Out and Back

Face time with an old friend

During my years of studying art history in college, one of the most memorable courses I took was a course on women artists.  Anyone with any familiarity with the history of art knows that for a long time women artists were regularly omitted from the standard art history texts, so even in the mid-90s it was a pretty novel thing to have a class completely devoted to them.

One of the great female painters I "met" during that semester was a tremendously gifted artist named Romaine Goddard Brooks.  Her biography fascinated me right away -- she had survived a horrible childhood (an abusive mother and a mentally ill brother were just part of the package) but went on to study painting and music in Europe and make a name for herself as an artist.  Most of her paintings are portraits of people she knew, and she used a color palette similar to Whistler's.  I remember being awestruck by her self-portrait the first time my professor showed it to us in class; it was so different to me than anything I'd seen up until that point.  She painted herself against a gray sky and desolate buildings, dressed in mostly black with her eyes barely visible beneath a top hat.  Though the setting and colors are bleak, she looks strong. Resolute, even. I fell in love with her then and there.

I devoured everything I could find about her and spent hours searching for images of her work.  I wrote papers on her and am pretty convinced I read just about every word that had written about her.  It got to a point that one of my art history professors would ask me, "Have you found out anything more about her?" whenever we would meet.  (We both knew darn well who "she" was.  He even put up her self portrait during my comps -- a requirement for graduation -- and said, "Now, this one might be a tough one for you..." with a gleam in his eye.)

As much time as I spent learning about Romaine, I never got a chance to see any of her work in person. When I was in Paris about ten years ago, I called one of the lesser museums that supposedly had one of her portraits in its collection, but my wretched French wasn't enough to get me confirmation as to whether or not it was currently on view.  Her self portrait, I knew, was part of the collection at the Smithsonian Museum of American Art, but I never seemed to be in DC at a time when the museum was open.

Until today.

I'm in DC this week for work, and things wrapped up early enough with my client today that I was able to sneak over the museum for an hour or so.  I searched high and low for Romaine's self portrait, and finally found it on an upper floor in the "visible storage" section.  (Visible storage is a popular exhibition technique with many museums these days since it allows them to display more of their collection but at the same time protect it from too much wear and tear.)

I wept when I saw it.  Seeing it in person was so much more powerful than all the times I've seen it in books, on slides, or on the internet.  For one thing, I could get close enough to it to look into her eyes.  They're definitely hiding in the shadow of her hat, but they're there, and today I feel like I truly met her gaze. The starkness of her color palette was made even more apparent for me, also.

There was a little bench in the aisle where her painting hung, so I sat with her for a while and let her look back at me from the canvas.  I had to leave sooner than I would have liked, but as I left I whispered, "Good to see you."

Here's a link to Romaine Goddard Brooks' self portrait on the Smithsonian's web site.  It goes without saying that the web version doesn't do the real one justice.

Bell, Book and Candle

My husband and I went to the Pendleton Playhouse yesterday afternoon to catch a matinee performance of the Clemson Little Theatre's production of Bell, Book and Candle.  It's a classic play and the production was pretty darn good for a little community theatre company.  Here's a review that appeared in our local newspaper.

Although the play (first staged in the '50s) is charming and cute, it does reinforce a few stereotypes about witches and witchcraft.  I still enjoyed it, though, and noted that the plotline of Bell, Book and Candle is a perfect premise for that other witchy pop culture phenomenon, Bewitched. 

This is quite possibly the most sublime thing ever

My favorite band singing one of my favorite songs... this made my night tonight.

Here's a thought...

Regular readers know I was in Los Angeles last week for a few days.  I freakin' loved it, but I wasn't sure why.  It's smoggy, the traffic is wretched, and there are more overpriced eateries and fake boobs than you can shake a stick at.  Why would I love such a place?

Then it hit me.

Los Angeles is the Coney Island of the west.  Hear me out for a second before you start insisting that I'm wrong, that that title rightfully belongs to Las Vegas.

First of all, there is no place like Coney Island so I do recognize the faint sacrilege in even comparing L.A. to it.  All the same, though, here's my reasoning:

* Both are a bit sketchy in places.  I swear there are sections of Sunset that are interchangeable with Stillwell.

* Both are filled with people of all stripes, from all walks of life... some of whom are freakier than others.

* Both are near the ocean.

* Both are full of interesting sights, sounds, smells, and architecture.

* Hardly any shade to be found in either place on a sunny day.

* Both places have served as filming locations for movies, TV, and music videos. (OK, so maybe L.A. has a slight edge here.)

