Month: July 2009

  • A Different Performance

  • Fine Art Friday - Van Gogh

     

      
    A Pair of Boots (1887) Vincent van Gogh

    A Pair of Shoes  (1885) Vincent van Gogh
    A Pair of Shoes II, (1886-7) Vincent van Gogh
    This week I threw away three pairs of shoes.
    It was hard.
    They had been my friends.

    I think van Gogh would have understood.

    More Fine Art Friday entries.

  • The Cutting Edge

    I've been opening a large bundle of mail everyday with a zip letter opener that looks like a whale's head with an angled razor where his throat would be.  It was well used but its usefulness had expired.  After a few months of struggle it occurred to me to buy a new one.  What had previously been a pushing, shoving and ripping contest was transformed  to "zip zip"! 

    Hello!  A basic maxim of life is to "keep your saw sharp." 

    So my thanksgiving this week is for people who sharpen the cutting edge.

    My father -- one of his trademarks was sharp kitchen knives.  A few months ago I heard the story about the origin of this minor obsession.  My dad was in a butcher's shop in Kalamazoo, Michigan; this butcher's lightening speed in cutting meat was legend.  The reason was simple: he stopped and sharpened his knives often.  This  inspiration from the late 1950s stayed sharp until his death in 1987. Everywhere he went he sharpened the knives.  He was a man with a steel in his hand.  I remember the whisk and whirl of the blade, the circular back-and -forth motions that blur together, the high-pitched tsk tsk of blade on steel. 

    My husband Curt is as obsessed with cutting firewood as my father was with kitchen knives.  Beginning in May, he maps out the plan and goes out with our son Chris and brings home the fuel that keeps our homes warm.  He is restless until the wood is in.  Every evening before a wood cutting trip he spends considerable time sharpening the blades of his saw.  Honestly, I don’t know what he does!  But he keeps the saws in excellent working order.  I would be tempted to do this every other time or every third time, but Curt never skips this important step.  Falling trees is serious business and I'm grateful that he treats it with the respect it deserves.    

    Last weekend we put in a patio.  Chris brought his father-in-law's stone cutter saw and made all the cuts for the pavers on the edge.  The ability to cut bricks made a huge difference in the beauty of the finished product.  I saw the same dedication to excellence that his father has in our son.  He considered, selected, measured and cut all the live day long.  And at the end of the day, we had a beautiful cobble-stone-ish patio.  Sitting on the patio at the end of the day with my husband softens the sharp edges of the day.

    "For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing the division of soul and spirit, of joints and marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart."  Hebrews 4:12

  • Chords, Chords, Chords

     



    I am so ready to get serious about reading Willie and Dwike: An American Profile (reissued as Mitchell & Ruff: An American Profile in Jazz).  I've been flitting here and there, picking it up and reading wherever the book opens.  I've never been disappointed.  This book is chock full of treasure, with a capital T. 

    My interest was peaked piqued   because William Zinsser, who wrote On Writing Well, wrote Willie And Dwike.  On Writing Well impressed me, but I wanted to read Zinsser's work and see his style up close.  I had never heard of the jazz musicians Willie Ruff and Dwike Mitchell.

    So I entered through the writing and I'm staying because of the music.  It. is. glorious.

    Here's what I read this morning, words that resonate, vibrate, relate, inculcate, and thoroughly delight me.  Because to paraphrase James Carville, "It's the chords, stupid."  Inevitably the chords grab me, hold me and squeeze me tight.  I think chords are to music what words are to writing: the greater your 'vocabulary' the more you are able to express. 

    Here are snippets from pages 126-127, stuff that makes me want to shout and sing!  All emphases are mine.

    It's not a question of learning the song; he already knows most of the great ones.  The challenge is to give the song a series of lives that it had never had before, without violating its identity, and he will labor for days over one that engages his ear and his mind.  

    Each chorus that Mitchell plays has a different feeling, the difference being in the emotional nature of the chords.  The chords themselves are like nobody else's--elegant, surprising and yet apt; the ear never rejects them as "wrong."  Beyond that, the chords in each chorus are intimately related to each other in how they are voiced.  They form a line and tell a story; they aren't just showy chords plunked into someone else's song.  The composer (whoever it is) is never harmed.

    It was to try to understand how the ear arrives at such destinations that I began taking lessons from Mitchell... I hear chords coming out of his piano that make me quiver.  No matter how many complex chords I already knew or have since learned, there is no end of new ones: chords that I never imagined and would never be able to find myself.

