VERITAS

Labor Day Bliss

2011-09-11T18:00:00.001-07:00

Arboretum

2010-05-23T14:08:00.000-07:00

Back at the MIA

2010-04-30T12:26:00.001-07:00

I Want to Be Here

2010-02-15T11:14:00.001-08:00

Why I Miss California

2009-12-24T13:47:00.000-08:00

Fall in St. Paul

2009-11-13T08:40:00.000-08:00

Attending Live Peking Opera

2009-11-02T07:22:00.000-08:00

Last night I was able to watch a rare event in Minneapolis: selections of Peking and Kunqu Opera. I think what draws me to this type of theater is that it is both bizarre and beautiful. While the singing is often very distinctive (and could be interpreted as shrill), once you get over the "weirdness" you start to hear incredible subtleties in performance. That, in conjunction with intricate mimicry (where the performers "create" the setting, scenery and plot points purely through their own practiced mannerisms) and the flashy martial arts components (i.e. acrobatics, gymnastics, tai chi, and kung fu), Peking Opera is an extremely enjoyable cultural event.

Jeremy & Jessica's Scary Cat

2009-10-30T20:41:00.000-07:00

Can't Get Enough Art

2009-10-22T19:14:00.000-07:00

I can't seem to get through a week without going to a museum. Here is a new favorite piece at the Minneapolis Institute of Art, made entirely of carved jade (my favorite stone).

Some Summer-y Images to Get Me Through a Cold and Rainy Day

2009-10-21T20:49:00.000-07:00

More Fall

2009-10-18T21:52:00.000-07:00

Fall Near Lake Pepin

2009-10-17T17:55:00.000-07:00

Bright star!

2009-10-17T17:43:00.000-07:00

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art -
    Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
    Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -
No - yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft swell and fall,
    Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever - or else swoon in death.

John Keats.

What I've Been Up to Lately

2009-09-25T20:05:00.000-07:00

Ever since I finished law school and took the bar exam, I have been on a re-energizing mission: to recover and rediscover who I am, and where my interests lie. Having been immersed in a completely different world has, of course, changed my life and my perspective in more ways than I can identify, yet I don't regret a minute of it. I know that this experience has only enriched my life and how I see the world.

As part of this mission, I have been lucky enough to take some time off and remove myself from the stresses of law school life. Indeed, during this time, I have been up to so many different things, though admittedly most of my activities were related in some not-too-removed way (they all involve culture and the human experience in some way). One of these activities has been to revisit fiction, and, in particular, Indian literature. I recently began Salman Rushdie's latest book, The Enchantress of Florence, and have just finished Jhumpa Lahiri's Unaccustomed Earth.

What strikes me the most about Lahiri's work is the subtlety of complex and conflicting emotions, particularly those that stem from the challenge of removing oneself from the familiar and making a life in a place utterly foreign. Her prose flows in a way that is so conducive to transport: she pulls the unrealizing reader into the world of the narrator, and infuses the page with breathtakingly conflicting emotional journeys of different people who are trying to discover their place in an alien world. It is especially poignant the way she delves into familial ties and how they change over time. One favorite theme is how the children of immigrants struggle to fit into the country of their birth, while trying at the same time to fulfill the old world expectations of their parents. This is an age-old struggle for sons and daughters of immigrants, and Lahiri portrays it brilliantly. Indeed, Lahiri's tender style is omnipresent in Mira Nair's recent rendition of Lahiri's The Namesake.

Like Unaccustomed Earth, The Namesake is a vivid portayal of the immigrant experience and the experiences of a son of immigrants as he goes through life trying to understand who he is. What is most striking about The Namesake, and Unaccustomed Earth as well, is Lahiri's beautiful sense of time. What I mean by this is that as time passes, the characters flow and develop; they are not fixed into one personality or view, but rather change and alter as life goes on. Unlike a more Western approach, in that the characters evolve to become "better" people, the change in Lahiri's characters is not necessarily a matter of "improving" or "becoming better". Rather, Lahiri captures, for some, the imperceptible transition from the naivete, inexperience, and ignorance of youth to the wisdom and maturity of older age. However, for others, this particular transition may never take place, even though the characters are undoubtedly altered throughout the course of events.

In any event, both Unaccustomed Earth and The Namesake are two of the most touching portrayals of the immigrant human experience, from birth to death, and I look forward to discovering more of Lahiri's work.

Royalty Board Says No

2008-10-02T19:40:00.000-07:00

Just heard that the Copyright Royalty Board chose not to raise the rates of royalties for songwriters and music publishers. Apparently iTunes is safe, at least for now.

Copyright Actions to Threaten the Public

2008-10-02T07:02:00.000-07:00

Some recent developments (really, threats on public rights) on the copyright front: Apple Threatens iTunes Shutdown from Wired and Studios Sue to Bar DVD Copying Program from the New York Times. Personally, I am most concerned about Pandora's possible demise: Pandora Could Be First Major Casualty of New Royalty Rates. Yikes.

Audiences, Beethoven, and Concert concerns

2008-09-23T12:56:00.000-07:00

I recently read an article by the fantastic Alex Ross, describing the change in audience behavior from social party to formal sterility at classical music concerts. Indeed, I have noticed that among my friends who don't play instruments, their greatest fear regarding classical concerts is "how to behave." I find it ridiculous that part of what prevents people from going to concerts is simply a social-behavioral construct surrounding how the music is presented, not the music itself.

The article also got me thinking whether composers were aware of the lack of attention paid by their audiences, and whether Beethoven's dramatic compositional style (you know, all those crazy dynamics, keys and repetitive V-I-V-I-V-I patterns) had anything to do with getting audiences to stop talking and listen to his music.

Jumping Back Into the Pool

2008-09-01T11:58:00.001-07:00

I know it's been forever since my last post, but I've finally given up on trying to come up with some witting thing to say before I 'officially' post things. That's really why I quit blogging regularly; I didn't have the time or feel the need to put in the effort to make sure that what I wrote sounded either "cool" (which was probably an unreachable goal anyway) or interesting. I suppose I was thinking about how what I wrote would be received by "the audience." (in all honesty, I have come to the conclusion that there is not much of an "audience" anyway. Who really wants to read the stuff I write anyway, except myself?!?)

Yes, the time has come for me to treat this site as it should be: a place for me to post things I've been thinking, without multiple drafts and revisions (ok, not that I used to do that, but I was certainly serious about checking everything I wrote). From now on, my goal is just to say a few words about whatever I feel like, just to get me back to blogging. I don't care whether anyone reads it, or finds it interesting; really, it'll just be ALL ABOUT ME.

That is, unless anyone else would like to express their opinion . . . anyone? Yo, hello?

Poetic justice?

2008-02-29T19:03:00.000-08:00

"At the heart of liberty is the right to define one’s own concept of existence, of meaning in the universe, and the mystery of human life."

One of the most poetic judicial sentences in all of the cases I have read in the past few years. . .

Curtesy of Planned Parenthood v. Casey.

Readings

2007-08-18T14:17:00.001-07:00

Recently I came across some writings by Daniil Kharms in the August 6th issue of the The New Yorker. A Russian accused of anti-Soviet activities in 1931, he was a founder of the Association of Real Art, a group that believed that rules of logic should not operate in art. The selections included in the article were mostly short descriptions of day to day living for Kharms himself and other people he observed in the street or in social gatherings. While Kharms did not believe art should be organized logically, it was astounding to discover that his writings nonetheless create a comprehension of mystery and suspense in what would normally be simple, ordinary and uneventful details of everyday life. Read the excerpts here.

Tragedy

2007-08-04T18:03:00.002-07:00

I never thought I'd see this happen in my hometown. I'm ok, but am still in shock. It could easily have been me on this bridge.

Love for an Operatic Tenor

2007-05-16T17:20:00.000-07:00

Now that exams are over (and I am no longer a 1L!), I have turned my attention to more important matters. . .

Sound Test #1: a 16 year old Peruvian kid singing at a pop show: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7NVo-ZoDos&eurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww%2Eparterre%2Ecom%2F.

Sound Test #2: the same kid, years later, now a famous tenor: http://www.deccaclassics.com/artists/florez/ecards/lafille/.

I think I am in love with this voice. And the man ain't bad looking, either!

The True Essence of Life as an Artist

2007-04-03T10:56:00.000-07:00

When it comes to artists, ambition is a tricky business. Whereas stockbrokers and politicians may labor with certain realistic goals in mind- greater riches, a Cabinet seat- artists' rewards are more elusive. The artist, possessed by the desire to perfect what can never be perfected, lives in a kind of uneasy truce with his given medium, hammering away at his blessing and his curse: his talent.

Hilton Als wrote this recently in his article, "Air Rage," for the New Yorker (March 26, 2007). While Mr. Als writes primarily as a critic of theater, his description of the artistic life has never been so aptly put.

Congratulations to my friend Matt for his recent success in winning a position with the Calgary Philharmonic; I know of no one who has had more experience with precisely the artistic turmoil so described. Certainly, no success could be so well-deserved as his.

Snow Daze

2007-03-06T09:47:00.000-08:00

Canadian Yiddishness?

2007-03-02T18:09:00.000-08:00

A recent library raid brought forth a copy of Yiddishbbuk, a collection of works by Osvaldo Golijov, which was put out a few years ago by the St. Lawrence String Quartet. One of the tracks, "Last Round", calls for double string quartet and double bass. I was fully unprepared for the power and strength of a double quartet; the sound is so full and brash, yet intimate and evocative all the same. Part of the thrill was likely the piece itself, which is constantly pulsing forward, as if the quartets were chasing themselves, or dancing to their deaths. Part of it was likely to be the performers themselves; of all the string quartets performing today, the SLSQ is undoubtedly the most dynamic and passionate (though the Ying Quartet certainly pulled out all the stops as well).

Another track on the disc is "Dreams and Prayers of Isaac the Blind", which practically features the clarinet donned in klezmer attire. Earnestness and despair overwhelm the entire work; one can almost taste the bitterness in the lives of those persecuted.

On the whole, a very engaging selection.

Resuming. . .

2007-02-20T19:55:00.000-08:00

For those of you erupting with curiosity as to what legal writing actually entails (and why I haven't been updating lately), I refer you to an old saying by Mark Twain:

"Easy writing makes damned hard reading."

Ahh, Minnesota

2006-10-22T10:02:00.000-07:00

Ok, it has been way too long since the last post. I've got to get better at that.

It had been years since I last attended the annual Minnesota State Fair (yes, that was back in September). Actually, it's been years since I've been to any fair, period. Basically the biggest excitment, other than seeing newly birthed lambs and piglets, was to count the variety of food items on a stick. There were typical items, like hot dogs or corn dogs, cotton candy, fried walleye (the Minnesota State Fish) and pizza on a stick. How about a banquet-on-a-stick?

Or, how about my ultimate favorites: spaghetti with meatballs (let's just fry these up together with a corn dog coating, of some sort) and the odious Midwestern fave, hot dish on a stick. I am not kidding.

Only in Minnesota.

But Minnesota isn't all about fairs and frigid weather (and people who drone on and on about it). It's also about nature. Since the temperature change is so drastic, autumn is a big hit. Here's a few shots from the neighborhood:

Unfortunately I'll just have to keep these pictures in mind, for now. We've already had our first snow of the season.

Love from Key West

2006-09-01T22:40:00.000-07:00

I knew I just had to get down to Key West while I was living in Miami, so I finally found the time to go right around the Fourth of July. I suppose I hadn't expected the massive amounts of family tourists who drove in RVs from crazy places like Nevada and Washington State all the way to the southernmost key of Florida. The island seems to be a hot destination for those in landlocked regions of the country and for those aged over 35. Perhaps the hype is what got these people down here, but for me, it was the Key Lime Pie.

John and I were only in Key West for two days, and, admittedly, I indulged in blatant Key Lime madness on both days. It really is a delicious dessert quite appropriate to the blistering heat and overall tropical flavor of the place. One of their specialties was a frozen Pie-on-a-Stick, which is very popular. Essentially it is a chocolate-covered, frozen Key Lime Pie. How brilliant was that idea?!

On the first day we explored a gorgeous beach, contained in a state park and therefore, pristine. The water was heavenly. Absolutely perfect. Unfortunately, however, the sun was only out for a short while, before clouds rolled in and darkened my sunset viewing desires. The rest of both days were completely overcast. As a result, I was unable to capture any breathtaking sunsets on the East Coast whatsoever. That definitely put a damper on my spirits. In any case, I was able to learn a little more about the island from a historical point of view, by focusing on the island's other attributes.

I hadn't realized that the Florida Keys were so important to the military of this country; most of the island runs and relies on the presence of the military base. There was a rather intact fort also at this state park, located near old army barracks and seemingly deserted large, paved and fenced off area.

In addition to the strong military presence, there was also a small artistic community. Hemingway has a house there, and Robert Frost spent winters in Key West as a cure for his medical ailments. I would say the most interesting thing on the whole island is the place where Robert Frost lived. One of the wealthy families in the area had a spare cottage, and offered the place to Mr. Frost to use as he liked. The family lived in an unbelievably beautiful old home whose objects, collections and furniture remained as the last owner left them. The library was full of old treasures and rare editions, the living room contained a stereoscope, old photographs, an old organ, a few string instruments, two excellent Japanese portraits, numerous family heirlooms, Asian artefacts, and even a French Pleyel piano from the turn of the Century and admired by Claude Debussy. It was worth the whole trip just to see how homes from the last Century were decorated and lived in; it truly felt like a house-museum, rather than simply "the place were Mr. Frost lived." That experience- and the Key Lime Pie- are undoubtedly the best reasons to plan a voyage down to the most southern point of the US. Although do try to plan for there to be sunny weather for your trip. It would be worth it.

2006-09-01T20:23:00.001-07:00

Welcome to the Uthernworld!

2006-09-01T20:23:00.000-07:00

We've reached the end. . .

2006-09-01T20:22:00.001-07:00

Cock fighting is big here. Therefore there are cocks everywhere. I am not kidding.

2006-09-01T20:22:00.000-07:00

John chows on a dozen oysters for $5. As you can see, he views it as quite a serious undertaking. . .

2006-09-01T20:21:00.000-07:00

Robert Frost's Cottage. It really is just a cottage.

2006-09-01T20:20:00.001-07:00

How charming. . .

