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Category: Grand Adventure

Big Ears: Setbacks and Triumphs

So I am wandering a bit in this post, about Big Ears and not. Please have patience. I'm not asking for anything but patience.

After I exhausted myself on Friday, the rest of Big Ears seemed something like a blur. That even though I intentionally planned a rather light day on Saturday, and lucky for me I did. I started off with a performance by trumpet virtuoso Peter Evans, which was certainly mind-bending. I can't really say that I would classify what I heard as music, but he pushed the trumpet to produce effects and waves of sound, tone, and tempo that I certainly never imagined; there were times where the sound was loud and crashing, a tornado in the room, and there were other periods of soft, gentle, melodies, a gentleness I had never really imagined from a trumpet. So although I personally didn't hear music, I was fascinated, and I could easily imagine music being written to incorporate what I was hearing, I could imagine the sounds I heard as part of greater works. I would say that the concert was difficult but also exciting.

Then I had a short break and a dilemma. At 2PM there were three concerts I was interested in: Bela Fleck and Abigail Washburn, Jon Gibson, and Rushes Ensemble, with Cyro Baptista also performing again at 2:30. I had already decided not to go to Bela Fleck, not because I wouldn't love it, but because I had heard Fleck and Washburn perform together before, and felt I should push myself to explore something new. Given that reasoning, I also opted out of Baptista, even though I had been entranced by his concert the day before. Torn between Gibson and Rushes, I opted for Rushes Ensemble, only because of the bassoons. It may not have been the best choice, but I am a woman who loves the bassoon, a woman who will, and did, go out of her way for bassoon music. The work being performed, a piece written for 7 bassoons, was very interesting, with rotating waves of sound. It most certainly was not Telemann or Mozart, but I did not expect that it would be, and it was beautiful nonetheless. Or at least the first half hour was beautiful; then I got bored. Perhaps I just got hungry, and I realized that I had a walk of several blocks before I could eat. I probably should have eaten between concerts. I had had an hour. But I played with Tikka instead, thinking I could wait until after the bassoon concert. I had forgotten that, although I had a decent breakfast of hard boiled eggs and hot smoked salmon on salad, I had not eaten much the day before — a felafel salad plate and a small bucket of popcorn even though I had gone to concerts all day long, walked 13 miles, and my smart watch told me I had burned 800 calories more than my usual. Not smart. So I left and had a leisurely lunch, and spent some time with Tikka.

If my 2 PM concert was not my favorite, the next concert I attended, the 5 PM performance by Jason Moran and Milford Graves was one of the high points of a weekend that, in retrospect seems filled with high points. The music was fabulous, and incredibly inspiring. I felt as if the music flowed in such a way that it encapsulated the breath and pulse of the room, audience and musicians as one, drawing us in and transforming us, at times slow and centered, at others rising up. Amazing.

The next concert on my agenda was billed as Roscoe Mitchell Trios at the Bijou, performing Bells for the South Side, among other works, and although there were more than three musicians on the stage, they did in fact play in trios. The music was very different from what I had heard Roscoe Mitchell playing the day before. That music had been warm and full of heart. This was fascinating, minimalist, and far more purely intellectual. I enjoyed it, and my brain was hopping along all sparkly and intrigued, but I wanted something more, so I didn't stay, opting instead to wander back to the cathedral to hear Johnny Gandelsman playing Bach. Gandelsman is technically very proficient and he played the Bach well, but he also brought a warmth and a humanity to the music. The performance was incredibly heart-warming, and intellectually thrilling as well. Sometimes the Bach solo violin pieces become a showcase for technical virtuosity and the soul of the music is lost; not in this case. I sat entranced.

By the time that concert ended, it was pouring and I was tired and hungry. I had hoped to eat at Kaizen, hoped it was late enough that I would luck into a table because I had forgotten to make a reservation. Alas a few people arrived just ahead of me and snagged the last table and last seat at the bar. I didn't want to wait so I walked over to Emilia where they managed to work me in and I was very happy. I settled in for a good meal and a glass of wine, a symphony of food and drink, along with some people watching and reflecting. The evening ended with a lovely dessert, not on the menu, of a small bit of rich and satisfying vegan dark chocolate mousse, with Amaro soaked citrus and luxardo cherries. It reminded me of music, of Roscoe Mitchell's minimalist compositions, but it was far more satisfying.

