Conversations.org | Interviews with Artists

Newsletter #54

Richard Whittaker — Tue, 05 Mar 2024 00:00:00 -0800

photo - r. whittaker

After a long hiatus, it’s a joy to be sending out issue #54 of the conversations.org newsletter. We hope this one marks the beginning of a more regular schedule. There’s no shortage of material we want to share.
     Each piece here stands in its own circle of riches. Steve Georgiou’s story, "Mana," starts with a drive he and his mother took regularly along San Francisco’s Ocean Beach. Before heading home, they would routinely stop at a nearby Trader Joe’s. But this time, as Steve was making his way back to his car, a $20 bill came gently blowing across the shopping mall pavement right up to his feet. Looking around, he saw that no one noticed. So he picked it up. It turned out that something uncanny had only begun.
     In James Manteith’s archetypal story from his youth, the support and guidance of an admired older poet set him on a path to claiming his own creative gifts. Its telling sparked memories for me, as I suspect it will for many who read it.
     Our third feature came about from my encounter with a mysterious 87-year-old Egyptian-born woman, Bouthina (Bebe) Barrett. It happened one day when I was walking in Kensington CA, in a neighborhood unfamiliar to me. If our first story is a reminiscence of passage from adolescence and adulthood, this one belongs at the other end of the spectrum. For me, it was a vivid reminder not only that things one couldn’t have made up can happen at any time, but that the deepening journey of life can continue through old age.
     It's a happy coincidence that when I interviewed artist Mary King, she was 89. And still working. For many years she'd been a subscriber to works & conversations and I’d seen photos of her work. But I'd never met her in person until, by chance, my wife and I were about to head home from a visit with a friend in San Rafael, California. Just then, I recalled a note Mary had sent me. She’d put together an exhibit of her late husband’s paintings at San Rafael’s Falkirk Cultural Center. Wasn’t it close by?
     It was. And everything lined up. Twenty minutes later, Mary herself was leading my wife and I around a large old Victorian mansion to see a selection of Kendall King’s work. I'd often thought about making a studio visit and perhaps asking Mary for an interview, but somehow it never quite materialized. Now the moment had come. Life can be like that.
     Three weeks later, we met at her apartment and, after a little tour of her own work, we sat down to talk. Interviewing Mary was a special pleasure, and by the time I delivered copies of w&c #42 to her, she’d just turned 90.
     I hope you enjoy our much delayed issue. – R.W.

...

A Conversation with Jan Wurm

Richard Whittaker — Wed, 28 Feb 2024 00:00:00 -0800

photo - r.whittaker

My friendship with Jan Wurm goes back several years. In part, it was linked to my having met and interviewed her friend, the well known Los Angeles artist Michael McMillen who she'd met when she was 17 and entering UCLA. And there were my own experiences of Los Angeles to share, as well. And eventually, we'd both come north and settled in the East Bay.
A few years prior to our conversation, she'd managed to get me invited to a UCB alumni art day (I'd had a brief stint there) where I spoke about works & conversations. I soon recognized that Jan is a natural weaver of connections, and her experience as an artist is deep and wide. Over the years, her fidelity to the figure and a seemingly efforless gift for the telling gesture has always been a pleasure to behold.
Our conversation here was preceded by other conversations and barely touches on the scope of where's she's been, who she knows and the endless stories connected to with her long and faithful life in art. But the time had come to get at least a little of it down for the record. — rw

Richard Whittaker: Before coming over, I was thinking that our deeper interests kind of point in different directions, and thought well, it could add an interesting dimension to this conversation.

Jan Wurm: I mean, that’s what’s stimulating, isn’t it? It’s not that I don’t love being with people who I’m really in sync with; it’s a very comfortable place to be. But the other feeds me in a different way.

RW: Yes. It’s a real possibility when both people are open enough. Jacob Needleman, who I knew for many years, spoke a lot about that. I was also thinking about him and his friend, Paul Reynard before coming over. Needleman interviewed Reynard who was a painter who taught at SVA in New York. Both of their interests pointed in a spiritual direction. It’s a great interview, and of course, looking at this painting of yours [a figure looking at an Egyptian sarcophagus] my associations are flying around. What’s going on there? I haven’t seen it before.

Jan:   Well, the intention is to show this dichotomy, this notion of separation, you know—the investigation and the looking-at—which is a kind of othering, as opposed to recognizing a continuity and a sameness, a shared sensibility and our oneness. Right?
     I’ve had this problem for many years, a great sadness in seeing these mummies—and thinking that they should be reburied. The bodies should never have been removed. In that issue of that distancing, we don’t see it as having been a life. There’s no honoring of it. When we investigate in this way—in scientific or analytical mode—that really creates a separation.
     There are a lot of things in the painting. I think that having the figure emerge in that way sets up this dichotomy between that which is investigated with the flashlight, and being connected—the feeling of connection.

RW: You’re saying that underneath this perceived otherness, there’s something that connects all of us? We breathe the same air, live under the same sky; we have such fundamental things in common, which is not a contradiction to people becoming self-aware and truly themselves. Is this diving too deep immediately?

Jan: No. No.

RW: No?

Jan: No. So, becoming truly self-aware would have certain consequences. I think that if one recognizes that, then I think that dispels war, for instance. Right? I mean it should. And that’s what one would hope.

RW: Yes, one would hope.

Jan: So, these things are so entwined for me. But certainly, this is a period of incredible grief and pain. The way in which we can have the separation between “us and them,” “you and me.” This painting, Archeology, actually was paired with a painting of an anthropologist. The idea that we could look at a culture, at a people—that we could have that kind of separation—engendered all the things that followed, in terms of colonialism. So, does one draw a line and say, “This is spiritual work” and “This is political work”? I don’t think you can make a distinction between them.

RW: Well, I could suggest two paintings side-by-side where it would be hard to say there’s wasn’t something fundamentally different—let’s say, Guernica versus one of those black cross paintings by Ad Reinhardt.

Jan: I think that if we don’t bring into our analysis—all that we know and think about Picasso’s biography and his personal life around that time—I think it’s an entwined political and emotional and spiritual identity. He was a Spaniard. He was concerned about his people. He never lost that identity. So, I think that outrage is filled with an empathetic response of connectedness, and does have a spiritual element to it.

RW: Okay. And Guernica is triggering the emotions—an immediate reaction from people who view it. And when someone looks at some of the Abstract Expressionist works that also flowed from deep feeling—and where I think the hope was—they also can sometimes touch a deep feeling in response. Take Rothko. The viewer doesn’t have to know anything about Rothko. I guess what I’m saying is one can’t expect a work of art to be read in terms beyond what its image conjures when someone looks at it.

Jan: Well, to stick with your example of Ad Reinhardt—it’s not immediately clear to anyone who just takes a glancing look at his painting. I mean, it demands attention and reflection—and a willingness to connect with it. Then you start seeing more and more—and you start being affected in a different way. I would say that’s not much different than looking at the way the horse is painted in Guernica. Anyone who looks at that horse is responding to that living, powerful creature, and its destruction. It’s a victim, just as the people are in that painting. And is central to it. So, I don’t think you need any kind of notion of what the bombing was and who and where. I think you respond to it immediately and see the destruction right there, and the loss of life, and that terror and pain. I think they operate very much the same.

RW: Sure. But on the one hand, you get outraged with Guernica. There’s sadness and emotional disturbance. On the other hand, with Reinhardt, you think, “What is this?” You’re not put into a state of inner turmoil. Or with Rothko, you might have some mysterious feeling from the way he did those color shapes. So, what do you want to happen with your work?

Jan: One of the things that I think is very prevalent in my work, is a call to memory—to remember and recognize that we’re not the beginning of time. That there are others who have built and created and have been here. I mean, it’s a recognition of their presence—the ancestors, the generation before our fathers.

RW: Are there particular paintings where you’re going to feel the ancestors?

Jan: I think there are ghosts in lots of my paintings. [points to one] There are dead bodies there and there’s a hand reaching up.

RW: There’s sadness and loss.

Jan: Yeah. There’s a Greek chorus on the left. There’s an orphaned child. But I would say one speaks for one’s self. I can project onto others, I think, but I think there are others also who would feel this way. That when you look at an Ad Reinhardt painting and you look at that palette, and the darkness… I mean, for me, they’re very sad paintings. They grip me and affect me physiologically. They affect my heart rate and the weight of my body, my mood, my thoughts. When you see those deep blues and the blacks, and you see a cross figure, and you have all of that there, I mean, I find that very, very gripping emotionally. I don’t know that Guernica is creating pain and that Ad Reinhardt isn’t. I think there are times when one can look at the Ad Reinhardt and feel pain too.

RW: It could be. It doesn’t affect me that way. But that doesn’t mean it might not affect you that way. How about a Franz Marc painting of those horses? That doesn’t make you feel pain or anything, does it?

Jan: No. But they don’t make me feel much of anything, actually. And even knowing his biography, and the terror of World War I, and losing all those young artists who went off to war, World War I, with enthusiasm, and died within days—even knowing all of that.

RW: He died, too.

Jan: Yeah. That’s what I’m saying. Even knowing that, when I look at that work, it doesn’t evoke that from me.

RW: It doesn’t evoke what?

Jan: I think of it as being about the simple pleasure of the arc and the arabesque.

RW: The arc and the arabesque? You mean a dance?

Jan: I mean the geometric thing, and what that line does, and what the shape does. I don’t know about you and your childhood, but when I was really little—I’m talking about like five and six—I got into my parent’s desk drawer. There was my father’s slide rule and there were all these things that were really intriguing to me. The slide rule in particular. It had its case and that shape and those corners—and there were the triangles, the square. Then he also had a set of French curves. I took them out and drew with them all the time.
I think we have these early, early responses to shapes—to certain phenomena. A line that goes this way, and then comes back—and just the way in which it does. I think those things are embedded in how we develop as an artist—and that’s what I see in Franz Marc.

RW: When you looked at and drew with French curves, did it evoke a feeling of some kind?

Jan: Well, it must have because I really loved it.

RW: You have a strong memory of this?

Jan: Absolutely. I mean, we’re talking about really basic, young responses to forms. Like being four or five years old. And I think this thing that children have about hearts, and heart-shaped things. I mean, what is this? This doesn’t relate to heart and emotion. We imbue it with that afterwards. But initially, what is it that has us about this heart shape? The curve and the coming together? The going apart? The kind of lusciousness, and holding it. You know you’ve got a form there. And then it kind of comes together. But it’s disappeared at its point of coming together. I mean, I think these things are really magical for young kids.

RW: I totally agree. That’s how I see Franz Marc’s work, too. For me, those horse paintings evoke some deep memories of childhood. You were saying they didn’t affect you, particularly.

Jan: Well, I mean, he’s not somebody who has affected me as an artist. But when I look at his work, that’s what I see. Which is why I was telling you about these experiences.

RW: One of the few times I’ve really looked at some of his paintings, it’s almost like I dreamt into them. One or two of them almost broke my heart, in a way, because of the childhood purity of them. I agree with you, they go back to simple childhood, but those experiences are some of our deepest ones. They’re still there, don’t you think?

Jan: Absolutely. Absolutely. And to go back to that period of time—I have to say that I loved cards when I was a kid, greeting cards I mean. The greatest joy was if my mother had to shop somewhere, and I could go over to the aisle where there were greeting cards and I could just look at them, open them. They were so intriguing, and the layering of them. I mean, sometimes they popped up! Sometimes they had little things—dials you could change. They had different images and numbers—that whole thing.
I’d made a card with a heart cut-out, and the heart on the inside showing through—those kinds of things—the layering and the possibilities of something not being what it appears at first. You open it up and see it’s something else.

RW: What’s coming to me is that Jan Wurm’s work springs from a deep place in her, and perhaps a lot of it has to do with the world’s transgressions against something deeper and purer in us as human beings—its transgressions and separations and oppositions—when we were more open to the beauty of life, and curious, and able to see somehow. This is sort of what’s coming to me.

Jan: I think it’s really hard to understand two things when you’re a child. One, that there can be destruction in the world. And two, how can people see this, understand it, and not stop it?

RW: It’s like the question, why is there evil in the world?

Jan: Yeah [with some emotion].

RW: Besides just liking it, I’m feeling more connected to your work now.

Jan: I think it’s just very difficult to paint children because, in the abstract, they tend to be rendered with sentimentality.

RW: Right, that’s the word.

Jan: So to avoid that, because I don’t want my work to have that at its core, that’s one way in which I’ve used animals. They’re blameless, in the same sense. And they very often have been the entry into the pictorial space. So, the human figures will not have eye contact with the viewer, but it’s the animal that engages, and is looking directly out at the viewer. It could be in the zoo—captive like this—which is very obvious. It could be an animal on a balloon. It could be an animal on a carousel in an amusement park. Wherever it is, that’s where the point of connection is, and for me, that’s the blameless questioning of why and how is this behavior?

RW: I don’t know why, but it reminds me that recently you curated an exhibit at the SHOH Gallery. All women, wasn’t it?

Jan: It was all old women. [laughs]

RW: Who have stayed with their art making for decades. Was it your idea? [yes] Can you talk about that?

Jan: The women in that exhibition were women I’d known for a period of time, whose work had moved me and whom I’d shown in other situations, or whom I’d shown with. They all are not only looking outward at other people, but they themselves are also incredibly vulnerable in the ways they put that into their work. Whether in painting or sculpture or photography, these women artists all have a commitment to looking at and seeing just how people were, and how we are as social and political animals.
Their work is very personal. I mean, there was nothing there that was just about dealing with the edge—not that the work wasn’t all very considered and exacting, and highly constructed. I mean, with all of them—from looking at their work from 1980 and from 2023, which is what it did—there was a thread that ran through the work that showed character, a consistency, a humanistic position and responsibility. All of that work really had a need to communicate.

RW: What’s coming up for me is “mothers.” We need real mothers. I mean, the Earth is our mother. It holds us. It gives us life. Mothers give life. It’s really interesting having this conversation because we’re in real territory, don’t you think?

Jan: Yeah. There are mothers—in the literal sense of one’s own biological children. There’s mothering, in the sense of mothering one’s self. I think of Lorraine Bonner’s sculpture in that show where she is mothering herself; in that work, she’s providing her own healing in that sense.
And then to look at nurturing—I mean, there are also men who engage. I mean, there weren’t men in that exhibition, but certainly we expect that in the social contract. We expect of men that they also perform in the same way. They don’t always, but we expect that. We expect that of our school systems, and we look at the teacher as having that role, also.

RW: You made a remark earlier that this a time of a lot of grief.

Jan: Yes.

RW: And what we’re talking about right now seems very much related to where this grief is because we’re lost somehow in the culture’s strategies for grabbing our attention, seducing us with entertainment and selling us products. Selling out.
You spoke of the social contract. Honoring the social contract would mean we have to behave responsibly and understand that we only prosper when we take others into consideration, and not only my own immediate desires. We help out other people if we can. All that seems to be disappearing in the rearview mirror somehow. It’s very disturbing. We’re in a frightening period. Do you feel that?

Jan: Absolutely terrifying. But to go back to your point about not just taking advantage of others, but actually helping and supporting. I think often about old barn raisings, and how people lived in other times. I do think a lot about the way in which schools now have “community service.” They have requirements for students before they can graduate from high school. Students have to have projects; they have to do community service.
It’s both really wonderful, but to me, it’s also frightening that these things aren’t happening organically already from childhood. And by the time they get to high school this should be something that’s already integrated in just the way people are living their lives. You’re talking to somebody whose ideal was to be a candy striper.

RW: What is a “candy striper”?

Jan: A volunteer in the hospital, like when you’re 15, 16. It was something I was waiting to do. I mean, I did other things before that. We’re the generation of the Peace Corps, right?

RW: Right.

Jan: And AmeriCorps. It’s amazing to me that our whole society hasn’t embraced that—that it’s remained just a narrow pocket of thought in relationship to our society. We’ve certainly been around long enough, all of us, to have gotten to the place where everybody would feel it’s the right thing and derive some kind of satisfaction from doing something for someone else.

RW: You’re saying we’ve been around long enough, we should be doing this?

Jan: We should be.

RW: Yes. And we’re not. It’s a very strange time in that respect.

Jan: There’s more “messaging” coming at people—everybody, with really different values.

RW: It’s hard not to think that, as a culture, we’re going in a bad direction. I’d say, there’s been a huge loss of trust. I think most of us regard a lot of things coming our way as being not true—lies, either outright or by implication. Like with the Amazon trucks emblazoned with the graphic, “Warning. Contents may cause happiness.” What a sly, unfortunate message. Godfrey Reggio’s second film was Powaqqatsi. Its title comes from a Hopi word powaqqa, which means “witch” or black magic. When I interviewed him, he said the film is about black magic, which he defined as “promising what you can’t deliver.” We have a lot of that in this culture.
In the canvases I see behind you, I feel the protest and the sadness. I think I’m finally getting that. And also, maybe why you’ve been doing this for so long. Now, let me see if you’ll agree with what I’m saying… It’s a very deep feeling for something of utmost value in each us, particularly from when we’re still intact in childhood. And how that’s being squandered in a culture that prioritizes getting and winning—the Buddhists would say “the five poisons” or something like that. How do you feel about what I’m saying?

Jan: Yeah. I mean they’re not sweet and content paintings, for sure. I think they’re calling us to task, particularly for those who saw the social changes of the 60s. It’s impossible not to feel there was a lot of—I don’t want to call it—betrayal, but it’s like that’s what happened. I mean, we were going to have smaller, fuel-efficient cars. We were going to have more public transportation. We were going to have all those things years ago, and now all you see are SUVs everywhere—all these kinds of things that are hard to understand within that same generation.
     I mean, what happened to everyone? I can’t figure it out.
     It was easy for us to look at our parent’s generation in the 1950s, and to look at Madison Avenue and understand how that manipulated people, and what it drove people to. It’s been a lot more difficult with this generation, where everything is online and social media. In some ways, people have more of the illusion that they’re in control and that they’re making these decisions.
     I’m not quite sure what’s at work here, where people can say “shopping therapy” and not find it abhorrent. The fact is that it’s a reality for millions and millions of people and is acceptable. Even the terminology should be stopping us in our tracks, and it’s not because it’s being pedaled as “therapy.” It’s a very bad therapeutic since it’s gone as soon as your box arrives, and it’s opened.
     That doesn’t even address the basic problems with our personal relationships, with communication, with people’s relationships to their work, and to isolation—and all kinds of issues within their lives. All of this was there and in place pre-pandemic. The pandemic was just an opportunity for this to bloom exponentially. And there are so many places where people don’t even know their neighbors.

RW: I don’t doubt that for a second. It’s only recently that I’ve gotten more and more interested in meeting people outside of my own silo. In fact, I do it on purpose now. Before, I was too shy to break the ice with strangers. If someone broke the ice with me, I appreciated it. It's this thing of the fear of “the Other.”

Jan: I think we long for the connection. I mean, I don’t see it so much as fear of “the Other” as much as fear of rejection. I think there’s a fear they’re not going to like me. They’re not going to want to engage with me. They’ve got better friends. I think we’re just very self-protective. It’s not a physical, it’s self-protective emotionally.

RW: [cell phone call] I’ll let them leave a message. I’ve already had my first encounter with artificial intelligence voice simulation. I didn’t think AI would come up here, but my heart sinks at the very mention of it. I mean, if you’re an illustrator, you can kiss your job goodbye, really. That’s part of why I say we’re in the strangest time.

Jan: What I don’t understand is, in terms of art, we’re not looking for something that’s already there. We want to do something that’s new, and of this moment in time.

RW: Well, you’re speaking as an artist and I was referring to…

Jan: Right, the job.

RW: In any case, I think we’re in a pretty small minority—those of us who have managed to cultivate a life of art. There are a lot of people who want to try that, but of course, you know how it is. You can’t sell your work. Can’t get shows.

Jan: It’s all right here.

RW: Long ago I had a feeling that what draws people into art is the instinctive wish to have an authentic, real life. Well, what does that mean? It could get back to individuation—in Jungian terms. It’s not just getting whatever I want. I interviewed Enrique Martínez Celaya maybe 15 years ago and remember him saying “Nowadays, we can entertain ourselves to death.” It was very apt then and it’s even more so today.

Jan: Yeah.

RW: The power wrapped up in entertainment, in comparison to what you and I, and others, can do as artists—I mean, there’s hardly any comparison. I’m soldiering on because there’s nothing better than the joy of having a real conversation and the magic one finds sometimes in the realm of art.

Jan:   Paint on the hand, a handprint—and we go “Wow! Look at that!” It’s the most fun there is in the world. So it is a delight. And it’s what we want to do the most because it really gives us pleasure and satisfaction. The other is that we see a little bit of our mortality. We see this passing and loss, and it’s a way of leaving a mark, holding onto something and not feeling that everything is just gone, evaporated and all over.
     I’ve had a life already. What happened to all those years? That was a whole life and it’s gone, you know? I’m not feeling all the years, and the art holds onto moments in a different way. It’s still going to be there. I think it is a place in which people can enter, and they can have the images and the thought. It’s a communication that we always hope for.
     You spoke earlier of shyness. Well, there are all these things that we may never say to someone. We may never encounter the person with whom we would have that intimate connection we’re seeking. But when you’ve got your work there, you think that at some point in time, the work may actually find the person and have that kind of connection, that conversation. Even if you aren’t there, you’re having it through the work.

RW: The work is a testament.

Jan: It can be very much a marking of experience and milestone, or understanding, or clarity.

RW: You know, I think that in many traditional cultures it’s believed that the ancestors don’t go away. They’re always there. Still present. And in recent years, I find myself beginning to believe that. It just feels true somehow.

Jan:   All of those people—parents, brothers, the closest friend—I mean, they are in your brain. It’s physically holding them. If scientists understand that people can hallucinate—that hallucinations can be created with drugs in a physical way—then they have to understand that on some level those who you’ve known, whether they’re still living or not, they still exist for you. I totally have my ghosts with me all the time—sometimes unexpectedly.
     I have one dear friend who died unexpectedly. It was really tragic. I’d be driving my car and make a right-hand turn, and all of a sudden, I’d hear her laughter. For me, she would be present, and it was always her laughter first, before I saw her.
     After my father passed, he came in a dream. He wasn’t in a wheelchair and I thought, oh, this is so great. I can have him with me now, not in pain. So we have ways of holding and keeping people that comfort us, that guide us.

RW: Yes. And getting back to animals, my wife and I have two dogs, and one in particular, Ula, has been appearing in the magazine. She looks something like a Siberian fox/corgi mix. Not all dog. Sometimes I feel like she’s a window into the mystery of life. It’s quite a different thing. It’s not going to be explained away.
I’m not sure how to pull this back to our conversation about art, but it’s just a great mystery that we exist. Language starts to fail around this point.

Jan: Well, we can’t even conceive of this time. We can’t conceive of geologic time, much less this universe. It’s beyond us. I mean if we are limited to actually being able to understand, have an empathy for one death, maybe four or five, and then beyond that we don’t have a concept—even of what it means for a thousand people to die, or ten-thousand people, twenty-thousand. How do we comprehend the stars? In our system, you know, our galaxy—and the next galaxy? But all over there are things happening, not just here on our little planet. I think it’s really useful to think about it, because then I know if a fire wipes out all these paintings, it’s not such a huge, big deal; it’s not so big.

RW: Well, we all have to face this—our impermanence, and the impermanence of our work, although it could last a bit longer, possibly. I mean, the Buddhists are reminding us all the time of our impermanence.

Jan: One of the reasons I love drawing so much is that it is inherently impermanent. It’s on a piece of paper that’s going to fall apart, and that’s the end of it. It’s very liberating because in a sense, what you’re doing doesn’t really matter. So you can do anything. Drawing has that freedom for me.

RW: It brings me back to the here and now. When you open the tube of paint and actual paint comes out, you put your brush in and start putting paint on the canvas—it’s simply a real thing, a form through which so much flows. I mean, this whole thing of making a piece of art, how would you describe that?

Jan:   On the one hand, it’s not like anything else, and on the other hand, it’s like any other chore. The beginning is really exciting. Then there’s that middle where you’re just working at it. There’s a point where may be a little tired, and then it comes to the end. It comes together, and totally surprises you—like somebody else did it. Like, where did this come from? It suddenly asserts itself as itself, and you’re out of the picture.
     I mean, yes—it’s so many different things. It’s like working, and all of a sudden you realize, “God, I’m in the middle of this!” It’s so familiar. It’s like you’ve just encountered yourself again. It’s like you’ve been asleep or something; you hadn’t been present, hadn’t been in the room with yourself. Then suddenly, you’re there with yourself in it. It’s got a lot of different things, depending upon the weather. You know?
     It’s full of surprises and it definitely has a biochemical effect to actually be doing it. I know, because at the end of the day when I’m doing something else and reflect on the day, I remember, “My God, I was painting!” And just the fact that I was painting, makes me happy afterward; just having done it. It’s like doing a good deed for yourself. You know, we were talking about doing things for others—it’s something that you do for yourself, as well.

RW: To keep yourself alive?

JW:   Definitely. I had an interesting experience in Chicago at the College Art Association conference. I just came back a week ago. One of the things that they’d done pre-COVID, and just started again, is something they call “ARTexchange.” People would sign up and bring work to show, and people would mill around. They’d have a bar set up, and it was the end of the day on Friday.
     This year there were just four of us artists. The others had ‘zines’ and my stuff is more books, really. I was sitting with someone I’d met during the conference and we were looking through this book I’d done from little pencil drawings. During 2020 when we had our lockdown and everything was really scary with COVID—I mean, those weeks in March and April were terrifying—at the end of every day, I took out a little sketchbook and a pencil and did a little self-portrait.
     We were talking about marking one’s life that way. For me, it was like, “Oh, my God, I’m still here!” And the response they had was related to their transitioning, and that they should be doing that, too.
     I’ve done similar things, always. I keep a book in my studio and the end of a painting, I’ll take whatever color is left on my brush and make a drawing from it. So, I have all these variations of my physiognomy. But this was different. This was a kind of prayer of gratitude at the end of every day—of having survived another day.
     So when you say, “What is painting like for you? What is the work like? It’s always different. It’s a hard, long way of saying this, but when you look at, let’s say from age 12 to 72—an even 60 years—it’s served so many different masters and fulfilled so many different needs. I mean, how could you do one thing, like virtually every day for 60 years, if it didn’t have different meanings at different times—and feel differently?

RW: It keeps renewing itself.

Jan: Of course. It has to.

RW: And it does.

Jan: It does. It does, and it renews itself not because I’m always coming to it with new ideas. I think it also renews itself because of the world around us and everything is changing. That I’m meeting someone new. That I’ve had a different conversation.

...

A Conversation with Fred Curchack

Richard Whittaker — Mon, 26 Feb 2024 00:00:00 -0800

photo - r. whittaker

Not long after the publication of works & conversations #42 with its memorable conversation with Dennis Ludlow (his first public role had been in the premier of Sam Shepard’s Pulitzer Prize winning Buried Child), I got a note from w&c contributor, Leslie Curchack: “I’d like to recommend someone for you to meet and perhaps interview. He is in fact, my ex-husband Fred.” Fred Curchack, I quickly learned, is an actor, playwright, teacher, director and mentor—a man whose calling appeared in childhood, was reinforced in grade school and gained traction from there all the way to great reviews in the New York Times.

works:   Now you got involved in the Gurdjieff work early on.

Fred Curchack:   Yeah, when I was 20.

works:   What do you think led you to that?

Fred:   Well, that’s impossible to answer, but I’ll make a stab at some of the influences. Years ago my son said, “Why don’t you make a play about some of the stories you tell us from your life?” And I took that as a challenge. It’s a challenge to remember things very clearly, but I called the play Glimpsings. It had to do with moments of awareness, that put together, can become a life, and I guess the unifying theme that emerged was more or less what you’ve just asked. You know, what leads a person to want to understand the mystery of their own existence? I think that in some ways it’s a God-given quality that everyone has, but it gets obscured and covered over quite a bit.
     I do remember childhood dreams at three or four years old that were almost predictions of an interest in something like esoteric ideas of various forms of feeling like I was from somewhere else. And that wove its way into the play. Ostensibly we’re talking about artistic work, and the dawning of that began before I went to the High School of Performing Arts in NYC. My interest in all sorts of playwrights kindled an interest in existential questions. By the time I was a teenager, I was reading Beatnik poets and then I became interested in reading about Zen.

works:   So in high school?

Fred:    Yeah. I got into Queens College, the City University, at sixteen. But I got a small scholarship to the University of Chicago, too. So I flew out there and was bemused by their acting classes, which seemed stupid after my classes at the High School of Performing Arts. And when I realized how much money it was going to cost, even with a scholarship, I said “Screw this! I’m going to Queens College.” At that time it was free.

works:   Let’s back up. You got interested in theater before you went to high school?

Fred:    Yeah. Even from an early age.

works:   So, what was that about?

Fred:    Yeah. Mr. Nyland asked me that, too. It’s hard to unpack that sucker. Certainly there were the puppet shows in the garage—and Halloween “spook houses” I made to terrify the neighborhood kids. These had all the elements of some of my later plays, really. The kids were so scared and I was so happy.
     Finally, they evolved to such a level that the mothers in the neighborhood came to my house and told my parents who got me to close down the spook house because the kids were having nightmares. That was just dandy for giving me a sense of being a real artiste.
     There are so many things. In elementary school I saw Mary Martin flying on Broadway in Peter Pan. And it was just so magical. So, I immediately threw my own Disney extravaganza and gave a role to every kid in the neighborhood.

works:   And this was in elementary school?

Fred:    Yeah. We did it in our basement. I directed it, and I played Peter Pan.

works:   God, that’s amazing.

Fred:    So it’s kind of… It was a given, you know.

works:   Your life was going in that direction.

Fred:    Yeah. And in fifth grade, I played a tree in a Thanksgiving pageant. They wrapped me in some brown crepe paper. It was an inglorious role. I felt I could do better than that. Then in sixth grade, I was given a lead role in a class play about a football hero, which—to put it mildly—I was not. Anyway, he was a football hero who liked to cook (which I did, and still do) and he entered a cooking competition with his “Yankee Doodle Casserole.” So he wins the prize. But you had to be a girl for the competition. So they dressed me in drag to accept the prize. We performed this play in the auditorium for the whole assembly, and I just vividly remember the howling laughter at seeing a boy dressed as a girl in front of their eyes. I thought, “This is the life!”
     Then in seventh grade, I won the junior high school declamation contest doing Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky. There was no stopping me then. The next year I directed Eugene Ionesco’s play The Leader. In the ninth grade (I skipped eighth grade) I got a scholarship to a Greenwich Village acting school—The Gene Frankel Theatre Workshop. I’d go there on Saturday mornings by myself at 12 years old and look for Beatniks in Greenwich Village, but Saturday morning wasn’t a good time to find Beatniks. But I did have bongo drums—and the poetry. And I wanted to be a Beatnik!
It was a small theater class—five, maybe seven kids—and all of us got into the High School of Performing Arts, which was very competitive. I was lucky to get into it.

works:   That had to be a big thing.

Fred:   For me it was, because I was so scared of bullying, which I had experienced a little bit of in junior high school. There were gangs in the local Flushing/Queens high school, and I told my parents, either I get into this theater high school or I’m not going to high school.

works: I mean, there’s some real trauma there, as a kid with bullies.

Fred:   Yeah, it’s dreadful, dreadful… and my experience wasn’t even that bad compared to so many I hear about.

works:   Yeah. I got bullied once and it was so fucking traumatic. This kid just beat me up.
Fred:   Yeah, it happened to me too. Toughest kid in the neighborhood. He accused me of insulting his father. I said, “I don’t know you and I don’t know your father.” He said it was in the newspaper office. I said, “What did I say?” Finally, he beat the shit out of me, and after that, he treated me like his buddy.

works: Really?

Fred:   They prove their superiority and then it’s okay.

works:   I talked with someone who went through the Performing Arts High School, Ana Valdes Lim, and it sounded amazing. How was it for you?

Fred:   Loved it. I reconnected with some old friends and we Zoom most weeks for an hour-long chat. How long ago was this, 1964? But it was so good and we made deep connections, shared something deep.

works:   You know, just having spent eight months last year in this little group of actors and wannabe actors, developing monologues, now I know how connected you can get to feel. Every week, getting up there and trying to craft this performance. It was so intimate—just a trove of experiences, a spectrum. And I’m assuming this would not be unusual.

Fred:   Yeah. Everyone, I imagine, craves connection. People are afraid of it, traumatized about it… But in theater, it’s relatively safe to make a connection. To some extent, you’re doing it through these alter egos of the role you play, although with your monologues you were probably being yourselves. [yes] But even if you’re performing your self, you’re no longer quite yourself.
There’s still a mask of some kind that protects you. And on another level, when theater really gets good and interesting, it becomes much less safe than the protected state we all make for ourselves in daily life, because ultimately, the most interesting work is the most vulnerable and most exposed.

works:   Say more about.

Fred:   Before doing that, I want to make sure I didn’t leave dangling what I was aiming at when you asked about my getting into theater…

works:   Well, it was fascinating and sounded almost like you came into this world with a history. I mean, sometimes it’s hard not to think that we’ve been here before in some way.

Fred:   Yeah. I don’t traffic in reincarnation. We take ourselves to be the results of our conditioning and education, and generations of beliefs and so forth. But I don’t think looking at past lives helps us come anywhere closer to experiencing who we really are.
     Briefly, I studied Indian singing with Ali Akbar Khan and I remember one song he translated. It was like, “Poor you, lifetime after lifetime, and you still don’t know who you are”—something like that.
     But that said, for a long time, I’ve shared your feeling that there is something from another lifetime. When I was three years old, I remember having imaginary friends who were acrobats and performers. I’d bounce on the bed and talk to them. It’s not like I thought they were real—I mean, they were very real—but at the same time, I didn’t ask people to talk to these invisible friends. But it was a very powerful relationship, and it dealt with performing.
     And when I was 24 years old, I was in Japan for a few months studying Noh Theater, and had some experiences of feeling like I was a ghost looking at people in this life from a different life.

works:   Experiences when you were performing?

Fred:    No. I did perform in Japan on that trip, but not then. I connected with the keeper of the Daitoku-ji temple in Kyoto after hours, somehow. In my rudimentary Japanese, I was able to strike up a conversation with him, and he invited me to take tea. I had a flute with me and we were sitting there in this ancient rock garden. I played my own funky imitation of a shakuhachi flute and we had tea. He invited me to rake the garden, which is called the Sea of Eternity. By then, for several years, I’d already been a student with Mr. Nyland. I’d learned to sit from Suzuki roshi when I was 19 in San Francisco, and I’d sat at some Zen monasteries while in Japan. So, I felt this was part of my being, part of my legacy—whatever that could possibly mean.

works:   You mentioned that at a certain point, you felt like a ghost looking at… what were you saying, again?

Fred:   It was like it was another lifetime and I was observing from this lifetime. I mean, one other time I remember having that experience in Japan. It was at an Oban festival on the seashore. People were doing folk dances, and it was all very, very old. There were bonfires and thousands of people. I was watching and again, it was like, “This isn’t like a movie; it’s like a lifetime I’m experiencing.
     I became interested early on in Japanese Noh Theater. I studied it when I was an undergraduate in an Oriental literature class. It blew me away because I was already into theater, and suddenly there was this poetic theater form that Ezra Pound had translated, or William Butler Yeats developed, as a whole theater form based on his limited experiences of these plays.
     So, it blew me away. And part of it was because I was so dissatisfied with the superficiality of what was offered as a career in theater. And another part was how it spoke to my essence—as it’s intended to do. All of that converged in occasionally doing plays that were inspired by, or were directly related, to Noh Theater—and also studying with a Noh master briefly.

works: Wow. I know next to nothing about it. I have this idea that in Noh Theater there’s not much of what we think of as action. But if a performer can really inhabit a certain something that we don’t know much about here in the West, everybody can get it, and it’s just powerful. Is this in the ballpark?

