shift to drive. I couldn't be more thrilled about the project, or the people I'll be working with -- it's a big show with company members, community members, and local farmers driving the tractors, all headed up by a very very nice dance-theater luminary. So I'll definitely be writing about my experience there.
Til that time, this blog may fill with ruminations or it may lie dormant. The last days of school and graduation are still keeping my thoughts, but I have to trouble through them in my own mind first.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Digging It Up
This past weekend, we broke ground on Williams' new sustainable garden. Where there once was nothing but a swath of lawn, there are now twelve raised beds ready for their planting. There's also a guardian made of unearthed stones (Zed, who has a delicately balanced stick for his arms), and a sweet deep pile of darkest mulch. I made a new friend, Zeta, age 8, and acquired a few responsibilities. Every Thursday, I'm the camp composter, which means hauling bins from the dining hall to a coop of wood-and-wire that banks the edge of campus. The neighbors have complained. Not about the smell, but about the possibility of raccoons. There's a fear that these "masked bandits of the night" will disrupt the heretofore peaceful life of their kitty. I say, if the raccoon wants to eat the cat, he'll eat the cat, and my banana peels with neither deter or encourage him.
Saturday is the official ribbon-cutting on the garden, and we're hoping the newly installed college president will attend. There will be work parties every Saturday til the end of the school year, and I imagine I'll be watering and tending straight through the summer. It feels good to do something with my muscles and my hands, particularly something beneficial. As far as I know, running on a treadmill hasn't benefited my community -- though that could be changing, as some of the gym machines are being converted to produce sustainable energy for the college. Egads, Williams, you get the gold star. Anyway, for all the days when my only discernible product is a lot of ideas, I feel pretty good about greening my thumb. Also looking forward to Wendell Berry's visit at the end of this month. Part of the event is a dinner at the president's house (ours, not Obama's, alas) and I've been invited. Serendipity, I think. He's speaking primarily about farming, but I'm particularly interested by his ideas on "Sex, Economy, Freedom, and Community," presented in a really excellent essay. Some students have formed a discussion group on Christianity and sexuality. Wonder if Wendell could be bribed to attend?
Also in the land of ideas, I've spent much of today and yesterday plugging through a piece of fiction writing that I've had in mind for a while. I mistakenly offered to present my revisions to my class on Monday, not realizing I'd have to turn the story in for their edits today or tomorrow. But I had a very long productive reading with Eben, who in addition to his other attributes is a brilliant editor, and I feel like I'm on the right track. It's exhilarating, and may be resuscitating my feeble desire to do a creative thesis. But I've got a year (in Paris!) to think about that.
Had a three-hour coffee date with a new friend. We're thinking of meeting up to write and bounce syllables off each others' heads. She says back in Arizona, she never shut up, but at Williams, she barely speaks. I might not have known her at all, but she was part of an ethnographic theater piece and told a great story about her grandma. We're becoming friends and I'm glad of it. Also, today, while composting, I had a long conversation with the founder of this fledgling garden movement, who took Four Years Off Of School, and is thus a graduating 27-year old. Little interest as he has in cultivating friendships with 19-year old sophomores, it was an interesting connection to make. A pocket of time with a good story in it. I strain so often to make things happen, it's nice when for once they simply just do. In the good insights column, a gem from my mother: "I think maybe you are putting too much pressure on ... everything."
So I'm lightening up as the day winds down. My friend has a thesis for me to help edit, but she also has popcorn and she's a real fun broad. She'll come back fresh from the Brahms Requiem, and I'll keep trying to make sense of her semicolons. Those are all good things, yeah?
Oh, also, I got mentioned honorably for a poem, for the Bullock Prize at Williams. I'm pretty excited, because this happened last year too, but this time, the guy gave us comments (different judge). Mine, he said, was among the weirdest of the entries. I figured, since I'm already self-indulgent cause I have a blog, I'd post the thing as well. But I've also been coming to believe, that if I want to write, and I do, I can't keep thinking it's shameful to share it, or somehow presumptuous, or rude. It might just be a nice thing - I know I like it when friends show their work to me!
Christmas Letter
Friends of friends and friends, and the streets
We found in our address books:
There is snow here,
There is ice,
There is an ache in staring too long
At the ground.
In our house, we hang heavy,
Our own weight heavy in our palms.
Peter painted his room last fall,
Sarah is sneaking some boy up to hers,
There never seems space enough,
And Jim is dying, Jim is always half-gone.
It's been a hard three months - prickly and soured.
The kitchen floods with light since we cut the big tree down.
Jim swears it was an oak; you'd think for twenty years we'd know.