I noted that Big Ears was turning out to be both better than I had expected and yet also more frustrating. My frustrations however stemmed more from my own patience, or lack of it, with myself. Perhaps my expectations had been too high: My first big ears, I still couldn't stand long, even though it was nearly a year after my back surgery. But this year I stayed downtown so I could go to more concerts. I walked 8-11 miles a day the weekend in Paris and again in New York in February with no ill effects. I routinely walk between 6 and 7 miles a day. I thought Big Ears would be a piece of cake.

Unfortunately things were not proving to be that easy. One of the reasons I stayed for the entire Medeski, Martin and Wood concert Friday night was that I was having a lot of pain walking. I had mentioned that I was having leg and hip pain in previous blog posts over the previous two weeks, and that I had concerns about being able to handle the amount of walking required, as my movement had been severely curtailed. In fact I had just worked my way up to 4 miles a day before Big Ears started, and that only by taking many short walks. By Friday night, my right leg was dragging and I was in considerable pain but I was going to be damned if I missed that concert. I arrived, got a bourbon and the aforementioned popcorn and settled in. I didn't plan to stay for the entire concert, but I was entranced enough that I did. Two hours later I was comfortable enough but able to walk back to my hotel room, but further concert-going was out of the question.

Even so I was up half the night with leg pain. And the pain was worse on Saturday. I was beginning to realize what should have been apparent all along, that this wasn't a leg injury but back pain, sciatic pain. The sciatic nerve was so inflamed that other muscles were being inflamed as well. I've experienced this before, but it had been a long time. The back surgery I had 4 years ago was for a disk at L4. That was causing pain and numbness in my left leg, and in my back, but I had experienced intermittent sciatic problems for 30 years in my right leg, at times so severe I could barely function or walk. That particular pains stems from some changes at L5-S1, but they are not changes that would or could be improved by surgery. I'd have one or two "spells" a year and then move on. I wondered why it had stopped, but apparently it never did. The L4 disk, which had been bad, had just overpowered the other, and it took me long enough to recover, to stop perhaps being overly cautious, for small accidents to happen. A simple unexpected step Into a dip, a small twist, and there I was again.

Before you jump all over me, I am not looking for sympathy. I intended to take it easier on Saturday and I did. I intended to walk only 5 miles or so, but it ended up being over 8. But I also know that the only way to overcome back pain is to keep moving. Once I realized what was going on, I knew I needed to move as much as I could, stop when I needed to, but also not let myself freeze in place. Sunday was hard. And I missed some concerts because I couldn't walk to them. I got to one end of Gay street and stayed there. I could walk and stand but getting up a hill would do me in. Once I couldn't walk any more I went back to my hotel and rested. At that point I was fine as long as I was standing and walking; walking slowly perhaps, but still walking. Sitting was a problem, but that could be addressed in time, so I went out again.

I heard and did more than at any prior Big Ears. I had fun. I also pushed myself, perhaps more than I should have, but I wouldn't do anything differently, and I would have hated to have missed the festival. I'm not inclined to let a little inconvenience get in the way of music and fun. I also had fun. I spoke to more people I didn't know than I have at any previous Big Ears Weekend. I got out of my head and into the social aspect of the place. Once I knew what the problem was I could actually manage better. And yet, despite pushing myself, or because of it, I am actually better now and am functioning well with only minor nerve issues.

Aside from learning that I was simply more comfortable in my skin than I had been for a while, I learned a couple of other things about myself. I had forgotten what it was like to be so wrapped up in something I love that everything else becomes unimportant, and I had also forgotten that, once I get wrapped up in something I love, I need to remember to take time for self-care, like food perhaps. I also reconnected with another one of my gifts, one I had forgotten, namely stick-to-itiveness or stamina. I'll never be the fastest, or the strongest or the smartest, but damn-it I've got stamina. When I played tennis, my success at doubles was not because I had great shots, although I did have a strong backhand, but because, if you couldn't knock me out with a killer serve or super shot, I could wear you out. The longer the match the stronger I got, the more sheer determination would kick in. I thought nothing of a 3 hour plus match. I would wear the opponent down, and the more tired everyone got, including myself, the more focused I became. I'm still that way. That came in handy this past weekend. There is a point in any journey, through pain, fear, discomfort, anything really, where you either say "I quit" or you push on. I can push on, and once you push on, the rest of it becomes secondary, well until it doesn't, but that is another story.

