WONDER

iPhone pic of the "Wonder" exhibit
at the newly re-opened
Smithsonian Renwick Gallery, DC

Last night, I attended a lecture at the Smithsonian to support one of my favorite,  Hibernian Literature professors.  There is something wonderfully mad professor about him.  Sort of Matt Smith's "Dr. Who" but with a shock of white hair.  He can recite stanzas of W.B. Yeats then somehow segue into an odd detail from a Quentin Tarantino film.  In any case, his enthusiasm for Irish men and women of letters began generations beforehand.  His grandfather worked in Coole Park for Lady Gregory and his family had many informal interactions with literary giants like Yeats.  He himself read Literature in Trinity College following Oscar Wilde and Samuel Beckett.

Back to the Smithsonian lecture.  The talk was on Irish Drama.  We were basking in the brilliance of Yeats, Wilde, Shaw, and more from a mix of old photographs, BBC recordings, and documentaries.  I was rejoicing in passive enjoyment until, right before the end, we were handed an unfamiliar script, unfamiliar to me anyway.  What's a Drama class without a play reading, a cold reading at that?

So continues my life as Forrest Gump, in the company of people far more prepared for the current situation than I am. There were theatre professionals in the audience.  But that didn't include me!  I've never done any acting.  But as the familiar face in a sea of faces, I was pulled to read Pegeen's lines in a segment of J. M. Synge's "Playboy of the Western World."  I can only hope everyone forgives my butchering of Hiberno-English, in all its textured richness!  Perhaps there is some redemption in the original actors tripping over the language in the play's initial reading too. Synge had sought to bring out the ancient sounds of the Aran Islands, and Ireland wasn't quite ready for it.  As always with my mad professor, I learned something new even when I was expecting the familiar.  And -- I can claim to have had my acting debut at the Smithsonian.

There lies the Wonder.  Especially during this past year that we've lived in Washington DC, everything seems to be a first time.  New places. New people.  New experiences.  Even in Ballet, the style is so contemporary, so sharp, so post-Balanchine.  I'm learning a new movement language that feels natural and alien at the same time.  I finish most classes thinking "Wow.  That was different."

You sing in the shower?
I dance in the closet.


Taken last spring
right after getting home from ballet class

Artistic exploration is truly endless.  Isn't it marvelous even if one feels foolish in the attempt? OK, sometimes frustration is involved. One of my ballet teachers always reminds us that performances are a result of endless repetition and rehearsal.  By contrast, class is where we work on weaknesses and try new movements.  Having ridiculous moments are a given.  That goes for any type of creative exploration.

I am grateful for all the inspiration and encouragement surrounding me here and the wondrous things I learn every day.

How about you -- have you ever felt like a fish out of water, even in an environment you thought you knew well?

GAULTIER GOTHIC

It's that time of year when witches and ghouls -- or Moulin Rouge Goths -- emerge from the bushes.  Trick or Treat.

It all began with my black, feather neck corset.  Tips in iridescent green seemed decidedly wicked.  Tulle seemed a deceptive accomplice.  It was all evolving into some Toulouse-Lautrec vision of Paris, with strains of Saint-Saën's Danse Macabre in the background.

Hmm ... Corsets.  Paris. Macabre.

...  I must really have been thinking of Jean Paul Gaultier!

Well, here's a Halloween Treat for you.  These are long overdue pictures from the Jean Paul Gaultier exhibit at the De Young Museum in San Francisco.  (His Moulin Rouge outfit was actually on a revolving catwalk, but I couldn't get a good moving shot in the dark.)

Happy Halloween!  What's your inspiration this year?

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PS Apologies if you have been seeing various template designs on this page.  Just trying to clean up the side bar!

THERE AND BACK AGAIN

Exploring a WWII jungle hideout on an island
Guess which silhouette is mine.

Indiana Jones is back from the jungle!  If only my Panama hat could speak ...

