Free Museum

 Our LA palatial Getty Art Museum is free. I'm talking about the comparatively new structures on top of a small mountain about 25 miles from the Pacific Ocean. Art treasures, paintings mostly, have been moved from Malibu where they were in danger from Ocean air and hung in regal splendor way up on a mountain, safe.

The trouble they went to, whoever 'they' are, is so lush it's almost embarrassing. What looks like white marble covers nearly everything outside, and lots inside too. There is no finer setting for an art museum anywhere else in the world. Lots of light! The Prado? Forget it. The Ufizzi? Not even close. The museums in London are dark and dingy by comparison. The Frick in New York charges an arm and a leg, and is itsy bitzy and they charge so much they must be battling threats of bankruptcy. Robber Baron Frick was a piker, evidentally, compared to Oil Man Getty. The Metropolitan Museum on Fifth Ave in NYC is a drab cottage on fat stilts by comparison with the new Getty in Brentwood.

Getty was so rich that he was able to have public telephones placed in the downstairs of his mansion in England for use by his guests. He was called names for this oddity, including 'Miser.' Such nonsense: he was being considerate. He strove to spare his guests the embarrassment of having their telephone charges appear on his bill showing telephone numbers and length of call. (Of course this was before the advent of cellphones.)

My initial motive for going to art museums came from a girl friend, about whom I was more interested than she was in me, who related that a young man took her to the Met art museum in NYC. He did what!? I was a rube from Australia and had never, ever, been to any kind of museum. So I tried to catch up. I got the art, but not the girl.

I mention this to note the obvious, but almost never mentioned: Art is sexy. Last weekend the majority of visitors were couples. A crippled man with a gorgeous woman. A white woman with a black man. German tourists. (Art promotes tolerance, empathy.) And, more common, young couples who might be taking Art History in college. The patrons were quiet, orderly, gracious, ready for a joke from a stanger. Convivial, aroused somehow. And the place and the company were all free. I like free. Feels like love.

This time I really must post some photos here. Next week. You can't use flash at the Getty anymore, as you could at the Getty in Malibu, but the photos I took outdoors will give some idea of the place and how worth trekking to it really is. Parking takes place in an underground garage, six floors of garage underground, from where you take a silent tram up the mountain side at a slant. Fabulous. The kids loved it! When you first arrive on the top you can hardly believe your eyes.

My favorite on that day was a large landscape, maybe six feet wide, four feet high, by 17th century Dutch painter Hobbema, pupil of Ruisdael. The work must have been restored, cleaned, because it sparkles as if the paint were still wet. And to think it was painted around the time of Shakespeare!  Space goes off in two directions, a rural scene, minimally idealized, happy, so lovingly done one gasps. In art history classes years ago Seymore Slive told the class that it was the custom to place a sheet over a painting, invite guests, then when they were seated take away the sheet. Surprise!

Barry

 

 

 

 

Writing

Missing the obvious, what's been right in front of my eyes, I failed to realize that after having read a zillion message board posts and quite a few journal entries from hundreds and hundreds of writers of messages and journal entries, one has the choice of remembering a wide range of written styles of expression, and borrowing from those styles, adding them to one's oeuvre.  In the past, I just realized, most of my attention has been merely on whether or not I agreed with the message or entry. Agreement can be too highly regarded. When someone gushes, 'Oh, I agree, I do, I agree with you absolutely,' I instinctively pat my pockets to make sure nothing is missing.

One style I wish to master is the cool, funny, brief retort that seems all in agreement, but somewhere in there there's a kicker, a fiery little cracker that explodes in your face so harmlessly you feel both complimented and made to think of other things as well. No, I can't give an example. I just remember the feeling that my writing was real 'country' by comparison. Words, I suppose, are more powerful than I give them credit for. 

It's fun, and a privilege to have a journal.

Barry

 

 

What the Devil IS Poetry?

