Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Dana Gioia on Writing a Poem


Be present.  “Be present” is my January 2014 mantra.  Providentially, Dana Gioia, public intellectual reinforced poetry’s role in being present, the quality of poetry with which I fell in love.

"...a poem calls you to be present," remarked poet, critic, professor and formere NEA Chair, Dana Gioia, to Professor Lucy Wilson's poetry class at Loyola Marymount University, Tuesday, January 28th.   Gioia, immediately following his keynote address to faculty for LMU’s Mission Day, brought poetry to life for LMU’s poetry students.  The performative recitation of poetry is an art, and one that Dana Gioia has mastered.  If you want someone to love your poetry, give them a quality story, insight and performance, invite them into your poem with the chant, song and dance, the origins of poetry’s musicality.

Poetry’s invitation at the collegiate level first came to me through Professor James Brasfield, poet, translator and professor currently at Pennsylvania State University, State College.  Brasfield enacts a similar call to students of poetry, and I'm proud to be included on that roster.  James Brasfield reads poems with conviction, alerting his listener to the revelations unfolding.  I comprehended the sacredness in the music of the poem when, mid-reading, Professor Brasfield paused.  An extended caw outside our classroom window increased.  Only after the bird took flight, leaving silence in its wake, did Brasfield continue.

The transcendence of true beauty, as Gioia described in his keynote address, arrests us.  True beauty, that which transcends, derives from Truth.  And it is a transcendent experience to take audience when Dana Gioia recites poetry by heart.  In this performative act, he invokes poetry’s primal place in human history.  Rhymes helped our ancestors, and helps us, too, remember epic tales, famous stories and, in our case, nursery rhymes.  Our recording keeping originates in the oral tradition long before the written word.  Gioia calls all artists to give the gift of beauty through art—that is to enact, in his case, the full realization of the art’s potential.  While privy to poetry recitations by Dana Gioia, don’t take notes.  Watch Professor Gioia as he invites you into the music, imagery and metaphors of a poem—a universe held in the palm of our hands, resonating from our ears through to our hearts, our whole selves, our souls.

A student pointed to John Donne's "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning" as her favorite poem.  His seamless response: 

"But we by a love so much refined,
   That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
   Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
   Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
   Like gold to airy thinness beat."


Gioia’s audience feels his passion for poetry.  A passion fortified by intellect and steadfast, ceaseless study, brow sweat and craftsmanship.  Gioia presents a poem with his whole self.  He is a poet who enacts his call to artists to strive toward true beauty.  When performing poetry recitations, Gioia provides that moment of arrest akin to beholding the Sistine Chapel for the very first time.

For him, Gioia confided to the LMU students, writing a poem is like creating a room.  Drawing upon the music of poetry, the poet invites the reader into the room.  Once there, the reader finds the room half furnished.  A skilled poet helps the reader to hone in on the universe at hand (my metaphor not Gioia's) and the reader fills in the details.  That is the reader participates in the poem furnishing the other half of the room using clues the poet has labored to sharpen.  Professor Gioia discussed details that he took out of poems to help the reader focus.  In the case of his beloved poem, “Planting a Sequoia,” Gioia chose to eliminate detail that the action of planting the sequoia happened on Christmas Eve.  Gioia compared poetry's musical origins (song, choral dance, and chanting) to today's pop songs, Dancing with the Stars, and hip-hop, respectively.  We enjoyed the music in his ballad, “Summer Storms”.  “…To my surprise, you took my arm—/ A gesture you didn’t explain—”.  Though largely ignored by contemporary American poets, the ballad form, Gioia pointed out, is widely enjoyed in pop, folk, and country music.  Upon reading his poem, a double-triolet, “The Country Wife,” Gioia imparted that forms relying on repetition such as the villanelle and triolet lend themselves well to emotions that obsess over or that we can't seem to get away from with ease.   The country wife “makes her way through the dark trees/ down to the lake to be alone./ The night reflected on the lake,/ The fire of stars changed into water.”  

If you have a passion for poetry, Gioia's essay, "Can Poetry Matter?", is a must read.  During the private readings and conversations in Professor Wilson’s course, Dana Gioia brought me into the present moment through poetry, at once reminding me of the moments I first fell in love with poetry in Professor James Brasfield’s intro to poetry.  A poem calls us to the sacramental present.


Tuesday, August 28, 2012

"Munch" by Yonathan Berg

After falafel at Jaffa Gate, Yonathan and I had more time to refine our English translation of his poem, "Munch," as follows.

Munch

Roses of ice in the ash
dark water growing in the evening
there is a field of moon trees
one human animal is trapped.
The crystal of the spirit abandons the child
from all he witnessed.
The shadow of the hill
corroded by violent night storms,
a grieving mother, Earth,
in the empty room arises
the face of the screamer.
From a wooden gate, the flowers are vanishing
into the dark water
the heart of everything is dead
Europe!
A curse is a scarf upon the possibilities of cerulean
These are exhales from broken teeth.
These are pure elegies in a demolished land.