Most of my back was fused when I was 16 years old. Before that I wore a brace for five years. I was always determined that I could do anything anyone else did, if I wanted, and my parents encouraged that attitude. I have no regrets. I've had a fabulous life thet would have been very different had I not had that surgery, if I would even be here at all. And I still have a fabulous life ahead of me. I have only two disks that are not fused, and they are both well on the way to self-fusing themselves. The simple truth is that I will probably have intermittent periods of difficulty for most of my life, a simple mis-step with a little twist can cause weeks of pain, but it is not the end of the world. And the only thing that helps is moving, specifically walking. If I can only walk 100 feet now, I need to walk 110 feet the next time, and so forth until I can do more. So here is the thing: I don't want setbacks to hamper my life more than they need to. But I also no longer want to pretend like they don't happen. Life is what it is, things always happen, and I am who I am, good and bad, all rolled into one.

Would I rather have been pain-free for Big Ears? Of course. Do I regret anything? No. The fun outweighed the discomfort, and working through it probably did me more good that staying home ever would have. I heard things I might never have heard otherwise. I spoke to people I would otherwise never have met. In fact, the difficulties may have focused my attention more; I took nothing for granted. I had a blast. And now that is all out of the way, I can tell you about the fun stuff on Sunday at another time.

Next year will be even better. It probably won't be perfect, but if you are looking for perfection you are just looking for an excuse to fail.

March 30, 2018
Big Ears: Day One and a Half

I'm still recovering from Big Ears and I'd probably like to take a nap, despite the fact that I slept late this morning. But if I take a nap, nothing will write itself.

Big Ears started Thursday, but I have an obligation every Thursday night so I did not get started until after 9, and then I pooped out early. I did, however, get to two concerts. I missed the beginning of Brooklyn Rider's performance at St. John Cathedral, but I heard well over half of the concert, and was very happy that I went. I was particularly entranced by a work titled "Sequence" from the group's new album Spontaneous Symbols, which I also purchased later in the weekend. Some of the sounds and combinations of sounds in Sequence were new to me, new but also startlingly beautiful. Although I didn't know it yet, this was already the theme for the weekend: new sounds, startlingly beautiful.

My next venue was the Bijou Theatre, only a block away, and a concert by Jaga Jazzist. This was newer territory for me although the group itself is not particularly new. The music was complex and interesting although at times I found it a little loud. The lighting effects were also interesting, when they weren't blinding. I listened to much of the concert with my eyes closed, which had two effects. First it made me feel old (sitting there with earplugs and my eyes closed) but it also allowed me to release distractions and just listen to the music. In the end I decided that Jaga Jazzist is really creative, although perhaps not revolutionary. I liked the way they formed complex melodies and moods, fusing traditional jazz with various influences from electronic music to space-rock. I heard strong Miles Davis influence but it was Miles as Miles could probably have never imagined, from a group who seem to have cut their teeth on acid jazz. The music was exciting, complex, and also warmly human. Which also reminded me that the audience in this concert skewed considerably younger than at Brooklyn Rider, where I felt the audience skewed older, mostly my age and up. As I contemplated that, and the implications in terms of music and expectations, it seemed like a good place to call it a night.

Saturday was a fabulous day. Tikka and I had a quiet morning of writing and snuggling and a lovely 2 mile walk. The music began at noon. For me that meant another 11 miles of walking between venues, 7 concerts, and 9 hours of music before returning, exhausted to my hotel at 11 PM. My Saturday concert schedule began with Roscoe Mitchell, Junius Paul, and Vincent Davis at the Standard. What followed was an hour of incredible improvisation, spontaneous and yet seemingly balanced between structured and unstructured play. The music was intellectually rigorous and fully emotionally satisfying with felt like a blending of jazz and classical forms. I could not think of a better way to start the day.