    When he and I analyze chords we are like two lepidopterists poring over a tray of brilliant butterflies, delighting in their infinite variety and their subtle gradations of color.

    Most of all, he talks about feeling.  He often mentions some pianist who was technically flawless but who "might as well have not played at all."  Emotion, to him, is the crucial ingredient, and music is a total commitment.  In his conversation and his concerns I glimpse what it is to be an artist and not just a musician.

  • A Day in in the Life of some Bricklayers

     


    Saturday 6:00 a.m.
    (We got a head start Friday night.) 


    This is one of my heroes. 
    Our son Chris made all the custom cuts.

        


    Preston cheered us on.


    Scout, our grandson's new project.

     
    The end of the day.
    Happy, happy.
    But sore.
    I have more sympathy for the Israelites.
    We will be sweeping sand in the cracks for a while.

  • What Raspberries Teach Me About Life

     

    Last night I futzed in the garden: a little tomato trimming, a little beet thinning, but little picking of the raspberries.  I had intended to begin (again) listening to War and Peace, but both my iPod and MP3 needed charging. 

    So, gosh, I thought, I guess I'll just think.  I don’t know why, but when I think in the garden I get all philosophical.  Not like Kierkegaard or Kant: just your run-of-the-mill moralistic, didactic, flannel-graph philosophy.    

    Here's what I came up with, just to prove  that about *anyone* can write those little Everything I Need to Know sorts of books. 

    What Raspberries Teach Me About Life

    1.   The best position is to bend down low and look up.

    2.   Stretching beyond your reach is worth it. 

    3.   Don't be afraid of of a few scratches. 

    4.   Work is its own reward, but a fresh raspberry popped in the mouth is a nice perk.

    5.   The dried up, near-black raspberries represent lost opportunities.  Don't despair.  Keep moving. Every life has *bushels* of lost opportunities.  Pluck them off and feed them to the dog.

    6.   One can't overstate the benefit of looking at a situation from many different angles.

    7.   Even when you are certain you've picked every ripe raspberry --even then-- there's still more goodness waiting to be found. 

    8.   Corollary: another person will be able to see what you can't.

    9.   Cultivating raspberries, which are essentially a weed, requires no great skill. God made the plants, sent the sun, gave the rain.  The fruit is a gift. 

    10.   Early risers have all the moral high ground, but some things are better after the sun goes down.

  • Prime Rib and Eric Bibb

    I liked the album cover.

    I clicked the 30 second samples; immediately I called my husband to join me.  "Listen to this guy-- (consulting the screen)...Eric...Bibb."  After listening to a few licks, Curt said, "Get that CD." 

    People say I sing the sunny side of the blues.
    So I'm going to start off tonight with a song called
    Goin' Down Slow.

    We thought we had discovered this "unknown" and started talking him up to our friends.  Turns out, they'd been listening to him for years. 

    Wow.  I've played a lot of places in the world,
    but this is the most unique venue.
    I grew up in Queens, and you just don't see
    sights like this when you live in Queens.
    I feel like I'm on an album cover.
    In January 2008, Bibb came to Sandpoint, Idaho, six hours away.  It was close enough.  Friends banded together and we drove through an epic snowstorm for a magical evening.  Unforgettable.  A month ago we learn that Eric Bibb would again be in our region.  Anticipation. 

    A thought occurs to someone brilliant: why not bring him to the Rim for a concert?  Sitting on the edge of Joseph Canyon, The RimRock Inn is what's called a destination restaurant.  Our friends have worked hard to make a meal at the Rim an exquisite occasion.

     

    [About four measures into a song, he stopped to retune.]
    Tuning a guitar is just like airplane maintenance:
    it's always worth it.

    They seated 80-100 people on the outside deck with Mr. Bibb on a platform five feet away.  He introduced each song with a story, some background or introduction.  He plays some thumping 12 chord progressions, clap-along, foot-stomping songs.  But he truly excels, I think, with love ballads that make you want to hold the hand of the one you love.  

     

    Marital bliss and conjugal harmony
    are not normally considered
    suitable topics for the blues.

    The sky was a robin egg blue.  The temperature teeter-tottered between perfect sleeveless and grab a sweater.  Our friend Darrell Brann opened with a full repertoire of crowd pleasers. The aroma of fresh bread was followed by a salad with crumbles of chevre; prime rib and baked potato entered; dessert was your choice of rhubarb, marionberry, pecan, apple or mud pie. 