Fred: Yes, absolutely. If you inhabit it—I’d like to use the word ‘embody’ it—if you get it in your body, in your being, in your whole entirety, then everyone will get it. At least on some level. I mean, even if there are concepts or words they don’t get, they’ll get the energy.

works:   That fascinates me. And I’d say I’ve had a taste of that in my own experience. It’s something we don’t—with all our scientific knowledge—understand much about. I mean, there’s this realm of subtle energies nowhere on our radar in terms of any cultural introduction. It’s a big area to talk about, and so interesting when it’s communicated and people can feel it. We’re way more subtle than we think we are as beings. Something like that.…

Fred:   Yeah. I think that probably summarizes why I’m fascinated by, and have been devoted to doing, live theater, although I made quite a bit of video integrated into my work. I love to watch movies, but they don’t do “that thing” the way live theater does. I mean, the evidence of the level of being. The quality of being, of the individual actor is somewhat apparent on the silver screen—and certainly, the screen is analogous to our experience of life, but it doesn’t really do what you just talked about the way live theater does, where you’re physically present with other people.

works:   Right. At its best there can be a real quality of being.

Fred:   Yeah. Well, you asked what might have led me to the Gurdjieff work, and certainly I told you of my interest in the Beat poets, and then Japanese Noh Theater. And there were other concepts related in Eastern thought, particularly Zen, and in San Francisco learning to sit with Suzuki roshi—these were extraordinary experiences.
     When I was 19, my first girlfriend committed suicide. It was such a crushing experience. I dropped out of school, moved to the country, and became very… and I was also was taking psychedelic drugs and smoking pot—the usual stuff of the 60s with all the psychedelic literature. Aldous Huxley, Alpert and Leary, Metzner and Alan Watts were weaving Eastern mysticism and esoteric ideas together with psychedelic experience. That was my ‘bag’ briefly, and then I started to see that after a fantastic high, I’d feel lower.
     So, I stopped doing that, and did learn to sit. It was an important experience. But then right after that, I read Gurdjieff’s All and Everything, and that book was a life-changing experience. I read it cover to cover and then went east to find Mr. Nyland, who I’d heard about. I had a friend who was a student of his. I was allowed to come to a meeting—I was 19, maybe 20. It was in a small, New York apartment with quite a few people, maybe 60, sitting in chairs, crammed in. Mr. Nyland played piano—improvised for a long, extended piece, which I found unbelievably good.
     I’m not as big a fan decades later, but he was a remarkable, idiosyncratic musician in a kind of romantic/classical style. I was very much opened up by the music. Then he sat down and talked for an hour-and-a-half. In the course of that, he occasionally looked directly at me as he was speaking. I was pretty close by and basically, he turned my psychical world inside out.
I could say he reached into my mind and gave me myself in such a dramatic and mind-boggling way—the kind of thing I was romanticizing about a teacher. I was completely gobsmacked by the experience. Then he got up to leave and he walked straight over to me and shook my hand. He looked me in the eye and said, “Do I know you?”
     And right away, even at 20 years old, I thought, “Oh, shit. You know you know me.”
     He said, “You can come back if you wish.” And I was hooked. That level of being. I don’t believe it was my imagination. I’d been guru shopping and had met quite a few yogis and Zen masters. I danced with Sufi Sam Lewis in San Francisco trying to find someone who could help me, because I did—as your character in your monologue said—feel lost.

works: Yes. What years were you in San Francisco?

Fred:   That must have been ’67.

works: That’s the same year I speak about in my first monologue, interestingly enough. So in theory, we could have passed each other on Haight Street.

Fred:   Because I met Mister Nyland in ’68. And the level of being I experienced in that first meeting was something that always impressed me. Later, after he died, I read an obituary in the New York Times, which said that he’d been the director of the OSS (Office of Strategic Services) in Java during World War II. I mean the guy was a spy, as well as a musician—and had a PhD in Chemistry. He was an outrageous person. He’d studied with Orage, and then ended up spending quite a few years working directly with Gurdjieff.

works: I wish I’d met him. So, somehow I’m leaping back to that most vulnerable part of theater, where the deepest theater can be. I don’t have the experience to talk about this, although the experience I have had, brief though it’s been, has been profound—I’d have dreams, surprising memories came back. It just churned up my world in a way that was rich, and revelatory, at times. So, I wonder if there’s anything more you could say about that deepest level of theater that you alluded to several minutes ago.

Fred:    Well, you know, I’ve been a college professor, as well as a producing, performing and writing theater artist. So, as a professor, I like to profess—and I can shoot my mouth off about that.

works:   Okay. But first give a little thumbnail of your life as a professor of theater, and then I do want to hear you shoot your mouth off.

Fred:   Well, when I was graduating from Queens College—I guess I was 20 at the time—I felt kind of omniscient because I’d discovered Gurdjieff and Grotowski. One of my teachers, who went on to be a TV and movie director, had just worked with Eugenio Barba, and I think he worked directly with Grotowski. He taught us what was passing for Grotowski’s work at the time—physical exercises called plastiques and corporeals. The plastiques were also called details and the corporeals, or elements, were full-bodied, yogic-type movements. He taught us those as a way of improvising and getting ready…

works:   Grotowski?

Fred:   No, no, this guy Joel Zwick. He brought the first copy, as yet unpublished in the U.S. of Barba’s edition of Towards a Poor Theatre, which was about Grotowski and documented his work. So I bit into that with full gusto because Grotowski was a kind of spiritual tripper, or teacher, or guru, or charlatan—whatever you want. He was an outlandish explorer of theater art. I recognized that and completely tried to do it, but shortly after that, Grotowski came and gave talks in the U.S. And because we were directly studying his ideas, he gave us first row seats in Town Hall in New York, along with Andre Gregory’s group, “The Manhattan Project.” He discussed how he didn’t have a method to follow and he hoped the seriousness of his research would inspire other people, but not to claim that we were doing his method because he didn’t have one. He was just searching.
     I loved that, and was liberated from being a Grotowskian. But I did continue to attend all of his various events, and ultimately got to work a little bit with him and more with his actors. He always saw his work in line with Stanislavski’s work. And I’d been told that I was learning Stanislavski technique from the time of Performing Arts High School onward. So now, when I read Stanislavski’s writings, it’s more apparent that he had a kind of powerful religious or spiritual intention in the artistic and psychological work he did to create his approach to acting. Now it’s the most common approach to acting you get anywhere, worldwide. Although it ends up being expressed in a whole bunch of different ways.
     I researched this a little and found that Stanislavski was very much influenced by what he thought was Raja yoga that some guy named Ramacharaka wrote about. He talked about super-consciousness and the soul, and the unconscious and its relationship to the subconscious and the superconscious. This Ramacharaka was actually an American occultist character who had a very sketchy understanding of yoga.
     But Stanislavski adapted that and it became very much a part of his language about this kind of creative “I” that was basically synonymous with the soul. It was partially Russian Orthodox traditional mysticism and partially this kind of quasi-Eastern thing. But Grotowski’s teaching—and he saw his work as being in line with Stanislavski—was totally different than all the interpretations of Stanislavski I’d been taught as a Western actor. He spoke about it in Towards a Poor Theatre, which later became very influential in spiritual terms about unmasking and relating it to the via negativa of medieval mysticism, where you don’t accumulate tricks or craft, but you get rid of things. And in this case, it’s getting rid of everything.
I mean, I continued to study, never deeply, different forms of Buddhism and certainly, the Tibetans talk in that way, as well, in Dzogchen teachings and you can find this in Zen teachings and Sufi teachings and yoga. I studied yoga for many years—the yoga teachings, and Advaita Vedanta teachings of Ramana Maharshi—and Nisargadatta Maharaj, who wrote that book, I Am That, which I love so very much. And I noticed in Peter Brook’s interview with Grotowski about Gurdjieff, that he actually mentions Nisargadatta at the end of that interview. (Peter Brook isn’t credited as the interviewer published in Needleman’s book of essays on Gurdjieff, but I later found out. Both Brook’s essay and then this interview are published there.)
     I love Nisargadatta so much, because it’s almost antithetical to all the extraordinary complexity and depth of Gurdjieff’s ideas. Tat Tvam Asi. You don’t do anything. That’s who you are. On the other hand, as Mr. Nyland said, when asked about that kind of thing, “Well, it’s a moot point whether we’re already that, or that we have to create it.” He loved Ramana Maharshi. The fact is, we don’t experience that, so how do we get to that direct experience? It’s basically like what you were saying. How do we live?

works:   It’s seemingly a very simple question, right? But it’s a question that can go all the way down.

Fred:   Yeah. So that was Grotowski in answer to your question about the deepest level of acting. His earlier theatrical period was about that, and that’s what attracted Peter Brook to him. In Peter’s book, The Empty Space, which is taught in a lot of theater schools, he talks about different kinds of theater, and one of them is “the Holy theater.” And he talks about Grotowski and his company. So, there is this kind of sacred or holy attitude towards what the actor is doing. Now, in truth—after I ended up working with these people directly—I found out it’s more than meets the eye, you know? It’s easy to romanticize this shit and imagine that it’s more holy than it might actually be. For example, the holy actor for Grotowski was Ryszard Cieslak, who I got to know quite well. He stayed at my house, and we did workshops. I’d seen him in a bunch of their plays when they came to the U.S.
     I mean, this thing the plastique and corporeal exercises were mistaken for Grotowski’s great sacred method by all these groups calling themselves “Physical Theater” or “Movement Theater” or “Experimental Theater.” Ryszard told me, “Yeah, I read this little Polish book about yoga postures, and I said, “Grotowski, why don’t we do these while running around?’”
     Well, those guys beat the shit out of themselves doing those exercises, and they all had bad backs and knees from thrashing about and doing this stuff. So, with all sorts of new ideas one tends to romanticize what they are. So this thing you asked about the deepest level of acting, worldwide theater writers were, at a certain period, holding Ryszard Cieslak up as the holy actor, the exemplar of what Brook called the holy theater of Grotowski’s acting. It had reached that level. Then I was drinking every night with this alcoholic guy who was screwing a friend of mine and another woman who’d helped me organize the workshop. I always had fun with him, but he was totally duplicitous and screwing people over right and left. It was like I had to say, “Holy mackerel, this guy is really fucked up.”
     Then I worked much more intensively over the years with Zbigniew Cynkutis, a fellow member Grotowski’s Theater Lab, who told me, “Yah, Fred, when we did the Constant Prince,” (which is one of their seminal productions) “Cieslak played a prince, who gets beaten and tormented, and he ends up doing this monologue, which was written about extensively as the deepest level of acting, ‘the greatest actor in the world.’” Then Cynkutis said, “Yah, in rehearsals Grotowski had us beat the shit out of Ryszard, literally, and I think something in him was broken in the process.”
     So, this is all gossip, but it made me reconfront this whole notion which had been so influential for me in my own approach to acting—revolutionizing how I regarded what I would do as an actor.
     At the time, I was working with Zbyszek Cynkutis. He’d proposed that I’d get together a small group and we’d do this play together. We created it on The Book of Job, and he did some improvisations with me that made me incredibly vulnerable. But after he’d told me “the holy actor story,” I thought, “I’m glad he’s so gentle with me.”
     It was basically through a kind of delicacy that I started to appreciate some of the depth of what they were striving for in their artistic work, not through the thrashing about—which I learned alongside of Sam Shepard. He was a fellow student with Grotowski and his company when we finally did some of those exercises with them. I mean, that shit was murder. You could barely walk after the first day or two. And then eventually, you became rather opened up.

works: Wow.

Fred:   But so much of it is through a much more delicate, sensitive thing. So, there’s no formula for how one arrives at what you’re commenting on—the depths that one can experience as an actor. The medieval codifier of Japanese Noh Theatre, Zeami, had an expression “riken no ken,” which had to do with observing yourself as you’re dancing—seeing yourself. It’s very similar to the Gurdjieffian notion of self-observation without praise or blame. Just seeing. And it’s very much related to Kensho, or the Zen idea of awakening.
     So, ultimately, I think that became Grotowski’s prime concern. What can one do to arrive at that? He knew about Gurdjieff’s writings on objective art, and his own phase of research called “Objective Art Project” where he assembled all these shamans, medicine people, Sufis and Kabbalist Jews to do things from their process, trying to understand the objective elements in art forms that lead to awareness or transformation.
     He didn’t credit Gurdjieff, but I always thought that he just kind of lifted the idea directly. And then, as Zbyszek told me after decades of working with Grotowski, “Well, Grotowski is a genius. So he takes credit for everyone else’s ideas.”

works:   It’s fascinating what you’re saying about how sensitivity can open someone into depth versus a harsh, even violent push. It makes me think of the difference between Rinzai and Soto Zen. With Rinzai, you just beat the doors open. With Soto, you wait for the fruit to ripen and eventually it falls from the tree.

Fred:    How beautiful. That was so interesting with Suzuki roshi. Because I’d read about getting whacked with a stick. But you had to ask for the whack.

works: Just a few days ago someone was telling me she’d been in a Zen sit and was feeling apprehensive because she could see the shadow of the stick master. She’d hear somebody get whacked and get more nervous. Then eventually she got whacked—once on each shoulder. She said it wasn’t painful and getting whacked, she said, “Just instantly straightened my spine!” There was something precise there, apparently.

Fred:    Well, I mean I’ve read about other traditions, where out of the blue, they whack you in the head. But with Suzuki roshi, I always put up my hands to beg him to whack me because it was like that. It was like getting an adjustment from the master. And plus, the tension that accrues from long periods of sitting just kind of goes out.

works:   Yeah. How much time did you spend with Suzuki roshi?

Fred:    Not much—a month maybe, but every day, morning and evening. Or maybe not seven days a week. But it was a month at the San Francisco Zen Center.

works: I once sat a ten-day Vipassana with Goenka. I think it’s a little more hardcore than the group out at Spirit Rock. We sat ten hours a day. I mean, let me tell you. That was hard. Maybe I’m not going to do another one in this lifetime, but it gave me two extraordinary moments that I’ll never forget.

Fred:    It’s an amazing discipline.

works:   Yes. And I know some people who can sit. Forget about it. They can sit for a month, two months if they want. But that’s another realm. At one point, you were going to give me a thumbnail on your life as a professor of theater. Are you still teaching?

Fred:    Yes. I teach at University of Texas at Dallas. I’d started to say that way back as an undergrad and had been exposed to Grotowski and to Gurdjieff, I had an idea to do a class in what I called “Ritual Theatre.” I asked them, “Could I teach this?” And they said, “Yes, but you have to become a graduate student.” So, they let me set up a kind of tailor-made program for myself and let me write, direct and produce my own plays—some of them in the city, in New York, at La Mama. Because they were a loving, supportive group of professors who were incredibly influential for me.
So I began teaching while I was a Masters student at that college, and I taught quite a bit. I started a theater program for the United Nations International School. I started a senior program for New York senior citizen centers, and a senior acting company. I taught where I went to school at Queens College. When I moved to California, I applied to a lot of colleges, and I didn’t even get interviews. Eventually, a friend of mine, who was a chair of a film department in New York, said, “Find a place you want to teach. Just call ‘em up and go see ‘em!”
     So I did that. I chose Sonoma State University for various reasons and I called them up. I dropped by and hit it off with the theater chair. And within a year, I was teaching there. I taught there part-time for seven-and-a-half years.
     Although I’d been creating new plays all along, and performing and touring them, I finally connected with this one play adapted from The Tempest of Shakespeare called Stuff As Dreams Are Made On—a solo performance. I was invited to perform it worldwide. I asked if I could have a leave and come back as a teacher. They said, “No.”

works:   And this is something you wrote?

Fred:    Yes. And performed, and made masks for, and did music for. I’d just finished touring a huge show that I’d written, combining Aristophanes’ The Birds and Lysistrata. It was a great experience. But it was such a mind-numbingly hard thing to work with a huge group of people and technicians. We didn’t make any money, and I had two little kids. So I needed to make money, and being a part-time college teacher wasn’t doing the trick. So the solo show ignited, and for several years I toured, constantly getting—what were for me—astronomical, nightly fees plus top-ten recognition in the New York Times—all sorts of marvelous, validating things, none of which I’d had before.

works:   That must have been incredibly heady stuff.

Fred:    Heady. Heady. Heady. Heady. I was on the road doing the same show over and over again—sometimes eight times a week. And I still wanted to make plays, but I was getting tired. My kids were little. Then I was recruited for a tenured professorship at the University of Texas. I didn’t think I wanted to move from California to Texas with Leslie [Curchack]—we were then married, and our kids were little—but we went out there and they wooed us. So I took it, and I’m glad I did, because I continued to make plays and tour. They gave me an advantageous schedule, which made that easy to do. I didn’t have to ask when I wanted to take off and fly somewhere. I just did it, because they knew I’d be responsible to the students. And I’ve been doing that for 37 years.
     Just this morning, I was on the phone and Internet with some of my graduate students about their work and their projects. It’s so satisfying to be even a small part of the evolution of what other people are doing.

works: It’s amazing for me to be here talking with you, Fred—and hearing all that you’re sharing, and have been through in your life. It’s really something.

Fred:    Well, thank you, Richard. Likewise, I should be interviewing you—although having seen your monologue—I said, “Holy mackerel. This guy’s got a lot to say!” After Laura and I watched it, I said, “And he’s not acting. You know?” That’s the thing—when you asked about what the deepest level of acting is—for Stanislavsky and later for Grotowski—it’s when you’re no longer acting.
     But you catch me at an advantageous time to blather about my work, because I’m on a year-long sabbatical, and I’m writing every day about my work.

works: That’s good. The forces lined up, and I’m loving it. And the masks I’ve seen in a couple of clips of you on stage are amazing.

Fred:    That clip of Stuff As Dreams Are Made On?

works:   I think so. Did you make all those masks?

Fred:    Yeah. I studied sculpture in college. I love to make stuff.

works: There’s one scene where you’re struggling to get this mask off. It’s almost a life and death struggle going on, and with all these really intense sounds… And it’s an amazing mask with this big nose. So how did you come make this particular mask?

Fred:   Well, part of my year sabbatical is not only writing—I mean, I’ve written about approximately 50 of the 78 original shows that I’ve made. And in order to write about the work, I’ve had to look at old videos and read old scripts to remember and try to re-experience something of what went into them. And although I wrote all these scripts, some didn’t even exist in script form. Like this play that you’re talking about. It was developed through improvisation, using Shakespeare’s own language, and then there was stuff I interpolated. I performed that one maybe a thousand times all over the world, and there was no script. Luckily I had these funky old videos. I realized that I had to write notes because even with the script, often there’s no way to understand what I’m doing because a lot of it is the image and not just the words.

works: Right.

Fred:   Like Murray Mednick. I did read that part of his interview where he says “it’s all in the words.” Peter Brook, in his writing, said the only thing people will remember from a play are the images and not the words. And I adore words. I love to write. I mean, I love to do Shakespeare, or Beckett, or Chekhov, or the Greeks—or any number of great written stuff. I love poetry. So, I find the words very important. But as a visual artist, I think the images are incredibly important—in this case, the metaphor of taking off mask after mask. They’re all latex masks, so they could actually fit one on top of the other, which is a bit tricky.
     I did have the rare chance of getting to discuss this play with Peter Brook. I was performing it at the same festival where he was doing the Mahabharata in Germany.
     He said that Caliban, the monster in The Tempest—which is the mask you’re talking about—is the ego. I told him I didn’t agree, that I thought Prospero the magician says, “Thou earth, thou!” He calls him, “Thou earth, thou!” He gathers their fuel—their fire—and he does manual labor. For me, Shakespeare makes Caliban into the body—and also, he’s horny. He tries to rape Prospero’s daughter, Miranda. So, those are certainly sex, drugs, and rock and roll. They’re attributes of the physical body. I saw the characters as having something to do with layers of personality, but also different qualities of the self—Caliban being the physical. Then you rip that off, and there are other masks to be ripped off.
     Ultimately, when you’ve ripped off all the masks in my play, I try to rip off my own face. Which is not so clear in the video I gave you. Somebody filmed that for PBS and ended up editing it in a way that didn’t show that. It’s “is there something underneath, layer upon layer, that covers us?”
     So, one of the many places I performed it, was at my friend Larry Sacharow’s theater in Woodstock. He produced it there. Larry was in Mr. Nyland’s group and he later led a group in the New York Gurdjieff Foundation. He said, “This play is about the Work, isn’t it?”— Nobody says that to me because they don’t have that point of reference,—And I said yeah, that’s what I’m trying to do, but through indirection, not by preaching about it. It’s by taking away this, that, and the other, and what are you left with? Is there something underneath all that? I think Shakespeare writes about all that, certainly in the later plays. But they exist on so many levels, simultaneously. I try to embody my understanding of that with the texts, and try to let the text collide with the image, so that a new meaning, or a new experience emerges.
     My Caliban mask was derived from a Noh Theatre mask, which is also a very dirty mask in Japanese tradition. One of them is of a jealous woman who turns herself into a demon, and the other is of a guy with a penis for a nose. Another mask is a death mask; it’s literally a death mask, the way they make them with plaster molds. The mask of the magician is just a white death mask, which I wear for him. There are several others, each with their own source.

works:   Right there at the end, I was reminded of listening to Laurens van der Post many years ago. His nursemaid had been from the San people and he grew up in South Africa and had learned some of that clicking language.

Fred:    Yeah. The Lost World of the Kalahari. That was a great book.

works:   He wrote many. I heard him speak at a lecture series that Jacob Needleman had a lot to do with. Van der Post spoke about The Tempest. He’d actually produced the play once and was very familiar with it. As one of Shakespeare’s last plays, Van der Post thought his message was that if you want to go deeper, you have to turn to religion—that art can only carry you so far. It was a very striking statement and has stuck with me all these years.

Fred:   Yeah. I think that’s true. I mean, the word ‘religion’ is a little tricky these days. But something that’s religious, or has that most essential quality—and certainly Stanislavsky professed to do that (and a lot of contemporary actors kind of have that lingo)—it’s not unheard of. But it doesn’t manifest that well in general culture.

works:   Not so much, right.

Fred:   No. The plays that are popular these days are concerned with social justice issues, and I embrace most of those issues. But they don’t go to that deeper level that you’re talking about.

works:   Right. We’re talking about something that seems almost impossible to give another person. If I’ve had a certain kind of deep experience, I can “tell” people about it, but I can’t really give it to them. So that brings us to the edge of theater and these deeper realms of experience.

Fred:   Sure. I have nothing but highfalutin opinions about that—and a few experiences to go along with them, as well. I was very attracted, as I was telling you, to Zeami, the playwright who wrote a lot of the Noh plays that are still performed hundreds of years later. He also was a theorist and performer—a theorist of acting. Earlier I mentioned riken no ken, I think it’s pronounced, which is the experience of awareness of yourself dancing— that when you’re performing as a Noh actor, you’re dancing, and seeing yourself panoramically, objectively. It’s equated with the Zen experience of kensho or awakening.
     It’s said to do away with the subject/object relationship, that dualistic perception—I’m performing and you’re the spectator. I think that’s what you were asking about, the spectator’s experience of something palpable, something that’s true, something that’s present, and something that takes one beyond the ordinary. If the performer is able to experience that in performing, it does away with the separation with the audience. And the audience gets it, theoretically.

works:   Right.

Fred:    You asked me earlier if I had experiences like that. We’re talking about well over 55 years of performing—and all of it under the influence of Gurdjieff’s ideas and other ideas which speak of such things. But trying to make them real in daily life, and in the experience of performing, is a central concern for me. I was attracted to Grotowski originally—particularly in the early stage of his research where he talked about what he called, “the Total Act.” For him, it was also impossible to articulate what that is, exactly. You can say what it’s not, because so much of what we experience, and so much of what happens, in performance is, well, superficial bullshit, prevarication, lies, obscuration—you name it. It’s not being present.
So, same with Zeami. He didn’t really try to theorize too much about what that awareness in performance was, or the transcendent experience of beauty, which is the coming together of all the elements in the performance. But he wrote poems about it. He wrote metaphors, almost like Zen koans or haikus, rather than trying to express directly what that experience is. And for me as well, from thousands and thousands of performances, there is an experience of that, where the border between myself and the action that I’m performing, and the audience that’s witnessing it, and my mind—all those borderlines disappear. There’s a unitive experience of being present. It’s not reliably there, although I would venture to say that reliably and always, that’s who we are. That’s who I am. But the perception and experience of that is not always there. It can be there. And it’s wonderful when it is.

   ...

A Conversation with Archana Horsting

Richard Whittaker — Fri, 16 Feb 2024 00:00:00 -0800

photo: r. whittaker

Archana Horsting at Kala 6/17/23

Welcome to KALA. I’m Mayumi Hamanaka, co-director with Ellen Lake. We’re so excited to present this amazing exhibition - "Archana Horsting—On the Fringe of the Field." And so happy to have everybody here today to see Archana’s prints, drawings, paintings, and all sorts of different things. Her work is hanging throughout the entire space and I hope you can check it out after this conversation.

Archana has dedicated close to 50 years for KALA’s mission of supporting artists and the art community. And she’s been vigorously making her own work for 50 years, too. It’s wonderful to have this amazing work here in the gallery to share with you. And today we’ll hear more about this work directly from her. Richard Whittaker is going to interview Archana. Afterwards there will be some time for questions. And after that we’ll have a book signing. You can purchase our beautiful catalog of this work, and Archana and Richard will sign your copy.

I want to tell a little bit about Richard. He’s an amazing writer and has a long relationship with the arts. He’s worked in ceramics, painting, photography and sculpture, so he’s also an amazing artist. He holds degrees in philosophy and clinical psychology, and spent a year at the Graduate Theological Union here in Berkeley in the 1970s, and he’s also the West Coast editor of Parabola magazine. His relationship with publishing began in 1991, when he founded the art magazine, The Secret Alameda which became works & conversations in 1998. And ten years ago, in issue #28, he featured an interview with Archana and some of her work. Copies of his current issue are by the entrance, and you’re invited to take one. So with that, I will hand the mic over to Richard.

RICHARD WHITTAKER: Thank you, Mayumi. It’s great to see everybody here. As I look out at all of you, I think, well, it's good that we’re squeaking by before artificial intelligence has taken over. We’re still operating with actual intelligence as best we can.

ARCHANA HORSTING: It’s no competition.

RICHARD: For the last three or four mornings, I woke up thinking, how am I going to introduce Archana? There’s so much that could be said. In a way, the thing that’s most impressive is the creation KALA, and its having taken root. Fifty years ago, these two artists, Archana Horsting and Yuzo Nakano rented a garage in San Francisco for artists to work in, and soon moved to a storefront in Berkeley, where they got an etching press. And this [gesturing around the room and KALA] is what happened. If you’re in art world, you understand how amazing that is

I’d heard of Archana because I had some friends who had taken workshops here. I thought well, here’s an artist who is running this wonderful place for artists, and she does her own work, too. So probably most people think of her as the director and co-founder of Kala, and don’t think about her art, particularly.

I know about that because of my own relationship with art, which eventually led me to doing works & conversations. And people associate me with the magazine, not my art. So I thought that somebody should give Archana some recognition for her art, too. Then one day I was in the Berkeley Art Center and saw that piece on the wall [pointing]. It's from her series, Text, Context, Texture, Architexture and it immediately touched me. That’s a mysterious thing when a piece of art pierces you, isn’t it?

And I immediately asked the director, Suzanne Tan, who did that? She told me it was Archana. That was the moment, ten years ago, that I decided to ask her for an interview. So Archana, here we are in front of everybody. You’re surrounded by fifty years of accomplishment. What’s the first thing that comes to your mind about this moment?

ARCHANA: Hello, everybody. Well, first of all, it’s just such a wonderful opportunity as an artist to see a large number of your works together in one place, and to see all your long-time friends and associates in one place. So, it’s a huge opportunity for me, and I love seeing what the one work has to say about another. I just come every once in a while and sit in the little couch at the back near the window and look. I can kind of imagine the conversation that’s going on between the pieces, because they talked to each other on the walls as I was making them.

In some cases, they wanted to be diptychs and triptychs. They’d say, “I would like to be close to that one over there.” So I would shift them—I was just pinning them to the walls—I’d shift the paper and then they started creating a series of things. So [pointing] there are some larger ones here and there—diptychs and triptychs. When I first started, I was doing one panel at a time. That’s been the fun of this whole thing, the inquiries I was making. Instead of getting boring, the work just kept showing me new sides.

RICHARD: Well, I thought it might be interesting to ask you about your series, On the Fringe of the Field. I mean, these are in your Body of Water Series, and you’ve used your fringe technique with them, too. Why don’t I just ask you about your thoughts about your title, "The Fringe of the Field"? It’s a big question, a big subject.

ARCHANA: It’s a good subject. And yes, it is a big subject because it means a lot of things to me. The obvious reference might be the fringe, or a feathering, of some of the edges in these pieces, but what do I mean by field? All of you can probably think of ten kinds of fields. You know, there’s the farmer’s field, there are fields in physics like a magnetic field, there’s a kind of field that’s what your research or study would imply. All of these kinds of fields came to mind. And I felt l was kind of on the fringe of the art world field, even though I was at the center of it with wonderful artists. I didn’t really feel perceived as an artist in my own right, so maybe it’s even a self-definition.

I thought that fringe was always a very interesting place to be, on the edge. So that was good. I think there’s one piece that I actually called Fringe of the Field. But the series all came out with things I thought I’d get tired of when I started feathering things, but it seems very long-lasting.

RICHARD: And you discovered the feathering when you were working with oil sticks, like “Oh, wait a minute, I can push these edges with my fingers.” It opened this whole new thing for you, right?

ARCHANA: Yes. A lot of the things I use here are on the kindergarten level. You know, just the simplest thing you could do with pigment and paper—sort of finger-painting in a way. It did come from years and years of printing etchings. So, some of you are very aware of hand-wiping in etching before you print it, and for some of you, it probably doesn’t mean much. But basically, if you’re a printmaker, over time you can control the tone of the ink you’re using on the plate with how you wipe it. And there are many different ways to wipe a plate. I did it many times mostly with my hand. If you pull too much ink off, you lose some of the nuances you wanted to keep. So, I developed a sense of my hand. Even though the structures were built into the plate, once I inked them up, I had to go through that removal of the excess ink. It was then that I got sort of a sensitive control of my fingers, and also a circular motion, and things like that. And one of the reasons I liked working with these oil sticks is that a fresh oil stick has sort of a similar materiality, or viscosity, that Charbonnel ink does. It’s highly pigmented and it’s not too oily. So, they’re like oil paint, in that they’re made out of a drying oil and lots of pigment, with a dash of wax, I imagine. But they’re workable, just like the ink on a plate is. So, I probably killed that one, but you get the idea—I thought I’d be bored to tears doing this a few times, but it just kept opening new possibilities for me.

RICHARD: That’s really interesting to me, the thing about what "I think" [air quotes]. I mean, we all have all these ordinary...

ARCHANA: Assumptions or whatever.

RICHARD: Right. And I think it’s very interesting what you describe because of these little discoveries that appear—and then they sort of blossom. It’s an example, as far as I’m concerned, of the title you’ve chosen, because that little moment of experimenting with your hand and thinking “Oh, this is interesting.” Your title is sort of a description of that moment. And also, its relevance to your mind, which didn’t recognize it was on the fringe. But it broke through—and then it opened more and more. Isn’t that interesting?

ARCHANA: That’s an interesting way to put it, yeah. I think that I’ve always had a problem with hard-edge abstraction because everything was so either/or. You know? The hard edges sort of broke any interaction apart. I mean, there’s color interacting, but I had a hard time with that. But “the fringe in the field,” or the feathering, that I was doing gave a chance for the opposites of white and black to interact with each other. They were no longer totally separate. So that was also a solution I’d been looking for, but hadn’t really thought that’s the way I’d get it. But that’s what happened.

RICHARD: Yes. When I look at these three pieces [pointing]—and we sat in your studio and talked about this—when I look at them, that technique adds a kind of life, or vitality, to the image—and that makes all the difference. It’s a completely different piece of art because of the life it has from that fringing, wouldn’t you say?

ARCHANA: Well, I hope so. But I think everyone has to make their own interpretation. The work speaks to your own experience. If they make sense to you, that’s a plus.

RICHARD: It works for me. And I have to speak about this fringe thing a little more, because this also ties into metaphor—“the fringe.” When you look at society, often you get this life from the fringe elements. Take rap music. Where did that come from? It comes from people on the edges of things where they invent vital things out of what seems like almost nothing.

So, the fringe of the field also could be a comment on the life that exists at the edges of things where people have to meet life with less and dig deeper. How do you like that?

ARCHANA: That’s pretty cool. That gives it more value than I probably would have assigned it myself. But I think also that I was trying to do more with less. As you can see, none of these are particularly tricky pieces. When we moved Kala from—I think it was at 3200 Adeline at one point, many years ago. We moved it to 1060 Heinz, which is where the professional artists mostly were in a big studio upstairs, which we still have. It was the beginning of Kala in this building. Then we planned, over time, and were able to create this gallery.

So after I moved both KALA’s studio, and then my own private studio to Emeryville at the Artist’s Co-op, I looked at my older work and thought, “I can’t go back to doing more of that.” I think every artist has those moments where you just feel like you have to move a bit in a new direction. But I didn’t know what direction. So that’s when I started making a mark, just a simple mark on a piece of paper with a black ink pen. And we talked about that in your first article. Right? [yes] Over time it became a kind of water-witching, trying to find the secret spring by just waiting and slowing way down, experimenting with you call “automatic drawing.” You could just wait until your hand wanted to move. You just waited for a sort of internal impulse without your mind directing it. And you were going to ask me, I think, about automatic drawing at some point. I don’t know if this is the wrong time.

RICHARD: No. It’s perfect, because I think that’s another really interesting thing. I think the Surrealists brought this in, but maybe you found it on your own.

ARCHANA: We do owe this concept of automatic drawing to the Surrealists. I mean, when Nakano-san and I were studying in Paris, William Hayter was singing the praises of doing some automatic drawing every day—if nothing else, as a warm up, or to find one’s own gesture, so to speak. What I hadn’t tried was slowing it way down and waiting for my hand to move, or arm.

So yeah, that’s an old technique, a way of sort of conversing with your unconscious like automatic writing. For me, it had to go way, way slow. That’s why I made a series of what started out as just marks into line drawings. Then the line drawings became—eventually, I turned them into etchings, which you all can see in the print room. There are a lot of samples of that series in there. They’re still fresh to me. They felt like my own voice was somehow coming out for the first time—and that was in the early 80s.

RICHARD: It’s very interesting to me because, you said it yourself, it was a line between, or territory, between the conscious and the subconscious.

ARCHANA: The “subconscious” is a good word.

RICHARD: Yes. There’s a liminal realm between our ordinary consciousness and our subconsciousness. I find that fascinating. I’m tempted to say that art, over the ages maybe, has been a realm in which part of its job is to be open to, interested in, this liminal realm between worlds where things can be brought forth by those who are called to that. They can bring something out for us to see.

ARCHANA: I believe that’s correct. I think there are practices that one does that can bring a little more coherence to our lives and our work, and that has worked for me. Everybody will have their own kind of approach to finding that inner coherence, I think, and then—if you get this kind of occasion—you get to share it.

RICHARD: Yes. Now I’m thinking of a couple of different directions to ask about. How far back do you want to go? Because I was thinking about that myself. We can all do this if we’re in the right state for looking at our lives and asking what were the turning points? What were the important moments? What were the influences that have brought me to where I am today? And if you stick with it, I think you’ll go back further and further—and you’ll see the connections. So, how far back are you willing to go?

ARCHANA: Well, I can go to my own beginning.

RICHARD: Okay.

ARCHANA: Which is, as the daughter of my mother, who was a fabulous artist, Ruth Horsting. She taught at UC Davis. I think she was the first woman sculptor ever in the UC system, and she taught almost 15 years there. I think she’s been a little left out of local art history, but her work was extraordinary. She was already a sculptor in Chicago, and then she got hired by UC Davis. So we moved from Chicago to Davis. So I grew up from about the age of 10 there. But she’d been making art around me since I can remember.

RICHARD: Yeah, that’s incredible, your art background. And that beautiful, little carving there [pointing] —you made when you were seven. Right?

ARCHANA: I was seven, yes, and in the second grade. I was very inspired by the story of the Native American papooses, who were wrapped in blankets, and probably had a board behind their heads. Papooses were strapped on women’s backs for the most part. So, I was very inspired by that. But other people can see other things in it, of course. I saw that piece of stone—it was granite and wasn’t easy to manipulate—but I saw that and what should be done to it in my own mind.

It’s a really beautiful thing that visual artists—and all kinds of artists have—that you can imagine something, and believe it or not, you can realize, it in some manner. That is such a joyful, difficult, challenging—but at the same time—really extraordinary ability to have. That is, to get an idea that maybe doesn’t exist in the world, or not in that form, and then to work on it until that idea becomes a reality. KALA is kind of like that, too. The ability to have it come to fruition was wonderful.

