Saturday, September 02, 2006
Crashing but not burning!
I crashed a puppet festival. It’s an old story – I went to a performance at Radicackalacky – a Festival of Puppetry and Radical Performance – Puppetry Convergence – and I was watching what was on stage and I started thinking – “Ok, this has nothing to do with traditional stereotypical puppetry, I can do this.” I also thought, (Beware Hubris-karma, knock on wood), that I have a more developed, stronger text in my piece, The Chekhov Class.
The M.C. at Thursday’s performance, Morgan, has a natural gift for spontaneous give and take with the audience, and he mentions, in his patter between acts, that they’ve added some acts. After the show I make my bewildered companions wait in the lobby (two, lovely cheerful women, (the hermit having stood us up, natch)); and I hunt down Morgan backstage and ask him if they have space or another act at Friday’s show.
I don’t think I will ever be able to find words to explain how difficult it is for me to do things like that. I don’t talk to people very much, unless I have something to say; I’m lousy at introducing myself to people who it would be useful to know; I’m the product of some sort of micro-culture that thought it was wrong and rude to talk about one’s own achievements or aspirations. (I’m from a world where you don’t mention you are writing a screenplay until after someone talks to you that they enjoyed the movie – as opposed to the people who tell you they’re writing a screenplay and they have yet to have a single concrete thought and a word written. And from the world when people tell you they liked your work, you look at the ground and mumble thanks.) God, I know it’s stupid! That’s the way it is. So, change, yes? Yes.
ANYWAY, having asked for this chance, Morgan asks me a few sensible questions – “Tell me about your show?” – and then says “I’m inclined to say ‘yes’.” I then realize that I’ve asked to do something on a day when I’ve got things booked all day, and the forecast is for tropical storm/hurricane rain, and parking near the theatre sucks. So sucks. I pack the car in the rain, get through 10 meetings, manage to park less than a half mile from the theatre, and it’s only misting when I load in.
The back of the theatre is dark, they are running behind, folks are eating cold ethnic food, artfully tattered clothing and a certain amount of b.o. seem to be de rigueur, but there’s a list of the acts posted, and there, second to last is “The mask guy.” Morgan whizzes past and I grab him, and he says “Oh yeah, you’re on the list.” He points out the guy who will be on before me and disappears. A very nice assistant stage manager and lighting designer ask me what I need for my show.
I watch the first half of the acts from the audience. There’s a brilliant piece by two guys (RPM Puppet Conspiracy) called “How many Environmentalists does it take to change a light bulb?” There are no puppets; there is a forest of cardboard trees that are removed, one by one, from the tableau, revealing or being replaced by cardboard cutouts of each answer. At the first question, a tree is removed, revealing the light bulb in the forest. Then “One to write a letter to the light bulb,” “Four to circulate on-line petitions,” “Two, to do a puppet show about the light bulb,” and so on. The ending, depressing as almost all truth about the environment is, evokes The Monkey Wrench Gang. Although I’m not sure that folks in the audience under thirty have read that.
I oscillate between confidence and apprehension, but find, when I’m setting up in a frantic twenty-five seconds filled with Morgan’s vamping, mostly on the theme of his not knowing anything about my show, that I’m okay, I’m at home on the stage there, I can even riff back and forth with Morgan.
In as much as I can tell by myself, the show goes well. I don’t get a lot of laughs, but I don’t get rustling and moving either. At the end there is substantial applause – i.e. more than polite, more than I was expecting. I bow twice, and then we’re rushing to change acts. I go around the front to watch the last act. Afterwards several people tell me how much they liked either the show or the masks. They must mean it; they don’t know me; why else would they say so?
I have questions (reservations, really) in my mind about how my show fits thematically with shows addressing, however successfully, issues about social injustice and environmental degradation. Ah, I’ve just trapped myself into trying to capsulate what my show is about: maybe it’s about the intersection of our analytical and instinctive responses to art. But the aesthetic is the same – minimal props and painted cardboard – as is the approximate length.
Earlier in the day I told someone what I was doing and said to them: “I’m not going to get better by staying home and not doing the show.” So, courage to you all. And me.
The M.C. at Thursday’s performance, Morgan, has a natural gift for spontaneous give and take with the audience, and he mentions, in his patter between acts, that they’ve added some acts. After the show I make my bewildered companions wait in the lobby (two, lovely cheerful women, (the hermit having stood us up, natch)); and I hunt down Morgan backstage and ask him if they have space or another act at Friday’s show.
I don’t think I will ever be able to find words to explain how difficult it is for me to do things like that. I don’t talk to people very much, unless I have something to say; I’m lousy at introducing myself to people who it would be useful to know; I’m the product of some sort of micro-culture that thought it was wrong and rude to talk about one’s own achievements or aspirations. (I’m from a world where you don’t mention you are writing a screenplay until after someone talks to you that they enjoyed the movie – as opposed to the people who tell you they’re writing a screenplay and they have yet to have a single concrete thought and a word written. And from the world when people tell you they liked your work, you look at the ground and mumble thanks.) God, I know it’s stupid! That’s the way it is. So, change, yes? Yes.