     

    My mother is a wise woman.  I haven't always taken her advice,
    but when she heard this song, she told me that I should include
    it in every set I play.  And I've done that for twenty years.
    A Swedish gospel singer asked me to write it; she wanted
    to sing a song with a blues feel and she wanted to sing in English.
    So here it is: a Swedish-gospel-blues-in-English song.

    During the intermission and after the concert there were opportunities to talk to Eric Bibb and his wife.  I told him one of his newest fans is my friend's mom, who recently received a terminal diagnosis, whose days are numbered.  He asked me to pass on his greetings. 

    Isaiah and his folks were at the concert.  Isaiah, saved from a deadly brain injury. 

    Afterwards my good friend leaned against the railing looking out towards the horizon, tears on her face.  She said, "I didn't know any of the people he mentioned in his song One of My Heroes but I know exactly what he means by "dead and gone...still livin' on." 

    Eric Bibb touched us all.  He made us smile, clap, sing, sigh.  I left thinking of the lyrics of one song he didn't sing last night: 

    Joy is my wine,
    love is my food,
    sweet gratitude the air I breathe.   

  • The Tale of Two Restaurant Critics

     
    Last night this line from T.S. Eliot kept running through my head.  It's from the Four Quartets. 'Garlic and sapphires in the mud...' I remembered that when you got into this it was almost a spiritual thing with you.  You love to eat, you love to write, you love the generosity of cooks and what happens around a table when a great meal is served.  Nothing that went on last night had anything to do with that.  ~ Reichl's husband criticizing the critic

    The Palm smelled of hope and garlic and grilling meat.  p. 108

    Ever since I stumbled upon Tender at the Bone: Growing Up at the Table, I have been a Ruth Reichl fan.   Her second memoir Comfort Me with Apples cemented my opinion.  Garlic and Sapphires tells the story of her tenure as the restaurant critic at the New York Times.  All three books have excellent recipes (New York Cheesecake, Risotto Primavera, Thai Noodles, Hash Browns, a ten-minute Spaghetti Carbonara, Gougères - cheese puffs, Aushak - an Afghan dish, are just some in this book) decorating the narrative.  

    An entertaining bit of Garlic is the story of Ruth's disguises and the persona she adopts with each wig and outfit.  Ruth wears her departed mom's dress and becomes Miriam; a champagne wig, nails, heels and a sexy suit create Chloe;  a carrot red wig, large glasses, lipstick and a vintage silk jacket evoke the cozy and crumpled Brenda;  Betty was an old sorry lady in oxfords so bland that she blends in to the crowd.   Reichl tells the back story, how it went down, and then we get to read the actual review that was printed in the Times.  Most of the food reviewed isn't food *I'm* used to ordering: foie gras, wild hare stew, steamed skate, raw tuna and caviar, risotto with black truffles. But I am enjoying myself (calorie-free!) through Ruth's remarkable descriptions.  Currently Reichl is my favorite food writer. 

    When I realized that Mimi Sheraton had previously held the same job and wrote her own memoir, I decided to read the two books back to back. 

    Where Reichl drew me in, Sheraton pushed me away.  It reminded me of the self-absorbed drivel you sometimes endure from a stranger at a party.  Example: So whenever I am asked, "How can I become a food critic like you?" I am always tempted to answer, "Live my life."   There were many references that only residents of NYC could catch. 

    I had a head cold; in the grips of a passive indecisive misery, I kept plodding along.  Lo, during the last fifth of the book, I started to perk up.  I was compelled to write down a few quotes.  Here are a few.  Enjoy them, skip this book and read Reichl.

    Not to taste while cooking is much like
    choosing a color scheme with closed eyes. p.219

    Wrinkled ripeness in fruits, as in people,
    seems anathema to many Americans.  p. 229

    It is better to be good
    than to be original.
    ~ Robert A. M. Stern, architect

    Just as some women gather jewels that they contemplate
    occasionally to cheer themselves up,
    so I can unwrap memories of favorite meals,
    a far less fattening pursuit than eating them.  p.237

      

  • The Art of Civilized Conversation

    I felt it shelter to speak with you.
    ~ Emily Dickinson

    [The art of conversation] is the Swiss Army knife
    of social skills that anyone can learn to use. p.1

    As much as we try to avoid it, there are times when we have to talk to strangers. 

