a little red hen

Toy Piano & Phyllis Chen Amaze Curious in Portland Lounge

Because  many experiences have come my way and been unheralded blogwise, I'm writing about this one right away, the morning after it occurred.

Too quickly I read this notice in The Oregonian about a performance on a toy piano.  Could be something to take our almost-eight year old grandson to hear?  He's enjoying piano lessons he takes from the woman next door.  You can hear her practicing when she does not have students.  Much nicer than living next door to a heavy metal group; could happen in that neighborhood too.

Ordered the tickets.  Email confirmation noted the venue, Doug Fir Lounge.  Oh.  Called and learned you had to be over 21 to attend.  Ron and I went instead of Zach and me to listen to  Phyllis Chen was here from her home in New York City.  We entered a world far outside our experience.

It began with a stamp on our left wrists; they were quite particular about the location.  Down stairs, darker and darker.  Yes, it felt like rabbit hole entry.  Could hardly see at the bottom.  Seemed to be a large place with very few chairs.  As we moved toward the stage where there was some light, a man, who turned out to be another audience member said, "No seats left.  People stand and move toward the stage."  Okay.

Half hour early, we saw wood benches attached to half-sawn logs on the walls.  Sat down, very hard...did we have it for two hours?  Ron went back to the car, returned with cushions we use there.  Much better. 

Portland performer, Courtney VonDrehle, playing accordion--not his usual instrument, opened.   Who would know as he did pieces he and others had written--all engaging, one with a Yiddish title, none sounding like anything we'd ever heard from an accordion (thinking 1950s weddings).  Courtney composes for 3 Leg Torso, is a member of another group, the Afro-Hebrew Klezmocracy.  We are in Portland.

Phyllis Chen appeared after a bit of waiting as we watched electronics arranged.  So limber as she dropped to the floor, crossed her legs, and addressed the toy piano.  It turned out, she explained, that John Cage had written several pieces for the toy piano.  She played the first one which was light,  sounded more melodic than Cage usually does.

"Uncaged Toy Piano" is a competition she began two yeas ago.  "I'm like a kid at Christmas when I tear open the submission envelopes!"  She played a recent winner  by a Japanese composer.  It required her to play the white keys with her left hand, the black ones with her right.

Next, the Teapot "Tsunami" by Japanese composer, Georg Hajdu.  Chen played a regular piano; she is quite accomplished on the everyday instrument as you can hear on her website. A blue porcelain teapot rested near her and  recorded as she played, then played it when she finished.  Her hand movements during the playback brought to mind the mysterious operations I associate with the Theremin, an early 20th century electronic wonder.

There was more!  Rob Deitz, video artist, joined her on his instrument, an Apple laptop.  All electronics were engaged.  Chen played the toy piano again.  Her ear appeared projected on a sheet behind them. The camera followed the movement of her earring as it found its way into its pierced place.  Then an old-fashioned music box fed a paper roll sitting on top of  the toy piano--another "instrument."  It would have been great to have a program!

Finale:  a winner for a raffle by the evening's sponsor, Portland Piano International, whose goal was to host an alternative venue for Chen's music...to reach an audience not usually exposed to classical music and its many variations.  A very pleased young man won a slightly larger red toy piano.  Who knew there was going to be a raffle?

Many mysteries of the evening, all appreciated by these two old New Yorkers.  In truth there were other gray-hairs attending; Ron decided they were all piano teachers. Reading more on her site and blog, I see that Phyllis Chen (signing CD here and in better light for photo) has a work-in-progress, "Down the Rabbit Hole." I'm definitely looking forward to hearing this one.

Mystery Update:  Oregonian, local paper, helped me and you out in Saturday's review by James McQuillen, "A toy piano concert that is seriously good."   Fills in all the spaces, corrects all my attributions of wrong composer, gives names, "Toy Toccata," and "Exposiciones"  to what Chen played.  And more detail on "Nothing Is Real," by Alvin Lucier--the amazing teapot exploration.  I love reading the Saturday paper...more later.

"Radio Golf," August Wilson's Final Play

Complaining weekly about the whiteness of Portland (and Oregon), I have nowhere to go with this thorn in my perfect little life here.  All week I've been handing out postcards about  a local theatre production of  "Radio Golf," the last of August Wilson's ten-play chronicle of black life in mid 20th century Pittsbugh. 