RICHARD: That’s wonderful, yes. I don’t know if you’ve all had a chance to go up and look at that little carving, but it’s just so alive. It makes me think of an experience I’ve had—and maybe others of you have also, of perhaps seeing that something you experienced as a child is still true today. It could be 60 years have passed, but it’s the same, or a very similar, thing. When I look at that piece, I think, “Wow. It has so much life to it and you were seven years old.”

ARCHANA: I was just seven, but I was helped by the fact that we lived next door to artists. My mother had the tools. My neighbor had the stone. And so it happened. I have to thank my mother for keeping it. She kept it all these years next to her fireplace, and when she passed on in 2000, that’s when I received it again. It’s been sitting in our little home garden all these years since then.

RICHARD: I think it’s just amazing being here in the gallery with these drawings. It adds an element that’s kind of priceless.

ARCHANA: Well, you guys really have to thank Mayumi for this. Mayumi was the curator of the show and—well, you can tell she did a really good job of organizing it and arranging it. And she encouraged me to bring the stone sculpture and include it.

RICHARD: Okay. Let’s talk about metaphor.

ARCHANA: Okay. Well, that’s a big subject.

RICHARD: I know. And we don’t have that much time. What you’ve done requires much more—your attempt to understand its meaning, its place, its value. It’s been such an important thing in your life.

ARCHANA: Well, that’s very true. When I was a freshman at UC Santa Cruz, I was very excited about one of my classes—I think it was about modern culture—something generic. I’d been exposed to some philosophy courses, and in those days the logical positivists were extremely big, based on Wittgenstein’s early work. They kind of said “everything you say is nonsensical if you’re not using pure logic.” So that’s what the logic of the “positivists” meant. But that was really the only thing you could say. So, you could say, “There are seven oranges in a bowl.” You can say that, and that’s meaningful. But if you start using philosophical terms, or fiction or whatever, that couldn’t have any meaning.

So I thought, “Well, that seems a very narrow way of understanding meaning. So I got very interested in the power of metaphor, both for good and evil. I mean, people thought about “the cancer” of Communism. Well, that’s a bad way of using metaphor, I think.

Do you all know what a metaphor really is? I don’t mean, just linguistically, but do you have one idea in your mind of one thing and you’re trying to compare it to another thing, and the kind of spark, electric spark, which goes from one item in your brain to the other?

If you have to explain something to someone who doesn’t know what you’re talking about—if you’re a scientist and you’re talking to an artist, or an artist talking to a scientist—and you’ve discovered something and they haven’t had the experience of, how else can you convey a sense of that experience, give some meaning of that experience to the other person other than with metaphor? It's the only way. It’s not pure logic.

RICHARD: For sure.

ARCHANA: So that’s why I knew it was important, but I didn’t have the linguistic skills to break it apart to explain this. So, I probably took a year to write this first paper assigned as a freshman. There’s someone in the audience right here—you can raise your hand, Roberta—who typed the thing for me. And then we delivered it at the very last possible day of the third quarter. I barely survived that. The paper had a long bibliography, and I wrestled with some of these terms.

So, I believe that metaphor is an important form of communication, and the best form of it is new, fresh metaphor, not simply using what I called “dead metaphors”—I think I used something like “the foot of the mountain” as an example of a dead one. You don’t really have the image of a foot in your brain anymore when you see that word. You just hear “foot of the mountain” and it means, “oh, the lower part of the mountain.”

When somebody first said it, they probably did think of a foot and a mountain at the same time. Anyway, maybe this is carrying it too far.

RICHARD: No, not for my taste.

ARCHANA: That’s why it’s so much fun to talk with you because you’re very patient.

RICHARD: Well, Wittgenstein himself repudiated his early work, as you know. And the use of metaphor is probably a central thing that storytellers have been using for millennia. Right?

ARCHANA: Yes. And when I was just starting KALA, I was very fortunate to meet George Lakoff, who made a life out of talking about metaphor. And he had all the skills, so I sort of went, “Okay, I don’t have to do this anymore.”

RICHARD: Is he still around?

ARCHANA: He is and he’s still writing philosophy, linguistics, and stuff like that.

RICHARD: Every time we get together, I learn something new. I had no idea you had this relationship with him. He’s a bona fide linguistic expert. Right?

ARCHANA: Right. And the more I understood the way his mind worked, I realized I did not have the chops to take on this thing. I really wanted to be an artist. But I had this deep need to understand—how does communication work with a piece of art and us looking at it? It can’t be just spelled out with words. I mean I love words, as you can tell. I talk a lot, but words are not able to express exactly what you’re feeling or experiencing when you’re looking at art. So, I was wondering how does it work? So that’s why I had to take literature and philosophy—and all those different courses to get a wider sense. And metaphor was a key way of my seeing that, in art, there can be metaphor, too.

You guys [addresses the audience] remember the historical paintings that are like long, extended allegories. Right? So there are those. But even when you look at some very simple works, you do that kind of comparison in your brain, where you go from, what am I looking at? to what am I thinking about? It’s a kind of visual metaphor that occurs, and can move people. And I was interested in finding ways of doing that, so I wouldn’t think my things were just descriptive.

RICHARD: As I sit here looking at you, I keep seeing your work over there [pointing] the clouds in the corner. What do you call that?

ARCHANA: Cloud Combat.

RICHARD: Cloud Combat. Now, when I look at that, yeah, your title seems apt, and I’m trying to figure out what in the world is that dark, sort of figure underneath that cloud on top? What’s going on there? I mean what can you say about that image? I mean, that thing underneath doesn’t look like a cloud to me. It looks like a bear or something upside-down.

ARCHANA: Well, this is based on a very old photograph from the late 1800s.

RICHARD: So that’s from your Photo Translations Series?

ARCHANA: Yes. So I looked at the Coburn photograph and I kept seeing these clouds, but tussling with each other.

RICHARD: I see.

ARCHANA: You could go and look at all my sources for that series, because I think you have to give the original artist full credit. So they’re always in the titles of those pieces. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be right.

RICHARD: The piece over there [points] is after Kertesz, right?

ARCHANA: Yes. Andre Kertesz, the Hungarian photographer.

RICHARD: Is the title of his photo The Other?

ARCHANA: No.

RICHARD: Okay. So you’ve added your own title.

ARCHANA: Well, he called it Martinique. I imagine he was in a hotel on Martinique and there was someone on the adjacent balcony separated by the bubble glass. I called it Martinique / The Other because it was so ambiguous—whether that person was male or female; whether they were up to no good; whether they were beneficent… You just didn’t know what you were looking at. And I was thinking, this is just like life where you’re confronted by The Other, and it’s up to your psyche what you project onto that other.

We all do it, and we catch ourselves. But the question is… well, here it’s just absolutely ambiguous. I thought that was a very special state. The other is not clear, and people would see what they want to see in it. I thought it was a brilliant photograph and I just ran with it.

RICHARD: And I think by giving that title, you made the depth of it explicit—this great reality that we wrestle with in life.

ARCHANA: Yes. One of our big, ethical concerns is how do we treat the other? What do we project on the other? And how do we deal with the other in our lives? I think it’s just a reminder to me of that importance of can we be open? can we be concerned?

RICHARD: And let’s open this up to others. We’re running short of time, aren’t we?

MAYAMI: You have 15 more minutes.

RICHARD: Okay. So, just one more thing. I was looking through your early work on your website, and ran across an etching—a woman’s face with tusks. It says, “Desire is an elephant.”

ARCHANA: Yes. That’s a funny series. That series didn’t get into this show.

RICHARD: It’s a really interesting image. Do you want to say anything about it?

ARCHANA: Well, no one’s seen it here.

RICHARD: Is it off limits?

FEMALE: I’m seeing it in her mind.

ARCHANA: You can see it on my website if you want.

RICHARD: Oh, come on, Archana. Say something about that.

ARCHANA: Well, it’s an attempt to merge a woman and an elephant, and to talk about the power that desire holds over all of us. Does that make sense? [yes] There’s one other thing I’d like to add. A lot of these things seem like they’re separate ideas, separate eras, separate kinds of work that don’t really relate, but I wanted to say that after just drawing marks—which was how I restarted my work after moving the studios—I got very excited about line images and I made etchings. I did some watercolors also, along with some forms where I wanted to make the edge of the form more powerful or interesting. Over time, I did a sort of perimeter piece, an etch that creates a form, but then my black works, Fringe of the Field, came from seeing that as a solid form instead of a line.

So, the lines led to the etchings, and then more line drawing led to forms, and then in certain cases, the forms incorporated some lines back into them. So maybe that’s sort of boring, that story. But one thing suggests another, and I think when you’re interested in your work, that’s what happens.

RICHARD: Absolutely.

ARCHANA: So that’s a treasure for you when it happens.

RICHARD: Yes. Okay then. Maybe some of you have questions or observations?

ARCHANA: Comments. Whatever you guys want to say, really.

QUESTION: I don’t quite know how to frame my question. If I’d never been at Kala and had just seen your work and listened to this talk, I’d think that was amazing. But I was working upstairs, and talking to Archana when she was figuring out whether they could take on this space. I knew how many times you worried about the landlord and money, and it’s like these two wholes instead of half-Kala and half-art. They both seem way too full to physically exist in one person. Plus, you were a mother. So, how did you move through these different processes and environments and necessities?

ARCHANA: Well, I think that I did it very slowly. It wasn’t like I was entrepreneur of the year or something. This was very, very slow. Probably because I wasn’t naturally good at it. But I did have this vision of a place that would honor artists and support their work. I thought they were important people who deserved shelter and respect—and I’d had some opportunities in my life and wanted to make sure other artists had those opportunities.

So I just slowly moved towards it. Had I been a little smarter and better at business, I probably could have done it faster. But we kept moving in the right direction, and fortunately, I could pass this on to two great co-directors here, Mayumi-san and Ellen. [loud applause] And I’m now back in my studio making art again.

The art was a constant challenge and you know, there was never enough time. So, what if I’d only done artwork? Would I have made more? Maybe. Maybe, but would it be the same artwork? Because how much did I learn from my colleagues and co-founder? Would I have done the same work? These are impossible questions.

QUESTION: Did you develop any techniques for transitioning from the organizational, institutional part of Kala to making art?

ARCHANA: Well, I just went into my studio, and as I say, I did very simple things.

QUESTION (KIM ANNO) : What is so extraordinary about this work, and your world, is you occupy a territory that is not abstraction and not figuration. It’s kind of an in-between place, which makes it unique and startling. It’s startling in a good way; there are so many startling bad ways. So, I’m just wondering about this pivot, or this kind of hesitation between making a real thing and making a flat thing. Do you feel, still, like you want to toggle back and forth with that? I’m just kind of curious about, as you’re starting this new work and when you look at the history of figuration and flatness. What do you think about that issue?

ARCHANA: You know, I’m very curious about where I’ll go next. Time will tell, I guess. I’ll be in the studio. I think these paintings are not like by a painter. But more, I started as a sculptor and I see the dense pigment is kind of a mask and shapes. So, I’ll tell you what I’m interested in. If you have information on a spectrum, from total—like maybe someone spells out every single flower of the landscape—to totally minimal. Like maybe somebody laid some plates on the floor, or something like that. Well, I was never comfortable with maximal, and although I tend more towards the minimal, I feel it’s so boring if it’s too minimal. There’s not enough information to create a reaction in me, or a deep feeling. So, I’m looking for the right spot in between so you can get involved. You can practically be the artist. I want you to bring your ideas of what’s going on.

I love talking to Richard because he sees these things, and he can speak about them. So, that’s what I think is really fun. Does that help?

KIM: Yes, it does.

ARCHANA: Okay. By the way, Kim has a paragraph about me on the back of the catalog, which you all should read. She’s very articulate about these things.

QUESTION: Okay. Can you comment a bit about your choice of palette? I love black and white, and obviously, most of your work here is black and white. Is there any comment about why?

ARCHANA: Maybe it’s because all those years I did of printmaking. We all used black and white as a way of seeing the structure that’s in the plate we’ve created. You have the maximum amount of contrast. That’s part of it. But I just love deep, rich, black, and I love things that are matte, not shiny. Shiny kind of pushes me off, like a reflection in your eye or something. And again, I got that from printmaking.

QUESTION (MORT COHN): It’s a wonderful show in many ways. Many of the pieces you’ve done reference photographers—like the one over there, Tower, after Manuel Alvarez Bravo. And this one [points] Le Notre’s Garden after Atget, and others. I’m very interested in that relationship you have with photography and photographers. How have you transformed your inspiration from the photo image to your rendering of it in your work?

ARCHANA: Okay. Well, I have to confess that I had a love/hate relationship with photography. The reason was the early photographers who made such amazing images, at the same time, they were mostly very small and they were covered by glass, and often a very reflective glass. So I couldn’t really enter into them, and the blacks weren’t black enough. So, what I needed to do was to really look at them. And I painted them. That was how I could see the photographs in a deep way.

Painting allowed me many things. I mean, we all know the image, but do we really know all the things that are in it? So, painting on a larger scale was transformative for me, first, because I could enter into it. It was big enough for my body to kind of move into the image. And the surface was matte so it didn’t shine and push me away. The photographs were kind of in the same language as I was using with paint sticks. All I did is add a gray paint stick. I needed a black, a white, and the gray. Does that make sense to you? It was also really challenging. I mean why would I paint something that had been photographed so well, you know? It seemed stupid to me. But then how was I going to become a better painter, if I didn’t try to do something that was really challenging.

MORT: You can say it’s not a duplication as such, it’s an extension of what you saw.

ARCHANA: Yes. I talk about it like translating a novel from French to English, or something. Right? So, it’s going to be different. But both the translator and the original writer are making art, I believe. So these were my translations, and I didn’t want these images to get lost or for people to forget about them. They were only known by a few photographers instead of a wider world. Does that make sense?

MORT: It does.

RICHARD: [looks at Archana] What do you think?

ARCHANA: Two more questions? Okay?

LINDA: I have a question about what I think is an angel [pointing]—behind you with the blue wings. At first, it seemed like it doesn’t quite fit with the rest of the work, but somehow this transcending angel is very similar to your fringe work, because your fringe work is also transcending space and boundaries and overcoming limits. Your fringe work is really a revolt against anything that is like a knife. The angel is also transcending, if it’s an angel.

ARCHANA: Well, it’s kind of a dark angel. I call it Charon’s Boat. Charon was the ancient Greeks’ ferryman of the dead. So, he’s basically on the fringe, and he helps you cross the fringe. You were just asking about that a couple of days ago, weren’t you?

RICHARD: I was. I think it’s quite a powerful image.

ARCHANA: I think that as you get older, you think about death even more often than you did as a younger person. So, I thought maybe it would be good to be friends a little bit. Did that answer your question?

LINDA: Yes, it does. I thought he was going to go to Heaven, but he’s going over to the other side, which is also good.

ARCHANA: Which is the other side? Because who knows? I think the figure and the boat became one for me. So the dark angel is the ferry boat, as well—because it’s one thing. There was another question?

QUESTION: Yes. I’ve always been fascinated with the relationship between light and dark, and white and black, and negative and positive space and the line and the shape, but especially this one with that very fine, white line. And how do you do that and even keep all these white spaces white? The paint stick is really messy and so that’s just amazing to me.

ARCHANA: Thank you. That line is not a drawn line or an engraved line where you plow forward or pull backwards. It’s a line that’s made of moving two parts of the black on either side of it, as close together as possible without eliminating the white. I just wanted a different kind of line.

QUESTION: Knowing that actually makes it even more fascinating.

ARCHANA: Yes. It’s scary because you could eliminate it very easily, but I just made friends with this mess. It’s very clumsy compared to etching a line, but it allowed me to work on new ideas, one after the other. I used some other very simple techniques. In that one [pointing], the Mexican pyramid, there’s sort of a frottage area—and then again that kind of weird line. I was in love with that, trying to make a kind of line that’s never been made before, or something. Then in the triangle there [pointing] it’s just fingerprints.

So it’s not fancy technique. It’s totally simple, simple, simple…. I didn’t have fancy techniques, but it also helps to have an idea that you really want to see become a reality. And you don’t even know what the idea is going to be until you explore it a bit.

RICHARD: Well, thank you Archana. [to the audience] I highly recommend you get the catalog if you haven’t already. It’s quite wonderful.

ARCHANA: And I want to give a special shout out to the writers. Richard is one of them. And Kate Eilertsen is another one. I think I introduced Kim [Anno] already. And the missing person is Berin Golonu, who is a wonderful art historian who works at SUNY in New York. I’m really delighted with what everybody wrote. And thank you all for coming.

...

Mana

Richard Whittaker — Mon, 05 Feb 2024 00:00:00 -0800

Part One
Mother and I had taken one of our last rides together. Our usual route began at San Francisco’s Ocean Beach. We’d drive along the Great Highway and cruise on up to the Cliff House. After taking in the wide seaside view, we’d meander around Sutro Park, head back down to the Great Highway and eventually end up at the Fort Funston lookout point to watch the hang gliders take off. We’d then proceed to the nearby Trader Joe’s to pick up groceries, and then head home.

One late afternoon, as we pulled into TJ’s, Mom, who’d been battling cancer for two long years, turned to me and said, “You go inside. I’m so tired. I’ll just rest here for a while.”

“Can I bring you back anything? I know you like those ginger candies.”

She smiled and gave me a hug. “No, I’m OK.”

About twenty minutes later I exited the store with a bag full of groceries. It was a blue-sky, Spring day. Shoppers were coming and going - not just to Trader Joe’s, but all the other stores nearby.

As I walked back to the car, I happened to see (what turned out to be) a $20 bill darting along the ground, carried by a light wind and moving in my direction. Amazingly, nobody seemed to notice. Passing close to my shoes, it stalled, as if saying, “Here I am!” And as it took off again, I quickly scooped it up.

And once more, no one noticed. No one declared the “manna from heaven” to be theirs. “Lucky me!” I thought. So I headed to my car—and behold!—another $20 appeared, playfully skipping, tumbling my way.

Was this a joke? Was somebody letting them go just to see my reaction? The shoppers remained oblivious, and I snatched it up. "Finder’s keepers!"

In two minutes, I had $40 in hand, and for doing absolutely nothing! I couldn’t wait to tell Mom. And then, all at once, I noticed another $20 dancing alongside cars, twirling past shoppers’ feet, heading straight for me. What to make of this flow of dough?

Unbelievable! Sixty bucks!

Suddenly, I remembered the San Mateo Credit Union was right next to Trader Joe’s. Maybe somebody had withdrawn money and, in their haste, had lost the bills. But no one was anywhere near the Credit Union. I stood there dumbfounded. And then, out of nowhere, yet another $20 blew right up to me—and still, no one seemed aware of what was happening!

Increasingly I'd felt myself entering some kind of slow-motion zone, an almost surreal state, as each bill inexplicably came my way. But as I reached out and caught hold of that fourth $20, firmly grasping its material crispness, everything felt real again. It was not a dream.

Back in the car, Mom asked, “What were you doing out there, darting about? You looked like a chicken pecking!"

“Mom!” I exclaimed. “These bills just blew up to me, one-by-one!” And as I said that, it hit me: one more twenty would make it an even $100! “I’ll be right back,” I said, and gave her a hug. Then quickly, I retraced my steps and waited like a fisherman who had cast his line into the depths.

Mom knew her cancer was getting worse. A final twenty would make her day, and sure enough, within a minute or so, I spotted the precious bill twirling my way along the asphalt! It came right up to me.

When I got back to the car, Mom was wide-eyed, ecstatic. We drove home wondering how it all happened, how those five fabulous twenties mysteriously appeared out of nowhere, charging our spirits. It all seemed like a sign, some kind of affirmation. “Save those lucky bills!” she exclaimed. “Put them in a safe place. I’ve never heard of this happening to anyone!”

Part Two
Back home, I couldn’t help wondering, whose cash did I find? Was it really mine now? Whoever lost it would likely be upset, and perhaps was still looking for it. But there was no way of returning the money. And it was unsettling to remember my feelings of greed as I grabbed those $20s. As I pondered these questions, I even considered using the cash to start some kind of small philanthropic fund. But then how did this money come to me in the first place? Was it my doing?

No. It seemed as if I’d entered a liminal zone where ordinary laws had been suspended. In that busy, wide-open parking lot, so often frequented by Mom and I, the five bills had apparently sought me out one-by-one - to the point where I was actually waiting for that last $20 to appear. And it did! Wasn’t that enough?

A few weeks later, I was driving down San Francisco’s Brotherhood Way (named after the numerous houses of worship that line the boulevard), and pulled into Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church - my religious sanctuary since childhood. With a smile and a simple prayer, I anonymously dropped the five $20’s into the donation box. Out of the Mystery came the manna, and back to the Mystery it was returned.

Part Three
While reflecting on these things, at some point it occurred to me that in Greek, mana means mother. How curious. Mom was the best person I could have shared this treasure-experience with. She was indeed my very mana, my Spring. She gave me everything! During the two years she was dying, our daily drives helped ease her suffering. That day with her was providential, for just a month after our last seaside outing, she completed the full circle of life. Mana, too, had returned to the Mystery.

Every so often I still take that drive along Ocean Beach leading to Trader Joe’s and think about that day with Mom. Deep down I sense that somehow it’s not the last we’ll see each other. As the poet-mystic Robert Lax wrote:

i remember the people i loved
(who have died) or just
disappeared -
remember their traits
as though it were a sacred duty.

what possible use for all those
memories, unless we were
(somehow) all to meet again?

...

Poetry Is Power

Richard Whittaker — Wed, 27 Sep 2023 00:00:00 -0700

This is a an unpublished chapter from a book that I tried to get published for six years (2003 - 2009). I finally got a contract with Gallaudet University Press - with censorship! They said I could not write that “oralism (forbidding signed language) ever caused languagelessnes.” As a result, I could not, in good conscience, sign the contract, because the promotion of oralism - speech only - by hearing parents, educators and doctors does, indeed, cause many deaf children to grow up with little or no shared language. And so I was happy to have the complete chapter published in advance of my visit at the British Sign Language Fest, in Guilford, England, 14 October, 2023 where part of it will be featured. - S. Schaller

We applaud loudly, laugh loudly, and praise the silent brilliance of Marcel Marceau and Charlie Chaplin. The feasts for our eyes were prepared, in part, by the unacknowledged masters of silent art: Deaf people who are still called “dumb” or mute, and often treated as imbeciles. Tragically, even some Deaf people still believe the labels given them, and hide their art from us—and themselves.

Fortunately, a few people see a glimmer of brilliance in Deaf faces, their articulate bodies and glorious eyes. Leonardo de Vinci saw, and sent his art students to seek and study Deaf vision, triggering one French generation to appreciate Deaf eyes (described well by Nicholas Mirzoeff, in Silent Poetry). Even more fortunately, some Deaf poets, actors and storytellers discover that they have something beautiful, worthy of applause, laughter and praise.

Bernard Bragg saw something in himself, and slowly made his way backstage in a theater one day. There he bravely approached Marcel Marceau, and timidly asked, without voicing a word, if it were possible that he could act and mime. Marceau invited this Deaf actor to Paris. He took Bernard Bragg on as a student because, I believe, he saw how much this Deaf man and Deaf eyes could teach him.

Another brave Deaf soul, Dorothy Miles, felt moved to explore her world of vision, in spite of pressure from English society to hide her hands, look as hearing as possible and attempt speech. She moved to the United States and blossomed, nourished by American Sign Language, and through embracing her visual, Deaf self. She met Bernard Bragg and Lou Fant, the man who introduced me to the art and richness of Deaf vision. They, and others who decided to abandon “dumb” behaviors, walked on stage, creating the National Theatre of the Deaf (NTD). For years now, we’ve applauded, laughed and praised NTD and the Deaf brilliance we, hearing people, were too visually challenged to have seen before.

In January 1993, my family moved to Austria. I enthusiastically made plans to visit Dorothy (Dot) Miles in England. Before any other preparations, I wrote expressing my admiration and hope of meeting her. When I was just eighteen, her creative three dimensional poetry in American Sign Language not only inspired me to learn more signing, but thousands of Deaf people as well. She performed for signers first, then translated her poetry into English for a mixed Deaf/hearing audience. In those days (1960s), putting English second was a revolutionary assertion and a profound act of pride.

While waiting for word from England, I settled into our flat in an ancient monastery and wondered how I could meet Deaf people. I knew that most schools in Europe forbade signing and, whenever signing is forbidden, the gulf between the hearing and Deaf worlds is wide. Deaf communities are forced underground to sign in their homes and in the privacy of their all-Deaf clubs. I knew I would learn nothing from the hearing community, and didn’t bother to write ahead of time.

Two weeks after arriving, I decided to visit the local school for the deaf. The German edition of A Man Without Words, had just been published, making my introduction easy. The director welcomed me and immediately listed all of their special programs and classes. She asked me which one sounded the most interesting and where I wanted to start my tour. I thanked her but informed her that I really wanted to meet a Deaf person.

I knew that if I met just one signing Deaf adult, I would meet Deaf Austria. “Do you have any Deaf adults working at the school?” I asked.

First, the director looked surprised, then perplexed and confused. She studied the wood planks in the floor. “Yes, we do,” she answered hesitantly. “Erika, the laundry woman; yes, she’s Deaf.” And with that, she began the tour as if I’d only asked for the time.

The first room contained kindergarteners, all burdened with gigantic amplifiers around their necks and on their chests with wires leading to their ears. They played like any other group of five-year-olds, knocking these plastic, heavy boxes about and pulling the hearing aids out of their ears. The teachers and aides ran around reconnecting them all the time.

It took effort to be polite. I wanted to scream, watching adults with wide, unnatural mouths grabbing the faces of these encumbered children and forcing them to look down caverns that were full of teeth and tongues, but empty of meaning. I turned to the director who was waiting for my praise and asked, “Could I meet her?”

Seeing confusion on her face, I added: “Erika, the laundry woman.”

The director looked most definitely annoyed. She assented reluctantly, but forced me to visit two more classrooms. She then hurried down a hall and led me down a wide staircase into the basement where she pointed to a doorway. Then hurrying, she almost ran up the stairs before anyone could see the director in the basement. We never met again.

I entered a small room lighted with only a bare bulb, and saw a short-haired woman sitting hunched over a sewing machine. Erika immediately noticed me as I walked in and looked surprised, her face a big question. I signed, “Hello, I want to meet you, my...” She interrupted and said something in garbled German, pointing into another room and then pointing at the door behind me. I guessed that she thought I wanted someone else, so I signed, “No, I want to meet you.”

She stared at my signs and my mouth which had not formed words, and looked completely baffled. “Are you Deaf or hearing?” she asked in Austrian Sign Language, which I understood because DEAF was the same sign in ASL and HEARING was easy to figure out.

“HEARING,” I copied, using my first Austrian sign.

To my surprise, she turned to her work with a kind of helpless, frustrated shrug, and ignored me. After a few seconds, she turned back to me and signed, very slowly and carefully, “Are you DEAF or HEARING?”

“HEARING,” I signed again, without hesitation.

Erika became flustered, looked exasperated and fixed her sight on the cloth in the machine. Behind the machine, I suddenly saw my book, the German edition. I grabbed it, pointed to my name on the cover, then pointed to me.

She looked at me as if I was stark raving mad and grabbed the book back angrily. Again, I began to sign an introduction, “My name is S- U-S-A-N.” I knew she wouldn’t understand the American signs, but I hoped she would understand the finger-spelled name and realize what I was doing.

She stared at my hand which had just spelled my name and blurted out her question: “Are you DEAF or HEARING?”

“HEARING,” I answered once again.

“Nein, nein,” she said and signed as if correcting a child or an imbecile, then signed again very slowly, “Are you DEAF or HEARING?”

It was my turn to become flustered and exasperated, not believing how this simple introduction could become so ludicrously complicated. I grabbed the book again, pointed to the name and signed, “mine.”

I grabbed a pen that was on the work table and signed my name in the book. Erika was furious and grabbed the book back. Again, she went back to her work. Then abruptly, trying a different strategy, she began to tell me about the book. Even though I didn’t understand the Austrian signs, I knew she was referring to the book and describing Ildefonso, my former student.

“I know,” I signed; “He’s a friend of mine.”

Luckily, the American sign for “friend” is close to the Austrian sign, and caused Erika to stop. Instead of frustration, she had one moment of curiosity. I took advantage of this first open look, and signed, “I’m American and…”

Erika jumped in and seized our common sign - “American” - looking quite relieved now knowing why I was “weird.” In that laundry room, I discovered that the sign for the United States is one of the very few international signs.

From that moment on, we had no communication problem. We began to trade American and Austrian signs, and finally met. The cause of the big barrier was this: at that time in Austria, hearing people, with very few exceptions, knew any signs and did not sign. Erika could not imagine that a hearing person would want to learn a visual language and talk with a Deaf person. She thought I was either crazy or dim to keep answering “HEARING.” And I’d never experienced a community where only Deaf people learned to sign.

Another hurdle involved a sad and funny bit of history I had just entered. Traditionally, Deaf Austrians, schooled without signs, signed secretly on the playground and in hallways and alleys. The bridge between their signing and the German language never existed until a two-handed alphabet was invented by hearing Austrian teachers who compromised their oralism by allowing this visual aid in teaching speech. Deaf people hated it, in a way, because their oppressive speech teachers had invented it. But it was a tool, and became the Austrian finger-spelling for their names and German words.

Until just two years before I arrived in the laundry room, the two-handed finger-spelling had been used by all Deaf Austrians. The president of the national Deaf association met several times with other European Deaf people and, especially, with the energetic, Finnish president of the World Federation of the Deaf. She suggested (with great zeal, no doubt) to the Austrian that if Austrian Deaf people adopted the one-handed finger-spelling (used in most of the western world), they would become more international and more related to Deaf culture. Whereupon, Herr Dimmel, president of the Austrian association, began to tour the country and order his Deaf subjects to throw out the “hearing” two-handed alphabet and adopt the “Deaf” method.

I had no idea that finger-spelling my name would have such an effect on poor Erika. When she saw me finger-spell with one hand quickly, she saw me as Super Deaf. I hadn’t understood what was triggering the Deaf-hearing question and innocently kept responding with “hearing.” In Erika’s mind, one couldn’t be that quick with one-hand letters and be hearing.

Announcing that I was American, finally and fortunately, got us out of the loop. Erika bounced up in excitement, finally understanding my introduction, and became my host. She led me upstairs and began to introduce me to the teachers as they were leaving their classrooms and the school for the day. She signed excitedly as she explained who I was and held up my book. Every person looked confused and lost.

I had no desire to meet these people who had worked for years, even decades, with deaf children and had never bothered to learn enough visual communication to meet them or understand them. Thus, I decided not use my voice to interpret Erika’s signing. Instead I continued to sign with Erika as I accompanied her out of the school.

We left the teachers looking baffled, just as they had left their students looking baffled every day - for all of their childhood. Erika took me to the Deaf club that evening and introduced me to all of her friends. Over and over, people asked me if I was Deaf or hearing when they saw me sign and finger-spell, and didn’t believe me when I answered truthfully. The few who did believe me, immediately dropped their hands and started speaking.

I signed that I didn’t understand German (my first complete Austrian-Sign sentence) and that I preferred signing. Even so, a few never could sign to me. They were thoroughly brainwashed that speech, and speech alone, was the only way to talk to a hearing person—even in their own Deaf club. Unlike Bernard Bragg or Dot Miles, they had swallowed the hearing society’s messages and were ashamed of themselves.

Deaf Austrians began telling me their stories that night as I quickly learned as many Austrian signs as possible (one of my first lessons was that the American sign for “yes” is the Austrian sign for “idiot”). All the Deaf people I met over the age of 40 had been physically beaten for mispronouncing sounds they could not hear. All had learned that they were inferior to hearing people and that their signing was not only inferior to German, but was not even a language. Many expressed their gratitude that I, a hearing person, took an interest in them, implying that it was a complete sacrifice on my part.

As I watched their stories - and their deference to a hearing person - I regretted being as polite as I’d been at the school for the deaf. The teachers I met there had never considered these children fully human. Education was not the goal of the school. Not one deaf child had ever been able to pass the test to enter gymnasium - the high school required for anyone wishing to attend university.

The only time I ever experienced this kind of treatment of school children was when I was a substitute teacher in the Coachella Valley in the California. Ninety-nine percent of the children in that desert town were raised in Spanish-speaking homes, shopped at stores and went to churches and movie theaters where the only language they heard was Spanish. The first time these children heard English was when they went to school. And along with the new language came the message that they must learn and speak English properly. The children there must have been completely baffled by the demand to learn English, wondering what the school and the English-speaking Anglo teachers had to do with their lives.

During my short teaching career there, I never saw one Anglo Saxon teacher make a personal connection with his or her Mexican-American student, and never heard one word of Spanish from a teacher. (Fortunately, this has changed.) As with the Austrian teachers, a basic message of equality was not as important as the message: to succeed, you must be like us.

Because it involves identity, one’s natural language is part how we see who we are. We use language so much to define ourselves that we cannot easily separate ourselves from our symbolic expressions. We do not hold on to our native accents only because of physical or biological limits.

From Quebec to Turkey to Indonesia, and to all countries with indigenous peoples ruled by conquering immigrants, there are or have been language wars. Native Americans, Gaels, Kurds, and thousands of other groups have suffered heavy losses. Hearing parents cannot imagine teaching their baby a different language from theirs. Yet, ironically, deaf babies of Deaf parents grow up bilingually. The first visual language provides their brains the tools to learn their society’s spoken language.

In “Languages Under Attack” from Flutes of Fire, Leanne Hinton summarizes a language war that occurred in the early 1900s in native American schools. Hinton describes “forced eradication of the students’ native languages [which was] backed up by severe corporal punishment.” Deaf people in history, and worldwide, understand forced eradication policies painfully well. Their difference from the mainstream population is usually seen in a negative light. Since their superior visual thinking and expression remains unnoticed and unappreciated, the objective is to fix their hearing and their speech—to remove their difference.

Signing draws attention to their difference and, therefore, is often forbidden. Conforming to the norm can look benevolent on paper in stated concerns for the welfare of the Native American or the deaf or Spanish-speaking child. The root of assimilation policies, however, is related to fear of difference. And this fear always leads to some form of oppression. Policies don’t rise out of a vacuum. They are extensions of the attitudes and opinions of individuals and communities.

I observed that waiters in Austria seemed extremely slow to respond to customers who wore non-Austrian faces. In one café, I saw an older woman escort a young woman to a table. She sat across from her, then looked away while sipping her coffee. In a minute, I realized the younger woman was deaf and unable to speak clear German or understand the older woman.

The younger woman must have been her daughter for every muscle in the older woman’s face was strained as if crying out, “Burden, burden, burden; look what I have had to endure.” The mother was trying to have coffee “alone” and her only communication to her daughter was to stop any behavior which brought attention. Through harsh looks and slaps on the hands, her daughter was constantly being punished for not being able to look, sound and act as a “normal” person. The mother sat rigid and glanced around in an apologetic manner as if to ask forgiveness for having such a child. (When I mentioned the mother to a Deaf Austrian, he told me a story I would have had trouble believing before I’d frequented Austrian cafés.)

The month I arrived in Austria, Deaf citizens finally gained an audience with parliament after months of petitioning and preparation. Many meetings and plans preceded the big event. The wife of the president of the Austrian Association of the Deaf was to be the spokesperson. When the historic moment arrived, she announced she would speak for herself. No one, Deaf or hearing, understood what she said. Members of parliament only saw a very handicapped person in front of them. I wonder if any member realized that her only handicap was that she pretended to be hearing.

Regardless of how much pressure to conform to hearing norms, many Deaf people could not learn their parents’ German, and they were reminded daily in gross and subtle ways by their parents, teachers and society, that they had failed. They believed they and their signing were inferior, and that they must never sign in front of a hearing person. (It was almost impossible for me to learn Austrian signs if the signer believed me to be hearing. Nonetheless, I kept trying.)

While studying Austrian Sign Language, I was asked to give a talk in southern Austria and to offer advice on how the Austrian Deaf community might improve their situation. At first I was at a loss. It would be arrogant and ineffective for me, an outsider—hearing and non-Austrian—to point out what I thought they should do with their lives. I decided to simply tell them what I had observed in my own country, and describe what American Deaf people had done to improve their lot.