ANYWAY, having asked for this chance, Morgan asks me a few sensible questions – “Tell me about your show?” – and then says “I’m inclined to say ‘yes’.” I then realize that I’ve asked to do something on a day when I’ve got things booked all day, and the forecast is for tropical storm/hurricane rain, and parking near the theatre sucks. So sucks. I pack the car in the rain, get through 10 meetings, manage to park less than a half mile from the theatre, and it’s only misting when I load in.
The back of the theatre is dark, they are running behind, folks are eating cold ethnic food, artfully tattered clothing and a certain amount of b.o. seem to be de rigueur, but there’s a list of the acts posted, and there, second to last is “The mask guy.” Morgan whizzes past and I grab him, and he says “Oh yeah, you’re on the list.” He points out the guy who will be on before me and disappears. A very nice assistant stage manager and lighting designer ask me what I need for my show.
I watch the first half of the acts from the audience. There’s a brilliant piece by two guys (RPM Puppet Conspiracy) called “How many Environmentalists does it take to change a light bulb?” There are no puppets; there is a forest of cardboard trees that are removed, one by one, from the tableau, revealing or being replaced by cardboard cutouts of each answer. At the first question, a tree is removed, revealing the light bulb in the forest. Then “One to write a letter to the light bulb,” “Four to circulate on-line petitions,” “Two, to do a puppet show about the light bulb,” and so on. The ending, depressing as almost all truth about the environment is, evokes The Monkey Wrench Gang. Although I’m not sure that folks in the audience under thirty have read that.
I oscillate between confidence and apprehension, but find, when I’m setting up in a frantic twenty-five seconds filled with Morgan’s vamping, mostly on the theme of his not knowing anything about my show, that I’m okay, I’m at home on the stage there, I can even riff back and forth with Morgan.
In as much as I can tell by myself, the show goes well. I don’t get a lot of laughs, but I don’t get rustling and moving either. At the end there is substantial applause – i.e. more than polite, more than I was expecting. I bow twice, and then we’re rushing to change acts. I go around the front to watch the last act. Afterwards several people tell me how much they liked either the show or the masks. They must mean it; they don’t know me; why else would they say so?
I have questions (reservations, really) in my mind about how my show fits thematically with shows addressing, however successfully, issues about social injustice and environmental degradation. Ah, I’ve just trapped myself into trying to capsulate what my show is about: maybe it’s about the intersection of our analytical and instinctive responses to art. But the aesthetic is the same – minimal props and painted cardboard – as is the approximate length.
Earlier in the day I told someone what I was doing and said to them: “I’m not going to get better by staying home and not doing the show.” So, courage to you all. And me.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
This week - poetry.
It seems to be the week for poetry; first I pull a volume off the shelf in the vast library at school – it’s a thin volume shelved near a play I’m searching for – and the title is so strange I have to have a look. Congreve’s Balsamic Elixir, Poems by Frederick Jones. They turn out to be rather iffy except for a couple, and one which blazes like a star on the night of my mind.
Next, during coffee, the hermit mentions Wallace Stevens. Complete ignorance on my part. At least, nothing that I remember. The hermit suggests a title that I’ve never heard – "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird". I track down the Collected Poems of Stevens and find them like digging in very stony ground. Perhaps it’s my mind which is the blunt shovel, but there’s no happy fit with any of the poems and my head. I don’t think that the Blackbird poem is very good – but perhaps I was misled by the title and am concentrating on seeking something that matches or speaks to my experience with Redwing Blackbirds. Just one of the poem’s sections begins to approach my heart:
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
A couple of days later I have coffee with Risa; that stretches into lunch and then through much of the afternoon; it’s my last day of freedom before the semester begins. She steers me to Stevens' "The Snow Man" and "The Emperor of Ice-Cream", but claims to not know what they mean. I puzzle over them and we talk, she prodding me to think and my brain dredging up meanings suggested by the strings of words. It’s not easy. I don’t know if the fact that it’s a struggle means that I’m dense, or significantly less intelligent than the poet, or if, despite our seemingly common language and heritage, we are much, much further apart than I assumed. Opaque. I find the poems opaque.
Risa is very patient, and kind. She gently urges me to see bigger themes and expect less literalness. (My words, not hers.)
If a poem records the geography of another’s interior mindscape, how much should I expect to understand?
And is the poem a series of prompts? A series of images that are a series of nudges that may or may not get you to where he may or may not have intended to send you?
I come back to the Jones poem; I try saying it for Risa, and I can’t remember all of it word-perfectly, but I do the last bit, and she gasps and laughs with understanding. It gives her a real sensation; I hold my hands out in front of me, as if they are holding some invisible but very real offering. “That’s marvelous,” she says. “That’s wonderful.” Not me; the poem.