Every man, woman, and child over 15 ought to  be required to troop on over to the Portland Playhouse (small church converted to a performance space).  Sit down on a couch or chair,  open up to Wilson's picture of the pain and pleasure African Americans have always known in their own settings.  People keep asking if we miss New York.  No, we mostly miss living in a colored world.  Asians running ethnic restaurants, Hispanics cooking in most eating places--but not living in my West Hills neighborhood.  What's with all these white people?  How did they conspire to be so cut apart from the America I've known--Baltimore, St. Louis, Oberlin, New Orleans, Louisville, New York of course.

But I get in the way of celebrating last Sunday in Albina, an historically black residential neighborhood.** Decided to wear this pretty little hat bought from its maker at a local Saturday market many years ago.  "Oh, it's Easter," did not occur to me until we were halfway there.   Influenced by the dominant culture here or feeling my hair continues to whiten so consider again little caps to hold back my fading from view?

We arrived early for the play and sat in the car in front of a house with a wreath,  "Happy Every Day."  As I  knit, a woman drove into the driveway, got out of her car.  Her shoes were bright pink.  We exchanged hellos  and I held up my mauve gloves, "These match your shoes!"  She nodded and chuckled on her way inside.

Five minutes later a man came out of the house, got into a car parked in front of us.  Soon the woman reappeared, wearing black shoes now, opened the passenger door and asked, "You hear from Johnny?"  Her voice had a cadence Ron and I know so well.  We never hear it in Portland--the way a voice sounds in a question from one black person to another.   You had to be there--and be us to--understand our  pleasure and sadness.

The Oregonian went all out to promote "Radio Golf" on the cover of its entertainment section.   There is  an excellent slide show of the set and scenes from the play.  Also, the story of the two young white Weaver brothers (Michael at right in photo) started Portland Playhouse only last year.  The "campaign poster" in the photo is of Harmond  Wilks, played by Lawrence Street, a real estate developer planning to run for Mayor of Pittsburgh.Notable too was that this is a co-production with BaseRoots Theatre company, also a recent addition to Portland's performance scene  with a mission is to "showcase the unique African-American experience."

We enjoyed the play--especially the outstanding acting.  Two of the five actors are members of BaseRoots.  Kevin E. Jones who plays the oldest character, Elder Joseph Barlow, and Victor Mack as the fast-talking neighborhood deal-maker, Sterling Johnson, struck us as the men August Wilson felt closest to in this play.     As a black man on his way up and ready to change the old rundown Hill District neighborhood, Bobby Bermas is Roosevelt Hicks.  He swings his golf clubs with bravado and determination that had us believing that playing the white man's game would bring him success.  The Willamette Week review reflects my own reservations about the play while also calling it "...the best show in town." 

At the last minute I'd changed our tickets when I  learned  there'd be talk-backs at Sunday performances.  Most of the audience stayed, asked questions, and listened to the actors' describe differences they'd experienced as black performers in Portland compared with other places. We missed more of an African American presence among us and I think they did too.    Kimberly Howard (far right) from the Oregon Cultural Trust, one of the sponsors, moderated and told of Portland  Playhouse efforts to bring in more black audiences, particularly from  public schools.  

Other Wilson plays have been have been more powerful for me ("Joe Turner's Come and Gone" for one) but none of them--in Baltimore or New York--have gifted me with as pleasurable a total experience as this one... at the right place and in the right time. 

UPDATE:  "Radio Golf" run extended to May 16

**Nothing useful in Wikipedia, but so much in this research paper pdf from the University of  Oregon.

And now I have knit chickens...

A few weeks ago, I went back to Close Knit, a favorite yarn shop here.  Last winter I bought Noro yarn and pattern there to make this vest;  finished when we returned to New York.  One of my more successful yarn projects.  It  helped that there was an already-knit version I could try on  to check out the fit. 

Knitting chickens, representations of them not the actual bird, has moved  along my plan to knit kids' toys.   First,  a yellow Polka-Dot Chicken from Susan B. Anderson's "Itty-Bitty Nursery."  I was going to give this to Zoe but decided to keep it.