2006-09-01T20:20:00.000-07:00

Yes, that is a Walgreens

2006-09-01T20:19:00.001-07:00

I found an awesome car specimen

2006-09-01T20:19:00.000-07:00

The national park/beach. Absolutely lovely.

2006-09-01T20:17:00.000-07:00

A close sunset over rainy Key West

The Complete Portraits of Miami Beach Stands

2006-08-18T22:24:00.000-07:00

When I first arrived in Miami Beach, I particularly noticed the festive lifeguard stands all along South Beach. I had been used to the plainly painted huts along the Pacific in California, and thought the fun stands here in Florida ought to be captured on film (well, digitized is good enough). I've been putting this project off since I got here, reasoning that there would always be another time to do so. However, the time has gone by, and this last week was my only chance. When I went out a few days ago, workers were removing the older, more traditionally "Miami Beachy" stands- ones with pinks, peaches, and teals- and replacing them with newer, higher and crazier color combinations. I got a few shots of the older models, but I think most of them out there today are the new versions. Hey, one wouldn't paint one's house with bright orange stripes, but why not have a little fun out there in the sun?

2006-08-18T20:37:00.001-07:00

Nice

2006-08-18T20:37:00.000-07:00

Ugh

2006-08-18T20:36:00.003-07:00

2006-08-18T20:36:00.002-07:00

2006-08-18T20:36:00.001-07:00

2006-08-18T20:36:00.000-07:00

Another

2006-08-18T20:35:00.001-07:00

2006-08-18T20:35:00.000-07:00

2006-08-18T20:34:00.000-07:00

2006-08-18T20:33:00.000-07:00

Sunday Profundity

2006-07-22T17:59:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday I woke up early and happened to hear an interview with Elie Wiesel on NPR, titled "The Tragedy of the Believer." To listen to this man speak is like being spiritually reinforced with concrete. His words fill me with such wonder, awe, despair and sadness, and challenges me to search for a better explanantion of what it means to be human. Recently I viewed a documentary of Mr. Wiesel's journey back home to the village of his childhood, in Transylvania. It is moving beyond words.

And it brought me back to the library to revisit some of his writings. A few years ago, after a trip to the National Holocaust Museum in Washington DC, I was introduced to his words for the first time and couldn't get them out of my head. When I got back home I checked out all of his books in the library, and was particularly gripped by the Night trilogy (apparently it is now on Oprah's book reading list, though it was published some 50 years ago, or something like that). His writing, similar to Primo Levi's (another survivor), is so powerful. It is direct and unflinching. It questions the soul; it pierces the soul. It is not afraid to fight.

I have always been morbidly fascinated with the terrors of war, particularly World Wars and also the Civil War; I recall the beginnings of an obsession with historical fiction when I was in middle school, and it hasn't really ever gone away. So every so often I seek out the most depressing and blackest periods in history. I feel it keeps me human, and reminds me what is important and meaningful in life. On one hand I feel I need to try to understand such horrors, on the other, I use it to keep my life in perspective. It wasn't so long ago when I decided there are some things we humans will never fully understand, and that we can't. Mr. Wiesel seems to hold a similar position; a good example of this thought is shown in his book, The Forgotten. While most of the weight of the novel comes from the heavy fear of forgetting one's past, the lack of understanding of our individual life in relation to the outer world is threaded throughout.

At the core of the book lies a main character who suffers from a disease that causes his memory to gradually deteriorate, until he reaches the final stage where he no longer can use words (and the book ends). The only relief he was able to find was to work on passing as many of his memories on to his son as he can, who he expects will be able to provide a place for the memories to continue to live and thrive. Unfortunately, it is an imperfect solution, as his son can never feel the memories as he did, and can thus only have an imperfect imprint of a much stronger memory. Both the father and the son throughout the novel continually seek explanations in their lives, but neither ever comes to a full understanding. Such is the mystery of life. We seek but never quite find.

What is so astounding about Mr. Wiesel is how in spite of such extreme pain, anguish, terror, horror and suffering, he still finds strength in the mystery and the beauty in life as it exists to all of us. He has not left his faith. In all honesty, his belief and courage make me want to become a better person.

You can listen to the whole interview with Elie Wiesel as part of the Speaking of Faith series on NPR: http://speakingoffaith.publicradio.org/programs/wiesel/index.shtml

Fears

2006-07-16T18:26:00.000-07:00

"Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood." -Marie Curie

I have to admit a little fear has been creeping up on me. No, not just a little fear. A LOT of fear. In almost a month I will once again be sitting in a classroom, spending way too much time at the library, counting my pennies and dreaming about the sleep I used to enjoy.

Lately I have been constantly wavering back and forth between possibilities, weighing my options, and continually thinking of my future, my goals, and what I want in life. I go from being confident about becoming a lawyer to enduring thoughts like "What am I THINKING, I could NEVER be a lawyer. I'm making a big mistake, I'm doing something I don't want to do." In between swings I feel that "Well, I don't know, it could be interesting, and I might really like it, and no matter what, I'd find a job at the end of it." Then mountains of self-doubts arise again, like a clogged mist over a cemetary in Paris whose wisps of smoke choke me like prying vines. I feel afraid of doing something I've never tried, and I feel afraid of the possibility of being "really bad at it," and afraid the I'm making the biggest mistake of my life. Am I crazy?

I find myself, every day now, spending more and more time practicing. I really think I am afraid to leave my instrument, and I really do not want all my years of work, training, sweat and tears to come down to a once-a-year dusting for holiday festivities (God forbid!). I simply do not want to stop playing. This is what I have come to realize, and this realization is causing me fear. What if I really should just stay with music? What if that's really what I love most of all?

And then I think, "Well, remember all those gigs you did? Remember how sad it is to play those gigs, and how depressed you felt after the concerts? Remember how much driving you had to do, and how much you were at the mercy of some contractor to make enough to pay rent? You can't rely on that for the rest of your life. You can't be that 40, 50, or 60 year old, hacking it through some dreaded pops concert. You have to make something more of your life." And as soon as I would recall the awful anxieties of not knowing where the rent money or health insurance payments were coming from, I flip back to my sense of appreciation and respect for those professions that offer enough money to prevent scary moments like that from ever happening. Hm. Perhaps I'm much too practical for music after all.

Ah, but the fears continue.

Yet Marie Curie, the eminent scientist, does put things nicely in her little quote. When I read her words today it dawned on me that no matter what, I can do what I will need to do. Things will be ok somehow. I have always been eager to understand things in the world, and what I really should be doing in the next few months is not panicking about being "good at things or not," but learning and examining life from a different angle. This is an amazing opportunity for me to try something new, to learn about myself and rediscover the world. This is my little adventure, no matter what happens. How could this opportunity really be a mistake? If I don't like it, I don't like it. If I do, great. Whichever way it will go, it's not the end of the world.

Now why was I so afraid?

A New Obsession

2006-07-09T15:44:00.000-07:00

Today I watched breathlessly as Italy defeated France in the World Cup Final, breathtaking up through the final penalty kicks. I, along with a billion other people across the planet, were treated to a truly exciting game, with early goals and unpredictable behavior: in overtime France's star Zidane was handed the dreaded red card after an imprudent head-ram, which knocked down an Italian player and forced the French team to play with one player short. With plenty of periodic camera shots of ecstatic fans on their feet, watching the match all over the world, I would have to say the action and adrenaline was rampant, both on the field and off.

Now why have I been following the World Cup? Me, you ask incredulously, someone who swore off televised sports after middle school following a souring of baseball/softball experiences up to that point, and who for years struggled with strong feelings of disgust whenever passing a football stadium, baseball stadium, or hockey arena, due to the knowledge of the gross difference in the amount of funding for sports versus the much better cultural option, classical music. Why have I turned into a World Cup fan?

Well, as is usually the case in such happenings, multiple factors were at play. Firstly, my time has been extremely free in the last few weeks, allowing for chunks of time spent idly sitting and staring at the TV (well, let's be honest, I usually flit between that and my current crossword puzzle. I can't be THAT lazy, it seems). Another reason is that it is quite rare in America to actually view soccer matches on TV unless one has cable (something I refuse to buy), so I was drawn out of curiosity to see the sport that is so loved in most of the world outside the U.S. Maybe a little Europhilia contributed as well (see, in the past my motto has been "I'm not really an American, I just happen to live here." At one point I was willing to give up everything American and que up for citizenship somewhere in Europe. Sometimes I still feel that way.)

In any case, well, I liked what I saw. I liked that there were no huge amounts of down time, during which you are bombarded by more and more advertisements (why does American football and baseball have to last over 3 hours?!). The pace of the soccer game is quick, particularly with great players, and one is constantly changing one's visual focus. Anything can happen, and in no time whatsoever. Even though the amount of goals may be small, what makes those goals so spectacular is the very fact that there are so few. It's like Wagnerian opera. You wait and wait, the excitement builds, and then WOW, something comes of it. It's a rush that is not generated in basketball, where one gets accustomed to constant scoring.

What also drew me into the World Cup world was the international component. It is really one of the few events, like the Olympics, that gives the viewer a chance to watch teams compete from diverse nationalities. It was of great interest to me to observe how differently these countries play. In all the matches I saw, I rarely took sides, but was more captivated by the skill and various methods of playing styles. I noticed the Japanese were very strategic, quick, and technically agile, with all their players in strict formation and guarding the a rival player at all times. Sweden and Germany were more solid, with strong players and a certain amount of toughness and roughness of play. Italy undoubtedly took the prize for the most dramatic team (no surprise, this the land that popularized opera), and in most of the matches I saw, the Italians were beyond belief in their constant falling and grabbing of supposedly "injured" body parts. Argentina, on the other hand, was slick and masterful, competing with grace and strength. France was strong and strategic, with ESP-like communication between the players.

But when it comes to winning, in the end it really comes down to luck. The most skillful team or most beautifully coordinated team could just as easily lose to a team that's clunky and slow, by no fault of their own. Unpredictable things happen. That is part of why it is so exciting. No doubt the international interest, and the fact that the Cup only happens every four years also contribute. Because of these stakes, the players are so full of adrenaline and energy: each team competing takes their matches so extremely seriously. In World Cup play, each and every game is lived out like a life or death match, for both the players and their fans. And that is what makes a truly great sporting experience.

Architectual Ascents

2006-07-04T07:32:00.000-07:00

The famous Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis gets a new face:
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/04/arts/design/04nouv.html?_r=1&8dpc&oref=slogin

Read the Nexus

2006-07-03T12:36:00.000-07:00

Just to let you all know, I recently wrote a lengthy post on the Nexus blog regarding Michael Pollan's book, The Omnivore's Dilemma, in case any of you have stray hours to kill. . .
http://nexusnow.blogspot.com

Record Sale

2006-06-23T11:40:00.000-07:00

One of Gustav Klimt's fine paintings has just sold for $135 million, going to the Neue Galerie in New York. I remember viewing this painting at the Belvedere Palace in Vienna last summer, along with other extremely gorgeous examples of Klimt's Golden period.

An article from the International Herald Tribune can be found at: http://www.iht.com/articles/2006/06/19/arts/web.0619klimt.php

Excursions #2: Salvador Dali

2006-06-17T10:58:00.000-07:00

While I mentioned in the last post that there wasn't a whole lot to the arts and culture in the St. Pete area, I did find one particular item of interest: the Salvador Dali museum. Apparently, a good friend of Dali's, a rich industrialist from Cleveland (OH), built up quite a collection of Dali works over the years, and about 24 years ago he and his wife found the St. Pete area to be the best location for a museum featuring Dali and various other Spanish artists (Picasso, Juan Gris, etc.). The museum's claim to fame is that it is the "most comprehensive private collection of Dali's work in the world."

While there were a considerable amount of Dali's works on display when I visited, it was still a bit of a let down- there actually weren't as many examples as I expected. I reasoned that most likely a lot of the works owned by the museum were lent out for various exhibitions in other museums around the world. Nonetheless, the collection was still impressive, and quite representative of the different phases of Dali's life. I do have to admit that the various other Spanish works displayed, mostly from contemporary artists (post-Dali), were lacking in interest and great quality. Much of it was conceptual, post-war abstraction, and pop art. It was as if the museum was attempting to use up all the space available, since they didn't have quite as many Dali examples as they had planned to have.

My favorite examples of Dali's works were the gigantic, wall-sized paintings of his later years, which were full of depth and adept at displaying the disparity between Dali's conservative traditional Catholic side v. his life in modern times. One of these large works dealt with Columbus's arrival in America, complete with parading crosses, stern bishops, a sorrowfully penitent monk holding a crucifix, an enormous Spanish ship, and a magnificent sense of motion as the young, heroic and vigorous Columbus- in mid-step and in flowing robes- prepares to set foot on North American soil with an enormous banner of the Virgin Mary (The Discovery of America by Christopher Columbus 1958-9). It was commissioned for a bank in New York City, and was initially placed on one of its walls, near Wall Street. Another remarkable painting is one with multiple perspectives: the appearance of a toreador emerges from the background of Venus figures and Roman arenas (Hallucinogenous Bullfighter, 1968-70). His Galacidalacidesoxyribonucleicacid (1963) is also a composite composition of people posing as molecular structures, angels flying in the heavens, the appearance of a praying figure, and a scenic background reminiscient of Italian masters. One of my absolute favorites was The Ecumenical Council (1960), whereby Dali paints the traditional Italian chapel complete with a nude sculpture, a head portrait of his wife Gala, the gathering of the bishops council (in three dimensions), a white dove (the Holy Spirit) descending on a young woman, a mountainous land beside a calm lake, the desert-like landscape of Catalan, one of the Saints, and- as a nice touch- his own image appears, wielding a brush, in the lower left corner. Dali loved to compose works of multiple themes and subjects, and in addition to the typical surrealist Dali works we recognize, it is fascinating to see how his later works, with his incredible skill, pay homage and respect to the formal classical traditions of painting (Italianate), the power and strength of religion, and how the realization of his own personal joys and sorrows are incorporated into his view of the world. These murals are marvelous.

John outside the museum

John on a Dali-inspired bench

2006-06-17T08:14:00.000-07:00

The Discovery of America

2006-06-17T08:13:00.001-07:00

The Hallucinogenic Toreador

2006-06-17T08:13:00.000-07:00

Galacidalacide...

