RORSCHACH AUTUMN

A Rorschach autumn by the water, taken during a walk last week.

Widewater on C&O Canal
Potomac, Maryland

(An old friend, who is in psychiatry, immediately asked, "So, what do you see???"  Of course, I've learned not to tell psychiatrist friends what I really think. One shouldn't bring up ailments with doctor friends either.)

I was taking a break from "heavy reading" in my nook last night and picked up one of Neil Gaiman's book/graphic novels, the kind that appeals to youth and adults simultaneously.  Gaiman weaves wonderful tales that seem to be suspended in time. This one is called, "The Truth is a Cave in the Black Mountains."

One paragraph struck me.

"I am old now, or at least, I am no longer young, and everything I see reminds me of something else I've seen, such that I see nothing for the first time... It is the curse of age, that all things are reflections of other things."

So, I paused and reflected.  It is true.  As time passes, the more we see the present mirror the past.  And I thought of how our identities are entwined in our memories - whether joyful events or incidents laced with pain.  We are what we remember to have done and experienced. Without the power to reflect, that inkblot view by the water is blurred by wind and waves.

Just a few days ago, I stumbled upon an article in Smithsonian Magazine on American Genius.  A duo of scientists had implanted a false memory in a mouse.  Whoa!  The science is certainly brilliant.  And there are many neurological applications for this type of breakthrough.  But some directions brought visions of "Total Recall" and "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" into view.  If we can't trust what we remember, can we know who we really are?  What then defines the "I" in Descartes' "I think, therefore I am"?  There are many who would support keeping painful recollections intact (rather than erasing them or making them falsely palatable) because there is value in what we learn through suffering.  Like many things, I sense this boils down to personal choice - just as some people opt for cosmetic surgery while others prefer to tell their story through the cumulative lines on their faces.

Autumn in the back woods, seen from our East Coast kitchen.
This is a new kind of view for us.

Memories are beautiful and necessary.  But the moment memories overtake active living, well, perhaps it's time to make new ones.  I admire artists - in any field - who break away from their successes in order to explore something different.  Beethoven, after criticism of his Wellington Symphony, charged back, "What I sh*t is better than anything you have ever thought." This was supported recently by two scholars. They put forward a novel view that Beethoven's creative development through the Wellington eventually led to some of the genius of the Ninth Symphony.

Change is rejuvenating, as our move from the West to the East Coast has been.  Last month's VelocityDC Dance Festival showcased the trajectory of dance from deep roots in classical ballet, modern dance, folk, Lindy hop, street dance and (human) percussion.  It was difficult to categorize what types of dance these energetic hybrids were.  Whatever they were, they were amazing!  Art forms would be dead if new creations weren't continually spawned from it.  Though one might love original stagings, we gain novel pleasure and enhanced insight from viewing a modern re-cast of a Shakespeare play or a Verdi opera.  Or take it further.  We've seen gifted writers fuse disparate genres into their own forms for which literary boxes haven't been constructed yet.

As I've participated in events in the DC metro area, I've noted an evolving engagement of young men & women in the cultural arts compared to what I remember from youth.  This milky (haired) canvas is now blended with espresso, russet and gold - perhaps a few blues, greens and purples too, but DC is still more conservative than London or New York.  Seasoned generations carry charm, grace and sprightliness.  And who else can we ply with questions about the past?  But the presence of the next generation adds the unexpected into the mix.  This constant swirl seems so vital in painting our future especially as our own color fades into milk.

So my musings end in colors of the past and colors of the future ... and as the paint swirls vanish, the Rorschach image I began with sharpens back into focus, saturated with autumn colors.

What do you see?

**********

I hadn't intended to write an essay here.  In fact, this was meant to be a brief photo sharing that glorious fall day by the water with its glassy reflection.  But, just as Miss Bates could not be constrained to saying only three dull things to Emma, I have my difficulties keeping a page blank!  I hope you are all having a lovely autumn.  

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 ...

SPRING OUT

Spring has sprung ...

...  and shadows now sprout flowers ...

De Young Sculpture Garden, San Francisco

...  and all that's left of Fall are memories of fallen apples.

