Monday, October 23, 2017

CHRISTOPHER WHEELDON'S "LITURGY" AT THE COLBURN


MARIA KOWROSKI AND JARED ANGLE,
PRINCIPAL DANCERS FOR THE NEW YORK CITY BALLET,
IN CHRISTOPHER WHEELDON'S "LITURGY" 


This week's arts and culture column is on a truly stellar pas de deux my friend Bill and I were lucky enough to take in last Sunday afternoon.

The piece begins like this:

The Colburn is one of L.A.’s greatest treasures. A performing arts school located kitty-corner to Disney Hall, the Colburn draws the crème de la crème of aspiring pianists, violinists, oboeists and all other manner of up-and-coming musicians and dancers.

Many of us can’t afford tickets to see the opera, ballet or Master Chorale. No matter your budget or work schedule, the Colburn offers a cornucopia of delights.

There’s the Colburn Orchestra Concert Series, small ensemble performances from the Colburn Chamber Music Society and the Gibson Dunn Rush Hour, where conservatory students perform favorite chamber works on Thursday nights at 6 p.m. Afterward, you can mingle with students and artists over complimentary wine and hors d’oeuvres. There are student and faculty recitals, also often free.

I’ve always believed in putting myself in close physical proximity to a place that emanates the spirit of civilization. When I worked as a lawyer in the early 1990s, I’d often sneak away after arguing a motion at the Superior Courthouse, grab a Starbucks and sit by the narrow reflecting pool behind the Museum of Contemporary Art trying to work up the courage to quit my job.


READ THE WHOLE PIECE HERE.

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

LACO@THE MOVIES: BUSTER KEATON'S "THE GENERAL"

LOBBY OF DOWNTOWN LA'S ACE HOTEL
I MIGHT JUST HANG OUT IN THE BATHROOM ALL NIGHT

This week's arts and culture column begins like this:

This year marks the 50th anniversary of the founding of the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra (LACO) and LACO is pulling out all the stops.

There’s a Campus to Concert Hall all-access season pass, offering students 30 concerts for just $30. There’s the $1.5 million gift from philanthropists Carol and Warner Henry for the principal oboe chair. There are guest artists and conductors, world premieres and an innovative chamber music and discussion series that spans much of the city.

And on Nov. 11 at 7 p.m., there will be a special fundraising event: LACO @ the Movies: Buster Keaton’s “The General.” The venue will be downtown LA's Ace Hotel.

Scott Harrison, LACO’s executive director, said, “ ‘The General’ is such a wonderful event for us because it really brings together a few different strands of what LACO is. Hollywood has been very much a part of LACO’s identity from the start. We were founded by a gentleman named James Arkatov who’s turning 98 this year, I believe. The original musicians performed movie and television soundtracks for the studios. They were phenomenal, as you can imagine, because the chops and the skills required to do that sort of work are exceptionally high. But they were also looking for more of a creative and artistic outlet. They wanted a way to perform the music they loved and connect directly with audiences.



READ THE WHOLE PIECE HERE. 

Monday, October 16, 2017

CAN SOMEONE LEND ME A RHUBARB LEAF?


A PETER RABBIT FAMILY REUNION

Referring to herself in the third person, Beatrix described herself in 1925 as living 'amongst the mountains and lakes that she has drawn in her picture books...She leads a very busy contented life, living always in the country and managing a large sheep farm on her own land. Her shepherd Tom Storey described her as 'quite smart for her age...a bonny looking woman,' robust at the start of her seventh decade. Ten years later, with 'apple-red' cheeks and blue eyes undimmed, she appeared 'short, plump, solid,' to artist Delmar Banner, who painted Beatrix's best-known portrait--a tweedy Mrs Tiggy-winkle figure at a sheep judging on the Coniston fells. Other observers noted marked eccentricities in her dress: 'the sacking she put over her shoulders in the rain,' 'the use of a rhubarb leaf on her had against the sun in the hayfield.' Much to her amusement, a tramp on the Windermere ferry mistook Beatrix for a fellow vagrant. She dressed as she thought practical for a life spent in the fields, walking and watching. Banner described 'a kind of tea cosy' on her head and 'lots of wool clothes."