But Kate's more right than any of us,
And we're waiting on Jim, always waiting.
The wallpaper started peeling
With our winter skins,
The house has ruddy bones, pink puffs of fat.
It's nearing Christmas, which we'd all forgotten,
And Jim says hi between hammers of rain,
with a shake - with a shake of his hat.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
On Future Days
My friends will do things in their lives.
Not startling, but startling.
Since going to an arts school, I've bumped into faces I know in Health magazine, in popular YouTube videos, NYTimes slideshows, and the program of a national touring company, all of which brings home quickly this idea of doing things and being known. It's easily recognizable when your friends are performers with pictures plastered up, and I don't doubt that many of the kids I know at Williams and elsewhere will go to have prominent actor bios and book-jacket covers. But other ways equally important, it'd be harder to notice or remember; realizing that the guy I know simply as an alum and friend's boyfriend does something, and that something is work in the White House. Or at a bank, or that he's doing research on birds with an ornithology lab (or will be married this summer, 2 years after college). The point is, these people are no longer being graded - yes, evaluated, yes, dependent, but no, they do not have 3 papers, 2 applications and 1 exam this week. At one point they did. But if I keep all these friends in my remembrance as doers of school and not people who are working towards being people, I will burrow in here and miss the point of it.
I'm getting scared of things again, which always happens when there's too little time to breath. At the end of Winter Study, I felt comfortable and confident and true in a way I hadn't felt at college before and have been slowly slipping from ever since. Why so elusive, always, I wonder? I need a river under the bright moments and the bad, instead of these little falls at gladness and dry rock everywhere else. Sometimes the high points are the deceptive bits -- the giddiness you feel causes thoughtlessness, while gravity makes you kinder. I hope to know the difference.
Not startling, but startling.
Since going to an arts school, I've bumped into faces I know in Health magazine, in popular YouTube videos, NYTimes slideshows, and the program of a national touring company, all of which brings home quickly this idea of doing things and being known. It's easily recognizable when your friends are performers with pictures plastered up, and I don't doubt that many of the kids I know at Williams and elsewhere will go to have prominent actor bios and book-jacket covers. But other ways equally important, it'd be harder to notice or remember; realizing that the guy I know simply as an alum and friend's boyfriend does something, and that something is work in the White House. Or at a bank, or that he's doing research on birds with an ornithology lab (or will be married this summer, 2 years after college). The point is, these people are no longer being graded - yes, evaluated, yes, dependent, but no, they do not have 3 papers, 2 applications and 1 exam this week. At one point they did. But if I keep all these friends in my remembrance as doers of school and not people who are working towards being people, I will burrow in here and miss the point of it.
I'm getting scared of things again, which always happens when there's too little time to breath. At the end of Winter Study, I felt comfortable and confident and true in a way I hadn't felt at college before and have been slowly slipping from ever since. Why so elusive, always, I wonder? I need a river under the bright moments and the bad, instead of these little falls at gladness and dry rock everywhere else. Sometimes the high points are the deceptive bits -- the giddiness you feel causes thoughtlessness, while gravity makes you kinder. I hope to know the difference.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Sweet Dreams
La Belle Romaine, by Modigliani.
La Bibliothéque Nationale de France.
1930s/40s portrait by Mike Disfarmer.
He's the subject of a piece of puppet theatre by the same name.
Look it up -- one of the most incredible things I've ever seen.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Brief Updates From a Hole In the Ground
I am getting back out.
Thursday, I was rejected from the Williams-Exeter Programme at Oxford.
Friday, I was rejected from the Williams Summer Theater Lab.
Saturday, I spent the day researching internships and opportunities for summer employment.
Now, I'm installed with seeming permanence in the coffeeshop, constructing my first official (not theatrical!) resume, writing cover letters, and imploring professors to forgive me as I asked them to write recommendations due March 1st, tomorrow.
What have I learned this week?
There are no sure things.
There are more possibilities than I'd imagine.
People are helpful.
People are silly.
Admissions decisions are made by people.
Doors closing doesn't necessarily mean windows opening: it just means you're free to notice doors you might not have seen before. And,
If the door seems closed, sometimes you can jimmy the lock.
When something doesn't work out, it's a good time to be brave and stupid and just try something else.
My good good mother and father said, you know, you could take some time off. And that's pretty cool.
I'll keep thinking and keep playing.
And keep climbing.
Thursday, I was rejected from the Williams-Exeter Programme at Oxford.
Friday, I was rejected from the Williams Summer Theater Lab.
Saturday, I spent the day researching internships and opportunities for summer employment.