Japanese Restaurant
When you’re young you think loneliness
is just something that happens to you, say,
if you don’t get any letters for a while
or no-one asks you out. It isn’t;
its part of the basic design concept
of the human heart – like Tartini’s
Abandoned Dido. Me and the violin.
The girl at the next table wipes
her chopsticks and puts her hair up
with them. My teacher says I should brighten
the tone. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says,
‘the dark will still shine through.’
- Frederick Jones
Next, during coffee, the hermit mentions Wallace Stevens. Complete ignorance on my part. At least, nothing that I remember. The hermit suggests a title that I’ve never heard – "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird". I track down the Collected Poems of Stevens and find them like digging in very stony ground. Perhaps it’s my mind which is the blunt shovel, but there’s no happy fit with any of the poems and my head. I don’t think that the Blackbird poem is very good – but perhaps I was misled by the title and am concentrating on seeking something that matches or speaks to my experience with Redwing Blackbirds. Just one of the poem’s sections begins to approach my heart:
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
A couple of days later I have coffee with Risa; that stretches into lunch and then through much of the afternoon; it’s my last day of freedom before the semester begins. She steers me to Stevens' "The Snow Man" and "The Emperor of Ice-Cream", but claims to not know what they mean. I puzzle over them and we talk, she prodding me to think and my brain dredging up meanings suggested by the strings of words. It’s not easy. I don’t know if the fact that it’s a struggle means that I’m dense, or significantly less intelligent than the poet, or if, despite our seemingly common language and heritage, we are much, much further apart than I assumed. Opaque. I find the poems opaque.
Risa is very patient, and kind. She gently urges me to see bigger themes and expect less literalness. (My words, not hers.)
If a poem records the geography of another’s interior mindscape, how much should I expect to understand?
And is the poem a series of prompts? A series of images that are a series of nudges that may or may not get you to where he may or may not have intended to send you?
I come back to the Jones poem; I try saying it for Risa, and I can’t remember all of it word-perfectly, but I do the last bit, and she gasps and laughs with understanding. It gives her a real sensation; I hold my hands out in front of me, as if they are holding some invisible but very real offering. “That’s marvelous,” she says. “That’s wonderful.” Not me; the poem.
Japanese Restaurant
When you’re young you think loneliness
is just something that happens to you, say,
if you don’t get any letters for a while
or no-one asks you out. It isn’t;
its part of the basic design concept
of the human heart – like Tartini’s
Abandoned Dido. Me and the violin.
The girl at the next table wipes
her chopsticks and puts her hair up
with them. My teacher says I should brighten
the tone. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says,
‘the dark will still shine through.’
- Frederick Jones
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Tonnato, a new staple
A few weeks ago, for reasons stemming from duty and politeness, or because the universe was, unbeknownst to me, smiling, I ended up squiring about a woman whom I had just met, prior to taking her to the airport. It was one of those days when you could wring out the air around you and collect a quart of whey. So we promptly went out in the heat and walked about. We went to Duke University and walked through the gardens, which are floriferous even in late summer, and to the chapel, which is really a not-so-miniature cathedral. On one flight of steps my companion began to gasp a little, so I slowed the pace and remembered a hike, years ago in Arizona, when another companion had an asthma attack during which I contemplated my possibilities of success performing an on-the-spot tracheotomy with an unsterilized Swiss Army knife. Fortunately, as then, the moment passed, my companion mentioned that she needed to drop a few pounds, and we began to talk about food.
I read cookbooks and food magazines, but I can’t possibly try everything I read about, so each recipe gets mentally classified as a yes (yum), no (ugh, gross), or maybe (need more information.) So when she began to tell me about tonnato, I had only a vague recollection, something Italian, a sauce for pasta.
“No, no, no,” she cried, “It’s for chicken.”
She explained that you poached the chicken and made a sauce for it from mayonnaise, anchovies in olive oil, capers, and tuna. In the blender. Then you simply put the sauce on the chicken. I thought about it and nodded and thought it sounded crazy, and we finally went to get something cool to drink.
The next week we exchanged e-mails about business, but the tonnato sauce is mentioned, and soon I feel that I can’t send any more e-mail until I’ve tried the sauce. It’s hotter than Hades and the last thing I want to do is cook. I’m living on salads of romaine lettuce and smoothies of banana/frozen blueberries/orange juice/vanilla yogurt. And I find myself buying a can of anchovies and some chicken breasts.
Poaching the chicken breasts is painless, you bring the chicken broth to a boil, drop in the breasts, return to a simmer for four minutes or so, remove from heat and let sit for ten minutes. (Perfect for all but the fattest breast – when cut it was a little too pink, so I returned the pan to the stove, brought the broth to a simmer for two or three more minutes.)
