A little to start with…

We're about 1/2 mile north of Fresh Breeze on the eastern side of the lake.

Back from what seemed like a whirlwind Michigan visit, I nonetheless managed to do a few of my favorite things, as well as a couple new things. And heresy though it may be, for the short run at least, I am converted from wooden to fiberglass boats.

Seeing the family is always the kind of experience that opens and shuts the heart. This summer we stayed at my maternal grandfather’s small lake cottage that has been in continuous use since they shipped it over on the ice, about 85 years ago. Tiny, heated with a pot-bellied stove, and sleeping about 8 at it’s fullest (that counts the two people inevitably sleeping on cots on the porch); the Little Cabin is an exercise in communal living avec la famille. The short of it: don’t pack nice clothing, and expect to use the lake, not the shower since the hot water heater heats about 20 gallons at a time.

In fact, when my mom was a kid, there was no hot water, just the water from the artisan well. The installation of the heater, and later a tiny shower stall were the cause of some grumbling from assorted family members. Though now, noticeably, we all use it.

Located in a swale below a bluff, the Little Cabin has arguably one of the best locations on the lake. Bordered to the north and south by tall pines and poison ivy (my ancient enemy), it’s a Walden-esque experience for the whole family. Except for the part where you can’t really get too much done because, well, there’s family everywhere.

This summer, more accurately, those 6 days were some of the most perfect I can remember. The weather started out warm with calm waters, and then progressed to blustery, blowy, clear days and nights, perfect for jumping in the waves…and wishing for a sailboat.

In addition to seeing my favorite cousins, I got to spend time with my namesake aunt, a retired English teacher whose wit, brains, and take-no-prisoners attitude enliven (to say the least) any social situation. I ate sourdough pancakes with my Grandfather and his wife ’till I thought I would burst…then a few more for good measure. And was invited to an Ottawa Indian Pow Wow, by my cousin’s friend’s mother. It was extraordinary seeing many of the participants in their splendid regalia, especially the men doing the Fancy Dancing. There was plenty of food for sampling, though I doubt “Indian Taco Salad” is an indigenous dish (ground beef, lettuce, etc…on fry bread).

All things considered, it was a wonderful trip, family and all, with the added delight of no poison ivy for me (yet).

*Pictures to come as soon as I find my camera cord. Until then, the Little Cabin is located just a half mile north of Fresh Breeze Resort, as the crow flies.

Multiple Selves

So, I’ve started blogging back at Art Isn’t Rocket Science, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about things over here…just it’s the summer, I am lazy, and well, we had another tiny tragedy.

This summer, my littlest hero went to fight the good fight on the next plane. Tyler was an old dog struggling with heartworms, and we knew there was a slim chance he’d succumb to the treatment before getting better. But after a week, I/we thought we were out of the woods.

However, on July 11, after returning home from a movie, my husband and I discovered Tyler wasn’t just sleeping. The hardest part? That he was alone. I think about him every day still and I wish things were different. But I do believe that certain animals are with you for a specific amount of time, then they must go. I’m just one who clings.

Luckily, I had the support of friends and family, and even my editors at Entertaining U, they invited me to write a piece about the bond between humans and animals. Naturally, selfishly, I focused on dogs. The resulting piece, I think is a good place for me to start on a larger essay.

Though I wanted to focus on the absurd lives we often imagine for out pets, I couldn’t resist looking for historical/archaeological evidence of the bond. I don’t dwell too much on it, and it’s unlikely I’ll ever get to make a pilgrimage to sites where deliberate dog burials have been uncovered, but it is a comfort and a curiosity to know how far back the bond seems to go (some archaeologists have found evidence as old as 120,000 years).

Nonetheless, I like to imagine how those conversations would go (there have also been ancient dog burials uncovered in Utah):

Anyone: “You want to go where, and do what?”

Me: “I want to fly out to Utah, then go to Danger Cave and sneak into the archaeological dig there.”

A: “But why, you’re not an archaeologist, you’re not even a historian.”