* L.A. may not have a bunch of amusement rides, but try cruising down Mulholland as fast as your car can safely go on a road that curvy and see how it compares to a spin on the Cyclone.  Also, L.A. has its own knockoff of the Wonder Wheel.

* Q Train?  101 at rush hour?  Same difference.

* Nathan's?  In-N-Out Burger?  Yeah.  (C.I. still wins in this category, though, because there's nothing in L.A. that even comes close to Totonno's.)

* Lola Staar would fit right in on Melrose Avenue, I think.

Maybe my argument is a little weak, but the only place on the west coast I've ever been that makes me feel like I'm not really that far away from my beloved Coney is Los Angeles.  Both places are infused with that same sense of popular history, and both places make you feel like there's nowhere else on earth quite like where you are right now.

(And unfortunately, perhaps Coney will soon be catching up to L.A. on the overpriced condominium front, as well.) *sigh*

Jeff Buckley

This morning, nearly an hour after the alarm clock went off, I was still in bed.  I was trying to drag my still-partially-on-west-coast-time butt out of said bed, and my husband even came in after feeding the cats and brewing the coffee to help nudge me toward verticality.  Like most mornings, I had the radio on to NPR and was sleepily listening to Morning Edition.

Just when I was finally about to kick the covers off and stagger out of bed, Renee Montagne started talking about a singer I remembered from my college days named Jeff Buckley.  I hadn't heard his name in years but I remembered his wonderful music.  In college, my friend Eric made me a mix tape of songs and put a Buckley track on there.  (Eric had eclectic taste in music and could be counted on for awesome mix tapes.)  It seems that not long after I learned of his music, I learned that Jeff Buckley had died... he went swimming one May evening in a tributary of the Mississippi River and drowned.  That was in 1997; in fact, the NPR story about him this morning acknowledged that today was the tenth anniversary of his death.

I spent the rest of the morning thinking about my life ten years ago and listening to Jeff Buckley for the first time in about as many years.  I had forgotten that he'd done a wonderful cover of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah or that by listening to Last Goodbye I could be 21 years old again.  His music is stunning, visceral even.

The one album he released when he was alive, Grace, is available on iTunes, along with a bunch of posthumous releases.  You can check out the NPR story about him here.

The beauty of isolation

I found a very nice slide show essay about Edward Hopper this morning on Slate.  It's worth checking out.  Hopper has always been one of my favorite artists.  When I was working on my undergraduate degree in Art History, I found myself drowning in all kinds of aesthetic, artistic, and philosophical sensibilities.  There were plenty of artists and artistic movements that I had to study but that didn't move me in the slightest.  (I've mentioned before that I found Jackson Pollock irritating... he's just one example.)  As a result, the artists whose work I did love provided a welcome respite from the stuff that didn't rock my world.  Hopper was one such artist.

In 2002, my husband and I went to Chicago for a long weekend, and our itinerary included a visit to the Art Institute of Chicago.  I was eager to see one of the most famous pieces in their collection, Seurat's A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, but I had completely forgotten that what is arguably the most well-known Hopper painting was also a part of the permanent collection.  When I stumbled into the room where Nighthawks hung, I was struck dumb.  This painting never fails to take my breath away.  All kinds of stories fill my head when I look at it.

Despite my love of Nighthawks, my favorite Hopper painting is probably this one.  One of my first real jobs was working as an usher in a movie theatre, and although working in a theatre was probably a lot different when Hopper made this painting, I've always related to it because of my own experience.  I can remember popping into one theatre or another at the multiplex where I worked, ostensibly to tell people to take their feet off the seats, but more so I could just spend a few minutes alone with my thoughts.  I got good at disappearing when there was some particularly odious task to be done, such as scraping gum up off the carpets or schlepping candy down from upstairs in order to restock the snack bar display cases.  I doubt the usherette in Hopper's painting ever had to clean up chewing gum or replenish the toilet paper in the bathroom, but she definitely looks like she has a lot on her mind.

So cool

I just found out that Stephen Graham Jones, one of my favorite writers, has a blog.  Even better, my favorite of his short stories, Screentime, is posted there for your reading pleasure.

I attended a reading that he gave at Southeast Missouri State University back in 2001 or 2002 and it pretty much changed my life.  (So I guess there was some good to come out of the two years I spent living in the hellhole that is Cape Girardeau, Missouri.)

His incredible way with words both inspires and intimidates me.

Quote for the day

To know someone here or there with whom you can feel there is understanding, in spite of distances or thoughts unexpressed, can make of this world a garden.

--Goethe

Vroom, vroom!