Roscoe Mitchell would have been enough to make my day, except that they day simply continued to flow along at a high level of satisfaction. I went from Mitchell to hear Cyro Baptista in a concert that was filled with joy and happy rhythms. Brazilian – Jazz – Dance -Pop: I can't classify music, especially not at something like Big Ears where the best performances seem to form their own rhythm, a rhythm of life in its many forms, a rhythm that transcends categories.

The Rova Saxophone Quartet was fascinating in a more intellectual way, but here too, the music moved and filled the space, filled the pulse of the listeners, occupying the heart as well as the head. This group also performed one piece from their new album; but I am certain that when I sit down and listen it will be completely different. The musicians moved in the space, the music flowed in the space, a conversation never to be repeated, reflecting time, place, participants, and one felt like even the act of listening was an act of participation. From there I moved onto the breathtaking, ethereal beauty of the performance by the International Contemporary Ensemble, a concert filled with new sounds: bowing on a box, scrapings and dragging, and yet entrancing beauty prevailed.

Thinking potential had been exhausted, I went from ICE to Milford Graves where watching him play and make sounds, his body and his drum kit seeming to become almost like one instrument, fascinated by the magic of his playing with an inverted grip that still seems impossible to manage. But it was more than drumming, more than beat, more than sound, with Mitchell, keening and singing, talking and muttering, drum and voice combining as if form and music were being pulled from the air and the breath of the audience itself.

I had a short break, during which time I hoofed it back to my hotel, fed and walked Tikka and neglected to feed myself. Something about unrealistic expectations may have been involved. And then the music, or at least my view of the music, was on again.

I started with Bela Fleck and Brooklyn Rider, my musical happy place, artists playing in my favorite forms: classical and bluegrass, but even then the results were more than the sum of the pieces, and Bela Fleck definitely has the necessary skills to write a sustained piece that is both intellectually stimulating and emotionally satisfying. Then the incredible saxophone of Evan Parker, filling the space in St. John's cathedral with warmth and life. I ended the day with Medeski, Martin and Wood, and performance that I intended as a brief stop in passing, but which I ended up staying for. Once upon a time I would have dismissed them, probably unknowingly, as being just another jam-based, waves of sound type band, but I would have been wrong. I stayed because I was fascinated. They are far better than that and the groups skill and musicianship was amazing. Risk-taking, genre bending music carried out with incredible skill and creativity. I was impressed.

I was also exhausted and realized I may have let my enthusiasm get the better of my common sense. But more about that in the future. It was time for rest.

March 27, 2018
Five Things Friday

I arrived home yesterday afternoon to find the Amaryllis bulb that I had been given for Christmas had finally taken off, growing long and leggy during the five days of my absence. With the cold that followed Christmas in Knoxville, it had been frozen in a state of what felt like permanent waiting. Of course I could have turned the heat up in my house, up into the 70s, but frankly I am rarely all that cold, and I relished he idea of actually wearing my wool sweaters. I am now excited to see this Lenten Amaryllis indoors at a time when the yard is rich with lenten roses and I see the tender leaves of bulbs massing everywhere around: daffodils, hyacinths, tulips, irises, the occasional daylily. The bulbs are not so much in my yard, as I haven't really planted bulbs yet, trying mightily to stick to my one year moratorium on new plants, but the neighborhood is flush with new growth.

This morning I carted my coffee upstairs to my desk in one of the silver coffeepots I have inherited from various grandparents and aunts. This one is silver-plate, and I am using it simply because it is the first one that I pulled out of the cupboard. I've been using it for my morning coffee for a couple of weeks now. Surprisingly, it makes me happy, and has made me realize that I should really pull those silver services out of the cupboard and consider using them, perhaps even make a decision about which services and sizes and shapes would be useful in my life. It does not keep the coffee warm for hours, like the stainless carafe that is in the kitchen, but I don't really need hours, and I am thinking that a similar pot, perhaps combined with the silver samovar, which has a burner, could even be used for entertaining. Well, idle thoughts anyway.