M: “I know, it’s just something I feel like I should do, like I need to go pay homage to all those who came before, who loved their dogs too.”

A: “You know…you’re not the first person to lose a dog…and most people don’t feel the need to vandalize historical sites…”

M: “I didn’t say I was going to vandalize anything, more like, say a quiet prayer, reflect on a long line that I’m a part of.”

A: “Can’t you do that from here?”

The answer of course, is yes, I can do it from anywhere.

In two days, when I leave for the family vacation, I’ve already written a mental note to bring back a special lake rock, upon which I can have Tyler’s name inscribed. This summer, he was going to come with me, to see the old homestead and run interference…I took such small pleasure in imaging the trip with my ancient dog by my side, that now, it takes on the timbre of a pilgrimage.

It’s not Utah, but it’ll do for now. And the EU essay will help too.

A day or two after everything went down, I talked to my brother and he kind of sighed and said, “The Universe conspired against him.”

It suits my grandiose imaginings to think not only will Tyler possibly touch the hearts of others because of my essay, but that he merited such cosmic attention.

beach dog

Hope

If we were logical, the future would be bleak, indeed. But we are more than logical. We are human beings, and we have faith, and we have hope, and we can work.
Jacques Yves Cousteau

A Small Announcement

It’s been a while since I posted here. And with good reason. Emily and Shea at Anomaly/Underbelly were kind enough to offer me a show, and I’ve been working like crazy on it.

If you have time, please come out and see some of my new works this Friday, June 4 at 6 p.m. at Underbelly. 1021 Park St., 354-7002. Also, there is an interview with me here.

Imagine Seeing Everything

He was a postal worker, she, a librarian. Together, they amassed one of the most important collections of Modern Art in the world…then, they gave it away.

It’s an amazing story not just of altruism, but of dedication and integrity. It’s available on iTunes and Netflex. “Herb and Dorothy” = totally worth watching.

Ready, set, PAINT or “I’m not responsible for your experience of my work.”

Okay, so I am more than a little behind the 8-ball in talking about Bravo TV’s new series, “Work of Art.”

The premise, writes Art Fag City, won’t be that different from Bravo’s other big show (the one that defected to Lifetime), Project Runway, and therein writer Paddy Johnson assures us, is its success: “The plot is hysterical.”

Johnson goes on to quote former Village Voice critic Jerry Saltz’s assertion that “I saw artists here who were better than the Whitney Biennial.” Take that with or without a grain of salt(z).

Without a doubt, I am sure that I will watch and comment on the show with mixed feelings of superiority and occasional awe/envy…you know, a normal Tuesday.

The idea that art has now been so crassly commodified isn’t really cause for concern or uproar, I mean, that’s a ship that’s certainly sailed. what is interesting, that unlike food, or even fashion, there is really no way to objectively judge art, beyond personal and subjective criteria. There are so many ways the show can fail on artistic merit, however, what the audience might really be getting is a view into a kind of hyper-competitive post-grad program, where personality truly trumps all else.

I’m curious to see who will get the $100,000 and the Brooklyn Museum show…and if that will really mean anything to the “Art World.”

The full Art Fag City story here.

An account by the NYT of auditions here.

Martin Hyers & William Mebane

from tinyvices.com

Classical Themes Revisited

Here in Jacksonville, there are many things that appeal to small, niche-ish crowds. I know, I have my own beloved events etc…however, I think I might be correct in stating that one of the most often overlooked of our cultural offerings is the chamber music group, the Ritz Chamber Players.

Composed (forgive the pun) of world-class musicians, and headed by artistic director Terrance Patterson, the Ritz Chamber Players are comprised primarily of musicians of African descent. According to the group, this is to “promote African-American musicians in classical music, of which only 2% are represented in orchestras.”

As a casual listener to classical music the reward is in the music itself. In addition to playing pieces from the classic, classical chamber music repertoire, Patterson often includes the works of contemporary composers. The result is a glimpse into methodology, history, and the way a composer’s mind works.

