 |
| Communing with Rothko |
taking (or making) stock
1 day ago
Thursday, April 4, 2013
pix
George's stunning living-room with art collection, white leather sofa, purple leather chair, and cushions
The man himself with one of his sculptures.
One room in the Phillips Collection
Washington
Thursday night in Washington D.C. It is cold, and I am full. Full full full. First cousin once removed George is determined to fatten me up. Last night, he took me to Obelisk, a small, unpretentious Italian restaurant with a superb prix fixe five course menu. The food kept coming, amazing course after course - the many antipasti dishes alone would have been a great meal, let alone the pasta and then the meat or fish course, the cheeses and desserts that followed. It was so good, impossible to leave a speck. But by the end, it hurt.
We talked and talked. I didn't know that my father had wanted to go to medical school but was turned down because the school's "quota of Jews" was full. George told me that the competitiveness between Dad and his brother, when they were boys, was always palpable; that his own parents - his father George was my grandmother's slightly younger brother - were shocked at the way my grandfather Mike beat his sons. This is family treasure - filling in gaps, explaining patterns. And through my research on our playwright ancestor the Jewish Shakespeare, I know things about the family I was able to tell him.
A couple with two young girls sat next to us, and we chatted - he a founder of a business obviously doing very well, his wife a shy dark-haired beauty, the girls - Anjelica and Marina - 7 and 9. They were visiting from San Francisco, had been to the Supreme Court that day, were going next to the spy museum. The dad was engaged, open, asking the girls questions. I thought, I wonder if those girls will ever know how unbelievably privileged they are - growing up in what looked like a healthy, wealthy, stable and loving family, in a society which will accord them near limitless possibilities. A life 99.9% of the world's girls can only dream of.
And yet I was shocked, too - the prix fixe meal, which cost a hefty $75, was brought for the little girls as well as their parents, and they all left quantities of food on their plates. I can't leave restaurant food when it costs $10, let alone $75. Their bill - I checked, after they'd left - was $518. Another world.
It's a cold world - bitter here in Washington to the point that the famous cherry blossoms are late opening. The wind was so ferocious coming in on the small battered Porter plane, we heaved up and down so dramatically for so long, that for the first time in many years, I was in serious danger of throwing up. The wind is vicious and biting; tomorrow, rain. And I wearing all my layers under a spring coat, headed soon to Austin where the weather report says 27 celsius, feels like 37.
Today George took me to the Phillips Collection, which I'd never heard of - a small perfect museum, the country's first museum of modern art, with a great collection from Impressionism on - and an El Greco. It's in a mansion, like the Frick, and holds, among other wonders, one of my favourite Kandinskys, "Succession," which I'd had as a poster in my room for years. To me it's like crazy writing.
And then we entered the Rothko room, a small space with four Rothkos - like a chapel lined with those grave, luminous canvases. George is an art collector and has visited most of the world's museums, so touring a gallery with him, as with my friend Bruce, is like a course in art history.
This afternoon, I walked around his neighborhood, headed for a more mundane destination: Brook's Brothers. My friend Isabel Huggan in France always looked so fresh in her white shirt, I asked her where she'd bought it, and she told me about BB's amazing shirts which drip dry and need no ironing. Have you noticed that when fashion mags talk about white shirts, they only ever use the word "crisp"? A crisp white shirt. I wonder what a soggy white shirt looks like. Well, I won't know now, because my new Brooks Brothers shirt is deliciously crisp.
Speaking of crisp - tonight, we dined in a Japanese restaurant where George has eaten so often, he knows every member of the staff. Much simpler though also superb fare and just enough, thank heavens. Because tomorrow, I am having breakfast with my ex and his family, and then leaving George's to stay with my cousin Barbara, who is hosting - yes - a large family meal tomorrow night.
I must stop feasting when I get to Austin. What are the chances of that?
We talked and talked. I didn't know that my father had wanted to go to medical school but was turned down because the school's "quota of Jews" was full. George told me that the competitiveness between Dad and his brother, when they were boys, was always palpable; that his own parents - his father George was my grandmother's slightly younger brother - were shocked at the way my grandfather Mike beat his sons. This is family treasure - filling in gaps, explaining patterns. And through my research on our playwright ancestor the Jewish Shakespeare, I know things about the family I was able to tell him.
