Coke vs. Pepsi ~ that sort of thing.
I’m hoping this will be fun. The five of us, or whoever shows up, will be doing an interview on Evan Dawson’s WXXI radio show tomorrow, Friday, at one o’clock. The art opening is Sunday April 3, 1:30-4:30 at the Little Theater Café Art Gallery
Five artists/musicians. In alphabetical order – Paul Dodd, Charles Jaffe, Peter Monacelli, Steve Piper and Scott Regan. The exhibit runs April 2 thru April 29. I have some new “Models From Crime Page” in the show.
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The priest who celebrated the mass for my brother’s father-in-law today had a heavy Guatemalan accent. But it only made me want to listen to what he was saying. Sometimes he said things twice, clearly working on the pronunciation of his new language. There was only one alter boy, they worked in pairs in my day, and after the priest had his big host and wine he walked toward the alter boy to offer him the sacrament. The alter boy refused and my mind went wild with what his reasons were. After the service we had lunch in the Knights of Columbus hall on Barrett Drive. The road was named after Joe Barrett‘s father, the Village of Webster’s Attorney and one time mayor, Gerald R. Barrett. With Xerox and unchecked growth to increase the tax base Webster has plugged every empty lot and former farm field with chain stores and track housing. I can’t even tell where I am anymore when we drive out there.
Funny thing is when we got back from the funeral there was a message from a friend who wanted to know if we could meet her on the other side of the swing bridge, the one they swing open on April first, at Gosnell Big Woods off Vosburg Road back in Webster. This park a gem and includes an open meadow for migrating birds and old growth forest. Our Moves app says we walked for sixty minutes in the woods. There are still pockets of beauty where “Life is Worth Living.”
We would be at the Steve Reich concert tonight if we didn’t have a gig.
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If we left these chairs out all winter they would rust. They are made of metal and two of them came from my grandparents after they gave up their house. The chairs were white then and I’ve painted them many times since. Can’t remember all the Rustoleum colors we’ve used but I bought a gallon of the blue stuff so that will be around for a while. And I love the Sunburst Yellow. We took the chairs out of the garage after the winter and just minutes before Rick and I played our first there horseshoe game of the season.
Louise sent me a message today that reminded me it had been four days since my last post. Those days flew by and what space they had I filled with painting, an activity that respects no time frame. You dive in and don’t stop until it is right. And even when it is, it is only right for then, the best you can do for now.
I finally finished a batch of paintings, twelve or so, a series that was started last year when my painting teacher, Fred Lipp, was still alive. And then my father got sick and passed and we had some family business to settle so I feel we are just now crawling out of a big hole just in time for Spring and this art show at Little Café. We do a promo radio spot with Evan Dawson, on WXXI’s Connections Friday afternoon and the drop the work off on Saturday. Art vs. music.
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The twins, who were feeding their mom, Philomena, overheard Peggi and me telling my mom that we were going to walk Clarabella, my sister’s dog. On the way out they asked us if the dog was named after the clown on Howdy Doody. We told her we assumed so but I could barely remember the character so, of course, I goggled the show.
Clarabella the dog is a sensation. She ain’t nothin’ but a hound dogs but she makes all other breeds look mean. She pretends to use all her senses but is ruled by her nose. She would follow it anywhere. And that’s what leashes are for.
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Getting the jump on Earth Day, Margaret Explosion has released a new song recorded live at the Little Theatre just a few weeks ago. Margaret Explosion plays the Little Theatre Café tonight.
Peggi took the survey and then I tried but the SurveyMonkey software told me I had already taken the survey. One to an ip address. So we went to the meeting at the town hall tonight expecting a crowd as big as the coyote meeting but it wasn’t even close. Instead of a simple, straight-forward plan to lay down bike only lanes on the main thoroughfares of Irondequoit (Titus, Culver, Hudson, Goodman, Portland, Saint Paul) we found charts and maps and big print-outs of photos of certain intersections all laid out on tables. It felt like a grade school presentation.