By Yonathan Berg
Translated w/ Jennifer Styperk
2012

Monday, August 20, 2012

Yonathan Berg, poet


       As a part of our H=ART artist residency program in Israel and the Palestinian Territories, we met with Israeli and Palestinian arts.  Yonathan Berg, Israeli poet, living in Tel Aviv, met with us in East Jerusalem at the Gloria Hotel on Monday, July 30th, 2012.  Yonathan shared his poetry with us, and in order to do so, shared his experiences growing up in an ideological settlement, serving in the Israeli army, traveling post-military service, and his current life as a poet and columnist.  Most of all, he re-reinvigorated for me the ways in which the poet can and must deal with even the most intense topics.

Berg says, "As a poet, my toolbox is enough to deal with and approach everything.  I can face 5,000 years of philosophy, art, culture, religion, humanity, history."  Furthermore, Berg implores poets to have the courage to deal with intense topics.  This is the very advice I take to heart as I blog stories from my artist residency trip.  


Schooled in a strict, orthodox institution, Berg prays, sings and attends synagogue, though he cites poetry as the most exciting and correct replacement to the orthodox practice he left behind in his childhood.  He implores all of modern man to be sure they sing, literally sing, and often.


When thinking of his childhood, he remembers green grass, playing outside and joy.  Looking back on enlistment into the army at 18, he notes that service men and suicide bombers are the same, each in that gap between youth and having a family of one's own.  He goes on to say each are equally confused and influenced by a strand of fundamentalism.  This understanding he exercises in his own poetry, for example, he features an Israeli boy playing on a settlement noticing a Palestinian boy in the distance.  "...the look of my neighbor from Ramallah..." is the same look of other children playing.  "Earth becoming mud" from the storms of turmoil brings the reader to "how the present works." "...Step into rage as a living room....houses are set up as a punch."  From small boys playing to homes being demolished, Berg shows in his own poetry the ways in which this art form uniquely holds contradictions and juxtapositions, and reveals forgotten similarities in just one short line.

"I lost dear friends," Berg says of his time in the IDF.  "My best friend died in Hebron."  Twelve from his unit died that day and, Yonathan, a senior soldier, had to go to the morgue to identify his best friend and other mates from his unit.  Of his best friend, Yonathan feels that "I [Yonathan] am a living memory."  I saw his face while I traveled after my service, whether in India, Malaysia, or at beaches in Columbia.  Berg struggled with the fact that "I'm [Berg] here and he is not."  As his friend's living memory, he believes his poetry serves as a living memory, a candle, remembering and honoring.

He advises current Israelis to discuss openly the effects of PTSD suffered by all the servicemen and how this widespread condition affects Israeli culture.  When asked about the current politics of Israel and the Palestinian Territories, Berg says, "We need to give Palestine a state.  Take out the settlements.  Solve this through conversation."

My lecture followed Yonathan's and I was pleased stayed.  After lunch, he and I translated two of his poems into English and two of my poems into Hebrew, marking a very meaningful collaboration for me and a highlight of my H=ART residency.

Munch
Roses of ice in the ash
dark water growing in the evening
there is a field of moon trees
one human animal is trapped
the crystal of his spirit
departed after all that he witnessed as a child
the shadow of the hill
destroyed by storm winds in the night
A grieving mother, Earth,
in the empty room
the face screaming
flowers are vanishing into the dark water
the heart of things is dead
Europe!
A curse is a scarf on the possibilities of the cerulean sky
These are escapes of breath from broken teeth.





Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Dheisheh Refugee Camp, near Bethlehem in the Occupied Palestinian West Bank

Rafi, our tour guide, greets us at the bus stop outside of Dheisheh.  Smiling, Rafi says, "My Mom always tells the story of getting torn from our homes, taken to a camp for what they understood, what they trusted, would be a few days.  Never to be allowed to return again."  Rafi, his Mom and now his family are one of more than 750,000 Palestinians expelled from their homes following the early Zionist Militia and the establishment of the state of Israel in 1948.  Dheisheh is one of the fifty-nine Palestinian Refugee Camps.

Stepping off of the city street and into the refugee camp, we smelt the single location for the camps refuse.  Prior to the country of Japan funding plastic sewage pipes, all of the camps refuse flowed in central, open ditches in the center of the streets.

In 39 degree Celsius weather, we walked up and down the narrow footpaths weaving between original 1948 slab constructions and the generations of men who have added on in order to house the third, fourth and soon fifth generations living under occupation and interned to refugee camps.  Walking below clothes hanging out to dry on the line, we hear from a window a small boy saying, "Hallo.  Hallo.  Hallo."

