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Archive for the month “January, 2014”

Playing Catchup

I write my blogs when an idea hits me. Always the English teacher who demanded her students compose several drafts of their work and continue to refine their writing, I, too, play with a germ of a topic, see if it will grow into a paragraph, if it can go the distance of having something to say with a few examples that actually tie it to the topic of  “boomerism”.

So it is for that reason that my last blog on Kennedy was created near the anniversary of his death on November 22, and there was a lag between the so-called story I was sharing and the publishing of the piece here last week. And a few of my favorite pieces, some actually safe in my computer (others sadly lost) such as “Ghosts in the Glade” about returning to California for a wedding are narratives that have been stored after being rejected by journals or magazines. However, because I believe that these stories propel me backward to a notion of who I once was, I have not shredded or trashed them. Fortunately for me, they survive.

I chortle a bit, because even as a teacher at Northern Secondary and the advent of commandeering computers for mark-input, my department head suggested a perfect job for me was to be hired by a computer company: to demonstrate how to make any document disappear. So it was true, that my draft thesis, “ The usefulness of art in education in and out of the classroom” in 1996 hid unretrieviable somewhere in the bowels of technology. Gulp!

 There is much of the old teacher in me, the love of Bakhtin’s dialectic, for example. ( See Bakhtin, M.M. (1981).(ed. Holquist). The Dialogic Imagination. Austin: University of Texas Press.). I think of Bakhtin’s treatise as suggesting a vertical conversation. A writer/ speaker puts out an idea; a reader/ listener offers a response that ponders, adds, changes or critiques that idea, morphing it; thoughtfully the author of the idea also contemplates the new direction or the evolution of his/her original idea, and the conversation grows, swells, soars upwards, goes off in a new direction because a second consciousness has added depth, or prompted a new awareness to it. That is what I adore about a good discussion; it takes you to unexpected realms because someone else’s experiences enhances your own comprehension and your idea becomes fresh again because of another’s insights. In this way, a conversation spirals, veers and catches both/ all participants in a volley of cogitations.

Here I offer the feedback of a few of my readers to my blogs with their own memories in tribute to Mr. Bakhtin. In Blog 3, while describing the jaunts to the library and the milkshakes afterwards, a friend actually researched strawberries, saying that strawberries are sometimes associated with purity and freshness as they are the first fruits to appear in the summer and hint at hope for the future. He quoted, “Strawberries are also sweet, they might symbolize sweet personality, kindness, and childhood.” As well, their shape suggests a heart. He proceeded to discuss his ailing sister in palliative care in Florida who brightened when he brought her a milkshake. More than a drink, a milkshake instigates associations with cheerful days when we were young, even when we ourselves cannot physically perch or spin on bar stools at soda shops. I recall Norman Rockwell paintings that stand as icons of an innocent age and remind us that once we were free of fears and worries, where the rich sweetness of thick ice cream was all: the consuming moment in childhood. I can envisage my own childhood, clasping my mother’s soft hand, my heart bursting with love, skipping along Eglinton and savouring the taste of Saturdays, hoping they would never end.

Another reader suggested a reference to Katniss in The Hunger Games. Can you find strawberries?

Much like the icongraphy that I once studied in art history classes: fruit, particularly in 17th Century Dutch or Flemish work, symbolized death in life, the so-called “ vanitas” of life, that all things ripe will wither and die and our time on earth is fleeting.  Painters often inserted skulls into their work, but most comprehended that fruits and flowers concealed the metaphors of mortality and thus, morality.  Reflecting on this last reference again gives me rise to the giggles as sometimes- although it is so me to find the blight under the rose petal, the half full glass- sometimes a cigar is only a cigar. 😉

Another reader, Emma reflected surprisingly, or maybe not, “Your piece has evoked very powerful memories in me.” She contributed that for her, it was the Wychwood library, and very slowly sipping Vernors Ginger Ale at The Egg. She continued to ferret out one of those flashbulb memories, a day in Grade 3, walking home from school and finding a slightly muddied picture book on the road, encountering bewildering pictures of starving, wide-eyed people, naked bodies in mass graves: her discovery of the holocaust . ”To this day I remember the moment of picking it up and instinctively being strangely connected to these images”, she contributed in an email. I could imagine a shadow falling on her face and downcast, the taste of ginger ale souring in her mouth.