Before my invitation, I received a letter from England. A friend of Dot Miles informed me that Dot had died tragically, just two weeks before we moved to Europe. At that point, I knew what I had to take to southern Austria. In honor of Dorothy Miles, I would perform some of her poetry. In preparation, I asked about twenty people what was their sign, the Austrian sign, for “poetry.” Only one person showed me any sign—the American sign. This was the evidence that convinced me that these people believed they had no language.

I saw beautiful expressions, clever jokes and heart-breaking stories at the Deaf club when they didn’t notice my hearing eyes. I knew they had poetry in their clubs and their homes, but they hid it and were ashamed.

Poetry always celebrates individual or tribal differences. Whatever else it is, it is always a celebration of a specific language. Oppressed groups must begin their emancipation with self-acceptance—seeing their unique and equal selves. Almost immediately, the result is poetry—the group’s expression of their unique and equal contribution to the human community.

African slaves were stripped of their names, their languages and their poetry. The only accepted avenue for group expression was through their masters’ language, religion, and Christian traditions. The Africans were not completely conquered. They used metaphors and analogies, singing and chanting about the enslaved Children of Israel. They sang to and for one another about the Promised Land, without enraging their masters. They created new poetry. Poetry thrives when people are forbidden to express the truth.

“The roots of poetry,” writes Olga Carlisle, in Poets on Street Corners, “are buried deep in Russian history—a history of oppression and violence. … Poetry is the perfect means of expression for a suffering people.”

Osip Mandelstam said, “Poetry is power.” Mandelstam chose to express his poems of truth even though they ushered in his imprisonment and death. He described himself when he wrote: “O my Fatherland, for your love, I’ll walk through life in an iron shirt. For my execution, I’ll find a handle for the ax.”

Deaf Austrians, as a group, had not yet fully acknowledged the truth of their servitude to their hearing masters and had yet to create their version of Negro spirituals. Unlike Mandelstam who said the Russian word in and of itself is a symbol, they had yet to discover the symbols which represented them and told their stories. They had not yet shouted their symbols in defiance.

So without a sign for poetry, I traveled to Villach in southern Austria to sign Dot Miles’ poems. I stood in front of a large Deaf audience and managed to introduce myself without an interpreter. Then I asked them what the difference was between everyday conversation—I mimed a hearing person casually speaking—and opera. I mimed a person singing with a wide open mouth, and in a dramatic pose. Everyone immediately answered with the Austrian sign for music—for the hearing culture’s beloved music, they had a sign.

I used their sign for music and told them that Deaf people could make visual music with their signing. I shared what I had learned when I began to meet Deaf people. Americans first celebrated their Sign music on stage before they demanded anything from the hearing world. An inspired Deaf poet from England who helped Americans with their SIGN-MUSIC had recently died, I announced, concluding that I wished to honor her by showing them some of her MUSIC. I asked them to watch the MUSIC and I would translate the American signs, after they saw the poems.

Dorothy Miles, along with other Deaf poets, celebrated what was unique to signing—sculpting the shape of the poem independent of the individual signs and meanings, for example, or experimenting with hand shapes. One poem started low and to my right and the signs moved upward, in an arch to the left and then gradually down and to my center, and then out to the audience. Miles gradually transformed one sign into another, or slightly changed one sign, in order to attach it to the next. Some of her transformations are magical. Their beauty needed no translation.

While performing, I sensed the appreciation of the audience. I knew they would see Deaf music and understand the poet’s love of signing even though individual American signs had little or no meaning for them. The poem “Autumn” describes leaves falling from a tree. The poet’s hands are leaves and wind until the poet herself becomes the leaves, and they have eyes. In English, the words are “falling leaves awhirl in playful winds turn to watch people passing by.”

After they saw a translation and the poems again, a young man jumped to the center of the stage and began a story: all the leaves from one tree had fallen except one. The remaining leaf was scared to jump, quivering and whimpering to the crowd below, which encouraged it to join them. The man received a great round of applause. Before he was back in his seat, another person was up performing. As I walked backwards, no longer a participant, I felt goosebumps rise. Before my eyes, Deaf Austrians were discovering themselves.

Afterwards, people lined up to meet me. One by one they approached and introduced themselves. They celebrated while in line; there was a new pride. An impatient boy stared at me while he pranced back and forth, waiting for the line of adults to end. Finally, he seized my attention and demanded to see the tree poem again. I performed a smaller, quicker version for this eight or nine-year-old, then reminded him that it was in American Sign Language.

He signed, “I know, I know. Do it again. And again.”

He quickly signed the second I had finished. As I signed it the third time, I watched his studious and eager eyes, devouring every movement and hand shape. During the fifth encore, his face lit up with complete confidence. He thanked me, turned and disappeared into the crowd.

I pictured that boy on the playground the next day sharing his new set of forbidden signs. Through Deaf clubs and soccer matches, the forbidden Deaf music would spread to other Austrian, Swiss, German and Czech playgrounds.

I had a feeling that the boy would not introduce Dot Miles’ art with the sign for “music.” A new sign for self-expression would emerge along with new poems. When I think back to that night of joy, pride and celebration, I will cherish most the memory of the look of confidence on that young boy’s face, the face of a determined general.

He had a plan.

...

My Defining Moment

Richard Whittaker — Wed, 20 Sep 2023 00:00:00 -0700

The Forces Arise
My senior year at college felt like a gift from the universe. My parents generously supported me financially. I knew this was the last year of “irresponsibility” and I dived in. I lived in a small, studio apartment on the upper west side of Manhattan, an area bursting with life. I was finally thriving at school taking almost exclusively psychology courses, my chosen field. I had a wonderful girlfriend, Torie. Our relationship had been off and on over the prior two years. Now was happily on again. I volunteered at a halfway house, attended weekly Synanon “games” with Torie. My friend Leo and I had lived at Synanon for six weeks in San Francisco the prior summer, and on occasion attended Dr. Jacob Moreno’s psychodrama sessions in New York. My cultural education included concerts, movies, lectures, poetry readings, folk music, long walks through city parks, and once a rented farmhouse for a weekend in the country with friends.

Cesareo and Psychodrama
There was also another flow begun two years before like a gentle stream that would turn into a torrent in my inner life. I’d never met anyone even remotely like Cesareo. He was Leo’s residence counselor at Brandeis and later his roommate. He was a fiery, fierce Cuban immigrant with interests that matched my own, but with abilities far exceeding mine. He’d landed at Brandeis to study with Abraham Maslow, was 15 years older than me, and like an older brother, guide and fellow traveler.
     Cesareo was a practicing psychologist who often utilized psychodrama. My understanding was that Dr. Moreno had invited Cesareo to join him and his wife, Zerka, to run the psychodrama phenomenon world-wide. Dr. Moreno was a force of nature and recognized this same quality in Cesareo.
     In December, Dr. Moreno held a week-long psychodrama training at his institute in Beacon, New York, two hours from where I lived in New York City. Cesareo, Leo, and a few other Brandeis graduates (now all attending graduate programs) were going and I signed up. During this week, I saw why Dr. Moreno wanted Cesareo to join him. As a director, Cesareo’s timing and theatricality were stunning. He had an uncanny way of getting to the heart of the matter. I experienced the power of psychodrama to explore our deepest wishes as well as our inner resistance.
     The week on this retreat provided the opportunity to hang out with Cesareo more than I had done in the past. He had a different take on life than I had ever known, and had a way of giving specific details to what appeared as fantasy and making it feel real.

(David Feldman is third from left, Cesareo is bearded figure)
     He talked about a “growth center” he was planning to start—a place in the country, a retreat. We had both been to Esalen so we had a point of departure. He envisioned three groups of staff: teachers—for body work, art, theater, hypnosis, etc.—and he would bring psychodrama; managers, for operations, accounting, and the practical aspects of such a place. The third group would be apprentices, young people like myself who would participate in everything, learn from everyone, and do whatever was necessary. He used Maslow’s Theory Z as a model. As you can imagine, I loved his vision.

Have. Do. Be.
I asked, “Isn’t it necessary to have the money first?” He took a long pause, looked at me carefully and then picked up an ashtray. In those days, we all smoked— usually Marlboros. “Let’s call this HAVE.” He took a cigarette box from his pocket and put it near the ashtray. This one is DO.” Then producing a pack of matches, he said “This one is BE.”
     He assured me and the others listening that understanding this triad could help explain many things. “Conventionally,” he continued, “we live in a HAVE, DO, BE triad. First, get the degree and HAVE it. Then practice your profession and DO the work. Finally, you now have become and finally ARE (BE) a doctor, lawyer, psychologist or whatever.” He let that sink in. “But some things don’t work that way. Think about acting as if. We were all familiar with this. “In that case, DO comes first.” And he gave examples. “Finally, there are cases when BE must come first, and that is how this growth center will get going. Its Being will be a magnet attracting money, staff and all the resources needed.” With that, he took a cigarette from the pack, lit it, and ceremoniously tossed the match into the ashtray. We all laughed. The class was over. A seed was planted.

The Synanon Trip and Graduate School
Although I loved Cesareo’s vision and energy, my reality was that the Vietnam War was still in full swing, and my student deferment would end in June when I graduated from college. I’d applied to only two psychology programs and didn’t know if I’d be accepted by either. One was at Duquesne University which offered a unique phenomenological psychology program. I’d studied Sartre, Merleau-Ponty and Camus, and felt an affinity for their approach and wanted to learn more.
     The other school I’d applied to was Sonoma State University in California offering a Masters in Humanistic Psychology. All my heroes were in this tradition: Maslow, Albert Ellis, Carl Rogers, Fritz Perls, Dr. Moreno and so on. I’d even had the good fortune to meet some of these remarkable people.
     Synanon had invited Torie and me to join their “trip” in Santa Monica in January. Synanon owned a beautiful hotel on Santa Monica beach. I arranged my interview with Sonoma State to be held immediately following the Synanon “trip”—an appropriate name in those days. It was a 48-hour, no-sleep, immersion experience that included many Synanon “games,” lectures, free time for walking on the beach, dancing, listening to music and eating lots of food. One aspect of their method was to utilize fatigue to help break through the resistances that we always carry around. More than 100 people participated and I got a chance to meet many new people from varying backgrounds. The weekend ended with a big celebration. Both Torie and I—and almost everyone else—were flying high with happiness and wonderful energy.
     We left for Sonoma on Monday morning. Once there, I discovered that it was a group interview. What an innovative idea! Still in my beatific mood, positive energy came flowing out. The interview came at the perfect time.

The Draft
When I returned from California, I was greeted by a letter from the Draft Board to come for an interview a few weeks before my 21st birthday. I had a bit of time before the interview and I did not want to go into the army. There was an underground network of psychiatrists who would write letters explaining “unfitness” for the army. This was an open secret in my circle. I’d seen a psychiatrist for several months a few years before. I’d been selling drugs and transitioning from teenage-hood and my parents were concerned. They’d paid for an expensive Park Avenue psychiatrist and I found it an interesting experience, but unfortunately nothing much happened. However, he was against the war and agreed to give me an “unfit” letter. Both psychiatrists found appropriate psychiatric diagnostic categories, and thus I had two letters confirming my unfitness.

The Draft Interview
The meeting with the army psychiatrist was a surprise. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I was in front of a 35-year-old, bright, thoughtful Chinese with a slight accent. He had a warm way of asking his battery of questions—very polished, but genuine. He told me a bit of his background, how the U.S. had been a blessing for him and his family, and that he was glad to be paying back. I was getting nervous that my resolve might collapse.
     He then outlined in detail how he understood my position—a student doing well in school, a girlfriend, a possibility for graduate school, a good relationship with my parents and a desire not to go into the army. “Many other young men your age are in far worse positions,” he said. “But they will have to serve their country and so should you. It’s the right thing to do, no matter what your politics.”
     I held firm. To my surprise, he said that he was going to give me a 4F. He told me the designation would follow me all my life, and interfere with many other things I’d want as I got older. Finally, he said. “One more chance! Do you want to make the ethical choice?” I said, “No.” And he gave me the 4F.
     I really had not expected this and it took a while to sink in. As I rode the subway back to my apartment, I noticed young men, my age, and wondered if they would have to go. At the same time, I felt like shouting HOORAY! I hadn’t yet connected this decision to any others, I’d have to make later.

The Forces Collide
In March, I received acceptance letters from both Sonoma State University and Duquesne, and both offered me full scholarships. I had not even been sure I’d get into either of the schools. I preferred Sonoma State.
     Each of the forces penetrating my life (Torie, Sonoma State, Cesareo) was wonderful on its own. However, I could not figure out how to keep them all going simultaneously. In my impulsive exuberance, I asked Torie if she would like to get married so we could go together to Sonoma State. She agreed. Even though she was an “A” student, she was willing to come to California with me while I did the Sonoma one-year graduate program. She was a blue-collar girl, had worked all her life, and was sure it would be no problem for her to find a job and take some graduate courses in the sciences. So, it was settled. I thought we would go to Sonoma State and everything would be hunky-dory. We began making wedding plans, which were completely over my head—finding a place, having it paid for by either my parents or perhaps hers, letting our close friends know and so on.

The Quagmire
Then something happened that I had never experienced before. I began to have panic attacks. I didn’t even know what they were. I’d wake up at night, short of breath, with very scary dreams of being trapped. Torie and I were living together most of the time by then, so there was no escape. A week passed like this. I fully realized the insanity of my marriage proposal. I was not even close to being ready for a committed relationship, much less a marriage—whatever that might mean.
     I told Torie. It was miserable for both of us. Lots of anger, tears, and threats of cutting her wrists. She moved back to her apartment. After a few days, I started thinking about Cesareo, his growth center, my 4F and what I really wished to do with my life.
     There was no one I felt I could talk with since all logic pointed to going to Sonoma. Besides, this was MY decision and perhaps for the first time in my life, I had to make it and then be responsible for the consequences
     Should I go to Sonoma State and establish a career in psychology? I loved San Francisco and Esalen. The West Coast vibe felt like home. Or should I join Cesareo in his quest to start a center? Bear in mind, he hadn’t invited me specifically to join him. It was my initiative. I knew that if I asked him, he’d tell me to go to Sonoma State. I also had the thought to go to Sonoma, get the Master’s degree in Psychology and then re-connect with Cesareo. But it just didn’t feel right. I wished to do what I felt called to do. My sense was that the boat was leaving. I could get on board or not. And it was now or never.
     I wrote to Sonoma State, thanked them for their generous offer, and told them no. I told the head of Synanon in New York (Chester) of my situation and the choice I’d made. He was very understanding and kind and told me the Synanon door would remain open. He was quite familiar with people making life-changing decisions. I explained to my parents, as best
I could, why I’d made this choice. They could not really get it, but they accepted it and wished me well.
     Thus, at the end of June, after graduating from college and tying up as many loose ends as possible,
I got into my green Peugeot with about $200, packed what I thought I might need and drove the four hours from New York City to Boston.

Boston
Cesareo lived in an apartment complex in Winchester, a suburb of Boston. During my ride, I had a chance to reflect on what I’d done and the bridges I’d burned. I was particularly sorry and guilty for the sorrow and pain I’d caused Torie. I also wondered about Sonoma State and the life that might have opened for me. But I’d made my decision.

No plan B
It was a Wednesday, a sun-drenched New England day in late June. I arrived at Cesareo’s ground-floor apartment and saw his yellow VW bug parked in front. I rang the doorbell. He looked surprised to see me and invited me in. We sat down and I gave him a brief overview of the past three months of my life including my decisions, bridge burnings and hopes for the future.
     He did not comment on anything I said. He didn’t ask any questions about it. He listened—really listened— and I felt heard. To feel heard really mattered to me. Then he simply asked “Are you hungry?” We had some supper and washed the dishes.
     In the evening we discussed practical plans. “What if you find a nice room near the beach? Then I can come and visit. I was brought up in Cuba and love the beach.” He suggested Nahant. “And what are you planning to do for work?” he asked.
     “I don’t know, but I’m willing to do anything.”
     “Do you have any money?”
     “Yes, about $200.” I slept on his couch.
     The next day I headed out to Nahant. To get there it’s necessary to cross a causeway, parting the ocean waters on one side and the bay on the other. It felt like entering another world. I drove around this little island looking for rental signs. Not finding any, I stopped at one of the few stores on the island, where I was told the Anchorage Inn might have something.
     Approaching this inn on a little side street, there was something funky, warm, and inviting about it. I climbed the stairs, pushed open the front door and met the owner. I told her about my situation and that I was hoping to stay there for the summer.
     “We don’t usually rent out a room for that long, but we have a porch that’s been converted into a room,” she told me. It included sheets, blankets, a small gas space heater, a hot plate and was literally over the ocean. “You can hear the water on the rocks at night,” she said, “$25 a week paid in advance.” I gave her $25.
     That evening I called Cesareo from the public pay phone in the hallway and told him where I’d landed. He said, “I have good news, also. A friend of mine may have a job for you for the summer. Come tomorrow night (Friday) and you can meet her.”
     I had the next day free and began exploring Nahant as well as the nearby seacoast towns of Swampscott and Marblehead. I’d drive my car somewhere and then walk and walk, just taking in the sights and sounds. I’d landed in a place of great beauty.
     When I visited Cesareo that night, he brought me to his friend’s apartment. Marylou, like Cesareo was in her mid-thirties. For me, they were adults. She’d made a delicious meal with fish, potatoes, vegetables, and we had plenty of wine that Cesareo had brought. He outlined in some detail his vision for the “growth center.” She was as intrigued, as was I.
     Marylou ran a Title 1 government program—a summer camp/school in Lowell for inner-city teenagers a half-hour from where she and Cesareo lived. The program was beginning on Monday and she needed a few extra counselors. She preferred college graduates who would also like to tutor. The one requirement was that I have my own car. Fortunately, my green Peugeot was running well. The salary was more than fine and paid for all my car expenses, rent, food and even some extra.
     So, there it was. All so serendipitous, as if someone or some benevolent force had arranged it all and paved the way. From my vantage point now, 55 years later, it’s fair to say that virtually all the significant events of my life stemmed from this one decision.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I—I took the road less traveled by and that has made all the difference.
—Robert Frost

    ...

A Note on Art in the Streets

Richard Whittaker — Fri, 01 Sep 2023 00:00:00 -0700

Photos - R. Whittaker

Taking a cue from artist Derek Weisberg, in issue #42 I wanted to include a few examples of public art beholden to the graffiti subculture. Given that graffiti and graffiti-influenced murals are plentiful in the East Bay, it was easy to find great examples. I can’t think of any city I’ve visited (including all the cities I've visited in Europe) that doesn’t have plenty of graffiti adorning (or defacing, as many feel) its public spaces.

I recall a documentary about graffiti set in New York in the early 1980s and being mesmerized by its vitality and the drama involved in its creation. There was something compelling about it, and revelatory - both of the capacities of its makers and its implications about our culture.

As Weisberg says, “In the mid-90s, there was a whole group of artists who came out of the graffiti subculture and started making art on the streets. [Many] were painting these figurative, graffito-like murals. There were people in New York making stylized, cartoony figuration—kind of illustrative, but very expressive. Things were exaggerated. And it was all out on the streets—that shared graffiti aesthetic of murals for everyday people, and about everyday people—that I both responded to and wanted to express myself.”

The photo “Public Space” is from Berkeley’s iconic and embattled People’s Park. As Jay Barmann wrote in SFiST in 2019, “On April 20, 1969, a group of activists, Berkeley residents and idealistic Cal students took it upon themselves to take a blighted, empty lot next to the university campus and turn it into a public park. In the fifty years since, People’s Park has come to symbolize a particularly fractious moment in the history of counterculture protest in America.” That fractiousness has recently gone all the way to the Supreme Court.

“Public Space Is Public Space”
However far from clear the above declaration might be (anything goes?) its implication for graffiti, besides being nicely self-affirming, points toward an ideal of, at least, a commons—if not to a dream of a culture free from inequalities.

It’s hard not to be touched by the hunger that lies beneath graffiti—the hunger for recognition, for the utilization of wasted human potential, and for meaning. Isn’t it grafitti’s unmediated presence in its often elegantly particular forms that gives it such potency? It’s hard not to believe that if only we could heed these “writings on the walls” we might find ways to open pathways to a treasure trove of potential.

.

Photos - from top to bottom:
1. Clark Kerr campus, UCB
2. Telegraph Ave. Berkeley CA
3. People's Parkl. Berkeley CA
4. West Oakland CA
5. West Oakland CA
6. Off Telegraph Ave. Oakland CA
7. Off Haight St. San Francisco
8. Amsterdam
9. Amsterdam
10. Catania Sicily
11. Catania Sicily
...

A Visitation

Richard Whittaker — Fri, 01 Sep 2023 00:00:00 -0700

I will always remember the date November 16, 2001, not only for an unforgettable deer encounter but also for another reason which I’ll tell you about at the end.
     On that day, my husband David and I were doing chores on our two-and-a-half acre animal sanctuary. Along with our horses, dogs, cats, chickens, ducks and rooster, we live in a pine forest with many wild animals all claiming the same territory and calling it home. David was at the front of the property working on a project next to the street. I was at the back of the property on a sloped area digging holes in the ground to put in some native hydrangea bushes. I was enjoying the unusually warm, sunny day and was intent on getting six new bushes planted and watered.
     As I was facing into the slope and digging, I became aware of a presence behind me. I quickly looked over my left shoulder and saw a deer quietly standing about four feet behind me. Knowing it was hunting season, I ignored the deer not wanting to familiarize it to people and make it easier to hunt and kill. I continued working for another ten minutes, but kept feeling the presence of the deer. I finally looked over my shoulder again and found the deer in the same spot as before. This time it occurred to me that possibly the deer might be hurt. I turned around and sat on the slope facing the deer. The deer was perpendicular to me so I had a good view of it. It was a doe, fully grown, but still young, maybe three to five years old.

Plan A - Check for Injuries
As I systematically began visually checking her out for injuries, starting with her nose and ending at her tail, she moved closer to me as if to make it easier. She was now about three feet away and still perpendicular to me. No injuries were evident. The thought crossed my mind that I didn’t smell like a human wearing my barn clothes, and decided to talk so she’d know I was a human. “Hello, deer. What brings you here today?” I said, and was amazed that the deer just continued to quietly stand there.

Plan B - Touch the Deer
Touch the deer and she will then definitely take off. So with a little hesitation, I gingerly stroke my fingers down her long neck as if I was caressing my horse’s neck. To my amazement she just stands there as if she has been waiting for this touch.

Plan C - Check for Injuries
I now am talking to the deer as I am gently feeling her neck, back and legs while looking for any signs of physical problems. I find none. As my hands sweep across her body, I can see she has already shed her red, thinner, summer coat and I admire her glossy, thick, grey winter coat of hair. I know that each hair strand is doubly thick due to having a hollow tube running thru it to give extra winter insulation. I can easily feel her perfect muscular structure under her coat. She is very relaxed and seems to be enjoying and welcoming my touch and ongoing conversation.

Plan D - Ask Why?
I now sit down on the slope again trying to make sense of what’s incomprehensible. At this point, I have given up on logical explanations and I again ask the deer out loud why she has come to visit me today. She turns her head and looks me directly in the eyes. Her face is one foot away from mine. I am now going to try to put into words what was a wordless experience. I am engulfed in the most beautiful, gentle and tender gaze that I’ve ever beheld. Her eyes are huge and luminous. They are profoundly deep. As I look into them it is as if she has invited and allows me to see into her soul. I offer her the same invitation. My thoughts disappear and the moment is timeless. I am at complete peace. I understand everything and I want nothing. I exper-ience love and acceptance and the divine all at once.
I don’t know how long we both looked into each other’s eyes and this experience lasted.
     When my thoughts finally returned, the first thing I remember thinking is that if all people could experience what a deer really is, there would be no hunters hunting this profoundly beautiful, gentle being. I felt deeply that this deer allowed me to understand what made her a deer—what was the essence of a deer. Did she also understand what made me a human? Was that intense moment of connection as meaningful to her as me? Did she seek me out for that purpose and if so, why?
     Now, I am still sitting looking at the deer with many more questions going through my head, none of which had answers. It dawns on me that I need to share this experience with David who is still working at the front of the property. I know I have a five minute walk to get to him. If I go fetch him, will the deer still be here? I decide to get him and walk up the slope, across the front lawn and down our long driveway. When I reach him, I tell him I have been talking and patting a deer for the last hour or so and hope he believes me. We both walk hurriedly to the slope and I’m thinking surely the deer is gone by now and no one will be able to confirm my experience. My fears are unfounded. As we start crossing our front lawn, the deer emerges from the slope and walks towards us. The three of us stand closely together and I start telling David in more detail the story of what happened.

Plan E - Call Police - Is a Pet DeerMissing?
At this point I ask David to keep the deer company as I go into the house to call the police to see if someone has reported a pet deer missing. The policeman I speak to has not had any such calls and tells me he doesn’t know anyone in town who has a pet deer. I do not know what to think. I leave the policeman my telephone number and address in case someone calls inquiring about the deer. I go outside to join the deer and David.
     Soon, after one more long look at us, the deer starts slowly walking across the front lawn and onto the driveway. The telephone rings. I take one more long look at the deer, who is now walking down our driveway, before hurrying in to answer the phone expecting that it is the policeman saying he has found the deer’s owner. Instead, I am surprised to hear my mother’s voice which is softer and more subdued than usual. Calmly and slowly, she tells me her younger sister, our Aunt Tessie, died earlier that morning. My mother had 10 siblings. Aunt Tessie was special to all her 27 nieces and nephews because she had never married and was able to spend much time with all of us, taking us to the drive-in and hanging out with us in so many wonderful ways. She was the one family member who joined me when I was living and studying in Mexico one summer. I introduced her to my Mexican friends, and explored Mexico City and Acapulco with her. After our Polish grandparents died, she continued to live in the big house that her father, my grandfather, had built for his large family. It was a ten-minute walk from where I lived with my family. The door was always open and all family members came and went freely. It was my sanctuary and I spent as much time there as possible.
     When I went outside to report on the call to David, the deer was gone. She had walked down our driveway, across the street and disappeared into the woods. I never saw her again. I always remember that I saw her on November 16, 2001—the day Aunt Tessie died after a long struggle with ALS.

Visit Catherine Carney-Feldman’s blog.

     ...

A Conversation with Mary King - Spiral Dance

Richard Whittaker — Thu, 31 Aug 2023 00:00:00 -0700

Photo: R. Whittaker

I’d been in touch with sculptor Mary King for years, but somehow it hadn’t led to a next step. Then one afternoon, as my wife and I were on our way home from north of San Francisoo, I remembered this was the opening day of an exhibit of her late husband Kendall King’s work at San Rafael’s Falkirk Cultural Center. Perfect. Kendall, I knew, had taught painting at the California College of Arts and Crafts with the unusual twist of combining the class with a study of philosophy. So I’d get to meet Mary, as well as get a look at her husband’s work. I’d been intrigued when she’d told me earlier that philosophical inquiry had always been an integral part of their work as artists.
     It was a lovely exhibit and Mary was open to a follow up visit so I’d get to see her own work. One thing led to another and I proposed an interview. —R. Whittaker

works: I’d like to get a little of your background and your husband’s and then we can move on from there.

Mary King: Well, I went to Bryn Mawr, where I majored in Philosophy—more like medieval, religious philosophy. A college friend of mine set up a blind date with a friend who also had an interest in philosophy. It was Kendall who was serving in the Pentagon and was just about to complete his service when we met. We married the winter after I graduated from college.

works:   Okay. Tell me a little bit about your interest in religious philosophy.

Mary:   My mother was born in India of missionary parents, and my grandmother had a big effect on me. My mother got sick when I was in my teens. I was very religious until then, but after that, I turned away from religion.

works:   What were the effects your grandmother had on you?

Mary:   She lived in our home after retiring and was always very attentive to me. We took the streetcar together to the Methodist church. But when my mother became ill, I didn’t think the religion she had was helping her out much. And it didn’t help me out very much, either. So I sort of let it go.

works:   Do you think you were looking for something that might help you?

Mary:   Well, I was always interested in ideas—and dance. Those were the two things.

works:   Dance?

Mary:   Dance was very much something I was interested in. When I was in college, during the summer, I studied dance with Martha Graham at the Connecticut College School for Dance

works: Did you actually work with Martha Graham?

Mary:   I didn’t work with her, but I was in her classes. She taught me a lesson. Coming up to me in one of the classes, she said, “Stand up straight.” Then when I tried, she said, “No. That’s not right. But if you’re going to make a mistake, make it a big one, so you know what it is.” That’s always hovered over me as a sculptor, you know.

works:   How interesting.

Mary:   If you choose the wrong material, go down the wrong path, or make a form that isn’t working—make it strong, so that you can tell what’s wrong with it. Then you can make the correction.
     And José Limón was there that summer, too. So those were my inspirations.
     I was thinking of switching from Bryn Mawr to another school to study dance, and I thought I’d take this summer class to find out. I found out that I didn’t have enough stamina to dance ten or twelve hours a day. So I stayed on at Bryn Mawr. But I kept dancing until my knees gave out when I was around 25. I had a lot of knee trouble.

works:   What was it about dance that attracted you?

Mary:   That’s a good question. How to have your body express your feeling, I think. That was it mostly, how to be true in movement to the feeling you’re having. And of course, having had that study and practice of dance helped me when I got into figurative sculpture—that’s what I started with, making figures. As a child, I made my own dolls and doll clothes, and did a lot of sewing. Sewing helps you learn sculpture, too—how to round a corner or make a fold in the material that will work.

works:   That’s interesting. Earlier in my life, I was married to a gifted woman who made dolls and doll clothes when she was a kid. Then she got into painting in college, but eventually ended up designing dresses and started a dress company. It was her art.

Mary:   Well, and that has to do with paying attention to the figure, too.

works:   She said a quarter-inch made a difference.

Mary:   Yes. Anyway, when I finished college, Ken and I got married. We both went to work in Washington. When he got out of the service he wanted to get his PhD in Philosophy—and he did—from the University of Michigan. I worked and saw him through that.

works: Let’s back up little. You said your experience in dance informs your sculpture, and what can you say about how that works?

Mary:   I didn’t ever do much drawing as an art person, but I understood the body because I’d been a dancer.

works:   Can you say something more about that?

Mary:   Again, I think it’s a question of expression of emotion that one may have, and how that filters through the movement that you make with your body.

works:   Then when you express your emotion with your body, you become more aware of the actual shape your body takes, or wants to take.

Mary:   Yes, exactly. But also, as I said, I’ve been an idea person, too. After working with the figure a lot, I started to use masks with the figures because that sort of saves you from revealing everything. There’s a hiding of some of what’s internal, and even though it may come through in your body, it’s somehow closed off. There’s a combination of awareness and truth, and protective measures to hold yourself together.

works:   That’s interesting. Could you reflect a little more on the expression of the most intimate, important feelings of oneself through art or dance, but also the importance of—or the necessity of—also protecting something? So, there are two sides—showing and holding back. On the other hand, perhaps it could be helpful to other people to see some of these deeper things. What are your thoughts around that?

Mary: I think it’s the dichotomy of life. The negative and positive, the hidden and the open, the contrariness of experience and being alive, is something that’s always been a question for me—and how to balance those things out. And that led into—which you don’t see much here in the condo—how in my mature work with the large sculptures, I chose to work with rocking forms, which have that question of balance, of being off-balance or on balance. Or going from one pole to another pole. So that’s been consistent throughout my experience as a maker in dance, and in sculpture.

Fanblotter Rocker with Notes in Invisible Ink, 2002, 60" x 58" x 24"

works:   A central thing. Okay. And you started telling me about getting married to Kendall. What year was that? [1955] And you helped him get through to his doctorate.

Mary:   Yeah, he got through and I kept working. Then after he got his doctorate, he had a teaching job in Dekalb at Northern Illinois University. He taught there for seven years in philosophy.

works:   What was his area of philosophy?

Mary:   At that time, Logical Positivism was the big deal. But while he was teaching, he was also drawing and painting all the time. That was his kind of release. We were about 30 miles from Chicago and he took some painting courses at the Art Institute there. And gradually, he decided he’d like to get further with art and teach both art and philosophy. So, we both had this dichotomy of experience that doesn’t seem to match up—philosophy and art. Maybe it does for some people.
     He was a great admirer of Diebenkorn’s work and he decided to try to get a degree here at the San Francisco Art Institute where Diebenkorn was teaching. So we came out to the Bay Area.

works: Okay. Let’s look at some of the things you’ve brought up. It’s very interesting that you both had these two sides. You with the expression of feeling in dance, and with religious philosophy. And Kendall had a similar dichotomy. I’m guessing that through art, he must have been contacting his feeling. In philosophy, Logical Positivism strikes me as a pretty dry area.

Mary:   He was very interested in Wittgenstein, too.

works:   Who was a remarkable thinker.

Mary:   Do you understand much about him?

works: A little. He was a major figure in 20th Century philosophy, right there with Heidegger. My younger brother got his PhD at Yale on Wittgenstein, and we had many long conversations around that. Was Kendall interested in Wittgenstein’s later thought?

Mary:   Yes. I think so. But he did pursue art more. I think art served his thinking, as well as philosophy.

works:   What do you think your husband got most deeply from making art?

Mary:   I can’t pin it down because he didn’t verbalize a lot about his experience in art. What the exhibit at Falkirk [in San Rafael CA] didn’t show was how amazingly he could draw. He was a great draftsman, and I have tons of his work as a draftsman, which could be a show in itself, maybe in the future.

works:   What do you think it was about Diebenkorn’s work that attracted him?

Mary:   I think it was that combination. I mean, Diebenkorn was also a draftsman, and he seemed to have ideas that informed what he would draw, and the way he would present what he saw. It wasn’t necessarily photographic.

works:   So he was attracted to Diebenkorn’s ideas, but maybe to the beauty of his work, too.

Mary:   I think you’ve articulated it well. He liked painting the natural world. He would photograph things and then work from a photograph. He never graphed it. I don’t know if you remember the painting in the show of the seashore that had the spiral that disrupts the presentation of the image, in a way. It’s also the idea of the movement of wave and the rotation of the tides.

works:   I thought it was one of the strongest paintings in the show. Looking at it, you can’t just have the simple dream of a beautiful landscape. There’s also this mystery of experience, a moment of beauty, but my life is something ongoing, and it’s not always beautiful.

Mary:   The word ‘mystery’… It’s the mystery of the visual experience. And in dreams we have very visual images. But there’s the mystery.

works:   Yes. And some of his paintings clearly bring the mystery forward. Would you say he was a seeker?

Mary:   Definitely. He was interested in psychology, too. After he got his MFA from the Art Institute, he taught at CCAC. He was teaching both philosophy and art there. It’s what he’d wanted to do, but he found that the students didn’t really want to talk philosophy.

works:   I’m intrigued by your both being visual artists and also having a strong life in ideas.

Mary:   I was always aware of the verbal element in my thinking.

works:   Can you say more about that?

Mary:   It’s hard to be articulate, and here I am talking about how important words are. When I’m working in my studio, there’s constant commentary going on. I wonder what I’m doing; what am I making? How to describe it, find the truth in it?

works:   The search for the truth. You’re making something, and it’s emerging. Right? So you don’t always know where it’s going.

Mary:   That’s right.

works:   And as it takes shape, what does it mean?

Mary:   Well, I’ve always said that once I got started with something—with a material or with an idea that I had—often I’ll have ideas, or dreams and visual images, I’d like to try out. When you get started with the actual hands-on, this thing becomes itself and I’m sort of just the manipulator. I’m not necessarily guiding it. I might be. And sometimes when I try, it doesn’t work.

works:   Am I making myself to some extent when I’m making art?

Mary:   That’s a good question. Well, then you have to explain yourself. You have to tell yourself what you’re doing in words. I think that was really important and it just stuck with me.

works: Maybe it’s something that has its own value.

Mary:   I think I valued it, because when you try to articulate, you can let it go—like you do with an image. With an object that becomes itself, you can see it. It then becomes an image outside of you. It’s more than you. You can write words down on paper. You can pay attention to whether they’re matching what you meant, what you’re looking for, or articulate the question well.
     I’m interested in the question. If you get the question right, then that leads to the next experience, which may lead to another question, and not necessarily to some kind of a defined answer.
     I’m more interested in the spiral than I am in the circle. The circle encloses. It may contain, but it may also shut off another question, whereas a spiral allows that question to flow more freely.

works:   That seems so important in life, having real questions. Answers close the door.