It might brag of brim-to-breath encounters with Bengal tigers.

Tigers put their noses right up
to our caged jeeps in the jungle safari.

Or yawny dawns by the bay.

Ferries to islands cast off extremely early.

It might exaggerate scuffs from scrambling in ruins.

Mortar pock marks on buildings destroyed by WWII.
The jungle conveniently retook this island after the war.

More ruins from WWII barracks

Or marvel at banyan trees amid decay.

Defying the surrounding destruction, this banyan tree
was a central backdrop in my brother's film shot here.

It might groan at being hut-bound (while everyone was seaside)

Our snorkeling and diving retreat
obscured by coconut palms

or be peeved in the jeep (while everyone was at the falls)

Monsoon season provided tiers of waterfalls
from the top of the mountain cascading on down below this basin

But, pipe down, Panama!  I'll recount my own tales over several posts.

It's been a wild and wonderful summer abroad shared with family and friends. My fashionista friends might be surprised at how much clambering around one can do in "flatform" sandals and a deconstructed linen blazer (and of course, the Panama hat)!

How was your summer?

REVOLUTIONARY ROAD

Today, I awoke with a sense of purpose.  I was nearly 15 years old but had never attempted anything like this before.

My feet strode resolutely towards the Palace Green.  Papa had instructed me to sweep street corners with my eyes, searching for moving shadows.  A secret dispatch, in cipher, was tucked between my petticoat and navy Brunswick.  I scratched at it, wishing I had used it to line my straw hat instead.  The paper was folded and sealed.  Just this morning, Papa had impressed the wax with his twisted horn emblem -- the Unicorn's horn.  

I thought back to a week ago, when Papa had sat me at his desk. He had wanted a key for a cipher.  (He trusted no one else, and knew I had a head for puzzles.  He often said I was the best son he never had.)  

Papa had pulled out a Bible from the shelf.  But lo!  it was hollow, nesting another book within.  The binding read "Montesquieu."  Together, we had settled on a key based on the book.  My eyes had questioned Papa wordlessly:  Who is this for?  His only reply had been a stern shake of the head.

Now, I strolled to the Palace Green, forcing nonchalance into my steps.  I wondered if the Governor and his daughters were home. Perhaps they were in England?  I was lucky enough to have been invited to the Governor's Palace for tea by his daughter last summer.  

We'd had a lovely time losing ourselves in the labyrinth.  Tired of wandering, I had clambered up the hilltop, shouting to the girls "Left!  Right!" The governess had told me to shush, but the girls had giggled encouragingly.  That was long ago now.  Since then, Papa had told me not to get too friendly with the Governor's family.

My mind snapped back to my mission.  The instructions were to leave the secret dispatch with the basket maker, just off the Green, and so I did.  Someone else was supposed to retrieve it, but neither she nor Papa would tell me more.

The basket maker concealed the paper in the straw.  Ah, a needle in the hay stack, I thought.  But my eyes flew to a little fleur-de-lis etched into the wood next to the hearth, barely perceptible behind the straw.  The basket maker followed my gaze.  Had she been the recipient of the key last week?  ...  probably not.  Mixing keys and ciphers seemed awfully foolish, and Papa was never foolish.

Only two fortnights ago, he'd relayed the story of our neighbor's slave who had been thrown into the Public Gaol for treason. He'd gotten caught with both halves of a secret letter, to be delivered.  Papa knew not to make that mistake.

So, I casually went about my business, just as Papa had trained me.  I bade the basket maker good day.  Then, I checked my purse for the few shillings Mama had handed me for some fabric and ribbon,

and turned into Duke of Gloucester Street towards the Millinery.  

The Tailor was there.  Papa trusted him.  He not only made our gowns and Papa's coats.  The Tailor and the Milliner were secretly supplying shirts to the continental army!  