    Sometimes we need to sustain a conversation with strangers, acquaintances, or friends of friends.  When I served on Grand Jury for two months we had hours of in-between time where we had the choice of looking down and doodling or looking up at a fellow juror and launching a conversation. 

    Shepherd's book would have been a blessing.  Most of it is common sense clearly explained.  I tried to read it looking for me and my weaknesses (rambling, interruptions) rather than identify people I know in the author's descriptions.  She introduces some great phrases: conversation kindling, verbal tics, rapport vs. report.  Since we all blunder, Shepherd tells us how to recover from them.

    Did you know?

    ~  It is courteous to stand up for an introduction.
    ~  Order of introductions: first say name of the lady,
    the elder, the honored person.
    [By mixing these I made the mnemonic acronym HELP. ]
    ~ Think of talk as a good game of Frisbee.  Toss it to someone else.

    Ten Rules of Conversation

    1.  Tell the truth.
    2.  Don't ramble.
    3.  Don't interrupt.
    4. Ask questions and listen to the answers.
    5. Don't take advantage of people.
    6.  Don't dwell on appearances.
    7.  Don't touch taboo subjects.
    8.  Disagree in a civilized fashion.
    9.  Don't be a bore.
    10.  Don't gossip.

    Five Fail-Safe Starters

    1.  The journey.  Are you from here?  How did you get here?
    2.  The recent past.  What have you been working on?
    3.  Situation you share now.  How do you know ___?
    4.  Companions.  Do you have family* nearby?
    5.  Return questions.  Ask her what she just asked you.

    Funny Quote

    I wish you would read a little poetry sometimes.
    Your ignorance cramps my conversation.

    ~  Sir Anthony Hopkins

    Whether small talk makes you hum or gives your hives, I recommend this little book.   I also recommend Margaret Shepherd's other book, The Art of the Handwritten Note. 

    *Shepherd makes a point of using the word family.  While people may not have a spouse or children, everyone, presumably, has family.

  • The Panama Hat Trail

    Where do Panama Hats come from?
    One might sooner ask who was buried in Grant's tomb,
    except the answer is not so obvious.
    Panama hats are made in Ecuador.

    ~ from introduction, The Panama Hat Trail 

    Tom Miller, author of The Panama Hat Trail, traveled high and low in Ecuador to answer the question above; undoubtedly, you too have pondered and meditated on this mystery.

    If you enjoy travel books, this book will appeal to you.  Through Miller's eyes you see all strata of Ecuadoran society.  If you are interested in Fair Trade issues, I recommend you read this book.  Once again I bemoan my meager understanding of economics. 

    "We should be there soon."  Soon?
    What does soon mean to someone who walks
    barefoot three hours to work in the morning
    and back again at night?  Soon?
    Distance and time are two of life's limitations
    that take on surreal qualities in South America. p.54

    One of the unacknowledged facts in the artesaniá trade
    in much of Latin America is that without the admiration
    and marketing skills of North Americans and Europeans,
    many handicraft skills would be virtually lost to us now.
    Indigenous products in Ecuador,
    like the people who make them,
    have generally been of little interest
    to the rest of the country. p.197

    Ludwig Bemelmans, author of the Madeline books, made a surprising appearance in this book.  [In a curious convergence, he was referenced in two very disparate books I read in one day - here and in Mimi Sheraton's Eating My Words "I have never stopped collecting stuff, with a strong preference for what Ludwig Bemelmans once called "beautiful dreck.""  Dreck means trash, inferior goods or excrement.] 

    Bemelmans wrote The Donkey Inside, a book which poked fun at Ecuador and her customs.  Some argue that it was good-natured fun, but many Ecuadorans took offense. 

    Virtually unknown to Ecuadorans, however,
    are two other books Bemelmans wrote about their country;
    for childre, Quito Express, about a little Otavalan boy
    who rides the train to Guayalquil; and
    Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep,
    a novel about a general living in European exile
    who returns to his Ecuadoran hacienda. p.236

    A Panama hat is a signature accessory of my favorite blues/folk/gospel singer, Eric Bibb.  He even wrote a finger picking ballad called Panama Hat.  

    Breakin' in a brand new Panama hat
    bought in a valley just like that
    best hat Yankee dollars can buy
    Workin' on the brim 'cause I like it real flat
     talkin' bout my brand new Panama hat
     It's gonna take some time
    but I'm a patient guy.