Mary:   And that’s fine. I mean that’s all right, but that isn’t the way I work.

works:   And you said that sometimes the piece is more than I am.

Mary:   Usually.

works:   So that’s fascinating, because something has come through you, and “it’s more than I am.” But it came through you.

Mary:   Yes, you’re the facilitator.

works:   So that sounds kind of mysterious.

Elevated Conversation Rocker, 2000, 97" x 47" x 20"

Mary:   One of the things being in this environment that’s so different from having our studios and working all the time, is that it’s a different experience. I’m working with text and ideas now, and one of the things I thought I would do is write about the work that I’ve done. But that’s going back, and I feel like I’ve still got some time and energy to go forward a bit. Getting through Ken’s show took a lot of work, and I want to move forward and do more of my own work.

works:   Do you mind if I ask how old you are?

Mary:   I’m 89. [she turned 90 a few weeks after our conversation.]

Works:   Well, that’s amazing, and you’re so alive!

Mary:   Ken was 91 when he passed last year. I kept a journal with some of the questions that came up and phrases that come up for what I’m trying to find out. I’m amazed at what can come up, you know?

works:   Can you share any examples?

Mary:   Oh, boy. Well, even titling pieces like, Dawn Now, Dusk Now and The Back of Now is Empty, but We Dream to Reach Up. That’s the bronze sculpture out there just outside, and inscribed inside is “the back of now is empty.” What I was thinking was the face is “now” and the back of it is empty. There’s no face on the back side, so the “back of now is empty.” And that’s kind of an idea to explore, too. “Dream to reach up” is part of the inscription. I think if something is empty, you might also want to fill it up again, or go up again in it.

works:   “We dream to reach up.” That’s a beautiful.

Mary:   I think that’s something I may have written down while I was making this sculpture before I knew what the sculpture was about. The fact that I was using different phases in time—well that’s another element, how time figures into the making of something.
     Often, I would work on three or four things at the same time to allow refreshment in my own head about a particular piece not knowing where I was going—where the next step was going. I’m afraid I’m not as articulate as I used to be.

works:   You’re very articulate.

Mary:   That was the show at the Oakland Museum.

works:   What’s the place in your life of close artist friends? Patricia Stroud is a friend, right?

Mary:   Yes. Pat and I got to know one another when I was at the College of Marin, learning how to do bronze casting. That was a long time ago. What was interesting between us, was this thing of having ideas and questions that lead us on in our work. Also, the handling of materials. I mean, we both enjoyed the physical work.
     We knew we were different from most other women in that way, having the skills to use the tools you need as a sculptor. That was one of the things we had that was a little special. Also, I had never had a friend with whom I could talk about not knowing where I’m going in making something. That going ever onward to discover what would come forth was a track we were both on at the same time.

works:   What do you think it is that one gets from working with one’s hands?

Mary:   Well, it’s something I’ve always done. I’ve always used my hands making things. Why does somebody want to make something? It’s a big question.

works:   It is a big question. I think it’s important.

Mary:   I’m still asking that question, actually. I’m trying to explain that to myself in words, and I don’t think I know all the answers. I’m still exploring and trying to find out why. I like showing my work because people comment. I’ll be amazed at their reactions and their interpretations, and what they find. I find it so pleasing. It doesn’t need to have an explanation from the artist. That’s where the circle and spiral come in. I feel that when you show, you’re on a spiral curve.

works:   Right. You’re moving in a third dimension and always traveling through new territory. So it’s a circle on a journey, which is how our lives are as we tend to repeat things.

Mary:   Yes, and it can go up or down.

works:   How can you tell what direction it’s going?

Mary:   Sometimes you don’t know and you try to figure that out.

works:   How could you tell when it was going down?

Mary:   You might be getting into difficult territory, something that’s trying to be protected.

works:   Not ready to be seen?

Mary:   Not ready, or not able, to be seen—not uncoverable yet.

works:   So if it’s going up, how do you tell?

Mary:   Reaching. If it’s still reaching you keep going. It’s interesting that my husband wrote this on his paper napkin “keep on going.” It was his mantra the last few months of his life. It was true for both of us.

works:   Getting back to the hands. Sometimes I feel I’m actually getting some kind of nourishment through my hands.

Mary:   Do you work with your hands? Do you make sculpture?

works:   I’ve painted and thrown pots, made sculpture and furniture. I do yardwork. I do a lot of stuff with my hands. I was a carpenter for a while. I did plumbing and tile setting. I love working with my hands and as I’ve gotten older, I’ve recognized that there’s just something nourishing about it.

Mary:   That was one of the things in dance that always interested me. When I see dance, I’m always seeing what the hand is doing, you know—how it’s held. Whether it’s a special way because of ballet, a special position, or whether it’s an extension of the movement of the whole body. There again, you have the distinction between rules and behaviors, between what’s natural and what’s designed, imposed.

works:   Yes. I think a lot of people are living in a kind of despair. They may not even know it. There’s a loss of meaning living in a world of things we’re always being seduced by that can’t deliver what’s promised. And working in a job one doesn’t love—just a lot of despair, I think.

Mary:   I think the pandemic has increased people’s awareness of their own despair, probably.

works: Do you feel it’s fortunate having a life in which art has been so much a part of it?

Mary:   Yes, I do feel that, but I also feel like I’ve been away from it for several years. I mean, because Ken was failing when we moved here, these last two years have been really a challenge. I was physically doing a lot, which kept me going. Actually, it kept my body going. I’ve had some challenges and accidents and so on, but I’m really still in there physically. I mean I still want to keep working.

works:   What are some of the things your husband would say about why art making was so important to him?

Mary:   It was partly his own response to what he could see and hear. He was very interested in music from Classical to Jazz, to anything. Those line drawings in the show were the last things he was doing. And a lot of times, he was listening to music while he was working. I don’t do that. I do words.

works:   Do any particular words come to you right now?

Mary:   There were often words that would come to me when I was cutting into something—are these the wounds that make it brave?

works:   Are these the wounds that make…?

Mary:   I’d be thinking of the form I was carving or shaping being something brave. When you make a cut into it, are you being brave?

works:   And bravery, do you have some thoughts about bravery?

Mary:   Very much. Of the thing that’s becoming itself. I’ve used that term a lot, you know. Whatever is being made is becoming itself. I’m not making it; it’s become itself. It has a destiny of its own. And bravery is taking the hits and cuts that it gets in the process of being shaped. You know, I’ll make a shape and, “how high it will it go?”

works:   How high was it brave enough to go? Is that what you meant?

Mary:   Right.

works:   Is it required to be brave to become what you are?

Mary:   Maybe. I hadn’t thought of it in those terms. But I think that’s something important. [she pauses]
     I think to be what one is, you have to be dedicated to work, and to be as truthful as possible when making something—and to allow failure, or hiding, to protect a truth not yet ready to be revealed.

       ...

Bird Dreams—Riding Hope

Richard Whittaker — Tue, 22 Aug 2023 00:00:00 -0700

drawing: Pavi Mehta

Freda Karpf’s new book came my way thanks to an interview with Jacob Needleman she’d read on DailyGood.org. She sent me a note and one thing led to another. She'd written a book, Bird Dreams—Riding Hope, and mailed me a copy. Reading it, I wondered how many exceptional artists have to self-publish? It’s always a special joy helping spread the word about a new original voice. Here’s an excerpt. - Richard Whittaker

(from the book's dedication):

Sometimes a fable weaving our connections to birds, meandering rivers and dragons, fermenting miso and consciousness, wetlands, our extended kin and ancestors, our mentors—and Wisdom. Inspired by actual events, a sense of place and belonging by a woman who addresses the reader on behalf of the earth—what follows is dedicated to birds, to the land and waters they touch and fly over; to the people who help save, protect and steward the land and water; and to the many who have loved our home and shared its beauty and wonders. I thank you all for your dedication, for sharing your wisdom and life energy, for passing on the good and sharing the wonder.—Freda Karpf

Excerpt:

She looked at me then turned and walked slowly down the path. Then I saw the tulip trees that my mentor must have seen. They were beautiful. But when I looked up, instead of blue sky through the spaces the leaves framed, I saw birds. The leaves were generously broad and a great canvas for the light and shadows to paint. Then I realized that the edges of the leaves had something on them. My eyes slowly focused until I could see them. There were little dragons on the many of the tips of the tulip leaves. They were everywhere.

And the Old Woman spoke to them. She began to sway slowly as if from the wind’s slight breeze. The tulip leaves gently moved also. The sun shined through the leaves. The light had the chatoyant effect of tiger eyes where light seems to move through the bands of yellows and gold. Some were green with a blue sheen that seemed to stretch as it does when the light hits a piece of labradorite. I felt my body gently swaying as I stood and watched the Old Woman and the dragons move. It felt like I was standing in the middle of a dance floor.

I often wish I could go back in time and play gin with my mother. That bittersweet yearning sailed past me as I looked up at the dome of leaves and light overhead. Looking into it, I saw that the Old Woman was now looking at me as she continued to move. I exhaled, and only then realized I’d been holding my breath. Only then did I realize every thought that came to me felt like a hawk about to strike. But then it would ease up and I’d come back to the present, left only with afterimages like smoke in my mind, each cleared by the next image.

The air had a silky texture. It felt cool and refreshing. I saw four great blue herons through the tulip leaves. Then swarms of other birds, varying sizes, going here and there. Then just overhead, a flock split into two directions. As they parted, I could hear their wings make the sound of shaking sheets out in preparation for folding them—another activity with my mother that I missed, walking toward her with the folded sheets. And then I noticed the dragons leaning over the edge of the leaves and looking up. They were so small.

“But of course they’re small.” I thought. “They have to be, to travel between worlds.”

The Old Woman was talking to them when I came back to that moment. “Be careful around that one.” Her arm drifted away from pointing at me and continued to sway.

I looked at her questioningly. (Some of the dragons looked down for a moment, but when birds flew overhead their heads lifted to search through the leaves for them.) I just had to ask her if I belonged to the land here. This whole question of belonging had surfaced with such a passion, so much questioning just about how to be.

“Well,” she said in response to my thoughts, “everyone has always migrated. Those who have kept to their lands the longest are threatened every day. They hold on as they can. Those who come to new places don’t always love them. They miss their homes. Then they forget what it is to love a place. It’s a big mess.”

“But do we belong. Can we belong?”

“Love migrates. Love has seasons. Love moves with the wind and has its favorite watering holes and migration paths.” There was a long pause, as she seemed more interested in looking at the dragons and swaying to whatever moved her—for there was no breeze. Like a vapor escaping her lips, she said, “Everyone belongs. Did you write yet?”

She remembered. I didn’t know how to answer. I was thinking, “Well, I wrote, yes. But is it writing if nobody reads it?”

She laughed without me saying these words. “Silly girl. Silly.”

Then her arms moved like wings. The dragons seemed to take that as a sign, for they lifted their heads in unison and then flew from the tulip leaves.

I heard a rush of feathers brushing against the tips of the leaves. And they were gone. And so was the Old Woman...

...

Editor's Introduction - w&c #42

Richard Whittaker — Thu, 20 Jul 2023 00:00:00 -0700

photo - r. whittaker

Momentary eternal. When I saw this title from one of sculptor Derek Weisberg’s series, I knew it would be the theme for issue #42. Then the extra measure of synchronicity that followed in the material coming our way resonating with this phrase, made me feel that something rare was taking place. Each piece in this issue touches on, or embodies, the territory I’ve sought to find and share with others since the beginning of the magazine. Unexpected experiences set me on the path that led to works & conversations. But how to follow the original intuitions that had moved me?
     Gertrude Stein put the problem so well in Four in America: “Now listen! Can’t you see that when the language was new—as it was with Chaucer and Homer—the poet could use the name of a thing and the thing was really there? He could say ‘O Moon,’ ‘O Sea,’ ‘O Love,’ and the moon and the sea and love were really there. And can’t you see that after hundreds of years had gone by and thousands of poems had been written, he could call on those words and find that they were just worn out literary words? The excitingness of pure being had withdrawn from them. Now the poet has to work in the excitingness of pure being.”
     Wasn’t this latest issue, once again—and even more so—like walking in a place one had never been in before? Not novel. But new somehow. A source of refreshment.
     Poetically man dwells, wrote Martin Heidegger. The phrase speaks to us, but enigmatically. What is it to dwell? Is it a question one’s even heard before, let alone asked oneself? To the ordinary mind, it’s self-evident. I assume that I am. But awakening for even a second to actual presence reveals that I live mostly unaware of the fact of myself and am rarely in touch with what's around me. Rather I'm absorbed in my concerns and occupied with the past or the future.
     The reality of being is not territory for which we have adequate language. Sometimes poetry brings us close to that radiance. Wittgenstein famously advised, “That which cannot be said must be passed over in silence.” But he also said, “That which cannot be said, can sometimes be shown.” Hopeful. And one would think the step from there to art is close by. Yet, wouldn’t you agree that it’s rare to encounter art that brings us close to “the excitingness of pure being”?
     Thinking about how to introduce this issue, these thoughts came up. And I was still searching for how to describe our features when it occurred to me that this issue is like an intersection in a high place—perhaps a mountain pass—where songs, questions and stories are shared, while all around one sees reflections of light. That seemed close, a place of refreshment and effortless friendship—even momentarily eternal—just based on its elevation.
     Welcome to issue #42 —Richard Whittaker

   ...

A Visit with Lama Samten

Richard Whittaker — Sun, 07 May 2023 00:00:00 -0700

A visit with Gurdjieff Students
San Rafael CA 10/27/2016

I agreed to be his driver while he visited San Francisco, and knowing he’d retired from teaching at his Temple in New Zealand, I asked if he might teach while he was visiting. His response was, “Maybe meet with people, have tea and exchange. That would be good.”
     Although there are differences in practice, Mr. Gurdjieff wrote of his Tibetan friends so, given Lama’s response, Colleen kindly offered her home for tea and conversation.
     Five years ago I was sitting in a Tibetan Temple in Himachal Pradesh, India when Lama came in with a couple of western students. What was unusual was that I soon picked up my cushion and sat closer so I could hear what he was saying, something I had never done. A few minutes later I realized he was giving Refuge, the opening step in Buddhist practice—acknowledging the nature of our mind, the need for a transmission of practice, the help of community.
     Although I had taken Refuge in 1977 after my brief time in the Gurdjieff Work, I still picked up my cushion and moved closer. He spoke for a few minutes. His introduction was so simple and clear. Twice more in the following years our paths crossed in India and gradually I learned from others a little of his history.
     Under the guidance of my teacher, Kalu Rinpoche, Lama Samten completed more than 9 years in retreat and was then sent by the head of our lineage to New Zealand. So now he can speak to us in English - with a Kiwi accent. I learned elsewhere he’s built eight stupas in New Zealand, eight in Australia and is now building a mandala out of concrete—quite active for retirement. I’d like to welcome him and your questions.—Alan Freebury

Question: Thank you for visiting with us. When you went to New Zealand, that must have been a new world for you. And you’ve been there for many years. Could you say a little about that?

Lama Samten: I was born in west Tibet in 1953. When I was 5 years old I went to the monastery with my uncle. My uncle was an abbot. At the monastery I joined with him meditating in a cave. My parents let me go with him, so I stayed with him for several years. Summers I had a holiday, but the rest of the time was in the cave. When I was 10 years old the Communist Chinese took over Tibet, and we ran to India. The journey took 6 months to get to Nepal and India by foot. I met the Chinese army 3 times with the loss of life. I lost my family—5 sisters, one of my two fathers and my mother. Only my father and I made it to India. All the rest were gone. In India, I stayed with the Tibetan refuges to work on the road for 3 years. After 3 months my father died also. I was in an orphanage, and a Tibetan king adopted me. Then because I meditated at home, he noticed and asked if I wanted to join a monastery that was just getting started. Later teachings came, and I joined the monastery and studied philosophy—all that. Through that, I was educated, and after that I did a three-year retreat, three times.
     Then I was told to go to New Zealand. I tried to refuse three times, but I did not succeed. I went in 1981. In those days Buddhism was very new in western countries, especially New Zealand. I just stayed with a bunch of hippies. I was thinking, “What am I doing here?” I didn’t know English.
     They told me, “It doesn’t matter that you don’t know English, just smile.” I’ve been there 25 years now and my health is not so good. We have a big center and I want to step down. Maybe some new, young Lamas will take over. So I resigned.
     I wanted to do something fitting, mostly in Australia—something more. Because I was brought up in a monastic order since I was 20 years old, I had no experience of family, no experience of anything except the monastery. I realized I wanted to do something as a teacher. In a monastery I could do something with monks who are scared and shy. I stayed with my students, then strangers - and then I retired and came here.
     I want to connect one-to-one. Communication in that way is very simple. Otherwise I’m teaching people, but there’s no connection. I recommend that for Western people. You don’t need to learn anything more. You need something to practice—not too much learning in the head, because your head is full of too many things. There’s no need for an extra one. How to use this to practice—as we call it?
     Also, in my own experience, Western people are putting themselves down. Something is inside—in the bottom of your heart—and you say, “I am not good enough.” We all—50% is perfect, 50% is not perfect. So that is why I am called “The 50-50 Lama.” Between you and me, we have 50% my side, 50% your side, and between us we are 100% perfect.
     But you also have 50% not perfect, as do I. So between us 100% not perfect. You see? If you see me 25% good, and I see you 25% good, that’s good enough, isn’t it? Even if there is 10%, then between us is 20%. That’s good. So you cannot expect everything perfect here. You cannot.

Question: Are you at all hopeful about us in the West who are living mostly in the noise in our heads?

Lama: Your head, you bring it into your heart - it is perfect. You are not knowledge, not anything. You just realize yourself. You are precious. You are capable of everything. That is what is important. Because here, there is too much looking out there, and you lose yourself. This is not good. Too much wanting, too much in the future. Actually you are just spoiled. So this way there is no wisdom. You can’t see the future. You can’t see the in the past. Everything is completely cloudy. No one knows what they are doing. This is no good.
Future nobody knows. Just leave it there. Past is gone. You cannot bring it back. You cannot get the moment. And this is your life. You must enjoy what you see. Okay?

Question: Lama, in my sitting practice, when I’m in a state where I believe the truth of that perfection, that truth of being, that’s one part of my life. What is the bridge between that experience and the times when my not-perfect parts react and take over? What bridges those two states of being?

Lama: Two things. One: not expecting too much. We all are not perfect, and expecting perfection. Everything is ok. Fine. Two, because we are 50% perfect, don’t give up. Because you have the resources, potential— respect yourself. Today is today. Tomorrow, who knows? Just quiet the moment—and this is a little bit of heaven. You are not in heaven or hell. It is a state of mind. If you are quiet, and your mind is in a state of contentment, this is a piece of heaven. If you are miserable, hungry, cloudy—this is a piece of hell. Hell is a state of mind. No place. You wake up. You say, “I am breathing.” Wonderful, and then you begin with heaven already.

Question: Can you say something about your meditation, your sitting practice? How do you go about it, and what is the essential value of sitting? Everybody here sits in the morning.

Lama: Meditation means putting yourself together—physically, mentally, emotionally. Don’t expect anything—just your body put together, your thinking put together, your emotions put together. Not too much anxiety, or saying “I want a good meditation.” Or whatever. Just be.
     I recommend if you say, “I want to meditate” it becomes worse. You become tense. Don’t say that. Relax yourself—whatever position you hold, you are content—not expecting anything, being content. Sometimes I recommend—because in the west you are doing, doing too much—so sitting calm, not possible. Do simple things: painting, gardening or art. Cooking delicious food all you want—simple things that you can do. Your mind will be very calm.
     These things are very important.
     In New Zealand we were building a Buddha statue, the biggest in the Western Hemisphere, concrete. Someone asked me, “Can you teach me meditation”? I told him all right, but can you help me mix concrete?
     He helped me mix concrete and the next morning he rang up and asked if he could come again. Okay, we can have some tea and talk. He said yesterday he had a very good time and last night he had a good sit, “Could I come tomorrow”?
     Beginning that way, the only way, you can see yourself. That is the beginning of meditation. Traditional ways of meditation, no good. It makes you more tense.
     Makes sense?

Question: But in a sense we’re sitting now; we’re conversing; we’re laughing. But it’s a little bit like Ronnie asked, as you go out into life, what is your effort, or non-effort, as you go out?

Lama: Now you are quiet, nice. Don’t leave it on the cushion. When you come around other people, you just don’t buy it. Anything is possible, but you don’t buy it. You are not involved too much. Don’t exaggerate.
In India, England and America, I can see the difference. In America, they exaggerate. Your buses maybe a few seconds late—everybody exaggerates. British people just hold on there—maybe 5 minutes late. But in India, 4 hours late—nobody complains.
If you ask the bus station when is the bus coming, they say, “Maybe coming today, maybe not.” Does it matter? Have a cup of tea. Do not exaggerate. Everything is ok, fine.

Question: For me this raises this question of how to experience timelessness. I agree that everyone says life has sped up with electronics and everything. This problem of time, and feeling oppressed by time, has become worse. This is the opposite of meditation or religious practice, which is to turn towards something that’s eternal, that doesn’t die. So these two seem in stark contrast to each other. I’m interested in what allows something to relax inside so that there’s a different perception of time.

Lama: Now in the 21st Century we have no patience. Why do we have no patience? This is due to technology. Everything is “now.” Everything is “now.” So it gets worse with time. Not enough time. Why? We are making ourselves “not enough time.” Why are we doing this?
     Nobody knows. It is contagious. In my birthplace, if you want to make a cup of tea, it takes two hours. Nobody complains. Why? Because you have to collect wood first. It needs to be dry. Summertime it’s hard to find snow. You have to have snow for water. You have to find flint and sage, dry sage, with the gunpowder together, many, many times for a spark. It takes a long time. Then water—ice or snow—is collected. When the water is hot, you make the bowl of tea.
     It will be delicious. The tea is delicious. But now, here’s a cup of tea. No time, just like this. The problem is these days we depend on power (electricity) too much. Without power, you can’t have a cup of tea. So this is where time is changed by technology. We are always rushing, rushing, rushing. It makes stress, our mind, because of the expectations. So this thing is getting worse, yes?
     Technology is getting faster, faster. Everyday I have 70 emails. Maybe one is urgent. I respond. The rest, I don’t respond. And someone says, “Lama, will you respond?” I say, wait a week; this is not urgent. Then people complain. Now I want to teach you patience. What are you expecting now? You need to be patient. It is very important. Sometimes you just need to be yourself; just take it easy. Everything is OK, fine. Our lives are like art. In the beginning you have a sketch, but you find it is no good. You throw it out, do something else. You can do anything you want. It is not fixed.
     If your mind fixes it, you don’t want to change, you got problems. The world is changing. You are not fixed. You are prepared already.

Question: So you need to fix? I don’t understand.

Lama: You don’t fix. No commitment.

Question: So the way to live in this pressure, this anxiety of time—faster and faster—would be to move to western Tibet, or…

Lama: Western Tibet, the world—it is all the same. No longer Tibet. All Chinese. It is worse, really. The world is moving around faster and faster. You suffer. But don’t be involved that way. More easy. Today, tomorrow, not hoping too much. Then, something happens joyful; you receive 50%. You must enjoy the moment.

Question: We have times in our group when we work together. I think we try to cultivate being more with ourselves and being more with each other, away from the technology—doing crafts, different things, cooking together. And I also relate to what you say about doing simple things in my life, times when I can be more myself, like in gardening or art. But I also have a question about what you said how we Westerners don’t feel good enough about ourselves. Because there are those states, when you’re facing pressures and getting a little into this bad place. But this actually has life in it. It helps me to come back to myself. There is something very special about that kind of state where it’s a little bit negative, but I’m up against something, and I’m trying to come back. So can you say anything about that?

Lama: I think that sounds like you are OK. You already say it. You are on the right track. Doing things good for you—cooking, coming together—is very joyful. Modern society is missing that and we are broken. Families are broken. Cooking, being together—now these things are all gone. Saturday, Sunday used to be a holiday.
     I realized what “holiday” means. In the Christian tradition, it is the time to pray spiritually, and time to be together, talk together, cook together, eat together. This is the part of the holy that makes it special. This is a good tradition. Holy means the family getting together. It’s part of the spiritual, part of the enjoying each other. This is what holy means.
     This tradition now is broken; now holiday means lie on the beach, become tanned. Not much meaningful. Originally, in the Christian tradition, holiday means special day for the family.
     This, I think makes sense. You say that the community cooks together, eats together. It is very good.

Question: When I go out and meet my day with a little preparation and am more calm, then there are all the different things in the day… How do you orient all the things in your mind towards coming to meet with yourself? I think something is needed, because if I’m just waiting to feel something, the whole day can go by and nothing. In Tibet, they have so many pictures of thankas and ritual objects, and I see that you do your beads. For a westerner, how do you have something like that in front of you?

Lama: I think maybe whether you are home or work—or whatever, you need to accept—be accepting. Be yourself. Sometimes I tell people to visualize yourself as the mountain—the huge mountain. On the mountain they have lots of trees, big trees, small trees. A monkey is in it, snakes are on it, or tigers. But the mountain is not complaining. Let it be.
     So similarly, in your daily situation—everything that is in front of you—let it be. Don’t complain. You can’t say, “The monkey has good behavior.” No. Just leave them. Trees are too tall. This one is too small. They just grow.
     You are a mountain.
     Therefore you serve the purpose of all beings. So be a mountain. OK?

Question: Life as it presents itself to me is my teacher, and my life has changed radically. Recently I have been able to retire. The way I look at time is different. I take my grandchildren to school and everyone is in a hurry. So I am facing a life that is very different. You and I are about the same age. Some of the things that I am facing today are health issues. I have worked on my sciatica, which changes what I can do. I have been a craftsman and I felt fortunate to be able to mix concrete perfectly. That’s been a reminder to me, to work with a craft. So life has presented this feeling of time, but also not being able to do what I used to be able to do. So it is hard to accept, and to use as an opportunity to wake up. It’s a challenge. I am so habituated to work in a certain way, and I need to be very conscious, awake, or I will hurt myself. I have a different work now.

Lama: Everybody has to go through that way. This is how life is. When you are young you listen to your head. After forty you listen to your body because when you are young what your head wants to do your body can do for you. After 40 you must listen to your body, not your head, or you will be injured. Your body is not the same. Your mind says “You can do it” and your body cannot.
Your mind says stupid things; your body crashes. Then you are in the hospital. All human beings, including myself, must be careful because after 40 if you try to do some things, you can break and never recover. So you must be careful after 40. When you have youth, you can do anything your mind can think of. After 40 you must say, “been there, done that.” Your job is already done. Now it is better to be a more wise person. If your body can’t do it, be wise.

Question: There are quite a few similarities in what you’ve said today with the tradition that we’re in. When Gurdjieff came to the West, he said, “You don’t need any more learning, you Western people. What you need is connection with your other parts.” He described a system where each person is comprised of the mental, the body, the feeling, the sex, the instinctive, the higher feeling and higher thinking centers. The basis of the practice is to connect our mind with these other parts, beginning with the body. As I’m speaking to you, I can be aware of my body and its posture.

Lama: Your mind, number 1, is connected to your body. And the body is connected to the world. The body is made of five elements; the five elements come from the world. It is not run by gas or electricity. It is run by elements: earth, food, water, air, space, fire.
Your body is a connection. Your mind is a connection. They are all interrelated. When you know that, you appreciate yourself, the world— everything. Without others, we cannot survive. When you see this, you are grateful to all. That is called connection. Modern society has lost this.
If you have a problem with the physical, or the mind, they think that you have a problem. Connections are important—appreciating and gratitude.

Question: So when people would ask Gurdjieff, as we are inclined to ask you, well what do we do? This is the situation. So what do we do? He would reply that, “As you are, you can’t do anything. It’s more important to see, to have impressions.”

Lama: Some things you can do. Some things you cannot do. We can say cause depends on conditions. So that is what we are trying to do. You can do something with the condition that makes the results different. So, the cause is created, and it cannot be changed, but the conditions make the change.

Question: What are the conditions?

Lama: You somehow climb up the 100-story building to the top. All of your stairs have collapsed, but you are up there. You have to do something about it. Jump. You look around. Depending on the conditions. One tree rocky, one tree has more grass, one tree water - you have to choose.
     Sometimes I want to jump in the water, or sometimes they are all rocky… no choice. You have to jump. So you look around. There are some possibilities. Some not-possibilities. But you have to jump. Choice, slim choice. This is cause. “Conditions.”
     “Results” means, if you jump in the water results come, and you might survive. If you jump in the rocky, you will not survive. If you jump in the tree—maybe, maybe not. If you jump on the flat grass, it is beautiful, but no. Results come just like that. Sometimes we have choice, sometimes no choice. In our life, around you, you might have some choice, you can see yourself. That is how I call it. Conditions make a difference.
     Four things you definitely have no choice. I call it the 4 major problems: old age, sickness, death and birth. We have no choice. We all have to go through.
     Old age means how much you try, nothing will stop it. It gets worse and worse. Aging doesn’t mean you are old; it means you are physically old; your digestion is old; your movement is old. Then you fall sick. Sickness, disease—because you are not balanced; you are diseased. Nobody escapes this one. How many times I have tried tai chi, yoga exercise… nobody will save you.
     One day, in the hospital the doctor will say, “Mr. Jones, I cannot do more for you.” It is the end of the road. It is called death.
     You say, “I don’t want to do these things again. I don’t want to be born. Too much pain.”
     You have no choice. You will be born again. Because death means—it is just physical. Your mind never dies. So therefore you will be born again. Whether you are lucky or not, you have to go back. No choice. So these four are no choice.
     Accepting it is much better than fighting with it. Some people will say, I am fighting with cancer, or I am fighting with this. You can’t fight with these. You will lose. Better to say, it is part of nature’s processes, and you are not exempted. Much better. Much better.
     Also, people ask for money for cancer research. But maybe it is better to find out how cancer comes in the first place. Before ancient time, no cancer. Now common - how come? Why?
     The Tibetan doctors recommend two ends: one, does cancer come from electricity, chemicals—too much in the body, and this makes you have cancer? Another thing is peoples’ mind—too much anger; express themselves with too much anger, and hold on to it. Then cancer.
     These are the two ends that are recommended. Plus there are circumstances. There is fear. Fear about disease, fear about dying—especially in America - too much fear.
     Really I am not sick. Sometimes I have lots of coughing. I go to the supermarket, look around, and go to the counter and cough. There is fear because of the flu. Everybody is running. They all have their headphones on. Rushing, rushing.

Question: May I ask a question about anger and fear? The meditation that I use, not what I have been taught, is to not know that I am angry. Not know that I am afraid. I like to feel calm, not angry, and I like to feel that I go out into the world calmly, because I have put my anger and fear somewhere where I don’t see it. Everybody else sees it, but I don’t see it. This is well known, it is not meditation, but it goes on.

Lama: It sounds to me like you are doing an analytical meditation. It is a good one, because our image is too strong, and we sit down and it gets worse. We need to be analytical in our thinking and more examining through the way. Someday you will lose your anger. Nobody has anger all the time. It rises and disappears. So you just put it in its place, just observing this. Another one that is important is, why am I fussing about this? Why? Just thinking about this that way.
I was in Australia, one day a man took me on a cable car for 3 hours. The longest in the world. And he gave me a really good time. Then we stop for a nice cup of tea at a tea place. I was outside. Then he said, “I buy you the tea.” Then in a little time he brings tea and he was very angry. Very angry. He wanted to go back. He said somebody was very rude to him. Very rude. I said “What did he say”?
He said, “He called me a bastard.” I asked, “What does it mean?”—I know what it meant, but I wanted to calm down his anger. He explained it. What stupidity. He laughed, laughed. His anger calmed down, and we had a cup of tea. In your meditation, your analyzing, it fades, for the time being. It is good.

Question: Is analyzing seeing?

Lama: Yes, yes. It is. If you are angry, get a piece of rope. Every time you are angry, make a knot. Then after the anger is finished, you take out the knot.

Question: I was reading a little bit online, you were ordained by the 16th Karmapa?

Lama: No, I was ordained by Kalu Rinpoche.

Question: I had heard that the 16th Karma had a special relationship with birds. We have a dog who just died a few days ago, and there was a very strong feeling for the animal. Our whole relationship with everything—with animals, in particular. There are stories with the Karmapa about birds, that he could understand them—that they had this special relationship. It’s a mystery to me, the whole relationship with animals. But if you feel a little more sensitive, what is the deep relationship with animals?

Lama: Animals are more clear than us. They cannot communicate through language, but through their feelings. Their feelings are more clear than ours, especially dogs and horses. Animals grow up and they are part of the being, just like us. Sometimes I think animals are better than human beings, these days.
One of my masters said, “These days, if somebody calls me a dog, it is a compliment.” Dogs are much better than human beings. Agree? I grew up with animals. We were nomads. We had dogs, wonderful dogs. In India we could not take dogs because the Chinese Army was behind us. Some dogs we left behind. It was so painful.

Question: I think this relates to what was asked earlier, about how our practice could help us connect to this faculty in us, to be connected. What we are all searching for is a quality of living, perhaps more like a dog. Or a horse or something.

Lama: Absolutely—liking human beings, liking animals. The main thing is appreciation and gratitude for something. All are conditions for our survival, and we depend on each other. It is like heaven. It is made by our own and hell is made by our own.
Now that there is not much wisdom, people are making hell in the world—killing each other, shooting each other, all controlling each other. This is the hell way. Instead of that, if you appreciate each other—no weapons—and be there for each other, it is heaven. So with modern technology, not much understanding of each other. Economically, with weapons, we don’t appreciate each other. And also, in the world—in the environment, situations—many things are given: food, water, air. But no one appreciates. Instead, cutting the trees through ignorance. We need a way more with these things. Talking to people, same way. Talking together, like this.

Question: Are the different Tibetan lineages in good relationship, or do they all stay in…

Lama: They all come from Buddha’s Three Teachings: Foundation Discipline is Hinayana (more in Burma, Sri Lanka, Laos). Mahayana is compassion for all (Korea, China) and Vajrayana includes the first two, but takes the result as the path (Himalayas). When you are a small baby the best food, nutrition, is mother’s milk. Why? Your capacity is suitable for mother’s milk. This is the core. For the beginner, this is the best food. When you become 20, say 30, then your mother’s milk is not good enough. Then you need a big stick. You need something strong, otherwise not enough. When you get old, 60’s 70’s, 80’s- your appetite left is very small, your diet is so small, but your time is very big. You need small, concentrated food. This whole teaching is content related to your capacity. When Buddhist ideas came to Tibet, Tibet was shamanist, so it didn’t really succeed. Then the next Buddhist teacher came, challenged all the ‘deities’ and with those teachings the vajra or “Diamond Way” began.
Then after that Tibetan translators went to India and brought more Indian lineage teachings. All three teachings were included, but the emphasis is different—some emphasize love, some emphasize view, some practice.

Question: Everybody here is 60 years old or more, so at this stage of life, what type of change in our practice would be most beneficial?

Lama: After 60, your practice will not be putting yourself in discipline too much. Because your body can’t do it. You try to push yourself too much and you spoil the whole thing.
     So now is relaxation time. Now you are educated. Life goes on, you have experience. Good experience, bad experience, whatever—they are all knowledge. Sometimes mistakes, and you learn from mistakes. Sometimes success, and you learn from them. It’s all the same.
     Through experience you learn lots of things and you become more wise. So therefore you have more confidence. You are more wise than when you were younger. You see things more than others. Appreciate yourself. You are still breathing. You made it to 60. Wonderful, isn’t it?
     In modern times, it’s hard to make it. They are playing with “toys.” Cars crash, planes crash—all sorts of things. Somebody shoots you.
     Somebody bombs you. So you made it to 60. Wonderful, isn’t it? Appreciate, that way. So this is your practice.

Question: How I live my life these days is to stay out of trouble. The path is towards comfort. But I have been listening to Pema Chodron, and she says things that are really helpful in experiencing my life more. She suggests turning towards fear when it comes up. And I feel like, at my age, I need to prepare myself for dying. And this practice of turning towards fear and getting adapted to groundlessness is helpful. That has been my practice lately.