A couple with two young girls sat next to us, and we chatted - he a founder of a business obviously doing very well, his wife a shy dark-haired beauty, the girls - Anjelica and Marina - 7 and 9. They were visiting from San Francisco, had been to the Supreme Court that day, were going next to the spy museum. The dad was engaged, open, asking the girls questions. I thought, I wonder if those girls will ever know how unbelievably privileged they are - growing up in what looked like a healthy, wealthy, stable and loving family, in a society which will accord them near limitless possibilities. A life 99.9% of the world's girls can only dream of.
And yet I was shocked, too - the prix fixe meal, which cost a hefty $75, was brought for the little girls as well as their parents, and they all left quantities of food on their plates. I can't leave restaurant food when it costs $10, let alone $75. Their bill - I checked, after they'd left - was $518. Another world.
It's a cold world - bitter here in Washington to the point that the famous cherry blossoms are late opening. The wind was so ferocious coming in on the small battered Porter plane, we heaved up and down so dramatically for so long, that for the first time in many years, I was in serious danger of throwing up. The wind is vicious and biting; tomorrow, rain. And I wearing all my layers under a spring coat, headed soon to Austin where the weather report says 27 celsius, feels like 37.
Today George took me to the Phillips Collection, which I'd never heard of - a small perfect museum, the country's first museum of modern art, with a great collection from Impressionism on - and an El Greco. It's in a mansion, like the Frick, and holds, among other wonders, one of my favourite Kandinskys, "Succession," which I'd had as a poster in my room for years. To me it's like crazy writing.
And then we entered the Rothko room, a small space with four Rothkos - like a chapel lined with those grave, luminous canvases. George is an art collector and has visited most of the world's museums, so touring a gallery with him, as with my friend Bruce, is like a course in art history.
This afternoon, I walked around his neighborhood, headed for a more mundane destination: Brook's Brothers. My friend Isabel Huggan in France always looked so fresh in her white shirt, I asked her where she'd bought it, and she told me about BB's amazing shirts which drip dry and need no ironing. Have you noticed that when fashion mags talk about white shirts, they only ever use the word "crisp"? A crisp white shirt. I wonder what a soggy white shirt looks like. Well, I won't know now, because my new Brooks Brothers shirt is deliciously crisp.
Speaking of crisp - tonight, we dined in a Japanese restaurant where George has eaten so often, he knows every member of the staff. Much simpler though also superb fare and just enough, thank heavens. Because tomorrow, I am having breakfast with my ex and his family, and then leaving George's to stay with my cousin Barbara, who is hosting - yes - a large family meal tomorrow night.
I must stop feasting when I get to Austin. What are the chances of that?
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
adventure awaits
Okay, what did I forget? My brain?
At the island airport, waiting to fly to Washington. Usually I'm waiting to go to Ottawa, occasionally NYC. This is a first. First cousin once removed George, who will soon be 87, will be waiting for me at Dulles. And so it begins.
I think I got it all done, down to turning on the dishwasher, feeding the birds, hugging the crabby cat who knows I'm leaving and is sulking in my bedroom where she almost never goes - watering plants, writing last minute instructions for Carol my tenant and April house-sitter, poor soul. What an overload. As I was leaving, all the plants looked dry. I had to return my neighbour's recycling bin because she's away. Last minute calls about errands. Did not sleep much last night - lists.
But this is easy compared to flying to Europe. My suitcase weighs 16 kilos, yes, but there are a few Washington gifts in there to leave behind - well, a VERY heavy Dr. Seuss book. Five New Yorkers. 16 kilos for a month is pretty restrained for me. Plus computer backpack with snacks - cheese and crackers, nuts, cookies - and my satchel bag with everything else.
And so - it begins. Woo hoo! Let's blow this freezing if sunny popstand! Let's hope Kim Jong-un holds off on his warheads, at least until May.