Now, I'm installed with seeming permanence in the coffeeshop, constructing my first official (not theatrical!) resume, writing cover letters, and imploring professors to forgive me as I asked them to write recommendations due March 1st, tomorrow.
What have I learned this week?
There are no sure things.
There are more possibilities than I'd imagine.
People are helpful.
People are silly.
Admissions decisions are made by people.
Doors closing doesn't necessarily mean windows opening: it just means you're free to notice doors you might not have seen before. And,
If the door seems closed, sometimes you can jimmy the lock.
When something doesn't work out, it's a good time to be brave and stupid and just try something else.
My good good mother and father said, you know, you could take some time off. And that's pretty cool.
I'll keep thinking and keep playing.
And keep climbing.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Misc. à Minuit
I love this piece by Klimt because it's so uncharacteristic - I guess I mean that it is not at all like The Kiss. But I also like it just because I like it. The man who painted it described himself: "I am not particularly interesting."
I'm in a mood, somewhat contemplative, mostly scribblative, which I'd like to exploit in journaling and letter-writing and some on -the-page puzzling in my mother tongue. 21 pages of archaic French lie in wait (we've just begun un petit extrait de Les Misérables), but I've been taking my sweet time with Fielding's Tom Jones, C.S. Lewis's The Great Divorce, and a slew of sociology readings. Memory and Identity is burning up my highlighter. I wish the packet were book-bound to add style to my future shelves. I'm working on ideas for our individual research project ... various floating fancies in re: comparative studies. Letters as agents of identification in community, practices of memorization (poems, verses, etc.), or grieving processes and communal mourning.
I've been interested in the roots of "nostalgia" - in 1688, a physician called Hofer coined the term from the Greek words for returning home (nostós) and pain/ache (álgos). He used it to describe the condition of Swiss mercenaries pining for their native lands. The idea of nativity is not, I think, far removed from an empathetic modern understanding of nostalgia. If we consider nostalgia, not as the "pervasive failure of imagination" ridiculed by modern critics - according to Plessner, "anonymity, itinerancy, [and] dispersion" alone offer the modern man a new "horizon of possibility" - if we throw that definition in the dust-heap, we might be able to consider just what our yearning for particular aspects of past history elucidates about our real condition. For all this mitigated media - and even, perhaps, by means of it - an urge for community remains and is expressed. Despite economic inviability and the often brutalizing consequences of attachment, attachment is just what we most want to cultivate. Only now we have particularly shammy ways of going about it. I'm veering from nostalgia in the direction of my own jugular - no one is more hypocritical than I am when it comes to Facebook.
Which leads me to a Lenten promise. For the first time, as a Presbyterian, I'm giving up something. And good grief - it's social networking. 46 days sans that particular foothold.
I've been experiencing a strange phenomenon lately: if I have a quick interaction, in a hallway, in a dining hall, if it ends too quickly, I have difficulty conceiving that it happened at all. Something feels fundamentally off-kilter in these brief glimpses, something more than shallowness. I was diagnosed anxious and stressed, but maybe I'm more inundated than either. And with a natural thoughtlessness to my character, that inundation breeds disengagement. Another memory reading seems to fit here - the cognitive analysis of buying bread.
Repetitive actions such as trips to the grocery store are basically only differentiable by the date of the occurrence. So our minds jumble all those operations together, and we end up remembering just the first and last times we purchased a loaf. Something like that seems to happen to me when there is an undifferentiated projection of self in social situations or online - if I'm telling the same story, repeating the same lines, or behaving in a "coded" way, my conversations seem to fall into that same cognitive heap. This is obviously destructive. Eliminating an element of my life that feels particularly shallow and undifferentiable, and therefore frankly dangerous (oh, I have sermons on Facebook, and I must preach them to myself!) would be wise for a time. And free up more of those moments for writing, reading, throwing open my doors, and reinvesting my energies. I want a better attention span, honestly, and a more generous engagement with my community (also quite selfish, but why not beg the real things?).
Now, I'd better do homework. It's after 1 AM and foreign languages just get harder. I have a mix CD called Homicidal Mourning: Criminal Approaches to the Exercise of Grief. I'm going to play Counting Crows on repeat. If nothing else, I'll write something for my second fiction meeting, scope the local bookstore website for good kids' stuff. I have a gift card, and that is ice cream money, man. If you didn't earn it, you can spend it on a smoothie or a pop-up book, or a journal to write lists in. Lists are also a topic in Memory and Identity - and I've no reason to wish them gone. Currently, my screen displays a folder filled with artwork I love. Currently, I'm reading an article called "Mediated Memories in the Digital Age." Much ado about the physical fact of photographs, so I'm going to print those pieces. For the moment, the top of this post bears evidence from the file, which also featuring Degas - and Corinne Serfass. My friends are really an inspiring bunch.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Private Dressing Room
As my fiction prof pointed out this evening, every character thinks they have the starring role.
