Three

Choosing three (each under 35 lines) was nearly impossible, but not… I had help.

 

(if you click on it, it’s easier to read. I’m still not entirely in control here…

 

Three from the Guggenheim Collection, Venice

 

 

  1. Henri Laurens, Testa di ragazzina, terra cotta, 1920

A Greek muse,
her profile
fractured along
six-dimensional
planes,
pensive and severe,
blithe and lovely,
turned this way
and that
each faces
a different
moon.

 

 

2. Franz Kline, Senza Titolo, ink on paper

Chinese character
hastily brushed on a bank
of slow-melting snow.

 

            3. Luigi Russolo, Solidita’ della Nebbia (Solidity of Fog), 1912, oil on canvas

Bright blue world
refracted all cubist by the
brutal searchlights
of camps not yet built
beyond trenches not yet dug
for wars not yet fought.

But it’s nothing, really,
only the twisted fog previewing
freak shows soon to go off like popcorn
in the red hot time machine.

Hallucination becomes memory
on the deja vu merry-go-round of mushroom clouds
and backyard bomb shelters
instead of barbecues.

It is the One-Step-Forward-
Two-Steps-Back-Tango
through the cosmic soup of time,
flashing all stroboscopic
with the solidity of fog.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Watsu with Nicola Kapala

I am 72 years old and in generally good health, but I had to replace both my hips this year thanks to arthritis, the right on January 18 and the left on July 11. It has been a long year of pain and recuperation. I love long walks and I customarily walk three or four miles  daily, but haven’t been able to take a good walk since December 2016. My body misses the sunlight, the fresh air, and any physical motion free of pain between 5 and 8 on the universal pain scale.

Thus, it was my great good fortune this year to meet Nicola Kapala through a mutual friend and to benefit from her healing talents. My opinions below are based on two sessions in the water with Nicola.

 

 

Both sessions were at Belisle Ranch and Retreat in Avery, Wisconsin. Belisle is beautifully rural and relatively remote; about an hour and a quarter in light traffic northeast of St. Paul. Belisle is buffered from the rest of the world by 1,000 acres of rolling farmland. The ranch also has an indoor heated pool, a whirlpool, fitness room, horses, cattle, and nature trails. Jeff, the owner – and master of the water – is himself a watsu aficionado and practitioner.

The pool is located in a barnlike room of fragrant cedar. Sunlight splashes through the trees outside the window. The pool is immense. The water is 94° and is kept carefully balanced by Jeff. There’s nobody else in the water but Nicola and me. All I hear is water rippling and birds singing.

Nicola speaks briefly, asking what my expectations are as she seamlessly eases into the fluid watsu movements. Initially she cradles me in her arms, supporting my head. Flotation pads around my arms or ankles add buoyancy. She moves me slowly, first in subtle wavelike motions, and then, depending upon one’s particular needs, she manipulates your body. I imagine that the routines are as varied as the people and the motion of the water. It felt like a spontaneous pas de deux we worked out on the spot.

Nicola focuses on my hip muscles. As she extends and then flexes my arm, my body twists gracefully in the water. The slightest pressure reverses my direction. The water caresses my skin. Nicola alternately flexes my arm or my leg, she rotates me, she extends me, she stretches me and then compresses me and releases me.

With my eyes closed I lose all sense of direction, of time and space. The nearly body-temperature water is hypnotically soothing and Nicola’s movements induce a deep relaxation which releases a tremendous sense of well-being. That feeling, for me, is the quintessence of the experience, the pearl in the oyster, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It lasted for a small eternity.

It is clear to me that Nicola is gifted, that this is her métier, and we are the beneficiaries of her gifts. She was trained by the founders and creators of the watsu discipline at Harbin Hot Springs in northern California. Like all shamen, she followed a calling that changed her life. She told my partner Steve that as she manipulates our bodies she is praying; that the physical motions are part of her prayer; and that is what she’s doing when we close our eyes and join the dance.

If I had to sum it up in one word, that word would be bliss.