At the island airport, waiting to fly to Washington. Usually I'm waiting to go to Ottawa, occasionally NYC. This is a first. First cousin once removed George, who will soon be 87, will be waiting for me at Dulles. And so it begins.
I think I got it all done, down to turning on the dishwasher, feeding the birds, hugging the crabby cat who knows I'm leaving and is sulking in my bedroom where she almost never goes - watering plants, writing last minute instructions for Carol my tenant and April house-sitter, poor soul. What an overload. As I was leaving, all the plants looked dry. I had to return my neighbour's recycling bin because she's away. Last minute calls about errands. Did not sleep much last night - lists.
But this is easy compared to flying to Europe. My suitcase weighs 16 kilos, yes, but there are a few Washington gifts in there to leave behind - well, a VERY heavy Dr. Seuss book. Five New Yorkers. 16 kilos for a month is pretty restrained for me. Plus computer backpack with snacks - cheese and crackers, nuts, cookies - and my satchel bag with everything else.
And so - it begins. Woo hoo! Let's blow this freezing if sunny popstand! Let's hope Kim Jong-un holds off on his warheads, at least until May.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
our beautiful dot
Saw a docudrama tonight on the life of Alan Turing, the brilliant British mathematician whose Enigma machine helped win WW2, who went on to invent the concept of the first computers - and who was hounded to suicide, at the age of 41, because he was gay. A sad and infuriating story; a great mind and fine life lost.
Thanks to Alan Turing, I was able to have breakfast with my grandson this morning, through the magic of Skype. He sat in his highchair across town eating pancake pieces and gazing, puzzled, at the familiar face and voice that were not really there. And I got to see those cheeks and that smile, even if I couldn't pick him up for a squeeze.
Thank you, Alan, for making this Glamma so happy. RIP.
PS Jon Stewart just had a piece showing that Kim Jong whoever in North Korea has a map showing Korean warheads pointing at several places in the U.S. - specifically, Washington D.C., California, and ... Austin, Texas. Austin, Texas? All the places I will be going in the weeks to come. Peace, Jong baby!
"O the places you'll go"
7 a.m. - and it's @#$@ cold. Yesterday, there was snow - not snow that stayed on the ground, no, but that turned the air frigid. A bitter, brutal spring so far. Let's hope the brave snowdrops in a neighbour's front yard survive.
I'm up so early because my roofer called half an hour ago to leave a message. Roofers, it seems, forget that we all do not keep their schedule; that some of us watch Jon Stewart and go to bed late. However. He was supposed to finish the job on my flat roof in October, and it's still not done. So getting a message from him at 6.45 a.m. is better than silence.
There's a big rush of things to do, because tomorrow I leave for four weeks on my annual April pilgrimage. This year, a tour of North America. Tomorrow I land in Washington D.C. to visit both my father's and my mother's side of the family; then Saturday to Austin, Texas; a week later to Los Angeles, then to Vancouver and finally to Bowen Island and Tofino on Vancouver Island and back to Vancouver. Home April 30.
Packing my small suitcase - small, I repeat, SMALL - is a challenge. Tomorrow night first cousin once removed George Gordin is taking me, he says, to one of the best restaurants in Washington, hence a certain respectability is required - and the city will be cold, 100% chance of rain. Then I'll be eating ribs in Austin where it's 80 degrees, in Los Angeles I'll be strolling in sunny Malibu with my ultra-chic friend Suzette, and then Vancouver - well, rain and jeans, and Tofino's windy Long Beach will require boots and fleece. Layers, people. Layers and accessories, and lots of black.
And en route shopping.
There is much still to wrap up. Luckily my tenant and friend Carol is here to keep cat and plants alive. Skype is set up with my daughter so I can keep track of Booboo. A month away - he'll be riding a bicycle by the time I get back. Today I teach the last course of the term, see my bank manager and the physiotherapist - and perhaps the roofer - and try to squeeze all my layers and accessories into the very small suitcase. Plus snacks. Plus a big plush hippo and a favourite Dr. Seuss book - "O the places you'll go" - for my ex-husband's 3-year old daughter Greta, whom I'm excited to meet on Friday in Washington. (He collects hippos. I bet Greta has lots of cuddly ones already. Both gifts from, of course, Doubletake.)