Making the sauce was, um, interesting. I dumped the anchovies in the blender, with the olive oil from the can, added a hefty spoonful of mayo, and rinsed a heaping tablespoon of capers, and added those. Then I added tuna. Judging volume by eye, maybe somewhere between a half cup to three-quarters. My blender didn’t like this. I pulsed, tamped the mixture down, pulsed, tamped the mixture down, etc. We were going nowhere fast. We weren’t even going anywhere slowly. A glug of EVOO (extra virgin olive oil) helped, and after more pulsing and tamping a pate-like paste developed; I’d feel inaccurate if I called it a sauce – not quite liquid enough to be called a sauce. However, it tasted WAY better than I’d expected.
I sliced up one of the chicken breasts, still warm, and spread a couple of spoonfuls across it, and added a few grinds of pepper. Broccoli and cold refrigerator-pickled red onion completed the plate.
Here comes the cliché: on the chicken the sauce was a revelation. An eye-opener. The combination really works. You could serve this to others. You could make it for yourself. And now, I can finally e-mail her back.
A few weeks ago, for reasons stemming from duty and politeness, or because the universe was, unbeknownst to me, smiling, I ended up squiring about a woman whom I had just met, prior to taking her to the airport. It was one of those days when you could wring out the air around you and collect a quart of whey. So we promptly went out in the heat and walked about. We went to Duke University and walked through the gardens, which are floriferous even in late summer, and to the chapel, which is really a not-so-miniature cathedral. On one flight of steps my companion began to gasp a little, so I slowed the pace and remembered a hike, years ago in Arizona, when another companion had an asthma attack during which I contemplated my possibilities of success performing an on-the-spot tracheotomy with an unsterilized Swiss Army knife. Fortunately, as then, the moment passed, my companion mentioned that she needed to drop a few pounds, and we began to talk about food.
I read cookbooks and food magazines, but I can’t possibly try everything I read about, so each recipe gets mentally classified as a yes (yum), no (ugh, gross), or maybe (need more information.) So when she began to tell me about tonnato, I had only a vague recollection, something Italian, a sauce for pasta.
“No, no, no,” she cried, “It’s for chicken.”
She explained that you poached the chicken and made a sauce for it from mayonnaise, anchovies in olive oil, capers, and tuna. In the blender. Then you simply put the sauce on the chicken. I thought about it and nodded and thought it sounded crazy, and we finally went to get something cool to drink.
The next week we exchanged e-mails about business, but the tonnato sauce is mentioned, and soon I feel that I can’t send any more e-mail until I’ve tried the sauce. It’s hotter than Hades and the last thing I want to do is cook. I’m living on salads of romaine lettuce and smoothies of banana/frozen blueberries/orange juice/vanilla yogurt. And I find myself buying a can of anchovies and some chicken breasts.
Poaching the chicken breasts is painless, you bring the chicken broth to a boil, drop in the breasts, return to a simmer for four minutes or so, remove from heat and let sit for ten minutes. (Perfect for all but the fattest breast – when cut it was a little too pink, so I returned the pan to the stove, brought the broth to a simmer for two or three more minutes.)
Making the sauce was, um, interesting. I dumped the anchovies in the blender, with the olive oil from the can, added a hefty spoonful of mayo, and rinsed a heaping tablespoon of capers, and added those. Then I added tuna. Judging volume by eye, maybe somewhere between a half cup to three-quarters. My blender didn’t like this. I pulsed, tamped the mixture down, pulsed, tamped the mixture down, etc. We were going nowhere fast. We weren’t even going anywhere slowly. A glug of EVOO (extra virgin olive oil) helped, and after more pulsing and tamping a pate-like paste developed; I’d feel inaccurate if I called it a sauce – not quite liquid enough to be called a sauce. However, it tasted WAY better than I’d expected.
I sliced up one of the chicken breasts, still warm, and spread a couple of spoonfuls across it, and added a few grinds of pepper. Broccoli and cold refrigerator-pickled red onion completed the plate.
Here comes the cliché: on the chicken the sauce was a revelation. An eye-opener. The combination really works. You could serve this to others. You could make it for yourself. And now, I can finally e-mail her back.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Brew on!
If coffee be the food of school, brew on.
I’m talking to the hermit about what I had for dinner last night, a quesadilla, and he responds that a quesadilla is the perfect food. For no apparent reason beyond the fact that they both involve tortilla shells, I tell him that when I was in college the first time, I ate peanut butter and jelly rolled up in tortilla shells, which was great, or, if not actually “great”, at least affordable sustenance, especially when supplemented with wine and cheese from art gallery openings, with the occasional pieces of sliced fruit. But then the peanut crop failed and the price of peanut butter doubled, blowing a huge hole in my food budget.
The hermit looks at me and says “That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard.” I’m amazed – this is, after all, a person who was eating cold baked beans out of some Tupperware (with a fork!) just minutes ago, before I dragged him off to have some coffee. We all eat odd things – not odd to us, because we, through necessity, or convenience, are brought to think of them as food, – but odd to others. Rice cakes spread with peanut butter, strips of dried papaya and wasabi, pickled herrings in sour cream, or cold baked beans.