Lama: Sounds very good. We are all groundless. We are hanging around—not touching ground. This is not what they call “impermanent.” We don’t know how long we’re going to stay. We don’t know. You are doing lots of preparation for the future. Somebody buys 100 pairs of shoes. You are not staying 100 years, but you are buying 100 pairs of shoes. They are not thinking of dying. They are making preparation to stay forever. Too much. You don’t know. But you do know you can die. 100% you can know this. You are going to be dead, and you will not be prepared.
It’s funny, isn’t it? 100% you know that you’re going to die, and nobody is prepared. We don’t know tomorrow and the next day. We prepare to stay forever. This is a big mistake.
Because we are born, we are going to die. So preparation for death is essential. Never too early. So that is why your way sounds very good. You don’t know when you die, so you appreciate today. Otherwise you are thinking too much.

Question: Are you are saying that our preparation for our death is our living now?

Lama: Now. Yes. Absolutely. Preparation for death means you try to be physically, mentally, emotionally helpful to yourself and others. Useful to yourself. A meaningful life. When the time comes, you have no regret. You say, “I did my best.” I accept my consequences. You have no regret. If you are not prepared for death, you become harmful for yourself and others at the end of life. You say, “I am stupid.” You are a regret to yourself, and then death is a freak out. No joy. And then 25% of people will say, “I am glad he died.” That means you have not had a meaningful life.

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WAYMAKING WITH BILL YAKE

Richard Whittaker — Fri, 05 May 2023 00:00:00 -0700

Left - James Manteith

Oakland-Arroyo Seco, California, March-April 2023

Bill Yake was a poet* whose inner treasure revealed itself splendidly along trails. Although I first met Bill in Port Townsend, Washington, at the Centrum Writers Conference in the summer of 1993, we became better acquainted there a year later when he and his close friend Greg Darms invited me to tag along with them and another outdoors-steeped poet, Douglas Jeffrey, on an outing to the summit of Mount Townsend. Still in early stages of discovering poetry, I was sixteen going on seventeen, with these poets some thirty years my senior. At Centrum, they and many other writers showed incredible graciousness in treating me equitably, even though I was far from their equal. A native of nearby Port Angeles, I’d grown up hiking in the Olympic Mountains but had much to learn from an expedition with such poets, informed by creative sensibilities, literary scholarship and scientific training.

In homage to the Chinese sages, at some point we all used tree sap to stick Spanish moss to our chins. Douglas, who worked as a San Quentin Prison librarian, kept his wilderness practice more subdued and introspective, while both Greg and Bill slipped effusively into Lao Tzu and Hanshan character, with Bill’s imposing stature and slight stoop enhancing his deferential bows, hands folded in prayer. Indeed, Bill’s stoop made him seem predisposed to bowing, as if bashfully wishing to make himself less conspicuous—an impression complemented by his soft-spokenness. Perhaps in adolescence he had sprouted upward quickly, then never quite adjusted to a height made suddenly his own. His build, though, gave him a long hiking stride and possibly even an edge in basketball, a sport he’d dabbled in, overcoming his gentle bemusedness.
     As was Greg’s and Douglas’s, Bill’s authentic sagacity was capable of diverse manifestations: besides expertise in animal tracks, for instance, Bill had a savvy eye for scat. At one point along the Mount Townsend trail he crouched down and with his bare hands delightedly dissected an owl pellet. The mouse skeleton he unearthed inside remained as a mosaic to decorate the trailside.
    Douglas may have walked most conscientiously. Greg’s perambulations reminded me of Peter Pan. And Bill loomed like a totem pole uniting us all as we surveyed the vegetation, scouted for critters—as Bill liked to call them—and listened to birdcalls.

The views from Port Townsend’s patron summit were glorious. We perched for a while there on boulders, where the seasoned poets jotted in their notebooks—Greg’s including renderings of Chinese characters he liked to probe for inspiration.

Among Bill’s many critter familiars, owls had a central place in his heart and poetry. He sometimes assumed the alias "Spedis Owl," a name associated with a petroglyph motif found along the Columbia River between Washington and Oregon. The symbol fit him—a large bird who seemed drowsy, but in fact was poised to pounce with precision of act and word.

For the summer of my initiation at Centrum—an arts organization housed at decommissioned Fort Worden—the director had declined review of my fifteen-year-old self’s writing as a basis for full admittance. Instead I was allowed to audit thanks to testimony and promised chaperoning from my mom Robbie, a journalism professor and aspiring memoirist. While I focused on poetry, she took prose classes with Northwest writer David Guterson, soon to publish his first novel, Snow Falling on Cedars. This summer was also William Stafford’s last. The Oregonian poet and pacifist passed away about a month afterward. Stafford had a warm, humble presence, kind but firm, quietly subversive, but excitable. Bill and Greg loved Stafford, and each carried some of his qualities.
     I had my first contact with Bill and Greg in workshops led by Stafford’s younger friend and collaborator Marvin Bell. Both Centrum fixtures, they dialogued through poetry (see their collection Segues) and would leave each other poems on a bulletin board all could read when passing through the hallway of the old clapboard building that housed our workshops. Bell and his students met around a ring of tables in a second-floor classroom, with a view out over Fort Worden’s grounds.
     At first I had to sit separately, but Bell soon invited me in with the rest. This move was met with complaints from some of the full-enrollment students, and I was obliged to recede again. The next morning, the bulletin board featured a bitter poem by Bell: “Poet A writes at the seminar table. Poet B has to stay at the back of the room…” An open-enrollment instructor, Christianne Balk, said that even as a high-schooler I could study in her upcoming University of Washington poetry class, a distance-learning course for all ages. Meanwhile, more charitably-minded Centrum students like Bill and Greg looked after me for the conference’s duration.
     Bell took the next year off from Centrum, and the 1994 writers conference introduced me to many new faces. Now past my probationary summer, I was fully enrolled at Centrum and on my own. I studied with the Buddhist poet Jane Hirshfield while Bill and Greg took workshops from eco-poet Pattiann Rogers and formed a deep friendship with the nature writer Robert Michael Pyle.
     That summer, a bond arose among poets Bill, Greg, Nancy Cherry, Devon Vose and, blessedly, me — the Fabulous Five. Rooming in one of the barracks, in the evenings we chatted and swapped poems, relishing each others’ approaches: Bill’s mapping a cosmology of conservationism, Greg’s experimenting with phenomenology, Nancy’s capturing the fragility of life and nature, Devon’s diaristic and winsome and mine still casting around.
     On one of our last nights together, we went out late with wine and flashlights, following a path to the fort’s abandoned bunkers defending Puget Sound. In a highly convincing manner Bill howled at the moon. Later, fortified by our collective spirit, I wound up walking back with Bill. As we made our way through the trees, he illuminated the path. At one point, he held back a branch and, as I passed through, chuckled mysteriously, his flashlight at his chin making his face a mask of light and shadow. Many years later, when I learned that Bill had chosen the title Waymaking by Moonlight for an anthology of his poetry, I remembered our passage that night—and his eerie visage etched in eternity.As I muddled through my senior year in high school, being one of the Fabulous Five—and connecting with Port Angeles writing communities—emboldened me to reach out to my hometown’s great writer, Tess Gallagher, who became a lasting friend. Douglas Jeffrey, Sharon Fain, Robert Funge and Peggy Debroux were other kindred spirits the Fabulous Five met at Centrum and whose paths crossed with ours as life went on. Poems from all of us sometimes appeared in Greg’s magazine convolvulus.

[ Pictured left to right: Northwest poets Derek Sheffield, Tim McNulty, Greg Darms and Joseph Green ]

Between my graduation from high school and my first year of college, I had a chance to get to know Bill more fully when he drove Devon and me in his Isuzu Trooper from Washington to California to attend the “Art of the Wild” writers’ conference at Squaw Valley. On the eve of our departure, Devon and I spent the night at Bill’s old farmhouse on the outskirts of rural Tenino. He lived an unadorned, solitary life there with a thoughtful collection of books and records. When I expressed curiosity about "Morrison Hotel," Bill put it on the turntable, and the Doors’ “Roadhouse Blues” became an anthem for our voyage.
     Before heading south, we accompanied Bill toward Olympia and his day job at Washington State’s Department of Ecology to drop off a report on fish and dioxins before shifting into poetic mode for the weeks ahead. Traveling with Bill, Devon and I soon discovered he was as much at home on the road as he was in his old farmhouse. His poetic consciousness seemed to abide in his vehicle and to fan out into whatever landscape he navigated. He sometimes played music cassettes or poets reading. A crate in the back of the Trooper held a selection of books that included Lew Welch’s Ring of Bone and a worn copy of Gary Snyder’s Six Sections from Mountains and Rivers Without End. Bill loved that Mountains and Rivers commemorated U.S. 99, the antique, north-south highway that passed through Olympia and Tenino. The spirit of Snyder’s poems and writings still flickered in the forests and grasslands we were passing through.
     That first night, we stayed at a budget motel in the southern Oregon town of Lakeview. We breakfasted on cereal doused in reconstituted powdered milk—a recipe from Bill’s college days, when he’d deemed austerity a key to life as a poet. His metal road-bowl was of similar vintage. By then he could laugh about such utopian strictures, but vestiges remained as characteristics of the muse he communed with, melding poetry and scientific discipline.
     On that drive we learned, as well, of a sacrifice he’d made early in his life, giving a child up for adoption. Full of regret, he contemplated whether he might find his son, whether his son would welcome their reunion, whether their lives could accommodate each other.

A series of towns became triggers, in the parlance of Richard Hugo’s The Triggering Town, which Bill read aloud from. After a long, barren stretch of Nevada desert, when Highway 395 finally brought us to Hallelujah Junction and its centerpiece—a dismal, corrugated-steel-sided convenience store—the three of us exclaimed, “Hallelujah” with all due sincerity.
     Goals were not the most important part of traveling with Bill. What mattered more was the journey and all he brought to the endeavor. He covered ground quickly, but mindfully, and was always ready to pull off to take notes on flora and fauna in his miniscule handwriting. And there was live music. He played his guitar to selections from Alan Lomax’s The Folk Songs of North America. I’d brought my guitar along, too, and on a sunny lunch break along the Truckee River, he introduced me to a Lomax gem, “Every time I go to town, the boys keep kickin’ my dog around,” which became a merry duet.

At Art of the Wild, the Fabulous Five shared a cabin, Greg and Nancy having joined us. Gary Snyder, one of the conference’s founders, taught and read there that year. His burning of sagebrush to purify the directions formed a perfect counterpoint to the poetry he offered, just a year away from the completion of his Mountains and Rivers epic.
     We studied with Pattiann Rogers and Jane Hirshfield again, as well as with Brenda Hillman, then at work on her alchemical poems in Loose Sugar. Hirshfield’s new essay, “Writing and the Threshold Life,” stunned us all. Its invocation of Victor Turner’s notion of “the liminal” to describe the role of poets shaped how I saw our destinies.
     Afterwards, on the road back to Washington, Bill seemed revitalized and confident, and ready to explore new ideas. At Powell’s Books in Portland on the way down, he’d picked up The Yale Gertrude Stein and, on our return trip, he read from this volume, rejoicing in Stein’s linguistic qualities and wondering how her radical blend of repetitiveness and unpredictability might relate to the environments around us. He also had Paul Klee’s sketchbooks along, and pondered Klee’s phrase “twittering machine” as an analogy for nature’s mix of freedom and determinism. Both modern and indigenous aesthetics informed Bill’s ways of seeing, his mediation of inner and outer worlds.
     Bill read, wrote and listened as a poet and a musician. His immersion in certain songs seemed to heighten his grasp of language’s power. In his cultivated, introverted way, he shared the visionary panache of the likes of Jim Morrison—the link between the beats and “Texas radio and the big beat.” During desert-listening to Morrison’s uncanny “Horse Latitudes” (nautically tinged ravings set to a backing of bewildering clamor) phantom waters seemed to surge anew in ancient sandy beds. Bill could parse such hermetic signals. They echoed his own calling. So did the bleak, loving humor of Townes Van Zandt, John Prine and Greg Brown—and the hard-hitting simplicity of straight-up blues.
     Our return route took us through northeastern California, with a stop to visit the lava beds once used by Modoc warriors in their defense against the U.S. government. Standing in the shadows of a lava tube with Bill and Devon, I thought about poetry as our own means of underground resistance.**
     When we arrived back at Bill’s Tenino farmhouse, completing a circuit of some 1,500 miles, it felt heartbreaking to leave him alone again. His solitude in those ramshackle walls seemed less nourishing than before. In fact, he soon moved to a wooded spot closer to town in Olympia. With new companions, he began to satisfy his naturalist wanderlust with exotic world travels as well as embarking on new American odysseys. A supporter of environmental, literary and spiritual groups, he could hold his own as a gentleman hippie. “At fifty,” he wrote, “my hair is finally long enough to plait with feathers.”

I have many more memories of Bill. These include, in later years, working with Tatyana Apraksina to translate Bill’s poem “The Mind of Taxidermy” into Russian; being a guest with Tatyana and meeting Bill’s fellow ecologist and new, beloved wife, Jeanette Barreca; discussing the work of two great Northwest Roberts—Sund and Bringhurst—with him; learning that he’d indeed reconnected with his son Matthew; reading with Bill, Greg, Tatyana and translator Jamie Olson in Olympia; being honored by his and Jeannette’s presence at Tatyana’s and my readings in Astoria, Oregon and Port Angeles; sharing a meal and celebrating Tatyana’s birthday with him at Duckburg—the floathouse colony founded by Greg and his partner in book arts, Christi Payne, on Astoria’s John Day River.
As the publisher of Radiolarian Press, Greg went on to release Bill’s first two full-length collections, This Old Riddle and Unfurl, Kite, and Veer. Greg also handled the beautiful design of Bill’s Waymaking by Moonlight: New and Selected Poems, published in 2020 by Empty Bowl Press. In the nearly thirty years that remained of Bill’s life since I first met him, his body of work and literary reputation grew steadily. He emerged as a teacher and elder statesman in his own right.

I hope these offerings may add to a potluck of impressions that others will contribute in witness to the charm and coherence of Bill’s personality and his commitments to literature, friendship, the glory of polyphonous creation, and poetry as an endless waymaking between the mythical and real. I hope, too, that others just now finding out about Bill and his work will want to join in.

Bill Yake’s earthly trail ended on December 12, 2022, but his work will endure.

* two of Yake's poems from Waymaking by Moonlight:

Aging,
we grow asymmetrical—
strength in one eye
and the opposite leg,
and our lives gyre
slowly at first,
then like old nations
we pull in our arms
and spin thin strings of fire.

Moon from Winter Ridge
The moon is a stone mirror.
We forget that.
Its reflection
from the valley
of polished water,
austere as stopped time
is the double ricochet of sunlight
banking precisely home to each attentive eye.

-- Thanks to Empty Bowl Press for permission to include "Aging" and "Moon from Winter Ridge" by Bill Yake from his collection Waymaking by Moonlight — Empty Bowl Press, 2020

** Editor's note: When I asked James to say a bit more about his sensing of poetry as resistance — was something assumed there as a matter of unspoken agreement? He replied, "I felt this at the time and may not have ever put it in words. The lava tubes were so rugged - so shadowy, cool and solemn - amid a wilderness depopulated by thoughtless history. They felt to me like spontaneous gifts from the land's psychic geography, like subterranean roadside chapels where we could permanently internalize whatever epiphanies we might have wished to claim as life-altering above ground. I suppose fighting corrosive homogenization through literary friendship is a central theme of the piece." - Richard Whittaker

...

Genetically Engineered Chicken

Richard Whittaker — Wed, 03 May 2023 00:00:00 -0700

It occurred to me one day, as I grabbed a package of chicken from a freezer bin, at a Key Foods supermarket in New York City, that this headless mass of flesh was kind of a lie. What had once been, like myself, a living breathing creature, capable of feeling pleasure and pain, was now a slickly packaged and labeled product—so remote that I could avoid any pangs of guilt about eating it. That was a relief. On the other hand, I suspected that there was a dark underbelly to the ease out of which that relief sprang. I felt that this reliance on convenience, provided by the corporate machine, must contribute to my larger sense of ill-ease—to a detachment from my own humanity. And so, at that moment, somewhere in the depths of my being I made a commitment to finding out what it felt to like take responsibility for the killing, with my own hands, the creature that was to be my food. This commitment was not formulated as a thought, but as an urge, linked to a subterranean chain of moments, propelling me into my future.

Shortly afterwards I met a musician from Mississippi. A year later I followed him to his home state, bought 213 acres, and he helped me set up a ranch. I had a dream to set up an arts and music retreat on a sustainably run ranch, and he was interested in collaborating with me. But the NYC/ Mississippi relationship was fraught from the get-go. We split up after a year and I struck out on my own.

Nine years later
I raced the truck along a winding two-lane road. Purple dark clouds clung to the horizon, and the road lay in front of us, in the dull morning light, like a long, twisted, taffy pull. Madi, my current ranch assistant, sat in the passenger seat. She gazed out of the window as barren fields, dark forests, trashed-out modular homes and obsessively manicured bland brick ranch houses passed by in a blur.

We were on our way to the First Monday Flea Market to buy chickens. It was a 50-minute drive from my ranch in the piney hills of North Mississippi, but I’d been unable to find chickens for sale locally. Apparently, the art of raising chickens in my county had, for the most part, given way to government assistance, hours spent in front of television, cheap industrial Walmart eggs and pharmaceutical induced inertia.

I was not sure if I would find a chicken vendor at First Monday in early February. I’d bought my layer flock last spring, but the chickens I was buying this time were to be slaughtered for food, and the time was now. I had found a capable partner in the crime- Madi. She was in training to be a surgeon. It had been nine years since my supermarket epiphany. I was ready, with Madi, to step up to the plate.

The winding road ended at a T. I made a left into the farming and used-car-lot hamlet of Ripley—home to the First Monday Flea Market.

First Monday thrived in the spring, summer and fall months. There you could find antiques, farm equipment, tee-shirts, socks, semi-automatics, and everything in between. You could also find hundreds of birds and small domestic animals: chickens, guineas, turkeys, doves, rabbits, ducks, piglets, dogs, sometimes ponies or an occasional llama, were set out in stacked cages or small pens.

On this cold, damp, February morning, however, only a scatter of die-hard venders manned their stations. Most of the flea market was abandoned. The tents were down leaving the metal underpinnings exposed like ram-shackled bones. The faded wooden kiosks, boiled-peanut and ice cream trucks and the cotton candy wagon were boarded-up and locked, the pews and altar of the open-air Pentecostal church were empty, and the wind blew through it all with a shudder and a whistle.

We wandered a while through the muddy, chattering isles before we came around a bend and chanced upon the man I’d formerly bought my layers from. Fortunately, he retained a year-round presence, holding out with his stacked cages, housing a wide variety of livestock fowl.

The vendor pointed to some white hens with very plump breasts and bulky yellow legs. “Good eatin,” he said. I picked out three white chickens as well as a black and white speckled hen and an angry looking black, hawk-faced bird (to satisfy my fondness for the underdog) to add to my layer flock. He stuffed the chickens into burlap sacks – two to a bag. Madi and I carried them to the truck. We put them in a cage I’d placed in the bed of the truck, cooed to comfort them, pinned a tarp over the cage and returned to the ranch, navigating the ribbon-road home. The white chickens were to have a sweet, but short, free-range life.

When we returned from First Monday with the chickens, the two other ranch interns ran out to help transfer them to the pen. Chaos ensued, and one of the white chickens escaped into the woods. I have no idea how it happened as, I was soon to discover, the white chickens could barely walk. Having been cooped up in small cages all their lives, their legs were too weak. In addition, their breasts were so plump they seemed to create an imbalance. Apparently, they’d been genetically engineered. But this one must have been motivated by such a rush of adrenaline-fueled fear that she overcame all that. She made her way into the bush and was never seen again. I put the remaining two chickens in the coop.

The speckled and hawk-faced chickens found their place in the flock. The two remaining white hens were immediately relegated to the bottom of the pecking order; the rest of the birds wanted nothing to do with them. They pecked at them and chased them away from the food. After all, they were not real chickens; they were genetically engineered creatures—little Frankensteins. Unable to climb the ramp to roost, they found a corner on the ground for resting in the evenings. I laid some straw down for them so they could be comfortable.

A year ago I had given up my Brooklyn apartment to to live full time on my ranch. Through-out my years of living in Mississippi, part time, I’d been able to keep, under the supervision of a caretaker, horses, cattle, cats and dogs. Yet, I had not kept chickens, for these vulnerable creatures demand a full-time presence to protect them from predators. On January 5, 2010, I set my suitcases down in the loft over my barn I had built in 2001. This was to be my home. My ranch hand, Gene, was building me a chicken coup as I unpacked. He hammered together 3 plywood walls, put up a slant roof, installed nesting boxes, perches, a ramp, curtained the entrance with a black plastic tarp, and penned the whole thing in with chicken wire. In March I went to First Monday and bought my first flock.

Now full time, I also joined WWOOF i.e., the Worldwide Organization of Organic Farmers. My host site introduction said, “Former New Yorker and artist seeking assistance on a sustainable cattle ranch and retreat. If you want to see the real backwoods of Mississippi, this is it. Creative types encouraged.” As a result, Woofers were contacting me from all over the world, requesting work for room and board. Madi was one of three Woofers staying at my ranch this February.

My ranch was located smack in the Bible Belt—at the wooded intersection of Bethlehem and Lebanon roads, eight miles outside a town with a population of 480. It bordered the Holly Springs National Forest and was halfway into the wooded stretch between Memphis and Tupelo.

According to Mississippi records, in 2000, Marshall County ranked as having one of the most undereducated populations in the state. Because I had no children to put through school, and because the University of Mississippi, in Oxford, was only 20 minutes away, I didn’t think this was going to impact me. But I soon learned otherwise. The labor force was frequently of poor quality and untrustworthy. Outsiders, even if just from another county, were often eyed with suspicion. Many people I met had never flown on an airplane, and rarely ventured far from home. There were no movie theaters in the county, and attempts I made to organize events at my ranch—like art classes and camps—were frequently met with disinterest or incomprehension.

However, I found many of the local people to be incredibly hardworking, genuine to a fault and, trustworthy or not, they all had a gift of gab akin to poetry. But now, living full time in Mississippi, cut off from my familiar New York City, I began to feel acutely alienated.

Hosting the WOOF program helped relieve my sense of estrangement. The Woofers were, for the most part, like me, educated and concerned about the environment. But they came and went, and I found myself largely in solitude, deep in the woods, confronting a loneliness that I didn’t understand and, with few avenues of escape felt, at times, almost unbearable.

Gene had built the chicken coop close enough to the barn to keep for me to keep an eye on. In the mornings, when I went into my bathroom, which had a small window looking out to the front, I could see the chickens lined up at the gate, waiting to be let out to free-range. I became aware that, even at this distance, the chickens were also keeping an eye on me. They’d be staring at me through the small second-story window, capturing me in their quick, sharp eyes, as if attempting to hypnotize me with impatient, chicken voodoo. At their command, I would throw on my clothes, set out to feed them and let them out to free-range.

I soon discovered how entertaining chickens were, with their funny walks, fluffy butts, constant foraging and incessantly squabbling—and so felt compelled to visit them, frequently, throughout the day. It was a relief from my afternoon chores of phone calls, bills and research. When they saw me, they’d run to meet me with their humorous, two-legged jaunt, their thick, reptilian legs and splayed claws absorbing the force of their hops like rubber. Some of the chickens were friendlier than others, and upon seeing me, took to squatting in a submissive position at my feet—often breaking my stride and causing me to stumble. But I didn’t mind. I’d kneel-down and run a hand over the hunkering hen’s silken, feathered back. It felt like a kind of love—a love that, in my estrangement, I needed.

But If I wanted to catch them, they were impossible. They might be within inches of my reach, yet always managed to elude me, moving in directions I could never predict. I was convinced that they could comprehend my plan before it was put into action. The little she-devils could read my thoughts. I was sure of it.

“How the hell am I going to pen them up at night?” I had initially asked Gene

“Don’t worry boss lady,” was Gene’s response. “They’ll return to the coop at night.”

Chickens do go home to roost. The proverb came to life. And once settled in the dark, they were docile and, if need be, easy to handle.

My chicken visitations often included a venture behind the black plastic veil—into the holy inner sanctum. There, sheltered behind the curtain, a few hens would be tucked away in their nests, snuggling with maternal comfort on their eggs. I was compelled to pet them even though I knew it irritated them. They’d chirp harshly, bustle their feathers, nestle deeper into the straw, and eye me coldly. Sometimes they’d try a harmless peck. But I’d pet their strange little heads anyway, and talk to them, which seemed to calm them—their sharp eyes softening with trust. Their nesting was soothing to me, easing the stress that came with all the work and responsibility of ranching—and made me forget, for a while, my loneliness.

At dusk I’d go down again to close up the pen, then walk back inside the coop, just to absorb the coziness. After my eyes adjusted, I’d see their dark, voluminous shapes perched along the rail, or sitting in their nesting boxes. The air was moist and fertile with straw, clay-dirt and poop. They’d make little noises when I entered—whirring and clicking and clucking.

I was their mammal as much as they were my fowl. I provided them with food and shelter. They gave me eggs, fertilizer for my garden, kept the insect population down, provided me with constant entertainment and soothed me.

Chickens are very vocal. They have 24 to 30 distinctive sounds. I came to recognize some of them. Throughout the day I’d get announcements of a new egg— indicated by an escalating series of shrieks. Potential danger engendered a unified high, harsh cackling. Their chorus, when I came to feed them, was urgent and demanding, and became softer and more musical once satisfied. When nesting and content, they made whirring sounds and soft clucks.

I could see that slaughtering was not going to be easy for me. Even my layers would be bound for the stew pot once they had lived out their egg producing years. But I could not keep them as pets. I had only so much space in the coop, and I had financial constraints. And so, I learned basic farming rule number one— never name it if you plan on eating it.

I comforted myself with the thought that, if they’d been the ones wielding the power, they would surely have eaten me. Chickens are descendants of the T-Rex dinosaur, one of the most ferocious predators ever to walk the earth. Knowing this made it easy for me to imagine them as giants, devouring me without mercy, like a helpless worm. This braced me for the task to come.

Also, I had read that almost every animal adopts a friend. Even the remote giraffe will have a special friend. In addition, I had observed that my herd animals tended to befriend the ones that looked most like themselves. I’d noticed this with my cattle and horses. The longhorns separated themselves from the Galloways, my silver Arabian was shunned by the darker horses. It seemed to be the same with my chickens. The Rhode Island Reds hung out together, as did the silver-speckled Anconas. Were domesticated herd animals inherently racist? It seemed like it. Good. Better for me if I could find fault. Eat the racists!

Eventually the white hens learned to walk. They’d take a few steps, sit down and then take a few more steps. Like this, they slowly gained strength and balance. Still, the other chickens were cruel to them, chasing them away, pecking at them. The white hens stayed together, separate from the rest of the flock.

One day Gene brought me a rooster—a big, shiny red guy. I set him out near the coop. He strutted and puffed, and the hens took notice. They perked up and clucked with excitement to each other as they rushed, in pairs, towards the glistening, pompous bird. What could they be saying to each other except,” How handsome he is!” or, “OMG, I’m going to swoon!” Maybe they were happy chickens before, but now they were really happy. I named the rooster Clovis, after the first emperor of the Merovingian dynasty—he was that proud. Now, wherever Clovis went, a flock of chickens surrounded him, moving in adoring unison with him. Sometimes I would see him scratching in the dirt, and then back off, to make way for a selected hen to move in and eat the bug or worm that he’d exposed. What a great husband he was! In the evenings, the hens flanked Clovis on the perch, leaning into him, snuggling with him, their pecking order determining who would be the closest.

Maybe Clovis got tired of all the adoration. Perhaps he longed for his bachelor freedom, for, one evening he decided not to return to the roost, but, instead, flew up to perch in the trees. The hens became noticeably distraught. They seemed disoriented. They walked in circles. They looked rejected. For a few evenings I had to gently knock Clovis out of his tree, with a stick, and send him back to the henhouse to make his neglected ladies happy again.

They seemed so much like us.

Now that I had a rooster the eggs would be fertile, so Gene built me a hatching cage. He constructed a large wooden rectangular frame, wrapped it in chicken wire, set it on stilts and made nesting boxes out of sawed-off milk jugs laid on their sides and filled with straw. When a chicken got to brood—to sit on a clutch of eggs—I’d remove the eggs and the objecting chicken from her henhouse and set her in the hatching cage in a milk-jug nest—placing water and feed nearby. The hen sat approximately twenty-one days before the hatch, only leaving briefly for food or water. Then, nestled in her splayed wings, tiny chicks would emerge, peeking out from beneath the fortress of their mother. With babies tucked into her, the hen became fiercely protective, protesting my intrusions when I changed the water or placed feed. She seemed to be the epitome of nurturing and protectiveness. I could not stay away. It felt like I was vicariously absorbing the nurturing I had lacked in my own childhood.

“Get Guinea hens,” my blues musician friend Joe said. “They make great guards. They will let you know when a visitor comes by, or when a snake, a possum, a fox, or even a large bug, is heading toward the barn.” Joe held up his hand, the thumb and forefinger measuring two inches. After all, this was the jungle of Mississippi—a hot and humid land of big bugs and big fat snakes.

A few days later I was visiting a neighbor, following him around on his chores, plying him with questions about cattle. Wherever he went, two birds—black and white speckled, with long necks and bright red curly crowns—wove about his feet, screeching loudly. They were guineas.

“Take them from me,” he cried. “They’re driving me nuts.”

I went home with Frick and Frack. And now, whenever someone drove up the driveway, Frick and Frack would warn me, chasing the car with their ear-piercing screeches.

On a late summer afternoon, while sitting at my desk doing paperwork, I heard a very loud bird ruckus. I walked outside to see what was happening. The flock had wandered off, so I followed the noise down to the creek that wove through the cow pasture. There I saw, meandering down the summer dry creek bed, the whole flock of chickens—including the white hens—flanked by the guineas who were keeping up a constant, unbearable screech. I assumed they were screeching to scare away predators. Guineas, with their plumed, red heads atop white and black speckled bodies, look like they’re dressed in soldier pageantry. From then on I referred to the guineas as my military.

We all took care of each other.

A neighbor brought me a gift. He backed his truck up to my garden patch and dumped a pile of fine black dirt on the ground.

“Chicken shit and bullshit,” he joked.

My garden grew lavishly.

My chickens ate worms, ticks, insects, grasses and seed. My cattle and horses ate grasses and grains. Their poop replenished the soil. When my bull died, deep in the woods, the huge beast was consumed to the bone within a week. Death and decomposition support life. Is the earth a reciprocal feeding system — a living being, with an appetite? This seemed like reality to me—a reality now staring me in the face instead of hiding behind slick packaging under the fluorescent glare of a supermarket. It felt both brutal and beautiful.

I got into disputes with my vegetarian friends.

“Vegetarianism is fine,” I would say.” But don’t fool yourselves into thinking it’s a way to save the world. It’s not sustainable. We need manure, and decomposition to regenerate our soil and fertilize our crops,

“Just raise your cattle and chickens, use their poop and let them live,” they would cry.

But I was becoming wise to the ways of farming. I knew now that herds needed to be culled. Inbred cattle led to deficient offspring. My hens hatched roosters as well as female chicks, and more than one rooster in a coop could lead to bloodshed.

If the world was going to be saved, and don’t we all want to save the world, then I felt the solution was small community farming. Small organic farming, done correctly, was a self-regenerating system. And if we were close to our food sources perhaps others might learn, as I was learning, how to value and care for the creatures and plants that were to become our food, how dependent we are on each other, and on our mother, the earth with her seasons and cycles, her light and shadows, rivers and streams, her reciprocal, maintaining, feeding system.

But I had also learned that farming was not the garden of Eden. Far from it. It was more like the fall of Adam and Eve—doomed to the plough. Though filled with joys, it was also hard, endless work—and it was, at times, painful. Not only would I have to kill the creatures I’d grown to love, but other things might kill them, as well. Raccoons, coyotes, droughts, disease. What a relief it must have felt, at the advent of industrial agriculture, to be able to shrink this workload, by eradicating pests with chemicals sprays, boost production with synthetic fertilizers, and send the animals to industrial sized lots to fatten them for the slaughter, the deplorable conditions of the chicken houses and feed lots far from the humanizing eye. Industrial agriculture promised leisure and alleviation from the burden of concern. Bessie, the family cow, was a thing of the past.

My father was at the forefront of industrial ag, engineering soybean products at a plant, in Mankato, Minnesota, in the 1950s and 60s. He was also a nature lover. He loved to camp out, ride horses, hunt, and fish. When I was 4 years old he moved us to a 40-acre ranch with pasture, woods, split-rail fences and a flagstone ranch house with stone floors and thermal heating. We had goats and horses, sheep, cats, dogs, and a pet pig named Rover

The earth, when I was a child, the days before the influx of mass media and urban sprawl, seemed so enormous, the forests so infinite that my father probably didn’t even consider the consequences when the company decision was made to dump the excess of a 3.5-million-gallon soybean oil spill from a cracked tank, one cold January day in Minnesota in 1963, into the Blue Earth River.

A month prior, Richardson Oil, in Savage Minnesota, also had a massive spill. The following February hunters discovered ducks covered in oil. This sent a shock through the community and a huge local effort called “Save the Ducks” ensued. The two spills led to the first Environmental Protection Agency. But the pollution did not stop there. Had I instinctively been drawn to try, in my small way, to correct my father’s mistakes?

And though my father loved animals, he did not treat them with sensitivity. When our Dachshund, Siggy, pooped in the house, my father rubbed the poor things’ nose it. When we cinched the horses, we were taught to knee them hard in the stomach to release their bloat…. We had been taught, as a culture, that animals don’t understand, don’t communicate, don’t have souls, that they don’t feel, making it okay to be cruel to them—to crowd cattle into dirty feed lots, or to stuff chickens into dark, packed hen houses and cut off their beaks.

I’d always envisioned myself as an animal lover. Now I saw the vestiges of that callousness in myself. But I was learning, intimately, that my fellow creatures had feelings, as I do, intelligences beyond my comprehension, and that I had much to learn from them.

In the summer of 1967, while the Mama’s and Papas’ song, “California Dreaming” laced the airwaves, my family left the farm and moved to the vast, concrete, exciting and sinister city of Los Angeles. Five years later I left again, escaping for three years into the woods of Big Sur, then to the Bay Area, and then, in 1990, I moved to the city of all cities—New York City, where the only relationship I had with a chicken, besides eating them, was watching a poor hen in Chinatown forced to dance in a cage whose floor became electrified when someone, not I, dropped in a quarter into a slot.

Now that I had my white chickens, and my Woofer, Madi, at my side, I began to consider the slaughter. I had to learn how. I frustrated my neighbors and friends with questions.

“You just pick it up, grab it by the head and whirl It” my neighbors said, “The head will pop off.”

I wasn’t satisfied. It seemed cruel. I investigated. I went to a Halal meat market in Memphis and questioned the butcher. I called a Rabbi to inquire about Kosher slaughter. I discovered the famous maverick farmer, Joe Saladin, and watched his online videos on chicken slaughtering. I came away with a conglomeration of ways that made sense to me: I would not kill an animal in front of other animals (Halal); the best way to kill a chicken was to suspend it upside down (Halal and Kosher), which puts it in a trance, stick the point of the knife through the roof of their mouth— causing immediate brain death— then slit their juggler with a very sharp knife and let the blood.

The day came, overcast and damp—though closer to spring, and warmer—when Madi and I were ready. Abiding by the concept not to kill a creature in front of another we locked the dogs in the screened-in back porch on the second story of the barn. I collected the sharp knife and a bright orange rubber cone I’d lifted from a street construction site, and cut off the tip.

We’d chosen a site in the back of the barn in a thicket of pine and bush, and I hung the blunted cone from a tree branch. Then I walked back to the chicken pen, picked up one of the white chickens—consoling myself with the knowledge that I’d given her a good life—and carried her gently down into the woods

The dogs were exhibiting unusual behavior—barking, whining, and crowding the corner of the porch, straining to see what we were doing. Could they smell our predatory intent?

I turned the chicken upside down and pulled her head through the sliced tip of the cone. She relaxed into a state of suspension. I attempted to find her jugular vein through the feathers, but her skin was tougher than I thought. I was almost frozen in fear. Then my panicked brain recalled the need to begin the kill by sticking the knife through the roof of her mouth. I made the jab. She went limp. I turned away. I let Madi, the surgeon, do the final cut.

