What I'd love to be doing....

I watched this many times without the music and LOVED it. For some reason the soundtrack is just sappy. What a great way to spend a year or so - dancing all over the world.

Where did October go?

The Bread and Puppet Theatre came to town a few days ago.
They aren't quite Jon Stewart but you know they are going
to be hitting all the relevant notes regardless of the
weather or the ratings. They are the real deal.

What have I been doing? Missing my blogtime, dealing with slow computers that have been overworked... dealing with a life that is overwhelming at the moment... coping with viruses and allergies that seem to be taking over our fair city... and praying for more rain.

holding patterns

Silence and strange weather patterns can create unexpected connections. Earlier this week I was on the prowl with Mr. dd. He's writing a piece about a cemetery that contains a mass grave (trench) of confederate soldiers who were of both African and European descent. The cemetery is nearly forgotten with plaques for memorial plantings that are long dead and flag poles for flags that aren't flying.

For every stob one sees in the landscape there are three soldiers buried underneath. A few have markers and each one is numbered. If one wants to find their ancestors here it is theoretically possible.

For some odd reason as I wandered around in the unusually soft light of a July afternoon I was reminded of an afternoon I spent at St. Cloud last year. Located on the outskirts of Paris, this grande jardin is also nearly forgotten and difficult to find. The locals use its formerly opulent paths to walk their dogs, jog and the occassional picnic. The estate the gardens were built around is long gone. The boxwoods are as old as the French Republic and the statuary has witnessed it all. I wandered around the grounds in the overcast light and recorded its faded glory with my digital sketchbook.

taking time to smell something other than the coffee

taxes, spring cleaning, meeting deadlines, marking calendars, attending and traveling to weddings, meeting print schedules, finishing freelance projects, grading, gardening, teaching, building, planning, petting, caretaking, daughtering, wifeing (barely), but most important... WALKING. it is a constant in our life... more than coming and going to work or even art making.

it is the thing that gets us from place to place and from a foul mood to a better one. i don't know how i cannot walk when it is the best option. i felt a little guilty on sunday when an old boyfriend asked me about one of our cars - which is sitting in an undriveable state and it has been for quite a long while. somehow i wound up explaining our love of walking (to divert attention from my negligence) and that we wouldn't even own a car if we it wasn't a necessity for reasons I won't go into (this is all true!) i realized as i was saying this that i was dissing his way of life and his livlihood...which wasn't intended. hey, my dad must have a car. transportation is essential for personal freedom whether its a good pair of shoes or reliable transportation. I prefer human powered transportation or public transportation whenever conditions are appropriate!

but, i'll tell ya... one can't smell the wysteria or the bartlett pear trees surrounding fountain lake if one is enclosed in a metal box on wheels. it serves its purpose but it certainly isn't the only way to get around and it is often not the best way to get around... for us, anyway.

Auspicious February

Last night Mr. Beloved and I nearly missed the PBS American Experience focus on New Orleans due to a review I read in the NYT: "City of Feel-Good Music and Feel-Bad History" By NEIL GENZLINGER. I am relieved we gave it a chance since it was very enlightening and I KNOW more about NOLA than most folks.

It's very obvious to me that Mr. G just doesn't get IT. Last night I realized that most Americans don't and perhaps IT's a place ya just have to live in to get tho that wasn't a requirement for moi. My first real New Awlin's experience was when I was a sophomore in college. I'd made some friends from the Gulf Coast who were planning to drive down for the ruckus of Mardi Gras. I was game. We left the Thurs or Fri prior to Fat Tues... I think. Its funny... I don't even remember who I rode down there with... nothing about the drive or where we stayed. Maybe with someone's parents someplace in the suburbs that first night. I wore my first pair of pointy cowboy boots... they weren't premium, since I was on an art school budget. That was a mistake.

I remember painting faces and taking photos of Lucy and Brian playing their juice harps by the light of the street lamp on Jackson Square. I remember painting faces on Bourbon Street with a little wooden sign Brian had made saying "Face Paints While U Wait." I'd use one hand to prop a slightly tipsy person against a wall so I could paint their face and they would hold their drink in one hand and the paint water in the other. It was interesting watching how often they would mistake the paint water for their Hurricane as the night wore on. I had NO MONEY. I took 20 dollars with me and if I didn't get tips from the face painting I probably would have eaten saltines from the salad bar all weekend... and I certainly didn't have money for drinking. When one is completely sober in the Zeitgeist of New Orleans during Carnival it is a true circus. We went to the Cafe du Monde. I had my first cafe au lait and beinets. I ran into people I hadn't seen in years. I felt like I was in the place I needed to be maybe for the first time in my life.

