Usually find something to read in New Yorker's "The Talk of the Town." Griffin Dunne's first visit to the Museum of Sex stopped me with relevance to my current moment.
Took me back to 2008 before we left NYC. Ron Bloom and I dressed up for the Museum's opening. Seems there were many Condom Amulets scattered about. Did I make those? Someone else? Took one of my favorite casual photos of Ron waiting in line.
That, however, was then. Nine years later my thoughts turn to where am I going electronically speaking. My friend Ruth Ann Barrett challenged me--in a very nice way--recently. Talking about this began with my being alerted to the zine world again. What morphed into my other blog, Knit a Condom Amulet, It began life as a small paper zine.
HIV infection in women and men over 50 has not declined in the last decade. According to the Centers for Disease Control, they account for 25% of those infected. Amfar reports, "The proportion of AIDS diagnoses among women has more than tripled since the early days of the epidemic, from 7% in 1985 to 25% in 2014. Approximately one in four people living with HIV are women. Of the total estimated number of women living with diagnosed HIV in 2015, 61%were African American."
Still work to do there in telling the story...maybe a new place online where I gather together my parts as a Conceptual Artist. Takes in almost everything I've done since last 20th century--Feminism, of course, knitting worms, "This Dirt Museum: the ladies' room, the NO WAR peace action, bread making...
It's clear I have to get organized. Tomorrow there's the Zine Symposium. Kind of daunting. Have a new zine focused on old people vis a vis young people. Have already been to couple of meetings, mostly young women, gracious, helpful. Took my picture, put it on their Facebook page. More later...
Steve asked in an email, "Still blogging or only Facebook?" Excellent question, of course he would ask.
Short answer, I keep hoping the spirit will become actual. Long one has to do with my expectations of this form when I began in March 2006, the height of enthusiasm for the blog form. Happily joined with peers known as Elderbloggers. Though I did not like the title.
What did I want from it? To connect with other aging women wondering about life after work, women who lived in other cities. Through incredible luck + synchronicity, spouse and I had been able to retire from a too-big house in Baltimore to a right-sized apartment in Manhattan. The move jump-started life as a conceptual artist. Began modestly with an essay, "Composting in Manhattan," written in a weekend writing class. Moved along in various permutations to knitting 150 red wiggler worm interpretations and This Dirt Museum: the Ladies' Room, an installation at Queens Botanical Garden--opened eleven days after 9/11/01.
As blogging receded in popularity among younger people, seemed to offer me less juice. Moved again 2009--last one--Portland, Oregon. Couple of years ago jumped into Facebook primarily to connect with local political scene. Found Amy Meissner, fiber artist in Alaska. Amy along with Steve in D.C. inspired today's post.
In The Final Boxes of Mystery Amy ended her crowdsourcing Inheritance Project. Having discovered her on Facebook midway, I went back to the beginning. Women's stockings led to the image here. Why did I keep for too many, many years discarded hose--mine and my stepmother's? First to use as stuffing for knitted animals for our first child, Rachel--the one who lives in Portland.
But she was born in 1968. Why so long dragged from place to place? To make necklaces for my installation in another century? Truly cannot remember except that I still have this one--think it was pantyhose--copper wire and tube, vintage bead. Have I found the where and the how for walking forward in these dark days?
October 29, 1966 Ourswas a non-traditional Jewish wedding in Ron's rent-controlled [$112/month], one bedroom apartment on East 28th Street in Manhattan. Now our place since I'd moved in couple of months before from my studio, four blocks south. Families' disapproved "living together, not married." That would happen again but world was changing: it was our time.
October 29, 2016 Many moves later, two children, 4 grandchildren, we live in same town as daughter Rachel...Portland, Oregon. It's an entirely different universe for us--ethnically, intellectually. What works is closeness of our family, a few good friends, Portland Playhouse--a found jewel that began around time we arrived seven years ago. Both cook a great deal, enjoy abundant fresh produce, profusion of moderately-priced restaurants. Above Ron achieves first selfies as we prepare for evening in recycled garments, jewelry.