While I worked at the College of Teachers, presenting to many of our faculties in the province, one of my talks concerned which of all the days of our lives we actually retain strongly in our minds and emotions. I used that as a mental activity to engage novice teachers into contemplating what a “good “ teacher does, how a role model might act, and eventually I segued through their own personal experiences into the standards that we had developed as a guide for teacher behavior. So powerful are these triggers from our pasts.

Certainly it would be impossible to recall every single day and every single moment in our lives, yet the happiest and brightest days, such as birthdays, holidays; along with the abject sadness of other days do filter through our heads with stark details and vivid sense reactions so that you are able to restore the smell of pancakes, the sizzle in the pan, the delight in your mother’s voice, even the clothes you wore on your fifth birthday breakfast celebration. Such events impact so forcefully that they continue to fill one with the impressions and sensations of those days. Yet, standing back from those memories, we rationally must admit that we are remembering in present time and all of the years between may have actually warped the memories somewhat.

When I taught Margaret Laurence and Alice Munro’s short stories, contextualizing their fictionalized remembrances made me realize that not all of our images are literally true; that you can never really go home again because the home you fantasized about  is –not only gone, but never was ( half-empty again?).

And as I reflect more honestly, I never liked the clogging thickness of milkshakes; I was a chocolate soda girl even years back.

But to end on a more positive note, I will add Kerrie’s reflection, “”I too have wonderful, happy memories of visits to our local library–but it was my dear maternal grandmother (Nanny) who took us.” And the bare bones of going to the library, with a dear one , surrounded by love are a testament to the real and true, then and now, forever.

Whether created, collected accurately or not, these are the moments we go to, serene and supportive places that make our bodies actually relax and dream of a sweeter alternative that has built our present day realities in a good way. Half-full?

 

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JFK and Roads not Taken

Several months ago marked the 50th anniversary of the death of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Everyone in my generation remembers where we were when we heard the news that the president had been shot in Texas. I was told this is referred to as a “flashbulb” memory that stands out like no other.

I was exiting a Grade 11 French exam and was confronted by students frozen in wailing tears and silent sobs. To many, he was our beacon of hope then, young, handsome, energetic, the quintessential role model. The Peace Core, striving for a better world, civil rights, corralling nuclear bombs made us feel that our generation could finally shake off the doddering Eisenhowers and the scary Hitlers. We would eventually be tagged the baby boomers in love beads and long hair, and we would be young and free forever, dancing our way into the future. Or so we thought.

When news of Kennedy’s indiscretions were revealed, we were all ready living in a world of birth control, free love and we were maybe a bit miffed, but cool. The icon, the image of the man overrode our criticism although it did give pause as we hadn’t really intuited the cracks behind the carefully presented façade. We hadn’t seen him hobble on crutches as FDR had; we didn’t know Dr. Feelgood was pumping him full of vitamins and amphetamines so he could confront Nitika Khrushchev and stand his ground during the Bay of Pigs. Maybe we were vaguely aware of his response to Soviet tanks that instigated East Germany’s erection of the wall that divided East and West in Berlin. The gossip about Addison’s disease was disabused and he shone before us: the man who accompanied Jacqueline Kennedy to Paris, graciously reflecting her luminescence; and the adored father who even encouraged Caroline and John-John free reign in the presidential office.

The phrase coined after his death by Theodore H. White and prompted by Jackie Kennedy was “ Camelot” and we clung to that, wanting to believe that the man behind the smile was mythic, able to drive evil away and stand up for good.