My second session lasted an hour and fifteen minutes in the water, eyes shut, in near perfect silence, focusing on my breathing while Nicola gently coaxed the tension and stress of pain from my body. Once again I experienced an intense and protracted feeling of timelessness and well-being. For a small eternity I was a lily pad floating across a ripple on a pond.

And then it was over.

I hope to do this regularly. Nicola is a maestra and a bargain at any price. I feel particularly lucky that she lives in the Twin Cities and has access to two suitable pools to practice her particular form of healing magic. She also operates at The Marsh in Minnetonka. I haven’t been there yet, because I especially like the way Belisle Ranch, even though it is a longer drive, takes me to a world of handsome horses, barns, corrals, meadows, and rolling green hills.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Two for Ken

A humble tip of the hat to poet and novelist Ken Fontenot, part of the Austin / Alamo Bay Press posse, a mensch and a muse.

 

Two for Ken.
With love and admiration.
9.25.17

 

 

i.

It’s Here.
for Samuel Beckett, dead yesterday

 

The building that housed the future lies in ruins;

four naked flagpoles, a crumbling facade,

cracked earth and broken stones.

 

Yesterday the Premier and his wife

sat on damask sofas eating caviar;

today they feed the worms.

 

“The future,” you ask. “What future?”

You still don’t get it. The future started a long time ago

and we still don’t know how to use it.

We aren’t changing fast enough.

 

“No,” you say, meaning yes, there is still a tomorrow

just like yesterday, just like today;

“no,” meaning you aren’t responsible for the outcome;

“no,” meaning you can’t tune it in;

“no,” meaning you can’t let go;

“no,” meaning either way you hold it in your hands

and don’t know what to do with it.

Stripped naked, you eat flesh and destroy.

 

The wind blows. You dream of fresh air

and plenty as the lines settle around

your hard mouth.

“I’ve had a good life,” you say,

meaning that it didn’t hurt as

bad as it could. Resigned, you tell me

you could die with equanimity.

The horror of it all lies not in evil,

in deception, in pain or starvation, no.

The horror lies in how

it just goes on and on.

 

“No,” you say, meaning there is still a

brighter dawn. Behold the fires blazing

in the west and the sun rising in the east.

“No,” you say, meaning if you looked beyond

the easy pleasures, driving hunger, and

a vast appetite for sorrow, another day has begun.

You may call it tomorrow, but it is today.

 

Your feet are cold. The furnace is broken.

You can’t get that tune out of your head.

It strikes like an earthquake

and you don’t know what it means

but nothing is the same

so you close our eyes

and keep on breathing.

 

Larry Mellman
Los Angeles, December 23, 1989

 

 

 

ii.

Room Service

 

Everything ticks

like a bomb going off

whether you hear it

or not.

 

One more drink,

one more cigarette,

one more killing,

one more cup of coffee

one more accidental mutilation,

conflagration, immolation,

decapitation, strangulation.

A drive-by shooter kills a baby.

A man who might have been a saint

is lynched in a cottonwood tree.

 

“This place is too crazy,”

the Frenchman says.

“If you are hit by a car,

and have no medical insurance

do they leave you bleeding

in the street?” he asks.

“It’s not that way in France.”

 

 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It’s always something.

Something about dying

that drives almost

everyone

insane.

 

Lie. Lie. Lie.

The mirror.

The clock.

The refrigerator.

Lies we tell

all the way around

to protect ourselves

from other people’s lies.

“For you, I’d make love

to a crocodile.”

“Give me a call.”

“You can count on me.”

Or worse yet,

nothing at all.

 

Passing through,

a ghost leaving only fog behind,

skid marks on wet asphalt

and diamonds scattered

by an exploding windshield.

The future already

happened; it’s the past

that continually changes.

 

 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Strange creatures

come and go.

A gruesome-looking

piece of blubber;

the most exquisite embodiment

of human form:

bubbles blown

by a gum-chewing Ubangi

with a stethoscope

stuck to his forehead.