(Papa thinks I know nothing.  I was re-shaping Mama's wig one afternoon in the small room by Papa's study.  Low voices were murmuring about an army.  A quick peek through the keyhole revealed the back of a man in a powdered wig and General's uniform.  Fearing discovery, I ceased all motion until they had left.)

I supposed I could trust the Tailor as well.  He always showed me the latest in English and European fashions.  Occasionally, he'd even give me pretty feathers for my hat. 

This time, he generously offered up some bolts of fabric.  The linen was coarse to the touch.  But the watery silk felt smooth, bordered by nubs of embroidery.  The rhythmic nubs under my fingers suddenly unlatched a memory of keys and ciphers.  Startled, I looked up and found the Tailor eyeing me sideways.  A vague discomfort crept up behind my ears, so I excused myself quickly.

Back along Duke of Gloucester Street, everyone seemed rapt in conversation.  As I walked by, I heard snatches of names I'd heard from Papa before.  Montesquieu, Rousseau, Locke.  None of them sounded like anyone we knew from the colonies.  

Nervous whispers and furtive glances were thrown my way as I passed by.  An occasional gentleman tipped his tricorn hat.

The only smiles I received were from the sun-worn gardeners by the Church.  They offered me fresh herbs to take home to Mama.  

I suppose the old man driving the oxen had nothing to hide either.

I kept on course and swung by Mary Dickinson's shop.  Mama needed her frayed hat ribbon replaced.  

The luxurious scents of soap, freshly shipped from England, engulfed me as I swung the door open.  I took a delicious whiff, but Papa had warned me that all those goods were heavily taxed.  I didn't understand too well, but the taxes apparently gave us no equivalent voice in government.  So, ribbons in hand, I satisfied myself with the memory of gardenia and lavender for my next bath.

I had dawdled enough.  It was time to meet Papa behind Shield's Tavern.  I came upon him nervously pacing, jaw clenched.  He was about to confer with an important General inside the Tavern.  Tentatively, I mentioned my visit to the basket maker.  His brow immediately uncreased, and a soft twinkle returned to his eyes.  "That's my daughter," he said approvingly.

Then he was lost in thought again, rumbling about a "revolution", a transformation, a new government, a new life.  I shifted anxiously.  Brought back by my presence, he drew up to his full stature, planted a kiss on my head, then marched into Shield's.

Papa's mumblings frightened me.  I didn't want anything to change.  I thought of going home, to Mama, to our quiet house on Nicholson Street.  I wanted everything as it had been from the previous day.

And yet, my childhood prelude of games and puzzles stirred something inside me.  The uncharted future - a future I was now part of with my cryptographic work for Papa - was like gibberish waiting to be deciphered.  And I thought on the message I had cast in cipher, still a mystery to me.  Papa had said I would understand words like "Congress" in time.  (I shan't say any more or I would be undoing my own encryption.)

Despite myself, I was curious to see where this Revolutionary road might lead to.

-- Pages from a girl's diary in Williamsburg, VA.  The edges were smudged but revealed a period around the 1770s.

********************

This fanciful escapade was inspired by my recent trip to Virginia.  We visited Colonial Williamsburg, a place I hadn't explored since I was a young teenager.  It brought back memories of youth -- when I couldn't quite grasp the full context of history, but sensed the excitement and uncertainty leading to the Revolution, and the nervousness surrounding double agents loyal to the King.  

Caveat: These are loosely based on American colonial/revolutionary history.  All photos are mine, taken in Colonial Williamsburg.

SEE NO EVIL

Do you sometimes wonder what century you live in?

I've just been on vacation in the East Coast, and hit the ground working upon my return West.  While East in Washington, DC and Virginia, I was immersed in the Age of Enlightenment, absorbed in the modern ideals of the Founding Fathers.  But returning West, my time travel simply overshot the clock face dials.  Somehow, I'd left the Age of Reason only to be ejected into the Dark Ages.  Information is still feared in some places.