2006-06-17T08:12:00.000-07:00

The Ecumenical Council

Excursions #1

2006-06-15T10:22:00.000-07:00

So at this point, exactly one month later than my last post, I have amassed quite a backlog of documentable life material. I am hoping it will be enough fodder to get me through the next month of transition, with nothing scheduled and not much to do other than sweat it out in the Miami heat and wish I was doing something more productive. Ah, the long stretch of free summer time: how that brings me back to my childhood days, where all that mattered was a good working bike and enough change to buy some sweets. . .

In case I neglected to inform you, my readers, I spent the last month at the Spoleto USA festival in Charleston, South Carolina. I have much to say about this experience, the second time around, but I am currently sitting next to a pile of notes I left on my desk that I was planning to blog about, so all thoughts from Charleston will have to wait. I have enough confidence in my memory to still believe I am capable of recollecting things I have recently experienced- at least for a few more weeks.

About a week before I left for Charleston, I drove up to the St. Petersburg/Tampa Bay (FL) area, as the Florida Orchestra was having an audition for some violin openings. The audition didn't exhibit my best abilities (but is that really a new phenomenon?); then again, St. Petersburg didn't especially impress me as a paradise in which to live. It is a small town, trying to revitalize its past (from the 1900s), but it isn't quite doing the most successful job. The downtown area was rather abandoned, and lonely. Most places (stores, restaurants etc.) are closed on the weekends, and I had a hard time finding a great place for dinner. The closest I came was a sinfully delicious Chinese restaurant, Zum Hee, out near the Gulf beaches (a 20 min. drive from downtown St. P) which satisfied my Chinese craving for the entire year. On the whole, I found the area to be an older, sleepy and poorer place than other areas of Florida I have explored. However, perhaps because of a local ban on developments like those which have overtaken Southern Florida, there are fewer people, less pollution, and thus, a seemingly much more healthy wildlife and nature ecosystem. Tampa Bay itself is beautiful, with a wonderful clean smell and blue waters. Multitudes of seabirds thrive, as well as dolphins and even vast schools of jumping fish which were very easily observed from the pier. It is a nice place to go to experience the old beach life of Florida, but not exactly the best for a refreshing infusion of culture and arts.

Tampa Bay

The Comfort House: The Restrooms

2006-06-15T07:49:00.000-07:00

The marina

2006-06-15T07:31:00.000-07:00

Beach scene at the Gulf

2006-06-15T07:30:00.001-07:00

More birds on the beach

2006-06-15T07:30:00.000-07:00

Birds on the Beach

2006-06-15T07:29:00.000-07:00

Yes, the Sunset over the Gulf Coast of Florida

Website

2006-05-13T09:06:00.000-07:00

Check out the new website for my friend Jeremy's woodwind quintet: http://intradawinds.googlepages.com/.

This summer they'll be in residence at Norfolk- so if you're anywhere near the area, check them out!

Photo Montage

2006-05-02T19:03:00.000-07:00

I realized that I had taken a bunch of photos during my gigging experience up and down South Florida in the last few months. Here are a few:

Too Eerily Perfect and Planned downtown West Palm Beach

Rich Condos are also a part of West Palm Beach

A new front to an old back

I saw this and had to take a shot

Then I saw this, the W. Palm Beach Courthouse. Now why is it so large? Hm. . .

A view of Ft. Lauderdale

The performing venue

Rich Condos in Ft. Laud.

An alternate view of the same thing, with the addition of the moon

An Ethics Violation?

2006-04-29T15:04:00.000-07:00

At some point in daily life everyone encounters individuals who try our patience. Even though most people have been trained, through religion or personal beliefs, to live life up to a certain moral standard (i.e. love thy neighbor) and at least pretend they get along with everyone, there are occasions where each of us stews inwardly about the behaviors of some other person who happens to intercept their lives. The person who cuts in line at the grocery store, the clerk who seems to have trouble finding the ENTER key, the driver who doesn't know what a blinker is (or perhaps can't tell right from left), the person who doesn't appreciate a door held open for them. . . the list can go on. Of course these are just little things that we deal with that don't really bother us so much, except on the days where everything seems to go wrong. But I'm thinking more of the bigger annoyances- like the situation the bigwigs at Enron put their employees through and businesses which don't provide a way for their employees to receive health care (wake up, Wal-Mart). These are larger moral issues which do impact people in much more devastating ways. In my own life I have noticed that certain moral traits (or lack thereof) tend to bother me more than others. And I wondered why.

Could it be that certain violations of your own moral code can carry more weight than others? Obviously people who are excruciatingly slow can irk me to no end, but that is not the same as someone ruining another person's life. Can it be that the most fundamental and crucial principles you believe in are precisely the ones which really get your blood boiling?

A few months ago I was playing an audition for an unnamed seasonal orchestra. One of the audition screeners greeted me with so much verve and friendliness that it almost bordered on complete insincerity. But I gave this person the benefit of the doubt- maybe I, under my stress, misread the body language. The audition proceeds, and after each bit I played, the enthusiasm waned more and more. I wasn't necessarily playing worse, I felt, but I was losing my focus after having social conversations with the audition committee after each excerpt I played, which to my dismay, were less peppered with smiles than the beginning. To be honest that really disrupted my flow of concentration. But in any case, I noticed that by the end, this particular person barely gave any sort of smile and almost even forgot to say the required, "thank you for playing." I was definitely not seeing any good body language at this point.

Oddily enough, I happened to run into this person again, about a week later, while I was chatting with a professor I worked with a while back. I said hello, and was reintroduced by this professor who also told this person that I had auditioned recently, and to my astonishment the exact words that came from this person's mouth were, and mind you, coupled with a very blank look, "Oh. Really. Well we heard a lot of people that day." And the person had an expression which read, "I don't really care about this person whatsoever." This person had absolutely no respect for me, it seems, simply because I hadn't played the way this person wanted me to play. Now I don't honestly care so much about one person's opinion of me- I don't live on the fawning of others, by any means, but truly there is nothing commendable in this order of behavior: first the turbo-charged friendliness, then the lukewarm response, and then the downright cold attitude. If everyone treated others based on their performance it would be a very black place. Just because you may not agree with someone's interpretation does not give you the right to disrespect the work they have done, or treat them with indifference, at best.

For some reason this episode has bothered me. I have been trying to figure out really why that is, and yesterday I realized that one of my core rules in my book of ethics is to treat everybody with respect. Everybody has something to contribute to the world, and the least you can do is listen and give them their time. And this audition person does not really believe this. That is why I was so bothered. That there are people out there who don't believe it important and necessary to respect others as they would like to be respected themselves. I don't want to make many generalizations, since there are really no "generic" individuals, but I do want to point out that I have met quite a few people, in the music world particularly, who are respectful only of those with either high connections that could help them personally, or people who are show-stoppingly talented. And the courtesy ends there. How sad a world it is, when people pick and choose who is most important and worth their attention.

The Birth of Blog #2: the Nexus

2006-04-23T23:12:00.000-07:00

Nexus:
http://nexusnow.blogspot.com.

Today I decided to inaugurate another blog. Why? Well, perhaps I was feeling like I needed a little change, or maybe I just really wanted to extend my tendency of compulsional organization from my real life into my cyberlife. This disease usually appears when I feel I am not in control of something happening in my life, so I make myself feel better by excessive reorganization. Who knows why it works, but for me it does.

Anyway, to get back to the point, the new blog is not to replace this current blog, but rather it will serve as a complement to this one. The new blog, titled Nexus, will be updated with certain topics that I have been reading or hearing about- or in other words, it will contain news events, headlines, topics, issues, and of course book reviews. I guess the intention is for it to have a literary or intellectual edge. If anything it will be helpful for me personally, as it will serve as a type of archive for my own reading that I usually forget about all too quickly after a few weeks or months. Veritas will from now on contain mainly thoughts of personal life experiences and any other musings- or photographs perhaps- I feel like sharing.

So if you really can't get enough of my long-winded ramblings, you know where to go.

The Seductress

2006-04-23T23:03:00.000-07:00

This weekend began Florida Grand Opera's run of Bizet's Carmen. Or as it says on the tops of taxicabs in South Beach- Carmen: The Opera. While the performing venue in Miami-Dade county leaves much to be desired (old moisture, hot temperatures, dreary seating and an overall feeling of dankness were pervasive), I thought on the other hand that perhaps such a place was quite fitting after all, given how steamy The Opera is.

The age-old tale of Carmen seducing a man with her charms and then driving him to despair is obviously not the first time a lady has done so, and will not be the last. What is so thrilling about this opera, however, is the mood and the atmosphere. The lighting, the staging, the music, and of course Carmen's appearance, singing and actions only add the the sultriness of the character. The Spanish flavor, so polishly and evocatively expressed by Bizet, is captiviating in its smoothness and flow; it could have never been done so seamlessly by a composer who was anything but French. Of course the result is raunchily delightful and attractive, though after multiple performances I am starting to realize Bizet's lack of staying power. He was no Verdi, and the melodies do grow old after the first few run-throughs.

The lead roles in this production are quite impressive. One of the Carmens, Rinat Shaham, lives up to her international reputation as a powerfully dramatic singer with great command of the lower range and emotional moods throughout, while making sure every thing she does is deliberate and noticed from afar. Her sense of the character is complete to her bones. The other Carmen, Kathryn Friest, has one of the best Carmen voices I have ever heard (and this is my third production). Her voice is so large, so strong and in control, and her lower range is incredibly projecting. She is wonderful to listen to, and very inspiring musically, though she could add a little more dramatic flair to her interpretation. Micaela, the other female lead, is performed beautifully and remarkably by both Sandra Lopez and Christina Pier, in their different ways. The male counterpoints also hold up well; of the Don Jose's, William Joyner has a beautifully textured voice, though a little weaker in the higher range, and Paul Charles Clarke has dramatic thickness and depth. Franco Pomponi is a very suave Escamillo, who plays his role as sex object and masculinity with certain finesse and strength.

The orchestra, under the direction of Stewart Robinson, plays rather solidly and in place, though the emotional vitality exhibited on stage does not necessarily reach all the musicians down in the pit. I would say there could be a bit more positive energy to add to the overall excitement and exoticism that is essentially what all audiences love to see and hear in a production of Carmen. However, it should be a great run and come hear some incredible singing.

The remaining performances of Carmen are at Dade County Auditorium in Miami-Dade county: April 25, 28, 29, 5 and 6 at 8pm, and at the Broward Performing Arts Center in Fort Lauderdale: May 11, 12, 13 at 8pm, and May 14 at 2pm. Visit the Florida Grand Opera website at www.fgo.org.

Decisions. . .

2006-04-18T08:54:00.000-07:00

Inevitably, as a financially non-secure musician, I have to contemplate my choice of profession and see if it is really worth my energy and devotion, while the monetary results are foggy at best and nonexistent at worst. Do I still enjoy what I am doing? Do I have the motivation to work as hard as I need to? Do I really have what it takes?

The world seems to be quite adept at turning people down; of crushing them with the weight of real world problems and inadequacies. It is much easier to simply give up, throw one's hands in the air and say, that's it. Particularly after unsatisfying audition experiences.

But it's more than that. For me, once I get started, I can't really give up so easily. I have invested time and hard work in this venture, and I don't want to go away with a loss. In a sense, however, the easy way is to "give up," yet the irony is that no matter what you do for a profession, you can never really "give up" unless you don't mind living on the street or somehow ending everything. Every job, every profession has its difficulties and sufferings. Probably what we don't realize is that most people experience self-doubt. Doctors worry about malpractice, premed students worry about "cutting it" as doctors, lawyers worry about their clients being granted legal justice, businessmen about getting the sale. If everyone decided to give up at each "NO" the world throws at them, there would probably be no one working at all. Job pressures don't end when orchestral auditions are forsaken.

It is difficult to look at your life and make a serious decision as to its purpose. It is difficult to see yourself objectively: to focus on your talents, strengths and weaknesses. It is difficult to place yourself in society, and see how you fit in (or not) with others. Some might say that would not be necessary, one should just do their own thing, but honestly, that argument does not hold. No matter what, each individual has some responsibility to society. We cannot and do not easily live "alone" in the world, though many would like- and some do- to try.

It has reached a point in my life where I am faced with two choices. I can go one way or the other, but not both. I cannot keep putting off my decision whether to keep working on music or turning to law. It has been a struggle and will continue to be so for the next few months, until I have solidified what my plans will be this coming September. Music is really the only thing that would keep me working more than I need to, because I find it so fascinating. Yet after a brief hospital visit a few weeks ago (and receiving the bill before my insurance paid anything), I'm starting to think that it would be really wonderful to not have to worry about enormous medical bills (ridiculously inevitable in this rich country) or making enough money for rent, or saving money for retirement, or concentrating on things other than money. It would be nice to have that security. Though probably I'll always have to think about money. That, admittedly, doesn't usually go away even when you have income. I guess what I mean is that it would be nice not to have to live month to month, existing in a sort of monthly holding pattern as the years go by. I want to do better with my life.

Obviously no one else but I can make such a decision as to which direction to take. But happiness is at stake here, as this decision dictates a particular path that my life will follow. I don't know if I would be happy being in law. Maybe I would be. Maybe I wouldn't. Perhaps music will always remain beautiful to me. I hope that is the case. But perhaps it would cease to bring true happiness. How can one really know, in the present, what will make one happy in the future? I am very happy with the present, but who knows how I will change in 5 or 10 years?

I suppose my biggest fear is this: will I have to sacrifice happiness for security?

"And this I believe. . ."

2006-03-23T09:01:00.000-08:00

John Steinbeck's original "And this I believe" was perhaps later adopted by the journalist Edward Murrow and now currently revived as a radio program on NPR. Looking past the cheezy music and rather too-pseudo-psychological title, the diverse people who present their beliefs do offer some gems of wisdom, or at the very least ideas of how best to guide our lives. Here is Steinbeck's opinion, again from East of Eden.

"Sometimes a kind of glory lights up the mind of a man. It happens to nearly everyone. You can feel it growing or preparing like a fuse burning toward dynamite. It is a feeling in the stomach, a delight of the nerves, of the forearms. The skin tastes the air, and every deep-drawn breath is sweet. . . .I guess a man's importance in the world can be measured by the quality and number of his glories. It is a lonely thing but it relates us to the world. It is the mother of all creativeness, and it sets each man separate from all other men.