As we round the bend, inches away from doors and makeshift stoops, the little boy's mother comes to her front door.  "What is your name?" she asks me.  "Jennifer," I reply.  She smiles politely and shyly asks again, "What is your name?" and my reply still puzzles her.  We laugh together and I ask, "What is your name?"

She welcomes us and wishes us health and happiness in Arabic, and wants Rafi to tell us that her 21 year old son is imprisoned with 17 life sentences for protesting the occupation.  A school girl passes our group.  After Rafi greets her and ascertains that she is learning English in school, I ask her, "How are you?" and she responds, "Fine.  Thank you."  I tell her, "great job," and she squints, looking puzzled in return.  Rafi went on to explain that their under-sourced schools had been forced to follow Jordanian curriculum from 1967 until only a few years ago.  Outraged he says, "Imagine.  Not teaching English until the 5th grade.  How much more difficult it is to learn."

While examining political art, cartoons, drawings and graffiti on the walls of the camp's cinder block homes, Rafi points to a brightly colored drawing of butterflies, flowers, sunshine and green grass.  "We encourage the children.  To hope for a better tomorrow.  Not to go the way of violence."

In the cartoon (pictured to the left), a famous writer is told, "I like your article on democracy.  What are you writing next?"

To which the older writer, huddled over his desks responds, "my will."

In another cartoon, an elderly, pacifist says, "I will cut my mustache if one piece of land is given back to Palestinians."

In the next frame, the man's mustache reaches below and outside of the cartoon frame.

11,000 refugees inhabit less than one square kilometer of land.  With two under sourced schools, one for each gender, and one doctor serving the community, the physician often sees over 700 patients a day.

Original UN cinder block constructions are 9x9 and originally intended to serve 4 to 6 people.  Today descendants have up to 40-80 men, women and children populating each.  While some choose to add-on, there is no guarantee it won't be torn down or built unsafely.  Pictured to the right is the original outhouse, the only bathroom facilities provided, serving up to 400 people daily at one time.   

After exiting, we again walk underneath a large, looming political poster featuring two young men who died fighting for "the cause," meaning the right to return to land.  It is only upon exiting do I notice the rainbow colors painted on the fence posts.  

Monday, August 13, 2012

The Palestinian Territories & my H=ART residency


Olive Tree
Beit Sahor

Many thanks to everyone for inquiring after my artist residency and trip to Israel and the Palestinian Territories.  Below is an outline of our tours, meetings and program over the course of July 23-August 5th.

Day 1
Bethlehem

Tour of the ICB (International Center of Bethlehem)
Church of the Nativity
Sheperd's Field

Dheisheh Refugee Camp Tour and Visit

Day 2
Jerusalem

Via Dolorosa
Western Wall
Dome of the Rock
ICAHD Tour (Israeli Coalition Against Home Demolition)

Day 3
Jerusalem

B'Tselem meeting
Yad Vashem; Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem

Day 4
Hebron

House of the Patriarchs
Souq
CPT (Christian Peacemaking Team) Meeting and Tour

Day 5
Dead Sea

Day 6
East Jerusalem

Arts Program; intros
lectures by Gassaf Gavron and Francisco Avila
workshops

Day 7
East Jerusalem

Arts Program
Lecture by Yonathan Berg & myself
workshops

Day 8
Bethlehem

Arts Program
Dar al-Kalima
Lecture: "Palestinian Art: Art of Resistance or Aesthetics" by Faten Nastas Mitwasi, Chairperson of the Visual Arts Department & presentation by Alynn Guerra

Day 9
Bethlehem


Arts Program
Dar al-Kalima
Lecture: "Palestinian Film" by Rama Mari
Painted on the Wall at Checkpoint 300

Day 10
Bethlehem

The Olive Tree Campaign Tour

Day 11
Bethlehem


Milk Grotto
Casa Nova

Open Studio Time

Day 12
Tel Aviv

Morning Mass, Grotto, Church of Nativity
Grand Beach Hotel Rooftop Pool and Mediterranean




Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Dana Gioia Reflects on our Times

A pivotal benediction in my year has been discovering a great poet of our time: Dana Gioia.  Until I am able to write my own comprehensive, critical response to the businessman poet, public intellect and former chairman of the National Endowment of the Arts, I'll share with you a meaningful, intelligent examination of Gioia's NEA accomplishments and his latest collection of poetry, Pity the Beautiful, published in The Catholic World Reporter.