And when we pushed the issue, striped, bike-only lanes on these main thoroughfares, with any the attendants they told us the county is in charge of the main roads in the town. The town is simply repaving the roads and then re-striping them, not reconfiguring the size or shape. The county has has stats on the numbers of vehicles and the geometry of the intersections and they configure the lanes at intersections based on that. We learned the town was only collecting data. A few bike riders will need to die before get bike only lanes.
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Foreigner’s “I’ve Been Waiting For A Girl Like You” was stuck in my head for a few days after I heard it the gas station. And then last night my sister called up that Meatloaf song from “Bat Out Of Hell” so that was lodged for a while. A trip to the bank was in order! Our ESL branch at Culver Ridge plays old school R&B and their format is broad enough to mix the Stones “Ain’t Too Proud To Beg’ (OK, the Stones’ version of the Temps’ tune) in with Cameo’s “Word Up” and The Stylistics’ “I’m Stone In Love With You.” Today, we were sitting in the lounge area, having a cup of coffee and waiting to meet with the branch manager, Cortez. The Commodores “Brick House” was playing and we watched two women dance their way to the teller.
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John called yesterday to confirm that we were “still on” for today. We had agreed to help him downsize. He’s converting his music room, the place where his stereo, records, cds, cassettes and posters are stored, into a bathroom before selling the house he built in the seventies. His friends all pitched in with the construction, except for me. I was doing nightly rehearsals with New Math back then. There was a big party when he finished the house. When we got there John was sitting on the hood of a car as it circled the house. One of his college buddies was driving and the sound system was cranked. John was singing along to “Crown of Creation” at the top his lungs.
Today, a couple of professional tradesman were unloading brand new bathroom fixtures when we got there. I wore my Kodak t-shirt for John. It took us four hours to peel the posters off the wall and pack up the various music formats. Cassettes outnumbered the rest, probably due to all the driving John did between this house in the boonies and EK. As promised, John made dinner dinner for us. Angel texted while we were eating to tell us Kevin Patrick was on Howard Thompson’s “Pure” radio show. We found an archived version of the show when we got back.
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When we lived in the city we’d walk to the corner bar for lunch on Saint Patrick’s Day. Carroll’s was an old school Irish bar then. The younger set had not hipified it. You were liable to hear heated conversations about Irish politics mixed just above the Pogues. On Saint Patty’s we’d often catch these old guys, two accordions and a fiddle or sometimes three accordions. And occasionally bagpipes would fill the bar.
These days we have a mile or so walk to get to the closest Irish joint. We stopped on the other side of the woods and met Matthew and Louise and the four of us arrived at Shamrock Jack’s just before noon, in time to get a table in the dining room. Jumbo Shrimp was playing in the tent out back. We caught a bit of their set after lunch and then stopped in the Reunion Inn across the street for a couple games of pinball. I felt like going back to bed by the time we got home but I slogged on.
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Somehow I forgot that it can rain. And, of course, it is likely to do so in Spring. We broke away from desktop machines just in time for the sky to turn really dark. We donned our rain gear and headed out for a walk. Thunder in the distance and then some lightning but a decent amount of time between, we kept walking. Bang! Flash and noise near simultaneous. We scooted back up the hill in pouring rain. Spring has sprung.
I wish were able to be inside one of the theater at the Little s tonight instead of playing in the café. They’re showing “Five Easy Pieces.”
We stopped up to see my mom and took her down to the coffee shop. She asked if we were swimming in our outdoor pool yet. it was good to hear her ask about the outside world.
We had lunch at Magnolia’s on Park Avenue. Peggi sat in the chair Obama sat in and she ordered what he had, a cup of soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. It dawned on me that this was the old Red & White grocery store when we lived in an apartment in this part of town. Henry ran the place. He used to work in my uncle’s store. We sat near the window looking out at KrudCo’s new place. Doesn’t seem right on Park Avenue. And I realized why they call this place Magnolia’s, so close to Oxford Street with the meridian lined with the flowering trees only a few weeks from full bloom.