Here's a clue to the insuperable difficulty of
defining 'Poetry': five writers have written a bio
of Sylvia Plath but English and Drama Professor
at London University, Jacqueline Rose, finds all of them
seriously deficient, especially in their appraisal of her poetry. Rose states her case stunningly in,
     
            The Haunting of Sylvia Plath
                Harvard Univ. Press 1991

Speaking personally I enjoy 'defining' the poetry fragment,  "...bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang....."  from near the beginning of the beloved Shakespeare sonnet.  Most obviously the poet is describing himself in metaphor, but oh! what a metaphor! By today's age- arithmetic Shakespeare was relatively young when he wrote the sonnet. But no matter, he felt old, and perhaps was losing his hair, and depressed by circumstances. "Ruined choirs" to be the branch of a tree in winter strikes me as magnificently 'Poetic.'  Damn me if I actually know why it thrills me. Could it perhaps be the poet's mingling of pride with sadness? Sweet birds singing represents his poetry in the past when 'singing' was commonplace from others too. In the past when I read this same poem I skimmed by this part happy with the rhythms and nice sentiments, regarding the opening lines as more or less mood music. But great poets aren't really into mood music solo, they pack in more per word than do mere rhymers of nice sentiments.

The sonnet becomes by the end, wooing, and acknowledgment of his lover. The poem was written in a culture in which self-deprecation was applauded, not sneered at as in our present culture here in America,
where self-revelation and modesty are sometimes treated as cowardice and evasion. Think Rap: 'I'm tough, I'm invincible, I'll shoot ya, I'm indestructible, me me me me you aint nothin.'  And, drop me, women swoon?!  God help teachers of English poetry in American schools in the barrio and the hood, or any HS where the majority is aiming for careers outside the arts, and primarily for money.

Barry

"That time of year thou mayest in me behold / When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang / Upon those boughs which shake against the cold / BARE RUINED CHOIRS, WHERE LATE THE SWEET BIRDS SANG. / In me thou see'st the twilight of such day / As after sunset fadeth in the west, / Which by and by black night doth take away , / Death's second self that seals up all the rest. / In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, / That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, / As the deathbed whereon it must expire, / Consumed with that which it was nourished by. / This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, / To love that well which thou must leave ere long."

                       -    Shakespeare, 1609

Today, are we, perhaps, satisfied with the 'poetry' of greeting cards? I think so. That's pretty much what's posted on AOL poetry boards and folders, and god help you if you ask for cream in your milk. Our 'Poetry' in all things is diluted: in marriage, sex, agreements, promises, friendships, contracts, aims, aspirations, and even in our hopes and dreams. We settle. I've settled. God help us.

Barry

 

 

 

 

Father's Day?

There's an assignment, contest? underway to write an anecdote, description demonstrating what a swell bloke Dad was, is, has proved to be? whatever. Is this Father's Day? I'd planned to simply ignore the 'Day' as I do nearly all Calendar special days, including, to be honest, birthdays. But I've had a change of heart.

I loved my father. He's been dead about twenty five years. By any usual measure he was a sorry excuse for a Dad, especially if that is measured by whether or not he was provident. He was improvident. Love for a parent, however, really can't be measured with any meaningful accuracy by what they provided us. The only truly meaningful measure, I believe, is 'did the parent successfully impart the information that they loved us in such a way that there has never been the slightest doubt?' I have not the slightest doubt that he loved me. What I feel most deeply with respect to my father is persistent regret that I never made any effort to tell him how much I loved and appreciated him.  

I've been haunted by memories of the last time I spoke to my father. It happened when I was sixteen, living alone in a boarding house in Neutral Bay, on Sydney Harbor from where I took a ferry everyday to go to work in the city. I had an accountant's clerk job in an electrical supply store in the city. Returning home from work, about to board the ferry, I was approached by my father who asked me for money. I have no idea how he discovered where I was, or would be. I doubt the meeting was by chance, as he was not the slightest bit surprised to see me. His trousers were held up by a men's necktie. In his right arm he carried a bundle wrapped with newspapers that clinked like the sound of bottles. I asked him what was in the bundle. "Company for the weekend," he replied. I walked away and boarded the ferry with my father following me. I ran upstairs to the top deck, almost ran to the downstairs nearer the bow, ran down and jumped onto the wharf trapping my father on a ferry he had no real intent to ride. I never saw him again.