Watching American History ( television show) over the last few days provided a balanced overview of the man and his times. Perhaps because I am now so much older, I can appreciate the reality that was once overblown into fantasy. Without smudging from the truth, the documentary presented Kennedy’s naivety as he wrongly accepted the advice of his chefs of staff and so-called specialists in the CIA during the Cuban debacle, positioning the world on the brink of war.

For my family, growing up, it was one of the few moments we huddled around the television and I truly comprehended that my parents were afraid. And that it had to do directly with the televised message the President was solemnly intoning.

The American History show explored the lies and half-truths self-righteously proclaimed in the local and foreign press that were fed to the public during his administration: Kennedy’s original disinterest in the first bus bombing of civil rights in Alabama was disheartening; Kennedy’s decision to go into Viet Nam to turn American minds away from domestic turmoil and stop the further advance of Communism disingenuous, aligning himself with a weak and corrupt head of state. The show did not flinch from presenting the facts as they were exposed. They were laid out without rationalization, without nostalgic explanations or pandering. Bare, and ugly, they spoke to a badly informed, young and unwise leader.

However, Kennedy was also portrayed as the hub of a great constantly turning wheel who absorbed information from the multi-spokes. Responsible for making the ultimate decisions, Kennedy’s demeanor and decision-making processes exposed the paradoxical nature of the man. On the one hand, arrogant and self-contained to make those decisions by himself; on the other, willing to listen to diverse views but taking responsibility as he navigated the hot seat of his presidency.

However, as bad decisions accumulated and the pitch towards war mounted, Kennedy began to grow into the man we had imagined he was. To his war-mongering chefs, he stood alone in saying NO. To Khrushchev’s reneging on his private promise of continuing to build missiles in Cuba, he said, No more. He trusted that Khrushchev felt similarly : about the threat of actually engaging in nuclear warfare and the real fear of annihilation, granting him the empathy Kennedy himself was experiencing.

From Joseph P. Kennedy’s dominating wings, the son emerged, thoughtful, taking his time, cautious, weary and willing to weigh the consequences of his actions that would impact on every single person in the country.

In spite of his initial reluctance and motives, Kennedy announced the bill to end segregation. On June 19, the president sent that bill to Congress. If you listen to Kennedy’s address on the occasion of University of Washington 100th Anniversary Program, November 16, 1961, you will hear in stunning rhetoric an appeal for peace, acknowledging that America is neither ”omnipotent nor omniscient”. He speaks for diplomacy and defense, explaining that there are two dominant groups of citizens: those who call for appeasement; and those who are warmongers. He quotes Winston Churchill and reaches out so that any agreement or compromise provides an acceptable solution for the countries involved. Given at the university, the goals of Kennedy’s speech are aptly lofty as he addresses the challenges of defending freedom while maintaining peace as a world power. It is compelling as he describes the state of American international relations. There is empathy as he displays a willingness to collaborate and compromise, ensuring a livable result for all players. It is a stand down from war and a deep understanding of what is at stake. It is brilliant.

Watching the television production, I felt this is the best of reality TV. I respected the thoughtfulness and honesty enabling me to re-evaluate the man. Once drawn into the magic and glamour, maybe too young to be critical; then scornful and dismissive at Kennedy’s womanizing and treatment of domestic issues, now I could look at the entire man, and consider the complexity of parts.

I admit to being impressed.

I could applaud the growth and the acceptance of responsibility. I could acknowledge an understanding of peril, the awareness of reaching out with an olive branch, working towards compromise, and reconciliation and not allowing himself to be pushed towards war.

Exposing the human sides of his flaws made him more human, less godlike. Brought down to earth, the glitter now worn thin, he provided us, I think, with what is best about people and in some cases- if we are fortunate- leaders. He was finally capable of listening to informed perspectives of others as well as his own quiet voice within that moved him towards what he believed was right.

We became the baby boomers who heard his drumbeat as we wove our flowery mantra around a man who was both buds and weeds. Perhaps not considered by history as one of the greats, he has- for me- been re-established with the respect and magic with which he originally dazzled.