On Saturday, the hubby and I went to the Motorama, "Greenville's premier classic car show and auction," as this article puts it.  It wasn't quite as big as Das Awkscht Fescht, which is the huge car show that happens up in the Lehigh Valley every summer (we went last year for our wedding anniversary and it was great.)  Still, the Motorama was pretty neat.  Among other things, we saw a Lotus Esprit and a bunch of tricked-out Datsun Z-cars (which my husband was particularly interested in, since he had a couple when he was younger.)  There was a nice MG, a convertible Oldsmobile 442, a ton of Mustangs, Galaxies, Thunderbirds, and Corvettes, and an old Studebaker, also.  The best part for me, though, was seeing this car:

This, ladies and gents, is a VERY nice 1960 Chevrolet El Camino.  You all know I'm really lusting after a 1959 El Camino, but I was overjoyed to see its younger sibling today.  (Seriously -- I thought i was going to cry.)  This car is the closest I've come (so far) to seeing a '59 in the flesh (or is that "in the chrome"?)  There isn't too much difference between the two, although the '60 is more geometric and less curvy than the '59, but they both pretty much followed the body styles of the respective Impalas of those model years.  There was a really sharp 1960 Impala at the show today, too, so I was able to point out the similarities to my husband.  I don't think he had any idea that I knew so much about Chevys in general and El Caminos in particular.

The best part?  The car you see above was for sale.... a steal at only $36,000.  No, I didn't buy it.  Extravagances such as food and shelter prevent me from owning such a spiffy ride at this time.  And anyway, I'm still holding out for a '59. 

P.S.: If I did own this particular car, though, it wouldn't have such dumb looking low-profile tires on it.  If it was my car, it would be sporting whitewalls.  Yeah, baby.

Changes afoot in Coney Island

The rumblings of change in Coney Island are getting louder.  According to this article in the New York Daily News, the new owner of the properties along West 12th Street is notifying tenants that their leases are up and that it's time to vacate.  Fortunately (so far) it looks like places like Ruby's and Cha Cha's will be staying put.

I am holding my breath to see what is going to happen.  The Coney Island Development Corporation has an exciting and potentially very positive strategic plan for revitalizing the area, and my only hope is that the revitalization will both honor the history of Coney Island and embrace a more positive future.  I fear a massive gentrification of the area, to be honest, but I am more hopeful than anything that a balance can be struck that honors the wishes, expectations, etc. of ALL of Coney Island's stakeholders.

I just can't imagine going to Coney Island for a long weekend at a fancy spa hotel type place, nor can I imagine it all glitzed out like Las Vegas or Atlantic City.  It was the Atlantic City of its day back around the turn of the century, yes, but that was before neon lights and all the crazy stuff you see in those kinds of towns today.  Coney Island in its heyday was still beautifully ephemeral.  Everything was made of spit and cardboard and a stray spark from bad electrical wiring or an unextinguished cigarette could turn the whole amusement area into a pile of ashes in minutes.  It has always been a place for entrepreneurs and prospectors, from Fred Thompson to George C. Tilyou all the way up to Dick Zigun and the Coney Island USA crew.  It will never be a place for chain stores and big box retailers... it's for the little guy, and it should stay that way.

Keep your fingers crossed.

Driving around for a good cause

Hubby and I took some time yesterday afternoon to accomplish the typically distasteful task of getting our cars registered in South Carolina and acquiring South Carolina driver's licenses.  We were expecting the worst, because in our former home state of Pennsylvania, vehicle registration is at best, an arduous process, and, at worst, a nightmare.  (Sometime I will write about the time we tried to get my car titled and licensed in Pennsylvania.  We had purchased it -- and paid the sales tax on it -- in Missouri, and even though we could present proof that we had already paid the sales tax, the beeyotch that was assisting us refused to accept said proof and was going to make us pay the sales tax twice.  I raised holy hell.  Well, there.  I guess I just told you about it.)

Anyway, the process in South Carolina was a little complicated -- there are lot of documents that you have to gather, and you have to pay property taxes on your vehicle up front -- but if you plan ahead and follow the directions, it goes very smoothly.  Especially nice is the "gatekeeper" at the DMV who checks all of your paperwork before you're allowed to take a number and wait your turn -- that way, the folks who didn't come prepared don't waste the time of the DMV workers and the customers who have their shit together.

The coolest part about the whole thing was the custom license plate we got (see above.)  Proceeds from the sale of these specialty "no more homeless pets" plates benefit a program that provides low-cost spay and neuter services for low-income pet owners, and I get to be an advocate for a great cause every time I get behind the wheel. 