So much of college seems to be survival. That and screwed up priorities. I mean that on my present miniscule budget I am vaguely willing to spend $1.45 on a medium cup of very dark coffee – by “vaguely willing” I mean I suffer some heartache, but not so much that I don’t do it, – yet I’m appalled by paying more than $1 per pound for apples, especially apples that don’t look too good to start with – and as a result often I don’t buy them. Why is that?
There has to be some sort of sliding scale/equation involving the variables of solvency, quality of apples (visual appeal), historical pricing, guilt regarding appropriate consumption of recommended daily intake, and so forth:
If (S (solvency) + Q (quality)) – (H (historical pricing) + G (guilt)[a negative value???]) is greater than M (market price) then P (purchase) is a positive value.
The end result is that I need more money to start with, and the apples need to look less crappy. Otherwise, it’s applesauce time.
Coffee requires no such calculation; its cost is justified by the value of caffeine, conversation, goofing off, and taking a break. Having it jump start the afternoon.
I like coffee with copious amounts of half and half, and sugar. Like many other folk I still refer to half and half as “cream” although it never is. More than one person has said to me “Have a little coffee with that cream and sugar.” If the opportunity presents itself, I’d rather have café au lait, which Starbucks persists in calling a misto. All it is is half coffee and half steamed milk. I make a poor man’s version at home, heating the milk up in the microwave. It’s one of the great pleasures of my life. Pathetic? Nope. Brew on.
If coffee be the food of school, brew on.
I’m talking to the hermit about what I had for dinner last night, a quesadilla, and he responds that a quesadilla is the perfect food. For no apparent reason beyond the fact that they both involve tortilla shells, I tell him that when I was in college the first time, I ate peanut butter and jelly rolled up in tortilla shells, which was great, or, if not actually “great”, at least affordable sustenance, especially when supplemented with wine and cheese from art gallery openings, with the occasional pieces of sliced fruit. But then the peanut crop failed and the price of peanut butter doubled, blowing a huge hole in my food budget.
The hermit looks at me and says “That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard.” I’m amazed – this is, after all, a person who was eating cold baked beans out of some Tupperware (with a fork!) just minutes ago, before I dragged him off to have some coffee. We all eat odd things – not odd to us, because we, through necessity, or convenience, are brought to think of them as food, – but odd to others. Rice cakes spread with peanut butter, strips of dried papaya and wasabi, pickled herrings in sour cream, or cold baked beans.
So much of college seems to be survival. That and screwed up priorities. I mean that on my present miniscule budget I am vaguely willing to spend $1.45 on a medium cup of very dark coffee – by “vaguely willing” I mean I suffer some heartache, but not so much that I don’t do it, – yet I’m appalled by paying more than $1 per pound for apples, especially apples that don’t look too good to start with – and as a result often I don’t buy them. Why is that?
There has to be some sort of sliding scale/equation involving the variables of solvency, quality of apples (visual appeal), historical pricing, guilt regarding appropriate consumption of recommended daily intake, and so forth:
If (S (solvency) + Q (quality)) – (H (historical pricing) + G (guilt)[a negative value???]) is greater than M (market price) then P (purchase) is a positive value.
The end result is that I need more money to start with, and the apples need to look less crappy. Otherwise, it’s applesauce time.
Coffee requires no such calculation; its cost is justified by the value of caffeine, conversation, goofing off, and taking a break. Having it jump start the afternoon.
I like coffee with copious amounts of half and half, and sugar. Like many other folk I still refer to half and half as “cream” although it never is. More than one person has said to me “Have a little coffee with that cream and sugar.” If the opportunity presents itself, I’d rather have café au lait, which Starbucks persists in calling a misto. All it is is half coffee and half steamed milk. I make a poor man’s version at home, heating the milk up in the microwave. It’s one of the great pleasures of my life. Pathetic? Nope. Brew on.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
“Use the talents you possess; for the woods would be very silent if no birds sang except the best.”
This is a short appreciation of a singer and actress – Barbara Brussell. Not having the same appreciation for the main stream of music flowing through the airwaves and iPods of America, I buy totally weird recordings that no one else seems to know exist. This often backfires and I’m left with a round silvery piece of plastic that really doesn’t even make a very good coaster, but sometimes, sometimes I find a piece of music that will become one with my head and that will be remembered forever. It could be a new song, but it’s almost equally likely to be a new version of an old song. From somewhere, the dusty bins of e-bay or a miscellaneous pile in a used cd store, I picked up an album called Patterns with a cover picture of this kooky but pretty lady in an oversized hat.
Her voice is a little breathy now and then, and just this side of plaintive, and she sings a version of When I Marry Mr. Snow (from Carousel) that makes me feel that she really knows Mr. Snow, and really really really wants to marry him because she believes that they will have a wonderful life together, and that her dreams about their future and her will to make life happy will make life happy.