I don't know how it will be in the years to come. There are monstrous changes taking place in the world, forces shaping a future whose face we do not know. Some of these forces seem evil to us, perhaps not in themselves but because their tendency is to eliminate other things we hold good. It is true that two men can lift a bigger stone than one man. A group can build automobiles quicker and better than one man, and bread from a huge factory is cheaper and more uniform. When our food and clothing and housing all are born in the complication of mass production, mass method is bound to get into our thinking and to eliminate all other thinking. In our time mass or collective production has entered our economics, our politics, and even our religion, so that some nations have substituted the idea collective for the idea God. This in my time is the danger. There is great tension in the world, tension toward a breaking point, and men are unhappy and confused.

At such a time it seems natural and good to me to ask myself these questions. What do I believe in? What must I fight for and what must I fight against?

Our species is the only creative species, and it has only one creative instrument, the individual mind and spirit of a man. . . .

And now the forces marshaled around the concept of the group have declared a war of extermination on that preciousness, the mind of man. By disparagement, by starvation, by repressions, forced direction, and the stunning hammerblows of conditioning, the free, roving mind is being pursued, roped, blunted, drugged. It is a sad suicidal course our species seems to have taken.

And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take nay direction it wishes, undirected. And this I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about. . . .If the glory can be killed, we are lost." (pp. 130-131)

A Tale from the American West, or Cain and Abel Revisited

2006-03-22T19:18:00.000-08:00

". . .We all have that heritage, no matter what old land our fathers left. All colors and blends of Americans have somewhat the same tendencies. It's a breed-- selected out by accident. And so we're overbrave and overfearful-- we're kind and cruel as children. We're overfriendly and at the same time frightened of strangers. We boast and are impressed. We're oversentimental and realistic. We are mundane and materialistic-- and do you know of any other nation that acts for ideals? We eat too much. We have no taste, no sense of proportion. We throw our energy about like waste. In the old lands they say of us that we go from barbarism to decadence without an intervening culture. Can it be that our critics have not the key or the language of our culture? That's what we are-- all of us." John Steinbeck, East of Eden, p. 568, in 1952.

Steinbeck has a way of writing that is so concrete, so descriptive and extremely serious, yet he presents his narrative in such a way that is both addicting and unbelievably captivating. There is no feeling of excess; each word and each description is meant to be there- I read somewhere that you never, ever begin a novel with a description of the setting, unless you're Steinbeck (which is how East of Eden begins). For Steinbeck, it all makes sense; the seasonal changes that occur in the Salinas Valley (in CA) are representative of the kind of lives those people lived. And the crystallization of true characteristics in people and his perceptions of them is beyond anything I have read for some time (the last may have been Buddenbrooks, by Thomas Mann, which actually seems to be written along a similar vein, with great vividness of characters found in one or two connected families).

Really what amazes me most about Steinbeck is how he gets into the minds of people as he does. How does he so effectively portray his characters, so much so that one becomes totally immersed in the lives of these people? How can he probe their deepest depths, and how does he find explanations for why people behave the way they do? I suppose this is where a particular type of research (other than that of family member interviews) has been most effective. Often Steinbeck would go and live with groups of people- and not just any people, but people who were dirt poor and seemed to have nothing to show for themselves. Through those experiences, he was able to take a glimpse of other worlds in American life that were usually overlooked by many people.

In East of Eden a few ideas struck me particularly. One was the word, Weltschmerz, or the idea of "world sadness that rises into the soul like a gas and spreads despair so that you probe for the offending event and can find none." (p. 175) Has that ever happened to you, as it has me?

And another is this:

"When a child first catches adults out-- when it first walks into his grave little head that adults do not have divine intelligence, that their judgements are not always wise, their thinking true, their sentences just-- his world falls into panic desolation. The gods are fallen and all safety gone. And there is one sure thing about the fall of the gods: they do not fall a little; they crash and shatter or sink deeply into green much. It is a tedious job to build them up again; they never quite shine. And the child's world is never quite whole again. It is an aching kind of growing."

Have we not all experienced this destruction of naivete, ushering us into adulthood?

An idea along different lines is Steinbeck's preoccupation with the biblical story of Cain and Abel (Cain murders Abel after finding God favored Abel and his offering as opposed to his own). Of course we are all descendants of Cain, as Abel leaves no heirs before his death, so this implies the idea that we all carry the murderous streak within us. Steinbeck builds on this theme of the sin that each of us fights internally, in numerous creative ways. To begin with, the two pairs of brothers that occupy most of the story have remarkably similar names: Charles and Adam, and Caleb and Aron. Both deal with complicated relationships between each other; one brother is perceived to receive a disproportionate amount of love and affection, and the other desires it beyond anything else and receives nothing. I think there is a great wealth of similarity Steinbeck draws between the Old Testament and the modern day brothers- though perhaps it would generate enough fodder for a quite extended posting that would probably bore rather than inspire. So I'll refrain from continuing on that idea. I do want to mention that Steinbeck resolves the bizarre lesson of the Cain and Abel story by some research of language:

"The American Standard translation orders men to triumph over sin, and you can call sin ignorance. The King James translation makes a promise in 'Thou shalt,' meaning that men will surely triumph over sin. But the Hebrew word, the word timshel--'Thou mayest'-- that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world." (p. 301)

Therefore, the phrase, as it is read in Hebrew, states that "thou mayest rule over sin." It is by no means an absolute, but implies a choice, as Steinbeck writes.

And one can choose to be good, or bad. It is entirely upon our conscience to be responsible for our actions; it is not merely a fault of our own inheritance or the fact that we were simply born to life on earth that we are cursed forever. We are not inherently totally saintly or evil; rather each of us can decide what to do with what life has given us. We have the opportunity to be both, and it is up to us entirely which direction to go. That is our freedom.

On Friends

2006-03-19T09:22:00.000-08:00

Recently a close friend of mine came down from the North for a first time visit to South Beach. Basically her presence gave me an excuse to be a little more celebratory in my monetary spending. Since moving out here I have refrained and restrained myself from most spending, other than on food and gasoline. Fortuitously, I have had excellent luck finding work here, so I felt I had just enough to provide for a fun few days of slight spending and not feel guilty. This week, however, did deplete the short stash of cash I brought with me from Los Angeles, after my last teaching days in the West.

But this was a good opportunity for a number of things. I got to see places around Miami I hadn't a chance to see (or an excuse to visit), as well as try out a few gastronomic interests I had seen in and out of South Beach. Probably it was also a good opportunity for me to add on a few more inches in undisclosed locations, but hey, I can always work that off with my typically "daily" long walks. The best part of the past week was really just spending time with a good friend. There is no better medicine than to be with someone who is close to you, and who can relate on a similar level. I would not say I am the type of person to have zillions of friends, and who constantly rearranges their life to spend time with all of them, but rather I'd prefer to be catagorized as someone who is happy, self-sufficient and much more capable of strong loyalties, commitments, and trust that comes when I spend time with fewer but closer friends.

I was thinking that friendship is actually a complex relationship; there are multiple levels or catagories of friendship, arranged from pure stranger turned polite acquaintance to closest (or bestest) companion. What is complicating, uncomfortable and most painful is if there is any sort of imbalance between the individuals in the idea of what kind of friendship it is; if one person thinks it is at a closer level than the other, there is bound to be some misunderstanding and hurt, even though it may not be exhibited on the surface. But undoubtedly the tension is there.

It is, of course, rare to find the truest friends; the ones who really do love you for who you are. In the past I have believed that the simply do not exist, as I could not find anybody out there who I felt could really relate to me. I have since realized that I was viewing the whole idea of a friendship from a selfish point of view. That was my error. I expected others to relate to me, rather than me relate to them. Great friendships are not really about yourself at all, but how the two of you are with each other. If you do not reach out to someone, how can they be expected to reach out to you? In any case that is what I have uncovered so far.

2006-03-19T09:18:00.000-08:00

With Bonnie in Little Havana on St. Pat's Day

The Vizcaya

2006-03-07T09:50:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, when I did have some time, I visited the historic home of the wealthy businessman James Deering. Built in 1914-1916, his mansion is located off the waters of Biscayne Bay, near Miami, and the whole complex is called the Vizcaya. Basically it is a remarkable house-museum, designed in a truly American fashion; each room represents a different cultural identity (or the Europeanized ideas of those identities), whether it be French, Spanish, English, or Chinese. The main frame of the home, fortunately sticking to one artistic plan, is laid out like an Italian villa, complete with a large and airy courtyard in the center of the building, and an impressive stone boat launch in the back of the house, with multiple stone figures and barber-like posts, obviously emulating the Italian city of Venice. To be honest I have never seen such a seemingly random collection of objects inside a house, from countries in Europe and Asia, and I got the sense that none of the items really were meant to be placed in such close proximity to each other. Part of me screamed, this is just not right, yet another part was fascinated by the vast diversity of decorations, dishware, paintings, porcelain and furniture. Apparently Mr. Deering was quite the collector.

I have to admit that despite the palatial size of the place, it actually felt comfortable to be inside. It was easy for me to imagine what it would have been like to be a resident, which differs from my experiences of other residences I've seen in Europe, where it is so hard to conceptualize how anyone could have lived in those grandiose places. Then again those mansions were usually preserved within a more historical context, and do not claim to be house-museums, but rather stately historical sites in all their national glory. In any case, the room sizes in the Vizcaya were not as large, and the ceilings were not so high. I suppose all of the decorations, bedding and knick-knacks helped make it seem more cozy.

Mr. Deering also had quite a modern taste; he chose to enstall electricity in every room, as well as two elevators, a telephone switchboard, refrigeration, and central vacuuming. Now how many aged European homes can brag of such conveniences?

However, the similarity between those European villas and the Vizcaya would be the presence of extensive grounds and gardens (which back in 1914 was probably even more extensive). I found the gardens to be a nice place to take a stroll, though it would probably be a good idea to bring bug spray, as the edge of the property is surrounded by a swampy stream, which lies stagnant and serves only as a perfect breeding ground for mosquitos and other such pests. Of course the area had also taken quite a few rounds of hurricanes, and the gardens particularly looked battered and storm-weathered. I guess that is the trade-off of building such a place in such a location. But hey, for most of the time it is gorgeous.

The front

The side

From the stone piazza

The tea house

The stone boat launch

The Venetian bridge

Time Spent

2006-02-27T09:02:00.000-08:00

I have been itching to get my hands back on the keyboard, but again it has been a long week and I have been short of time. Where does all the time go? Do I happen to live in some sort of space-time vortex, where the minutes spiral down into a black hole? Ack. I guess it's just from all the operatic busywork and the driving, which apparently I have not avoided by moving to Miami. Every day this past week has been a fighting experience on the 95 freeway. Not really a freeway, but I guess they have to distinguish it from other streets that do have stoplights.

But the light is at the end of the tunnel, and I have been meaning to praise yet another book for its unique perspective. (Hm. Come to think of it, I probably need a unique perspective. How many times have I used the same exact words? I really do need a larger vocabulary. I could particularly use more words to describe cool things I've discovered. I suppose that would necessitate me searching for my long-lost dictionary, however.) In any case, the book I am referring to from the UK has a rather scary, connotatively ridiculous title: Journalistas: 100 Years of the Best Writing and Reporting by Women Journalists, edited by Eleanor Mills and Kira Cochrane. At first I was a bit afraid to bite into this, thinking it would be similar to all that "chick lit" that has been propogating like bunnies in the last few years, or on a more scary level, something like the Feminist Manifesto. But no, thank god, not at all. The collection contains some extremely fine pieces of writing on war, politics, society, family, emancipation, and of course, the much debated topic of sex and body image. There were a fair share of "housewifey" essays, which didn't particularly interest me other than to glean a culturally historical point of view (and make me appreciate being born in the late 20th Century). But others were very captivating. In 1945, Martha Gellhorn powerfully wrote about her experience seeing Dachau after liberation, Eleanor Roosevelt expressed herself in a daily column about her life as First Lady, Mary McCarthy spoke of the oddities of Saigon during the Vietnam Conflict, Nelly Bly acted insane to go undercover in a women's asylum, Erica Jong formed a brilliant piece about the Clintons, and Ruth Picardie wrote about dying of cancer.

Many of these women are an inspiration to me, and they have suffered, whole-heartedly, just as much as men have in "getting the story." It seems that their strengths are not only reporting the news, but placing it within a context, culturally and emotionally. Their ability to portray such vivid experiences makes me feel as if I were there, living at that time and that place.

Speaking of time and place, I have been busy playing The Magic Flute, which, while written in the 1700s, still exudes good humor and provides an entertaining treat. I suppose most masterpieces never really age; they will remain relevant because of their strong resonance with the universal life experience. There are some characteristics humanity will always retain, no matter what time or place you examine. Sometimes I like to have fun (I am really a geek) and imagine what it would be like to live in the time of Socrates, or Aristotle, and see the Greeks dressed up in their white togas with laurel wreaths (which they probably didn't really wear) and be the same characters in their society as the people I meet in my life today. Somehow all those menacing characters wouldn't be the same in white garb and laurels, with oddly trimmed hair and Olympian figures.

While I am on the topic of Olympia, the much publicized athetic competition has been the talk of the town for the past two weeks, and while I regret to not seeing a minute of it (I have no TV), I remember feeling encouraged when I do watch how these remarkable people do- or don't- handle the pressures of international competition. It makes my humble experiences with music feel miniscule, as all of the Olympic atheletes face incredible scrutiny for everything they do. I start to realize that my missing a shift couldn't possibly be as traumatic as falling after a jump, or crashing down a slope in plain view of millions of people. I see that I probably shouldn't take my little issues so seriously, and learn to lighten up and enjoy what I'm doing (amazing how fast that can disappear during a practice session). Perhaps I would prefer to "ski for fun, where medals are irrelevant," a sentiment voiced by the much-publicized Bode Miller, though that isn't a guarantee that I will get a job. Well, at least I won't break any bones. . . I think. . . .

Chocolate Craze: a report from the home front

2006-02-16T05:43:00.000-08:00

The past few days have been a little bit more busy than I expected. I was too involved with attempting to practice, driving about town, playing some ridiculous pops concerts, and making those perfect chocolate cakes with truffles that melt once you bite into them. Cooking can be very complicated, I've realized, or maybe just time-consuming, as you have to make absolutely sure you've read the instructions carefully. Even so, despite my GPA telling me otherwise, I seem to be quite capable of dumbly ruining a perfectly good recipe (so much for GPA meaning much in this world). Too many loaves have been taken from the oven, burned or misshaped. But I think the great victory in cooking is when everything is done, and you actually taste something you've made and find that despite all the misgivings, doubts, and uncertainties as to the specific techniques utilized to reach that final stage, it has all been worth it. Maybe the bread fell, maybe there was too much sesame oil or maybe too much salt, or not enough, but regardless, this is your own creation, and you have gained an understanding and have created something from nothing. At the very least, you have learned. And you can remember that for the next expedition, whether it is having another try at the same recipe, or doing something completely new: you have had that previous experience and are capable of doing it again, and even better.