--Matthew Dennison, Over the Hills and Far Away: A Life of Beatrix Potter

BEATRIX POTTER AS A TEENAGER WITH HER PET MOUSE XARIFA,
1885

Monday, October 9, 2017

THE INDUSTRY HILLS CHARITY PRO RODEO

WOMAN GRAZING HER COW, 1858
JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET

This week's arts and culture piece begins like this:

The Industry Hills Pro Rodeo has helped children in need in East San Gabriel Valley for more than 31 years.
Sanctioned by the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association (PRCA), the event has taken place annually, in September or October, since 1986. Ticket prices this year were a reasonable $18 for adults, $12 for seniors (ages 60+) and $8 for children (3-11).
Saturday and Sunday afternoons, the Pro Rodeo is open to the public. A Community Kids Day takes place the Friday before. Here, local schoolchildren watch the rodeo with their classmates and teachers as part of class curriculum covering the history of the early West.
It was on this day that I was invited to visit by Pro Rodeo chairman extraordinaire Larry Hartmann.
I arrived at the Industry Hills Expo Center Arena at 9 a.m.
In spite of his myriad duties, Larry, along with his wife Corinne, greeted me warmly. He also managed to finagle a seat for me on the horse-drawn stagecoach, generally reserved for dignitaries such as city council people who officially open the rodeo by making a grand entrance and slowly circling the arena. I hung out the window giving the Queen Mum wave to the youngsters who, with heartwarming enthusiasm, wildly clapped and cheered.
READ THE WHOLE PIECE HERE.

Thursday, October 5, 2017

TERRY CANNON'S BASEBALL RELIQUARY

EDDIE GAEDEL HOLY CARD.
EDDIE (1925-1961) WAS AN AMERICAN WITH DWARFISM WHO MADE A SINGLE PLATE APPEARANCE IN THE SECOND GAME OF A ST. LOUIS BROWNS DOUBLEHEADER ON AUG. 19, 1951, WAS WALKED AND THEREBY BECAME THE SHORTEST PLAYER IN THE HISTORY OF THE MAJOR LEAGUES. HE HAS BEEN DESIGNATED BY THE RELIQUARY AS THE “PATRON OF THOSE WHO PLAY BASEBALL IN THE FACE OF ADVERSITY.”

This week's arts and culture column entailed a field trip that turned out to be one of those serendipitous days of goodwill and joy that keep us humans getting out of bed one more day.

The reflection starts like this:

As a New Hampshire native, my knowledge of baseball is strictly confined to the Boston Red Sox, and began and ended around the Carl Yastrzemski era.

But I understand and am fascinated by the near-obsessive love that so many feel for our national sport.

Enter L.A.’s own Baseball Reliquary, “a nonprofit, educational organization dedicated to fostering an appreciation of American art and culture through the context of baseball history, and to exploring the national pastime’s unparalleled creative possibilities.”

The collection includes such sacred objects as “Dock Ellis Hair Curlers,” “Mother Teresa Autographed Baseballs” and the “Babe Ruth Sacristy Box,” out of which a priest performed the last rites.

Each third Sunday in July, the Reliquary hosts the Shrine of the Eternals, a kind of people’s Hall of Fame, and inducts three new members, chosen not so much for stellar stats as for heart crossed with eccentricity.

But this is no tongue-in-cheek lark...


READ THE WHOLE PIECE HERE. 

THE BABE RUTH HOT DOG
photo credit: THE BASEBALL RELIQUARY

According to the Baseball Reliquary website, the story behind the ot Dog runs like this:

Babe Ruth’s extraordinary journey from a Catholic reform school in Baltimore to the storied confines of Yankee Stadium in the Bronx made him the idol of a nation. The ballplayer of ballplayers, Babe was also a man who indulged in earthly pleasures, as sportswriter H.G. Salsinger noted, “He could eat more, drink more, smoke more, swear more, and enjoy himself more than any contemporary.” A legendary gourmand, Babe was fond of drinking a quart mixture of bourbon whiskey and ginger ale at breakfast, before attacking a porterhouse steak garnished with half-a-dozen fried eggs and potatoes on the side.