Why I Hoard

 

I’m not sure if all baby boomers hoard, or if hoarding is just another one of my traits. Maybe now it is called being thrifty or possessing eco or green-consciousness. As children, boomers certainly heard tales of The Great Depression, or of the fear of atomic blasts when people stockpiled their bomb shelters with canned goods and other necessities of life. Just watch the news of a tornado-sightings and view the long snaking lines in grocery stores and the empty shelves. But my hoarding is not presently based on real events that may cause one to ravish the shelves, it’s much more psychologically-driven.

I squeeze the last drop from toothpaste tubes; I keep university notebooks full of information that I will never use and when I purchase something, frivolous or not, I absolutely have to ensure that I have retrieved its value before I toss it.

 We were in China some years ago and after touring the silk production plant, I decided that a prudent and lovely investment would be a duvet. I slowly wandered among the cover choices, eventually deciding on a yellow reversible, tone on tone pattern, congratulating myself that it would last twice as long and provide a variable accent to the bedroom.

 Not so.

 For if you ever purchase a silk bed cover, you will discover that the silk slips right off your bed- because it is silk. However, in spite of my husband’s pleading to get rid of the damn thing, I insisted that as we had paid out quite a bit for it, and that it was actually quite beautiful and complimented the décor in the room: that we must endure chilly nights when our duvet had found its own resting spot on the floor as it wiggled to the floor like the silk worms who must have hypnotized me into believing that this purchase was a wise one! For two years, we put up with the silk duvet until I finally decided that we had retrieved our money’s worth from it. Do not enquire why two years is an acceptable amount of time. Perhaps it must vary from object to object as there are pieces of clothing in my cupboard that have returned to fashion from twenty years ago and are still being held hostage with cedar balls to keep them fresh.

 As a child, we did not have much money, my father having had polio; and we lived frugally behind our store. My mother was very careful with her spending, saving for special occasions. I think of the worn red wallet my father had crafted for her in Rehab during the polio epidemic, the wallet living in the drawer in the kitchen where my sister and I were allowed to pilfer nickels for treats at Louie’s en route to West Prep. We were never told we were poor, but my parents like most of their generation saved until they had funds for a purchase. Visa, the grandchild of Chargex, was not even on the horizon. My mother an able bookkeeper and balancer of monies once even delegated funds she had painstakingly stashed for a fur coat towards a baby grand piano for my sister. The piano although used every day still sat much like some lost child among the clutter in our living room. And somehow, my ingenious mother put away enough money to pay for all of her own caregivers and apartment expenditures until she passed away recently at more than 91 years of age.

 Although I considered our home the equal of my classmates who lived in Forest Hill ( our store was at the edge of the boundary) , and although I did not expect more than sale items, my sister coveted expensive clothes on Yorkville and at Holt Renfrew. One famous story recalled her invitation to a bar mitzvah, and our Saturday visit to a store called Potpourri in that posh area. Here my sister fell in love with a stunning brocaded turquoise dress. My mother, wanting to please my sister, purchased this luxurious extravagance. However, once at the festivities, the silly bar mitzvah boy suggested she was wearing sofa material and my sister refused to ever put it on again. 

If I buy something that is expensive such as a Red Valentine dress, even at 80% off, it will, for the most part, hang in my cupboard. From time to time, when searching for  an appropriate outfit for a Saturday date with my husband, my special garments peek out, lost children in the dark, perhaps wondering why they rarely see the light of day or dark of evening. I pause, touch the sumptuous fabrics, linger a minute, smile with pleasure, and return them to their enclosures. I have so many lovely things: rich silks, delicate satins, exquisite laces, soft velvets, but sadly, their home is a closet. I know why they are confined and not permitted to frolic with the ordinary monotone tee-shirts from Jacobs or the torn pairs of Gap jeans: they are too good to wear.  I fear that if I spill a glass of wine or inadvertently catch the precious fabric on a rough surface they will tear, be ruined or spoiled.