For the chocolate cakes, it was easy enough. I have a recipe of my mother's which has worked beautifully every time, tastes great, never sticks to the pan, and is not too horribly bad for you. Making the truffles, however, was a whole new realm. When I think about it now I think it was not so difficult, but of course the first time for everything is always a bit scary. It was rather simple to boil cream and add it to semi-sweet chocolate, but it grew more difficult to evenly spread the mixture onto a baking sheet. Somehow it didn't like being very even. After freezing the concoction for a bit, I had to take it out and then roll the ganache- as it was now called- into 12 individual size round orbs. This was the messy part, and required some heavy duty gloves (which I suspect prevents the heat of your hands from interfering with the chocolate and its melting process). At first I was a bit skimpy with the size of spheres I was making; I only realized this when I had 2 or 3 truffles left to sculpt and there was more than half of the ganache left in the pan. So I had to go back and add to all the previously smoothed truffles, which now turned into large, ill-shaped weird lumps with chocolate strands jutting out in every direction. Obviously I was not very adept at this whole process, and I, like the rest of the kitchen, ended up looking like a 2 year old's playground: chocolate everywhere, all over the floor, on my clothes... and with less than an hour to go before I had to leave for a concert in the evening. Ah, the excitement.

Somehow I managed to accept the fact that my truffles are just going to look like spiky little balls (I am still trying to avoid my tendency to be too perfectionistic) and stuck all 12 of them back in the freezer, hoping that after being baked, their imperfections wouldn't be that noticeable anyway. I got all the cake ingredients together, and mixed it well (as a side note, don't ever, ever buy Kroger unsweetened cocoa- it is impossibly lumpy and refuses to blend, no matter how vigorously you whip that stuff together). I spooned the batter into the muffin cups, another awfully messy job, and then baked them for awhile in the frightfully burning little oven. After 5 minutes I took the beautiful orbs out of the freezer and plopped them into each of the 12 cups. 20 minutes later, everything appears to have been successful. While I was most curious to see how this experiment turned out, I was short of time and unable to try any of them before I left for the evening. Rats, I thought, as most things taste best freshly out of the oven.

But I had nothing to fear; when I arrived back home around 11pm, and then had to leave again to pick up my first human guinea pig at the airport, everything looked ok. I heated the cakes a little, added strawberries, and then placed it before the first victim. And the first look that the human guinea pig had on his face confirmed that I must have achieved victory.

So that is the tale of my chocolate success.

Cartoon Craze

2006-02-09T05:49:00.000-08:00

The fury that has erupted after the discovery of a Danish cartoon depicting Muhammad (an act of sacrilege) leads me to believe that it is a fine line which separates peace and crisis in society. It is something to think that just one person could instigate such hatred; if one individual can bring this violence into force, what would happen if groups of people expressed similar sentiments? Would the entire world break out into riots and violence?

I think what is perilous about this recent outburst is that it shows the chaos that can erupt at any time. The tensions between groups of people don't lie far beneath the surface. Youth v. Age, Parents v. Children, Teachers v. Students, Religious v. Anti-Religious, Catholics v. Protestants, Christianity v. Judaism, Christianity and Judaism v. Islam, Nations v. Nations, Blacks v. Whites, Vegetarians v. Non-Vegetarians, Rich v. Poor (or the Haves v. Have-nots) etc. etc. All of these divisions produce societal tensions and threaten the communities we live in. One misplaced and insulting remark can make people of different backgrounds go beserk (to some degree). I suppose that is why the ever sanitary "politically correct" way of speaking was so en vogue a few years back. To maximize your chances at social acceptability and homogenity the last thing you would want to do is inadvertently insult someone else.

Going back to previous thoughts, I think the reason why security and terrorism are the main concerns for most people living in the U.S. is the possibility that it would only take a few people to destroy their worlds. The idea that a terrorist activity could happen anywhere and at anytime is something that troubles people. And causes fear.

There is much to be said about the way fear works on people. When we are young, we gradually realize through pleasant or painful circumstances the reality of the outside world. These experiences often find occasions for fears to be encountered. Some of these are brought to the surface of one's personality; others are buried within the psyche or subconscious territories of the brain. These hidden fears may cause people to react defensively, immediately assuming the worst and bringing out the irrationality in each of us. They disable people from thinking reasonably and are responsible for otherwise unexplainable behaviors (for instance, upon hearing of my move to Miami, my father related a story about a girl who wanted to be a dancer, moved to New York- where she knew no one, got involved in illegal activities- drugs, prostitution- and one day was murdered in her own apartment. When I replied that, 'Well, I'm not moving to New York- Miami is a bit different, I know people where I'm going and I will not be involved in drugs or prostitution,' my mother replied, 'Oh, Miami is just as bad as New York.' Why my dad told me this story, and why my parents reacted in this way still does not make sense to me today, but I think the underlying reason was their fear of me being in a new place which, to them, is unfamiliar).

Fears can be the possible explanation for the actions of those rioting against the Danish cartoon. These rioters may be afraid that people who do not believe in what they feel is the real truth have more power than they do. They may fear that their beliefs are not respected. They may fear that their way of life is threatened. Maybe they desire that others live the same way they do. Now how is that any different from the way many Americans (or other Westerners) have wished to impose their ideals of culture and society on foreign people?

Affirmative Diversity?

2006-02-08T06:12:00.000-08:00

This morning on NPR's Morning Edition I heard that there remains some controversy over the idea of legal affirmative action regarding application decisions at the University of Michigan. Having been a student there while the lawsuits against the University were brought before the Supreme Court, I have mixed feelings as to the resolution of the subject.

The decision of the Supreme Court sided with the U-M law school, citing that there is good cause for race to remain part of the application process, thus upholding the University's current practice of race as a legitimate tool for determining the selection of students.

I understand that a reputable, high-class public university (with private tuition rates, however) has some obligation to represent the community in which it serves. In the Midwest, generally, diversity has taken a slower turn than the outer edges of the country, and therefore U-M is one of many that struggle with bringing in a more diverse student population. That and more academically selective criteria make it difficult for people of varying backgrounds to be admitted. However, being situated near Detroit, MI, where there are many African-American residents, the proportion of African-American enrolled students at U-M is still quite small in comparison to the percentage of African-Americans in the community.

Why? I'll get to that later on.

There are also those people who are upset by applications being discolored, so to speak, by the race of the applicant, and chant, "Racism! Discrimination!" That is understandable to some degree. If there are two applicants with the exact same test scores, the same GPA, and history of community service, who would be more likely to be accepted? The white person, or the Hispanic person? For the school looking for diversity, it is not hard to decide.

But how should an application process work? Maybe it is best for the applicant to do his/her utmost to distinguish themselves from the rest of the pool, rather than cite situations like the above. Because really, just how many candidates are exactly the same in every respect, other than race?

Perhaps one approach would be to present an application that relies more on what the applicant really wishes to gain from the university experience. What do they want to do with their education? Where do they want to go? And then it gets down to a more difficult way to chosing a potential student. Subjectivity. And for those applying to the school, they sit down in front of a computer screen with a long groan, as their eyes roll back in their heads, and write yet another blanket essay attempting to describe the most amazing skills you have and how you can take the world by storm. In my experience that is not the most interesting way to do it. Maybe what could happen could be a sort of obstacle course, a historical treaure hunt of some sort, where the one who is most resourceful, creative and intuitive could show their full capabilities.

Of course this idea (or other creative solutions to the problem) would generally take up too much time and resources than a university can afford. Certainly the easiest way to eliminate people is simply by looking at test scores and GPA. The admissions people don't necessary want an increase in the potential candidates (though that may bring forth more highly qualified applicants); their job is to narrow the pool.

Getting back to the idea that there are fewer people of diversity accepted at U-M is not just about the failures of African-American students to get higher scores. What is really at issue here (and more difficult to solve) is not so much that white people may be rejected and black people accepted, but that the students from the diverse backgrounds are not always sufficiently prepared to perform well on their tests or in their applications. Now why are their test scores usually lower than those of whites? Why are they struggling more with school? Is it because their family is in a tough situation; is it because their parents have to work long hours just to make enough money to live on, much less have time to oversee their children's education and make sure they keep up with schoolwork? Maybe the parents have no health insurance, or have unstable jobs, and are unable to provide their children with the most expensive and highest quality schooling that is available. Maybe even the value of education is missing from these families; maybe they are not as worried about their children performing well in school because they are struggling to provide enough for food, health care, rent, and other bills for their families. It gets complicated, and that is why it is easier just to do a little fudging in the admissions area. People like to have positive results. They like to think that the students of diversity are doing well (and they probably are, to some extent.)

I just think that if people with less income had a more stable financial situation, then the value of education may be more of a priority. Why is it that one of the wealthiest countries in the world neglects large segments of its population, simply because they lack the funds to bring their opinions into the larger pool of public awareness? Why is it that people who have less money, have less say? Is this what it means that money is power? We may all be granted equality under the law, but are some granted more equality than others?

Alright, enough ranting.

Culture v. Nation

2006-02-05T09:30:00.000-08:00

Before I left Los Angeles I had checked out a book from the El Segundo Public Library written by Samuel Huntington, a well-known figure in international relations/foreign affairs. Mr. Huntington has been consumed with the ideas of how the world is put together, and how people interact in a social network on more than simply nationalistic groupings. In fact the title of this particular book is The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order. No light reading, I admit, but especially in the light of these times I find the subject matter very engrossing. The core of his argument is that what is happening on the world stage is more of a conflict of cultures, rather than a conflict with set national boundaries which catagorized the world in some of the more recent history (the World Wars, the Cold War). The collection of similar cultures, beliefs and ways of life seems to be more binding and collective than those represented by politically accepted states. This is evident today in the Middle East. Take Kirkuk for example; in this Iraqi city there are many divisions at work here, the Kurds versus the various Arabic religious factions, each threatening to tear the city apart by their attempt at isolation and extremely motivated work to exert politcal, social and economic power over the others. There are numerous other examples, through much of history: the Jews and the Egyptians/Arabs/Christians, the Serbs and the Croats, the Protestants and the Catholics, etc. etc. These conflicts are not necessarily contained in specific states, though in certain places the likelihood of such problems may be much greater. I think the idea of the cultural conflicts carries a lot of weight.

I found a particular chapter in this book to be of relevance in the way the first world peoples- myself included- view other people in the world. In it Mr. Huntington really pulled the wool from my eyes. Of course I knew that it is not always a wise idea for people to exert their beliefs on other people (such as the evangelists and the like) because it is often viewed as an attack on their own personal beliefs, wishes and freedoms. But I had not realized that I too am guilty of that very exertion: my belief that people in other cultures deserve all the personal freedoms and rights that I do. It is a very tricky issue. As a female it is very hard to understand how females in other parts of the world could seem to accept and believe in their diminished status among their own people; that they accept the boundaries placed on them by the men in their lives, and I cannot help but feel hurt, saddened, and angered by their inability to realize their true power and individuality outside that given by their men. Of course being a rather strong proponent of individualism, I am expressing that very belief that is sneered upon in other places as being very "American," or rude and naive. I, of all people, am just as guilty of being as "American" as any Bud-drinking, couch potato, and sports fanatic that has come to be seen as a part of the American life. Though as other true Americans enjoy their big day of gross self-indulgence cheering on teams that will never benefit from their excited cries, I exert my American right to choose to be different.

Near the end of the book Mr. Huntington discusses the overall conclusions he has realized in his research. He finds that "The underlying problem for the west is not Islamic fundamentalism. It is Islam, a different civilization whose people are convinced of the superiority of their culture and are obsessed with the inferiority of their power. The problem for Islam is not the CIA or the U.S. Department of Defense. It is the West, a different civilization whose people are convinced of the universality of their culture and believe that their superior, if declining, power imposes on them the obligation to extend that culture throughout the world. These are the basic ingredients that fuel conflict between Islam and the West."

So the Muslims may have the greatest hatred or dislike for the seemingly unrelenting cultural pressures that are exerted by the West, and particularly America, which demonstrates a type of social and economical dominance by that of a superior nation to a lesser nation. It implies a belief in the inferiority of that "lesser nation." Perhaps what many Muslims fear the most is the removal of their beliefs and practices on the world stage. A tearing away from what they hold most dear; their culture.

Interesting.

Slices of the Life

2006-02-03T19:26:00.000-08:00

Life in Miami Beach is an interesting proposition. There is a constant beckoning of leisure and self-indulgence; all the hallmarks of a truly American (or any other nationality, for that matter) vacation. Such a volume of tourists and vacationers come here that taxi drivers must do a very, very good business. Plus it doesn't hurt that almost anywhere you look you see advertising for drinks and alcohol. With all the clubs around here, it makes sense that the taxi phone numbers are things like 888-7777 or even the blatant 444-4444. Easy to remember numbers, perfect for that wild night on the town... which seems to occur every night here. I've been told, however, that January and February aren't nearly as crazy as March, with all the spring breakers, or as ridiculous as it is during Hip-Hop week, when all the hip-hoppers come out and bamboozle the whole Miami Beach area. I'll have to watch out for that one.

In some sense I think this area is a lot like Vegas, "what happens here, stays here."

Yet there is more to Miami Beach than parties, and fruity drinks. Certainly the use of color must be mentioned. I have never seen colors like these together before. Who has ever painted an entire building various shades of pink and peach and lavender? With light green teal? I did have an insight into this the other day, walking along the boardwalk which stretches from 21st Street to 47th Street. The sun was almost setting (here the sun sets directly over the Publix supermarket, so I really won't be bothering you all with more sunset photos- unless you really can't get enough of them) and the sky was a definite delicate pink color, in contrast to the beautiful turquoise waters below. Almost the exact same colors I had been seeing on numerous buildings and reflected in almost all swimming pools. Now is that the reason why these places are pink and teal? Well, it's just a hypothesis. But the colors in the sky over the ocean were very striking.

There are also a lot of people here who are doing what people do everywhere else: working hard to earn a living. Who keeps all the hotels and restaurants up and running? Certainly the rich don't serve themselves. There is a whole team of people down here, just to aid in these occupations.