However, I did receive communications from him, sent from Australia when I lived in New York City. By far the most dramatic of the two was a visit from a Catholic Nun (my family was notCatholic) who, she said, had to decide whether to take herleave to visit Ireland, or come to New York and personally deliver a message from my father. The two had met while my father worked as an architect (most likely as a draftsman) for a firm which built school houses for the Church. She told me she'd had his desk raised to accomodate his height. By that time I was probably thirty five or forty. Unhappily I expressed, as far as I can remember, no gratitude to the Nun. At that time, I guess, I was still frozen by unrecognized anger. He died, my two younger brothers told me, when I was about forty eight.  The Nun never delivered an actual message; perhaps she judged that I was not prepared to receive any message. So, she served as the message. I've certainly never forgotten her.

Some years later I learned the concept in a formal environment, the est Training, that one must unreservedly love one's parents. There was a codicil: in the event of a monster parent, the love might need to be given from a distance. When he was in his early twenties my father had immigrated, alone, to Australia from London. He came with a degree in Architecture. Early in his career in America he worked as a junior architect on the splendid San Francisco Opera House. By an odd, perhaps even unbelievable coincidence I was twice on the stage of that imposing structure: once as an extra in Aida when I was in High School, and once again when I graduated from HS. Neither time was my father in the audience.

Barry   

   

 

Basketball

Our AOL greeting window this morning featured a poll of members asking if it was a good idea for Coach Phil Jackson to return to the Lakers. The AOL Editor made a smart ass joke that he'd concede dating the Boss's daughter, Ms Buss, was a positive factor from Phil's POV. Actually it's not possible to describe the "Editor's" use of language without quoting him, and that I will not do.

The poll results from across the country and abroad, I assume that's where the votes come from - AOL isn't up to slanting poll results is it? - indicate that the Lakers won't win anything until the year 2012. Must be wishful thinking. Here's what's bothering me: AOL's poll results do not jibe with what can reasonably be deduced from ABC's abysmal ratings for the NBA Finals (is that the right lingo? I'm an amateur fan) with the down home, lovable teams, the Pistons and the Spurs.  Are the Lakers, across the country, the team people love to hate even while they watch them winning?

Why do so many sports fans dote on calling Phil Jackson the "Zen Master"? To be enlightened is UnAmerican? Or, is the irritant the simple fact the Lakers have won too often, and it should be someone else's turn? Maybe Basketball should be handicapped like a horse race with the hot players carrying lead weights in their pockets?

Let me confess here that everytime I've ventured a few comments on the subject of the NBA I've stirred up a hornet's nest. So I'll make this short. The subject of race, race and basketball, was handled neatly by comedian (who I love!) Chris Rock. He said in his routine on HBO, "Shaq is rich; Bill Gates is wealthy." His semi-hidden message is actually, 'Don't imagine racism is proved handled by the spectacle of some high-earning, high profile African Americans who otherwise are in reality still denied jobs on the basis of race even though it is illegal. (It's no accident that Shaq has a degree in criminology; he needs a backup profession!)

What I wish I could write about knowledgeably is the phenomenon of loving to root for the Home Team. Is it merely identification? I was crushed when the Lakers lost to the Pistons last year. This year I watched none of the Spurs/Pistons games. I care zip about the outcome. So it's not Basketball I'm interested in, it's competitions in which I have some irrational emotional stake in the outcome. Phil Jackson is a wholly admirable man. He's huge. His girl friend Jeannie (?) Buss, the owner's daughter, is beautiful and smart, and tiny. LA Sports writers insist that even during an important game Phil can't take his eyes off her sitting across the court even during a game he should be rivetted on. They exaggerate. He sneaks  peeks.

'All the world loves a lover,' except AOL's greetings Window Editor.