 

It’s something

only the Marx Brothers

could get away with

and it’s always worse

than you think.

The mirror.

The clock.

The refrigerator.

The 11:00 news.

 

 

A tenor in a white tuxedo

jacket and black bow tie

sings love songs

to a pale brunette soprano

with flowers in her hair;

fountains turn into

a white Busby Berkley

extravaganza,

where nothing really

matters at all

except spinning

in perfect circles

in toe shoes,

wearing pink lipstick and

a diaphanous black skirt,

whirling like a top.

That’s everything

in a nutshell.

 

“There is something worse…”

the dead novelist said.

“Not knowing.”

 

Larry Mellman
Oceanside, CA. 1990.

 

 

 

 

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Once more unto the breach, dear friends

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Two days before the day set aside to honor the legacy of Martin Luther King, President-elect Donald Trump tweeted that Civil Rights legend John Lewis, one of King’s most stalwart lieutenants, was “All talk, talk, talk – no action or results. Sad!”

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No need to compare the records of Donald Trump and John Lewis here, except to say that Lewis is to bravery what Trump is to cowardice. It brings to mind the selflessness and courage of those protesters and freedom riders and fighters for freedom and justice, among whom John Lewis stands tall, many of whom I proudly number among my friends and comrades.

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On February 1, 1960 four black college students sat down at the lunch counter at Woolworth’s in Greensboro, North Carolina. They were refused service because they were “Negroes.” When asked to leave, they remained in their seats. Their heroic refusal fired a movement against Jim Crow and legal segregation.

That winter I was in the 10th grade at Fairfax High School in Los Angeles. My friend Lionel asked me if I wanted to go with him to picket at the Woolworth’s in downtown Los Angeles with a bunch of students from Los Angeles City College. Lionel’s father was a communist, a lawyer, an engaged progressive in the stultifying ‘50s.

My father drove a cab. He grew up on Chicago’s South Side and was one of the most racist individuals I have ever known. When I challenged his racism, he would recall the “race riots” of 1919, when he was a teenager. 38 people were killed and over 500 injured after a black youth drowned upon being stoned by white teenagers for swimming on a segregated beach. The murder was followed by five days of violence and lynchings.

“If you go,” my father shouted, shaking his finger at me, “you will be a marked man. Marked for life. They’re all communists,” he said, as if the argument ended there.

It didn’t. I didn’t care. It was my first political action, but not my last. It was the beginning of an era of protest and political action that shook the status quo to its core. For the first time in my life I felt that I could actually do something meaningful, that I could make a difference, and it is a feeling I have never forgotten.

It is agonizing to see everything we thought we had accomplished during those years of upheaval and change being Trumped and reversed, as if history had given Bull Connor  the last laugh.

We can’t allow that to happen. We cannot stand by while history is rolled back. We can’t pretend that things have irreversibly changed for the good. They have already been reversed. Trump’s presidency, before it has even begun, is a vivid demonstration of what happens when the forces of extreme reaction seize control. They will do everything in their power — legal and illegal — to wipe out all gains made toward social and economic equality over the last sixty years regardless of the cost in human lives.

They can only be stopped by the determined resistance of the majority of people who believe in facts, in science, in progress, in peace, in liberty and justice for all.

Little did I expect that my political life would end where it began.

But it has.

I was nineteen when I stood in Sproul Plaza, Berkeley, listening to these words, more meaningful now than ever:

“There is a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart, that you can’t take part; you can’t even passively take part, and you’ve got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus, and you’ve got to make it stop. And you’ve got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you’re free, the machine will be prevented from working at all!” (Mario Savio, December 3, 1964.)

It’s time once again to bend our shoulders to the wheel.

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People and places.

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An open letter to Mick White

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Friday, December 30
St. Paul

 

Mick, I finally read Professed and enjoyed it a lot, laughed out loud a few times, and learned about things I’ve never thought about, all to the good.