She also sings one of those songs that’s actually an interior monologue – and the thing about those types of songs is that the more you know about what someone is thinking the more likely you are to start thinking that they’re totally nuts, and that’s no exception in this case. But the manic zaniness isn’t off-putting, it’s exhilarating. The song is called I Wish.
The strength of this album (I never know what to call recordings nowadays – I still want to call it a record, for Pete’s sake! – can you properly call a cd an album?) ahem, the strength of this cd, Patterns, made me buy her second album, which is called Lerner in Love. And, as it turns out, it has some very enjoyable tracks, but it’s nowhere near as out there as Patterns. But consider the source: Alan Jay Lerner (My Fair Lady, Brigadoon, Camelot, etc.) was a brilliant lyrist; he’s just not so cutting edge.
Barbara has a web site, but the last time I checked it hadn’t been updated in a while and didn’t have any information about future concerts or appearances. It does have clips from songs off Lerner in Love, http://www.barbarabrussell.com/ and if you go to the website for the cd label, you can hear samples from Patterns. http://www.lmlmusic.com/ (Although they only let you listen to three of the slower-tempo songs.)
There are so many things I hear that I never need to hear again. For me, this isn’t one of them; I want to hear more of this singer, and see her on stage. She could be the definitive Desiree in a revival of Stephen Sondheim’s A Little Night Music. Here’s hoping that worthy projects come her way.
This is a short appreciation of a singer and actress – Barbara Brussell. Not having the same appreciation for the main stream of music flowing through the airwaves and iPods of America, I buy totally weird recordings that no one else seems to know exist. This often backfires and I’m left with a round silvery piece of plastic that really doesn’t even make a very good coaster, but sometimes, sometimes I find a piece of music that will become one with my head and that will be remembered forever. It could be a new song, but it’s almost equally likely to be a new version of an old song. From somewhere, the dusty bins of e-bay or a miscellaneous pile in a used cd store, I picked up an album called Patterns with a cover picture of this kooky but pretty lady in an oversized hat.
Her voice is a little breathy now and then, and just this side of plaintive, and she sings a version of When I Marry Mr. Snow (from Carousel) that makes me feel that she really knows Mr. Snow, and really really really wants to marry him because she believes that they will have a wonderful life together, and that her dreams about their future and her will to make life happy will make life happy.
She also sings one of those songs that’s actually an interior monologue – and the thing about those types of songs is that the more you know about what someone is thinking the more likely you are to start thinking that they’re totally nuts, and that’s no exception in this case. But the manic zaniness isn’t off-putting, it’s exhilarating. The song is called I Wish.
The strength of this album (I never know what to call recordings nowadays – I still want to call it a record, for Pete’s sake! – can you properly call a cd an album?) ahem, the strength of this cd, Patterns, made me buy her second album, which is called Lerner in Love. And, as it turns out, it has some very enjoyable tracks, but it’s nowhere near as out there as Patterns. But consider the source: Alan Jay Lerner (My Fair Lady, Brigadoon, Camelot, etc.) was a brilliant lyrist; he’s just not so cutting edge.
Barbara has a web site, but the last time I checked it hadn’t been updated in a while and didn’t have any information about future concerts or appearances. It does have clips from songs off Lerner in Love, http://www.barbarabrussell.com/ and if you go to the website for the cd label, you can hear samples from Patterns. http://www.lmlmusic.com/ (Although they only let you listen to three of the slower-tempo songs.)
There are so many things I hear that I never need to hear again. For me, this isn’t one of them; I want to hear more of this singer, and see her on stage. She could be the definitive Desiree in a revival of Stephen Sondheim’s A Little Night Music. Here’s hoping that worthy projects come her way.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
The Metropolitan Refrigerator of Art
I first saw that saying on a magnet on a refrigerator in a broken-down house on Hutchins Street in Sebastapol; a pier-and-post house on the edge of the Laguna de Santa Rosa that was gradually sinking ever deeper into the long grass. The kitchen floor tilted to such a degree that to mop it you always had to start at the high side, by the sink, and work your way towards the low side, by the window. In summer there were bouquets on the windowsill; wild tangles of weeds – chicory and foxglove and Shasta daisies, and in winter the air was dry from the woodstove and the mud was endless. If I remember correctly, the walls were covered not with sheetrock, but a sort of fibreboard that thumped in a muffled way when the children played too roughly. The driveway was unpaved, but happiness was not in short supply because treats were appreciated more. There is more pleasure to be gained from a single popsicle on a hot summer day than regularly recurring creme brulee.
The refrigerator was covered with postcards and clippings, drawings and sayings; each given meaning by the curator, constantly examined and commented on by the never-ending stream of guests who came to put their feet up at the little table and chat.
Today my refrigerator is newer, but as difficult to keep stocked, and as covered as the one at Hutchins. I am the sole curator, and yet my guests are drawn to it, reading, moving, re-arranging. There is no guard to tell them to stand back; apparently it is an interactive exhibit.