We stopped at Washington Grove near the top of Nunda Boulevard and we walked through the woods up to the reservoir. My parents used to take us up here. They’d open the car doors and let us run. My mom and dad used to walk laps here just a few years ago. High on a hill, 640 feet above sea level, it’s one of the most beautiful spots in Rochester. The sign in front of the 1908 building reads, “Of unsurpassed quality, the water in this reservoir flows by gravity from Lakes Hemlock and Canadice located 30 miles south.” Peggi and I hadn’t been up here in years.
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I’m back to painting again. So many obstacles, of course, most of my own making. I got side-tracked with a lot of family business. Not complaining, just retesting the argument I make these days. It needs defending. That you don’t have to paint to get better at painting. The principles you use, the disciple you apply get a constant workout in the day to day. I have a deadline too and that certainly is a motivator.
We ran into Bill Keyser at Pete Monacelli’s opening last week. Bill was in Fred Lipp’s painting class with me. The first words out of his mouth the other night were, “I miss Fred.” Of course you do. We all do. We are on our own. Fred left his tool kit behind and plenty of instructions. “There are no rules,” he use to say, except for one, “Trust your eye.” Something I do everyday now.
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It’s time for the snowbirds to come back north. The daffodils are up, the purple myrtle flowers are out, the lenten roses are in full bloom. The crocuses and winter aconite are already folding up, Another few weeks and the wildflowers in Edmunds Woods will be out. We bought spinach, lettuce and “Detroit Red Beets” seeds today at Aman’s and planted them in potting soil. This is all true but I’ve been around here long enough to know we could still see some more snow. So our skis and poles are standing in the corner just outside the door.
We always sit in the front window at Kneads & Wants. With coffee and pastry we watch the Lake Avenue world go by. This morning we watched a group of revelers in green clothing get on the bus, probably headed to the Saint Patty’s Day parade downtown. I took this photo from our seats. The blurry building wth the green spires is now the Charlotte Post Office but in the early sixties it was Doug Duke’s Music Room. Born Ovidio Fernandez in Buenos Aires, Argentina, Doug changed his name and drew guests like Coleman Hawkins, Teddy Wilson, Lionel Hampton, Marian McPartland, Charlie Byrd, Roy Eldridge, Ray Nance and Toots Thielemans to the club. Doug held court behind the organ but doubled on accordion, bassoon and trumpet. I told the women who run the bakery about this place but they were hardly impressed.
I’m going to try and beat this time change thing by going to sleep an hour early tonight.
We wore our tick gear for the first time yesterday assuming the little creatures would be out enjoying our record high temps. We tuck our pant legs in our socks to complete the geeky woods look. Don’t want any part of that Kathleen Hanna disease. Unless I’m missing something, they don’t seem to have any bugs in California. Peggi’s sister leaves her back door open during the day although she did see a rat running around. There no screens on the windows or doors. There must be something out there
We had my parents mailing address changed to our house so we’re getting my mom’s Women’s Day magazine now. I brought it up to her yesterday. I don’t know why I say “up.” Her room is on the ground floor. She wanted to go home with us but that is not going to happen.
Sonja Livingston is all over town this week. We heard her on the radio talking to Even Dawson about fertility and her love of language, especially the rhythm of words when we speak. And then we saw her at Margaret Explosion’s show last night.
Im still thinking about the Headlands on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge. It is such a magical spot.
My Head Is My Only House Unless It Rains
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Writers & Books sponsored Sunday’s “Bus Tour with Sonja,” an event coinciding with the selection of Sonja Livingston’s “Queen of the Fall” as this year’s “If All of Rochester Reads the Same Book.” Sonja planned the tour to coincide with locations from her fabulous memoir, “Ghostbread,” and this book. “It was five minutes past our departure time and Sonja had not yet boarded, setting the stage for a dramatic entry. We heard the bus driver had already run into a car in the parking lot before we arrived. We buckled up.
Our first stop was just around the corner from Writer & Books at the Barrel of Dolls. We had just parked in front of this place on Friday night when we visited Axom Gallery across the street. Sonja read an exquisite excerpt from “Queen of the Fall” about a girl she grew up with who wound up working in the Barrel. Sonja visited the Barrel for research reasons and said it was much cleaner than she pictured.
