Category: Art

Tried to read in September

by MAÔ, posted in Reading

September 2017

Books Bought:

  • Object Lessons: The Paris Review presents ‘The Art of the Short Story’ – Picador (Misc. Authors)
  • 50 Great Short Stories – Bantam Classics (Misc. Authors)
  • Paperbacks from Hell: The Twisted History of ’70s and ’80s Horror Fiction – Grady Hendrix
  • How Proust Can Change Your Life – Alain de Botton
  • At the Existentialist Cafe: Freedom, Being, and Apricot Cocktails – Sarah Bakewell
  • The Alchemist – Paulo Coelho
  • Black Wings of Cthulhu 2 – Titan Books (Misc. Authors)

Books Read:

  • Luke Skywalker Can’t Read: And Other Geeky Truths – Ryan Britt
  • Meddling Kids – Edgar Cantero
  • The Alchemist – Paolo Coehlo
  • Paperbacks from Hell: The Twisted History of ’70s and ’80s Horror Fiction – Grady Hendrix (unfinished)
  • We Gon’ Be Alright – (unfinished)
  • The Museum of Extraordinary Things – Alice Hoffman (unfinished)
  • It – Stephen King (unfinished)

Well, Hurricane Irma came and went. I’m still here, if just a bit soggy. The power was out for a few days, so with no power and no work, I sat down with Cantero’s Meddling Kids. I thoroughly enjoyed it, being a throwback to the Scooby-Doo era of my childhood, as well as dark mystery/fantasy with Cthulhu undertones. It’s getting even closer to Halloween, and I’m getting excited.

Cantero tackles issues unique from the animated source material, such as suicide, gender issues, LGBT relationships and mental disorders. He does so deftly and humorously, and thus it’s less likely to be seen as accurate representations of any of those things. But I finished it in just over twenty-four hours, sometimes by candle- or flashlight, and I was happy to be reading it.

It, on the other hand, I barely got into this month. I did see the film, which is a horse of a different color, and boy did I enjoy it. My date for the evening likewise enjoyed it, though she screamed at just about every scare, which made my viewing experience even more memorable, and somewhat interactive.

I recall being a young boy, and my sister was babysitting me. She had rented the original It adaptation, with Tim Curry, and while watching it, we got to the point when Stan had killed himself. Then the power went out in the house. I’m pretty sure that it was jarring enough for me to have a heart attack, even at twelve. The novel just didn’t get much time from me September, so I’ll try to rectify it this coming month.

I’ll be working in Georgia much of the month, so I’m hoping for ample time away from other responsibilities, with which I’ll devote to reading.

Another unfinished attempt, The Museum of Extraordinary Things by Alice Hoffman, was a book that I really tried to get into. I really, really did. The main characters were well-formed and the story was well woven, but it just left me in engaged. I gave it nearly half the book to determine that I was not going to maintain a relationship with these characters, so I sadly put it down. I may try again at some future time.

Unfinished number three – We Gon’ Be Alright. This short collection of essays on the race crisis in America made some strong points that resonated, but it echoes the climate of the Nation so vividly that it was difficult to digest. I intend to finish it this month.

And Paperbacks from Hell! What a lovely little collection from Grady Hendrix, one book showcasing dozens of horror novels from the 70s, 80s, and 90s. I’m only through the introduction, but even some of the displayed cover art has made me laugh and cringe.

With Paulo Coelho’s short novel, I reentered a world that I had become familiar with early last year. This was a book loaned to me as I struggled through spiritual and emotional turmoil that left me questioning many of my decisions in life. Very unlike the protagonist of the book, a shepherd named Santiago who was very content with life the way he was living it. Through his dreams he discovered a Personal Legend that then sent him across the desert to discover his treasure.

This gave me much to consider when I first read it, and I wanted to see if it held up now that I am ostensibly out of that dark night. And it does. The book is hopeful, and anyone feeling lost at any point in life could give it a read. It may or may not resonate, but it’s comforting to know that books can be both inspirational and accessible.