"In Pity the Beautiful, the depth and variety of the poems makes rich fare. His own finely crafted works—musical to the ear, pleasing to the eye, and written in several interesting voices—include tales of married love, of what seemed to be love but wasn’t, of love lost or remembered; a long ghost tale told by a monk; satirical jabs at soulless modernity; songs from his libretto for the opera Tony Caruso’s Final Broadcast; a profound parody of the Beatitudes; and tender personal poems remembering his father and his son. An additional delight is the inclusion of several of Gioia’s masterful translations from Italian poets Mario Luzi and Bartolo Cattafi."  

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Wislawa Szymborska

Today, a beloved poet of mine, Wislawa Symborska has passed. It is most fitting to recite her poem, "A Few Words on the Soul," at this time. Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, Szymborska published her poem on the elusive topic of the human soul in her collection titled, Monologue of a Dog. The jacket art of this book, a reprint of a Joseph Cornell work, is appropriate as we aim to classify that which is tangible and intangible, of the flesh and of the spirit, in science and beyond science.

Symborska begins "A Few Words on the Soul" by characterizing the human condition to be at times and at times unaware of the soul. Though, in truth, Szymborska takes that a step further and says, "We have a soul at times./ No one's got it nonstop,/ for keeps." In my mind the human body does not entirely possess this spirit, this spiritual side, that we feel. Is Wislawa saying that the soul comes and goes even as we are walking around on the earth in bodies?

Absolutely. "Day after day,/ year after year/ may pass without it." She discusses the mundane tasks during which the soul finds other engagements. The soul "steps out" when we are moving, carrying suitcases, wearing shoes that hurt, and when beaurocratic forms need filling. There are many chefs that would disagree when Wislawa references food preparation as another time with the soul retreats. Though I couldn't agree more with the soul taking off during mundane, rote conversations. Where does the soul go? What are these other engagements? Are they as lofty as our human ideals?

"It [the soul] prefers silence./...Joy and sorrow/ aren't two different feelings for it./ It attends us/ only when the two are joined." My soul is here, joined with my intellect and artistic inclinations and passions to honor Wislawa Symborska, a great poet of our time, and a poet native to my ancestral land, Poland.

"[The soul] won't say where it comes from/
or when it's taking off again,/
though it's clearly expecting such questions."

And, in the words of my paternal grandfather, Thomas Styperk: "well, Ace, she knows what it's all about now." To Wislawa's soul, I raise a voice in prayer and poetry.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Personal Capital

I've been curious what my best friend from home, Jen Robinson has been flying up to SF for. She's been working on a great new service that provides investment advice for free; the best part is that me and my $50 is as important as my friend with his millions.

Here's the scoop:

http://refer.personalcapital.com/a/clk/1FJvsy

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Dana Gioia; poet and public intellectual

In 2003, Dana Gioia walked onto the battlefield that was the National Endowment for the Arts and brokered a peace. He chaired the NEA for six years, longer than the Civil War. The George W. Bush appointee increased the agency's budget and worked to broaden its mission and demographic reach. Gioia is a widely published poet and essayist, a Stanford MBA and a Southern Californian who's come home, as professor of poetry and public culture at USC, whence all of California is a stage.

What's on your USC to-do list?

One thing that interests me is how a young artist makes a living in the U.S. I want to teach a class about, if you are a musician who wants to create a string quartet, a writer who wants to create a press or journal, how do you do it? The poet Donald Hall described himself as a one-man vertical conglomerate, a wonderful phrase. I'd like to encourage young artists to become a one-man or one-woman vertical [conglomerate].

Read More: LA Times article: http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/commentary/la-oe-morrison-dana-gioia-20111105,0,7799944.column

Friday, November 4, 2011

It rained in LA

And Angelenos have never before been so friendly. A man offered me the protection of his oversized umbrella, admitting he had in fact borrowed it from a coworker. The rain pushed strangers to crowd together at the covered lunch tables at the Whole Foods in Westwood. My impromptu lunch partner said she enjoyed watching the rain since she spent most of her day as a nurse in surgery rooms. Though the man who pulled a u-turn in front of me on Sunset may not have heard of hydroplaning. Luckily my Pittsburgh upbringing taught me how to handle ice and rain.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Go see the Bill Cunningham documentary!

"We all dress for Bill," says Anna Wintour, Editor-in-Chief of Vogue. And after watching the documentary, Bill Cunningham, I know dress for Bill.

Cunningham has dedicated himself to capturing fashion both on the streets of New York City and on the runways. He has been known to call out designers when they've copied off of a past runway offering; he also noticed adeptly that Japanese fashion of the '80s resembled the clothing worn by the homeless in New York City.

A humble man, Bill Cunningham is able to discern the quality of fashion in large part because he removes himself from the celebrity, glamor, drink and social climbing that is so often conflated with fashion. In his acceptance speech during his induction to the French Order of Arts and Letters, he shunned celebrities in their free dresses. The trend of designers advertising through celebrities and their followers desire to be seen is the antithesis of how Bill conducts his life. He refuses to look at guests lists and often will feature an unknown woman in the New York Times for finding and stunningly wearing a dress.