Again it may be a throwback to living at the edge of Forest Hill where the adolescent girls shone in their navy poodle skirts and luminescent pearls. Standing at the bus stop one Channukah, I overheard a conversation describing how the eight days of the holiday would be celebrated: with bounteous presents such as magazine subscriptions, jewelry, trips to exotic places… I had been hoping my mother would give me the same red angora hat and gloves that she was busily knitting for my cousins. I was so drawn to the texture, the hot red colour, the shape of the garments that even 50 years later, the softness of that yarn my fingers can still touch. The passing conversations of the girls at my school opened my eyes to an entirely frivolous and strange standard of living.  

I was never jealous, just in awe, but something in me must have thought “ one day, I will be able to have so many beautiful things”.  There must have all ready been the seeds of embarrassment in me because on our monthly or so traverses down to Honest Ed’s on Bloor and back home, I would insist that we turn the store’s plastic bags inside out. Little did I know that Value Village and second hand clothes would be the attire of choice for teenage girls years later. But at that time I was ashamed of the undershirts and socks balled up in the bottom of the bags, fearing one of the haughty girls might pass by, giggle and point at me. Still, there is a difference between choosing to look poor and knowing there are limited funds so certain choices need be made.

That is not to disparage all that I had. We took trips to Buffalo quite often, and my mother would allow us to purchase Susan van Heusen blouses ( only $2.98), considered the desirable shirts of popular girls at school. My fashion-conscious mother even identified a shop in the downtown area, Robinson’s ( I think ) where she purchased for herself a plum suit with a short trendy jacket that I swear could have rivalled a Chanel number. She would regale us with her tales of having had all of her clothes handmade as a girl and even prompting her dressmaker to add hoods to her tops.

On our fast jaunts to the States, we also drove to a special store in Rochester to select one incredible toy each for my sister and myself, a toy that was as yet, unavailable in Toronto. Imagine an hour to peruse, touch and decide on your own enchanted goodie in a location only accessible by several hours drive away from home. I remember a leather kit with multicoloured laces and various shaped holes and numerous items with which I could create back in my own living room. It must have been an extravagance for my parents to offer us such diversions: toys being beyond the pale of necessities that my father’s very hard- earned cash might allow for. Yet I recall he enjoyed these sojourns along with us, investigating new puffing trains, mathematical-based games, new trends in building or erecting constructions. I think we were being given a protocol of values: that things that stretch the mind by play are worth the cost; that education in all forms is valuable. With my own grandson, I try and delight him- to the consternation of his parents- with what I call “ interesting things” on Thursdays when he comes for supper and to play. A throwback to what I treasured about my growing up.

We had subscriptions to magazines from Disneyland( also before they were available in Canada), and had even flown on an airplane to Los Angeles when we were five and eight to see family. We had after school lessons, ballet, piano, unfortunately religious school three times a week where I stared out at the free children playing marbles in the laneway. My parents never ever talked to us about their dwindling finances. But, little did I know how my mother scrimped, being so careful with the few dollars my father garnered from the work he would have done for free; an avocation more than a vocation. He called himself an audio engineer, brilliant in his quest to create perfect sound emitted by tubes, circuits and amplifiers. Peter Munk, Sol Mendelsohn, all the glitterati of the television and hi fidelity world came to our store Tele Sound for help, advice, insight into the workings of electronics. Passing my guru father in conversation with these men, I noted him relaxed, smiling, knowledgeable and happy: characteristics not always associated with his taciturn, quiet and introverted personality.

But the Channukah conversation opened a window on excess for me, more than anyone might need, but what a person, a silly adolescent girl might want: if they were able to manage it. I’ll never forgot that day, waiting at the bus stop, the girls flaunting their greed so nonchalantly. I, the bystander, looking askance towards the apartments across the street, pretending I was enveloped in my own deep thoughts, and affecting a scornful, haughty, self-protective downward stare, indicating that I did not care. Hah. No doubt they had no more awareness of me than the pole that designated the bus ‘s arrival.