Boisterous evening at Sarretto's in northwest Portland. Everyone found something they liked; our ages ranged from 8 to 83. Favorite neighborhood; would have lived here, chose retirement community--made more sense in our seventies. Two very different gifts--from our friend Michael, report of New York Times article of an event on same day we were married. Speaks to our politics. From Rachel a delightful new pair of socks-- political too: I worry about and have written about the future of bees. I like lively socks; was wearing spiders.
In midst of dinner, phone rang with FaceTime call from son Nick in New York. I shared photo of his daughter, Roxie, in her spider outfit, at Halloween parade, photo he sent earlier in the day. Technology, often feels beyond me but periodically redeems itself.
Not to forget, my celebratory outfit included favorite Hillary button on purse--always there ...2016 is her year too. Carrying more to give out...we are in the whatever-it-takes mode. And you?
"Could it be, yes, it could, something's coming, something good," a line from an all-time favorite of mine, the musical Candide. [That's the 2005 version; mine was the original, 1956.] Oh it is tempting to get diverted here. But that will not excuse my drift from blogging.
Call it old age, maybe a critique of the fragility of the format, or simply Naomi malingering. Whatever, I have not let go entirely and believe it is in my own best interest to go at it again.
Certainly there have been inspirational moments-- that I did not pick up on quickly. Visually the most powerful-- these startling tattoos on the woman helping me at the eyeglass place, Natalie. She reached forward, sleeve went back and there...
We shared our fondness for the power of the hen, her rightness as a symbol for women. Reaches across all races, ethnic groups; why did I not think of this in the dawn of the second wave (somewhat random link)?
And that was but one of her gorgeous tattoos. There were others. Told Natalie that these would go on my blog; finally matching promise to action. Definitely began to think more seriously of getting one myself. Oh, a modest image, on the ankle, perhaps.
Told Zoe, our 10 year old granddaughter, "Oh, grandma! Not really." Thought I'd get more support there.
So what have I been doing? Baking sourdough bread, one kind after another. Giving slices away to neighbors in my retirement community. I'll write more about the thrill, yes, of bread making. Went to a great class at Tabor Bread, local bakery; offered to teach making a sourdough starter at Portland's oldest food cooperative, People's Co-op. My bread's in the photo.
And discovered C.A.N., the Coalition Against Nukes, on Facebook, because politics always close at hand. More later.
The Reverend Norvel Goff speaks inside the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, S.C. (Photograph: David Goldman/Pool/EPA via The Guardian Sunday, June 21, 2015)
What's missing for me today is a place to go. To be with others who share my sorrow. Who wonder how it has happened that so little progress has been made in my 80-plus years.
And it is not any church I want to be seated but a black church--preferably in my last neighborhood: Harlem. If I were back in New York City, citadel of diversity, it would be enough to sit inside my apartment, look out the window, watch black neighbors on their way to the many places of worship surrounding us.
If there, I could take the elevator to the street, encounter neighbors on their way to church perhaps. Or others like me who would share profound discomfort that our whiteness has brought us so much privilege and so little ability to change the racism that remains too present in America.
But I am here: Portland, Oregon, dazzling whiteland, a mostly-denied symbol of what an American state can achieve when it practices institutional racism to the nth degree. People like myself come from other places, keep asking the same question, which has led to a popular presentation by Walidah Imarisha, poet/educator/public intellectual--
Last night we spoke with our daughter and her spouse about the murder of nine black people in a Charleston, South Carolina, church earlier this week. It was the first time I'd had a conversation about it. We've discussed before how this limits our grandchildren's experience of the world around them. While baby-sitting, I read some from an article in the Oregon Historical Quarterly about black women who experienced discrimination during World War II while working had worked in shipyards. To my surprise and pleasure both girls, under ten years, had learned of the importance of Martin Luther King--and his work to improve the lives of all of us.
So I have passed my Sunday morning writing this post, re-discovered a 2006 photo-- a rainbow over Harlem-- hopefulness for African Americans and the rest of us trying to realize the true American dream.