Of course I know that all of this area cannot possibly all be rich. I haven't seen much of Miami yet- I have avoided being in my car as much as possible, to cleanse myself of my Los Angeles behavior- but I am told that there are some very poor sections of town in areas of Miami. Perhaps I will do some more exploring, when I have some time. Maybe not to the poorist sections, however.

Miami Beach also has a lot of historically Cuban (and Latin American) influence, and that is reflected in this city as well; there are many little cigar shops (real? I'm not sure...), family owned Cuban restaurants (some are fantastic), and Latin dance clubs. But what I really have became aware of is that it is typical- and almost expected- that you speak Spanish. And not the Hispanic Spanish from Mexico that I'm used to hearing in Los Angeles, but a wonderfully rolled and trilled Spanish, spoken by people who probably have a lot of money (or not, I suppose, if they are working in the service industry...). But nonetheless, it's really beautiful. One of these days I'll learn the language. Maybe when I'm not obsessing over excerpts...

Through my eyes

2006-01-31T08:28:00.000-08:00

The Miami Beach Sunrise...
What am I doing in Miami?

I have no clear career opportunity beckoning me to this Cuban-infused paradise; no multi-million dollar sponsor to find me cushy gigs, book expensive recital halls, and magically wave a wand that will make me play a thousand times better... Even to me, when I think about it, my actions have been a bit radical, or at the very least, risky. When I told my close friends about my plans their immediate reactions were something akin to shock, followed by some thought, and then a surprising endorsement of my ideas. Perhaps at first I was thought to be a little wacky, then admired for actually doing something unpredictable and "crazy." I figured that for most of my life I have watched from the sidelines, observing others, always doing what seemed to be right and expected, and believing that that was how life needed to be lived...

Lately I have become a big believer in doing the unexpected; doing something that is foreign or new to one's personality does wonders in advancing growth on a personal scale. In the past I have thought that this type of growth was something that was important to older adults, who really seemed to be concerned with this topic, but I failed to understand the premium they put on this type of change. I didn't fully realize the larger picture; it is about a vision for the future, and how you want to be as an individual and in society, and to find the way for you to be happy and fulfillled (of course that is something that we strive for but is hard to reach). I feel now that personal growth is something that can be so refreshing and rewarding; with some concentrated effort you can change your downtrodden and habitual ways of thinking and discover new reasons to live.

There are a few good reasons why I came out to Florida. The reasons I told my parents were that I was sick and tired of teaching so much, driving so much, and just trying to survive in Los Angeles. Freelancing was exhausting. I also didn't like my lifestyle being so dependent on gasoline, since I felt like everywhere I went I was contributing to the pollution of the already too-polluted air (there was an autopsy performed for a class of medical students who noticed that the cadaver's lungs were completely black, and asked the instructor, "Was this person a smoker?" To which the instructor replied, "No. He just lived his whole life in Los Angeles."). I didn't like driving so much, teaching students who just didn't care, and being too burned out to get any real work done on my instrument. So, why don't I find a better situation? What's really important here? My future career, or making a little money (and I was not making that much anyway)?

My parents' first reaction was of happiness that I finally decided to quit the teaching and just concentrate on myself (always their approach to everything; they would never volunteer or actually do any social work of any kind). Basically the idea would be for me to practice as much as I could, to resurrect my broken playing without any distractions. Of course they also believed that I would then move back home, which they have been advocating for a long time. I had other plans, however, and this is where it grew a bit more sensitive.

Of course there was- and is- something other than my career which really prompted this change. For as long as I have been conscious, I have always been independent, longing to find my own way. For a while I felt there were few people who could actually understand who I was; not that I didn't know who I was but rather I lacked the courage and the strength to be who I was, around other people. My family included. (I think this is a more common problem than people may realize. In any given situation, there are people who are a bit extroverted and like to hold the attention, while others are more withdrawn and shy. It seems to me that the many ways people relate to others are a way of coping and dealing with the society other people. Many people are not exactly born with a sense of being perfectly comfortable around others, yet at the same time they need the support and and fulfillment of people in similar situations and places. We have this inner survival instincts, though we are also social animals. A very clashing concept.)

I do have a point to all this: I have been working on being more comfortable with just being myself, without having to try to be what I thought other people wanted me to be. This has brought me a lot of serenity, calmness, openness and happiness to be around others. After sticking to my own feelings and responses, I am, of course, more truly aware of myself and able to be honest with other people. Finding this sort of inner calm has brought me a quiet strength. And it is this strength allowed me to discover that I have found another person who shares much of what I believe in, and can be swept along without any fear.

It was also love that made me take this risk.

Of all the things in life, love is something that can reform your entire soul. And I, of all people, was, up until this last year, not interested, willing or desirous of making any decisions based on love. I didn't really believe in it, in a star-crossed lovers sense, and for all these years I had began to doubt whether or not there was any one out there with whom I could be happy. I always wanted to remain strong, on my own, without turning into a girl who clings to her boyfriend like saran wrap. Many friends have gone through experiences like that, and it always saddened me to see their own hopes and dreams dissolve once they found that person. I could never see myself surrendering to love, which is really what I was most afraid of.

Obviously I hadn't known what it was really like to love someone so much, and for that person to love you as much as you love them. There is really no way you can explain it. There is no perfect way to communicate these feelings. You can never really "understand" or "experience" love until it happens to you. And even then you still don't understand it. But when it really happens you have no fears, you have no doubts. I think I am beyond lucky.

And so, this post expresses what I have been thinking of during the last few months. I do feel all these reasons are just, rational, wonderful, exciting and human. I am also very happy- though of course, I would probably be more so if I had a decent job...

The Roadtrip: Part 2

2006-01-28T09:34:00.000-08:00

My southeast journey continued from Texas to Florida, heading through the deep South. Much of Louisiana seemed to be wet; swamps and bayous abound, and often the freeway turned into long causeways, often over the swamps, and extending for long stretches of road only a few feet above the water. I had thought it might be fun to catch a glimpse of some aquatic life; lake birds, reptiles, or possibly even an alligator. No such luck, however... A few hours from Houston I crossed the Mississippi River, near Baton Rouge (which as a city has probably seen better days). The Mississippi looked just as it did up north where it began, in Minnesota. It is really brown and rather dirty looking, in contrast to former advertising slogans that called the river and the surrounding Minnesota state as "the land of clear blue waters." In the native language, however, "Mississippi" actually means something akin to "muddy waters," which in my opinion is a much more accurate description. As I was driving along the foot of Louisiana, avoiding the New Orleans area (though now I think I should have seen at least some of it), I got the feeling that the economy of the state is not in the best of shape. The houses I could see were small, shabbily built and rather run down in general. I certainly think that Louisiana really does need all that federal disaster relief money it has been asking for.

The Henderson Swamp, in Louisiana

The Mississippi River

The Wetlands

After a few more hours I crossed the border into the state of Mississippi, which looked similar to Louisiana; the freeway was lined on both sides with tall pine trees as it had for a good stretch back in the bayou state. I never would have thought that pines grew in the South, but there they were, looking healthy and stretching for miles. In fact most of Mississippi and Alabama, from what I could tell, had a lot of these pine forests. The only town I came close to seeing in Mississippi was Biloxi, where I believe Jefferson Davis (the southern President) was born. I guess it was mostly a beach and resort town. Now wait a minute, I have a question: why doesn't the Mississippi River run through the state of Mississippi?

A causeway in Mississippi

Alabama continued in much the same fashion as Mississippi, though the city of Mobile was different; as an operating port it brought in more traffic than Biloxi. The U.S.S. Alabama was displayed in the bay south of the city, when the freeway turns into another causeway across Gulf waters. I was lucky enough to drive across it near sunset, and hence, some more sunset pictures. Sorry!

Downtown Mobile

From the causeway over the Gulf

I have to admit that after seeing the land in the South, I realized that I can understand why this area of the country is usually referred to as a homogenous bloc (particularly in political and cultural ways). Much of the land is the same, as well as the climate, which in turn (I hypothesize) may be why the areas support similar industries and economies. These states have a lot in common, and having a similar landscape, working conditions, and interests are conducive to producing similar opinions and ways of thinking. That is not to say that there are no distinctions between the various Southern states; I am merely suggesting that there is a certain uniformity that can be observed.

Less than an hour after leaving Mobile I finally reached Pensacola, Florida, on the most western edge of the state. The vegetation changed noticeably, becoming more lush and green. The temperatures also rose, and for the first time during the trip I found myself contemplating whether or not to use the A/C. At some moments it was truly uncomfortable, particularly when the sun was beating down through the windshield and there was no cool outside air to help alleviate the condition.

Florida, like Louisiana in being another state close to sea level, also has its share of causeways, and the road heading east to Tallahassee was no different. Something I noticed perceptibly once I reached Florida was the way the drivers behaved. In Los Angeles, there are two types of drivers; ones fast and aggressive, who can usually handle their cars well enough to be able to quickly maneuver if need be, and slow ones, who don't really have any clue as to what they are doing. In Texas, the drivers are fast, aggressive, and large. However, of all annoying drivers in the country I've seen so far, those in Florida are the most ridiculous. Basically they have a high rate of being "stupid" and aggressive. Meaning that they aren't adept enough at handling their vehicle, but they drive as if they have the skills anyway. To be honest, I have never seen worse driving than that in Pensacola...

On a Florida causeway

Ditto

Of course there is more to Florida than crazy drivers. Theme parks, for example, and plenty of family folks on vacation, supposedly having the time of their lives. Or at least the kids are anyway. When I stopped in Orlando, my dad and I went to an Italian restaurant, decorated in the Old World "salon" style, where the main feature was the singing waiters and waitresses. And I'm not talking about belting singers, I'm talking about opera singers. Yes, every evening, on the hour, beginning at 7pm until late, the staff takes requests, and then performs various numbers on the old wooden floor with a grand piano. My father put in a request for "La donna e mobile" from Rigoletto, and it was a big hit. To my surprise, these people could actually sing. It was bizarre to realize that one minute the wait staff was carrying food and taking people's orders, and the next they burst out in song with show-stopping flair... which included the likes of Mozart arias, "Beviam" from La Traviata, and "I Could Have Danced All Night" from My Fair Lady. In all I thought it was a lot of fun. Why aren't there more of these places?

Anyway, after all this driving, I finally reached Miami Beach around noon last Saturday. It was warm; over 80 degrees F, and felt like a great place to spend time on the beach. The waters here are of very beautiful blue and turquoise shades, and are much warmer than those along the other coast. I will undoubtedly be describing this area in more detail in the coming months.

So the question remains, what am I doing here in Florida? Ah, but that is fodder for future posts... stay tuned.

An Ode to the Artist

2006-01-26T21:58:00.000-08:00

I was reading the January/February 2006 issue of The Atlantic magazine and I came across a reprinted speech from the February 1964 issue of the magazine. This speech was given by John F. Kennedy at Amherst College to honor the late poet Robert Frost. While poetry is the main focus (as it is a tribute to a great poet after all) I felt that its essence of honor to the poet is relevent to that of an artist as well. I thought I would include most of the speech here.

The Purpose of Poetry, by John F. Kennedy

A nation reveals itself not only by the men it produces but also by the men it honors, the men it remembers.

The men who create power make an indispensable contribution to the nation's greatness, but the men who question power make a contribution just as indispensable, especially when that questioning is disinterested, for they determine whether we use power or power uses us...

When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence.
When power corrupts, poetry cleanses, for art establishes the basic human truths which must serve as the touchstones of our judgment. The artist, however faithful to his personal vision of reality, becomes the last champion of the individual mind and sensibility against an intrustive society and an officious state. The great artist is thus a solitary figure. He has, as Frost said, "a lover's quarrel with the world." In pursuing his perceptions of reality he must often sail against the currents of his time...

If sometimes our great artists have been the most critical of our society, it is because their sensitivity and their concern for justice, which must motivate any true artist, make them aware that our nation falls short of its highest potential.

I see little of more importance to the future of our country and our civilization than full recognition of the place of the artist. If art is to nourish the roots of our culture, society must set the artist free to follow his vision wherever it takes
him...

In free society art is not a weapon, and it does not belong to the sphere of polemics and ideology. Artists are not engineers of the soul. It may be different elsewhere. But in a democratic society the highest duty of the writer, the composer, the artist, is to remain true to himself and to let the chips fall where they may. In serving his vision of the truth, the artist best serves his nation...

I look forward to a great future for America- a future in which our country will match its military strength with our moral strength, its wealth with our wisdom, its power with our purpose.

I look forward to an America which will not be afraid of grace and beauty, which will preserve the great old American houses and squares and parks of our national past, and which will build handsome and balanced cities for our future.

I look forward to an America which will reward achievement in the arts as we reward achievement in business or statecraft.

I look forward to an America which will steadily raise the standards of artistic accomplishment and which will
steadily enlarge cultural opportunities for all of our citizens.

And I look forward to an America which commands respect throughout the world, not only for its strength but for its civilization as well.

Sigh... I somehow long for the times of yore, when politicians had such eloquence; times when a good speaker and public leader was one who understood- or at least tried to understand- all the different ways of life in society, and how important each of these aspects are to the whole.

This speech conjures up a number of thoughts in my head. Has America really lived up to JFK's hopeful look to the future? Does America command respect for its strength and its civilization today? Obviously JFK's vision of life may differ from others in the public sphere, but as an aspiring artist, I can feel nothing but gratitude for the appreciation and respect that he (or at least one of his speechwriters) had for the life and work of the artist.

And I really cannot imagine such a speech being given now, in 2006, by our current Commander-in-Chief. However, looking on the bright side, it appears that men in general have officially acknowledged the fact that artists can be women, as well...

The Roadtrip: Part 1

2006-01-24T21:42:00.000-08:00

The blog has been on somewhat of a hiatus recently, due to its author's rather surprising relocation of 28oo miles, from Los Angeles to Miami Beach, FL. Yes, the author did drive her car all the way- a total drive of 40+ hours, which took about 5 days, a whole lot of stops, (some good times seeing friends in Tucson AZ and Houston TX) and way too many hours spent with her dad, who actually felt like tagging along (is that normal?!). In any case, it was a very tiring week, though she has finally made it without becoming insane and is now settling into the sort of life that can be reasonably lived in Vacation City, USA.