This flipped me around in a fine way from the muck I'd been wallowing in the last 24 hours.
I'm exploring the idea of what it'd mean to consciously take the part of supporting cast.
This flipped me around in a fine way from the muck I'd been wallowing in the last 24 hours.
I'm exploring the idea of what it'd mean to consciously take the part of supporting cast.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Life is Whole
At a film screening on "Claiming Williams Day," the audience was given a short essay by Brendan Maher in lieu of programs. The topic was the necessity of respect between all colleagues - faculty, students, and staff - in the educational endeavor. It addressed the damaging effects of "divid[ing] standards of civility and respect into those that we apply to persons we define as peers versus those that we apply to persons that we do not so define." Sometimes overwritten, as you can see, the piece had a moment of spare and startling truthfulness. Its best line is my title: life is whole.
Formal education teaches us to "unpack" a phrase like that, sacrificing compact elegance for a clearer view. For a long time, I think, it's a lean endeavor - full of budding for the essayist ("to try" in French), but bearing little fruit for an observer. We tinker with our watches, and hope that when we are through, they will still tell time. But from this sudden sentiment, this life is whole, I thought, well, I can't say what. Very little was actually about staff or students - that was there already. But life is whole! In part:
Who am I to myself? Who am I to my best friend, to my brother, to my ex-boyfriend and my dad? When I save up my anger for my home, or I talk "I changed" while relegating others to always-the-same, what am I saying?
For the last: sometimes I wonder why I try to write it for myself when Marilynne Robinson is still on earth. "Until you forgive, you defend yourself against the possibility of understanding." If I will not forgive, I say this, I willfully keep myself apart, I believe something too shaky and uneven to rest on anything but a pile of rubble. I say that I believe life and myself in it can be compartmentalized, subdivided, that I owe different allegiances and standards of being to the interesting people and the older people, the smarter people and the sadder or skinnier or weirder or even the meaner people. I can be different to people who hurt me or people who just don't impress me. This cannot be what I believe.
We cut ourselves a lot of slack by living life one day at a time. I won't chuck modernity out the window, even if I dangle it dangerously near, even if the more I read, the scareder I get. Maybe simply out of cowardice, I keep something, for there is, almost always, something to keep. But if life is whole, and we are whole, we have to live it whole. Not one day at a time, not even really in stages or steps. Let the postmodern BS fly.
In whole lifetime, whole being, life is whole means living how? Packed tightly:
Like a current, like a pattern,
like a home, and like a prayer.
Formal education teaches us to "unpack" a phrase like that, sacrificing compact elegance for a clearer view. For a long time, I think, it's a lean endeavor - full of budding for the essayist ("to try" in French), but bearing little fruit for an observer. We tinker with our watches, and hope that when we are through, they will still tell time. But from this sudden sentiment, this life is whole, I thought, well, I can't say what. Very little was actually about staff or students - that was there already. But life is whole! In part:
Who am I to myself? Who am I to my best friend, to my brother, to my ex-boyfriend and my dad? When I save up my anger for my home, or I talk "I changed" while relegating others to always-the-same, what am I saying?
For the last: sometimes I wonder why I try to write it for myself when Marilynne Robinson is still on earth. "Until you forgive, you defend yourself against the possibility of understanding." If I will not forgive, I say this, I willfully keep myself apart, I believe something too shaky and uneven to rest on anything but a pile of rubble. I say that I believe life and myself in it can be compartmentalized, subdivided, that I owe different allegiances and standards of being to the interesting people and the older people, the smarter people and the sadder or skinnier or weirder or even the meaner people. I can be different to people who hurt me or people who just don't impress me. This cannot be what I believe.
We cut ourselves a lot of slack by living life one day at a time. I won't chuck modernity out the window, even if I dangle it dangerously near, even if the more I read, the scareder I get. Maybe simply out of cowardice, I keep something, for there is, almost always, something to keep. But if life is whole, and we are whole, we have to live it whole. Not one day at a time, not even really in stages or steps. Let the postmodern BS fly.
In whole lifetime, whole being, life is whole means living how? Packed tightly:
Like a current, like a pattern,
like a home, and like a prayer.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Natural Tendencies
Mine is to be a trifle hot-headed.
Also, to be impressed by smart words from the mouth of Anne Bogart (director, author, & founder of SITI Company).
