Not Bad for a Sunday Night

Sylvan Esso and Tune-Yards at Webster Hall.

No justice being done here to Sylvan Esso - too far away and WAY too dark (I hear they fixed the lighting for the second night), but you can almost get a sense of Amelia's platform high tops and her moves.  Be assured: Amelia and Nick brought it.  Brought. It.

  

Tune-Yards with special guests Roomful of Teeth.  There was much rejoicing in the land.

Garu Was Our Favorite

We also loved Pucca.  Not that we were such big fans of the Korean anime series, but we really liked this bag.  

Sadly, time took its toll and eventually every time we'd use the bag, little red flecks would end up on whatever was inside it (and, frequently, whatever was outside in its general vicinity).  So Pucca, Garu, and the bag itself made the trip to the Giant Tote Bag in the Sky.

Thanks for taking care of us all those years...

And so it goes...

Some follow-up may be required.  Last weekend saw a trip to Wisconsin for my Grandmother's memorial.  Yes, she died back around New Year's, but the family made the call (an overall wise one, in my opinion) to hold the memorial event with a lot of notice, making it easier for people to come from far and wide, with the added bonus of not needing to contend with last winter's unremitting frigidity. Which was wonderful in its way, but which of course carried a certain amount of grief, sadness, pain, and family agita (always a healthy dose of family agita).

And, because fate is bitter and mocks us all, a few days before the trip, one of my friends from growing up lost his battle with depression and killed himself.  I can't bring myself to call it luck, but the circumstance of being out there meant that - while still prevented from attending his memorial, I was able to pay my respects to his father and brother, and take said brother out for drinks on a night when I think it's fair to say he could use some out-of-the-house amusement, or at least distraction.

As if that weren't enough (it was quite enough, thank you very much) my extremely-robust-but-there-ain't-no-getting-around-it-OLD Grandfather, who mourns in a way that I don't suppose anyone who hasn't been married for over 70 years can really identify with, had a couple health events of his own.  The first happened the day he arrived: after a 14-hour drive, he and Mom stopped at my aunt's house for supper.  On a trip to the bathroom he stumbled, lost his balance, and fell into the tub - had to go to the emergency room for X Rays. No real damage, but he scraped the hell out of his arms so it was good he was in a place where he could get them bandaged by a pro.  Then, the day after the memorial, which was a celebration but still heartbreaking, a group of us went out for breakfast and grandpa had a Transient Ischemic Attack (TIA, sometimes imperfectly referred to as a mini-stroke) about two-thirds of the way through his french toast. His 8-yr-old great-granddaughter (my niece, shown feeding that calf in the last post) was sitting right across from him, eating french toast of her own, and I have to say she held it together remarkably well as I went over and got his attention, helped ease him back to alertness, went through some of the "rule out a for-reals stroke" steps, unhinged his fingers from his coffee cup, and got him standing and out into the parking lot with my cousin Wally. 

That fresh air did him good right away, as he recovered from the overheated sweat he’d broken into.  But of course it also meant another trip to the hospital, which he wanted about as much as a hole in the head.  Once we got him there, kicking and screaming, the visit went about as well as it could have, and it only took a small chunk out of what was going to be our last day in that part of the state before he headed east with one of his daughters.  And Cory and I headed to Madison to take care of the understandably unhinged friend whose brother had died the week before.

So that happened.  And believe it or not, I’m leaving out some of the nastiest stuff.  Now it’s Friday the 13^th and it’s raining.  Ruby Dee died, almost exactly the same age as my Grandmother, and I’m listening to some Duke Ellington and we’re seeing Macbeth tonight because fuck curses and fuck bad luck.  Power poses all around.

Wisco Weekend

A lot went on last weekend, a lot of it pretty dark, and the effects will resonate for a while.  But there were some streaks of light.

Weight of the World

Since the recent reports on Global Climate, and the not-coincidental Civilians show The Great Immensity at the Public, I've been thinking a lot about the Adrián Villar Rojas exhibition we caught at the Serpentine last year, Today, We Reboot the Planet.