That night I wound up crashing with Jeff and Adele (an Egyptian scientist with three masters degrees and workin on a Phd who was flippin pancakes at the waffle house because he didn't have a green card) Don't ask me how we found these guys in a city crammed with revelers since I'll never know. Cell phones weren't even on the horizon back then. I didn't have any friends in NOLA at the time and barely knew most of the the people I was traveling with... we were all studying poetry or science or social work or fine art at a southern university about 5 hours north of NOLA... like minded souls in a land of southern belles, jocks, rednecks and good ole boys. Fraternities and Sororities tried to run things in those days but we did a pretty good job of giving them a run for their money.

That night poet Jeff drove us to his friends' apt and parked in the parking garage. I think we were in a Colt or some other small hatchback of the late 70's vintage. His friends never came home. We tried to sleep in the Colt. My legs were cramping from the walking, the boots, maybe from growing out of my tight levi's, from drinking bourbon...maybe from all those reasons. (Bourbon always gave me leg cramps. I don't drink it today... every)

I was 19 years old, almost 20. Adele and Jeff were so sweet. Neither of them ever made a move on me though I had a slight crush on Jeff and Adele had a slight crush on me. Those were the days when bohemia was full of kindness and people were just sweet... (what happened?)

That car, though. It was a disaster on wheels. Early in the morning after Fat Tuesday many of us (MSU bohos) were crammed in the same car and passing over the Lake Ponchatrain Bridge. The car died. There are 7 or 9 people crammed in this COLT and it is shaking as semi s roll past us. I have to admit, it was a little scary. Just like in a sweet fable, some Jed Clampet-like family with an open truck stopped on the bridge and let us all cram into the back of their truck. We were in face paint and costume and must have been quite something to see. The most amazing thing is they used what they had: jumper cables!!! - to attach the two cars and tow Jeff's Colt to the other side of the bridge.

We poured out of the truck at some fast food joint on the other side of the bridge and everyone SOSed their connections from a payphone for help. I had one phone number with me - my mother's old college roomate and her family. They lived on that side of the lake. They had visited us when I was kid and gave us our first Siamese Cat, Pepper. I hadn't seen the Rusts since I was a kid. I called them out of the blue. They came to the rescue, picking up me with Jeff and Adele and towed Jeff's car to their home.

(At this point - its Wednesday - I've missed three days of classes back at old Moo U...) They let us shower (encouraged us, I'm sure!), fed us and put us up for the night. In the meantime, their daughter's boyfriend proceeded to repair the car. I think it may have cost 35 dollars in parts. I never knew if Jeff had the money to pay him or not. We took off on Thurs or Fri. I missed a week of classes but found my muse for many years to come during that auspicious week.

New Orleans showed me what was possible when one lives in a place where "do what thou wilt" is laizze faire. No one judges as long as you aren't hurtin anybody. The most memorable Mardi Gras costume I saw that year (1980) was a young man dressed as Peter Pan. He was struttin past St. Louis Square with nothin on but a pot hangin from his waist over his peter. On the back of the pan was scrawled in black marker "Peter Pan". He was wearing high tops and nothin else. It was a mild, sunny Mardi Gras that year.... or this guy woulda been way ahead of the season!

When I reorganize my office I'll hope I can come up with some images of that time. It was pure magic for me. A much better education than anything I would have learned in class that week.

catching the waves

mr dd and I find easy entertainment downtown. interactive art is good for killing ten minutes or so. it won't be around as long as most of the art I really love so ya gotta enjoy it now.

Playing the hand you are dealt

The past two summers I've made long excursions to spend some time with Toulouse Lautrec. I've always loved his work and really paid little attention to the story behind the work until last summer. Students murmered about his affection for prostitues and show girls as well as his afflictions which all work to sell his story but without the whole story it's just sensational
gossip.

I didn't know that Toulouse's parents were first cousins and that his afflictions were caused by a genetic disease. He died in his early 30's in his mother's home in southwest France. She was very devoted to him and donated his estate to a museum in Albi which has the largest collection of his work anywhere. A writer friend with a background in medicine suggested that many of his health problems sounded more like the result of his mother being infected with syphillis than anything else. Said writer also said that prostitutes were common methods of birth control at that time and wives were often victims of their husband's indiscretions.

What bothered me about this conversation is that everyone wanted to talk about Toulouse's scandalous family and no one had much commentary on his painting or brilliant work as a printmaker. Art is work. Painting and printmaking is toxic, back breaking work for anyone - but much harder for someone lacking physical strength. Such endeavor requires faith and passion that can fade so easily even in the best of circumstances. Lautrec's work was vibrant, provocative, sexy and REAL. Its is an unflinching view into a world that is long gone.

If only...