Tom’s narrative was fun for the Woody Allen-esque horny, inept, shleppy guy quality. But your people are all more real than Woody’s; his are always like looking in a fish bowl at a peculiar breed of Jewish New York exotics. Tom and Nelda and Emily and Camille and Barnes and Travis are funny for very different reasons (“the valorization of blondness in this society is a disease” vs. “knowledge of the feline Heimlich maneuver could be invaluable when coping with Ben’s digestive tract,” vs. “All you ever do is see them whining on TV. I mean, they’ve got casinos, right?” (Nelda sounds curiously like Javier 😉

Camille’s narrative was my favorite although it’s difficult to explain why. It’s funny, but where I laughed at Tom, I didn’t laugh at Camille. She made me laugh. I loved all the nuances of her character and the way she dealt with the others as critical older sister, indulgent ersatz mother, baffled friend, disappointed romantic, etc.

Travis was the most unexpected. Although at times he knows a little too much (“it was sort of like TV, sort of like the jail scenes in Tom Wolfe’s A Man in Full, but not quite…”), ultimately I loved his POV. It’s certainly the flashiest and most charismatic. He’s the kind of character Woody could never dream of, and he’s not only comic— he is The Inexplicable, the object against which everything else plays (IMHO) so it’s great that he has, in a sense, the last word (“I guess that’s maybe because all those other people don’t know enough to fucking care—?”)

But for me the real triumph is that none of them are played solely for laughs (well, Nelda… maybe… I’m  not so sure… ask me sometime what I would have done with her 😉 ). They are all up against the corporatization of education (a new concept for me I’m embarrassed to admit). They are all its observers, its critics, its victims, its antagonists. The corporate university is devoid of soul, the object of hate and dread and deadly irony. The animus is centered there. Each of the characters is suffused with a wonderfully unique humanity. You never condescend to them; you are never needlessly cruel to them; you open them up only to show us their incandescent cores. We may laugh at them, feel sorry for them, be shocked by them, want to slap them sometimes, but we never hold them in contempt and that is your stunning achievement in this book, I think. I have read many books where the author holds so much — sometimes everything — in contempt; or condescends to his material; or to his audience. But Professed is suffused with a generosity of spirit that makes the enemy — the corporate educational boogeyman — all the more heinous. Ultimately we can, in one way or another, “identify with,” or understand, or like, or cherish is some way, every one of these characters, just as much as we loathe, as they loathe, the big white elephant in the room that is sucking the life out of their lives.

Anyway, thank you, Mick. A lovely book, a lovely read. It was time well spent 🙂

Larry

 

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TRUMP Year One

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Say goodbye to old friends,
safety nets, dividends,
Medicare,  an annual bump
of point three percent
in your Social Security.
Forget it.
There are fortunes
to be made.

Raise your glass!
To JPMorgan Chase,
Citibank and
Goldman Sachs.
Uncork champagne!
Nothing’s too big to fail,
the rich are getting richer,
it’s Billionaires’ Day every day.
Now that America’s great for them,
you pay.

When did you realize
that you’d been played?
When they repossessed
your wheelchair?
or shut down Medicaid?
When you lost your job,
your house, your life?
Raise your glass!
They’re roasting your kids
for dinner
and they want more
special sauce.

You hated your neighbors
and wore a sheet,
shot black men
for nothing at all.
You’re straight, white
and Christian,
you never take the fall
so long as Muslims are on the loose,
and that’s all good until
no matter what you do,
the color of skin can’t save you
because it’s illegal
to be you.

Tyranny rocks on
History’s Top Ten.
It’s nothing new.
Only the uniform changes,
and the salute.
The same rude beast,
its hour come round at last,
slouches toward the White House
heading an all-star cast.

Feel duped? Afraid?
Empires crumble.
History is remade.
When we act together, tyrants fall,
whether resigning like Richard Nixon
or blowing out his brains
in a subterranean bunker,
clutching at the reins.
Which future shall it be?
It’s up to you.

