“Why is a Solar Ray Burning My Eye When the Sky Still Lies in Ice?”
Words and Places: Etel Adnan
California College of the Arts Wattis Institute for Contemporary Arts
Through June 29
A review by Christopher Bernard
This retrospective of the artistic and literary career of the Lebanese artist, poet, novelist, essayist and journalist Etel Adnan is a major event, not only for the local art and literary community, but also for members of the Middle Eastern diaspora in the San Francisco Bay Area, and for the many, displaced by conflict and war, who have had to bestride cultures in an attempt to maintain a complex identity in a constantly and often violently changing world. Etel Adnan’s resilient spirit, her vitality and warmth, glow in the work like a tough flame.
San Franciscans are fortunate to have this wide-ranging exhibition of drawings, paintings, poetry, videos and films by, or about, one of the most important living writers of Middle Eastern descent – it is one of history’s minor ironies that Adnan, who was born in Beirut in 1925, then moved to Paris, where she was just young enough to meet the ageing André Gide, lived in the Bay Area for several decades and only now is getting a major exhibit here (she currently lives in Paris again).
The centerpiece of the exhibit, for me, is Adnan’s arguably most dazzling creations: her leporellos, or folding art books: accordion-like “scrolls,” from a couple of feet to several yards long, some made up of ink or ink-and-watercolor drawings on separate panels or smeared and blotted between folds, others painted in large strokes like Japanese foldout landscapes – displaying drawings like abstract ideograms, smudges of explosions or flowers, of a striking energy and delicacy. Other leporellos include scraps of verse, surreally enigmatic aphorisms, and entire poems, including what may be Adnan’s masterpiece, from 1968: “Funeral March for the First Cosmonaut,” on the death of Yuri Gagarin.
Another leporello of note is “Late Afternoon Poem,” also from 1968, in which the poet and artist asks the perennially relevant question, “Why is a newsman caught in a crossfire while reporting something he does not care to know?” and later asks the profounder one: “Why is a solar ray burning my eye when the sky still lies in ice?” Other leporellos include “Five Senses for One Death” and several smaller ones, including “Sausalito” and “View From My Window.”
The exhibition is of interest not only for the light it sheds on Adnan’s exuberant synergy of talents but also because it places her work in a context of work by other important artists whose work addresses similar themes and follows similar approaches: filmmaker Chris Marker, director and visual artist Rabih Mroué, and the artist collective, The Otolith Group.
Marker, the late doyen of experimental cinema, is represented by his film Junkopia, about the outdoor statues along the bayside in Emeryville, which he made on a visit to the Bay Area in the early 1980s. There are rhymes and echoes between his shots of the bricolage spooks and cast-off avatars on the mudflats of the East Bay and the lively explosions of black, like midnight roses, that populate many of Adnan’s ink paintings.
Fellow Lebanese Mouré is represented by a short film of a house in Beirut being blown to pieces, the film shuttling back and forth in time, so that the exploding house seems to move from ruins back to wholeness, then ahead again to ruins, in a jagged, jazzy rhythm, while a voiceover speaks about the tension between remembering and forgetting, or rather the compulsion to remember and the need to forget: “I am not telling in order to remember. On the contrary, I am telling in order to make sure that I have forgottten, or at least to make sure I have forgotten something . . .”
Lining the walls of the gallery are drawings and oil paintings that Adan has made over the decades: the paintings are often simple geometries that evoke landscapes and still-lifes, some with an awkward luminosity reminiscent of an abstract Morandi.
Also included is a slideshow of articles Adnan wrote in the 1970s for the francophone Beirut newspaper Al-Safa, and a table displaying Adnan’s books, including the modern classics of displacement, Sitt Marie Rose and The Arab Apocalypse.
In the back gallery is an installation where a film about the poet by The Otolith Group is screened, titled (quoting from a poem by Adnan) I See Infinite Distance Between Any Point and Another. The French filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard is quoted as saying it is almost impossible to film a person reading – the experience is entirely internal, indecipherable: the only filmable signs are the blinking of the eyes, pursing of the lips, a deepening frown of concentration, a body changing position on the chair, in bed, on the beach; the turning of a page. How does a person reading Jane Austen look different from a person reading James Joyce or Karl Marx? How would you be able to see the difference from outside? Perhaps the only way to film it would be to film how that person acts after the reading is over: the reader of Jane Austen tries to say witty things to her lover; the reader of Karl Marx organizes a revolution. This film tries to answer Godard’s challenge by filming the act of reading aloud by Adnan of one of her poems, “Sea and Fog,” with intense close-ups of the poet, thus emphasizing the bodily presence of this most spiritual of acts.
Several films will screen during the exhibition, including Chris Marker’s Sans Soleil, Soad Hosni’s Three Disappearances of Soad Hosni, and the delightfully frank and engaging Autoportrait, a filmed self-portrait (perhaps the first of its kind) by Simone Fattal, Adnan’s longtime companion and publisher.