Something entirely different is the collection of essays: Luke Skywalker Can’t Read. I laughed, I had childhood beliefs called into question, and I learned a little bit more about nerd fandom than I had known that I needed. Britt is an author, film critic, and science-fi aficionado, and he took to task Star Wars, Back to the Future, and various monster movies, among others.

I think my book purchases this month reflect my newfound interest in short form storytelling and essays. Botton, Hendrix, and the collected short stories are examples of short form, and I’ve been exploring them both as consumer and as writer.

The month didn’t provide me as much time as I would have liked to read. A theatrical production, a hurricane, and commuting to Georgia for work were all time-draining, and this coming month doesn’t look much clearer. But, I’ll certainly try.

Award Shows

by MAÔ, posted in Film

So the Emmys just passed. A few months ago the American Theatre Wing presented the Tony Awards. We’re moving into Oscar season, and films will inevitably start vying for position. And we’re left wondering – is it worth it?

There are questions of racism and sexism. Shonda Rhimes had this to say. Amber Tamblyn also made the news this week, bringing the industry as a whole to task.

Yet, viewers tune in to the congratulatory events, rooting for our favorites, almost American Idol-style. We want our picks to win.

I get a unique cross-section of opinions when the conversations start up around me. Though I haven’t done much in theatre or film the past couple of years, many of my colleagues and friends still work in the industry. Listening to them I hear of the problems going on set or backstage.

Sexual harassment among a prominent improv troupe. Pay discrepancies for actresses vs. actors. Unfair practices in casting when it comes to non-white performers.

And still, being entertainers, many people not in the industry would chalk it up to inflated egos not getting their way. They say it when it comes to sports, and authors, and performers.

“Get a real job,” they might say. And, in the face of their individual struggles, they are justified in that opinion.

As with most things, it’s not a simple cut-and-dry matter.

So go watch the movies. Get a Movie Pass for ten bucks a month. Make your pick for Best Film. The Academy Awards are right around the corner.

An unfinished symphony

by MAÔ, posted in Music, Universe

I come back to my questions, the uncertainty of who I am, what I see around me, and my place in the world. The great symphony that is creation is confusing, and I’ve no idea what instrument I am, nor do I know the notes to play.

An actor’s nightmare is showing up onstage unfamiliar with the show and not knowing the lines.

Showing up to class naked is another common nightmare.

But isn’t that what happens to all of us? We show up here on Earth to learn, to love, to fail. And we’re naked and uncertain. As we age, we think that we’re the only one unprepared, but that’s not the case. Everyone else is just as uncertain.

The great showmen, the sales team, marketers, educators – they’d have you believe that they had it all figured out. But it’s a ruse. What do they have figured out?

Time and again, technology shifts industry. Discovery shifts learning. Goods and services are transitory, as are we all.

I guess all we can do is a pick a note and play it loud. If it doesn’t happen to sound good, play another.

Opening Night

by MAÔ, posted in Theatre

Here it is, another opening night. I’ve been on stage in over fifty productions in the past twelve years. It’s probably over seventy-five now, but I can’t keep track. It had been one of the driving forces of my life.

This show has welcomed me back to theatre, and I appreciate it. Yet it still feels very different from before. Less joyful. Less exciting. That, sadly, has more to do with me than the show.

There are wonderful moments: the camaraderie between the fellow cast, being up on stage in front of people, singing and (pretending to be) dancing.

For a time, performing was a very social thing for me. As I got better at it, realized that I had talent and natural instincts as a performer, I started to take it more seriously. I worked professionally around Central Florida for some time. Things started going south, I guess, when I got sick.

The illness was eventually diagnosed as RA, and I continue to struggle with joint paint, fatigue, and stiffness.