Stuff to dig #2

Here's the latest installment in "stuff to dig about South Carolina" :

1.  The UPS guy delivering our futon/lounger for upstairs noticed the Seattle Seahawks NFC Champions t-shirt I was wearing yesterday and asked, "You from Seattle?"  I said that I was, and instead of looking down his nose at the Seahawks like all the Steelers and Eagles fans used to do, he nodded respectfully and commented that a lot of Clemson football players had gone on to play for Seattle.

2.  The Clemson Tigers are 1-1 so far this season, and they are playing Florida State this weekend.  I have relatives who are FSU grads and, by extension, diehard 'Noles fans, so I have to admit I'm feeling slightly guilty about rooting for the Tigers this weekend.  But it's a good feeling... naughty in a nice way.  Go Tigers!!!!!

3.  I met a nice group of people on a job interview earlier this week.  It was nice to have a job interview that didn't feel like the Spanish Inquisition.

4.  OK.  I have to admit it.  I dig Wal-Mart.  A new one opened up near us not too long ago and it's so nice to go there, spend $30, and come home with everything you need.  I am wracked with liberal guilt, but damn it, my income's been cut in half by my husband's return to school so I've got to pinch those pennies.

5.  I dig the fact that my kitty, Dora, makes funny noises when she sleeps.  Maybe that's not directly related to South Carolina, but I can tell that both she and Tisbe are more relaxed here than they were in Allentown, with all the barking dogs and traffic noise.  Down here, they can just chill... and if that means that Miss Dora can get her forty winks in a state of full relaxation and make weird noises while doing it, then that's just fine with me.

This is so going on my fridge

Saw this on feministing.com recently.  I love it.

Stuff to dig this week

New category!  Since most of my postings seem to fall under the category of "Random thoughts" or "Blathering," I thought I would make more of an effort to organize my blog in a more logical way.  Additonally, in an effort to find things to like about my new community here in Central, SC, I am going to post each Friday about stuff I have found around here that makes me happy.  Just four or five things a week, maybe it will grow to more.  (I hope so!)  Without further ado....  here is the stuff I am digging this week:

1.  The Tell Willie column in the Daily Messenger, our local newspaper.  People call or write in with questions, or to vent about whatever is bugging them, and Willie responds in print.  Sometimes Willie has answers, other times he chastizes, and other times he admits he doesn't know and asks others to weigh in.  It's always entertaining, usually enlightening, and generally provides a nice look at a cross-section of the local population.

2.  Bloom, this neato grocery store over in Seneca.  Reasonable prices, the latest technology (you can swipe your card in advance, scan everything with your own handheld scanner, bag stuff as you go, and when you're done, you're done), great selections of wine and beer, a generous natural food section, and an easy-to-navigate store with friendly staffers and electronic kiosks where you can type in what you're looking for and find out exactly what aisle it's on.  Killer.

3.  The fact that you can actually buy beer and wine in the grocery store in South Carolina.  One thing that always bugged me about Pennsylvania was that you couldn't buy alcohol of any kind at a grocery store.  Not only that, beer was sold in a separate store from wine and liquor.  Imagine this:  you're having a party and you need to pick up beverages.  You go to the grocery store for your ice, soda and mixers, the beverage store for your beer (although some bigger beverage stores did carry soda and mixers, but I'm on a tear here....), and the liquor store (or "state store") for your wine and hard stuff.  That's three trips.  Dumb, dumb, dumb if you ask me.

4.  Sonny's Real Pit Bar-B-Q.  I'm kind of cheating here because I've been eating Sonny's for years.  (My mom's family is from Florida and Sonny's is a staple down there.)  But there is a Sonny's in Anderson, SC, not too far from us, and I took my husband there the other night to experience the singular joy of the Sonny's Bar-B-Q sandwich.  (They were out of deep fried okra, much to my disappointment, but that just gives me a reason to go back, right?)

5.  The fact that the average low temperature in January in this region is only 32.  So much nicer than Allentown, where the average January low is 19 (and the average high is 35!!!!)  I'm not kidding myself -- I know it'll snow here from time to time, but hopefully it won't snow so much that I'll be shoveling my car out on a regular basis.

Quote for the day

It is never too late to be what you might have been. -- George Eliot

A quote from my main man

Here's a quote from one of my favorite writers, F. Scott Fitzgerald, that I rediscovered this morning:

"Vitality shows not only in the ability to persist, but in the ability to start over."