The floor of the gallery consisted (for this exhibition) of bricks fabricated from native clay in the artist's home country of Argentina.  The bricks were laid without mortar, which meant that they clinked against the sub-floor and each other when people walked on them, creating a constant descant of sound, and conveying the shaky ground we all walk in this pivotal moment of high-stakes environmental poker.

Clay was his primary medium throughout, most prominently in the central image of an elephant bearing the weight of the building - and, as I read the sculpture, bearing up under the weight of development (another kind of 'building'), industry and imperialism with their interlocking versions of environmental effrontery.

A central studio with stained glass gable windows contained dozens of smaller sculptures, also mainly fired clay, with other media, including found objects, mixed in.

Maybe you'll forgive me if I admit that this one, even with its explicit connection to the earth in the form of farm and gardening implements, reminds me of Marvin the Martian.

Happy May Day.

Thoreau is Weeping

You may have seen some things about this on Jon Stewart or FOX News, but you want to take a look at this article, from the Times.

I know, it's from that East Coast Elitist rag, but no one is claiming they are misquoting Freedom-Loving Rancher and purported champion of Civil Disobedience Cliven Bundy when he held forth on “The Negro”:

“They abort their young children, they put their young men in jail, because they never learned how to pick cotton. And I’ve often wondered, are they better off as slaves, picking cotton and having a family life and doing things, or are they better off under government subsidy? They didn’t get no more freedom. They got less freedom.”

You know Cliven, when y’all keep saying things like that while you’re waving guns around, people are going to start to think you’re downright unreasonable.

Of course, according to him, Bundy is just a Patriot doing the Lord's work. A confusing kind of patriot, in that he Really Really Loves America while simultaneously denying the authority of the Federal government over Federal land.  Go into the comment thread and banner ads of that article at your own risk.  Personal fave from my first glance: "What would you rather eat... Beef or Solar Panels?"  Yup.  Just keep raising the bar of discourse, guys.

Speaking of beef, lest you think I’m only unhappy with the right wing racist nutjobs out there, I've also got a beef with a quote in that Times article from Rob Mrowka from the Center of Biological Diversity:

“This should not be confused with civil disobedience. This is outright anarchy going on here.”

Well, sheesh Rob!  That’s just flat-out unfair to anarchists.

Happy Birthday Will!

Yes, I've been a slacker blogger, but to this, attention must be paid.

And yes, I know that we're not really sure what Shakespeare's birthday was in 1564, and that the April 23 thing is probably just a too-tidy parallel to his April 23 death date in 1616.  (And I'm not even getting into the question of whether Shakespeare was really Shakespeare.)

But come on - a 450th birthday party?  It's worth a mention.

Bronx Botanicals

At Mary's request, we went to the NY Botanical Gardens for the Orchid show.  Also got to see Philip Haas's Four Seasons sculptures.

Fall

Winter

Too cold to honor Spring and Summer.  But here are some orchids for you:

Next Day

Last Sunday looked something like this...

Times Square, natch

Promethean Zamboni

Petting Patience (not to be confused with Fortitude) for luck.

More Patience, more luck.

New York Niece

Yes, our big project last weekend was hosting my lovely and talented niece Mary.  We actually have been working up to this project for weeks ahead of time, planning bunches of things  while keeping our options wide open.

And so, I present to you some of the highlights:

The arrival on Friday night was smooth.  Picked her up at JFK and brought her back to Chelsea.  Cory ordered dinner that got there within minutes of our arrival.  Minutes, I tells ya - minutes!

Next morning, we had bagel breakfast, and then headed out for the big Day One:

A sight Mary got to know well: the good ol' 23rd St. stop on the 1 train.

Thence, we went to see The Grand Budapest Hotel, which was most excellent, at the fancy theater with barcoloungers on the UWS.

Hoofed it across town, stopping to grab treats at a fine establishment named Treat House [I believe Cory grabbed a shot; I'll plug it in if so] which we then ate in Central Park, near the Delacorte and the Great Lawn, before moving on to the Museum district.

Poked our heads into the Guggenheim.  

Then moved on to the Met, where we spent a while in the Marville/Paris photography exhibition before doing a highlights tour with one of their docents - that covered a good bunch of ground in terms of time and space, from ancient Greece, to Rome, to Assyria, Africa.