Here's the truth of this person's 80-plus life. Till a couple of years ago, days were full of busyness, yarn, and numerous ideas--many of them world-saving. Possibly all that took its toll. Not doing much lately.
Bread and the fascination with its variety gets my attention now. Mostly sourdough loaves. Past six months, my oven released one new recipe after another. Neighbors in my retirement community here in Portland were gracious about receiving a slice or more.
Then a new possibility. Cooking with the New York Times made me (and many, many others) an offer I could not refuse. I could apply to be "an early adopter" on the beta edition of their site. Quite puffed up with the thought that though aged, I understood the concept. I could comment on their recipes! Quite an opportunity for an opinionated old person.
Application accepted, my first effort was to look through our file of "saved recipes," find them on the Times site, write changes Ron or I had made, give one to five stars. As I was about to make my next loaf, thought to check out the "more that 17,000+ recipes." Many cakes, fewer breads, but one got my attention: Whole-Wheat Quinoa Bread. Uses dry yeast overnight sponge, is not sourdough.
While loaves were cooling our son called from New York with granddaughter Roxie on Facetime. Showed them the bread, "I'd like a slice," Nick said. An idea, a bit impractical. Why not mail the small loaf? Went online, found good advice at The Kitchn blog for wrapping and sending homemade bread.
Ron had a great interaction the next day at the P.O. with a Vietnamese post lady behind the counter. Worried about finding a reasonably-priced mailer, her no-nonsense reply, "No problem." She jammed the bread into a standard, large, white mailing envelope, reassured him "Your granddaughter will love it!" He thought it might arrive in crumbs. But no, the P.O. lady knew best. The following day our son emailed this darling picture. And Roxie did, indeed, love it.
Sitting in that chair last week. That iconic chair, one step away from therapy--or maybe instead of. Brenda raised the scissors. First, "So you want it shorter this time?"
Settling into my answer, "Where are you in the latest Hillary thing?"
I sigh. Immediately taken back to 2008, and disappointing my daughter by opting for Obama.
Back to Hillary and the sigh. Sure, a woman president would be transformative--for me, for the world, for our grandchildren. Because they would finally have to hear our voice. (link to "Speaking While Female" in January New York Times; read comments too).
Exchanging back and forth with Brenda, turns out we agree. Email controversy is a waste of time. But why does this very smart, competent woman so often get herself into struggles that lead to her being the beleaguered woman--unfairly attacked by detractors.
Then it occurred to me why I personally have a problem with Hillary.
Never as impressed as others, women and men, by what she said in Bejing in 1995. Something missing in her strong words to China, to the world about violence against women thriving when there's a
"crisis of silence and acquiescence"
Et tu, Hillary? It was at that moment, a very womanly one centered around the special-chair-ritual of beautifying through hair cut, that I said to Brenda. "It has always bothered me that she did not leave Bill Clinton." That she experienced this serial abuser by turning the other cheek, keeping this deceit going as an acceptable response for herself and as a model for her child.
"So," Brenda asked, "what else do you think she could have done?"
My answer, "Imagine, what a powerful message to women if she had left him!" Yes, it's a politically incorrect response. Only people with very different politics from mine are on my side--particularly Christian right wing, anti-abortion women. I shudder at the connection.
Okay. Maybe you can ignore the intractability of domestic abuse--physical/emotional/sexual/social/financial abuse, and its connection to gun violence. Not me. Yes, I live in Oregon with women as governor (not the first), Secretary of State, Speaker of the House. And yet the statistics for my county, Multnomah, the largest:
Hillary could have sent the most important feminist message of her life by walking away. The woman I want for President will not be just another smart politician.
Karsten Moran, New York Times photographer, took the hit for me. I thank him for being my stand-in last Monday at the 125th Street stop of the #1 subway. Yes, there's a certain nostalgia as I remember standing on that windy, outdoor platform in wet weather.
And slogging down the first flight of stairs, then the second--the metal ones--to the street and the 3-block walk back to our apartment. Better weather here in Portland, Oregon. Even less rain than usual the last few months.