We brought the carcass into the garden kitchen, put it in a large pot of boiling water to loosen the feathers, then sat down on the back steps and pulled them off. It was a bad, raw smell. I cut the head off, pulled the guts out and washed it. The bird was much smaller naked of her elegant feathers. I tied the wings together, stuck an onion in the neck cavity and put it in the oven to bake. I assumed this was going to be the best tasting chicken I’d ever had. After forty-five minutes, I took the bird out. It was like rubber. I cooked it for another fifteen minutes, and then another. A chicken that’s older than a year, as I was to learn, cannot be roasted without an extensive process of resting and brining. The chicken vendor, the guy who’d said, “they’d be good eatin,” either liked rubber chicken or had deceived me. Most likely the latter, He had seen this city slicker coming, a mile away. I considered that this chicken was sacrificed for my lesson. I made chicken broth.

The next morning Madi went into the chicken coop to feed the birds. Seeing the human, all the chickens ran to surround the remaining white hen, splaying their wings to shield her and shrieking fiercely at Madi. I should have known, from my experience at the bathroom window, that my place of execution had not been far enough away. They were aware, after all, of what had taken place in those dark woods.

The remaining white chicken, though fiercely protected that morning, continued to be excluded. Perhaps that’s why she took to wandering up to the barn. The barn had a wide breezeway and I’d found a cheap way to keep the chickens, or an occasional escaped cow, out of it by hanging two screen doors, horizontally, to make swinging doors. This chicken, who had now been named Henrietta by one of my returning Woofers—an old-fashioned name for a bird that always seemed, with her proud big-breasted bustling strut, like an old-fashioned lady—got to sitting daily outside the screen doors peering into the barn. Was that her Valhalla, her paradise, on the other side?

I developed a special fondness for her and thought that, perhaps, she was above average intelligence. Perhaps, I speculated—ironically—her intelligence had something to do with her being genetically engineered. Nevertheless, I had my commitment and poor Henrietta, name and all, went the way of all chickens—into the stew pot. I felt that if I was going to take responsibility for what I ate. I needed to be unwavering.

The experience of slaughtering my chickens had a profound effect on me. In the aftermath, when sitting to a meal, I was aware of the creature whose life was sacrificed for me and, in turn, I felt deeply connected to the earth, to her cycles, to her sustaining energy. Flesh became so vividly flesh. That’s who I was, a flesh-eating creature. It was grounding and humbling. Eating my meals took on the form of prayer. And yet, how easily we fall into forgetfulness.

...

A Conversation with Derek Weisberg

Richard Whittaker — Wed, 29 Mar 2023 00:00:00 -0700

Photo. R. Whittaker

I first noticed artist Derek Weisberg via my connection with John Toki, and then further through Boontling Gallery in Oakland, a refreshing place free from aspirations to blue-chip cachet. The gallery simply overflowed with the excitement of its young artists, most still in school at nearby California College of Art. Its energy was contagious and generous, and always took me back to my own early days when the transcendent feeling of hope and confidence in a life of art was close by. And, I should add, you could walk out of the place with a piece of art full of life for under three figures.
     It’s hard to explain one’s hunches, but I kept my eye on Weisberg and, over the years, was not surprised to see his work showing up in new places, evolving and finally Weisberg had moved to New York. Today, he’s a lively participant in the art scene there, both as a teacher and exhibiting artist.
     On a recent visit back home to the Bay Area, I caught up with Derek at artist John Toki's studio. It seemed like a perfect time for an interview, and a couple of days later we sat down to talk.

works:   What I associate so strongly with you is the figure I saw in your earlier work—the face with the forlorn expression. It was a persistent theme and signaled an alignment with the graffiti subculture, I thought. Do you think that’s accurate?

Derek Weisberg:   That’s great to hear because, at that time, that was my goal.

works: Well, I’ve been impressed for a long time by how alive street art often is—a quality that’s often missing in the art one sees in the galleries.

Derek: Well it exists, you know? Public space is available for everybody to observe and take in, and also to change - if an individual wants. It has its own life that affects everybody who walks past it. And it changes over time. It’s a beautiful thing, that access, because the art world can be elitist and stuffy, and so specific. Right? You have to make a point of going to a gallery at certain hours on certain days. It’s a very focused activity. The graffiti subculture, the visual subculture - which I was really interested in at that time - is for everybody. That’s really important, I think. Maybe increasingly important in today’s world.

works:   What drew you to that?

Derek:   I was a kid in the 90s in the Bay Area, and I listened to rap music and did graffiti. I had friends who were break dancing and I was very involved in that.

works:   How did you get involved in it?

Derek:   Good question. I don’t know. I was just nine, ten years old. That’s what was on the radio - rap, hip-hop. It really started to take on a global stage in the early-90s.

works:   So where were you?

Derek:   Benicia. I was born in ’83 and remember listening to rap songs when I was pretty young.

works:   Were kids your age in Benicia relating to this?

Derek:   Listening to it, yeah. A lot of important rappers and DJs and graffiti artists have come out of the Bay Area.

works:   Tell me how as a kid, say 10 years old, in Benicia - how were you connecting with that? Did you have friends into it?

Derek:   Yeah. Definitely. Friends. And the radio was usually playing local rap artists or people from L.A..

works:   How about the visual part?

Derek:   That came a little bit later, probably towards middle school. I have a distinct memory from when I was 13. My cousin who was living in Massachusetts came to visit. He brought with him the first album by Wu-Tang Clan, a group out of New York. That kind of changed everything. Their sound was so intense, and that really set me on this course of trying to discover new sounds, new music. I’ve always really responded to music - to that energy, the vitality of it. But in terms of the visual culture and graffiti, I think that started more for me in middle school.

works:   Did you have a racial mix of kids in your middle school, like did you have any friends who were black?

Derek:   Yeah. My best friend since like age six or seven was Aaron Young.

works:   And he was into rap and things around that?

Derek:   Yeah.

works:   It’s a beautiful thing when you’re a kid early on in school. You don’t have these barriers. In sixth grade I had a friend, Johnny Cortez. I loved the guy and it never crossed my mind there was any issue there.

Derek:   Right. No otherness. I mean, for the most part, Benicia is pretty solidly middle, to upper-middle class and fairly white. But it’s right next to Vallejo, and there’s quite a bit of cross-over that happens.

works:   So in middle school this was opening up more?

Derek:   Definitely. And in the mid-90s, rap was infiltrating every corner of American life - like suburbs in Idaho.

works:   That’s something, isn’t it? How this form has penetrated the whole world. I had a conversation with Mark Bullwinkle years ago about how African American culture has given mainstream culture so much, and it’s always getting appropriated.

Derek:   I think it’s definitely true. Generationally, you can see that. There’s always a counter-culture, or a subculture, that people respond to - especially maybe for kids of privilege. They’re still rebellious and trying to find their way, trying to navigate through the world and push back.

works:   And this was also true for you?

Derek:   I mean, I wasn’t too rebellious. My parents were pretty cool. Very early on they realized that if they allowed me to make my own decisions and kind of treated me like an adult who was going to make his own responsible decisions, that I would. Basically, as long as I was getting good grades, I could go do and participate in whatever.

works:   Give me just a little thumbnail of both parents…

Derek:   Both born and raised in New York. Moved to California in the late 60s—hippie-progressive and kind of radical.

works:   So they came out for the hippie thing. Of course, it was in New York, too, but San Francisco was the center of it.

Derek:   I think they were here for the Summer of Love, and my dad went to Woodstock. They met at the Russian River. They raised llamas on kind of a co-op commune when I was born.

works:   That’s great. I was at the Summer of Love and lived near the Haight Ashbury. And the feeling I get from you and your work fits in with some of the values from that time.

Derek:   Yeah. And there’s always that question of nature/nurture. I think I’ve always been an old soul - kind of that cliché. I’m sure a lot of it comes from my parents’ input. But part of it has to do with a feeling of knowing what I wanted to do. I’ve had this sense of purpose from the beginning. So I didn’t need to be so rebellious. I just kept doing, kept following that.

works:   How would you describe that path that you knew you wanted to follow?

Derek:   Well, it’s the artistic path, the path of a maker, and I probably have always identified as an artist.

works:   What is it that the artist does?

Derek:   Oh, man. [laughs]

works:   [laughs] I should apologize for that question.

Derek:   We need to schedule a part 2, 3 and 4 for that question, I think.

works:   You know what? That’s a good response. So let me jump to another question. I looked at your website and took some notes on your titles. It’s clear that you’re pretty philosophical. I think that word fits you.

Derek:   Yeah, definitely.

works:   You’re someone in front of deep questions.

Derek:   Yeah. I think that for a very long time that’s been my kind of quest.

works:   Say more about that if you can.

Derek:   Well, it does go back to that question of what the artist does, or what their role and responsibility is. I think all artists are different and take on different pursuits and quests. But maybe that’s it, right? An artist is somebody who’s trying to answer questions about what it means to be living. For me, it’s really about that—what it means to be a living being, aware of our own finite nature, and how we wrestle with that.
     The world is a curious place. It’s never cut and dried or black and white - even if we think it is, or have moments of being a little closer to that. There’s always nuances and subtleties, and questions that we’ll never have answers to. That’s where I’m searching. That’s where my path leads me - through that space.

works:   There was a phrase in common usage when I was in college in the 60s and ended up getting a degree in philosophy: “art, philosophy, and religion.” It just rolled off the tongue. What you just said reminds me of it - that for you, art is an avenue towards the investigation of these deep, human questions - the existential questions. The word “religion” - is a loaded word today for a lot of people, but the word “spiritual” still has a little bit left in it.

Derek:   Right. I think they all attempt to answer those same questions - the questions that are bigger than us.

works:   When I first started publishing a magazine in 1991, the Postmodern critique had gotten rid of all the “grand narratives” around Truth and so on. They were all skewed because of issues of power and cultural relativity. An artist could be embarrassed to admit that he or she was engaging in "the search for meaning" - like such a goal wasn't sophisticated.

Derek:   It’s interesting that we’ve shifted to this conversation. I think it’s something needed, and maybe the cultural pendulum is starting to swing back a bit as things have gotten too abstracted, so removed. Most people spend most of their time in front of a screen.
     In New York where I teach, I see how many people are gravitating towards making things and having experience with their hands and physical material because it brings them back to the world. It’s not just this abstracted experience with a screen and a virtual reality. Another example is how much people are into food now. These things bring us back to the Earth in some way.

works:   Would you go so far as to say that when you’re making things with your hands that something is being nourished in you?

Derek:   Definitely. Yes, definitely.

works:   It’s like some kind of needed food.

Derek:   Yes. I mean, I’ve equated making things with breathing, in a lot of ways. I’ve been making things in clay since I was six or seven, so it’s just this natural extension. I can feel that my physical being is not well when I’ve gone through periods when I haven’t been making things regularly.

works:   One of your pieces is titled with something to do with breath.

Derek:   In the Space of a Long Breath.

works:   Does that relate to what we’re talking about?

Derek:   I think so. And also, that’s probably an older piece. I’ve made so much work and so many pieces have these long titles having to do with breathing. My mind’s running all over the place right now… Maybe I have to rewind a bit.
     My mom passed away in 2006. She was sick for many years before that. That was such a momentous event. Being a teenager knowing that your mother seems well, but is terminally ill was certainly a challenging thing. Then to see her go through that process, and deteriorate - watching her breathe… You know, you’re watching and thinking about that space between one breath and another, knowing it could be the difference between life and death.

works:   Oh my.

Derek:   So that title was in direct reference to that experience. But I also think of Eric Garner, you know, “I can’t breathe.” You could say that these political and social issues that have come up, are also around the idea of breathing.

works:   That is all so touching. It takes me back to my own experience of sitting at bedside with my mother when she died, and her last breath. We’re at the edge of the deepest realities here. So, I want to back up to that face I think of in connection with your work, which is iconic, in my mind.

Derek:   Right.

works:   It’s the face of - what would you say? I mean, it powerfully communicates a kind of unhappiness.

Derek:   It’s melancholy, which I think is a much more philosophical word than just “sad.”

works:   Yes. Can you talk a little bit about that face and why it was so important to you?

Derek:   Yeah. So, we’ll track back to graffiti. Growing up in the Bay Area in the mid-90s, there was a whole group of artists who kind of came out of the graffiti culture and started making art on the streets. In San Francisco, and in the Bay Area at some point, it got coined the “Mission School.” Artists like Barry McGee and his late wife, Margaret Kilgallen, were painting these figurative, graffito-like murals. There were people in New York - Phil Frost and other artists - making stylized, cartoony figuration, kind of illustrative, but very expressive. Things were exaggerated - facial features were exaggerated - and it was all out on the streets.
     I gravitated towards that. I mean, I kind of viewed them as my older siblings who I wanted to hang out with. I realized I was a second wave of that, and they were having conversations I wanted to be involved in. There was that shared graffiti aesthetic of existing on the street - murals for everyday people - and about everyday people, that I both responded to and wanted to express myself.
     I was always making things in clay, so I wanted to translate that aesthetic into a sculptural form. The figures I was making at the time were very stylized - all the details. So that’s the connection to what I’d say was a larger aesthetic movement.

works:   Okay.

Derek:   The reason I probably responded to it, and thought it was important, was because I was interested in those same ideas - you know, the idea that everybody deals with similar human issues.
     So, I was making this one figure that was a stand-in for everybody, kind of a universal-like figure. And dealing with my mom, dealing with whatever I was going through as a young person trying to find his way, it took on these melancholy characteristics, I guess.

works:   You were feeling that yourself, this kind of melancholy?

Derek:   Yeah, yeah. Definitely.

works:   So the context of that was - I mean, if you care to reflect any further on it.

Derek:   Certainly what was happening with my mom. And I was in my late teens, early 20s. There was heartbreak, you know, from early experiences with love and loss. And maybe also trying to fit in, find my people. I’d left my home in Benicia and moved to Oakland. I was finding new friends and trying to find my way, and that can be challenging.

works:   To say the least.

Derek:   And I was also under the impression and belief that you really find yourself in those darker places, that your sense of self, or character, is really defined by how you deal with the challenging things. Life isn’t always so easy or beautiful, and how you wrestle with that, and deal with that, really is more defining.

works:   Do you feel lucky because you’re following a path with heart?

Derek:   It is one of, if not the greatest, gift that I’ve been given in my life, definitely.

works: And sadly, it’s not so common. It seems very hard to find that here in our time.

Derek:   Yes—and to be supported in it, that’s incredible. It’s really incredible. Again, we’re so removed. Right? Back to the media screen, or back to where things are produced - like who makes things with their own hands anymore? Everything is at a remove and abstracted. Even if you try to deal with an Internet problem, you have to call some number and it’s an automated thing; there’s that music, and you have to wait; then they connect you with somebody who then has to connect you to somebody else, who then puts on more music; then you finally talk with somebody in India, or another country who has no idea about your actual surroundings. It’s all so far, far removed now. And to pull it back in, I think, would be really helpful to humans.

works:   It’s so hopeful that you’re giving voice to this lack of connection, and the abstraction of it all. It reminds me there’s a book that came out a few years ago, Shop Class As Soul Craft. The author’s premise is something like, “Making or fixing things with your own hands is a real support for our health - inner and outer.”

Derek:   Yeah. Inner life and outer life. If you’re doing that kind of activity for yourself - not for any other reason - that’s a real act of love, I think. You know that you’re going to make this cup that’s just for you; that you’re going to drink your coffee from it every morning, sit in your favorite chair. If you are having that kind of experience, creating that act of love, then you’re going to bring that out into the world, too.
     You’re going to be fulfilled. You’re going to smile at the cashier. You’re going to say “Hope you have a great day!”— just little acts of love will be carried out into the world, and those are also missing. I think it’s needed. It’s important.

works:   I have to agree with that. Totally. And. let’s go back to Boontling Gallery. I loved the place. It was full of that atmosphere of young artists - the conviction that they were onto something so good and real. And you were one of its founders? [yes] So tells us about the gallery and a little about your cohort and experience with it.

Derek:   It was started by me and my friend, Mike Simpson. It really came out of - I was going to say not knowing exactly what we were going to do after school, but it’s kind of the opposite. It was knowing exactly what we wanted to do after school - which was make art, continue showing art, and continue nurturing the artistic community we’d been experiencing at CCAC. But we didn’t know exactly how to do it. So we decided to do it by opening Boontling. The name comes from the town, Boonville [California], and an American dialect from that town.
     A friend found a Boontling dictionary that said it was the language of the 49ers. The actual history is slightly different, but there was a group of friends from college, and we called ourselves “the 49ers.” We’d go on weekend quests through San Francisco, or walking down railroad tracks finding debris we’d use in making art, or taking photographs, or we’d paint graffiti. We’d have these weekly adventures searching for “gold.” So we were “The 49ers.”

works:   Nice.

Derek:   We loved that, and kind of continued it with the name and the gallery. The gallery was open on weekends. I was a delivery driver for John Toki at Leslie’s Ceramics, and I was working for artists. Those were my regular income jobs, and then we had the gallery. It really became kind of a clubhouse-community hangout. We would do things like have these shows called “Overhung.” We were trying to get rid of the stuffiness and eliteness of galleries. Anyone could be in “Overhung.” We’d hang these shows salon style, sometimes from the floor to the ceiling. There were hundreds of pieces of art. By doing that, it became a place for the art community at-large in Oakland. That was really special and allowed us to stay involved in the community, stay involved in art, and also to give back to artists and artist friends who we admired. It was fulfilling - a kind of special place and time, I think. We were 21-year-old kids who knew nothing about business or running a gallery. It was all just very DIY.

works:   What a great spirit, though.

Derek:   It was great. There was something to not doing too much and just going for it.

works:   And it lasted how long?

Derek:   About two-and-a-half, three years, I think. Then Mike moved to New York and in the middle of it, my mom passed away. So I was torn. I suppose I could have continued to do it with somebody else, but it didn’t feel right to change that spirit.

works:   How did you meet John Toki?

Derek:   He was one of my professors at CCAC.

works:   When it was still the California College of Arts and Crafts...

Derek:   …as we talk about crafts - and loving it.

works:   Could you say something about John Toki?

Derek:   That’s like asking what the purpose of an artist is. How do you say a few words about such an incredible human being, incredible artist and incredible teacher? I mean, he was so generous and so knowledgeable. He made a real investment in both CCAC and the students. It seemed like he was willing to give more to us, and to the institution, than he was to himself. He was completely unselfish.

works:   Yes. I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody more generous than John. And I’ve heard that if a student wanted to do something that others thought was “too ambitious,” he stood behind the student all the way.

Derek:   Completely. I mean, he let me live and work at his studio when I graduated from school. He carved out a little space and I was living over there in Richmond.

works:   So that’s John. And you ended up having a deep relationship with Stephen De Staebler. Would you talk a little bit about that?

Derek:   You know, that was a combination of being in the right place and time, John’s generosity, my dedication to work and school and craft and my own skills, probably - a combination of all those things.
     This was around the end of 2005. I’d graduated from CCAC in May and was working at Leslie’s Ceramics. Stephen came down one day looking for someone who could help him load a kiln. John said, “I’ll send Derek up.”
     So I helped him load a kiln. Then, a couple of weeks later Stephen’s wife, Danae Mattes, called me and said, “Now we need help unloading the kiln.”
     It wasn’t long before Danae asked, “Could we get you to help Stephen in the studio on a more regular basis?” So I had a working relationship with Stephen as his assistant for about six years, and then he passed away. I kind of helped set up the estate before I left.
     Stephen was an incredibly special person - and special artist. I mean, you knew him. He was incredibly thoughtful and an amazing man. Just getting to have a relationship with a person like that would be amazing. But it’s even more amazing because he was this legendary, kind of iconic, figure.
     So I have to rewind a bit, and this ties into a lot of the things we’ve talked about. When I was 14, my parents sent me to the San Francisco Academy of Art programs they had for high-schoolers. I both needed to get out of the house in the summer and wanted to be doing some kind of artistic program. So, for one of my classes I’d get off BART and walk down Market Street, and on Market Street there’s that angel. When I saw it I thought, “Holy, shit, this is one of the most incredible pieces of art I’ve ever seen!”
     I made sure that every day I walked past that angel. It wasn’t until I was in college studying art history that I learned it was Stephen De Staebler who made it. So, I had this kind of gravitational pull toward Stephen and his work from early on. Then to get to work with him so intimately - that was another one of life’s incredible gifts I was granted.

Stephen De Staebler - photo r. whittaker

works:   Thanks to John, I interviewed Stephen and just fell in love with the guy. I think was one of the pre-eminent sculptors in the West.

Derek:   I agree.

works:   He’s certainly recognized, but not as much as he should be.
Derek:   Nowhere near.

works:   And I see his influence in some of your work, too.

Derek:   Yeah. Huge. And I often reflect on my time with him, and his influence on me. You know, Stephen never had assistants. I mean, I think John helped him from time to time on big projects, but he never had a full-time studio assistant. He was, I think, probably just incredibly independent and also just loved making things on his own.
     But for whatever reason, he and I really gelled. There were also some parallels and crossovers that we were both genuinely interested in. It was very clear we were both on the same path, even though there was an age difference of 50 years. It really worked that I was his assistant and he was my mentor. That commonality was just there from the beginning.

works:    I can see that. And I love the story of your being so taken by that angel on Market Street. And then the connection later on. It’s almost one of those mystical stories.

Derek:   Yeah, yeah, yeah.

works:   He touched my heart. There’s a photo I took that captures something of his spirit. It’s on his Wikipedia page minus a photo credit [laughs]. And that interview is something special.

Derek:   I can’t believe I haven’t read it.

works:   By the way, I love your titles.

Derek:   Thank you. Most of them are rap lyrics or things I’ve pulled from reading.

works:   They open the door to deep areas - like Momentary Eternal. Wow, I love that phrase.

Derek:   Well, I mean, it evokes in me one of life’s great pursuits - religion and the human experience, right? To be completely present in the longer, energetic lineage of what is channeled through us while we’re here, and goes on beyond us as we leave this world. It’s both, you know. We’re connected to our immediate world through the present moment, and to the ripples and repercussions of the larger world beyond us that are eternal.

works:   That’s beautifully said, Derek. Here’s another title A Familiar Knowing. It’s a wonderful phrase.

Derek:   Yeah. I think all of the phrases, or at least most of them, address these big ideas.

works:   And your titles help. I don’t buy the claim that the author has no special access to the meaning of his or her work. Roland Barthes’ essay “The Death of the Author” had a big influence. And with the Postmodern critique, interpretation became the realm of experts - students of Derrida, Foucault, Lacan and so on. I find it refreshing to hear you say that maybe the pendulum is swinging back - not that they didn’t make some good points.

Derek:   Yes. I think the things that get created, that have real impact, are the things the world needs in that moment. So in a way, probably we needed to go there. I mean, I hope the pendulum is swinging back.
     I think it is, and at the present moment, I think it’s actually what’s needed. Whether art work that addresses those issues gets credit now or not doesn’t matter, but I hope that when we zoom out a bit that we’ll see the artists addressing these issues will reflect what is important at this time. The “isms” don’t really exist anymore with computers and the Internet. I think some kind of spiritualism is what we need.

works:   Yes. Now am I right in thinking you had some connection with Ursula von Rydingsvard?

Derek:   We were together for a couple of weeks at Cheryl Haines’ place up near Nevada City [California]. Ursula was invited to do a short-term residency, and she wanted to work in clay. They hired me to be her assistant.

works:   How was that?

Derek:   That was interesting. She’s an intense woman, and I learned some things from her. I mean, a woman making sculpture in New York in the 70s, 80s - you had to be an intense person to survive.
     So, she came with that intensity and was ready to make some things in clay with a “professional” - someone who knew what they were doing. And here I was, a twenty-something-year-old.
     She said, “I was not expecting to work with some kid right out of school.”
     I said, “I may be young, but I know some things.”
     So the first day was spent walking around the property. “What if I wrap clay around a rock or what if I wrap clay…”
     “Well, you could do that, but this is what could happen.”
     So, the first couple of days was spent making pinch pots, and I was almost falling asleep standing up. I was excited about her being there and it took a few more days for her to get a sense of the material and think about what she wanted to make.
     But she ran a tight ship. So, one morning we were in the studio at eight. She shows me a drawing. “Okay. I want to make this six-foot tall piece. It’s going to look like this.”
     I thought, “Great! Like finally, we’re getting into it!” So, I pull out the clay, open the bag and start cutting it up. I start getting it set up for her, and she had an “ah-ha” moment. “This kid is the real deal. He does know what he’s doing!” And from that point on, we had a fantastic working experience.
     It was great. We were both like engines roaring, just gung-ho all the time. We really had a great time making this work together. It took a bit of ironing out the wrinkles, but we got there. In the last several days of working together, we made three or four really large-scale works.

works:   That’s a great story. You know, I interviewed Ursula. It’s a good interview, but I felt there was much more there that I couldn’t get to. She’s one of my favorite sculptors.

Derek:   She’s incredible. The way she transforms the material into something completely otherworldly. It’s her language, and so unique. She’s not like anyone else.

works:   Indeed. Now, getting back to your titles, here’s one: Ontological Splendor. What do you want to say about that?

Derek:   The beauty of being. Of creation. That idea of being, of self, and of place.

works:   You know, I had a smirk on my face when I asked that - which I need to apologize for. I wondered if you were making light, and you’re not.

Derek:   No, and I totally have to admit that I’m not deeply knowledgeable about the idea of ontology.

works:   It's interesting because "being” is a word we have no associations with other than Shakespeare’s “To be or not to be.” But that’s like a cartoon version of the reality of being.

Derek:   Right. Well, how do you give definition to a living being, a living creature in space, time - in an environment? I mean, that’s everything, you know?

works:   Yes. And if we’re in a space of being, that is, if I’m actually present, that’s an incomparable thing.

Derek:   That also gets back to how challenging it is. Because to be in that state of being means you have to be present with yourself - which means you have to be honest with the entirety of yourself, and your actions. And how you move through the world knowing that you’re going to die. That’s scary for a lot of people.

works:   No kidding.

Derek:   So we do everything we can to avoid that. I’m not thinking about death. I’ll distract myself, and all those distractions mean, again, you’re not being present.

works:   Right, right.

Derek:   So how do you…? I mean, it’s a complicated thing. But again, going back to that root of art, religion, spirituality, philosophy…

works:   Right. Do you find, in making a piece, there are moments where you feel you can say I am? Not as a thought, but an experience: I am here. I exist.

Derek:   When I’m in my best place. It’s hard. I mean, I am both in my best place in this studio, and when I’m in my best place is when I probably make the best work. It’s also when I’m the most fulfilled, and you don’t get there every day. There are an awful lot of distractions. But when I’m really in it, it’s a great thing.

works:   More real, wouldn’t you say?

Derek:   Yeah. And I think - to come back to those sad-eyed, melancholic figures - I’m realizing that they were this formulaic thing. Now, when I’m in the studio, I do everything I can to get away from formulas, from routines - to get away from the predictable or prescribed things. It’s all an attempt to make something in that present moment.
     There’s a sense of living in this object that I make - the marks, the fingerprints, the way the clay is joined together; those things are left to show and express that sense of creation and being and presence. It’s all more or less - what’s the word?

works:   The evidence?

Derek:   The evidence. Exactly. That’s the word. ∆

For much more visit Weisberg’s website:
https://derekweisberg.com/

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Creating Ritual Costume

Richard Whittaker — Sat, 25 Mar 2023 00:00:00 -0700

Photos by Dana Kawano unless otherwise noted

I didn’t wake up one day thinking I should create ritual costumes. They snuck up on me. They whispered to me, they brought magic into my home and drew me into their clutches. Those whispers came from a human most people know as Amara Tabor-Smith. In this article I share an inside peek into the approach I use to conceptualize and render ritual costumes in general and take a look at how that works in practice in my collaborations with House/Full of BlackWomen Co-Creators Amara Tabor-Smith and Ellen Sebastian Chang.

[Image description: Egungun costume created in veneration of Ed Mock and those ancestors of the Valencia Street Corridor. Composed of multiple layers of cloth lappets, these fabrics represent the strength of the multicultural collective coexistence - what it was, what it can be - through the power of our continued artistic influences.]

The starting point for a successful ritual costume process lies in drawing out a clarity of the intention behind the planned ritual performance and then breathing that intention into each step of the design and construction process. Ritual performance combines art and aesthetics as an instrument to inform viewers about beliefs, the constructs of our ancestral origins. It calls upon education and contemplation to understand diasporic experiences while honoring and retaining our cultures and grounding in our identities. It brings about perspectives that we might otherwise overlook, deny or refuse to see. It often infuses….It is a digestion that can transform us.

You see, what I have learned about ritual costume design and creation is that it is in essence a guided process with spirit at its core. It is not based on perfect construction of the garment but rather a mindset born of an earnest desire to understand, honor and respect the traditions where they are derived. It is an openness to embark on a journey where you as the creator let go of ego to solely embrace the intent of those who will wear it, heightening awareness of the messages and materials that appear during the process of creating and then trusting that those materials showed up so you can integrate them in a meaningful way. It is as if spirit is guiding you through the process, telling you what to do—as long as you listen.

Costumes and fabric share a long history. French poet Charles Baudelaire’s phrasing of the essence of that relationship speaks for me: “fabrics speak a silent language.” RISD Museum expands that, speaking to the Egungung costumes I create:

Its universal significance and applicability might sometimes be culturally specific, but in essence spans the entire gamut of our collective human experience. Though it has no voice, cloth speaks in complex, multi-sensorial fashions.1

The ritual costume serves as a dramatically symbolic vessel carrying a story all its own while holding space for embodiment of spirit. It is an instrument called to action that is imbued in the fabric of intention whereby we can carry out those intentions with respect to the world, our fellows, ourselves and our traditional beliefs. They hold a backbone of courage that dares to hold truth through subliminal messages, alluring layers with complex meaning carried on the backs of channelers. They are a canvas for the integration of symbolic references, for spirit and woven in the fabric of life’s journeys. They recall ancestral guides deepening our awareness and bringing forth new perspectives in moving forward. They are a protective womb of safety to release the injuries of the past and move forward toward healing.

The Concept
My process of conceptualization draws inspiration from various points during development. There are typically portions of Amara’s and Ellen’s projects where they are clear in their vision while other parts that remain open, providing room for improvisation. As they tell the story underlying the performance give rise to strong visions of the setting within me. Their explanations evoke a series of symbols, metaphorical relationships, spiritual overtones/undertones, objects, textiles, organic matter, texture that seem to appear within my mind. Having worked with Amara and Ellen for nearly eight years now, I have gained an understanding of the general aesthetic that appeals to them and communicates the feeling with which they hope to fill their audience. Once I understand the environment, I inquire about the main characters, their roles and their deity overlays. The pivotal points in the performance determine where visuals need to make a specific impact and where the costumes integrated with the set design are of major importance.

The performers selected for those characters inform the final phase of the costume design process. Amara’s identification of the role, the deity overlay, coupled with the chosen performer can bring clarity defining the essence of the costume. In my design process, I draw from African traditions, Yoruba traditions, historical era, specific objects related to a specific era, possessing symbolic significance with an earthly element to it.

What is an Egungun?

[Image description: Venerating the spirit of Ana Mendieta, this Egungun is grounded in the definition of “HOME.” The carved wood silueta mask, imbued fabric with earthborn colors, oxblood, birds, insects, dirt and ash came alive, took residence and blessed us with indelible appreciation of presence through longing and the immortality of life when it ends. Production: EarthBodyHOME]

The Egungun plays a prominent recurring role in Amara’s and Ellen’s House/Full series. Some readers may appreciate knowing a bit of background on Egungun and their history. The RISD Museum offers one of my favorite descriptions:

Made into elaborate decorative patterns, forms, and colors, these carefully arranged fabrics must follow the well-established conventions of the past, best defined here as those representing the treasured values of Egungun traditions, or asa. Asa represents a conscious attempt “to select, choose, discriminate, or discern” (Yai, 1994) while being cognizant of the historical past. Quite logically, artists-priests-devotees use their oju ona (design consciousness) together with oju inu (inner eye or artistic insight and sensibility) as well as laakaye (intuitive knowledge) plus imoju-mora (unusual sensitivity) in order to make deliberate choices (Abiodun, 1989; Lawal, 1996) in the selection of colors, patterns, and designs. This dynamic artistic process is constantly inventive, revitalizing, and modern. The result is that the cloth panels come in a multiplicity of designs, patterns, hues, shapes, and colors—a curious blend of disparate elements fully reflective of the multidimensional vision and power of departed ancestors.2

The Costume
The moment I live for is when the performer puts on the finished costume for the first time. Embodying the character in the costume brings the costume alive and the costume transforms the spirit of the performer, which together become the vessel to deliver the intention to the audience that the directors articulated weeks or months before.

In the House/Full of Black Women episode “Passing Through The Great Middle,” the directors said they wanted a “bone dress.” Curiously, I wasn’t shocked. They told me the story of a young woman aboard a slave trader ship who was ordered—and who refused—to dance for the crew. So they bound her to a halyard, hoisted her up the mast and dropped her to the deck, again and again long after she perished. When Amara and Ellen retold this story at each rehearsal, I could feel my own body being hoisted, followed by the free falling weightless emptiness only to crash in blinding pain. This sensation imprinted itself in my soul. This bone dress was to honor this young woman’s spirit, to tell her story, to set her free. This costume needed to scream in anger, it needed to cry in pain, it needed strength held deep in principle, it needed an ocean’s sway, it needed air for spirit to flow through it, it needed to hold the echo of ghosts, it needed the allure of beauty followed by a recoiling to the ugly, ugly truth.

[Image description: This Egungun adorned in antiqued mirrors and lace carries a reflective domed face mask only allowing you to see a reflection of yourself. It beckons you to ask yourself “What kind of ancestor do you want to be?” Production: REVIVAL: Millennial reMembering in the Afro NOW]

Anatomy of a Ritual Costume
Garment construction begins with a visualization process. I mentally visualize the entire set design look and feel while thinking about how costumes might punctuate the space. I ask how the performers will move through the space, how much movement will they be doing, will they be solo or part of a larger group in movement?

From there I can see the silhouette of the costume followed by a general understanding of the overall construction. Typically starting from the base garment or garment that is closest to the body, I define what will work best in terms of form and function. What would be most comfortable, identifying fabrics, style that support their movement. From the undergarment I think in layers, what needs to be composed over that undergarment to achieve the silhouette.

[Image descriptions: Layers of fishing net, volleyball net, lace and animal bones over an asymmetrical composition of bound hoop wires and backpack straps lends itself to a broken silhouette. Her silhouette, crashing to the floor of the slave ship. The bones speak. Production: Passing Through the Great Middle]

Once the scenes are laid out, other specifics emerge driving costume design, such as the number of performers per scene, who is cast in those roles, what the set will look like, the amount and type of movement, what function they will support in the story line. Now specific deity references enter the process which informs the essence of costume character such as Mother of the Ocean, the universal element they embody such as water, fire, earth, wind, the objects that are symbolic for the deity and colors.

I strive to bring a consistent look for the overall production entailing purchasing similar items with variations of style and then there are special ritual costumes for key roles. As advocates for material reuse, we place intention on items that are purchased for future reconstruction or creative alternative use.

When designing the special ritual costumes, during the construction process I consider versatility in form, function, sizing and simplicity in reconstruction. Versatility plays a key factor as cast members can change requiring quick costume adjustments. Honoring the spiritual nature of the performance, these special costumes are built with clear intention as a vessel that will hold the intended grace of the message.

The underlayer garment typically includes a form of protection for the performer who will wear the costume. That protection can be in the form of a talisman/amulet/herb/symbolic characters etc. The structural inner layer I view as the bones (usually figuratively, though not always!), which provides a strong structure to build on.

The outer layer includes the fabric base of which specific embellishment and symbolic object oriented adornment can be supported. Through the combined integration of each layer that imbues the costume in preparation for the ritual performance. This includes the collaborative collection of meaningful fabrics and objects, ritualistic processes often used to create the objects, spiritual practices in placing the objects—all with clear intention throughout.