While my mind is revolving around food and kitchens, I thought I'd also post this photo I took at French Ranges when I was in New York. One of the things I did, since I was in a city with a large selection of showrooms, was look at options for kitchens and baths, both appliances and hardware and hard surfaces. The LaCanche is my dream stove, and although this is not my model of choice, this is my color. it is still early, and there are still options and budgets, and compromises to be considered, but I think the LaCanche will remain the centerpiece of my new kitchen, however that will evolve.

After a morning talking stoves, and wandering around showrooms at 200 Lex we were tired and ready for a rest. We found our way down to Union Square Cafe, where we snagged a table at the bar and settled in for a cocktail and a leisurely lunch. I had scallop crudo and a tuna burger, ending with an espresso, although Liana, brave soul the she is, tried the new dessert on the menu. I've realized that although I love good food and nice restaurants, it was George who was more the white tablecloth, formal presentation person. I'm usually happy in the bar, where everything feels more casual but the food is just as good.

And finally, Tuesday night we went to Jacob Scharfman's recital at Juilliard. Jacob is George's cousin twice-removed, and his father, Dan, was a dear friend, whom I had been happy to get to know in our younger days, even though we had not seen each other often enough as the years passed. Jacob sang one of George's favorite songs, and I am certain he and Dan were both smiling down on this concert. which was incredible. With each work, especially the operatic selections, but also for the broadway song, I felt bereft that I couldn't hear the entire work right then, with this brilliant young man singing. I think Jacob is a young man to follow and I wish him great success. After the concert, Liana and I went for a late bite at Bar Boulud, heads and hearts still swimming with the music. Photo above courtesy of Liana Sandin.

February 16, 2018
Weekend in NY

I'm a little scattered this morning, and the post I was planning on posting this morning, that I had started writing and then abandoned is just that, abandoned. I took photos in a rush, which is always a mistake, and now I am unhappy with myself because I must go back to the source and take new photos.

I'm not too unhappy however, because I am having a wonderful time in New York City. I flew in Saturday, and went to the Ballet that evening. Walking up the stairs to the balcony lobby in he David Koch theater and seeing that space filled with colorful balloons, creating a buoyant wonderland of color floating through the room, was a magical moment in and of itself. The installation is by Jihan Zencirli and I felt like a child playing with bubbles as we walked around it, as did many others apparently, wonder on their faces, people pulling their friends over and snapping selfies with balloons during intermissions. Young, and old alike smiling, momentary glimpses of childish glee on the most carefully composed of faces. And yes, the ballet was stunning as well, an all Balanchine program, beautifully performed. I haven't been to the ballet, to a really good ballet in years, and I don't have the words for it, except to say that magic happened all around.

Sunday it rained, quite heavily at times, but we were out in the morning, exploring, wandering, Trying to stay dry, not always successfully. We had thought we would go someplace and be promptly indoors, but it didn't quite work out that way. By 1PM, tired, hungry, and also a bit wet, we decided to retire to the hotel, where we could while away the hours with a drink and a nibble.

We had tickets again that evening, again at Lincoln Center, but this time at Alice Tully Hall, a part of the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center's series. Somehow, out of pure dumb luck, I think we may have gotten some of the best seats in the house. We were up in the balcony, so not close, but the sound was marvelous. We could hear every note, separately and also as a part of the whole, combining, and blending, merging into the conversation of the music. The music was just that, a conversation between the performers, exactly what chamber music should be, something I had not been aware I had really been missing (I had not gotten tickets to one small venue in Knoxville this year, a decision that might have been a mistake). Best of all, in the final piece, the Dvorak quintet #2 in G major, for two violins, viola, cello, and double bass, they performed the original scoring, with five movements, and it was just stunning. The two slow movements add a balance and a depth to the piece that is not as evident in the four-movement version. The soft notes of the double bass, played by Edgar Meyer, in the second movement were breath-taking, as in fact was the entire, stunning, performance.

The rain was finally lifting so we decided to walk. We stopped at the same restaurant we had eaten in the night before, Remi, just a couple of blocks from our hotel, but this time we were seated by the window, looking into he courtyard/pedestrian walkway. I was entranced by the view of the courtyard and the play of light through the window, the reflections, and shadows. I'm not sure I captured it here, but I hope you get a little bit of the feel of the place.