He has hones and respects his craft, always retraining his eyes and evaluating the fashion he captures. He says that he isn't a skilled photographer: he simply shares how he sees the world. We are all striving to communicate to others our vision of the world. Few of us have the patience, dedication and sense of service to remain on a single topic for a lifetime. Though after viewing this documentary, I wonder if there is any other way to come close to sharing my own vision. Bill's complete dedication to capturing fashion is matched only with the one hour every Sunday he attends Mass.

Bill, take a picture of me! I'm working on a poetic look here in Los Angeles for you. Until then, may you find respite in your new home.

Monday, February 7, 2011


"a friend who believes"

video installation by Sarah Walko, Christopher Keohane and Jennifer Styperk

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Unconditional Pittsburgh

A transplant to Pittsburgh recently called the city generous. The Pittsburgh "left," for example, allows for the car at the red light to make the left turn when the light turns green before the oncoming car proceeds down the straightaway. Driving consists of a series of waves to let your fellow driver through; the rule of the road is ‘you first.’ We all drive safely and politely over rivers and through mountains in order to reach the fountain at the Point downtown during the Arts festivals, regattas, light-up nights, the Cultural Trust’s gallery crawls, and First Night.

During the lead-up to 2011, the acapella group, In Acchord, sings on the grand lobby stairs of the Benedum Center’s lobby. The 88mph! Steel Town Fire Goes Back in Time, fire-eaters, perform next to outside music stages. Space and 121 Seventh galleries hosted musicians including WYEP’s best bands. Tango, swing, and foxtrot lessons run throughout the evening. Children learn how to make puppets. The Gab Bonesso Comedy Show ran several times with a few Capitals fans in the audience each time. I am most grateful to the Pittsburgh Gospel All City Choir, all of whom add soul and comfort to that strange hour from 10pm-11pm during which we sit in a year that has become stale. But best part of First Night is that, instead of the ball dropping, with that terrible sinking feeling in your gut, the Pittsburgh New Year’s ball rises to meet the new year.

A few days after the fireworks off rooftops for the new year, I shop at the largest grocery store: the Robinson Town Center’s Giant Eagle Market District. After lunch at the cafĂ©, I ask a cafĂ© chef where I could locate the closest shopping cart. As I wonder to myself whether I should have said buggy instead, he smiles, and tells me to wait by the door because it was too cold to go outside. After which he proceeds into the parking lot and a few minutes later returns with a cart for me. Still smiling from that help, a Pittsburgher in a Steeler cap hands me his number at the deli counter and takes the place behind me in line.

How do you describe the special culture and manners of Pittsburghers?

I am grateful to the Traverse City Record-Eagle for appreciating poetry and writing about the poetic moments in our lives.

On Poetry: Snow and silence

It occurs to me that today of all days, right after whatever hoopla we got ourselves into this weekend, a little silence might be welcome. This poem may help....



Tuesday, August 10, 2010

The Kiss

The evening of his death, my Grandfather, James A. Kramer, Sr., left a goodbye gift for his wife that enriches our family history and opens a pathway to peace in death. Twenty-two years ago today my Grandfather died. My parents, having always been open about death, had allowed me, aged 10, to see the hardware staples surgeons used in 1988 on Grandpap because they didn’t think he would make it. This is not unlike the government knowing for years that the asbestos my Grandfather laid during the day would by no uncertain terms kill him later in life.

Those suffering from mesothelioma often feel as if their bodies are on fire. For this reason my Grandfather sucked on broken pieces of banana popsicles until he could no longer swallow. He was fortunate, they said. There are many sayings that come up through the ranks of Pittsburgh steel mills, coal mines, and nuclear power plants, and become integrated into my family’s coping strategies, often through humor at seemingly inappropriate times or in inappropriate places. My father always says that life is a shit sandwich for everybody, it’s just a matter of how much bread you have. My Grandfather’s death was fortunate compared to his brother. Bob Kramer, aged 36, choked on his own bowel until it caused his death.

“How are you?” I ask my Grandmother on the phone. “I’m fine honey.” A strain in her voice detectable for only a moment as she reports that she is removing red polish from a fingernail in preparation for her manicure later today. I let my Grandmother introduce the topic. Once she mentions the twenty-second anniversary, I tell her that I know. I ask again, “How are you.”

“I was twenty-two when he married me. We were married for forty-two years. And now he’s been dead for twenty-two years.” She continues, “You don’t realize how fast you grow old, honey,” Anna Marie Kramer says. “Have a good time. Live it up.

I had a hard time sleeping last night, honey. I prayed for him for a long while. I relived the kiss. It’s funny, you know, that night, at one point in the middle of the kiss I thought, ok Jim, let me go to sleep now.”