Trust facts.
Read history.
Raise your glass!
to ‘never again’,
to jobs with peace,
equality, and justice for all,
lit by gratitude and respect
for one last chance
to get it right,
before the cynical armies of despair
put out the light.

Larry Mellman
Saint Paul, New Year’s Day 2016/17

 

 

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A Jewish Christmas

july-1950

 

Monica Weitzman led the protest. It was December, 1952, and we were in the second grade at Eugene Field Elementary School in Chicago. Monica said the Jewish kids shouldn’t sing the Christmas carols we were beginning to sing in class; we should remain silent, she said. Singing about angels and Mary and Jesus gave her shpilkes.

Monica wasn’t just anybody. She was a brunette butterball of a girl with thick curly hair and a vampish smile. Her voice was big and throaty. When she sang with her full-throttle Sophie Tucker shimmy on the Morris B. Sachs Amateur Hour on TV she almost made it to the semi-finals. When she stopped singing the Christmas carols, everyone noticed.

I was torn. I loved singing; I loved the Christmas carols. But I also loved Monica. When I confided to my mother she advised me to sing inside.

“That way,” she said, “you have it both ways.”

I liked Christmas. I liked the baby in the manger, and the Wise Men, and the presents. I really liked the idea of the presents. Hanukkah was OK, but it didn’t have a tree lit up like Riverview Park, and stockings hanging on the mantle, bulging with goodies, and the ubiquitous bell-ringing glitter of the biggest holiday of the year, as far as presents were concerned. The menorah was cool; I liked lighting the candles, but we were too poor to get gifts every night like the rich Jews were supposed to do. We barely got one. In fact we barely had furniture; the hand-me-downs we had were supplemented with orange crates as end tables and shelves. I loved the stickers of snow-capped mountains rising majestically above the endless groves of California oranges.

Daddy ran a failing live poultry store on the South Side. The place wasn’t kosher but their clientele didn’t care. The year it died we ate a lot of chicken, usually fried. When Daddy came home from work he smelled of blood and feathers and chicken shit.

“Why can’t Jews have Christmas?” I asked him.

He paused a minute, his blue-grey eyes boring into mine.

“You know Christ was a Jew, right?”

“He was not,” I said. That was ridiculous. I had seen the religious icons downstairs at the Ryan’s. They were Catholics, eight of them, in the two-bedroom apartment like ours. There were five of us and we didn’t fit very well. Maureen Ryan refused to play with me; she went to St. Jerome’s and she said I was a Christ Killer. But she secretly liked me, so she and her sister devised twisted games involving various martyrs and Christ-killers getting thrown into a pit of snakes at the bottom of the stairs leading to the basement. I was always the martyr or Christ Killer and I’d play if I had nothing better going on. They had pictures of Christ all over their apartment and he did not look Jewish to me. He looked like Flash Gordon with long blond hair. He was definitely a goy.

But I also never knew when Daddy was pulling my leg.

“That’s stupid,” I said. “He invented being Christian.”

“He was a Jew,” Daddy said. “You know the Last Supper? It was a Seder like we have over at bubbies’.”

I looked at my mother in disbelief; she nodded in agreement.

“What about Santa Claus?” I asked. “Is he Jewish.”

“Of course,” Daddy said. “His real name is Mendel. He came from Afghanistan.”

I laughed out loud. It was the funniest thing I had ever heard. Afghanistan—it sounded like baby talk. I knew he made that up.

“What’s so funny?” he asked. “You don’t think there’s Jews in Afghanistan? There’s Jews everywhere.”

“Santa Claus lives at the North Pole,” I said. “He drives a sleigh with reindeer.”

Daddy gave me a village idiot stare and shook his head slowly.

“According to who? The goys? In the first place, he doesn’t have a sleigh. He has a flying carpet. Those aren’t reindeer; they’re camels. They don’t pull anything; they’re loaded down with presents. Beasts of burden.”

I couldn’t believe my ears.

“So if Christ was Jewish, and Santa Claus was Jewish, why can’t we celebrate Christmas?”