As Time marches on, I seem to be dragging in the opposite direction.  I'm still in a state of forced indolence, mentally and physically.  So contrary to my usual hustling pace.  Too much triggers a relapse of symptoms.  Can you imagine having to cut back on reading, even thinking, bustling about and, saddest of all, ballet?  (I had to cede my roles for our ballet show.)  

Treetop blooms seen from our living room window

In this reduced state, I'm still fortunate to be able to enjoy the outdoors.  Even if it means I have begun to empathize with humble vegetables -- noble but immobile.  

Beyond commiserating with foliage, I've also taken a cue from the Duck Philosophy of Life:

• It's cool to chill in a shady pond 
• Just go with the flow

Ducks happily etching concentric circles
Vasona Lake, Los Gatos

The other day, I was out for a walk (my runs have been curtailed too).  I saw some ducks on the creek bank waiting for just the right moment to hop onto the current.  Then -- plop!  All strapped in, they rode the current like a water theme park ride.  They really meant it when they said go with the flow.


****

Hope you are having a marvelous springtime where ever you are!  And thank you for all the good wishes and messages of concern.

By the way, does anyone have a good way of eliminating spam messages without manually marking and deleting them?

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.

IT'S A WABI-SABI LIFE

Ask George Bailey.  Life doesn't always go according to plan.  In his case, nothing ever did, and he was tired of it.  It took Clarence, his Guardian Angel, Second Class, to open his eyes.  As Clarence explained,

"Strange, isn't it?  Each man's life touches so many other lives.  When he isn't around, he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"

(For those not up on Americana, this is all in reference to Frank Capra's "It's a Wonderful Life," a sentimental, classic Christmas film.  Clarence saves George, earns his wings and gets promoted to Angel First Class. Of course, the screenplay is plumped up with scenes of compassion versus self-interest.)

A wabi sabi ceramic dish made by my Japanese friend
cradling Christmas ornaments on this grey December day.
Tomorrow it might be serving up something else.

I am reminded of my previous post, which touched on the wabi sabi concept of the Japanese.  There is much beauty in imperfection, in the little accidents of life -- even the passage of time.  We just need to see.  And that chance post on wabi sabi and impromptu gatherings drew lovely comments - on and off blog - from you friends in, shall I call it, the eCloud.  That must make you all a bunch of eAngels? (When I hear the bells, I'll know you've earned your wings.)


Ending scene from Frank Capra's "It's a Wonderful Life"



Here's to the Christmas season, and to how we touch each other in our little virtual world, even though many of us have never met in the real one.

Nature's Timekeeper: the California holly or "Christmas berry"
They're all around the house, neighborhood, town, mountains ...
as if wishing the Bay Area a happy Christmas!
This is what I see from my window every day.
It was much fuller until the deer dined on it.

Now I wonder, what is the real world anyway? ...  Ah, I've been watching too many existentialist films, like "The Truman Show," recently.  Excellent film, by the way.  But that's another post.

ALL HALLOW'S EVE

It's that time again, when Spirits join the world of the Living ... which one are you?

This is my favorite holiday of the year.  Spirits are unleashed, and along with them, unabashed creativity.  Uptight folk -  always afraid of looking ridiculous - finally find a great cover for loosening up.

Halloween also happens to be our wedding anniversary!  Revelers surrounded us in NYC during this full moon many years ago.  You wonder what odd people we are -- and yes, we are odd -- to have chosen this date.  Even odder is that my older brother and sister in-law got married on the same date many more years ago.  They had their own reasons.  Ours was simply the full moon.  The extended revelry was a bonus.  For that year, you could say our costume was Bride and Groom.

My mother passed down the philosophy that costumes are created, using anything in the house, rather than purchased.  She was a master at re-purposing scarves or discarded toilet paper cylinders!  I've kept that practice to this day.  So, everything I am wearing is either a gift (the Venetian mask, the beaded necklace) or from my closet (gloves, lace blouse, floor length skirt, hooded cape).  

Have a wonderful Halloween wherever you are!

MASTER OF NONE

I wore this to a meeting
and the pants sure got some attention!