I am fortunate to be entrusted with shaping minds, young and old, in my roles within non-profit organizations here.  But once in a while, the cautious nature of institutions gets in the way of encouraging critical thought.  So I ask you, my blog sphere friends whom I know are sophisticated and independent thinkers:


Is it improper to show teenagers Michelangelo's "David", Botticelli's "Birth of Venus", Manet's "Luncheon on the Grass", and other seminal works of art, simply because their subjects are unclad?  (The underlying discussion was meant to show developments in art accompanying shifts in philosophy, politics, society, etc.)

Edouard Manet's "Le déjeuner sur l'herbe",  Musée d'Orsay
edited by The Foolish Aesthete

"Controversial" is not a typical adjective I would assign myself.  But my little effort in sharing mankind's cultural heritage, or explaining shifts in art history, was met with resistance.  It's surprising to be a radical in this corner of the world, in this day and age.  Suddenly, I have a deeper sense for what intellectuals in China or the Middle East experience.

Manet would be scratching his head to see the cause célèbre of the 1863 Salon des Refusés suffering the same notoriety today -- for much the same reasons!

Ah me, the tortuous course of human history.  Our march forward remains fraught with detours in reverse.

*****

Curious to see what you all think!  I hope you are all well and I'll be dropping by soon ...

ABSTRACT DISTRACTIONS

The Abstract.  

Mathematicians and Philosophers have long utilized it for elegant argumentation.  After all, discarding details can make ideas much clearer.

The geometry, color, lines of a crisp, winter afternoon.
The holiday bustle of  downtown
Santa Cruz is off frame.

Artists, from the time of the Modernists on, have experimented along this path too.  Reduce Art to its elements, they thought, and extract it's essence.

I was just considering a Mark Rothko today.  With luminous color fields as his subject, he sought to bring forth poetry from the canvas.  Go sit and ponder, preferably in the museum, and let me know if you see it too.

Mark Rothko at the SF MoMA
This image does not do justice to
the colors emanating from the canvas.

Not to be left out, novelists also pen thought-provoking abstract ideas, sometimes with great humor.  One of my favorite books, "Flatland," is by a Victorian mathematician/writer with a gift for social satire.  (Warning: Oncoming geek out.)  Imagine flattening Victorian society onto a two-dimensional plane -- England with no depth.  The inhabitants appear as geometric shapes associated with their status in society.  Triangles line the bottom.  Squares and greater-sided polygons rank higher.  Circles comprise the Elite, for aren't circles just regular polygons with so many sides, they've managed to smooth their kinks out.  Note, all these descriptions apply only to Men.  Women do not even get to be polygons.  They are merely line segments!  

Due to the limitations of two dimensions, identifying each member of Flatland society is done with some difficulty.  Along comes a three-dimensional Sphere - with the ability to see all their shapes.  It doesn't take much to point out how dull, blind and lacking these ridiculous Flatlanders are!  Imagine how much more enlightened a four-dimensional Being would be looking at the world.

Black, white, and red.
The tiles were an installation at the SF MoMA.
50% black, 50% white, 100% randomly laid out.

If I've gotten your head completely whirled with talk of polygons and planes, ignore me (and take an aspirin).  I'm simply distracted and abstracted.  And thinking of all those dimensions I am blind to, so far.

100 CANDLES

Greetings for the New Year, dear eFriends!

Thank you so much for all your notes and thoughts.  My online absence hasn't been due to some cosmic chasm.  Blame my cephalopod way of life (and sorry for referencing myself -- smacks of geriatric reminiscing) with multiple projects reaching in all directions. There must be some sensible name for this chronic condition?

Happy New Year!
Also celebrating my Grandmère's 100th birthday from afar.
I missed the grand family reunion in Asia
so we sent a video greeting instead.

The holidays were an opportunity to reconnect with family and old friends from around the world.  Too much to tell you.  Recent life has resembled a merry innkeeper's.  We've been welcoming a stream of out-of-town guests at home with just enough time for fresh linens in between.  Our evenings have been marked by live music, good spirits (libation and disposition, both), and interesting discourse!  It's been a marvelous month-and-a-half.