Often (again, my limited view and experience) I’ve found the presentation of contemporary works to challenge my notion of what classical music is, and can be. How notions of national, cultural, and regional identity can be repurposed and distilled, or baroquely embellished. It is a way to almost subliminally connect musically to past traditions and even events…like a sideways approach to a well-loved, and much-documented subject.

The Ritz Chamber Players are performing Wednesday, April 21, at the Times Union Center, Jacoby Symphony Hall. A piece by young American composer James Lee III will be performed in addition to pieces by Mozart, Mendelssohn, and Bonds.

Go for the Mozart, stay for James Lee III.

*embedded: RCP performing Ritz Chamber Players Coleridge-Taylor Perkinson Movement for String Trio that was written from his deathbed. Kelly Hall-Tompkins, Amadi Azikiwe and Kenneth Law. Coleridge-Taylor Perkinson served as the first Composer-in-Residence for the Ritz Chamber Players in 2002.

Version I

Part of the reason for this new space is to encourage me to write in a more personal, kind of storytelling manner as opposed to a critical or (attempts at) intellectual manner.

Version I (wherein we revisit old themes, hopefully in a new way):

If I close my eyes and set my mind adrift, I can still conjure the warm, slightly tannic scent of freshly burned pine logs. It’s a comforting scent, albeit one with the edge of a knife.

The house had been in our family for over one-hundred years. Collectively owned (at last count anyway) by nine contentious cousins, it had been left largely to slightly-used decrepitude. Mostly because schizophrenic Aunt Margaret had claimed the right to live there since the ’60s (and this right is still guaranteed in the original will).

Mag (or Mag the hag as we sometimes called her) was a Havishamesque ruin of a once stylish and respected journalist. Family members still remember her in fitted ’40s-style suits, white gloves, with cigarette firmly in its holder. And 30-40 years later, now in glorious rags and rubber galoshes, she was wily and smart. So much so, that a simple conversation about the original construction of the house would soon turn to the “obvious” need to move the north wall two feet north-er. That way, while Mag was sitting at the kitchen table, she could look through the Green Room, and get a nice, unobstructed view of the lake. Suddenly the listener would find him or herself nodding along in agreement.

Of course, the best way to start thinking about moving a wall, would naturally to begin by planting a series of circular blueberry gardens on the eastern-lake facing-side of the property.

Margaret was the youngest daughter of Helen and Albert Chute. Helen’s father had, along with his brother, purchased the Fresh Breeze property in 1903. Built in 1885 by German architect, George Voightlander the Breeze was originally slated to be a resort. But a poor business plan, combined with (according to family legend) copious amounts of alcohol, led to a bank repossession.

According to an 1898 booklet, Che-boy-gan Michigan Up-To-Date, Voightlander selected the property “with the soul of an artist…the house is an artistic home surrounded by ‘tangled wild woods,’ brooks and lakes.” The quoted prose has the breathless tone often associated with turn-of-the-nineteenth-century writing, but there is truth to it. The location, on a high bluff overlooking a small lake, surrounded by fields and forests feels like an open breath.

the property from the air

The house itself begged to be explored, and many hours were spent looking for secret passages and treasures…as it turns out, the only real treasure, a set of fine bone china was destroyed in the fire. Not by heat as might be imagined, but rather the pack ratting and hoarding tendencies common to the family: Mag’d decided to hide the gold-trimmed dishes in a card board box, at the bottom of a forgotten closet. They’d been missing for years, but after the fire, a cousin trying to salvage as much as was possible, found them in the basement. The fire’d burned the floor out, and the dishes, except for one saucer were smashed.

Anchors Away

“Art is magic… But how is it magic? In its metaphysical development? Or does some final transformation culminate in a magic reality? In truth, the latter is impossible without the former. If creation is not magic, the outcome cannot be magic. ” –Hans Hofmann

So I’ve moved over here as a reaction to/against the pile of complaints and worry I’d stacked up over at artisntrocketscience. I can’t say for sure that I’ll post more frequently, or, that what I do post will be worth reading. However, once I started thinking about it, about launching a new blog, it seemed I couldn’t stop. We shall see what comes of it.