I rationalized that her baby sister might tear it  and get into this bag of  beads used to weight the bottom.  Zoe shares my fondness for chickens,  chases  uncaged ones resident in the nearby schoolyard. Hope  they  make it through the winter.

Because she's partial to dots, I added them to another  Susan B. Anderson pattern for a striped chicken.  And produced this larger hen for her to take home.  On visits with us, she plays with the smaller one. Clara is the name she gave to  both.  Sounds  old-fashioned from a modern little girl.

 
Sent off this sweater for Roxie's Purple Bear that I made in August, just before we left NYC. I've started another animal for her,  a Hippo from Susan B. Anderson's new book, itty-bitty toys.  Did Susan and I meet at Knitty City?  I have a signed copy of the other Itty-Bitty. She is a very inventive designer who blogs here.

Feeling quite righteous because I'm only using yarn from my stash for these projects.   Found more funky chick patterns at Ravelry--that comes after the Hippo and another vest for myself, this time with Ron's yarn.

Recalling my hen obsession while she was in Paris, Maxine Levinson at Knitty City sent me a photo she snapped of a poulet store.  I lost it and effort to retrieve it via Google led to a blog called Paris Breakfasts.  Discovered many sides of  chicken enthusiasm among the French.  Something little red hens everywhere are trying to tell us?

Starting to use her as my avatar.  Please note the beaded necklace.

Posting less than I'd like because we continue to have a busy time in Portland, O, with taking classes, finding intriguing lectures.  This week the Humanist Chaplain at Harvard came through to promote his book, "Good without God: what a billion nonreligious people do believe."    Saw Philip Glass' new opera,"Orphee" and liked the music.   A group  sat in the lobby doing live blogging.

More  boxes await attention.   Though I feel frustrated about my ability to influence national politics, there are local issues to work on.  Oregon, like California, has votes often on initiatives outside regular elections.

The outcome of Initiatives 66 and 67  will have profound effect on funding for schools and social services.  "YES" is the word for the  January 28 election. 

"The Way We Get By," a movie for all of us--seniors & others

Tonight on the PBS program Point of View, I'll be watching again a beautifully conceived movie we saw last July before we left New York.  With a low-key title, "The Way We Get By", is one you will want to see no matter your attitude toward U.S. involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Is it anti-war?  Not exactly.  Pro-war?  No.

It is about women and men like us:  older citizens, looking for a way to make a difference, some hoping to relieve their loneliness as spouses and friends are gone.  There had been little publicity on the film when we saw a notice about it last July.  And I was not quite sure what to expect reading it was a documentary about a group of seniors in Bangor, Maine, who meet soldiers both leaving for and returning from war.

It's this airport where most soldiers leave the U.S. and the Maine Troop Greeters have welcomed home or said goodbye to one million of them!  I spoke with Gita Pullapilly, the film's producer, and asked if Grandmothers Against the War had been contacted for support.  She'd tried but had not heard back.  

But my effort to contact my friend in the group,  Joan Wile, did not get a response either.  Too bad because the story is not a pro-war or anti-war one.  The three "Greeters" focused on make that clear:  they wanted to do something for these soldiers to let them know we are aware of them, care about them.  My argument with "Grandmothers" always was that we of all people needed to find ways to do more than demonstrate; we could give time to families directly affected by the wars.

We even had a chance to meet the director (son of one of the Greeters) who has just married the producer (it's all on the PBS website.  We got an update and chance to talk with another featured Greeter  who had successfully recovered from heart surgery.  It was all very personal--and political--in the best sort of way.

If you do not have a chance to see it tonight, "The Way We Get By" is traveling around the country and may show near you.  Their dedication moved me so much as a pacifist who has looked for a personal way to express gratitude to women and men in the military even as I oppose the idea of war.

There's also a DVD out now that could be passed around among friends who are eager to see often-unseen older folks as caring actors in the public space.

"Small Is Beautiful" in my everyday life

Last night we picked up our daughter and went to a downtown movie.  Last show, we were the only ones at Lloyd Center Mall to see "The Informant."  Curious film--glad for lack of violence or gratuitous sex--maybe I missed the point?  Afterwards,  realized I'd dropped my Ron-knit-hat and new gloves.