I started this post to just mention that I was happy to be doing a show again. But what I’ve realized is that I have baggage tied up in performing. Baggage I’m going to have to sort it, if I plan to continue doing this.

Memento Mori

by MAÔ, posted in Art

Latin for “remember you have to die.”

This crosses my mind. I had just reread The Icarus Deception by Seth Godin, and he discusses this principle. Art is transitory, all things come to an end, etc. etc.

I’m telling myself this as I look at the cracked face of my new Fossil Q smart watch. It’s a small crack. I banged it on the corner of a keyboard while I was at rehearsal. It is irksome, to say the least.

My first inclination is to send it back (actually, the warranty might cover it, and I’ll certainly check it out). But after the first few moments of discomfort over a broken, fairly-expensive item, I get to look at it from a higher elevation. Memento mori – remember you have to die.

We all die. Everything we know ends. Even the seeming permanence of stone and mountain is but a transitory state, eventually eroded away, though we will certainly be long gone by the time the great mountains have been made flat.

Things of beauty are beautiful because beauty cannot last.

Art is calling

by MAÔ, posted in Art

There’s a piece I’m familiar with, a song called Art Is Calling for Me, lyrics by Harry B. Smith, music by Victor Herbert. It’s a fun sort of song, for a soprano (maybe a mezzo). Every once in a while that music will pop into my head. I first heard it in a concert, sung by a young woman who would enter and, after several years, leave my life. I think of it tonight.

I’ve grown fond of the yoga studio where I practice, as well as the people there. Once a month they do an open house, with live entertainment, food & drink, and, yes, artwork. It reminds me of setting up exhibitions for Orange County, back in a previous occupation.

In my seclusion, or self-imposed monastic existence (as I’ve taken to calling it), I’ve forgotten how much was a part of my life, and just how much I enjoy it.

Picasso was probably my favorite, and I did have a chance to see original sketches when curating the exhibitions. While in Amsterdam, I visited the Van Gogh museum. This is one of his that I really enjoyed.

Mostly now I read and write. I go to the movies maybe once a week, or every other week. But, slowly, I’m reentering the world of the arts. Visiting museums. Seeing shows. Listening to music that for a long time was painful to hear. Singing music that I hadn’t practiced in a long time. I guess art is calling…

My other things: theatre

by MAÔ, posted in Growing up, Music, Theatre

Last week, I wrote about why I write. But there are a number of things that interest me, which is likely why I read so much. As I work on building my WordPress site into something that fully represents me, I wanted to lay out a few things that represent me.

For instance, I’ve been involved in theatre for over ten years now. I have two very clear memories from when I was a child, though I don’t remember exactly when these were. One was a show I was in.

I guess I was always in choirs, because I still sing today. Usually one or two days of practice every week, as well as singing on Sunday.

Anyway, in grade school (maybe first or second grade), I was in a production. I don’t know what it was, or what it was about. I just remember I had to be on stage shirtless. My little butterball self. I was some sort of aboriginal, or Pacific Islander. I wore a lei. (I’m very white, by the way. Perhaps at the time I had a tan.)

There were three of us, shirtless children on stage. The fact that I remember it even now should be some kind of indicator. As if that wouldn’t be scarring enough to a young psyche.

Then there’s the first show I remember seeing. It was when my dad was courting my stepmother, and we all went to see Grease, live on stage at a community theatre. Well, I walked out of that building saying, “What a waste of time. I would never sit through something live on stage again.”

It’s been over a hundred productions later of my own, as well as countless shows I’ve seen or sat in on for their rehearsals. I guess I can safely say: “Boy, was I wrong.”

IMG_2832It’s a joy for me. I love theatre, performing, seeing it, working on it. For over ten years now I’ve been goofing around, on stage. It’s really a wonderful thing.