Now and then I’ll post a few of the things from the current exhibit – and I hope that the original creators will have no objection of the further dissemination of their wit or wisdom, or fooling.
I first saw that saying on a magnet on a refrigerator in a broken-down house on Hutchins Street in Sebastapol; a pier-and-post house on the edge of the Laguna de Santa Rosa that was gradually sinking ever deeper into the long grass. The kitchen floor tilted to such a degree that to mop it you always had to start at the high side, by the sink, and work your way towards the low side, by the window. In summer there were bouquets on the windowsill; wild tangles of weeds – chicory and foxglove and Shasta daisies, and in winter the air was dry from the woodstove and the mud was endless. If I remember correctly, the walls were covered not with sheetrock, but a sort of fibreboard that thumped in a muffled way when the children played too roughly. The driveway was unpaved, but happiness was not in short supply because treats were appreciated more. There is more pleasure to be gained from a single popsicle on a hot summer day than regularly recurring creme brulee.
The refrigerator was covered with postcards and clippings, drawings and sayings; each given meaning by the curator, constantly examined and commented on by the never-ending stream of guests who came to put their feet up at the little table and chat.
Today my refrigerator is newer, but as difficult to keep stocked, and as covered as the one at Hutchins. I am the sole curator, and yet my guests are drawn to it, reading, moving, re-arranging. There is no guard to tell them to stand back; apparently it is an interactive exhibit.
Now and then I’ll post a few of the things from the current exhibit – and I hope that the original creators will have no objection of the further dissemination of their wit or wisdom, or fooling.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
A ship in a harbor is safe, but that’s not what ships are for.
July 14, 2006, a day of disappointment. It all began when I received the following e-mail earlier this year:
Please pass along to any and everyone you think might be interested. Let me know off-list if you have any questions. Thanks!
Peter Campbell
Literary Manager, Chekhov Now Festival
Chekhov Now Festival Playwriting Contest
Submission Deadline: July 15, 2006.
Looking for new theatrical adaptations of the short stories of Anton Chekhov to receive a cash award of $250 and a workshop production at the 2007 Chekhov Now Festival in New York City. Two pieces will be chosen.
Any length will be considered; works may have been previously produced, but not in New York.
Since 1999, the Chekhov Now Festival has been a venue for new and innovative works for theatre from around the country and around the world, based on the writings of Anton Chekhov. Its mission has been to explore Chekhov outside of the realm of the naturalistic theatre; the festival invites, commissions, and presents productions and adaptations that emphasize the theatrical, the physical, and the experimental. This year, in hopes of finding new work from across the nation and the globe, we are sponsoring a contest to find two short story adaptations for our next festival, which will be produced at The Chocolate Factory in Long Island City in January 2007.
All submissions must be received by July 15, 2006 to be considered.
Well, I thought, “How great!” I’ve been working on various permutations of Chekhov for almost two years, from studying the four major plays by myself, taking a class on Chekhov in the Slavic Language department of UNC, doing tons of research on turn-of-the-century Russia, working on scenes from Uncle Vanya in acting class, teaching first-year grad students about life in Russia, directing a show made up of adaptations of three of his stories, and writing and performing a short play called The Chekhov Class. So, having a go at one more of Chekhov’s stories seemed like playing a game I understood.
I let the idea percolate and read different stories, looking for the one that seemed most right. I liked The Bishop, and toyed with that idea for a while, but eventually settled on The Kiss.
The Kiss is the story of a nerdy soldier who goes to a party and gets kissed by a girl in the dark, but he doesn’t know who she is. For a while, the kiss makes him ridiculously happy and fills him with all sorts of dreams.
I worked on it in my head while driving across America, and scrawled cryptic little notes in that atrocious handwriting produced in a moving car while not looking at the piece of paper one is writing on.
I have this idea that it should be a little bit like Sam Shepard, rather than overly genteel.
When I got back to North Carolina I went to the library at UNC (air-conditioning!) and hacked away at it, and then bored all my friends by e-mailing them a very carelessly-proofed draft and asking for their emotional reaction. (I blush even now when I think of some of the typos…) Even my hermit-friend reads it and gives me two good comments. My friend and all-time, best, superb, wonderful, totally amazing editor, Risa, reads it and meets me for lunch and hands over a marked-up version, which I spend the next day and a half worrying over. This is the second day before the deadline, and I’m going to submit it electronically, and, having been born before 1970, still don’t entirely, 100% trust computers. It’s done, it’s proofed, I’m not satisfied, but I’m not ashamed – I think anybody watching my version would “get” what the story was about . And off it goes.
Dear Mr. Campbell,
Attached to this message is a copy of my short play The Kiss, adapted from Chekhov's short story of the same name. I am also mailing you a hard copy in case the electronic universe reformats the file. The file is in Microsoft word.
Thank you very much for your consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Charlie
And no sooner than I return from the post office and log on, does the following message arrive:
Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, we've had to postpone the festival indefinitely. I hope you'll let us hold on to this so we might consider it if we're able to start up again.