Perhaps no artifact of Ruthiana attests more to his culinary excesses than this desiccated hot dog, partially consumed by the Bambino during an eating binge just prior to his collapse on a train ride in April 1925. Babe reportedly gorged himself on a dozen to eighteen hot dogs before blacking out, and a week later he was at St. Vincent’s Hospital in New York, undergoing surgery for an intestinal abscess. New York writers termed his illness “The Bellyache Heard Round the World,” but in recent years historians have speculated that Babe actually suffered from gonorrhea and not acute indigestion.


SINGER OF THE NATIONAL ANTHEM AT OVER 125 PROFESSIONAL
BASEBALL GAMES; AUTHOR OF ,AMONG OTHER BOOKS,  ROUNDING THE BASES;  AND WHITTIER COLLEGE PROFESSOR OF RELIGIOUS STUDIES JOSEPH L. PRICE.
NOTE THE QUILT, WHICH WAS COMMISSIONED BY THE RELIQUARY
AND FEATURES FEMALE SAINTS (I THINK IMAGINARY) PLAYING VARIOUS BASEBALL POSITIONS.

DODGERS SUPER-FAN EMMA AMAYA.



THE MASTERMIND BEHIND IT ALL:
THE ONE AND ONLY MR. TERRY CANNON.
Terry’s description of the Reliquary:

"It is a traveling museum for which no category yet exists. it was started in 1996 as an attempt to provide an outlet and an organizational structure for my combined interests in baseball history and art. it is the only baseball institution that asks you to surrender the idea that history and fiction can be neatly separated."

No surprise: Terry served for years on the board of the Museum of Jurassic Technology.

Here's a Q and A with him from a few years back, and a wonderful piece by Carl Kozlowski that appeared in last summer's Pasadena Weekly

Monday, October 2, 2017

SOLD FOR A FARTHING: THE STORY OF A SPARROW


Here is a book, recommended by a reader and avid birder from New Zealand: Sold for a Farthing, by Clare Kipps (1953).

From a review by Alan Cleaver in Vulpes Libris:

[The book] is only 72 pages long. It was written by a non-professional writer. And it tells the story of a sparrow.

Clare Kipps was an Air Raid Warden in London. In July 1940 she returned home to find on her doorstep a day-old sparrow which, miraculously, responded to her nursing. It had, however, a deformed wing which meant it stayed the rest of its life in Clare’s home. The sparrow – Clarence – became tame. So tame, in fact, that Clare was able to take it on her rounds in London’s East End. Children (and adults) sitting huddled together in fear of Hitler’s bombing campaigns immediately burst into smiles when they realised their Air Raid Warden brought with her a pet sparrow – a sparrow happy to perform a programme of ‘tricks’.

The book is out-of-print and hard to find--I secured it from interlibrary loan--and discovered a glorious hidden treasure.

"Feeling that if a new-born infant is left outside one's doorstep something should be done about it, I picked it up, wrapped it in warm flannel and, sitting over the kitchen fire, endeavored for several hours to revive it. After I had succeeded in opening its soft beak--an operation that required a delicate touch and immense patience to avoid injury--I propped it open with a spent match and dripped one drop of warm milk every minute down its little throat."

The bird has a deformed leg and one wing is set at an odd angle. She proceeds to nurse him back to health and the two live in a kind of strange conjugal bliss for 12 years.

The neighborhood children name the sparrow Clarence: Clare calls him only "Boy."

WWII is on and Clare leaves often for her job supporting Britain's war efforts.

"When left alone in the house he seemed quite content. I often watched through the window to satisfy my mind that he was not fretting in my absence, but apparently, as soon as he realised that I had gone, he settled down and amused himself with his food and toys. I had provided him with a great variety of playthings, but the only ones that ever appealed to him were hairpins, patience cards and matches which he would carry about in his cage by the hour."

The house gets bombed at one point--the two soldier on.

The sparrow sits by the hour as Clare practices the piano. He reaches his peak around age 5 or 6 and, astoundingly, begins to sing.