Walking on the Moon

It's been a long week. The days are growing longer and time is languid. I am reading "Paris to the Moon" and trying to stretch its ending to coincide with the end of my time here. They are leaving Paris and so am I. Yesterday as I walked to the 14th a. via rue du Seine and rue Napolean I stumbed on Deroille on rue du Bac. The spelling is wrong, I am sure, but the photograph conveys its sensibility. It was once a shop of taxidermists in the early 20th. Over the years people would bring in dead pets, have them taxidermied and then forget to come and get them. As the century turned the shop has become a ritzy gardening shop that uses the animals in its window displays and has a sort of natural history museun on the second floor - but one where one can buy an exotic butterfly collection for a thousand euros or so. Still, its an amazing, authentic step back in time. I've never been anyplace like it.

We first stumbled across the shop walking back from the Musee Malloil back in March. The window displays were far beyond anything our animal rights activist friend Y. had ever seen before. Mr. DD was visiting as well. I still don't know if Y. was offended or facinated by their use of taxidermied animals modeling their gardening gear. Mr. DD had just delivered the "moon" book so I hadn't begun reading it so the significance of shop escaped us.

I am grateful to have run across it again and know that if I weren't a dedicated walker I would have missed it. If I had been driving or taking the metro to Montparnasse I would have missed so many things. I spent so much time there that I finally had to get on the metro to meet my friends for a Pastisse and find our dinner. We wound up at a fabulous Berber place on a quiet street around the corner. It was such a splendid night the owner set up a table on the sidewalk and we dined alfresco.

St. Cloud

I've been trying to find time to go to St. Cloud for more than two months. Its on the western edge of Paris and it isn't clear from my research which metro station is closest to the gardens there. I chose a lovely grey aftenoon to break away from the studio and dive into the St. Paul metro. As soon as my journey was underway and I had transferred to the regional train beyond Paris' borders the mobile began to ring. My friend G. was calling me from the Cite - "Where are you? she asked? She just happened to be in the Marais and stopped by with our expatriot writer friend for a coffee. J. called as well and is leaving to return to Australia tomorrow... she wants to get together sometime tonite...perhaps after her romantic rendevous... and to really add another level of social activity I am unprepared for I am leaving the gardens and going straight to the Power Atelier to visit with another wonderful Australian couple and their six month old.

In the meantime there are mysteries of St. Cloud - a place I've found little info on in English or French. According to the helpful attendant in the bookstore there very few English speakers make it out to St. Cloud. Its is frequented by locals and only when the weather is great. I walked around this expansive site with amazing views on a lovely overcast aftenoon with only a few joggers and strollers on the horizon. I had the place to myself and it was pure magic. I realized how much I missed the smells of the country. The Jardin du Luxembourg or the Jardin du Plantes are great... but these parks are part of the organism of the city and have a different kind of wildness... certainly no wilderness. St. Cloud is on the edge of wilderness. I could smell the bark of the trees and the moss...and it was exhilarating. I love the city but nothing is more healing than to be enveloped in the softer side of nature's elements.

St. Cloud has the grandeur of Versaille (which is very close by) but an element of decrepitude that I found very attractive. I scoured the grounds for sculpture and fountains and took hundreds of photos. Marie Antoniette once owned the villa that was the centerpiece of this estate. Now it is gone but it feels like the shadow it cast is still present.

I didn't know what to expect here so I didn't bring anything with me other than my camera, media and umbrella. Low blood sugar motivated me to find a bus from the St. Cloud train station which took me all the way back to Hotel de Ville without a transfer.

It was a great ride through the suburbs (there is a Tamara de Lempicka exhibition out here... I've seen nothing about this in Paris...) past the Eiffel Tower, the Palais de Tokyo, Tuileries, Louvre and back to the 4th. Now its good my Australian friends served something with the exquisite wine we drank or I would have faded fast tonite. If I'd had time I'd have gone by a boulangerie but I was running late.

J. called around 10:30 or 11pm and I was still upstairs. She and F. were in the reception and I met them in my atelier. They actually had herbal tea with me since both has worn themselves thin during their Romanian adventure. (Too much of a good thing...) It was a very different send off than Y. had one month ago but it was still so great seeing them. They've been very supportive of my work and I've not even had a chance to see theres since J. was working in London and F. is a filmaker. In time I hope all will be revealed. Its nice to have things to look forward to.

Sacred Space

Packing. After thirteen years of loving this view it is time to move on. I'll miss it more than I can imagine... but I have no choice. My lease hasn't been renewed and if I can't work in this atelier then I'll work somewhere else. For more info stay tuned - and look out for for the upcoming David Williams film. Whatever happens I'm sure he'll record it digitally.

In the meantime I persist in looking forward and being thankful to have had this time in what I consider to be a sacred place.