***

I had never been through the southwest U.S. before, so it was a brand new experience. Actually that was partly why I embarked on this journey in the first place; I had never gone on a road trip, though I loved my car and could not wait to find a chance to take it for a drive. And that I did...Basically I took the 10 freeway from Los Angeles all the way to Florida, then headed south for Miami. I thought that January would be a perfect time for travel; most people are back to work and the weather is much cooler than in the summer. Along the way I got to view all the varieties of desert that stretch from California through Texas. The California desert, beginning near Palm Springs, was populated with a lot of brush and occasional small palm trees. Mountains were present on either sides of the freeway, though they were a good 60-70 miles apart. I felt like I was in a movie scene in the West. Once we hit Arizona the desert there was less vegetation, but a notable plant I recognized from cartoons and stereotypical Arizona scenes was the famous, tall, green cactus, which stood up straight like a sentinel, keeping watch over the surrounding bush vegetation. It was fun to see these cacti "in the wild." Arizona does have a nice sprinkling of mountains nearby, and Phoenix looked like a pleasant city (though a bit smaller than I had thought it might be).

Near Tucson, AZ.

Also near Tucson

Once I hit New Mexico there were fewer plants, and more and more yellowed and brown desert. It seemed very dry there and the famous green cacti were gone, yet there were still mountains rising high into the sky. As the 10 freeway continued its journey, winding its way through the hills down to the city of Las Cruces, NM, I was suprised to land at the foot of an impressive mountain range. This stretch of the road, into Las Cruces, was of particular interest to me, as I remember performing a new composition, twice, titled, "The Road to Las Cruces," by Kenneth Eberhard. So, I was curious to see how driving on the road actually felt. To be honest, as I was traveling through the different types of desert, I was struck by how beautiful and pure the land really is. I felt a sense of the blessedness of nature, found even in the most arid of places on earth. That led me to think about artistic inspiration, and how so many composers have expressed their creativity through their surroundings. How many composers have been thoroughly inspired by these American deserts (Steve Reich, John Adams)? I feel they must be; I would be. But I suppose what I really got a sense of, driving through the deserts, was the spiritual nature of the land, and how sad it is that it is not always appreciated by people today (low economic value, perhaps?), in contrast to the general, more old belief of the respect for nature that is found in native populations (Native Americans, Africans, etc.).

On the road to Las Cruces

Heading a little southeast after New Mexico brought me to Texas, the state so big it takes way too long to drive across it. Though I had found a sacred beauty in the southwest states, I had a much harder time appreciating the beauty of Texas. To me, the western city of El Paso was like an industrial desert. What I did find interesting (in an odd, observant sort of way) was that as soon as I entered Texas, the cars grew larger and the drivers more aggressive. Houston particularly was bad, when I noticed I was virtually the only Honda Civic, and constantly surrounded by SUVs, minivans and Hummers. Not to mention the fact that there were more restaurants per square block than any other place I had been through so far. The food was cheap, and the portions were enormous (now could that possibly explain why Houston is one of the fattest cities in the U.S.?!). Well, I tried to give Texas an unbiased look, but it really grew much more difficult as I reached the end of the 15 hour excursion across the state. I was surprised by the many Bible-praising radio stations, and you could definitely see how much oil was a strong presence. To be fair, however, I did enjoy stopping in San Antonio, where I saw the Alamo, surrounded by a quaint, old-style neighborhood with shops and restaurants. I find it odd that Texans remember the Alamo so patriotically, yet that was a battle where they lost everything to the Mexicans. How can the Alamo be known for a lucky war cry to rally the troops through battle? Did this battle really display great strength and courage, or stubbornness and stupidity instead? Curious.

The Texas Landscape, near El Paso: notice the brush fires...

Another shot

Texas does have mountain ranges

Not bad for a moving picture (the Texas sunset)

Heading into San Antonio

The Alamo, with all its glory

The library at the Alamo

In the town square, facing the historical district of San Antonio

The historic Menger Hotel nearby

Examples of Texas desert foliage

In the next installment, the South, and finally, Florida.

Last Scenes from Los Angeles

2006-01-22T18:09:00.000-08:00

While it is extremely tempting for me to use this opportunity to showcase a multitude of sunset pictures- as I am saying farewell to this part of the country- I have decided to control that urge and put up some pictures of various places around town I have visited in the past 4 years instead.

LAX

Ditto...

Dusky Downtown

Shops along Venice Beach

Santa Monica

The Getty

The Huntington Japanese Gardens

Near Big Bear Mountain

Near my first apartment in LA

My second home

The path along Manhattan Beach

Overlooking the Hollywood Bowl, Hollywood, the 101 Freeway, and East to Downtown: Taken from Mulholland Drive

A Visit to the MOCA

2006-01-11T23:56:00.000-08:00

The Museum of Contemporary Art in downtown Los Angeles and the Hammer Museum in Westwood currently present displays of works by popular American comic artists, including Windsor McCay, Chester Gould, Milton Caniff, Harvey Kurtzman (Superman), Lyonel Feininger, Charles M. Schulz (Peanuts), R. Crumb, George Herriman, Will Eisner, Jack Kirby (The Avengers), Art Spiegelman (Maus), and Chris Ware. Obviously comic books and the like have been around for quite some time, but for much of its history comic creation was considered separate from the high art usually found in polished museums. Today these museums showcase the genius of these well-recognized artistic figures.

I had a lot of fun examining the antiquidated comic sheets and original prints of these artists; I am a fan of Art Spiegelman and now a new convert to the works of Chris Ware, who is responsible for Jimmy Corrigan, The Smartest Kid on Earth and Quimby the Mouse. Mr. Ware has a knack for humorously relating to the current generation through popular images recognized by most people today, yet he also hits on the core of emotions lying beneath the surface of day-to-day activities. One of his works on exhibit was his own entertaining story of the real life of a real comic artist, complete with self-mortification, embarrassment, self-pity, and frustration.

To see more work of Chris Ware (and perhaps actually be able to read it), go to: http://www.lambiek.net/artists/w/ware1.htm, or http://quimby.gnus.org/warehouse/.

#7264827, #276841904, and #891064837

2006-01-08T17:48:00.000-08:00

Art in the Twin Cities Part 2

2006-01-03T22:15:00.000-08:00

For those of you more interested in the abstract and the incomprehensible type of art more at home in oddly shaped buildings, the newly renovated and re-created Walker Art Center in Minneapolis fills that desire. There are a fair share of unintelligible works by young, emerging artists such as Matthew Barney, Robert Gober, Sherrie Levine, and Kara Walker, plus some permanent pieces by known artists such as Jasper Johns, Claes Oldenburg, Yoko Ono, and Mark Rothko. However, I would recommend the special exhibits as the most interesting aspects of the Art Center. When I was there a large gallery was devoted to works of Andy Warhol (its title was Supernova: Stars, Deaths, and Disasters), a prominent display of pre-fabricated houses (think chic, architectual modernity at an affordable price), and a really spellbinding retrospective of the works of the Chinese (now Parisian) artist Huang Yong Ping, called the House of Oracles.

I had been unfamiliar to the works of Mr. Huang up to this point, but I am very glad I was able to take in his collection of art, which extrovertly presents the differences of culture, philosophy, and daily life between the East and the West. Mr. Huang includes pieces of varying media, yet all seem to be tied into a vehemently expression of how people of the West, with all their capacity for analysis, will never quite fully understand the culture of people living in Asia, and how people of the East will never understand those in the West. It is a bizarre combination of the effects of globalization, yet with the separation between the groups remaining quite strong. Pieces on display in this retrospective come in all forms, including three gigantic ceramic noodle bowls full of foodstuffs with expiry stamps proclaiming, Best Before 1 July 1997 (the date of the return of Hong Kong to China), a display case of the real contents of various Chinese medicines (yes, things such as human urine, spiders, and the occasional tiger penis are really used), a life-sized elephant being somewhat attacked by a tiger, a globe that has been peeled and covered with prophesy pins that foresee events in the future, and the most publicized piece, commissioned by the Art Center, is the Bat Project IV, which utilizes a cockpit from an American spy plane shot down by the Chinese near Taiwan.

As with most visits to museums with a contemporary emphasis, I came away thinking I probably saw some very philosophically intriguing works, yet I was not able to recognize them as such. I usually find it a bit of a puzzle trying to understand the odd looking wooden planks stuck to the wall, or the big blocks randomly sitting in the middle of the floor. Somehow, the amount of my appreciation of modern works rarely compares to even the shortest glimpse at, say, one of Corot's landscape paintings (or I suppose, any one of the great European masters, for that matter- hey, call me a traditionalist, really), as I tend to find those old works immensely more skillful. Yet, I find that upon seeing these newer creations, I am taken back to my childhood, where my understanding is small and I am constantly trying to figure out just what the world really is. If anything, I inevitably find myself gazing at the world in a very different manner. Which, perhaps, is really what it is to get modern art.

"The History of Chinese Painting and the History of Modern Western Art Washed in the Washing Machine for Two Minutes"

Huang Yong Ping’s Chinese Period, Fei Dawai, 2005

On December 1, 1987, Huang Yong Ping placed a classical Chinese art history book and a Western art history book into a washing machine and washed them for two minutes. These two long-standing histories were transformed into a pile of unreadable pulp within two minutes.

More of Mr. Huang's works can be found at: http://visualarts.walkerart.org/oracles/details.wac?id=2420&title=Work.

The website for the spectacularly new Walker Art Center is: http://www.walkerart.org/index.wac.

Happy California New Year

2005-12-31T18:58:00.000-08:00

The end of the year is always a good time to reflect on what has been happening in your life, not only in the past year but in all your years so far; how much you've seem to have accomplished, how little you've actually accomplished, how slow you are in reaching your goals, how uncertain you are about people, how wrongly you've treated others, and how insanely ridiculous this whole New Year's Resolution business actually is. I am not really such a fan of this practice, as I live by the idea that each new day can be the next perfect time to set to work on whatever resolutions you may have- why limit yourself to self-improvement only on New Year's- or January, for that matter?

In any case, I will leave the philosophizing for another day.

Let's enjoy the beauty that is in our world, cherish our dreams, and love the life we are given.

Happy New Year!

Yet some more...

2005-12-29T08:56:00.000-08:00

The Madness of Mao

2005-12-28T18:29:00.000-08:00

Jung Chang and Jon Halliday recently published one of the most authoritative books ever written on the life of "Chairman" Mao Tse-tung, the Chinese Communist leader responsible for the deaths of over 70 million Chinese people during peacetime. Both Ms. Chang and Mr. Halliday have been at work on this book for a decade, traveling to and from China and Russia, sifting through Chinese and Russian papers, and interviewing any personal sources who had even the smallest contact with Mao before and during his reign of terror. Throughout his power hungry life, he not only terminated his own people (and his friends) with no qualms, but he also ran the country into the ground, with his numerous technological plans for atomic weapons at super human speeds he thought would grant China (or rather, himself) the title of a world superpower, all while ruining all agriculture, land, culture, tradition, and the psychological capacities and intelligence of its citizens, turning them into an uninspired collection of human robots.

While Stalin is widely known for the horrors he perpetuated in his own country, the great role he played in the rise of Mao and Mao's version of Communism (Maoism) has only recently been brought to light. Mao idolized Stalin, and had his portrait hung on the Tiananmen Gate in Peking at Stalin's death. Russia and Stalin basically created the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) within China, and staffed the Party and provided enormous amounts of monetary aid, good jobs, and plenty of weapons. The authors have extensive records of Mao and his Moscow connections, particularly in the early years of the CCP, demonstrate that the amount of influence Moscow had in the CCP was staggering; without Russian help the CCP would have remain a negligible political force. Thus, it seems quite safe to conjecture that without Stalin, there could never have been a strong CCP, or a strong Mao.

A lesser known aspect of Mao's life is the revelation of his early childhood, and just how much that period shaped the rest of his life. He was the third son, though the only one to reach maturity, as the other brothers died young. (Sons in China are traditionally idolized and viewed as most desirable, which explains the enormous discrepancy between the official number of boys born to the number of girls; in some places that ratio is as great as 8:1, leaving grown young men especially frustrated.) His parents were reasonably well off, and his mother made use of their situation to spoil him as much as possible, as he was her first healthy- and quite intelligent. This excessive and almost idolatory behavior Mao's mother quite likely turned him into the unruly and selfish child who repeatedly got kicked out of school. His father attempted to correct his mother's overindulgence by beating him violently, but most likely the only result from this type of punishment was to bring about Mao's intense hatred towards his father (later in life, if his father hadn't already died of disease, Mao has said that would have had him killed). It seems likely that his early spoilings allowed the growth of the selfishness of an individual and the love of extreme violence that Mao was known for.

At the age of 24, as great reader with a strong memory, Mao wrote down some notes on ethics that would be unfathomable to most people. Basically his moral view contained statements he believed such as: the needs and wants of "I" should be placed above all others- that no one matters but yourself- and one's duty is only to one's self and not to others; that what matters in life is only what will help you personally in your lifetime (he was not interested in fame beyond death); conscience means nothing when in conflict with impulse- it only restrains one's actions, not imposes; all considerations must be only for one's self; peace is not possible, and war and revolution will (and should) always exist; and that death should be celebrated- i.e. the people should be happy to die, because dying is a transitory stage, much like a revolution (though, keeping in mind, Mao himself did everything he could to prolong his own life). This non-fear of death is what allowed him to think of the deaths of his citizens as "right" and "necessary" in life.

Based on the authors' research, and contrary to all the propaganda spread by his comrades, Mao appears to have joined the CCP purely as a way to have a job, and for the opportunity to gain power. He never really seemed to believe in the philosophy behind it; in fact he was often criticized by Stalin and the Russians for being weak and decidedly unclear on the ideals of Communism. Because of his lackluster beliefs, he was unashamedly living a life of an emperor (complete with imperial concubines, with whom he had dancing parties twice a week and exhibited extreme gluttony, typically eating from a digusting amount of dishes at any given meal), while putting together a well-oiled propaganda machine that told blatant lies to the people, most of whom were not allowed an education or books of any kind. With a largely illiterate population, how could the people know any other account of history and of Mao, other than what Mao wished them to know?

Paranoia and insomnia often overtook Mao throughout his whole life, and he was cunningly brilliant at eliminating any possible source of disagreement within and outside of the CCP. As the years progressed, most of his fellow comrades began to avoid dealing with him directly, and gradually skipped the twice-weekly dances Mao held. In the later years, Mao was left the only one dancing, as he had all his former friends killed or denounced. This lone scene brings to my mind a musical number from John Adams' opera, Nixon in China, that is titled, "The Chairman Dances." It is quite the choice for an opera plot, I must say.