Along the back wall, an installation film Adan made, a celebration of the California landscape, screens in a continuous loop.
Last but surely not least, as part of the exhibition, local artist Lynn Marie Kirby has created a short, witty online collaboration with Adnan, called “Back, Back Again to Paris”…It is a kind of love letter to the poet.
Christopher Bernard is a poet, novelist and critic living in San Francisco. His novel A Spy in the Ruins was published by Regent Press . He is also a co-editor of the literary and arts webzine Caveat Lector (www.caveat-lector.org).
Time is slow here and reality evades me quickly. Surrounded by angels to sinister for God’s grace, they conjugate here. Intentions to get back from where they have fallen, this place is just a stepping stone. I meet them here. Have a seat if it is affordable or stand where you can see the show is about to start. A smoke screen floods the building, dim lights cast a luster upon the stage and my eyes are immediately drawn to it. Cylindrical poles grow from the stage and make their ascension towards the heavens. A voice comes over the microphone, I never see him because he is stationed behind the audience, but he is just as vital to the show as the talent is.
“Ladies and Gentlemen we have a magical show case prepared for you all today” says the voice over the microphone.
I didn’t come here for David Blaine, but there are Doves and Rabbits. It is never quiet here music plays as people chatter over drinks in anticipation of the show. Waitresses dressed in black pants, white button downs, and little black vests with bowties fill the floor all at once in an effort to serve bottles of alcohol to the guests. Some prevail and others fall by the wayside in an effort to make their tips before the main attractions start to attract. I see this place in its entirety.
It is too late for the waitresses now, that the talent has been summoned to the floor. Four at a time they occupy the stage. They approach from the right and one by one they start their summit up stairs that lead them to the Promised Land. Six inch heels tap the floor as they find their place on stage. The voice over the microphone introduces them by their stage names and drops a song for them to become lucrative to. They dance, but it’s not for the audience. They dance for themselves. They dance for M3 Beamers. They dance for Christian Louboutins and designer bags. Mascots in their own sense they dance for Georgia State, Clark Atlanta, and Spellman. Tuition isn’t cheap and this money is tax free, so I never judge them. Dollars are thrown high and they plummet from the air like snow flurries from the sky. They break sweats and necks with their acrobatic antics. Ascending towards the heavens I wonder where they fell from. Were their fathers ever there to guide them and give them their first glimpse at affection? Probably not if they were there to catch them then these girls would probably have too much self-worth for this place. As beautiful as this place is, it fails in comparison to them. They dance to multiples songs, their hair swings and legs suspend. Who taught them that? They could have joined the Dance team for the Atlanta Hawks, but this money is better. As the first group of girls’ time on stage comes to an end, a man in janitorial attire hands them a trash bag for the dollars that they just acquired. Money is hand racked into large piles and stuffed into white standard sized garbage bags. Every spectator in the room happily watches their money leave them behind, never to return.
The next group takes the stage built like they are ready to compete in an Olympic 4 x 400 meter race. With tight calf muscles and manicured toes they own the ground that they walk on. I can’t help but wonder what landed them here. It’s probably the same thing that landed me here. An avid admirer of the craft I’m here because I lack something. The spectators and the dancers are synonymous in that we all lack. They long for dollars like I long for attention. We all have dreams that we are in constant pursuit of, be it dreams of a Ferrari or just real love. I cannot get mad at them and they are not mad at me. When I’m here I know exactly what to expect, nothing more and nothing less. I can’t remove myself from this place they stand up on a pedestal and work hard for my residuals. Light bill, phone bill, stripper bill; I could have paid back a loan, but instead I spend it here. Young and dumb I have an obsession with good times. My eyes never leave the ladies the graceful, flawless, effortless, flexible, and extremely talented ladies. I wonder if they know that they are appreciated. Too many camp town ladies singing their songs solo, their baby’s fathers have probably never been in a family photo. I commend the ones that take the stage for their beautiful daughters and respectable sons. The hour glass dwindles and times up. This group’s show is complete, the money is hand racked and bagged and moseyed off to the place where the goddesses submerge from.
I go to the bar to get a drink and its Hennessy of course. It’s always Hennessey. The voice comes over the microphone and I hear her name. Kitty she’s who I’ve come to see. She is who I always come to see. I go back and take my place. She has already made her way up the stairs. I didn’t even get to watch her walk. She cut her hair and it looks perfect, I wish I was the first to let her know. Her confidence fills a glass and overflows; this is what attracts me to her. Always talking with her body I let my eyes listen. I can empathize with Paris. I would have taken Helen too. How does she manage to stand out? She clouds my vision and she is all that I see. Infatuated with her perfection I wish I could save her from this place, but she belongs here. A fish out of water if I were to ever bring her around my mother this is her natural habitat. Money motivated, she is an avid exhibitionist. Tattoos on her lower arm and upper left thigh, I wonder if she sleeps alone. What could I offer her? Love and affection maybe, but that doesn’t pay the bills. Nothing more than a broke college student showering her with dollars that I can’t afford to lose. I lose, but I love to watch her dance, so I continue to watch her dance. I notice every inch of her. I have trouble distinguishing if this masterpiece is mom-given or doctor-made, but I don’t care art is art. The smart money is on her, she just made what I make in a week in thirty minutes. We are both twenty two, but she is about to purchase a house and I’m about to take out another loan. That is crazy, yet I’m still here tipping her. She won’t stop until I hand it all over. She pretends to care and I know this, but she pretends so well that I fall for it every time. She asks questions and I answer. I wouldn’t dare ask her to regurgitate my answers because I would be ashamed of the response so I go with the flow and she inevitably breaks me with a grin. Who knows which part of heaven she fell from, I don’t. I just wish I wasn’t addicted to her company.