But one morning after a downpour, there was a lovely rainbow. These arrived in Manhattan too. Think I'll use its hopefulness for a wish to blogging more often...
Yesterday's satisfying Sourdough Bread with Cornmeal was a real triumph.
Though I have way too many bread cookbooks--several purchased in the last year and delightful to read/try--this time it was the Google that led to Israeli Kitchen because I'm a big fan of cornmeal.
To begin, I needed to refresh my starter. But then I put it off--back into the fridge. Finally, impatient with myself, made my move. I had to build up my starter to get a cup of the stuff. Perhaps it was my new oven thermometer that fueled my resolve. Now I could monitor my dinky stove with more accuracy. Whatever.
The recipe is so straightforward unlike some that seem to be testing one's resolve to figure out exactly why the writer makes the process complicated. One night, I mixed the sponge.* Next morning it looked as described, "...light, pocked with bubbles."
Began stirring in the added flour by hand, quickly realized it was time for the dough hook on my old, dependable Kitchen Aid mixer. Some days I wonder if the motor will continue to hold up, all these years later. Took a long time, produced an elastic well-kneaded, wet dough, almost impossible to handle, yet ready for shaping.
Wish Ron had been nearby to take photos. It was pretty hilarious as I turned the bowl on its side. With floured hands and the not-metal bread scraper which had seemed an indulgence when purchased (because the KA bowl is metal, did not want to scratch it up with usual scraper), I began to coax dough into the two 9 x 5 black metal loaf pans buttered up in preparation. In the last few minutes, Ron appeared, lifted the bowl up so the challenge could be completed.
Took less than two hours for the dough to rise to top of pans. Slashed the tops, into the oven. (Slasher is green plastic object "Matfer" with very sharp blade.) At the end of the recipe's suggested time, 30 minutes, followed an unusual direction, "...turn them upside down" for additional time. Clear when turned out of pans they needed more baking, so I did as suggested.
Result: Two pretty loaves, one with what appears to be a more decorative marking but is only the result of its position on oven shelf.
That night we ate some: delicious, even better the next day. Now to share with a person here and there who enjoys my efforts. Gives me an excuse to make two loaves, way more than this old couple needs!
*Used fine cornmeal, next time would do 1/2 cup of medium. Here's a very useful article that answers many questions about various cornmeal grinds.
Last Friday most of Ron's show came down--tapestries on the walls near the Terwilliger auditorium. Still on display are the eleven in a glass case in the cafe. People keep coming up to him to say they wish the work was still on view.
Our California friends were in town for the opening; Toni Van Horn created this collage. It has everything: Ron giving his lively talk about early influences on his work, Mark Rothko's paintings, for one. And the weaver, Sheila Hicks, whose small weavings he saw at an exhibition in New York before we left. Her big book, "Weaving as Metaphor," filled with images continues to inspire him.
Pat Crown, artist and art historian neighbor, worked to bring about the show and did a lovely intro. Never one to miss a teachable moment, Ron brought unspun yarn and his single-heddle loom. (Talked him out of the spinning wheel.) He wanted visitors to have a sense of the elements of his craft. They could see what a warp looks like--with a tapestry-in-progress.
Event evening was a whirl. Friends we've met in town came--Al and Toni, our hosts in Santa Rosa two years ago. Michael and Sandy and Steve and Mikki from our collective dedication to Portland Playhouse. On to Carolyn Savage's, lives on another floor in our building, put on one of her lovely celebration dinners in Ron's honor.
Our local grandchildren have visited the show. Zach, the 12 year old, admired the salmon. Most people were biased toward the other salmon. One cannot go wrong with this particular fish in Oregon. The one smiling at the camera is Ellie, the 6 year old. Zoe, 9, is paying more attention to the weaving.
Ron has been teaching both girls how to weave. Sometimes I'm support staff. Zoe is especially motivated with her younger sister not far behind.
The beat goes on...more later on his first sale and our continuing yarn discoveries.
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