Given that dichotomy, when this sentence popped out at the end of a blogpost entitled "Instinct vs. Impulse," I couldn't be surprised that instinctive liking was undercut by impulsive irritation:
"The artist seeks out what cannot be comprehended and welcomes the discomfort of doubt. The natural tendency is to forget and the artist remembers."
As might be said, Lady, I don't like your tone.
Do you kid? Woman, do you jest? Sure, I'd like to take a pass on some particular recollections, but I don't think we forget so easy. And when we do forget, if by natural tendency you mean scientific tendency, not willful sublimation, if you mean degeneration of mind, if you mean, for example, Alzheimer's, it's scary as hell and no artistry will keep you from it. Because whether or not we're cuddling with our nagging doubts, a good many folks who you mightn't call artists are bearing with them, many separated from those artistic communities which you have so idealistically raised up. The common man has his artistry, may possess wisdom that runs counter to "natural impulse," and art is not the only predilection that defies Darwin.
Perhaps Bogart means to offer a more inclusive definition of the "artist" by so marking him: he savors obstacles, pauses in the center of difficulty and challenge. Perhaps she points to the artistry of a common existence that eschews cowardice and braves community, allows the time to gather weight. But there is a truer (and God, less arrogant) way to define a someone capable of these rememberings - and that someone doesn't have to "welcome the discomfort of doubt" but only bear it with fortitude, I guess. Why bother with the rarified vocabulary when you talk about living? If you want to speak of some kind of mantle, give it to people, and not just to artists.
Also, to be impressed by smart words from the mouth of Anne Bogart (director, author, & founder of SITI Company).
Given that dichotomy, when this sentence popped out at the end of a blogpost entitled "Instinct vs. Impulse," I couldn't be surprised that instinctive liking was undercut by impulsive irritation:
"The artist seeks out what cannot be comprehended and welcomes the discomfort of doubt. The natural tendency is to forget and the artist remembers."
As might be said, Lady, I don't like your tone.
Do you kid? Woman, do you jest? Sure, I'd like to take a pass on some particular recollections, but I don't think we forget so easy. And when we do forget, if by natural tendency you mean scientific tendency, not willful sublimation, if you mean degeneration of mind, if you mean, for example, Alzheimer's, it's scary as hell and no artistry will keep you from it. Because whether or not we're cuddling with our nagging doubts, a good many folks who you mightn't call artists are bearing with them, many separated from those artistic communities which you have so idealistically raised up. The common man has his artistry, may possess wisdom that runs counter to "natural impulse," and art is not the only predilection that defies Darwin.
Perhaps Bogart means to offer a more inclusive definition of the "artist" by so marking him: he savors obstacles, pauses in the center of difficulty and challenge. Perhaps she points to the artistry of a common existence that eschews cowardice and braves community, allows the time to gather weight. But there is a truer (and God, less arrogant) way to define a someone capable of these rememberings - and that someone doesn't have to "welcome the discomfort of doubt" but only bear it with fortitude, I guess. Why bother with the rarified vocabulary when you talk about living? If you want to speak of some kind of mantle, give it to people, and not just to artists.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
The Final Frontier
The final project for dear friend Peter Cox, may God rest his soul on the day he shall die, is finito. Thank that same gracious Creator. I've never been more disappointed in a course, and if the man gives me a perfunctory pass ... ! It's unimportant. This image was the product of final-stretch stress, and the thought that if the photographs just didn't have to look like anything in the known world, I might feel more relaxed. I did not feel relaxed when the computer prematurely compressed all the work I'd done on this picture, making it impossible to show the individual "layers" of editing. No good for the grade, but fine for web uploads. Yes, because of this class, it is probably true that, on some distant day, I'll be able to make an image I'm really proud of. But Prof. Cox will show up only in the anti-acceptance speech ("Mr. Mullally, who told me shut up, you're not funny - I do not share this award with you!").
We're into Dead Week, which is the (false advertising) 5 day break between the end of Winter Study and the commencement of spring courses. Lots of kids go home, off on acapella retreats, down to the city (or sideways to the other city). I'm pretty firmly planted here. I've spent the morning seeing off a friend who's bound for Kenya on the 6:30 flight, reading Flannery O'Connor ("The Nature and Aim of Fiction" is a great essay), having lunch with friends -- one has a stomach bug and is downing foul Moroccan powders to counteract the effects. Also, I began a kids' story, about Cecily, who is not much larger than a garden pea. She goes on an adventure, but her legs are so short she doesn't get but just down the round. Then a grouchy little crab apple falls on her head. It won't be any good at all unless Caroline illustrates it.