Then down to Little India in the East 6th environs.  Had dinner at one of the more aggressively colorful places, before wrapping up the day with the Neos.

Bob Mould at City Winery.

Nights in the Museum

Did a reading at MASS MoCA (which venue, in the larger sense, I've mentioned here many, many times) a couple Thursdays ago.  The American Premiere of The Interview, by Guillaume Leblon and Thomas Boutoux, to go along with Leblon's exhibition at the museum.

Photo by James Voorhies as far as I can tell

Photo by Art Evans

The experience provided me with a crash self-taught course in contemporary art, at the very least.  I sometimes feel like I know what I'm talking about when it comes to such things, then I'll run across a script like this one and realize that I don't know shit.  It was a great experience for me working on the piece with the artist, his wife, the other actor (plus the very game film intern we roped into being part of the show), and all the amazing, fantastic people at MoCA.

As if that weren't enough, we made a weekend out of it; I visited the museum exhibitions - most of them multiple times.  They're always good, you should go.  The Izhar Patkin work in the big room was especially moving, to me.

And we got to catch the residency/work-in-progress The Colorado, (also referred to as "Water Songs: Ha Tay G'am") a film and music project exploring the heartbreaking developments in the Colorado River Basin, and by extension the environmental catastrophes facing, umm, the entire planet.  Amazing.  Murat Eyuboglo is making the films; William deBuys is consulting on the science; a number of composers (Brittelle, Adams, Prestini, Worden, possibly others when all is said and done) scoring the music performed by the brilliant Roomful of Teeth; they all worked fast to put together the show we saw last Saturday.  I'm talking fast: they all showed up on Monday to talk, look at footage, write, and edit; the musicians arrived on Thursday morning; and the presentation was Saturday night.  The project won't be finished until 2015 (I think), keep an eye out for it.

Moving on from MoCA, I just want to mention the Cynthia Hopkins show A Living Documentary that happened at New York Live Arts this past Thursday.  Cynthia's one-woman theater/music piece about creating performance and trying to make a living (or even stay alive) doing it, in a universe where all the funds seem to go to production equipment and architectural 'improvements,' while shockingly little goes to the artists (arguably because the artists continue to give it away, or sell it cheap).  Lot going on there - funny, moving, creative, upsetting, exciting, inspiring, enraging.  It only played for a few days in that incarnation, glad I was able to catch it.

Happy V-Day

Chelsea Afternoon

Junot Díaz at Yale

I haven't been able to confirm this text, but it has been popping up all over the internets (I think I first saw it here and here, among other places.)  It certainly reads right.

Life is going to present to you a series of transformations. And the point of education should be to transform you. To teach you how to be transformed so you can ride the waves as they come. But today, the point of education is not education. It’s accreditation. The more accreditation you have, the more money you make. That’s the instrumental logic of neoliberalism. And this instrumental logic comes wrapped in an envelope of fear. And my Ivy League, my MIT students are the same. All I feel coming off of my students is fear. That if you slip up in school, if you get one bad grade, if you make one fucking mistake, the great train of wealth will leave you behind. And that’s the logic of accreditation. If you’re at Yale, you’re in the smartest 1% in the world. […] And the brightest students in the world are learning in fear. I feel it rolling off of you in waves. But you can’t learn when you’re afraid. You cannot be transformed when you are afraid.

This appears to be part of an address Junot Diaz gave at Yale on November 12, 2013.  At first glance, I'm not finding a complete transcript, or any 'official' source for that quotation, but it does mesh with the articles I was able to find.

And even if it's a little off, it's a damn good quote.

Serpentine Perspectives

In the wake of this weekends' amazing Neutral Milk Hotel show at BAM, and the fantastic Visual Aids Postcards from the Edge exhibition, which Cory has gone to the last few years, and which I experienced for the first time yesterday - really interesting, a combination of work that is moving, fun, poignant, provocative, and timely - here are a few shots from the Serpentine Sackler Gallery, new edition, circa All Saints Day, 2013.

Another day, I'll post some photos from the very good Adrián Villar Rojas show we saw in the gallery, but for now, these images of the Zaha Hadid structure.