Second stop was East High where Sonja went to school. She pointed out that less than half of the students graduate and she read a piece as we gazed out the window at our old neighborhood. Peggi and I lived a short block away from this school for twenty seven years and I grew up about eight streets away but I went to Catholic schools. My family situation was 180 degrees away from Sonya’s but the settings were all within reach.
Our third stop was Savoia Bakery on Clifford Avenue, a location mentioned in all three of Sonja’s books. We had just driven by the place on our way to this tour. My family’s haunt was Elite Bakery behind East High on Atlantic but Savoia’s has outlasted them. Our next stop was 33 School, across the street from the Playground Tavern. Sonja read another excerpt from “Queen of the Fall,” one that references Savioa Bakery, Italians (who shape the character of Rochester) and being one of seven children (like I was.)
Lamont Place, off Webster Avenue was our fifth stop. We parked in front of the house where she grew up, or the spot where the house once stood. A man cut through the empty lot headed toward Goodman Plaza with a big plastic bag filled with empty beer cans. A reading from “Ghostbread” was especially poignant.
We motored down East Main to Corpus Christi where I was baptized some twenty years before Sonja. It is now called “Our Lady of the Americas.” My parents lived in apartment around the corner on Alexander Street. Sonja read a piece about a Hispanic wedding that took place here and another about living in the church’s rectory when Father Jim Callan moved out to be closer to the community he served.
The bus driver drove over the curb as we pulled into an official tourist stop, the Susan B. Anthony House, where we sat down for tea while Sonja read from her upcoming book, “Ladies Night at the Dreamland, a combination of research and imagination.” The title refers to the dancehall, amusement park in Sea Breeze near our current home. A guide took us through the house, a beautiful place, one of those mid eighteen hundred houses where the windows in the front room go all the way down to the floor. The tour was inspiring. “Failure is Impossible.”
Our final stop was Mount Hope Cemetery. The bus passengers cheered when the driver made it through the iron gates. Sonja read from a story she wrote about a grave stone here that reads, “Here lies a white slave girl.” She died at fifteen in 1857 and is buried a stone’s throw away from Frederick Douglas’s grave. Sonja is a keen observer. Her observations coupled wth her imagination is a marvel. I hope all of Rochester does read this book.
There were nine women in our yoga class this morning. Other than the teacher I was the only guy. And then we went to the women-run bakery where all the clientele were women. Just saying.
The Cornus Mas trees look like Forsythia from a distance but more like bright yellow popcorn up close. It’s too early for the Forsythia to be in bloom. Daffodils are out the ground and might go yellow next week if we get to that 60 degree mark.
If I have an opportunity to shoot mugshots of a group of friends again I would do it with a 3D, the ones that swivel around your head. And then I would do the portraits in miniature on a 3D printer. Duane sent us a picture of self-portrait, bobble-head like prototype that a business associate of his did. I can’t get the concept out of my head.
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Preferring to see the hand of the artist I especially liked seeing Jill Gussow’s current show at MCC’s Mercer Gallery, “Antidotes and Such.” She has hand sewn every object in the show. Some are clearly faces but other, unidentifiable objects feel familiar and ancient at the same time like the handiwork of a lost tribe. Equally playful and pretty, hand stitched and cut like Mexican molas with embroidery. This show is a delight.
We’re lining up our route for First Friday tonight. I know we will start with Peter Monacelli’s show at Warren Philip’s Gallery and I’d like to see Lin Price‘s paintings over at Axom, across from the strip club on Anderson Avenue. From there we will follow the wind.
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The stereo is rapidly losing its place as the gravitational center of homes. Ear buds and tiny bluetooth speakers supply sound for our personal devices so you’re not likely find a group gathered around the record player or tv set anymore. We send three signals to our stereo, a wireless stream of music from a desktop in another room to an Apple Express wired to the amp, two long RCA style plugs from our tv and the two phono plugs from our turntable. And the outbound lines go to an “A” and “B” set of speakers. There is a subwoofer wired in-line with the “B” speakers. It’s a fairly simple setup, no surround sound or HDMI connections.