Barry 

 

 

 

War Memorial On the Beach

We thought we were walking from the beach parking lot to the amusement pier, roller coaster, new, merry-go-round, old, and many other rides but came upon 1,653 white markers upright in the sand, a mini Normandy, Christian, Jewish, and Islamic denoting the number of dead American soldiers, men and women, killed in Iraq since the war began. That was last weekend. Since then the number has risen to over 1,700.  Last weekend the builders of the Memorial, obviously sanctioned by the City Fathers of Santa Monica, temporary as it may be, built on sand, had already lovingly assembled 1,000 photographs of those who had been killed. Now their job of completion will be even more difficult, and getting more difficult day by day.

Was it sinful to take photos? Am I a ghoul? We posed in front of the expanse of 'crosses' spaced so neatly on the beach. We'd come with innocents to play. Brought a camera. The war memorial was a total surprise; it hadn't made it to the newspapers or TV yet. An oddity. Broadcasting the event too political just yet? I think Vietnam war protester, former husband of Jane Fonda, Tom Hayden still lives in Santa Monica but I'm not positive. 

Today's editorial page of the LA Times features a long editorial about the war in Iraq followed by an invitation to readers to "edit" their editorial to suit their own views about the war. That's called a "Wiki": "Rewrite the editorial yourself, using a Web page known as a 'wiki,' at  latimes.com/wiki."  Novel proceedure I've missed out on. Although, I'd rather start from the beginning all on my own, unaided by news-speak.

Weird things occur to me that aren't supposed to occur to a right thinking American. For example, the Iraq Sunnis hate their countrymen Iraq Sheites (sp?) as much,  if not more than, they hate Americans.  That part's obvious: the next part wicked; no wonder Saddam Hussein had so much trouble keeping order. Religious warfare has no solution. Neither god will die. Neither deep thinkers, nor deep pockets will bring about a solution. Fixing newspaper editorials will merely create the fleeting sensation of having been right.

Thinking is out. I just want to go back to the beach, stand by all those various denomination markers and weep.

Barry

 

 

 

   

 

Killer

In the music video for Killer MJ stood on the roof of a sedan and with a sledge hammer took out the windshield with repeated blows. Later, that business was deleted. Unlike the improvised business of taking the baby out to the balcony and pantomiming dropping the little bundle of joy, the sledge hammer sequence was prepared for, props assembled and camera positioned. So, why was the latter removed? I think it should have been allowed to stay. That was theatrics, and in keeping with the menace implied by the title of the video, Killer. 

It shouldn't be a shock to anyone that an artist is into violence. Now that the MJ thing is over, at least for the time being, I feel an unease, an embarrassment; I posted here months ago that MJ was guilty and should be locked up. Back then defending him was unthinkable, but now that it's all over I want to back off and look at the broader picture. What has family and society done to Michael Jackson? Sure there is such a thing as individual culpability, but there is also societal reponsibility. If all Michael Jackson did was walk backwards he'd be as nothing, a mild amusement we pay money to watch and listen to. He's more than that. Disfiguring himself, over and over, is a kind of walking backwards, an attention getter, an accusation, a rebuke, a cry for help, and a warning that the ship has sprung a leak. He holds up a mirror for us to gaze into. What we want to see is lilly white.

In an interracial marriage, myself and my wife have varying degrees of brown, gorgeous children. What will their world be like, say, a half century from now? Will the world still be embroiled in the same ol' race stuff? God help us.

Here's what I regard as an unusual, but sweet signal that maybe there is hope. Standing with my Filipina wife at a busy restaurant cash register, the beauteous Black (African American if you prefer) very young female cashier/waitress asked me if I wanted "cream and sugar." I said no. "You like it black, eh?" she said smiling. Now, if I had not been standing with my wife that question would have had an entirely different ring to it. As it was, in my hearing, it was a celebration of mixing. Ultimately young people are going to go with what works. As William Faulkner wrote in his novel, Absolem Absolem, "...bleaching out like rabbits" is the only possible solution to race divisions.

I'm very glad they're finally trying that goon in Mississippi. Wasn't that a truly great performance Gene Hackman gave in Mississippi Burning?

Barry