And this, from the interior.

Hope you had a good weekend.  Enjoy the Grammys, if that's your thing.  [I may find a way to write the thousands of words warranted by the NMH and PfTE shows, but that won't happen tonight.]

As Essential as Groceries

The title of this post is paraphrased from Dr. Fowler's paraphrasing of Amiri Bakara in the opening moments of this clip (with thanks to Poets and Writers Inc. for drawing attention to that video).



The clip has about 7 minutes of interview footage, and includes great perspective from Baraka on the importance of speaking and hearing poetry, as well as simply reading it off a page.  Early on, it also has this pearl of Truth:

The reason they cut the arts always is because the people that run the world don't want you to be conscious, because otherwise you'd resist. You couldn't possibly be living like we live if you understood what they were doing, you know, you'd fight them.  So the arts is always expendable.  Anything that makes people conscious of what the world is, and what it could be, is always expendable.

Baraka goes on in this interview to discuss how an artist needs to live and work on this earth, in this actual world, the physical universe of people and things, rather than retreating into an imaginary, idealized, self-constructed cave or tower, of ivory or any other color.

This world has plenty that is nearly uncontrovertibly craptastic in it [which, in case it's not obvious by now, is one of the most important reasons why art and poetry out loud are as essential as food].  But one of the things I'd argue is good about these internets is that, in addition to the cat videos and endless rants, you can find a trove of material at a moment's notice about Amiri Baraka, the Black Arts Movement, and delve into a rabbit hole of your own devising.

For now, I'm leaving you with a couple clips of Baraka reading his work.  One, a relatively recent live performance video with Rob Brown, courtesy of The Sanctuary for Independent Media.



And this other, even more powerful and controversial (if that's possible) earlier poem - audio only, with a still photo - Black Art, with Albert Ayler, Don Cherry, Sonny Murray, Henry Grimes, and Louis Worrell.  Required listening.



Rest in Power.

Ave Atque Vale Phil Everly

I've found that it's fairly typical for people not to recognize the vast importance of the Everly Brothers to the history of 20th Century music.



It's reductive, but it might be useful to think of it this way: without the Everly Brothers, there would be no Beatles.  And without the Beatles... well, you can finish that sentence on your own.



Bye Bye Phil.

1/4/14

Just a few words to ring in the New Year/celebrate this numerically rare date.

This Holiday Season was up and down, to say the least.  To cut to the most important chase, my Grandmother died last Sunday at the age of 91.  It wasn't what you'd call unexpected, but the grief has been nonetheless profound.  At the same time, there is a lot of life there for all of us to celebrate, and as my dad put it: "By now, she'll be directing the choir up there."

That said, there was a lot to celebrate in general too.  A fantastic T-Day in the Catskills; wonderful Thanksgiving and Chanukkah celebration with Joe and Andrew in L.I.C.; great music from Lucius at Bowery Ballroom and Yo La Tengo at the Bell House (though of course those shows gave me more than a few pangs of a different kind of grief over Maxwell's and the YLT benefit shows); stunning Shaw from the Bedlam company; impressive original work (again) from the Representatives; brilliant poetic theater from Dominique Morriseau and the LAByrinth in Sunset Baby; another moving musical from the Public with Fun Home; Mark Rylance's Richard III to bookend the Twelfth Night we caught last Thanksgiving week in London.  Good movies and friends and New Year's Eve with Les & Megan in the Village.  And the warmth of the Christmas celebration in New Jersey cut through both my and Cory's colds.  (Well, kind of.  We're still struggling to shake those off a week and a half later...)

Speaking of London I haven't even gotten into this year's (well, last year's, at this point) trip!

So, just a little on that now - a few shots from early in the trip, and one from the end of it.

The Saturday after we arrived, we took a walk over Tower Bridge to visit the Maltby Street Market, where we enjoyed, among other things, some food and libation.

Little Bird gin bloody mary.

And on the last day of the trip, we took a trip to the National Portrait Gallery.  Here's a shot Cory snapped of me and my rally beard with a picture of Will Ferrell.

Miss you, Grandma.