[Aside:  Minor challenge is adjusting to current Portland weather.  Thought cold times had arrived--wrong.]

Called the Mall this morning, got number for movie office.  "Wait a minute," the woman said, "let me look."  She returned, described my lost articles.  Later today I'll pick them up at the box office.  Meanwhile we had a brief and pleasant exchange about the oddness of being alone at the movies.

Oh, I am liking so much the scale of life here.  Take Sunday morning just passed.   Along with 17 others,

[Aside: Every now and then some of that much-advertised rain appears]

I scribbled away for two hours at a Community Writing Workshop at HOT LIPS Pizza on Hawthorne.  Write Around Portland puts these on to give new and not-so writers the "experience of the transformative power of writing in community."  Very intergenerational--17 on up, one other grandmother, other recent transplants.

[Aside:  Hot Lips' pizza has been a favorite since our family settled nearby...delicious Pear Soda, a new addition...and the jams.  Website text on how they came to add these by accident rather than corporate plan is my notion of  modern Portland-style, as contrasted with old-fashioned.  Again, more later.]

Why the workshop, I hope you ask.  Need a jump start on writing in general plus a push to working more on  my plays about life among the not-so-old  as we get more so. Preferring "old" lately as adjective and noun.

[Aside:  The WAP session was a push.  More came from unpacking another book box (endless), finding books of ten-minute plays.  More later.]

In synch with E.F. Schumacher and the beauty of "small,"  decided to get rid of many more books.  Reading Fran Johns' postings on the True/Slant blog, listening to children of the old talking about the burden of parents' wish for them to receive their "stuff," resonated.  Okay, they really, really live in the here-and-now--a thing or two from Mom and Dad's pile and that's it.

  [Aside:  Our son-in-law cherishes his grandfather's college football helmet, our daughter dresses her children in sweaters I knit for her--and saved.  My daughter-in-law in New York took on this blue baby dress of mine.]

Keeping the flame of  Schumacher alive is a society with a number of programs,  and a blog.  Good ideas do not go out of style.

 

What's a grandmother to do?

This was fun.  Our seven-year-old grandson came to dinner at our place following an afternoon movie.  He is very interested in cooking thanks to input from his father and other grandma.  This was such a delightful time for us that I reluctantly speak of the movie.

"Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs," is a quirky title of a very popular children's book.  I'd heard of it and wondered.  Before we left NYC, there was a very upbeat review in the New York Times.  Surely this would be more appropriate for Zach than the one we tried a couple of years ago, "Ratatouille."  In this "Common Sense" rating system, it was pronounced swell even though 100% of parents said, "too violent."  Yes, it  scared our grandchild, puzzled us; we fled early.

He was anxious to go to "Meatballs."  A movie is a rare experience in his TV-less household where he only sees children's videos.  Sunday afternoon at Lloyd Center in downtown PDX--a mob scene.  We watched, thought it would never end.  Zach loved it.What's my problem here?  In "Willamette Week," Aaron Mesh had a single complaint in his review:

Ron Barrett’s original pen-and-ink illustrations were intricate and moody, filled with awe and mystery as well as peanut-butter-and-jelly blizzards. The edibles that fall from the sky in Sony’s CGI cartoon look like Fisher Price play food...

For me there was a disgusting aspect to the stuff. The excessive size and intensity of the food presented the too-muchness as something to be desired.  And it went on too long.  And what was the idea behind the stereotyped African-American policeman?  He was presented as a heavy with a heart of gold, redeemed by loving his little son.  Strange. 

And the father of the hero, the only person of age in the film, was a heavy-footed who really did not get his son's ideas.  Especially as they all related to his (how old was he supposed to be?) computer science wizardry.  Father did not even know how to turn the damned computer on--a crucial task in the adventure.  Piling up the cliches was the air-headed girl reporter who turns out to be smart toward the end.  Can't remember whether this was when she put on eyeglasses or took them off. 

Well, I survived those classic Disney mother-loss dramas "Snow White" and "Bambi," so Zach will no doubt weather (oops, unintended pun) "Meatballs" with his own family's values intact.