Then she begins talking joyfully about her great-grandchildren’s visit. My cousin Molly brought her two little girls over and my Grandmother could not have been more delighted. She retold the story of the younger one, Anna, asking her why she had wrinkles. Before explaining wrinkles to Anna, my Grandmother said, “Why, I didn’t know that I had wrinkles. Everyone tells me that I don’t have them.” I’m not sure if four-year olds understand sarcasm, but there is truth in her joke. For eighty-six years old, my Grandmother has beautiful, smooth skin with only a few smile lines around her eyes and mouth.

My Grandmother’s salmon colored Cadillac, (don’t you dare refer to the color as peach), was bought sometime after my Grandfather’s death that same year. My cousin’s eight-year-old daughter, Julia, looked at the twenty-two year old Coupe de Ville, put her hands on her hips and said, “Boy, you don’t see cars like this anymore, do you.”

My Grandmother explains that Julia turned down an offer to be in a commercial for Pepperidge Farm Goldfish because “I don’t like to say Pepperidge Grandma.” Not skipping a beat my Grandmother moved on to tell me that she magnifies the picture of Grandpap kissing her at the Elks Club, and thinks of all the nice memories. She honors her husband recalling these days with her platinum blonde hair and his thick hairline. “He was so handsome, you know. I often think had I married that other fella I had gone with in high school, since he had such big ears, I would have had seven dumbos. My children all have pretty ears.” That other “fella” my Grandmother dated until his mother, a German woman, made him break up with my Grandmother because she was Slovak. Luckily, for my existence, Granny Goodwitch, my Grandmother’s German mother-in-law was a bit more liberal on ethnic politics for her time.

Sometime while hearing that Uncle David likes his new job, Molly looked beautiful in a black sundress, my Mom is taking her to get her nails done this afternoon, I start to do the math. “Grandma,” I say. “I’ve been doing the math.” She laughs. I continue, “twenty-two more years.”
“Well, honey, I was thinking twenty more. That way I’ll be widowed the same number of years as I was married.” At eighty-six her math is better than mine. I tell her that I’ll accept one-hundred and twenty-eight instead of one-hundred and thirty. “My children have to know Great Anna Marie, or Granny Annie as some of the great-grandchildren call her.” We agree that she will live until one-hundred and twenty-eight.

Despite my Grandfather working all day as a foreman on commercial insulation jobs and then all night as a train engineer, he always ate dinner with his wife and seven children, afterwhich they prayed the rosary as a family. When my Uncles read this they will all snicker because it is euphemistic of me to say that my sleep-deprived Grandfather, with a crazier than hell Granny Goodwitch for a mother, was not always in the best of moods, but he did instill within my Mom the peace available in prayer.

The kiss that my Grandmother relived last night was the gift and legacy that my Grandfather left us. My Grandmother retells the story: “I got into bed. I realized that I forgot to replace the rosary around his neck. He could no longer speak. After I replaced the rosary, I went upstairs, said my prayers and went to sleep. An hour and fifteen minutes later, Jim walked into my bedroom wearing blue silk pajamas. He looked thirty-five years old. He held my glance. He walked over to me. He bent over me. He kissed me. Really softly. He licked my bottom lip very slowly. I felt his tongue along my bottom lip. It was warm. Then he left.”

A moment later my Mom, the night nurse on duty in the family room with her father, walked up the stairs. As she opened the bedroom door, my Grandmother was already sitting up in bed and said, “I know honey. Daddy came to say goodbye to me.”

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Project Rebirth

After September 11th the media returned quickly to celebrities and the Dow, while director, Jim Whitaker, has been following our nation’s tragedy meticulously through the ten people’s lives changed irrevocably by the collapse of the twin towers. Project Rebirth intimately focuses on the lives of four victims/survivors backdropped by the evolution of the site at ground zero. Over the course of nine years, each person’s private, psychological and emotional grief provides the arc as they and we cope with the aftermath of the attacks. The personal perspectives include: a fireman who lost his entire crew, a construction worker who lost his brother who was a firefighter, a fiancĂ© who lost the love of her life, and a teenage son who lost his mother who was working on the 104th floor. We each have a story from the events of September 11, 2001; Project Rebirth offers each of us the opportunity to process our grief, anger, and hardships through the intimate, honest portrayal of these four lives and losses.

The gorgeous cinematography captures the fireman shifting on his feet in the shadows of the service honoring his best friend. Clearly a body and soul feeling out of place and not worthy of living, these shots make palpable the intense remorse and survival’s guilt that nearly crushes him. Unapologetic footage and interview reels, expose the trials of a survivor and burn victim who undergoes over 40 surgeries in order to partially perform everyday tasks. Just when you think her spirit will never recover, she reasserts control over the medical care of her body, accepts her plight and recognizes the ways in which she was fortunate.