We walked back to the hotel through a series of pedestrian walkways, stopping to take some photos, then stopping for a grand mariner in lieu of dessert at the hotel bar. I was entranced once again by the really rather mundane view out the window, the play of light and color, shadow and shape of the lights and the buildings, Applebees and all. Greater America and New York combined, high and low and everything in between, melting together.

February 13, 2018
Small Adventures

Mom and I did go off to old Plano. Neither of us had been there in years, a decade or more, perhaps? It is now called the Plano Arts District and I admittedly saw more construction than arts, but remain happy that a few of the old buildings have remained. It is a tiny district, only a few blocks sandwiched between old the old and the new.

One part of the Texas mythology has always been about the possibility of starting over, of remaking oneself, but there is also a danger of plastering over the past, of tearing it down and rebuilding, or relegating it to the forgotten. We all suffer from this tendency, from the grandiosity of human ambition, desire, intent.

But wait, that is not where I am going with this post. I am happy that there is a small bit of the old center of Plano remaining, even as it is, in a small bubble surrounded by offices and condos, at least serviced by a metro stop. Admittedly I didn't go looking for history. I wanted to go to Dude Sweet Chocolate, which, in a twist that made me laugh, was closed. We wandered in some charming gift shops, one with a charming display of construction-paper boxes, which would be a perfect home wrapper for a special gift, another with beautiful rustic antique furniture.

We ate at Urban Rio, which we liked. I liked the urban/rustic blending in the decor and the staff were cheerful and helpful. We started with guacamole, as Mom as is our wont. We are both people who could make a lunch simply of guacamole. The assumption was that we would move on to tacos and/or an enchilada plate, but alas no. We ended both ended up with shrimp-stuffed broiled avocados. Wonderful but a bit of an excess of avocado, even for proclaimed avocado lovers.

I took a picture of our main course as well, but decided that I could't make it look like anything but a hot mess even though the plate was artfully arranged. The avocados were topped with a delicious cloud of fried golden fried onion threads, which were delicious (and gluten-free!) and I was too busy diving into that mess to bother with trying to set up a more attractive picture. In some ways, for me at least, and the way I think, the time spent messing with the photo is time spent missing the experience, leaving a bubble of memory, like the bubble of old Plano. But I know this is not true for everyone. There are talented photographers, people for whom the act of documenting enhances the experience, and their art enhances observation and memory for all of us. But I am not in that league.

My last night in the Dallas area we went south. Plano-Garland-Richardson are north of the city and mom rarely ventures far afield. El Ranchito has been a favorite of my youngest brother's as long as I can remember, perhaps as long as he has been living and working in the Dallas area.

It has been well over 20 years since Nick first brought us here, and it must have been more or less a decade since my last visit. The space of course has expanded and changed over time, but it is also still obviously the same space, with wonderful food that reminds me of the first time I visited. There is still that mix of Mexican and Tex-Mex regional specialties. Mom had a traditional plate, but I longed for food I rarely see and almost ordered the cabrito. Goat meat is available in Tennessee and so, perhaps is cabrito, very young goat roasted whole. I haven't looked. Last night I had the mollejas, I believe the first dish I ever ordered at El Ranchito, and perhaps the same dish I had at my last visit, just as good now as it was then.

If it sounds like I have been eating my way across Dallas, your assumption may be correct. I am stuffed. It is a good thing, perhaps, that I don't like to eat before flying.

January 30, 2018
Meet Scooter

This is Scooter. I have to say that for all that he is a sweet cat, he is not who I want licking the back of my neck early in the morning.

I am visiting my mom, and don't really have an activities planned except for breaking up her routine a little bit. There is some shopping she wants to do, some things I want to do, a few places that are new to both of us that are worth exploring. It will be fun, a mini adventure close to home. And in that spirit, that adventure can be around any corner if you just keep your eyes open and give it a chance, I hope you all have your own mini-adventures this weekend.

January 27, 2018
Remembering: Paris in November

I was looking at my photo files this morning and I came across the photos from Paris in November. I was originally looking for something else, but it struck me that it might be nice to simply take a walk through the Paris of recent memory.