A few days back, there was a thaw. The morning after 50 degree heat melted all the snow, I walked out my front door to a bone-dry salt plain on the quad. On the branch of a newly planted tree was blowing a Christmas ornament hung by a purple ribbon; Charlie Brown might have done it out of kindness to the poor thing, and if I’d a suitable rag, I could have taken the shot with a makeshift Linus blanket wrapped around the trunk. The picture I actually took looks more like a school spirit shot for the Williams prospectus (Purple Valley!), but oh well.
In other news, I've become vegan. Originally, it was a one-week stint to cheer on a friend, but it's been really good, and I'm planning on keeping it up. I'm also spending far too much time each day poring over food blogs online. While it's a moral question as far as committed vegetarianism goes, the veganism is more for the sake of health. I just feel better sans the dairy and eggs (and the processed sugars, which I'm cutting as well). That being the case, I don't freak out about the last ingredient in Thomas' english muffins (really? skim milk, but less than either acetic acid or sucralose? did they make it non-vegan just for kicks?). I mean, paranthetical aside. I freak out, but then I squelch my conscience and I eat that darn english muffin. At least for now.
My roomie should be home soon, and I've spiffed up the place (even vacuuming, dusting, the whole shebang, like a real person in a real house) for her arrival. And while this is theoretically my last blog entry, since Winter Study is done, I think I may keep it up, on occasion. I'm getting ready to dive into Memory & Identity, Intro Fiction (?), Literatures des Guerres (in daunting French), and the Book of Job and Joban Literature. So I'll be thinking. Keep thinking, I say. Except during Dead Week. I may stop thinking for a minute or two, just cause. Til I resume...
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Little Things
This is another oldie, taken at the school in Maputo that Wes and Molly Jordan's son Philip attended during their time in Mozambique. The editing, as you can see, makes it look like a Hallmark card. I'm too invested in this "partial black and white" idea, maybe because it makes me look way more Photoshop-competent than I've actually become. Truth be told, the course is pretty awful. The prof is dull, intermittently unpleasant, and hasn't made the most of either our class time or our intelligence. There are also No Handouts, and let me tell you, if you miss something as simple as where to click to begin the process, you're sunk. Photoshop is not an intuitive tool. It is an acquired taste, like oysters.
Incidentally, that's what Stephen Sondheim said about reading when he visited campus this week. His talk was both hilarious and deeply moving. He tells stories with a Pete Seeger voice and looks like my Uncle Hank, and for an 80-year old guy, he's got the sprightliness of 65. I went to a Q&A session with him, and while we didn't meet in the sense of shaking hands, I did ask him a question about lyric-writing and characterization, and he did look at me while he answered. Progress has been made towards a deeper intimacy! Seriously, folks, there are those figures who are inspiring but distant -- or whose words strike your intellect and set off sparks without touching anything deeper -- and there are those who are simply too intimidating or you know they're "great" but for you? Pah. You can read their speeches. But I could imagine a series of very meaningful conversations with Stephen Sondheim...and hey, he said he's in the market for a young collaborator!
Winter Study has surprised me with crayoned murals of St. Sebastian, a read-aloud night, sleepovers, dance parties, new friends, inspiration, a few ego-bruisings and the deeper renewal that accompanies them, progress in my work (who knew? I might be able to really sing one of these days!) and some unseasonably warm weather -- also regenerative!
Today, though, is going to be a hard day. So today in particular it's important to remember: grace, forgiveness, open-heartedness, a zeal for truth and community, and the words of Moominmamma to her Moomintroll: "No matter what happens, I will always know you."
Monday, January 25, 2010
The 50s in Zimpeto
It's over 50 degrees in Williamstown; this picture, however, is from the summer before college, and was edited for an old travel photo feel.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Down Cole Ave.
I woke up late this morning after staying up late to read a children's book with Emma (Finn Family Moomintroll, anyone? "All the small beasts should wear bows in their tails!"). A singer-songwriter played for us at Williams' weekly Log Lunch - delicious vegetarian meal prepared by students, & guest environmental speaker, or in this case, warbler. The afternoon went to Junot Diaz and his book (thank God that Oscar's life, however wondrous, is brief), and was to be finished by dinner at the home of a retired Williams professor, who helps out with a Sunday gathering called "the Feast" - a progressive Christian dinner and time of discussion, reflection, and fellowship. There was a two hour gap, however, between tossing in my laundry and heading to the Cramptons' house. Just enough time for a photo expedition.
Charles and I drove out Cole Ave. and up to Pine Cobble to park, then walked back towarsd the river and the old coal silos beside it.