As Mao aged, he began to exhibit more and more reflection and self pity, as well as becoming more and more melancholy. He was not happy, even though he had ruled China for 27 years and could have had whatever he wanted. But he did not succeed in "ruling the world" (his secret dream) or bring China to the level of a superpower. He himself believed that he was indeed, a failure, and died with no satisfaction of his life.

If anyone has actually read my whole diatribe on Mao, may I say, congratulations! Of course there are many other gruesome and terrible things that have been uncovered about this man, that I chose not to mention. Some things are best left in the book. I do warn those of you interested, that perhaps you should save it for a snow day, or at least a lengthy vacation (or opera, as the case may be), because it is quite the brick of a book. However, if you are into political and psychological intrigue, you will undoubtedly find it well worth your while.

Art in the Twin Cities, Part 1

2005-12-25T09:14:00.000-08:00

If you ever have the hankering for good, traditional art, the Minneapolis Institute of Art is a place to go. In addition to the free admission and the free parking, the vast collections could have you losing quite a few hours of your day to serene artistic contemplation. There is an extensive collection of Asian art, particularly porcelain and ceramics, with magnificent woodcuts by Hiroshige, and a nice array of contemporary photographs, including a shot of Igor Stravinsky dwarfed by a piano by Arnold Newman. I began my visit with 18-19th Century European art and found a few laudatory works, though I would say that the collection from the Old World is not uniformly spectacular. However, there are more than a few exquisite period rooms; a Grand Salon from Paris, three Japanese rooms, a Tudor inspired apartment, a fashionable Baroque style entrance hall, and even a Charleston dining and living room, complete with Christmas decorations and a laden dinner table. These styled rooms were quite breathtaking; I postulate that the close proximity of the great Children's Theater (and the not-too-far off Guthrie Theater) would explain the astonishing historical quality of these exhibits in particular. I also enjoyed the Prairie School permanent exhibit, which displayed a hallway constucted for a home in Minnesota by Frank Lloyd Wright, as well as numerous models of other such homes by Mr. Wright or another man sharing a similar vision, Louis Henri Sullivan, who designed a now-demolished Chicago Stock Exchange building that looks remarkably like the Succession building in Vienna.

For this Christmas season, the Institute laid out several versions of Christmas trees, decorated in the traditional fashion of whichever country it was representing. The Swedish tree was hung with Swedish flags, and the Bavarian tree carried shiny red apples. There was even an appearance by a holly tree, as well as a description of the first "feathered," or entirely fake, Christmas conifer.

Along with Christmas comes the drinks that belong to that festivity; wholesome eggnog, cider, punch, wines, sparkling beverages, champagne, and holiday spirits. For this the Institute includes an exhibit of modern bar-ware, from shakers to shot glasses. Most are from the 1920-30s; the Jazz Age and Prohibition seemed to instigate a genre of creative, well-crafted tools for this human indulgence.

In any case, I had a decent amount of intellectual stimulation- like a breath of fresh air- to keep me going through holiday season, known for its vast food consumption and various family engagements that inevitably leave me thinking, who are these people?

John Singer Sargent's Luxembourg Gardens at Twilight
Paul Signac's Blessing of the Tuna Fleet

One of the period rooms gussied up for Christmas

The Grand Salon from the Hotel Gaillard de La Bouexiere
All Shook Up: a bar gun

For more on the Institute, visit http://www.artsmia.org.

The breath of Capote

2005-12-19T17:03:00.000-08:00

I recently finished reading Truman Capote's second novel, The Grass Harp. In a captivating, melodically evocative way, Capote tells a story of a few individuals looking to escape the tedium of normal small town life by taking refuge, briefly, in a treehouse. The words flow beautifully off the page; one feels as if one is gently dropped into a flowing brook, or carried away in the middle of the breeze. At one point one of the elder tree residents catches a leaf, and begins to describe what it means to love.

The Judge... caught a leaf; and it was worth more in his hand than in Riley's [a young rebel]. Pressing it mildly against his cheek, he distantly said, "We are speaking of love. A leaf, a handful of seed- begin with these, learn a little what it is to love. First a leaf, a fall of rain, then someone to receive what a leaf has taught you, what a fall of rain has ripened. No easy process, understand; it could take a lifetime, it has mine, and still I've never mastered it-I only know how true it is: that love is a chain of love, as nature is a chain of life."

I am not sure any person can really master true love, regardless of age, yet it is something we are usually striving for in our lives. Somehow it is so very easy to seek love; perhaps what we are looking for, however, is best approached by our individual cultivation of love in our own lives, as with it, a realization dawns that true love extends the bounds between just one person and another. Love is really a much greater mystery than we realize.

***

The meaning of The Grass Harp lies in a soft description of the prairie near the town:

"...after [her father] died, she sometimes heard his songs in the field of Indian grass. Wind, Catherine said; and Dolly told her: But the wind is us--it gathers and remembers all our voices, then sends them talking and telling through the leaves and the fields--I've heard Papa clear as day."

The whispers of the breeze seem to tell their own tale; history is passed on through nature. What has happened is not always forgotten.

Capote's poetic way of presenting nature in humanity is lovely.

Ahh...

2005-12-15T21:05:00.000-08:00

I felt it was about time for another round of scenic views.

The Fast Food Lowdown

2005-12-14T09:21:00.000-08:00

When I first glanced at Fast Food Nation: the dark side of the all-american meal by Eric Schlosser (2001), I immediately thought of the wildly popular documentary, Super Size Me, about the guy who ate only McDonald's food for a month. I was thinking, which came first, the book or the movie? I surmised this book would be yet another piece of writing about how obese the average American is getting, how much junk Americans eat, etc. etc etc. However, FFN is much closer to a modern version of Upton Sinclair's The Jungle (an expose of the Chicago meatpacking industry in the early 20th century) than about that weight issues being noticed in Americans across the country.

There is a lot of information about the food industry that is not usually too well known to the average person (I suppose that does include myself). I knew little about the processes behind these fast food meals; all I knew was that the food has been proven unhealthy, and I had heard rumors (which I half believed) that dead rats and human limbs could be found in the hamburger meat. Those ideas alone were definitely enough for me to swear off fast food for a lifetime (although an occasional stop at the California-natural-food-friendly In-N-Out burger joints are quite acceptable). Mr. Schlosser writes in a journalistic fashion; reporting facts very, well, matter-of-factly, even when detailing the steps slaughterhouses use to kill and process cattle, and the stories of workers wading through enormous pools of blood and cow feces, pulling out stomach intestines with their contents spilling out, cutting the necks of the cattle, chopping the bodies in half, etc.

There are many shocking things to be found, I admit. There are also many cultural trends I find disturbing; advertisements in schools, Disney and McDonald's seeking out kids as future "consumers," companies that donate incorrect textbooks to schools that promote the good of the company (i.e. "greenhouse gases are good for the earth" in a book from an oil company), corporations receiving tax breaks for "community work" (easy advertising opportunities), corporations determining how food is grown and produced in this country, the increased centralization of organizations that dominate small, independent businesses, a lack of public health oversight (i.e. reducing the risk of E. coli contamination- which comes mostly from animal dung), the governmental subsidies of fast food ingredients, the promotion of moral values by a corporation who relies on and exploits illegal immigrants who cannot speak English and have no health insurance, etc. etc. The list really does not end.

However, there is still hope; individually, there are things we can do to fight these trends. One is to be aware of where your food is coming from, as much as you can, and choose your purchase carefully. You can, of course, purposely avoid spending money at places with unhealthy business practices (actually quite hard to do, sometimes). Another is to be active in what what you believe: tell others what you know, bug the people who represent you, and demand something better.

You should really read the book.

Creating Capote

2005-12-09T09:46:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I splurged and went to see the recent film, Capote (2005), in a small theater in Santa Monica. It was brilliant. Why? Because Philip Seymour Hoffman was Truman Capote, and he absolutely nailed the role. While perhaps not all of his interpretation may be historically or autobiographically correct (I am, confessedly, not a Capote scholar), what was so remarkable about the performance was the great dimension Mr. Hoffman brought to the role. There are so many contradicitons and hypocrises in people, Capote being no exception, that there is no way one could describe this character simply. At first one thinks of him as an egoist (he describes how he can remember everything almost instantaneously), a dapper sort of man (always being the star of the party), superficial (one of the first remarks he makes once arriving in Kansas is to brag that he got his scarf from Bergdorf's), and totally utilitarian when it comes to finding inspiration and do research (at first he seems to befriend the convicted men just so he can write a brilliant new book). Yet this view of Capote does not remain that way for long. As the film unfolds and Capote delves deeper into the real story behind the Kansas murders, it is gripping to watch the character change into a more introverted and reflective person.

Robert Penn Warren once said that he liked to write in a foreign country "where the language is not your own and you are forced into yourself in a special way." (from "Bellow on Bellow," in the New Yorker, April 25, 2005)

In all senses, Capote, originally from New Orleans and then New York City, was an outsider in Kansas; he knew not how people thought and worked in that part of the country. What he found at first as an inspiration for a new book turned into an investigative, psychological enterprise. From what I hear, the finished book is the magnum opus of Capote's writing; with this book he finds his own way of challenging the concept of the American novel, as he ultimately develops his mature voice. Through this metamorphosis, it occurs to me that even if one speaks the same language as a certain group of people, the meaning or dialect can remain completely different; it could, in essence, be a type of foreign country, where the idioms and beliefs are not the same as what one knows. From viewing this film I am inclined to think that Capote, from immersing himself in the Kansas landscape, was pushed into thinking of himself in a drastically different way.

This quiet process of internal change from a rather superficial person into a more sorrowful, frustrated, emotional, and doubtful person is quite depressing to watch; what essentially happens after a prolonged period of waiting until the convicted men- alternatively his inspiration, tools, hopeful lovers, friends and disconnected acquaintances- to die by hanging so he can finish his book, he suffers through an agonizing, sufferable period when he rethinks all that had been dear to him in his life. This is the irony; his fame and career can advance only with these deaths, but because of them, his emotional life has been shattered. Thus he begins to fall into a downward spiral, one that he is only released from at his death not too long after he finishes this book, his last, titled, In Cold Blood.

It is difficult to demonstrate, convincinigly, as an actor, such a strong sense of inner turmoil. Many actors, at the beginning of a film, tend to overexaggerate the character to greater enhance or contrast the emotional development found at the end. Mr. Hoffman avoids this pitfall of overacting, while acting with a strong concept of character that unbelievably depicts the internal, tumultuous emotional man that was Capote; a nebulous multi-faceted individual, struggling, like the rest of us, through life.

Undoubtedly I will add my name to the list of people at the local library who are earnestly waiting to get hold of a copy of that book. I suppose until then I must content myself with his previous works; maybe that will provide me more insight into the author as a man and a writer, and I would have much more to gain when I finally get to that last masterpiece.

Check out the trailer: www.sonyclassics.com/capote.

Lizzie Bennet and Mr. Darcy on the Big Screen

2005-12-05T21:44:00.000-08:00

When I was in Lido California I came across a small, artsy movie theater. Since I had a few hours to kill and the price was right, I went in to see the latest version of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. I have to admit that of all Jane Austen's books, I love this one the most. It's also the one I have reread the most. For some reason I am much more intrigued by Lizzie and Mr. Darcy than by any other of Austen's characters. I admire the way Lizzie is unafraid of the opposite sex, and is able to exhibit a strong sense of identity. I have noticed in other novels how women are generally represented from this time period, and am as interested in them just as much as I would be fascinated by a dust ball. I also admire how Lizzie is not intimidated by the rich society women such as Caroline Bingley and Lady Catherine. Why Lizzie has a special place in my heart is probably that in some ways I can see some of myself in her. Or maybe I wish I were really more like her.

The newest conception of Pride and Prejudice by Joe Wright was, admittedly, a fun experience. How could it not be? I felt that the actor portraying Mr. Darcy (Matthew Macfayden) did a fine job, and was actually very convincing as a man who begins with "improper pride" but is, in the end, a good hearted sort of man. Tom Hollander as Mr. Collins was brilliant in his strong interpretation of the character as a tedious clergyman. It was perhaps not my exact idea of Mr. Collins, but I was so surprised by the confidence of Mr. Hollander that I found myself admiring the interpretation regardless. And of course, Dame Judi Dench was spectacular as Lady Catherine de Bourg. And, last but not least, Elizabeth Bennet was played by Keira Knightley, who demonstrated a certain liveliness that was refreshing, though I would have to admit that I would have preferred a more mature woman in Lizzie instead of the boyishness of Ms. Knightley.

I found that I enjoyed the quick moments of drama, the snappy scene changes and the pervasive energy between the characters. I particularly liked the small moments that most people would probably not even remember, such as when the Irish maid was found singing while doing her chores, or the glimpses of the well-dressed manservants attending the guests at their fancy meals. I certainly enjoyed seeing a different interpretation of Pride and Prejudice, because it made me rethink how much I thought I knew the characters. Unfortunately, however, the more I thought, the less positive things I actually find. The cinematography was not spectacular, though it had its moments (i.e. the marriage rejection scene with Darcy and Elizabeth). And let's not even talk about the music... And for God's sake why was there so much extra dialogue near the end, that culminated in an incredibly terrible final scene?

In essence I felt that the whole movie could have used a bit more of an "English" polish and reserve; by this I mean to downplay certain emotional states of mind. I felt some character displays were too flamboyant and dramatic. I always had the idea that what is remarkable about the characters was more their rather subdued or reserved manner that covered up the feelings of violent emotion. Perhaps I would have liked to see a little more guardedness in the acting, and more respect to the brilliance of the novel; that being that the dynamics of the courtship process is more interesting than the actual end result.

I suppose I would recommend to others to first see the oldest version available (and a favorite of mine) from 1940, with a cast including Laurence Olivier, Greer Garson, and Maureen O'Sullivan. Aldous Huxley was one of the writers of the script, and if I remember correctly, he did a fine job. To be honest I have tried for quite a while to find a copy of this version, and was only lucky once, back when I was in high school. Most video rental stores do not have it. So, if in fact you can't find this first version, then look for the 2001 BBC miniseries starring Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle. This version is definitely the most definitive (and the longest), and you truly can't find a more authentically English version than this.