All of these photos were taken on our third day in Paris, so, that would be a Monday. This first photo was taken in the morning, after leaving our hotel, near La Palais Royale, headed toward the Place de l'Opera. The fountain is in a small plaza about a block from our hotel.

First Glimpses of L'Opera Garnier, camera held high, trying to shoot over the morning traffic.

And then from the center of the street, waiting for a light, the obligatory tourist photos of the Opera Garnier above, and the Place Vendome below.

The stores have not yet opened, and everything is much quieter than it will be when we pass through later.

In the Jardins du Palais Royale, before shopping at Lutens.

As usual, I always want to take pictures of architectural details and skies.

On the North side of the Palais Royale, just a hop from our hotel.

Then a later afternoon walk, through the 2nd Arrondissement in the late afternoon light.

And down the Rue Monmartre to the Rue du Louvre

Our walk continued but the light grew dim and the crowds grew heavy as the work-day came to a close. Still, it was a good day for walking, exactly the kind of city day I love best: No real agenda, just wandering. I pulled a muscle in my hip, just a little blip really, stepping off a curb in the midst of a jostling group of young people, so we stopped for a glass of wine, a rest, and a nibble before heading back to our hotel to unwind before dinner. The perfect way, really, to end a brief Paris sojourn.

January 6, 2018
Quick Weekend in Paris

I am flying home today from Paris. The whole thing was kind of a lark, a decision made on about 12 days notice.

The reason I decided to go to Paris was to see the Dior exhibit, and I did see it. It was worth the trip despite being horribly crowded and hot, it was worth the trouble despite the fact that there were a couple of rooms from which I desired nothing except the opportunity to flee.

But I persevered. There are no photos from the Dior in this post. My friend Liana joined me, and posted lots of photos on facebook, if we are connected there, you may have seen them. But I will get around to posting my own photos and sharing my thoughts in my own time. I am still more or less slow to adapt to the idea of instant access, although travelling with more connected friends does push my horizons a bit.

I had no other real plans in Paris, rather than to walk where we felt like walking and do whatever we felt like doing. I've been to Paris before. I've seen the major sites, and I'll probably see them again sometime, but frankly I was happy just to walk. I may have told friends I would go to the Gauguin exhibit at the Grand Palais, but it didn't happen.

We did go to the opera, where we saw a fabulous production of Falstaff, with Bryn Terfel singing the lead. Paris and Dior and Falstaff, lots of walking, and a few good meals is enough for any weekend.

November 7, 2017
Edinburgh Photos

A few other photos of Edinburgh.

These first two are of Holyrood, the palace itself for the most part, not the Abbey, which is attached and integral, which I suppose makes me actually like the place more. I was mostly bored with the state rooms: the rooms where people appear or congregate to meet the Queen, both the practical places where ceremonies are held, and the more formal spaces, meant to impress one with a sense of history and power.

Although I enjoyed going to the apartment of Mary Queen of Scotts, again, I grow easily bored with displays and all the historical stuff. My father, the historian, would probably be rolling over in his grave. I was much happier to be outside, to walk around the grounds, and to peer at traffic through the gate.

The remaining photos are just random snaps taken while wandering around town. Most of our days in Edinburgh were dreary, drizzly and windy, fine weather for walking around, less conducive to photos.

But then, I'm not the best person about taking photos.

If I am taking pictures, I am not really present in the moment.

I tend to spend my time just walking and watching, or simply lost in thought.

I'm just as likely to take a picture of pretty flowers as I am of anything unique to the place I am visiting.

Liana, took this picture of me on our last day in Edinburgh. I was ready to say farewell.

I hope to return.

November 2, 2017
This Is Not The Post I Planned To Write

I am sporadically working my way through the photos I took in Scotland, but progress is slow. I am still working on photos from the third day of my trip. The plan was that I would post as I sorted, a plan that was not, perhaps, highly focused and organized, but worked, given my over-extended fall schedule and the fact that I tend to keep adding things to an already full plate.

The second day we went to Holyrood. Frankly I found the ruins of Holyrood Abbey far more interesting than in the palace itself, although parts of the palace tour were, indeed, fascinating.