Inside the Experience

Photo by Dana Kawano
[Image description: The Egungun created for Ed Mock. Production: He Moved Swiftly But Gently Down the Not Too Crowded Street: Ed Mock and Other True Tales in a City That Once Was]

The feeling I get when entering a rehearsal space can only be described as like entering a remote island, a village, with people who share a deep love, compassion and acceptance for each other focused on the positive aspects of the gifts that each person brings. The space holds a respect that is beyond words where each individual feels safe to be their authentic selves and are able to express in a way that is grounded at a level that allows them to share who they are in whatever way that they truly are. There is a grace, a gentleness and understanding that is held by all to support each other in a way that I’ve not experienced in the outside world. It feels to me that it is a world that existed in the past, a world as all worlds should be based in a love for each other that we as human beings have lost along the way, making it feel unsafe to be our authentic selves.

My experience with House/Full has been grounding. It has given me a perspective rooted in extremes: one like a raw open wound to another of unlimited power to express. It has afforded me the opportunity to understand deep pain and pure joy—sometimes together. Doing so widens my awareness not only about others but also within myself. It can be uncomfortable at times but looking back over the years my depth of understanding my place in this world, what I bring, where I fall short and how I can use what I have as best as possible to help others continues to become more and more clear. That clarity about who you are and what you bring helps to inform all choices you make with clear intention.

I never thought that making costumes would open a door into such a rich life journey. But I often think that I have the best job in the world as I am able to intimately collaborate with highly talented artists that process life in a deeply profound way, dig into the roots of understanding ancestral history and traditions, gain a perspective on history and how it informs us today, integrate all of those aspects and create tangible references that can support visual impacts to provoke questions, raise awareness, promote healing and celebrate our existence. What can be better than this?

Until the next time…

It’s been great to have a chance to write about and bring words to my work—a space that ordinarily has precious few of those. I would like to take this opportunity to express thanks to the Bay Area ritual dance community, the directors and dancers, for inviting me into your sacred midst. I consider myself privileged to be a member. Looking forward to seeing you all in a theater as soon as we are able!

[1] By Bolaji Campbell, Cloth as Metaphor in Egungun Costumes, RISD Museum, July 10, 2016, <https://risdmuseum.org/manual/445_cloth_as_metaphor_in_egungun_costumes>.

[2] By Bolaji Campbell, Cloth as Metaphor in Egungun Costumes, RISD Museum, July 10, 2016, <https://risdmuseum.org/manual/445_cloth_as_metaphor_in_egungun_costumes>.

This article appeared in the Fall 2020 issue of In Dance.

Dana Kawano is an award-winning Ritual Costume Designer, Scenic/Installation and Visual Artist who has worked with artists like Amara Tabor Smith, Ellen Sebastian Chang, Dohee Lee, Yayoi Kambara, and others. She is versed in a multitude of artistic mediums. Her focus is to create ‘visual landscapes’ of elaborate wearable and/or scenic art that incorporate textiles, found materials and traditional mediums while integrating cultural/ritual layering to tell the story.

...

Mother

Richard Whittaker — Sat, 18 Mar 2023 00:00:00 -0700

Sept. 2015
A couple months ago, my mother underwent a small surgery in her stomach. Before her hospitalization, Shaoli, my best friend from high school, also a doctor in that hospital, messaged me "Do not worry" and that she would be there for my mother. True. My sleepless nights on the opposite side of the Pacific could contribute little. And I definitely wasn't planning to fly over half of the globe to visit Mother; the following two weeks on my Google Calendar were already filled up with my normal busy-ness.

On the following day of her surgery, Mother said over the phone that she held Shaoli's hand in hers during the procedure. Suddenly, an urge to be at Mother's side stirred inside of me. The hand Mother wanted to hold was mine, but the Pacific is wide.

Mother's Story
Mother began school in her village at age 10 and she loved it. One day her teacher lost her voice and asked her to help teach the class. Standing in front of the class, mother knew what she wanted to do when she grew up—to be a teacher like her father. Later when he asked her, his eldest daughter, to quit school to carry some family responsibilities at age 11, she begged, but he wouldn't change his mind. She stayed in bed the next day, then the next, and the next. Her pillow was wet with her tears. On the fourth day, she got up, swept the floor, fed the pigs, and then carried two water barrels to the river. She never returned to school again.

When my brother and I were little, Mother said, “The only thing in the whole world you need to worry about is studying. I will do anything to support you going to school, even if I had to climb the mountain that’s sharp as a knife, or jump into the sea that’s full of fire!” She worked in the polluted fertilizer factory, while taking care of the crops in our small family field. During droughts, many nights she waited by the field for water to come through the irrigation pipe. I saw her cry.

When I was in the sixth grade, my father lost his job and later became sick. Mother has become the single breadwinner in our family ever since. She farmed, scavenged, worked in polluted factories and later on scaffolding in construction, sold vegetables and eggs on the street, and even sold her own blood for cash. Her hands were covered with calluses and cuts.

I appreciated Mother’s support of me going to school, but I never wanted her to come to my school in town because I didn’t want my classmates to see her, a peasant with a weathered face. Even during one of my visits from college, when Mother grabbed my hand in a crowded local store, I instantly pulled my hand away. Merely standing next to her in public shamed me. Now, she is one Pacific Ocean away; the long distance has brought us close.

As a lifelong servant, Mother not only supported her two children, my brother and me, going to college, but also served her parents, her younger siblings, her husband, and now, her grandson.

Going Home
My flight to China was supposed to transfer in Taipei to Shanghai, but due to bad weather, it landed in Osaka in Japan, where we were stranded for 10 hours. During the long hours at the airport, I received from a ServiceSpace friend the recording of my sharing at the Wednesday Awakin Circle the night before my China trip. What a sweet surprise. I again chewed on all the heartwarming wishes that I received from many in the circle that evening. This trip felt right.

It was 48 hours after my departure from the Bay Area before I arrived at my childhood home. I didn't tell Mother that I was coming. As I walked toward the open yard where my old home used to stand before it was demolished, I saw Mother checking on the vegetables in the yard. "Ma!" I called. She looked up and, for a moment, stood there looking at me as if I were some stranger before she ran to give me a joyful hug. Her energy was still low, but her heart was strong to survive my surprise visit.

My father has suffered from Parkinson’s Disease for over 15 years, but he manages to take care of himself most of the time. In the past, he cooked while Mother sold vegetables on the street for their kids' tuition. It was lunch time. I devoured the rice and the eggplants and tofu dish, and drank up the soup in front of me. My parents sat there watching me, almost forgetting to eat their own meals. Mother was still on a liquid diet.

After the meal, Mother and I took a walk. I reached for her hand…

Reconnecting to the Land
I walked westward on the dirt road in front of my old home with my camera again. Through the camera lens, everything in front of me was surprisingly beautiful, the flowers Mother grew, the river with reflections of trees and houses, the trees and houses themselves, the little dog, the mother cat breastfeeding her kitten, and the run-down narrow bridge.

As I stood on the bridge which I’d walked numerous times as a child, something shifted in me. In the past decade, I felt angered and disgusted by the polluted river, the trash, and the funny smell in the air. I found the land repellent, even though the land didn’t do anything wrong. But that day when I stood on that run-down cement bridge looking at the shimmering surface of the river, I felt grateful for the first time, for everything that this land offered and sacrifices that she made.

I walked back home. My parents were cooking in the kitchen. Every day, Mother came up with a new dish that she wanted to make for me. She used to freeze all the special food that I’d missed, such as soy beans from spring, water chestnuts from fall, and the dumplings from the previous New Year’s dinner. She said if I ate them, it would be like I never left home. She stopped doing that after I said several times that I preferred eating fresh, not aged frozen food. That day when I got home after the walk, Mother was making zongzi, reed leaves wrapped sticky rice with red beans. To her, zongzi carries the spirit of reunion of the family. I stood outside, quietly observing my parents through the kitchen window. These two humble human beings brought me into this world and raised me from an infant, and supported me until I was able to explore this life on my own. How incredible!

Departure Again
When I told Mother my departure date, her lips pouted in disappointment like a child, but only for a second. When I was resting in my room, she quietly went to the local store and came back to make more dishes for me to taste. In the morning, she got up very early to cook more breakfast than what I could eat for three meals.

On my departure day, my father suggested he give me a ride to the bus station. Mother said she would. Later, my father wanted to come along, but there was no room on Mother's electric tricycle. As we were about to ride away, I heard “Hey!” from behind. My father was standing by the kitchen window waving his hand. I smiled and waved back, holding back my tears. My father does not express his feelings much, but whenever he does, he hits hard on my soft spot.

The Giving Tree
I thought this trip was my heroic journey home to help my mother, but apparently, she still took care of me more than I could take care of her.

I think of the poem by Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree. The tree is happy to give everything to the boy, her fruits, her branches, and her trunk. At the end, when she has only a stump left, she is happy to offer a seat to the boy who now has grown old and tired.

As children of Mothers, when can we learn to give back?

As children of the Earth, when shall we stop taking so much?

*****************
Two years after the reflections Xiao shares above, the Community Asian Theater of the Sierras sponsored Xiao's one woman show about her mother, "Don't You Have Dignity, Mother?" Don't miss it.

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Prayer of the Heart in Christian and Sufi Mysticism

Richard Whittaker — Thu, 16 Mar 2023 00:00:00 -0700

Religions are not people, of course; but like people they migrate across the oceans. When they do, they tend to become transformed in more or less predictable ways. They lose a good deal of what might be called their liturgical, legal, and even their moral baggage, all of which become subject to scrutiny and gradual revision. Among the reasons for this revision are the pluralism and openness of the societies in which they settle. In the face of this openness, displaced traditions have to decide which of their traveling bags they really need – and this is a good thing. For it forces believers to decide what lies at the heart of their faith, and how these fundamental insights can be expressed in a new idiom, intelligible to westerners. In the best teachers of these traditions, therefore, we find a wisdom that not only speaks to us in a way we can understand, but does so without enforcing the rigid orthodoxies of ancient traditions. Llewellyn Vaughn-Lee, author of The Prayer of the Heart and founder of the Golden Sufi Center in Point Reyes, is a quintessential example of such a teacher.

To those of us who think of Islam only in terms of moral rigidity and terrorism, it may come as a surprise to realize there is a completely different side of Islam – Sufism – that is almost entirely devoted to peace, especially to the inward peace of individuals. The way to such peace, Vaughn-Lee says, is disarmingly simple: we need only follow the prompting of our hearts. This path involves a lot of prayer, it is true; but the kind of prayer involved is not the petitionary prayer we usually think of. Instead, the practice of Sufis is often referred to as mystical prayer, silent prayer, centering prayer, or simply as meditation. And this prayer, he says, consists simply of “opening of the heart” and seeking what our hearts need rather than concentrating on the needs of our egos.

This form of Sufi prayer is virtually the same as the wordless and silent meditation practiced by the monks and nuns of Christianity – and by a growing number of secular westerners seeking spiritual depth in their lives. Vaughn-Lee plainly understands such contemplative prayer and the desire for personal transformation that motivates it. Indeed, he spent time practicing centering prayer with Father Thomas Keating, a Trappist monk at Snowmass Monastery in Colorado.

Christian contemplatives in general see the life of prayer as a matter of resting from the myriad of essentially self-interested concerns that dominate our lives. They embody this sense of self-surrender in their prayer life; and the result, ideally, is the letting-go of their self-confident, ego-driven determination to achieve their natural desires and worldly goals. To the extent that we rely on our willful determination to pursue these goals, they tell us that we can never open our hands – and our minds – wide enough to receive the blessings of the divine. So when we are disappointed in our pursuits, many of us begin to despair over our lives, becoming heavy laden with thoughts of despair, personal inadequacy, and spiritual emptiness.

Vaughn-Lee aims his remarks on prayerful meditation directly at those of us who suffer from such unhappiness, regardless of our religious affiliation. The way out of such suffering, he says, is to follow the guidance of our hearts. In other words, the insights that move us in our spiritual lives are all inwardly apprehended, as if our conscience were speaking to us. We realize these inner convictions, that is, by way of feeling struck by them, without the impersonal deliberations of rational speculation. If only we would listen more closely and honestly to what we know in this way, we would awaken to more such insights; and these would lead us toward selfless lives of compassion, service, and transcendent peace.

So this little book on prayer is meant not only to provide an easy access for westerners to the mystical side of Islam, it is also meant to help anyone who feels spiritually lost. Vaughn-Lee, in fact, is so adept at re-expressing the essential ideas of Sufi meditation in Christian terms that it is hard to distinguish between his intention to help his readers understand Sufism from a western point of view and helping them to find peace in their troubled lives. In this respect, his efforts are similar to those of Jalal ad-Din Rumi, the famous 13th century poet of Islam, who was at one point described as the most popular poet in America. Rumi used the power and beauty of his verse to communicate the spirit of Islam, whereas Vaughn-Lee speaks and writes with an impressive earnestness about the various ways prayer is understood among the Sufis.

We need this kind of liberal restatement of basic Sufi teachings, whether in verse or in prose, because many of us have no real feeling for what Sufi prayer is all about, or what the prayer life of Christian contemplatives amounts to. Selflessness, compassion and other spiritual virtues of humility, gratitude, mindfulness, and patience can all be found in the Sufi tradition as in Christianity – and in Hinduism and Buddhism, for that matter.

Vaughn-Lee, who is British, became a member of the Naqshbandi order of Sufis, having met another westerner – Irina Tweedie – who became his spiritual director. At one time the Naqshbhandi were distinguished by their strict observance of sharia (religious law), but he tells an interesting story in which a Hindu tells his Islamic teacher “I am yours. If you permit me, I will adopt Islam.” But his Muslim teacher replies, surprisingly, “You should not think of such an idea. Spirituality does not require following any particular religion…It is the duty of everyone to follow the customs and rituals of the country and religion in which he is born.” Neither does it seem that Vaughn-Lee’s intention is to create converts to Islam, for to follow the heart means to follow teachers of wisdom whenever one finds them.

In Vaughn-Lee’s writings, speaking knowingly on other religious traditions seems effortless; and yet again, I don’t think he is as interested in defending the orthodox teachings of Islam as he is in showing the spiritual depth of various religious traditions. Much of this orthodox baggage is left behind as he tries to open readers up to the personally felt, positive comparisons he finds in other religions. As for how far we ought to push such positive comparisons between different religious traditions, I’m not sure there is an answer. But teachers like Vaughn-Lee have long undertaken these comparisons, and I welcome their efforts.

...

A Conversation with David Ford

Richard Whittaker — Tue, 14 Mar 2023 00:00:00 -0700

Photo: Diane Woods

Mia probably sent the email to everyone on her list. That meant even friends who weren't potential acting students, like me. It was something about what was happening at the Berkeley Repertory Theater. But out of curiosity, I took a look. Some classes were being offered. One was Beginning Acting for Adults taught by Mia Tagano. Hmmm. I noticed how I paused there, and immediately thought: really?
     On the other hand, I could... I mean, I qualified. Ha. And as I sat in front of my computer, an inner debate unfolded. On the plus side, Mia Tagano is a friend. And it would be an adventure taking an acting class - something I'd never considered. And I felt sure that no matter how embarrassing it might be, I'd survive - even being the oldest one in the class.
     That I found myself even debating the possibility had something to do with a recent interview I'd done with an old friend, Dennis Ludlow. His first acting experience on stage was in Sam Shepard's Pulitzer winning play Buried Child at SF's Magic Theater back in 1978.
     Long story short, I took Mia's class - five two-hour sessions. It was lively and fun. After the last class, she took me aside. "Richard, I think the next step for you is to develop a monologue. And David Ford is the person I'd recommend for that. He's worked with so many people over the years."
   I was shocked. Me, do a monologue? It was something I hadn't considered.
     "Mia, if I do this, I'm going to blame you!" I said.
     And a couple of days later - after I'd calmed down - I took a deep breath and signed up. Now I thank Mia - a wonderful actor and a fine acting teacher and coach.
     Just shy of turning eighty, the experience of taking two, ten-week classes with David Ford to develop and perform two pieces at Berkeley's Marsh theater has been one of the most memorable experiences of my life. It opened a new world. David's skills, the intimacy of the work - and the new friendships - are priceless. The six months of intense work opened a window into the world of acting and story telling - and an entirely new appreciation for why it's been such a part of human life from its beginnings.
     I knew early on that I'd want to interview David, and a few weeks after the class performances at the Marsh in December, he found an hour and we talked on Zoom.

Richard Whittaker: How long would you say you’ve been doing this, David - this work with solo performance?

David Ford:   For 34 years.

RW:   34 years. What led you into this life you’ve been leading for 34 years?

DF:   I started getting interested in theater late in high school and in college. At the time, I actually was more interested in set design. Then, right out of college, I had a girlfriend who was a painter. She knew about this obscure, little school in the south of France, the Leo Marchutz School. The school was doing a summer program and we decided to go and take that summer program. They were going to close the school down and this was a last hurrah kind of thing.

By then, I had gotten pretty interested in painting so we planned to spend the summer there. The school was founded by a German Jew, who had moved to the south of France in pursuit of Cézanne. But Marchutz kind of took Cézanne at his word about why he was painting the way he was painting. He felt the need to dig into Cézanne’s point of view, and turn his back on what Modernism did with Cézanne—particularly that Cézanne was trying to take everything he was painting from the experience of seeing in the world, trying to represent that experience of seeing with as much faithfulness and passion as possible.

This might seem like an odd way to start this story, but believe me, this is actually the path, because a lot of my thinking about making theater comes from what I’ve learned about painting. Then meanwhile, after the…

RW: Could I interrupt, David? I want to be clear about what this French man, what it was he wanted to pursue in regard to how Cézanne approached his painting. And somehow, he got involved in theater?

DF: No. Actually we lived in the south of France for another year, in Provence. By happenstance, there was somebody in that same town, an Israeli Jew, living with his French girlfriend. They were starting to do theater together. Up until then, when I was an undergraduate—(I was an undergraduate at Yale, and the way theater got made there at the time was they would use auteur directors and playwrights.) So, when I was an undergraduate, I got to see Andre Serban direct. I got to see Andrzej Wajda direct, and you know, most of these men had kind of a mad vision inside their own heads, and would move people to fulfill that vision. But that view of directing didn’t mean anything to me, so it never occurred to me to be a director. But then, when I was in France I met Amir Abramov who was nobody to anybody. But he had an approach to making theater, which was highly collaborative.

And as I started working more in theater, what I learned as a painter had direct correlates—surprising ones. For example in painting, if you wanted to really have an orange that stands out, you pair it with its complementary color—a version of blue—and then that orange is really going to pop. And oddly enough the correlate of color in theater is emotion. We even used that expression in theater. If the director tells an actor, “We need more colors” he’s or she is saying, “We need a wider variety of emotion.” If you have a character that’s angry and you don’t have any contrast to that anger, it quickly loses its impact. Because as a human being, you see and experience things in contrast.

And there’s also something about the way you relate to the outside world, which I think has a big impact. Cézanne was having an experience of the outside world and trying to recreate that experience on the canvas. Yes, he was using abstraction, but it was grounded in the experience of seeing. But the Cubists took a much more intellectual approach to that. They started to explode the thinker and try to give you multiplicity in one painting, which is not how we see the world. It’s an intellectual conception that a lot of Modern artists had. And Cézanne was trying to stay close to the experience of, well, actually seeing.

I also read philosophers. So, if you read any of Heidegger’s writing on being, you might see a direct correlation between what he was saying about being and what Cézanne was pursuing in painting.

RW: Oh, I love his essay Building, Dwelling, Thinking. Have you read that one?

DF: I have not read that one. I’ve read What is Called Thinking? and Being and Time. He also wrote an essay about a sculpture I remember. Anyway, meanwhile, I was working with this guy, Amir Abrumov, who had this very collaborative way of working. And together, we created a two-person version of the story of Medea. We just got some rooms in the back room of a book store, but it had a huge influence of me because of how collaborative he was, and also how he liked to take stories and explode them, and work in an ensemble to reconstruct them in ways that people in the ensemble could relate to.

RW: You and he, and perhaps a few others, worked together to create this two-person play?

DF: Right. It was two actors, two women—his girlfriend and another woman. So essentially, it was the four of us.

RW: You weren’t performing yourself in this, right?

DF: No. No.

RW: But when you were in high school and then in college—you did your undergraduate at Yale, I think you said.

DF: Yeah.

RW: So you must have done a little performing yourself, I’m guessing.

DF: I did in high school, but my experience of performing is that it’s a rollercoaster, and I don’t go on rollercoasters.

RW: Okay. Yeah, I understand this rollercoaster business from my last six months with you, David. In any case, it’s fascinating listening to you describe the connections between painting and theater. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone describe that before.

DF: Would you like me to go more into that or continue to where I got to where I am?

RW: Well, we’re squeezed for time and one area I wanted to ask about is, are there people in the world of theater who have been important to you, and who you still hold in great respect today?

DF: That’s an interesting question. I’ve spent a lot of time in theater, so I’ve soaked up a lot of theater. For example, when I came back from France, I worked for a while for the Eureka Theater here in San Francisco. It was run by four directors, which is an unusual situation for a theater. Because I worked back stage, in some ways I was a production manager, but it became a little bit of an apprenticeship for directing, too. But they were very much directing scripted pieces, not doing what I do. Aside from working with Amir, most of what I’ve discovered about working with people and drawing out their stories, have been things I’ve discovered for myself.

RW: Well, let’s talk about solo performance, the kind of performance that people bring from their own lives to the stage. You’ve been involved in that for a long time. I haven’t studied theater at all, and only recently have gotten a real taste of it. I feel fortunate that I was directed to you by my friend Mia Tagano, who is an actor and teacher herself. On the other hand, I’ve noticed how individual stories have become a big thing in our culture. I first noticed that listening to This American Life. Now, I published my first magazine in 1991 [The Secret Alameda] so that’s close to 34 years ago, too.

This American Life just stood out as something new. Of course, I knew about Terry Gross, and Fresh Air. Then later on, the Moth Radio Hour, which seems to have exploded. I’d think you have a clear view of the development of solo monologue and personal stories. So I wonder what our thoughts might be about that? Do you agree with me about how this has entered the culture?

DF: Yes, and I’ve also admired the people you’re talking about. Solo performance, you know, obviously has deep roots. I mean, Homer was a solo performer. But in its modern incarnation, it came out of performance art. The experimental stuff that was happening in the 60s started to explode in theater, most particularly in the 80s, and along with other performance art, it was highly visual.

There were also other people experimenting. Spalding Gray, obviously, is one of the people who spearheaded the modern version of solo performancel. Eric Bogosian, Lily Tomlin and Spalding Gray tend to be the three people who are mentioned most frequently. They were doing something different than the people in the museums were doing. What was happening in the museums was much more visual, much more conceptual. But those three performers really started digging into narrative.

Spalding Gray famously sat behind a desk and would present narratives of experiences from his own life—the simplicity of that. He was a very, very powerful performer and had an incredible voice. He could deliver tremendous energy from behind a desk, and his work was really, really influential.

When I first came back from France, basically I was directing performance art of various kinds. I hadn’t specialized in solo performance. I worked with Bill Talen, who has a character named "Reverend Billy." He’s in New York and known for that character, which I helped him create 20 years ago when we first started working together. Bill’s a poet and a satirist. One of the things we did together was a piece called "Political Wife," where Bill, who looks a lot like a Kennedy, would give a satirical political speech. He kind of looked like a Kennedy, but he spoke like a Trump. He had some very funny bits in it like this bit about the problem of the black penis in American life—“How could we find a way to point the black penis in another direction?”

He had a great touch for satirizing the Right and their racial obsessions, and things like that. He’d deliver a speech, and then his drug-addled wife would take over the proceedings and present the counter-speech. Very simple. We ended up doing it as an environmental piece. We’d do it in Holiday Inns and serve apple pie with the speech. And in the audience we’d have members who were cast as belonging to of various political action committees. We created a whole world of political action committees. It was a lot of fun.

Bill was also a cocaine addict at the time, so that part wasn’t as much fun.

RW: You said you presented these in Holiday Inns?

DF: Yes. We actually played down the hall from Bill Clinton once when he was first running for president.

RW: How did that work?

DF: We would rent a conference room just like Bill Clinton was renting a conference room to give a speech and have a fundraiser. It was set up as a fundraiser. So I was doing things like that and, at the same time, I started working with solo performers. Josh Kornbluth was somebody I worked with early on, and Marga Gomez. They were just part of the performance art scene at the time.

Working with Bill and creating a show with him, didn’t feel much different than working with Josh and creating a show with him. There were a couple more people in the room, but it was still a very collaborative effort. And the show was being written as we rehearsed it. So, the script was being formed, it wasn’t a script that’s handed down, and this is a finished product; it was a work in-progress.

RW: So the beginnings of contemporary solo performance were probably first happening in art galleries.

DF: That’s where a lot of the roots of it were. But not long after that, it was happening more in theaters. Bill worked for a place called Life on the Water, which was in Fort Mason.

RW: I’ve heard of him, and Life on the Water.

DF: And he had a couple of collaborators. Leonard Pitt was one of them. He’s a very powerful, physical performer. So it had become more of a theatrical scene—and George Coates was another part of that scene.

RW: Okay, right.

DF: I wasn’t working with him. He had a lot more money. Have you seen George Coates’ stuff?

RW: Yeah. Didn’t he do those digital things?

DF: Highly visual, but with some music. Extremely visual, and often without any narrative, but theater.

RW: I remember that.

DF: I remember shortly afterwards going to the San Francisco Opera and watching them just stealing stuff from George Coates. He had a huge influence on what was possible with new technology and theater. That was the scene going on, and then we got to the 90s. Newt Gingrich was in the Congress, and there were all these cuts in our funding. A lot of the more ambitious performance art projects could no longer go forward, because they didn’t have the funding. So that left us with me and one other person in the room. That was the only financially viable part of performance art that was left. You know?

RW: So that was a turning point because of the disappearance of financial backing?

DF: That had a big impact. But on the plus side, that’s about when Stephanie Weisman was opening up the Marsh Theater. She was creating an environment for performers to be able to do their work. She was giving performers a much better deal so there was a huge rush of people coming to the Marsh and thinking, “I want in on this. I want to be able to do something like this. This looks exciting.”

RW: And this was the early '90s?

DF: I’m trying to remember. The Marsh started just about the same time I was starting. It started as just “Monday Night Marsh.” On Monday nights, Stephanie would produce showcases for four performers. It started in a bar in the Hotel Utah and had many homes for the first four or five years, until she found the space over on Valencia Street that used to be a Latin jazz club. She’s always had a good eye for creating an environment that’s very intimate and welcoming so that there’s a real strong connection between the performer and the audience. I think that’s a lot of why what she was doing was successful. That and the fact that she’s astute about real estate. She owns her building on Valencia Street, and that’s allowed her to weather a lot of ups and downs. A lot of other theaters have closed because they did not own their own space.

RW: That would make a huge difference. You know, from my perspective—having performed in public thanks to taking your class—all of a sudden I’ve become aware that there are scores of little places where people can get up and tell a story, read a poem. When I first came to San Francisco in 1966, I was passionate about poetry. I thought I’d be a poet. And I quickly found that I didn’t have the confidence to get into the fray of doing public readings—like the Coffee Gallery in North Beach was a regular place for that. And now, I think these kinds of places have permeated the culture in a way I couldn’t have imagined in terms of how much performance must be going on.

DF: Yeah. Performance was really getting going. You’re right, shortly after that we started getting into This American Life, which kind of brought the same kind of revolution to radio. You know, things like The Moth also started. It was another opportunity for people to tell stories. It’s interesting to me that at the same time, memoir became a more dominant part of publishing. It was really exploding, and made me think about— what is the culture looking for? It seemed to me the thing about solo performance, and all these other things, is that the person is telling about their own experience. And you get to judge the authenticity of the telling.

RW: Right.

DF: So, I think the word authenticity has a real important place. I know the Post-Modernists can go on at length about how “authenticity” is a non-starter, but I find that audiences have quite a different opinion about it.

RW: That’s a little bit of a hot button for me—how the postmodern critique sort of took over. But fashion is very powerful at all levels, and it rules, in a way. And there’s a tendency of thought that tends towards black and white - even among people who would think they’re beyond this. Like if Foucault, let’s say, uncovers some truth behind how power can corrupt epistemology—then all of a sudden, there’s no place for recognizing something that’s genuinely deep and uncorrupted. I think this is unfortunate.

In any case, your mention of authenticity leads me to a couple of things that stood out for me, David, in the six months I was in your class. When I came to that first class, I was forty minutes late because I’d gone to the Marsh in San Francisco. And when I walked in, you made me feel welcome immediately, and I relaxed. You said something like, “Okay. I see that you've been publishing an art magazine” and you asked me a little bit about that. You said something like, “I see the passion there, and I respect that. I have a passion for art myself.” Does that sound at all familiar?

DF: A little bit. I don’t always remember what I say. I’ve got my mind full of what everybody else says. It’s my job to remember that.

RW: And you’re amazing that way, too. So let me ask you, would you say you’ve found your calling in life?

DF: Yeah. I would. I’m also a playwright. That has not panned out so easily. You know, when I came back from France, I’d made myself sick trying to be a painter. The conclusion I came to is painting is very hard. But somehow, theater was easy for me. Which is not to say it’s easy. Actually, there’s nothing easy about it.

RW: Right.

DF: But the path opened up for me. As an artist, I could see what had to happen next, whereas as a painter, I would hit roadblocks all the time. So in that sense, the path was there before me. I just started going down it. I mean, I’ve learned things since I first started doing solo work, but I’m also still the same person I was when I first started doing it. I try not to teach based on what I learned. I try to teach based on my intuition at the moment.

I feel like I’m also sort of stammering when I’m talking to people in class because I’m trying to say exactly what is drawn forth in me in that moment to that person. Of course, I’ve also got that experience, and I speak from the experience, but I try not to be in the same rut of “Okay, this is what needs to happen.” I try to find ways to speak specifically to what that individual person is needing.

RW: Well, I think you’re amazingly articulate in your responses to people and I think everyone else in the class is, too. So you said that painting was hard and you found something in theater that wasn’t as hard. And that something that was at the heart of that pursuit and experience back then hasn’t changed that much. That you keep going back to that, even though you’ve learned things. But I’m hearing you say, that’s okay, right?

DF: I think I’m glad that it feels the same. I think I was worried that I would become—and you know, I still worry about this—I was worried that I’m a hack. I would have my tricks and I’d go to them as though there’s only one way to represent one’s self authentically on stage. There isn’t. There are as many different ways as there are human beings on earth.

RW: Well, I’m with you, and it makes me think about Heidegger. I mean it’s so unfortunate that he got involved with the Nazis because no one can talk about being like he did.

DF: Right.

RW: And there’s the question of one's own being. We can ever leap frog over that. It’s something fundamental right in front of us—or at least, it can be in front of us if we’re trying to find something real in ourselves. I’m just glad to hear what you said. I also appreciate your concern about becoming a hack. That’s when someone has absolutely lost touch with this deeper mystery of life. This goes back to the question of authenticity. It occurs to me that this sudden blossoming of small places where people can come and stand in front of a small audience and try to speak authentically is because there’s a hunger for this.

I mean, our culture is shot through with a lack of authenticity. Whatever might be authentic, gets put to work in to sell product. Any good thing advertising can get a hold of gets prostituted to sell something. So, in essence, where do you go in this culture to hear an honest man or woman speak an honest thing about themselves? I think this sudden growth of these little places is a natural response to the marketing atmosphere we’re all awash in.

DF: I think you’re right. I would tend to trace its origins to the same place. Media is mediated. It’s right there in the word. So, the unmediated experience is something that, I think, people… And now, we have a lot of it. We have it in publishing. We have it in theater. And it’s even showing up now in television, like in that show, Reservation Dogs. It’s a really lovely show about a bunch of kids on a reservation in Oklahoma.

Somebody was just talking to me about an article about whether they were going to lose those opportunities in streaming services, because economically, it looks like there’s going to be a shake-out. Does that mean that streaming services will stop being these scrappy, risk-taking ventures, you know, throw some money at it and see if somebody comes up with something interesting? Because they won’t have as much money. Will they start getting safer? Will the MBAs start making all the programming decisions based on what they can guarantee for an income stream?

RW: That’s a legitimate worry. Now, before my first class, I looked at the Marsh Theater website and found a link to a performance of yours that I watched. You were giving something like a lecture. Somewhere in there you were speaking about how a performance is often in front of a small group of people, and you said “But it doesn’t take that many people. It's not necessary to be seen by millions, or hundreds of thousands, or thousands of people. It may be enough just to be seen just by a few people.” Something like that…

DF: It gets to this idea that artists are trying to make meaning. You know, they’re trying to make something meaningful. And we’re dependent on an audience to let us know whether we’ve done that. You know, being an artist is full of contradictions. One of them is that the universal comes out of the particular.

As an artist, you have to work from the particularity of your own experience, and hope that people can relate to it—and find universals within it. Then, when you start that process of trying to understand whether you’ve reached anybody, you immediately get into this other paradox of being an artist, which is, well, how many people do you need to reach before you can now say I’ve made something meaningful? This is something, I think, that drives artists crazy, you know?

RW: Yeah. I do.

DF: You know, you can meet very successful artists, who are still deeply fragile about whether they’re creating something meaningful. They get into these spirals of egotism and self-hatred. It’s like the classic diva who needs to be acknowledged all the time in their greatness, because they’re so fragile about it. So, in giving that talk, I was just trying to get people thinking about how, as artists, this is something that’s not going to go away. You have to find some way to make peace with this and live with the fact that meaning can’t possibly be a numbers game.

So, in that speech I was talking about how, if it’s a numbers game, then Beyoncé makes the most meaningful art in the world. I was trying to put forth the idea that if you can move two other people, then you’re in the same world as Beyoncé, that you know what it is to move somebody. You know something that Beyoncé knows, and probably Beyoncé doesn’t know a whole lot more about it than you do. I call that “the world of somebody cares.”

You and Beyoncé can both live in “the world of somebody cares” if you can move two, or two hundred million.

RW: This is a beautiful thing you’re saying, David. And much needed. It’s not so easy to get past this strange dichotomy. Sometimes I’ve posed the question to artists I’ve interviewed, “What is enough?” I think it’s a really an important question for everybody.

Let me ask you this, David. Okay, I’ve had 20 classes with you. So I’m now qualified to speak about you as a person helping solo performers. I’d say there’s something very clean about how you work people, which I don’t think is easy to do. What I want to ask is what do you get from your work with individuals struggling to craft a solo performance from their own life? Who are looking, perhaps, how to find some sort of affirmation of their own worth? I mean, there’s different ways to talk about this. But theater, is such a powerful form in which people can confront themselves, and be confronted with themselves. And now I can speak from experience at this late date in my life. So, it’s a long-winded question. But I can’t help thinking there’s something particularly rewarding for you in helping people this way.

DF: You know, so often the things that call to us are also connected to the most fragile sides of ourselves. So, I would answer your question, first, what I get is a vacation from self. Somewhere in my childhood, I had to learn to live in other people’s emotions and keep my own at an arm’s length. That is something I struggle with personally all the time. At the same time, it’s led me to have this peculiar skill of being able to welcome the chance to be in somebody else’s body for a while, and to be able to feel and hear what they’re saying—and then, also, to feel what they’re searching for. Yeah. So trauma, blah, blah, blah.

RW: Well, this must be the way it generally works. To the degree one has struggled in one’s own life, one can relate to—and possibly help—others with the same things.

DF: Yeah. Let’s just leave it at that. One of the things that happens in the arts is that people who have lived in some way on the margins, have a perspective that is interesting to the rest of us, because if you’re not on the margin, you don’t see those things. So, yeah.

RW: Do you have any projects you’re working on, or thinking about?

DF: I don’t have any plays that I’m working on. I’ve kind of put that aside. I have been trying to think about doing a third lecture. I’ve been trying to think about time—how time functions for the artist. Particularly, what does it mean to say to somebody, “Take your time”? What does it mean to “have your own time”? What does it mean to not have your own time? And shouldn’t I be saying, “take the audience’s time”? Because as a performer, it’s the people in the audience giving you their time.
In the same way, it’s interesting to look at the process of writing and how, when writing goes well, time seems to disappear. In fact, in the same way, if you’re sitting in the theater and watching a really powerful show, time seems to disappear. So, I’m intrigued by these things. But so far, it’s been beastly abstract. I haven’t gotten too far on it, but I keep hoping I’ll find a way to crack this.

RW: That’s a great question. I look forward to what you might arrive at. There’s certainly something powerful about being on stage, a heightened experience.

DF: And you’re somebody who had to learn to take his time.

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