“Do whatever the hell you want,” Daddy said. He took off his shoes and turned on the radio to listen to Jack Benny.

But I was liberated, set free to create the best Christmas I could. Like I said, we didn’t have much. But I set up an orange crate in the front hall to serve as our mantel. I put the little tin menorah on top of it. Then using Crayolas, I drew green holly leaves on brown paper and cut them out to festoon the mantle. I made stockings out of construction paper I pilfered from school in the leg of my pants and hung them from the top of the orange crate, one for each of us. I also stole a lot of penny-candy to fill them; I eventually got into trouble for that.

In the meantime, Monica’s silent protest had gathered supporters. A delegation of Jewish mothers went to the school and struck a bargain. In exchange for joining in the carols, the Jewish kids would get to sing a Hanukkah song.

It was the greatest holiday ever. I got to sing carols in the assembly at school; then we all sang “Oh, Hanukkah, O Hanukkah” and when Monica took her solo, I got to light the candles in the onstage Menorah.

 

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On Christmas Eve Mommy roasted a chicken and covered it with paprika, turning it bright red. Boy did that make us laugh. She garnished it with parsley sprigs and served it surrounded by green olives with red pimentos and pearl onions like strings of little ornaments. I cut Jewish stars out of thick slices of raw potato, and she cooked them like French fries. It was the best meal I’d ever had.

That night I waited for Mendel to come. I think I must have stayed up all night, but I never heard him, and I was really disappointed because I wanted to see the flying carpet. But at some point I fell asleep and that’s when he must have come; when I woke up and went out into the front hall, the orange crate was full of presents.

My parents slept on a convertible sofa in the living room. Mommy was asleep with daddy draped over her like a bearskin. Daddy cracked one eye.

There I was, dancing with impatience. I held out the box.

“Can I open it?” I asked.

“What the hell do I care?” he said.

I sat down on the floor and opened the wrapping paper. Inside the box was a Lionel electric train; not much of a train, but what there was, was classy. A yellow streamliner engine, a green freight car, a bright red caboose, and enough track for a nice tight oval.

I got one of the sweet potato plants Mommy grew in pickle jars and put it in the center of the track. I took the Chinese figurines that Mommy lacquered and nestled them among the leaves, the lords and ladies of my domain. Mommy and Daddy watched me play with the train for hours until my sisters got up and opened their presents, and we got to have bagels with cream cheese and lox for breakfast.

 

Larry Mellman
St. Paul, 2004

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A few things about Reji Thomas

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(Reji with Pam Booton who rides shotgun.)

Here’s a few things about Reji:

The first time I met her she complimented me on my glasses. “They’re old,” I said. “I’ll have to get  new ones soon.” She made a dismissive gesture and said, “what the hell for? Leave them with me. I’ll fix them. I’ll even grind new lenses.”

I figured she was blowing smoke up my ass.

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(Pam outside Reji’s studio in Austin, Texas.)

Pam, Reji’s interface with the day-to-day world, brought me to Reji’s studio which reminded me of nothing more than Laurel Canyon, LA, in the sixties. I’ve been to artists’ studios before and I’m not easily impressed.

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Reji’s studio was chock-a-block with canvases propped against the walls in layers.

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There were more higher up, stacked all the way to the mushroom ceiling. Everywhere you looked were layers of something.

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So much. Overwhelming. Whirligig colors, abstract design, pop art iconography. Amid mountains of materials, packing boxes, art,  pieces of art, and art to be, even some furniture was tucked away.

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As Reji gave me a tour of her work, things slowly came together. Focusing on one canvas, then another, and another, I began to appreciate her genius for painting, her particular artistry, craftsmanship, and vision.

paintings-and-glass

The paintings spanned decades and reflected a multitude of styles, influences, and echoes, morphing into a symbolic language of their own, expressive of Reji’s complex and often contentious personas: veteran with PTSD, etcher of over 6,000 panes of glass for the Texas state capitol, spark plug and godmother of a singular artistic community, and a black woman embroiled with soul-zapping life-sapping  bureaucracies of old white men. She is a palimpsest of her African descent, her slave past, her people’s history, her personal artistic struggle, and humanity’s conflicted present.