And yet, as I was sorting through photos, thinking of how I would put them together, my thoughts went astray, wandering in a rather unanticipated direction, my mind fabricating connections between disparate and unrelated images. .

The above photo was taken at the fashion exhibit at the National Museum of Scotland. I didn't record anything about its provenance because I was, and am still, attracted by the combination of pattern and texture. Further, as I added this photo to my pending folder, muddling over whether I wanted to write about the Abbey or the fashion exhibit, the columnar nature of the pattern and the combination of smooth and shiny with the rough, fluffy and bumpy texture of the skirt reminded me of the abbey itself, with its soaring columns standing next to piles of stones and broken walls, visual reminders of collapse, as well as the contrast of the grand and ambitiously uplifting design with sometimes very rough and uneven workmanship. In some ways the outfit struck me as a modern interpretation, in fabric, of what I had seen in stone.

But the jacket also reminded me of something else entirely, something unrelated to my Scotland trip. It reminded me of this painting by Anselm Kiefer, Shulemith, which I saw in San Francisco in August of last year. When I first saw this painting I thought of something sacred: dark and disturbing, yes, but also sacred. Since then the photo has been sitting patiently in my pending file, waiting for me to write something, and it seems odd that it would pop into my head now, drawn to my attention perhaps more by the colors of a garment than the nature of the work itself.

The Abbey also had a sense about it of a being a sacred space, but my initial response to the abbey was not as visceral as my response to the painting. In fact, that palpable sense of holy ground initially seemed to have faded, trampled by thousands of feet. But it still clung to the walls and the corners, the in between spaces, almost lurking, waiting to catch one by surprise and snap one out of oblivion. The abbey is filled with light, seems to masquerade as a place of light, a space settled into itself, almost where the cares of the world had been worn down and faded away. But that is an illusion. Light and dark live together here, holiness and the ravages of time, etched into the stone with nearly nine-hundred years of human history: love, loss, fear, joy. Still, I cannot explain, perhaps I can't even fully comprehend, why these two things, the abbey and the painting, Shulemith, have welded themselves together in my thoughts.

The Abbey was founded in 1128 and built over the next century. It was also repeatedly destroyed by wars and mobs, vandalized, neglected, rebuilt, sometimes Ill-advisedly, replacing wooden beams with heavy stone work that the structure could not support, and in that sense it is a testament to belief and faith and humanity's need to build structures to honor and worship, to offer glory to our Gods (and yes, I am saying it that way intentionally). And yet we often fail. We humans cannot build without also destroying, we cannot rise above our natures, and our greatest impulses are always brought crashing down around us. And yet we try again. The sense of holiness of a place arises not from lofty human ambitions, but actually from human failings, a testament to the struggle, a testament to our very humanity. Yes, the ruins of the abbey are about soaring arches, actually both physical and metaphysical, our desire to reach for that which is greater than ourselves, our tendency to elevate ourselves too highly, and our tendency to fail in our efforts.

But how does any of that relate to the Kiefer painting? I have read that the structure portrayed in Shulemith is a Nazi Monument, the Hall of Soldiers, by Wilhelm Kreis, except that Kiefer has altered the scale. Rather than soaring, the arches have been shortened, and the walls are scored by soot and ash. The monument, which was probably grandiose and inhuman in its original scale is, as portrayed here, still stark. But it is no longer a soaring monument but an oven, stark and dark and filled with death. The monument to the German soldier, the God of the Aryan ideal, has become a symbol of horror. In its heaviness and almost palpable sootiness, emphasized by the thick layering of the paint, the structure is both inhumane and because of its inhumanity it is horribly and unnervingly human. And yet there is hope. Deep in the center of the painting are the flames atop a platform of steps, a symbol of hope and transfiguration, a hope and transfiguration that comes only after acknowledging and facing our own denials and deaths, our own complicity in the human condition. The abbey as well is a symbol of hope, of our history with all its failings, and of our desire to rise above them. But we cannot rise up without remembering the past, and making our peace with it, acknowledging the fact that we are complicit as a very fact of our being, and yet we can rise. We traipse through life, and yet we too can rise.

November 1, 2017