Which brings me to an homage I wanted to make.  My dearest grandmother, Grandmère to us, just turned 100 this week.  Her legendary wit is undimmed though her own memory might be.  Call her the upbeat version of Downton Abbey's Dowager Countess -- barbs not meant to cut but rather to induce laughter!  Her biggest accessory is a broad smile (and perhaps, huge dark glasses).

I find the sweater's asymmetric hemline -
short in front, long in the back -
an interesting counterpoint
to the horizontal stripes

Our Grandmère was the pillar behind our Granddaddy, now gone but a towering public figure for us, whose life was driven by principles of integrity and civic duty.  (Meritocracy and anti-Nepotism were indelibly imprinted in us through them ...  Pardon me but big words tend to surface whenever we think of our grandparents.)  We are so proud that my grandmother and her sisters earned their Bachelors of Science back in the '30s, at a time and place when few women were encouraged to do so.  Their role model?  Florence Nightingale (whom many may not know was a gifted mathematician)!  Emulating the Lady with the Lamp, they believed intellectual gifts were meant to be bundled with public service - all tied up with ribbons of gaiety and song for the loveliest of packages.  

My grandparents also believed in a simple life beyond reproach.  I still recall their insistence on receiving gifts only from family and close friends lest anything be considered a bribe, or worse, turn out to be a bomb!  (Trojan horses come in all shapes and sizes.)  Coming from a country cleft by poverty and antiquated rules of Class, they wanted no part in a lavish lifestyle which could be misinterpreted.

So here I am, beginning 2013 in my comfortable, "everyday" clothes of sweater dresses and jeans, accessorized only with large sunglasses and a smile - just like my dear Grandmère.

Wishing you all a wonderful start to the year!

MIDNIGHT IN PARIS ... OR CALIFORNIA

Last week at the ballet studio, several people announced they were November-born, including two of the dancers below.  Lovers of life that we all are, we immediately declared a party at our house.

My friends in the rehearsal studio, two years ago.
They created stiff circles of tulle on the floor here.

Picasso or Cole Porter may not have been present, but it dawned on me that our impromptu soirée wasn't too different from a Paris-in-the-'20s scene.  We had dancers, artists, an actor, a musician, arm-chair philosophers (sometimes, even the real thing), and a scientist!  Just missing were the writers and poets.

Our Artistic Director (seated),
formerly from American Ballet Theater,
during our rehearsals

First off, our ballet Artistic Director was celebrating his birthday.  He had danced with world-renowned American Ballet Theater in New York prior to moving out West.  His pregnant wife was surprised his photos were in some of my old, ABT performance books.  (I used to attend ABT's season at the Metropolitan Opera House and pick up the books at the performances.  This was before I knew him personally - and before his wife ever met him.)  We reminisced about his old ABT friends - dancers I admired, even worshipped, and on my very lucky days, shared barres with in NYC. 

My dear friend, Virginia, whom I wrote about in Life is Beautiful, provided all the good bubbly as we celebrated her 86th birthday too.  Months ago, she had been generous enough to offer what gallery paintings we liked for our walls, and to rotate them until we'd found one we couldn't say good-bye to.  (Her art gallery overflows as much as her champagne collection.)  I was ecstatic to serve as her extended exhibit space.  So, we spent a fair amount of time clinking flutes in birthday toasts while engaging in art appreciation.  Now that's a civilized way to spend an evening.

Loaned to us from Virginia's art gallery.
I like discovering textures in it daily.
But is the marred surface
the result of her housekeeper's
vigorous cleaning?!