I rationally know that my present day hoarding, particularly of expensive goods, is ridiculous because garments should be worn-enjoyed and given their place in the limelight, combined with other goods so that they can dazzle or give delight to their owner-ME. Truthfully, they are shut in, but not forgotten. They contribute to my notion that I am the equal of any socialite and should I decide they deserve an outing, I am able to command their presence. In truth when I wear something that has a label that I have fancied and finally succumbed to buying, I do feel good: the curly hair tamed, the makeup well applied  and I walk taller, more erect, feeling the equal of any rich girl who sneered at my nose cozy so many years ago. But all thoughts are not rational.

Like Sharon Stone who combined a Gap shirt and a designer skirt at the Oscars one year, I can put together on my body the expensive and the less so. As my mother wisely did, I, too, look for sales. 

We are so much a product of our parents’ ways, our contexts, good and bad, ourselves. It makes us unique, special, fearful, sensitive, wise and strange. Maybe years later we are able to examine the pieces and attempt to rearrange the jigsaw. Maybe not.

Comprehending Music

I am a visual art person. I have a Masters in Art History. I have always drawn and more recently started to paint. However, although I enjoy music, particularly, classical or what my grandsons refer to as “dinda music”, as my special name from them is “dinda”, I truly do not know how to listen.

My father’s avocation, vocation and passion was the perfection of sound and therefore, music. I rejected this aspect of my early life: unable to understand this link he shared with my musical sister. In any case, my lateral, visual- consuming brain would not have cottoned to the search for the purity of electronic calculations that snaked through circuitry, wires and tubes and out into the world to produce a more perfect realization of sound in installations that found their homes in university listening rooms. He was gifted. I see him in my mind’s eye at his workbench, a watchmaker perfecting each jewel until it became a masterpiece.

Both my sister and I were given music lessons at the piano. I did not practice, possessed no talent and as she demonstrated an ability that landed her in competitions and concert halls, even Massey Hall, I demurred and scowled. One day, I discovered a note from a piano teacher that exhorted my mother to stop wasting her money, that I was a lovely girl, but… When I confronted her, she said that people can be wrong. Well, this teacher was not wrong.

Eventually childish behavior loses its grip and we understand that our bratty actions only hurt ourselves and deprive us of something we may actually enjoy. So it was for me, allowing myself to go beyond silly jealousies and feelings of resentment. Eventually the dial on the radio came to rest on classical stations that attracted and calmed me.And lately I’ve been attending free concerts at the operahouse and exposing myself to a wide assortment of music from Indian ragas to Beethoven’s Hammerklavier.

Sometimes I attend with friends, sometimes by myself. November 19, 2013 . Artists of the Glenn Gould School performed a Brahms Quartet in G Minor, Op.25. I pinched my eyes shut because it helps me concentrate on the music. Any visual stimulus distracts me and the setting for these one hour concerts is glorious: all floor to ceiling windows on University Avenue, the old colour-turning trees in front of Ogoode Hall, people in a rush crossing the street- loiterers, even repairs on the Avenue draw my attention. I am suddenly delighted to pick out a bright red hat or intense yellow jacket in the gray throng that flows on the street. Pop, away from the sound and towards the visual I veer.

In critiquing art, I know the language. I can consider social context; I can examine the physical properties of shape, texture, line, colour, relate parts to whole; I can place the painting or sculpture within historical parameters, comparing or contrasting it with artists or art movements in the day, before or after. I can parse the elements as Albert Barnes did or reject that form of analysis: I can call up the critical interpretations by the Griselda Pollocks, the Clement Greenbergs, the Christopher Humes. Sadly I possess no such compass for music.