"The song itself was in two sections--quite distinct from each other and sometimes sung separately. Indded, people who listened to it from an adjoining room often remarked that more than one bird was singing. The first part, or introduction, was an expression of pleasure, good humour, and simple joie de vivre, but the second--the real song--was an outpouring of rapture. Both parts were usually in the key of F Major, although, unless my ear was at fault, the second part (when sung alone) varied in pitch by as much as a minor third, according to the intensity."

"I would give much to possess a photograph of him at that time with his fan-wing fluttering in sympathy with the throbbing of his little throat, but the opportunity was unfortunately lost forever."

"Yet my sparrow, like all our songsters, loved his quiet hours, and especially his noonday rest. It was no small part of our perfect companionship that we could enjoy long hours of peaceful contemplation together. I am not a lover of noise, nor yet of too much melody. I like a background of silence on which to hang my thoughts. Then if they are unworthy I can replace them by others that are greater than my own. Music can thrill, console, inspire and deepen the very roots of life, but it is in the silence that man's spirit grows."

"Married women, or perhaps it would be safer to say women of marriageable age, visited him continually in the Spring and Summer and declared their love [through the window] openly and without shame."

A little blue-tit is the most "moonstruck" of his many admirers. The sparrow will have none of it. "Manlike, for men hate a scene and have a very wise aversion to hysterical women, he ignored her utterly."

"But he made love to me from March to October, strutting up and down on my hand and arm spreading his wings and tail, looking up at me, with crest erect, bowing continually and going through all the familiar antics of courtship: and if I went near my bed, even to lay something down, when he was in his cage, he would dash round and round, pecking at the door in his anxiety to join me there and start housekeeping without further delay.

I fancy the afternoon siesta under the eiderdown began to acquire a new significance at this time, and changed in his little mind from the nest of his babyhood to the nest that he had made for himself. Not infrequently he would take a matchstick, or preferably a hairpin, into the retreat, approaching cautiously as in in fear of being seen or followed; and though these treasures, probably intended for foundations-stones, were always lost or discarded before he had finally settled in to his nesting-site, he would wriggle his small body into the place of his choice, pecking, pinching and pulling at the bedclothes and fussing with his beak until he had made it more rounded and comfortable. I had to close my eyes as he ran over my face en route with his hairpin, and was usually pecked, if he happened to drop it, as if he thought the fault were mine."

After a while, the sparrow matures. "In fact, he had grown up. He had become a man and, except in rare moment of intimacy, he must show me that he was master and that I must do as I was told. Above all, I must give up moving furniture and other landmarks from their accustomed places. He resented any change in his surroundings, and when the gardener cut down a tree outside his window he became almost demented!"

Anyway, it goes on like that in the most delightful and strange way. The sparrow cycles through life, ages, and on August 23, 1952, dies in Clare's "warm hand." "His remains--and what a tiny morsel of tattered feathers was all that was left of him--repose in a small Hoptonwod tomb sacred to the memory of Clarence, the Famous and Beloved Sparrow." She has "faith enough to believe that I shall see him again."

But before he dies: "There was a remarkable coincidence that I would like to mention in connection with the picture called "The Daily Reading" where he is shown gazing quietly, as if in thought, at the page of a small devotional classic known as "Daily Light." The book, chosen solely on account of its size, had been taken from a pile of others and opened at random on the spur of the moment. After the photograph had been developed I found that the words to which his little beak was pointing were these: "Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing, yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Father?"--a statement that embodies, perhaps, the most astounding revelation of the value to the Creator of the individual personality of the creature in the pages of Holy Writ. This, then, was the portrait of a sparrow, ignorant and insignificant, yet unconsciously a greater teacher than Karl Marx. This, it seemed, was to be his little sermon, his farewell message to doubting and perplexed humanity; and as such I pass it on. Fear not, therefore! Ye are of more value than many sparrows."