One of the many successes of this documentary in particular is the intense focus on each character’s interview. Prolonged camera pauses captivate the audience. For example, the young man who lost his mother looks intently and lastingly into the camera after recounting his feelings toward Osama Bin Laden. This son chose to walk in his mother’s footsteps by taking a position with his mother’s former employer Lehman Brothers. He walks in his mother’s ghostly shadows to recover a deeper understanding of the woman he lost. Throughout the interview clips it is clear that the interviewees, as much as the viewers, are gaining from the process of documenting their grieving and road to recovery. The young fiancĂ© must escape the city of New York in order to guiltily begin a new life without her beloved, Sergio. She is frank and forthright as is the native New Yorker and construction worker who lost his brother from local #20. He tells us outright that he yelled at his wife and his crew while suffering from severe PTSD resulting from excavating human remains at ground zeros. He worked from the years of relief and rescue to excavation to the building developments for the Freedom Towers.

Project Rebirth is moving, honest and intimate. The journeys of these four beloved survivors help the viewer to progress in their own personal or national mourning process. This story provides the never-before-told story of excavating, reconstructing and raising one’s life; this decade long work provides the heart and soul behind the raising of the Freedom Towers.

http://www.projectrebirth.org/

http://www.causes.com/causes/159503?recruiter_id=31903299

Friday, July 23, 2010

Sneaky Like a Puppy

A young maltese puppy’s owner rushed to the car with her luggage, however, uncharacteristically the puppy did not follow her. After the elevator returned to the garage level, the white, fluffy puppy had already stepped onto another floor, some unknown level above its owner crying. Seeing this neighbors began the sixth floor search for Sapporo so that her owner could make her airplane’s departure time. It seems to me that the puppy knows what the suitcase means and does not like spending the weekend at the kennel no matter how posh because the puppy had gotten off the elevator, walked the four part maze to the business office that includes another elevator bank and two fireproof doors and walked straight up to the concierge with her head cocked requesting a play date.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

“Then suddenly electric”: an art review of Sarah Walko’s recent work X-Ray Series and acrylic, collage, ink series

Rarely does an artist capture spirit and intellect, sound and texture, myth and investigation as completely as Sarah Walko. An installation artist, based in New York City, Walko has exhibited work in Manhattan, Brooklyn, Savannah, Pittsburgh, and London.
The pains and joys of life charge and propel us. An electric socket, a book carved into the shape of an ocean wave, and a found book page reading “This is the kind of book—rare in our arid age—which takes root in the heart and grows there for a lifetime” in “X-Ray Series (the contents of our stomachs)(there are two types of electricity, playful static and lightning)(we swallowed them both). 2010.”

Delicately and intricately, “5 Line Staff (fiction of the wide river)” speaks to all levels of human need according Maslow’s hierarchy. A book of matches holds the potential for fulfillment of food, warmth and even love, since a campfire calls for community and conversation. Yet the matches also hold the power to destroy. To ward against such hazards and secure shelter, warmth, and love, “5 Line Staff” shows the intricate urban planning of humans juxtaposed to the community planning also evidenced in nature. The viewer is called to honor the past and continue building toward an enlightened future.

Having the gift of S.Walko’s work in my home affords me the opportunity, in the artist’s own words, to take pause and appreciate the ways in which “One moment is three moments.” Her acrylic, collage, ink on paper paintings, such as “This Land (sails, sailors, begin, how clean the sun)” is but one of the many paintings that inspire the viewer to manifest their dreams. Of the many pieces by contemporary artists in my living room, it is the work of Sarah Walko’s that is by far complimented the most. Many of these admiring guests have purchased their own Sarah Walko piece. Luckily, there are pieces currently on-sale which capture the expansive spirit of Walko’s installation work which have been installed in houses and large scale gallery spaces. Her work captures the essence of the latest in contemporary art being exhibited from Echo Park to SoHo to Shoreditch and beyond.

Work can be purchased at:
http://sarahwalkowork.bigcartel.com/

Artist website:
http://www.sarahwalko.com/index.html

Monday, May 24, 2010

Interview with Poet Stephanie Young Editor of Deep Oakland the Mills College Archival Project

Stephanie Young of the Deep Oakland website and archival project responded generously to my questions about archives, community, and the problematics of representing a sense of place. Firstly, the archival quality of Deep Oakland provides viewers with a variety of access points through which to find projects such as from geographic location/neighborhood, name, medium, etc. The detailed attention to archiving allows viewers to appreciate a wide range of photographs, text and chapbooks. A highly successful application of Young’s efforts is the scanning page by page of TAXT chapbooks allowing for the materiality of the text projects emerging from Oakland, CA to be preserved and accessed internationally.