It got into the high 30s in Williamstown today, so we expected a warm trek. Fiddlesticks. Once more I relied on gallantry to supplement my flimsy WalMart mittens - when my hands became immobile with cold, Charles lent me his gloves. You forget what a good deal the sun has to do with temperature.
I didn't get too many satisfactory shots (and the ones you see here are entirely unedited), but I certainly worked for what I had. By the time I got to the Crampton's house, my boots were muddied, my feet wet, and the bottom 8 inches of my jeans sand-encrusted and sodden. I borrowed rubber bands and balled up the pant-hems so I wouldn't ruin their floors, then cozied my feet to the fire. Over dinner, we got the upcoming semester sorted out: cooking schedule, leaflets, all that stuff. Then Mrs. Crampton brought out a beautiful copy of the Books of Job, Ecclesiastes, Psalms, and Song of Solomon. From the early 1700s. A paraphrasing with, I believe, the King James text, and interpretations of each line interpolated (like Blake or translations of Chaucer). We had rather irreverent fun lisping an F sound for all the printed seraphs.
You know what I love about real houses? Fireplaces, bookshelves, kitchen tables, water pressure, doorbells, dark wood floors, and mailboxes.
Charles and I drove out Cole Ave. and up to Pine Cobble to park, then walked back towarsd the river and the old coal silos beside it.
It got into the high 30s in Williamstown today, so we expected a warm trek. Fiddlesticks. Once more I relied on gallantry to supplement my flimsy WalMart mittens - when my hands became immobile with cold, Charles lent me his gloves. You forget what a good deal the sun has to do with temperature.
I didn't get too many satisfactory shots (and the ones you see here are entirely unedited), but I certainly worked for what I had. By the time I got to the Crampton's house, my boots were muddied, my feet wet, and the bottom 8 inches of my jeans sand-encrusted and sodden. I borrowed rubber bands and balled up the pant-hems so I wouldn't ruin their floors, then cozied my feet to the fire. Over dinner, we got the upcoming semester sorted out: cooking schedule, leaflets, all that stuff. Then Mrs. Crampton brought out a beautiful copy of the Books of Job, Ecclesiastes, Psalms, and Song of Solomon. From the early 1700s. A paraphrasing with, I believe, the King James text, and interpretations of each line interpolated (like Blake or translations of Chaucer). We had rather irreverent fun lisping an F sound for all the printed seraphs.
You know what I love about real houses? Fireplaces, bookshelves, kitchen tables, water pressure, doorbells, dark wood floors, and mailboxes.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
19 and On
You'll notice that, contrary to custom, the above photograph is of, rather than by, me. Frankly, I've gotten lax. This was my 19th birthday: friend Emma constructed a crown bearing the inscription "HAPPY BIRTHDAY LITTLE BLUEBERRY," friend Mattie gave me a brown fur hat that matches my grandfather's old tweed fisherman's cap - so I've a matched set for spring and winter. Obviously, these girls know I'm into headwear. Chuck Shafer brough Schaefer beer and DJed my woefully inadequate party tunes (at one point, I think "Mame" came up on shuffle), and there were sugar cookies dipped in chocolate, fifty slices of North Carolina courtesy of Sammy K. We played hearts, the card game. I got beat, but in the spirit of it being my birthday (in spite of it also being past midnight and no longer really my birthday), I was declared to have had nineteen points the whole time - and thus, I was the clear winner.
I think I would have had photographs for today, had I not met with a familiar obstacle, the old click vs. dip: This evening, my friend Jordanne (with whom I've had all my out-of-town adventures) drove me to Albany for a succession of 3 tango lessons, one beginner-intermediate, a weekly fixture, and a double-length session with a guest artist.
It was a small gathering in the basement of I-don't-know-what community building, a local chapter of the Shrine Club maybe. There were 10 or 12 other people in the room, the youngest in her later 20s, the oldest probably in her 70s - and was she beautiful to watch! Angela. I foresee a friendship. She asked if I was Spanish, as she is - "You've got a little extra movement." I told her I was Italian. "Oh, then that's it."
I was also the only student without significant tango experience - Jordanne, a great dancer, taught me what little I know. I explained my constant tripping away with an "Oh, it's so different in swing! So different in salsa!" Both of those dances are broad - they offer a lot of room for creativity in even the elemental steps. Tango is relentlessly detail-oriented, and the deuce of it is that this minute precision can only be accomplished by complete relaxation.
Guest artist Diego was smooth as could be, and if there were any doubt that tango was the dance of passion, it's been dispelled by his reaction to my shoulder tension. Relax, give weight, lean in, soften. We worked for a long time on the first moment of the dance, the follower's response to the leader as they establish their stance, the torsion of their engagement and the relaxation necessary to make it happen. He paused the class to generalize the lesson for everybody. It came out like this, with a Spanish accent: "Now we're gonna work on, for the men, how to take the woman, and the woman, how to receive the man." That's pretty forward.