Next on my reading list: Len Howard's Birds as Individuals

Thursday, September 28, 2017

E. CHARLTON FORTUNE AT THE PASADENA MUSEUM OF CALIFORNIA ART

E. CHARLTON FORTUNE
CHRIST MEETS HIS MOTHER
FROM THE SEVEN SORROWS OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY
FOR THE PROVIDENCE HOSPITAL CHAPEL
, OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA, 1953.
OIL ON PANEL, 32 X 34 INCHES.
COLLECTION OF PAULA AND TERRY TROTTER


Last week's arts and culture column is about one of California's foremost (and perhaps least known) female painters.

It starts like this:

“E. Charlton Fortune: The Colorful Spirit” is on view at the Pasadena Museum of California Art (PMCA) through Jan. 7, 2018.

The exhibit (comprised of approximately 80 works) was curated by Scott A. Shields, Ph.D., California art scholar and associate director of Sacramento’s Crocker Art Museum.

Notes Shields, “In the early to mid-20th century, E. Charlton Fortune was one of the most important California artists, male or female. The fact that she was a woman working at a transitional moment and in an atmosphere that still discouraged female professionals makes her achievements all the more extraordinary. No one disputes her standing as one of California’s most prestigious artists.”

Fortune (1885-1969) was born in Sausalito and named Euphemia; her friends would know her as Effie. Like her father, she had a cleft palate: a condition for which reconstructive surgery was not yet available.

She experienced many other traumas. Her father died when she was not yet 10. The 1906 San Francisco earthquake destroyed the Fortune family home, almost all of her paintings and the Mark Hopkins Institute of Art, where she had studied.


READ THE WHOLE PIECE HERE.

Monday, September 25, 2017

ABBOT MATTHEW





A couple of years ago, I was graced to meet Abbot Matthew Stark of coastal Rhode Island's Portsmouth Abbey.

Last spring, the good abbot sent me the best "spiritual reflection" I've read in possibly years. It's an essay called "My Schnorrer is Calling Again." "Schnorrer" is a Yiddish term meaning "a beggar or scrounger; a layabout." And the piece is about that special person in your life who is absolutely, beyond-redemption, flat-out impossible. Who blows apart your very best efforts to be good, kind, helpful, patient, effective. Who is manipulative, double-crossing, passive-aggressive, unfair and inconsistent. .

And who, damn our hearts, we love. And who, in some bizarre way, loves us.

Rev. Steve Schlossberg, rector of St John's Episcopal Church in Troy, New York, is the author. His "schnorrer" is Ruby, who exemplifies Christ's "The poor you will always have with you" and is constantly hitting up the Reverend for, among other things, money. He sums up like this:

"This is who Ruby is to me. She is insufferable and she is proud, she is stubborn as a mule, subtle as a serpent, and she is absolutely impervious to suggestion. When I am being honest with myself, I can see that Ruby's approach to me mirrors my approach to God. When I am being honest with Ruby, I try to get her to see that only does my money do her no good, it perpetuates what does her ill. How many more times must I explain this to her, to no effect? How many more times will I wilt and give her money, to no effect? I do not know. I do not see any way out of this. I am afraid that what Jesus said is true: I am afraid that Ruby will be with me always. And though I am reasonably sure that I will never do her any good, I am persuaded that in some mysterious way she is doing me some good.

A lowly handmaid of the Lord, Ruby is my schnorrer. I remain the Lord's."

The piece so hit home, plus I have another dear friend in the area, that I made a special point of inviting myself to the Abbey on my visit back East in August.

We greeted one another joyfully. Then I coaxed, "Did you have a good summer?"

"No!" the Abbot chuckled.

I cracked up and commiserated, "Are they ever good?"

Then I told him my favorite Thomas Merton quote: "The man of solitude is happy, but he never has a good time."

"Oh that's rich," he said. "I have to write that one down."

We had a lovely lunch with the monks. Then the Abbot , who's been at Portsmouth over 60 years and has had some health problems as of late, showed me the garden and the library. We sat down for a minute in his office.

"So what is it, the getting old? It's a thing, right?"

"Oh yes. It's uncharted territory."

"So what?...How?"

He looked at me.

"Prayer."

I looked at him.

"Yeah.  I thought so."