Aprés-summer is rolling in with the daily fog.  But the other day, the sun was glorious, and I was able to pull the ouch-give-me-my-sunglasses pants out.  The trousers certainly arrived at the meeting way before the rest of me did.  (Note: Silicon Valley style is rather relaxed.)

This is a quick and penitent hello.  I have truly been missing all your blogs and creative inspiration.  You know what it is to have your hands in way too many pots?  Were I an octopus, I'd still be needing extra tentacles.  (My husband wonders whether my cephalopod approach to life is a character asset or flaw!)  A good friend and I were discussing how one life is just not enough for everything we want to do.  Reincarnation actually sounds appealing.

Which do you think is better: 1) Jack-of-all-trades, master of none, or 2) expert on a most esoteric subject?

WOMEN ON THE VERGE

"Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman."
                                                --- Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own

I am no scholar in women's studies, so the following are merely foolish observations.


My recent readings seem to be set in periods of great change for women. And so, my thoughts have been inching along that timeline, from the late 19th through the early 20th century:  a rather progressive period for women.  In part, propelled by men (thanks to Charles Dana Gibson's satirical illustrations).  And of course, in part, by women.

Where do we go from here?
Dress: Sugarlips

The 19th century Gibson Girls were a plucky bunch:  educated, athletic, dominant.  I could learn a thing or two!  The next generation did, and went beyond. Corsets were discarded. Victorian mores were questioned.  The movement for women's suffrage intensified.  By the 1920s, Flapper ladies had bared their limbs and declared: if men can do it, women can do it too.  (Quite to the horror of the traditional population.)

What are we reaching for now?
Dress: Sugarlips

So I was thrilled when Sugarlips sent me this delicate, crocheted dress above, reminiscent of a Jazz Age tea dress.  It seemed ready to step into a Gatsby garden party.  My hat is of the '70s floppy variety, but I had in mind the big, flowered hats from La Belle Époque, sliding time's ruler back on the outfit, if only in thought.  (I could have stretched it centuries forward with a Balenciaga Darth Vader hat if I had one.)

House of Lanvin
"Roseraie" dress
1923
Photo: The Met Museum

As I was trawling the web, I came upon this lovely "Roseraie" dress from the House of Lanvin in 1923.  It was inspired by Art Nouveau and the Paris Exposition latticework.  What better way to show that Change does not occur in isolation.  Historic developments are accompanied by tectonic shifts in art, architecture, literature, science, and so on.  This time span was seismically driven on various fronts by women such as Gertrude Stein, Virginia Woolf, Marie Curie, or Jeanne Lanvin and Coco Chanel ...  along with the great men who orbited their worlds.  

I can see now what Woolf meant about the prolific Anonymous being, perhaps, female throughout time.  What do you think?

***

Thank you to Sugarlips for the lovely gift.

Note to readers: I stand by the independence of this blog.  Any outfits featured are present because they somehow connect with me and my taste, not because I am paid to promote them.

POINTE OF VIEW

Miss Twinkletoes gazed wistfully at the trees and imagined a different existence.


"Oh, to spend my days in quiet contemplation," she sighed,

Miss Twinkletoes
aka Grishko "2007" pointe shoes
crafted by cobblers in Russia

"or to leap into Degas' world," her eyes growing wider.  In fact, she thought, any artist's world would do.

"Or even once, to tiptoe through the tulips."

Bah, foolish dreams.  Or were they?

For in truth, she was slave to an Evil Black Swan who kept close watch through the mirror.  But while outwardly bending to the Black Swan's will, she felt, her thoughts and ideas would, someday, be the key to her release.

Snapped right before dashing off to rehearsals.
By the way, it is impossible to dance
while taking a picture of yourself!

****

Alright, it's the silliest plot.

You can probably tell it's that time of year again, when my days are a flurry of ballet training and rehearsals.  The initial pointe shoe photos were taken when the satin slippers were pristine and straight out of the box from Russia.  They've been sewn up, literally bashed in, and molded to my feet by the last photo.  The slippers will break down further after a few intense uses, at which point they will, as dancers declare, be "dead".

Alas, the life of a pretty pointe shoe is brief.  On the bright side for Miss Twinkletoes, she is being saved for the final performance -- in particular, for the piece "Dying Swan".