An map of the Oakland is the homepage. The viewer returns again and again to the image of the neighborhoods, and, by rolling their cursor over specific neighborhood’s, projects from each are listed. The viewer enters the site from the visual and physical representation of the geographic factors of the community. According to Young, the goal of the Deep Oakland Mill’s College archival project is to generate dialogue “among groups of folks who enter the site sharing and some overlapping sets of interests.” While she is working to further develop and “facilitate more viewer participation,” Young is excited about the diversity of the poetry texts, “Deep Oakland Literary Objects” which is a recent reading, and Dan Thomas Glass’s project “880.” A reader may go to the Deep Oakland site for a specific poet’s chapbook and then find work from the women’s press collective, for example. This joining of disparate poetry groups also occurred at the recent reading, “Deep Oakland Literary Objects.” The reader’s ranged from Barbara Jane Reyes to Adam Cornford and Young says that “as someone who attends a lot of poetry readings in the bay area…I was enormously excited to see how this Deep Oakland reading operated totally outside of any one given scene. The crowd felt all over the place. I knew a small group of people there but there were many I had never met. Suddenly it felt like there was a conversation across social groups and poetries and scenes.” Young goes on to explain that the readers found common ground in “concerns about place, language,” and the representation of place. Just as the poetry reading gave a physical space for various poetry scenes to interact, converse and overlap, the Deep Oakland website aims to give a space for the art being created in Oakland to be archived and therefore a physical space for the viewer to go to experience the variety of work coming out of Oakland. Dan Thomas Glass’s “880” “physicalizes or performs or unsettles the way we experience place. These images are loaded randomly onto the main photo page and therefore it is highly unlikely that any one viewer will ever view each picture in the same context twice. That is to say that each photo is randomly sorted so that every time you click on an image the photos are rearranged and thus viewer in an alternate context. This speaks to the ways in which Deep Oakland is showing the physical space while also pointing to the constant evolution of place through community intervention.

In my two-part interview with Young, we also touched upon the problematics of representing a sense of place. Just as Glass’s randomized image collisions evidence, the evolution of place can not be simply linked to the neighborhood names. The privileged position of declaring a name of a place terrifies Young and she is in constant conversation with co-editors and interested participants on how to investigate and trouble the site’s use of neighborhood names. One idea may be to use street corners rather than names, or have several names, or the history of a specific locations past, present and potential future names. Another representational problem of which Young is acutely aware is the ways in which it is very easy to fall into a booster mindset. In a conversation with Brad Flis, a poet living in Detroit, they discussed the importance of place being “saved from the stories that get constructed around it.” Young is “interested in work that thinks critically about constructions of place, and investigates oppositional or hidden narratives to those constructions.” Since discussion and representation of place is never neutral, multiple modalities of representations are very useful in achieving the site’s central mission, without over simplifying, or creating a pep rally for Oakland, CA.

Stephanie Young is a talented poet in her own right; she generously shared her talents by engaging each and every one of my questions and answering generously.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Poems-for-All

Many thanks to Richard Hansen, owner of the bookstore Book Collector in Sacramento, CA, for making the world a better place by publishing enchanting, miniature books. His Poems-for-All series is free for your taking at Book Collector and around Sacramento. Each one and a half by two inch or smaller micro chapbook contains a single poem from Ted Joans, Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz, Jack Spicer, Robert Creeley, Ann Menebroker, or hundreds of other poets on the SacFreePress list.

Poetry opens the reader to a microcosmic universe. It is the opportunity, if only for a moment, to access the eternal calm that spiritualists speak of. It is, as Sara M. Larsen writes, to “show me the room/ with sliding doors/ i am a child.”

“Writing Poems is a Saintly Thing” says Peter Orlovsky “to welcome me/ into your early rise of bacon and / rolls.” Poetry helps people to share in delights, relief, and a sense of humanity. “What good is my room if/ it can’t hold all the people in the world and / chairs lonely because built for only one?” Poetry is the room that allows us to embrace contradiction. Merleau-Ponty tells us we only see these as contradictions and paradoxes because of the blind spots in our perception.

Recently a friend, or to be more honest, a guy looking to set up a third date with me, wrote a list of things he likes about me. He writes, “this whole poetry thing is awesome. It gives you the opportunity to save people like myself from Heidegger's 'everyday world' and to balance out the powers of the 'they.'”

Thank you Richard for helping to save people from the everyday drone that threatens to numb our thinking and block us from moments of calm.

It is of no surprise that Book Collector receives a five star rating on yelp. http://www.sacfreepress.com/poems/blog/2006/05/book-collector.html

And to check out images of these enchanting gifts go to Poems-for-All:
http://www.sacfreepress.com/poems/covers.html