Thanks for your time and effort, and I am very sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you.
Sincerely,
Peter Campbell
If I were a drinking man, this would have been an occasion for exploring the bottom of the bottle. Instead I went to the gym. I hate the gym – well, not the gym itself, but going to the gym – the known benefits of engaging in the activity rarely outweigh the loss of time spent there. But today I get on the elliptical Lifefitness machine, punch in “Hill”, punch in “30 minutes” and take off. Today I get on one of the machines that is in front of this bank of five TV’s, all tuned to different channels – it’s a very schizophrenic way of watching – because my attention wanders from one channel to another. Anyway, today 30 minutes goes by in a flash. Over 500 calories, just like that. Now what can I eat to make up for it?
July 14, 2006, a day of disappointment. It all began when I received the following e-mail earlier this year:
Please pass along to any and everyone you think might be interested. Let me know off-list if you have any questions. Thanks!
Peter Campbell
Literary Manager, Chekhov Now Festival
Chekhov Now Festival Playwriting Contest
Submission Deadline: July 15, 2006.
Looking for new theatrical adaptations of the short stories of Anton Chekhov to receive a cash award of $250 and a workshop production at the 2007 Chekhov Now Festival in New York City. Two pieces will be chosen.
Any length will be considered; works may have been previously produced, but not in New York.
Since 1999, the Chekhov Now Festival has been a venue for new and innovative works for theatre from around the country and around the world, based on the writings of Anton Chekhov. Its mission has been to explore Chekhov outside of the realm of the naturalistic theatre; the festival invites, commissions, and presents productions and adaptations that emphasize the theatrical, the physical, and the experimental. This year, in hopes of finding new work from across the nation and the globe, we are sponsoring a contest to find two short story adaptations for our next festival, which will be produced at The Chocolate Factory in Long Island City in January 2007.
All submissions must be received by July 15, 2006 to be considered.
Well, I thought, “How great!” I’ve been working on various permutations of Chekhov for almost two years, from studying the four major plays by myself, taking a class on Chekhov in the Slavic Language department of UNC, doing tons of research on turn-of-the-century Russia, working on scenes from Uncle Vanya in acting class, teaching first-year grad students about life in Russia, directing a show made up of adaptations of three of his stories, and writing and performing a short play called The Chekhov Class. So, having a go at one more of Chekhov’s stories seemed like playing a game I understood.
I let the idea percolate and read different stories, looking for the one that seemed most right. I liked The Bishop, and toyed with that idea for a while, but eventually settled on The Kiss.
The Kiss is the story of a nerdy soldier who goes to a party and gets kissed by a girl in the dark, but he doesn’t know who she is. For a while, the kiss makes him ridiculously happy and fills him with all sorts of dreams.
I worked on it in my head while driving across America, and scrawled cryptic little notes in that atrocious handwriting produced in a moving car while not looking at the piece of paper one is writing on.
I have this idea that it should be a little bit like Sam Shepard, rather than overly genteel.
When I got back to North Carolina I went to the library at UNC (air-conditioning!) and hacked away at it, and then bored all my friends by e-mailing them a very carelessly-proofed draft and asking for their emotional reaction. (I blush even now when I think of some of the typos…) Even my hermit-friend reads it and gives me two good comments. My friend and all-time, best, superb, wonderful, totally amazing editor, Risa, reads it and meets me for lunch and hands over a marked-up version, which I spend the next day and a half worrying over. This is the second day before the deadline, and I’m going to submit it electronically, and, having been born before 1970, still don’t entirely, 100% trust computers. It’s done, it’s proofed, I’m not satisfied, but I’m not ashamed – I think anybody watching my version would “get” what the story was about . And off it goes.
Dear Mr. Campbell,
Attached to this message is a copy of my short play The Kiss, adapted from Chekhov's short story of the same name. I am also mailing you a hard copy in case the electronic universe reformats the file. The file is in Microsoft word.
Thank you very much for your consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Charlie
And no sooner than I return from the post office and log on, does the following message arrive:
Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, we've had to postpone the festival indefinitely. I hope you'll let us hold on to this so we might consider it if we're able to start up again.
Thanks for your time and effort, and I am very sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you.
Sincerely,
Peter Campbell
If I were a drinking man, this would have been an occasion for exploring the bottom of the bottle. Instead I went to the gym. I hate the gym – well, not the gym itself, but going to the gym – the known benefits of engaging in the activity rarely outweigh the loss of time spent there. But today I get on the elliptical Lifefitness machine, punch in “Hill”, punch in “30 minutes” and take off. Today I get on one of the machines that is in front of this bank of five TV’s, all tuned to different channels – it’s a very schizophrenic way of watching – because my attention wanders from one channel to another. Anyway, today 30 minutes goes by in a flash. Over 500 calories, just like that. Now what can I eat to make up for it?