Another friend, a ceramic artist, was also a celebrant. Her works happen to be around our house too - from wabi sabi vases to our daily serving dishes.  Wabi sabi is a wonderful, Japanese aesthetic - defined by imperfection, transience, and natural beauty.  Does that concept speak to you?  It does to me, especially contrasted against geometric perfection.  We celebrated this theme by putting my friend's irregularly-shaped bowls and plates out for our little party.  (You can check out her whimsical creations here in Yukari Art)

An example of my friend's
wabi sabi vase
on the floor of our foyer

Let's see. We mentioned dancers and artists.  Now, the actress.  She had recently played a small part in a film scene with Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson - yes, the protagonist at the core of "Midnight in Paris"!  She was still giddy from the experience.  Of course we pressed her, and she confirmed that Wilson is as cute and charming in life as he is on film.

Finally, the culmination of this evening out of Time was sitting by the piano while our musician friend played Gershwin and ragtime.  The live music punctuated our discussion on the origins of rag (which I never knew was a technical term - "ragging out time") and Jazz.  The genre couldn't have been more fitting that night. 

After all the champagne, music and art
Midnight in California

Sometimes, the best experiences are unplanned, fleeting, joyous celebrations of life.  Wabi sabi style.  I didn't even appreciate the evening until everyone had gone and I thought of writing this post.

Now, if I could only round up a poet or two for the next gathering ... 

AUTUMN BOUQUET

Forget my laments to bring back summer.  My attitude has turned along with the leaves.  I love Autumn!

Perhaps our nephew's wedding in Colorado had something to do with it.  Denver's picturesque foothills were painted over in russets, greens, and golds.  The bridal party's yellow ochres blended right in.  I wish I could post my shots from the wedding but I can't.  I will, however, share the radiant bride's brooch bouquet below.  Have you ever seen anything like it?

The Bride's Brooch Bouquet
I've never seen anything like it!

The estate where the wedding was held kept its historic charm.  Here's a glimpse of the mansion, The Manor House.  It was built in 1914 for a self-made millionaire, John Shaffer, whose modest beginnings were as a boot black.  His 28,000 acre cattle ranch used to surround this Manor House. Shaffer was also the editor-publisher of the Chicago Tribune and brought the arts to both Chicago and Denver.  This Manor House proudly entertained the likes of Presidents Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft -- and now us!

The Manor House, Colorado
snapped from the car as we drove up the hill

But back to the wedding.  Our nephew, the jazz trumpeter, serenaded his Bride up the aisle with his originally-composed fanfare.  (I have a wonderful photo of him and his trumpet in the sunset.)  His band friends, mostly brass, encircled the guests on the hilltop.  So all those golden notes filled the brisk air, coating it in autumn sunshine.  To top it all, the vows were poems written or sung by the couple.  I just love weddings which truly reflect the couple's nature.

Our nephew and niece are decidedly outdoorsy, opting to give up the urban diversions of New York City, where they both attended graduate school, to move back to Colorado.  Fittingly, the pre-wedding Rehearsal Dinner was held at another scenic location, the Denver Botanic Gardens.  My camera lens fogged up on that cold, rainy evening.  But I did catch some amusing sights, like this fork in the road ...

Metaphor for life's choices?

... or this benign looking "Corn Maze" entrance -- which unexpectedly sprawls into an eight-acre corn field.  I lost my husband in it after he took some little kids in to the "maze".  They didn't surface for hours!  Luckily, there was cherry pie to reward the muddy, little troupers afterwards.  But perhaps, the kids thought it was one big adventure, and it was really just my husband who was concerned amidst the endless corn stalks.

Corn Maze needs to include "Bermuda Triangle" warning!

I took over 400 photos of family during this lovely excursion into Autumn.  I regret I can only share a handful, and not the most beautiful ones either.  This was my last look from the car as we drove to the airport, back to lush, green California.

Leaving my brother in-law's neighborhood
right by a horse ranch

Or so I thought.  Just today, I was out on a morning run in the hills. Amber leaves lined the dirt trail at my feet.  Autumn must have followed us home.

What is it like where you are?