"The Copier," Remarkable Music and Dance

Wednesday night we were in the audience for a dance/installation performance of THE COPIER, a new work by Cedar Lake Contemporary Ballet.  Program notes prepared us,

...takes its inspiration quite literally.  The flare of a copy machine's light sweeps like a lighthouse beacon [see photo #5 at top] over the floors and walls...Music begins and ends the rhythm of a cantakerous computer printer and other natural and synthetic sounds captured from the city.

Because it was billed as interactive, my first photo--now lost--was of our feet.  We ended up sitting in the perfect spot though the program invited otherwise, "You are welcome to move freely...Seating is not provided and is not encouraged."

Used to theatre spaces, we walked across the huge industrial space to the one place to sit.  Strips of paper, shredded paper, began to fall from high up, an opening in the brick wall behind us.  Birds began to twitter as we waited for the dancers.

Only 40 minutes long, it was one of the most satisfying theatre experiences we've had.  The dance was slightly reminiscent of Merce Cunningham yet warmer, more accessible.  That must have been influenced by the way it was choreographed and conceived, as the program noted, by "Jill Johnson in collaboration with the dancers."

We were caught up in the pulse of David Poe's score.  It could have been fun to move around the edges of the dancers' space but all seemed to be waiting for the other brave soul to do it.  At the end, on the way out, a young man with an Apple laptop downloaded photos from those of us who wanted to do so.  When I asked about people not moving about, he said that the night before they had only gone so far as to play with the paper.  Missed my chance by resisting the urge.

Now the company has a copy of my lost-feet photo.  I still have the one Ron took, ostensibly of me, far right, with the New York Times' photographer (man in the green shirt with very nice camera?) surrounded by many, many more of these souvenirs from an unexpected, excellent, brief experience.  By chance, it was an August synchronicity: the birth of our newest grandchild and my own move to the next stage of aging.

Today Claudia La Rocco's review in today's N.Y. Times reflects what she felt two nights earlier.  Her focus only misses my own unnatural attachment to my scanner.  But how could she know?

Olympics Frenzy: A View from Grandma

Chinese women and men, 8/9/08, Long Beach on Long Island, New York, play volleyball.  Net provided by beach, Chinese flag is their own.  Why so important to them?  Read HERE.

Over at Hattie's Web strong negativity toward the Olympic games.  My inclination would be different, though I agree with her points about organized "sports" in the U.S. as an overblown commercial enterprise.  But, my immodest proposal, is to reframe the conversation around Americans and sports.

Hattie and I are both grandmothers to children who live in the Northwest.  I think it would be useful for us to begin a conversation about the value of chilren's school sports to alleviate troublesome issues in the culture--bullying, obesity, excessive competitiveness.  We could re-visit Mister Roger's Neighborhood and co-op-er-ation, perhaps encourage a revival?

I'd ask local politicians to pay more attention to funding public school sports as a direct line to reducing childhood obesity.  New York's Mayor Bloomberg has made calorie posting on menus his latest public health campaign.  This is the same mayor who made a controversail decision for an exclusive deal with Snapple, sugary, fructose-filled beverage, for NYC schools.    While it did nothing useful for kids' health, it also turned out to be a seriously flawed financial arrangement.

When I taught second grade on New York's  lower east side in 1966, it was not possible to use the glass-littered concrete "playground" next to the school.   No indoor program.    The best I could do was walk us to nearby  Thompkins Square Park,  famous at the time as an encampment for homeless people, a hippie hangout rife with drugs. 

Currently, I hear the eliminations of phys ed in public schools across the country.  In New York:

One reason for the lack of physical activity in the city's 673 elementary schools, according to a [2003] study by State Assemblyman Jeff Klein's oversight committee, is that many of them do not have functioning playgrounds; that space is filled with "temporary" trailers for extra classrooms needed for these overcrowded schools. Some of the trailers have been there for as long as eight years.

Today I tried my idea on another grandmother at lunch.  What about elders taking on issues  outside their immediate, personal concerns?  I asked her if we are too ready to accept  our invisibility in the public space.  Are we so anxious for approval from our grown children that we accept the "walking on eggshells attitude," described in this book by Jane Isay as the best way to negotiate these relationships?