"Hang on a minute," he said, laboriously made his way to the door, disappeared for a few minutes, and returned with a photocopied sheet. On it was written:

THE LIVING SPIRIT

Prayer, in the sense of union with God, is the most crucifying thing there is. One must do it for God's sake; but one will not get any satisfaction out of it, in the sense of feeling "I am good at prayer," I have an infallible method." That would be disastrous, for what we want to learn is precisely our own weakness, powerlessness, unworthiness. Nor ought one to to expect a "sense of the supernatural"...And one should wish for no prayer, except precisely the prayer that God gives us--probably very distracted and unsatisfactory in every way!

On the other hand, the only way to pray is to pray; and the way to pray well is to pray much. If one has no time for this, then one must pray regularly. But the less one prays, the worse it goes. And if circumstances do not permit even regularity, then one must put up with the fact that when one does try to pray, one can't pray--and our prayer will probably consist of telling this to God...The rule is simply: pray as you can, and do not try to pray as you can't. 

--Abbot John Chapman (1865-1933)



THESE ARE DOGWOOD SHOTS I TOOK
ON THE GROUNDS OF THE ABBEY IN JUNE, 2016.
LEGEND HAS IT THAT THE CROSS WAS MADE OF DOGWOOD LUMBER
(THE TREE WOULD HAVE HAD TO HAVE BEEN MUCH HARDIER BACK THEN).
ONE VERSION OF THE LEGEND CONTINUES: "THE BLOSSOMS ARE IN THE FORM OF A CROSS--TWO SHORT AND TWO LONG...AND IN THE CENTER OF THE OUTER EDGE OF EACH PETAL THERE WILL BE NAIL PRINTS, BROWN WITH RUST AND STAINED WITH RED, AND  IN THE CENTER OF THE FLOWER WILL BE A CROWN OF THORNS."

P.S. Yesterday's mail brought these pix from my visit--I'm not sure who took them but thank you!



WAIT JUST A MINUTE! ARE YOU TELLING ME WE'RE SUPPOSED
TO TRY TO BE KIND  TO PEOPLE?! 

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

SMALL EVERYDAY ACTIONS



To be Christian does not mean, first of all, "to be someone good," which was the noble but dangerous illusion of the Stoics and the Jansenists. For Thérèse [of Lisieux], because of her inability, it is a question of learning to rely on someone else. Learning to change her point of support, because then one offers to God the one thing he cannot achieve without us, the offering of our freedom. It is not, in the first place, fantasies or even pious ideas that count, but gestures or small everyday actions.

--Fr. Bernard Bro, Saint Thérèse of Lisieux: Her Family, Her God, Her Message


STILL GETTING USED TO NEW CAMERA.
I KIND OF LIKE THE "MISTAKES," LIKE THIS ONE. 





Saturday, September 16, 2017

THE RED SHOES



Here's how this week's arts and culture piece begins:

As a child, Hans Christian Andersen (1805-1875) was poor and forced to work for a living as a tailor’s apprentice. He suffered a lifelong unrequited love for opera singer Jenny Lind. His “fairy tales” are full of orphaned and abandoned children, inanimate objects that suffer human emotions, and allegorical figures — the Ugly Duckling, the Little Mermaid — who speak to humanity’s profound existential loneliness.

“The Red Shoes” is one of Andersen’s more extreme stories. Karen, a girl whose mother has recently died, is taken under the care of a rich old woman with bad eyesight. Karen covets a pair of red patent leather shoes, finagles the old lady into buying them and, without her benefactor’s knowledge, wears them to her confirmation, then to her First Communion.

“When Karen knelt at the altar rails the chalice was put to her lips, she thought only of the red shoes. She seemed to see them floating before her eyes. She forgot to join in the hymn of praise and she forgot to say the Lord’s Prayer.”

Well! Nothing good can come of that.


READ THE WHOLE PIECE HERE.

CELEBRATED ENGLISH CHOREOGRAPHER
MATTHEW BOURNE'S BALLET OPENS THIS WEEK AT THE AHMONSON
IN DOWNTOWN LA.
I WILL BE THERE WITH MY PALS JULIA AND AARON!