Most importantly, I am trying before I leave to finish a wonderful book that'll inspire me on my travels. "To Show and to Tell: the craft of literary non-fiction," by the renowned Philip Lopate, is one of the best books on the subject that I've read, and I've read many. He begins by saying that unlike most writers, he loves teaching as much as writing, so he is speaking to me as a teacher of memoir and as a writer. Every page so far is blinding yellow with highlighter. I want to carry his words with me, to seep into my bones, so that when I return, I can jump right back into work. And incidentally, I hadn't heard of this book until spotting it by chance the other day at Nicholas Hoare's bookstore. That's what a good bookstore can do. Still mourning that one.
Student Jason just wrote, "I hope you learn something new about yourself on your travels." Impossible not to on any trip, but this one will be really interesting - visiting family, friends since first year university in 1967, my old Seventies stomping grounds of the Vancouver theatre scene, and Long Beach, where my ex and I went for a last solo vacation in April 1981, when I was 8 months pregnant with Eli's mother. This will be a trip both backwards and forwards. You're welcome to come with me.
Stay tuned.
I'm up so early because my roofer called half an hour ago to leave a message. Roofers, it seems, forget that we all do not keep their schedule; that some of us watch Jon Stewart and go to bed late. However. He was supposed to finish the job on my flat roof in October, and it's still not done. So getting a message from him at 6.45 a.m. is better than silence.
There's a big rush of things to do, because tomorrow I leave for four weeks on my annual April pilgrimage. This year, a tour of North America. Tomorrow I land in Washington D.C. to visit both my father's and my mother's side of the family; then Saturday to Austin, Texas; a week later to Los Angeles, then to Vancouver and finally to Bowen Island and Tofino on Vancouver Island and back to Vancouver. Home April 30.
Packing my small suitcase - small, I repeat, SMALL - is a challenge. Tomorrow night first cousin once removed George Gordin is taking me, he says, to one of the best restaurants in Washington, hence a certain respectability is required - and the city will be cold, 100% chance of rain. Then I'll be eating ribs in Austin where it's 80 degrees, in Los Angeles I'll be strolling in sunny Malibu with my ultra-chic friend Suzette, and then Vancouver - well, rain and jeans, and Tofino's windy Long Beach will require boots and fleece. Layers, people. Layers and accessories, and lots of black.
And en route shopping.
There is much still to wrap up. Luckily my tenant and friend Carol is here to keep cat and plants alive. Skype is set up with my daughter so I can keep track of Booboo. A month away - he'll be riding a bicycle by the time I get back. Today I teach the last course of the term, see my bank manager and the physiotherapist - and perhaps the roofer - and try to squeeze all my layers and accessories into the very small suitcase. Plus snacks. Plus a big plush hippo and a favourite Dr. Seuss book - "O the places you'll go" - for my ex-husband's 3-year old daughter Greta, whom I'm excited to meet on Friday in Washington. (He collects hippos. I bet Greta has lots of cuddly ones already. Both gifts from, of course, Doubletake.)
Most importantly, I am trying before I leave to finish a wonderful book that'll inspire me on my travels. "To Show and to Tell: the craft of literary non-fiction," by the renowned Philip Lopate, is one of the best books on the subject that I've read, and I've read many. He begins by saying that unlike most writers, he loves teaching as much as writing, so he is speaking to me as a teacher of memoir and as a writer. Every page so far is blinding yellow with highlighter. I want to carry his words with me, to seep into my bones, so that when I return, I can jump right back into work. And incidentally, I hadn't heard of this book until spotting it by chance the other day at Nicholas Hoare's bookstore. That's what a good bookstore can do. Still mourning that one.
Student Jason just wrote, "I hope you learn something new about yourself on your travels." Impossible not to on any trip, but this one will be really interesting - visiting family, friends since first year university in 1967, my old Seventies stomping grounds of the Vancouver theatre scene, and Long Beach, where my ex and I went for a last solo vacation in April 1981, when I was 8 months pregnant with Eli's mother. This will be a trip both backwards and forwards. You're welcome to come with me.
Stay tuned.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
