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?

LIQUID MEMORY

Are your happy thoughts awash in water as mine seem to be?

Family, work, and the Arts seem to ebb and flow in my life, each surging in turn.  But once in a while, they come together in a joyful splash.

Just this weekend, visiting nieces from Denver drew us to the coast, underscoring natural differences between the Rockies and the Bay Area.  I love the mountains -- but what about the afternoon sun on the waves?  Sparkling water makes children of us all!

Happiness on the beach
Natural Bridges, Santa Cruz
From this weekend

Last weekend, we caught the last day of the exhibit, "Impressionists on the Water," at the Legion of Honor.  Just as my memories are flecked with dappled sunlight on water, so were the Impressionists' scenes from the banks of the Seine.  Sails pierced the nautical blues of San Francisco Bay  -- right outside the Museum -- and Monterey Bay, as if in accidental salute.  (The gods of Serendipity must be enjoying this since I am also immersed in an art history project stressing the Impressionists.)

Sailboats out on Monterey Bay this weekend
in synch with the Impressionist sailing scenes

The seafaring displays swept me back to my summer holidays, when my sister, cousins and I navigated coral reefs and turquoise seas.

Our rustic outrigger heading out

for snorkeling adventures

Languid mornings over mangoes and coffee frequently gave way to the excitement of planning the day's excursions.

Breakfast seascape

Snorkeling or scuba diving?  1, 2 or 3 coral reefs?  I want to see spectacular marine life!  I want to be Jacques Cousteau!

We hopped on to smaller, yellow canoes -- mid-sea! -- from our larger outrigger
in order to navigate shallow coral reefs

In fact, we spent so much time submerged, swaying in the hammock appeared way too airborne.

The unused hammock on the shore

So many activities, so many islands, so much water.  But wait a moment.  Nostalgia and water now swirl in an eddy of memories ...

Puddles of childhood in tropical rain ... afternoon torrents paired with naps ... typhoons teamed with a book in a nook ...

Afternoon rain in my childhood home,
from the dining room window

Even music and movement are claimed by the vortex.   Flickering lights in raindrop tempo ... rooftop staccato plip-plop-plop... fluid ballet steps swell to the deluge ...  tap-tap dancing to thunder claps ...

Oh my.  J.K. Rowling was on to something when she conceived her Pensieve.  Wizards and we can be gripped by an uncontrollable flow of thoughts and memories.

Some might prefer drifting with Proust's remembrances rather than Potter's.  Either way, when the current takes us, we are lost in time, shipwrecked in recollections.

Late afternoon mooring
after a day spent in the water

Eventually, the whorls and ripples diminish.  We moor our memories and seek stable shores.  And once more, we are left to reflect, safely, on dancing drops of sunlight.

What are your radiant reflections attached to?

DALI'S MUSTACHE

Mustache makeover, anyone?

Dali lathed his in wax. Groucho Marx' matched his brows.  Chaplin was fine with half.

What a menu ...  I think I'll try Dali's.

Tiered tulle skirt: charity shop treasure haul!

Whoops.  I guess not.  Even the book is laughing at me!

It's easy to adopt Surrealist habits when one spends a lot of time with them.  Or even if not.  This gem of an art book - a collaboration between Salvador Dalí and LIFE photographer, Philippe Halsman - takes only 10 minutes of your life and adds back more.  Life Surreal is hilarious.  

In case you're wondering why Dalí popped up here, I was in a meeting when colleagues noted I was dressed like Audrey Hepburn, ponytail and all (which you see here).  "Dali's Mustache" was published in 1954, around the height of Hepburn's popularity.  Dalí and his mustache were celebrities as well.  Alright, it makes no sense but perhaps that is Dalî's paranoiac critical method at work.