So as I listened, I saw things: I translated the beginning disruptive invasive sounds into Kandinsky’s bursts of colour on the canvas; the rising crescendos propelled me upwards towards multicolored stained glass windows in 14th Century Gothic churches,experiencing an almost ecstatic soar; the folkloric repetitions plummeted me back to earth , towards tables of beer mugs and camaraderie that recalled Brueghel’s swaying peasants, dancing and thumping one another on their shoulders. My friend heard motifs. I cannot say that I discerned them throughout the performance. I could entertain a movement from dark to light reminiscent of say,Michelangelo’s Adam parting the heavens in the Sistine Chapel, suggestive perhaps of from chaotic to collaborative from the commencement of the Allegro to the final Rondo all zingarese: Presto.

I wondered how others perceive music. Did they know the language, the arrangement of crescendos and diminuendos; were they were guided by their knowledge of the Baroque? I knew about Baroque in art: all those twisting tornadoes, staircases, oddly shaped pearls, overdecorated room, dramatic contrasts…. Were others like me content to just float on their emotional response? I seemed to be the only one swaying, moving my body to capture and respond viscerally to the instruments. Or maybe they swayed inwardly.

My friend said she enjoyed watching Jamie Parker, on the piano, stretching his stubby fingers to unbelievable octaves. I noted but did not pause on that technical triumph. It did not interest me. I thought, Renoir later in life also strapped paint brushes on his fingers when arthritis overtook his flexibility.

Just as a few weeks previously when Julie Hereish and Michel-Alexandre Broekaert from Montreal recently returned from studying in Vienna to perform here, I ventured they might be lovers, so entwined were they with one another and the music. Interesting threesome! I was transfixed by their faces and Julie’s graceful arms that never stopped lovingly caressing her cello. More emotionally engulfing than practical manoevers- at least for me. That day as at the Glenn Gould Artists’ performance, I reflected, the piano is the spine that supports and holds the music together. It is a champion in its own right, but essential to bringing out and together the music. It is a tender giant with power that dazzles for itself, but also kept gentle and tame as it plays nicely with the other instruments.

And I thought as I did seeing Kudelka’s new interpretation of Swan Lake: that these creators of dance and music are genius. Could my brain even stretch to imagine the difficulties of developing, and executing every single segment( for instrument or ballerina) that makes sense individually and ensemble?

On Saturday night, wise daughter #1 reminded me that there is a language, patterns and traditions that these composers began with en route to departing or reaffirming the precedent paths others had taken. Truly the artistry takes one’s breathe away- even if I do not know a way to officially understand it.

But I know it envelops my soul. It simply makes me feel differently! That’s the message in Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch : art changes you: “ that a really great painting [piece of music] is fluid enough to work its way into the mind and heart through all kinds of different angles, in ways that are unique and particular… it’s a secret whisper from an alleyway- Psst, you. Hey kid. Yes you” (Little, Brown and Company, 2013, p.758)

And because this is my blog, I cannot leave the topic without addressing the impact and importance that art has on our/everyone’s children: for itself and for learning. So here is my naked diatribe:

It is no secret that I love the arts and when I think that schools will not focus on them, or even worse remove them, I fret. My doctoral thesis work demonstrated their importance, particularly for at-risk students: motivating and providing a reason for staying in school. At the very least- administrators might look at the connection between math and piano, rationalizing that music raises those stupid scores that are supposed to indicate how well children have learned.

In 1980, Elliot Eisner , educational guru, wrote an (actually many) article listing what a child learns when she draws: problem-solving, contextual knowledge, relating segments, verisimilitude, physical control of tools, differentiation between real and imagined, competencies in multiple areas— and on and on. One crumby scribble opens up a huge range of learning opportunities. And I am quite sure the same applies to music, dance, and film.

Life without the arts? Unthinkable.

Lucky me to have sat for a blissful hour in a room reverberating and ringing with the resonances of magical sound. Maybe everyone comprehends in their own special way,ferreting out pleasure that makes sense to them alone. Like me.

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