 

Call me nostalgic

by MAÔ, posted in Books, Film, Growing up, Music, Reading

We’re reducing the tactile sensations of our world to nothing more than keyboard and screen interactions. Consider:

Music early on was heavy; weighty. You picked up the albums and loaded them into gramophones, into record players. You lowered a needle. You would wipe the needle down, and the record off, lest you get the bumps and whine of interference. Perhaps you could listen for thirty minutes, then it was either flip to the B side, or repeat Side A. Then came the cassette, with it’s unique little flip-case. Crack, pop. Crack, pop. Unique sounds and feelings of taking a tape out, inserting it into a tape deck. 

CDs digitized the whole system, and suddenly sound quality changed drastically. Still, you had these CD cases, or maybe you put them in sleeves. You could bring a whole disocragphy with you, if you were so inclined. And then it went further digital with the advent of the digital music player, and multiple discographies were available in something the size of a cassette. 

Similarly books, whose only transitions have been to audio, and then to digital. It seems a bit harder to invent new ways to read rather than listen to music. 

Video also is all stored on the web now, and is available to watch or download at the click of the button. What started as the tactile sensation of adjusting rabbit ear antennae so that the signal would come in clear, then became inserting beta or VHS; laser disc; DVD; HD-DVD and Blu-Ray. Now streaming. 

I think that’s why there’s a return to older sensibilities. Record players becoming en vogue again. Letter writing and stationary. Long has it been said that digital books would kill the print copy, yet even booksellers seem to be feeling the resurgence. We are beings that like touching things, and when too much exists in cyberspace, we just don’t know what to do with our idle hands. 

A night in blue

by MAÔ, posted in Music, Poetry

I turn on the jazz
The city unfolds before my eyes
Night sky with bright lights
Blazing from imaginary windows
Smoke and fog drifts soundlessly
Creeping over weary streets
From my private perch I watch
Listening to the sounds of the night
The song of the city
A tune that echoes in drums and lobes
Different in percussion for every skull
Notes still piping
Slow, vivid and hot
The picture it paints
Across the scape of my eye
Pupil and cornea alive with musical notation
Dancing, streaming, playing raw
Heat, fire, life.
It is where the soul lives
The heart beats
The mind creates
Those moments that cannot stop
But you can never experience again
Once they pass, gone
And you, holding on in the night
Wait to feel it again
See it again
Live it and know again
That it breathes into you
Inspiration
While I watch this happen
Inhaling air, tobacco and sweat
Breathing heavily
Night not cooling my body
Air just promising to break the heat
While my body feels the beat
The rhythm of music long since played
Echoing over these weary streets
And my bleary eyes
Take in the sights
Feeing no pain
And hoping the morning doesn’t come too soon

On the reading bug

by MAÔ, posted in Books, Faith, Reading, Spirituality, The Artist's Way

Started reading a book (the intro really, plus a few entries) that I had purchased a few weeks ago. Nick Hornby’s Ten Years in the Tub: A decade soaking in great books. First, I love books. The idea of what Hornby did for The Believer, where each month he would just talk about the books he read and ones he bought, was entirely captivating to me.

So, this being the first entry of the month, I’d like to take a cue from Nick Hornby:

June 2017

Books Bought:

  • The Republic – Plato
  • Atlantis: The Eighth Continent – Charles Berlitz
  • Designing Your Life – Bill Burnett & Dave Evans
  • Conversational Spanish in 20 Lessons – Cortina Method
  • Light on Yoga – B.K.S. Iyengar
  • The War of Art – Steven Pressfield
  • Thinking: The New Art of Decision-Making  – Edited by John Brockman

Books Read:

  • Do the Work! – Steven Pressfield
  • Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency – Douglas Adams
  • Outrageous Openness – Tosha Silver
  • The Perdition Score – Richard Kadrey
  • Sept. ’03 – Jan. ’04 of Ten Years in the Tub – Nick Hornby
  • Worth Dying For – Lee Child
  • The War of Art – Steven Pressfield (started)