Fag hag nirvana

I finally got this roll of film developed -- at left is the photo of me with Carson Kressley from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.  He came to the Borders in Whitehall to sign his new kids' book, You're Different and That's Super, back in December and I went to the book signing to meet him.  He was just delightful.  He loved my shoes.  And he posed for a photo with me.... granted, the lighting was bad, I look a little shiny and bloated from all the holiday treats that were in my life at the time, and you can't really tell how good my makeup was that day, but I still think it's a cute picture.

Thank you, Frank

Falluja Floods the Superdome - New York Times

Above is a link to another great piece by Frank Rich regarding the federal government's abysmal response in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.  The right wingers can try to spin it all they want, but the bottom line is that the system FAILED.  No amount of bullshit will ever fully conceal that fact.

And if Bush's approval ratings are any indication, people are (to quote the film Network) mad as hell and not going to take it anymore.

It's about damn time.

Do you know this little girl?

I bought this photograph on eBay recently and it came in today's mail.  I was doing my semi-monthly e-browsing, looking for Coney Island memorabilia, and I found this photo stuck in between listings for postcards and some china from the now-defunct Half Moon Hotel.

It is a mother and daughter sitting together on a bench on the Coney Island boardwalk, circa sometime in the 1950s.  The back of the photo reads, cryptically, "Six weeks after Steven was born.  Beach in Coney Island."  I would love to know who the people in the photo are.  The seller, a dealer of vintage photos in Los Angeles, didn't know any more than what was written on the back.

I was drawn to the photo almost instantly, which is odd for me.  I love Coney Island and I love collecting Coney Island ephemera, memorabilia, etc., but a photo of two people I don't know isn't something I would normally choose to purchase.  Mosts of my Coney stuff is a little more self-explanatory: a bunch of tickets from various attractions and various eras, some artwork, a map of the area from 1906, glitter postcards dating from 1904, a souvenir teacup and saucer from Luna Park, a Steeplechase wooden nickel.... all manner of things, but all with an obvious link to the place.  On the other hand, you wouldn't even know this photo was from Coney unless you looked at the back or had an obsessive understanding of the geography of the boardwalk.

The composition of the photo is really beautiful.  The subjects are centered perfectly, and the angle of the buildings behind them complements the image.  Mother and child look content with one another and happy to be where they are, and it's almost possible to feel the warmth of the sun just by noticing the position of the shadows and their slightly squinty smiles.

When I showed the photo to my husband, he remarked that the little girl looked like I did when I was little.  My hair was never that dark when I was a kid, but her nose, chin, and smile do bear an uncanny resemblance to some photos of me from my childhood.  Even the way she is leaning against her mother reminds me of the way I used to flop against my mom when I was young.

I'll probably have the photo matted and framed and display it in our guest room with all of the other Coney stuff.  That room is known as the "Coney Island Room" and the walls and ceiling are painted blue like the ocean, with tan drapes like the sand.  There are twin brass seahorse wall sconces above the bed, and my collection of Coney Island objects is displayed here and there, like a strange little museum of memories I only experience in dreams.

Our houseguests will ask us who the woman and child in the picture are, and we'll say we don't know.  Mother and daughter will gaze cheerfully out from the photo and brighten the room with their sunny smiles, and every so often I will catch myself wondering if either of them ever thought that some day this snapshot of them would end up in a stranger's house, to be admired and enjoyed as if they were family.

Sound advice

It's Thursday morning and time for one of my favorite weekly reads: the "Dear Prudence" advice column on Slate.com.  I love reading Prudence's thoughtful and thought-provoking advice, plus the questions she fields are much more varied and interesting than the stuff in "Dear Abby."  I do read "Dear Abby" each morning in my local paper, but if I myself had need of an advice columnist, I would probably address my letter to Prudie.

I'm also an etiquette junkie, so you'll often find me reading Miss Manners, as well.  (I imagine Miss Manners would probably scold me, though, for the fact that I frequently get a chuckle out of reading about other people's tacky behavior.  I'm certainly in no position to pass judgement!)

There is something very soothing about advice columns.  In my experience, reading them does one or more of the following three things:

1.) Reading an advice column makes you realize that perhaps your life isn't as bad as you thought it was.  Somewhere, there is always someone who is worse off than you are.

2.) You end up reading a query from someone that is similar (or identical) to a problem you have been noodling over in your own life, and the columnist's answer gives you the help that you need.

3.) The advice that is dispensed, whether it applies directly to you or not (as in item 2), helps you in some way to re-calibrate your moral/ethical compass, and gives you the resolve you need to continue striving to be a better person.  In addition, you discover beliefs and values that you never knew you had.  Clarity is always good.

Have a great Thursday!