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But that still didn’t mean she could grind lenses.

Then I noticed a beautiful glass bowl.

pipe-and-bowl

“You like that?” she asked, and conversing inaudibly but spiritedly she browsed through stacks of boxes. She unwrapped glass artifacts, goblets, pipes, sconces, angels, amulets.

reji-glass-1

 

reji-glass-2

“You made those?” I asked, a bit incredulous. I lived in Venice for years and spent much time observing the glassblowers on Murano up close and personal. I have an admirer’s appreciation of the hellish complexities of that peculiar art. Reji nodded in answer to my question, as if it were nothing.

Two things struck me. First, that Reji’s glasswork is unique and personal and accomplished, and second, that she is as accomplished in glass as she is in painting.

capitol-glass

(Etched glass door, one of 6,000 panes Reji created for the Texas state capitol.)

I also understood that she wasn’t blowing smoke up my ass. She could grind lenses with the same finesse and dexterity with which she fashioned an angel or etched a portrait in glass.

“I’m blown away that you are so  accomplished in both painting and glasswork,” I said.

So she smiled and showed me the portrait of her mother. The glass face is set in a plinth of carved stonework.

portrait-of-her-mother

“I did that too,” she said, indicating the stonework.

portrait-closeup

That’s when I got it.

Reji can and will do whatever is necessary to fulfill her artistic vision. She is an artist in the classical sense of the word, a master craftsman elevated by pure inspiration. She is not only visionary — dazzling, ennobling, joyous, and terrifying — but she is strong and stubborn enough to master what ever medium she needs to realize it.

glass-portrait

(P. S. I bought the bowl and Reji gave me a print for my office 🙂

reji-bowl

reji-and-my-print

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Guilty pleasures

As a 70-year-old man it is with a certain abashedness that I am forced to admit that the 2005 Pride and Prejudice with Keira Knightly made me laugh and cry like a teenage girl. It is a lushly romantic treatment of the novel that manages to simultaneously deliver all the wit and surgical critique associated with Jane Austen. Keira Knightly is dazzling, deserving of comparison with the young Audrey Hepburn, possessed of a similar gamine charm, eyebrows, and capable of delivering a rainbow of carefully nuanced emotional states. She is alternately filled with awe, frustration, envy, disdain, self-deprecating honesty, proud humility, self-righteousness, and giddy teenage humor.

 

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The under-appreciated Matthew Macfadyen is wonderful as always (cf. The Way We Live  Now) as Darcy, the dour foil to Keira’s Elizabeth, whose slow reveal of his inner nobility is perfectly calibrated. The cast surrounding them is uniformly luxurious and brilliant (Rosamund Pike as Jane, Brenda Blethyn as Mrs. Bennet, Donald Sutherland truly touching as Mr. Bennett, Judy Dench a ferocious Lady Catherine de Bourg, even a very young Carey Mulligan as Kitty). If a teenage girl lurks anywhere in your complex psyche (as Tolstoy hid the sublime Natasha Rostova in his bearded, encyclopedic, and mystical anima), I recommend this movie because, like me, you will probably laugh and cry and have a wonderful time.

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Pride and Prejudice led me to another surprise delight, Death Comes to Pemberly, the television adaptation of P. D. James’s “sequel” to Pride and Prejudice, an early 19th-century police procedural built with Jane Austen’s characters and settings. Also beautifully cast, with Matthew Rhys (The Americans, anyone?), Anna Maxwell Martin (Bletchley Circle, Philomena, Bleak House), and Matthew Goode, it is a Masterpiece Mystery where the mystery was fairly easy to unravel (if I could do it anyone could, like, why is this character here?) but swept me along with its gorgeous settings, its sumptuous moodiness, and P.D. James’s cut to the quick dialog.

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