But as Jordanne said in the car on our hour-long drive back to Williamstown, tango is not really about sexuality. It's sensual, deeply (If you could see Angela and Diego dance!). But salsa is the sexy one. Tango is intimate.
She's dead on. Tango is a dependent relationship. It asks for vulnerability, communication, intuition, shared breath, shared control, playfulness, the trust to give yourself over. It's great therapy, I guess, and it's a helluva way to have an argument. Everything is pushback, and nobody gets an out. If the woman doesn't offer resistance, the man can't direct her - if she doesn't listen, communication stalls - if he doesn't lead with intention, the conversation fails. (And if he doesn't let her take over once in a while, things really get ugly). The parties have equal stake, and even embellishment is cooperative. Unlike swing, the couple won't release for a jive step or an individual showcase: synergy is everything.
What all this amounts to, is tango is very difficult, and tango is very rich. It made me miss the freedoms of swing and salsa - I would never choose to play only with Argentine fire - but Jordanne and I are going back each week.
It's a 5 til midnight commitment. It's a plan.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Sans Cam
The D90 has gone back to the Equipment Loan Center, leaving undocumented a full day of homemade soup, thrift-store excursion, coffee-sipping, fur tubbing, and dinner discussion (plus the purchase of a truly awesome article of clothing -- sort of a longish early 90s floral jumper-short). This weekend's assignment is to take and post-process two photographs utilizing the basic techniques we've learned in PhotoShop. That'll happen soon.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
The Brief Wondrous Life
The title of this year's Williams Reads selection is The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz. It won the Pulitzer. This is a big improvement over last year's pick, which was a kid's book. Tonight was the kickoff party - great live music, Ritmo Latino spurring a small audience to dance. I grabbed my friend Holly Dwyer, who picked up salsa in seconds. We rocked out.
Unfortunately, there aren't any pictures of that, cause you can't be a shutterbug and a jitterbug at the same time.
But today's resolution (in addition to finishing a monster of a spreadsheet for my internship) was taking people photos. I got the chance when we adjourned to Josephine's room for Italian espresso from Italy (and a Sudanese fez?). Think I'm going to have interesting conversations with my professor about these. His preference for spare, clean cut, balanced landscapes is fairly rigid. I like "full" images, subjects pushing out the side of the frame, and, as evidenced above, I like blurring.
Ben sat still(ish) to oblige my fondness for minutia. I photographed his shoes, the edge of his jeans, and I took about 7 shots of his hands cupping this glass.
Eventually, Madeline bribed me to stop with the promise of a bran muffin. I'm a sucker for a bran muffin.
Now I'm meditating on the message of that title: the brief, wondrous life. It helps to maintain joy while databasing, and though they say pictures are for people who can't remember, I disagree. I get irritated at kids who spend the whole party taking pictures of it, but there is something in the act. 3 summers ago, my teaching assistant at Governor's School had 25 students stand in a circle before a show, doing something very New Agey - in turn, we rotated left and, looking into each others' eyes, said, "It is yours. I give it to you," and embraced. The point was claiming ownership of the work we'd done, honoring our trust in one another. Those moments of seeing and being seen are gifts we hand, unwrapped, to one another. I've been feeling the photo expeditions as a kind of embrace, a documentation of what is on offer. It's true that the pictures I'm taking aren't as messy as what is really on offer. For now, they're highlights. And for now, that's contenting.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Early Morn and Adamventures
I woke up at 7 and headed out to take advantage of the early morning light. Referring to light conditions makes me feel like a real photographer, and not a girl whose point-and-shoot is her only prior experience, a girl who, after today's slowly intimidating class, would like to forget that her classmate's photos appear to be conned from National Geographic.
This afternoon, Adam Stoner and I spent a few hours tramping through Hopkins Forest. We discovered that deer pick the best pathways to snowy creekbeds, that the canopy walk requires the use of mobile ladders and should not be attempted with slick shoes, that two pairs of pants offer perfect insulation, and that the life monastic makes great conversation. Along the way, I took some pictures, here offered as my fledglingest of fledgling efforts. Perhaps still in the nest, as none of them have yet been post-processed; this is just raw material from the camera. Tomorrow is a crash course in SLR photography, after which I hope to be more technically conversant. For now, I'm keeping up with my Winter Study mantra: start each day by deciding what to do. Then do it. And leave room for surprises, gratitude and grace.
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