Gee, I thought our lifetime of experiences and our perspective as "historians" were meant to be important in the life of a growing family, a community, a nation.  We need to claim our rights as "gatekeepers for the future."   That's the beauty of blogs--to have our say--at least among ourselves.  I have some topics in mind.

What do you think, Hattie, and the rest of you elder-lurkers?

Addendum: It was through our connecting through Time Goes By,  that it was possible for  Claude at Blogging In Paris and me to develop the idea a few months ago for our  online excercise support group,  ELDEREXERCISE.  Going very well, thank you.

We all use Ronni Bennett's  blogposts as a touchstone,  a rich medium.  On my visits to TGB, I often click on one of the sidebar blogs and discover another fresh, Elderblogging voice.  Ronni clearly enjoys being our link  to the content and ideas she generates.  She encourages us to branch out, make our voices heard.  Whenever we do, it's a tribute to her efforts.

75 Years, Me and the New Deal

Though this sculpture was made, oh I don't know because he refuses to date his work, some fifteen years ago, it's a fit as a contemporary representation.  Nick Bloom, our son who writes books, father to Roxie, brought home two beautiful ceramic figures.  Each almost two feet tall.

Hollow inside, I pronounced them perfect to store our ashes.  What he had in mind is unknown and we have never discussed it in a serious way.  They simple are. His art-making is less burdened than mine.

Photographing them again,  I paid special attention to the good match between the  stance of each to who my spouse and I are.  Us--seen by our son--and others.  Though the Queen here smiles, the hands on hips pose, says, "I'm watching your moves."  The King is more cheeful, on the verge of dancing.  Yes.

Rachel, our daughter, is a very good photographer who has retreated from the practice since work and family have taken over her life.  Every now and then when we're together, I'll handed her my camera and the results are wonderful.  Somewhere there's a black and white of Ron and me that she did in the 1980s but searching for it will distract from today's, August 5, business.

Anna Deveare Smith, in a special issue of The Nation on "The New Deal at 75," writes "Something was really happening. It wasn't smoke and mirrors."

Shaped by that intensity of purpose, I still carry it.  Mellowed a bit and still intent upon meaningfulness in the years ahead...with family, with community.  As a very fortunate American of my era, what can I do to pass along that good fortune?  I think about this a great deal in drawing my own portrait for the coming decade.

I've decided to make the entire month of August my birthday-- to celebrate, to figure out coming shifts and/or stasis. 

Already been celebrating in low-key way and tonight a Chinese meal with Ron, then opening of "First Breeze of Summer,"  off-Broadway revival.  Instead of a Condom Amulet, think I'll do my own revival by wearing this ceremonial neckpiece I made in the last century.

I am so vintage!  Hands still on hips,  smiling on this next  journey into the unknown.

Funeral Parade--with Drums--from My Window

"What's that music?" Ron leaned out the window facing 125th Street yesterday afternoon.  Sounded like a jazz funeral parade in New Orleans, the one you couldn't help but follow.  Yet different.

Barbara Ann Teer, founder of the National Black Theater died last week at 71.   When she moved from an active life on the stage to devoting herself to  the NBT, she stated:

We must begin building cultural centers where we can enjoy being free, open and black...where we can find out how talented we really are, where we can be what we were born to be and not what we were brainwashed to be, where we can literally ‘blow our minds’ with blackness.

Once again we found ourselves fortunate to live beyond the proper confines of the "upper west side," and within Harlem's boundaries.  Ron would point out details he noticed as we ran from one window to another to follow the parade as it turned from 125th onto Amsterdam Avenue below our window on the 21st floor.  "I got teary," he said. I wonder if picture-taking gets in the way of my own strong emotions.

The tourists on the double-decker bus (see final photo) probably never learned they were privileged spectators to a remarkable ritual, rarely seen in New York City.  The explanation came to us in today's New York Times headline, For Champion of Black Theater, A Funeral through Harlem's Streets.  There are many fascinating links for more about the visionary Dr. Barbara Teer,  known as "the queen of Harlem."

UPDATE:  More details at UPTOWN Flavor, a lively blog about all aspects of the neighborhood--events, art, politics.  Discovered independent movies are shown Wednesday and Thursday night in Morningside Park.