For the last few months we’ve had an intermittent problem with the left channel on both sets of speakers. It gets badly distorted and then cuts out and it happens with all three input feeds so we assumed we had a problem with our amp. To confirm this, we borrowed a spare amp from our neighbor, Rick. It behaved the same way. We hired an unemployed acquaintance, a former audio specialist, someone who smoked pot in the back room and sold high-end equipment to audiophiles.
We were desperate to figure out what the problem was but this guy could care less about finding the problem, he just unplugged every connection, re-stripped the ends of the speaker wires and plugged everything back together again and it all works. This is why you hire a professional.
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New York has been the art capital of the world for so long. California artists are always getting the short end of the stick. Hockney may have been the most famous but he is English. Diebenkorn is probably the best painter. Robert Irwin is probably the best artist. Ed Ruscha is mostly engaging. The “Pacific Standard Time” show at the Getty in 2011 opened my eyes to the left coast sensibility. And lately I have held some fascination for John Baldessari.
He has been creeping up on me. When we were in New York a few months back we ran into him at the front desk of the David Zwirner Gallery in Chelsea. There were two shows there, Donald Judd downstairs and Georgio Morandi upstairs. Downstairs left me cold and I remember praying Baldessari was there for Morandi. We found this recent portrait of him at the Hammer Museum last week and then in San Francisco I found a NYT article about Baldessari’s upcoming show at the Marian Goodman Gallery in New York. Second paragraph in discusses his purchase of one of the paintings from that Morandi show. At 84 he claims it is the first painting he ever bought! So he was at the the David Zwirner desk negotiating a deal for a Morandi when we spotted him. Up another notch. I ordered “More Than You Wanted To Know About John Baldesaari” from Angel‘s couch and it arrived the day we got back.
I have funny connections to artists. I used to like Alex Katz and we were at a Whitney Biennial years ago where someone had a drum set inside a small enclosure in a big room of the museum. Visitors were welcome to play. I sat down for a minute or two and came out face to face with a smiling Alex Katz. He was wearing brown bucks. I was struggling to see an Alice Neel painting at the Modern and some guy in a wheel chair with an assistant behind the chair was planted in front of the painting for ten minutes or so. The assistant spun him around and it was Chuck Close. Years later we were wandering around Chelsea as it was getting dark. A gallery there had just installed a new Chuck Close show, a room full of his daguerreotypes and a room full of his big paintings. Two people in the gallery and one was Chuck. I took his photo and talked for a bit. He wheeled his chair to the door, propped it open a crack and lit a cigarette. We drove down to my brother’s place in New Jersey in 2009 and spent the night. We left for Manhattan the next morning and checked out his paper before getting on the train. David McKee Gallery had reunited Philip Guston’s small panels from 1969, the breakthrough series that was shown at the Marlborough Gallery that year. We went directly there. Some things are meant to be.
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This photo looks a bit like a Maxfield Parish painting, idyllic and perfectly lit. When we were in LA we walked to the top of Bel Air Road. Anyone can do this. Walking on public roads is still free although you do risk your life. There are no sidewalks in this part of the country. You can’t see Stone Canyon Reservoir from the road but there was an open house here and from the patio in the back yard you have a fantastic view. The house is a fixer-upper at six point three million.
Back on the east coast the Winter Acconite is out. The beautiful yellow flowers are in full bloom before tonight’s snowfall. The geese are overhead, squeaking their way north. Equally idyllic on the idylometer.
We sat with my mom for a bit this afternoon. She gave us her take on her suite mates. Most of them drive her crazy. An aide, assisting a blind woman across from my mom, was encouraging the woman to drink her lemonade. “Drink it up. It has your Metamucil in it. The longer it sits, the thicker it gets. Ba da boom, bad da ba!”
Four of the five musician/artists included in the April, Little Theatre art show met there tonight to talk out the details. That took about five minutes after which we got down to what artists and musicians do best. We shot the shit over beer.
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