What can I tell you about the books I’ve read? Or bought? Why do we do this? I found a beautiful passage in the intro to Ten Years in the Tub, written by Jess Walter:

“That the books we buy are almost as important as those  we read. From the beginning there were always two columns [referring to Hornby’s monthly article], Books Bought and Books Read. By my crude math, Nick spent somewhere around ten or fifteen grand on books he hasn’t even read. Besides showing that he did his part to support publishing during a tough economic period, this suggests something important about reading. Looking around my own obsessively crowded shelves, I see there are two categories of books I tend to keep: those I love and those I hope one day to read. If the books we read reflect the person we are, the books we hope to read might just be who we aspire to be. There is something profound in that.”

I checked out Do the Work! and Dirk Gently from the library. Both came precariously close to being returned unread, but something about each grabbed me and made me change course. The library and, by extension, book stores, are sort of a second home to me. And in this in-between period, where the old life I lived has fallen away and the new one is just breaking out of its cocoon, they function more as my first home than the place that houses my stuff.

Do the Work! walks us through the creative process, highlighting the role of resistance in creation. Now, I’m a big fan of Seth Godin. Have been since I first stumbled across The Icarus Deception, oh, three years ago. At that time I was creatively stifled, my professional and personal lives not working out the way that I had intended. He begged his readers to do the work, fight resistance, and ship! Yes! I can get on board with that.

Pressfield’s book does much the same, but not as effectively. I do feel inspired to do the work, yet I get stuck on syntax when he delves into his theory on the contradictory nature of the Universe’s role in Resistance/Assistance. I’ll likely come at this book again a year or two down the road, and see if I agree or disagree more with the sentiment. The War of Art has been on my reading list for a few years, so it was time to pull the trigger and buy it. I’m just starting it, and seeing the themes revisited from Do the Work!

Adams is always fun, and Dirk Gently’s was no exception. The thought and connectivity he puts into a book about interconnectivity gives enough laugh-out-loud moments that I found myself flying through it.

Atlantis and the course on Spanish weren’t bought, per se. Rather free books in a stack at the library. There’s a girl from Barcelona I wish I were better able to communicate with, though she speaks  English more fluidly than I do. Atlantis, eh. Always curious about the esoteric and metaphysical.

In The Perdition Score, I got to resist the character Sandman Slim, aka James Stark, as he moved up and down a supernatural Los Angeles, and back into Hell. I began reading Kadrey’s series last February, what is that, fourteen months ago? Since then, I’ve read eight and just committed to reading the ninth when I saw it in the bookstore. Perdition is probably the best of the series since Sandman Slim, but I’m a sucker for watching Stark get even when someone goes after his friends.

Another series that I just began last year but have managed to put a considerable dent in is the Jack Reacher collection, by Lee Child. Worth Dying For is well-plotted mystery, and I had trouble putting it down as well. I spent the better part of two days catching up with Mr. Reacher in a little Nebraska town run by some no-goods that were, par for the course, up to no good. It’s a satisfying read, and moves the story towards him heading back to Virginia, which they adapted for film in last year’s Never Go Back.

Tosha Silver and Iyengar’s books are part of my required reading for the yoga practice. I bought Light on Yoga from a Los Angeles Goodwill on Amazon, so it’ll arrive soon. It was like five bucks. Outrageous Openness we discussed at the yoga studio, and it seems to be of big help to those of us who have trouble letting go and trusting that Divine help will be coming.

My first experience with that concept was back in November, 2015, when I started Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. I know some crazy things can happen, once you say okay and let the Universe/Divine/God/Source start working on you.

I made it though five whole books this month, with two solid starts, and a few dips into other assorted writings. I can’t guarantee that many, but there is that new Sandman Slim out there, as well as a Reacher novel someone loaned me. Plus, there’s a stack of library books on philosophy that need to be returned this month, so it may be more likely that I get a sit down with Spinoza and Kierkegaard.