Their innocence gets pummeled in traffic so where along the way. Then the pretty girls that they are, they are transformed into temptresses and they prey on the feeble minded. Addicted to the plethora of dollars that come in every night, they do what has to be done in order to make ends meet. If they want for anything, there are no worries because they can afford it on their own. Who’s to blame for tainting them? Not me, but I must admit I do contribute to their excessive desires. I don’t make the mistake of taking it personally. They use me, but they use everyone. Who am I to judge they satisfy my lust, so in a way I use them as well. Neither of us is any more wrong than the other. I just ask that the Lord has mercy on our souls.
Piece by Darion Wilson of Georgia Southern University, author may be reached here: wilsondarion11@yahoo.com
Growing up in Kansas, Charles Ayres dealt with substance abuse, financial problems and sexuality issues. He found refuge in learning Japanese and learning everything related to Japan. His journey, as a Japanophile, started with a phone call to the Japanese Consulate and took him to New York, Kyoto and finally Tokyo. Once in Tokyo his quest for fashion and glamour culminated with him becoming a media personality.
The book is a window to Japanese culture. It describes customs and habits that at first glance are strange to westerners. A few such examples are “the social pressure to perform in school and work”, “to be on time, to be slim, to work like a maniac, to go drinking with your boss till 4 a.m. and somehow to make it into work by 7.30 a.m. the next day”. Charles describes his difficulties in adapting to this new culture and trying to make it as an entertainment personality. In my opinion this take on how to adapt to a new culture, even if you know a thing or two about it, is one of the main reasons that this book must be read. It offers an good insight into the thoughts of a foreigner and his struggle to adapt to a new environment and integrate into society.
Another major part of the book is about Charles’ quest for love. This quest doesn’t have a happy end, since Charles ends up with a “Kentastrophe,” as he likes to call it. He devotes a few chapters to this catastrophe, since it left him with a huge hole in his heart and in his pocket. This relationship made Charles hit rock bottom, but in the end he managed to rise up using his trusted friend, a blue fur coat.
The book is nicely written and it captivates you with strange events and a familiar language. When reading the book, you feel as if you are enjoying a cup of coffee with an old friend as he tells you his latest adventures. So I recommend reading the book.
Teseleanu George is a Romanian artist and playwright. He can be reached at blana_de_maimutza@yahoo.com
Anyone who has an older brother has experienced the turmoil of random punches, noogies when he wants to show his love, and the rush of adrenaline when Mom and Dad aren’t looking so you can settle things man to man. The relationship my brother and I share isn’t that much different from any typical brother and sister. Today as adults, we enjoy studying together, playing Ultimate Frisbee, working out, and going to the movies every once and a while. If you looked at us today and the way we act towards one another, you would never suspect that we used to beat the ever living crap out of each other, but something in us changed when we moved to Florida as children.
Before Florida, Joe and I were somewhat close. Growing up in the boondocks with only each other as playmates, we had no choice but to be friends. We spent countless summers in the backyard chasing after each other and playing Batman and Robin.
The days of Batman and Robin will forever take precedence in my heart over anything else. We would run through the brush of the backyard solving riddles the Riddler had left behind while simultaneously trying to find who had the cure for the fearsome Man-Bat. We’d barely escape the clutches of Bane, work together to defeat Clayface, and come up with a special serum to keep The Scarecrow’s fear gas from warping our minds. Nothing could stop us! Criminals would tremble in fear when they heard our names, mob bosses could never out smart us, and when a citizen needed help, we were there, fighting for justice that had been forgotten and lost.
One day while perched in the old Dogwood tree in our backyard, Joe looked to me. “Good job today, Robin. We had those guys on the run from the start.”
“Thanks, Batman,” I’d say with a serious face as I looked up into the sky. I’d point. “Look, Batman!”
“The signal,” he’d say.
“It’s already on the news. Poison Ivy has escaped fromArkham Asylum.”
My brother balanced himself on one of the branches of the tree and stood in a hero-like pose. “Quick, Robin! Let’s race to the Batmobile!” And we were off to defeat Poison Ivy before she tainted Gotham City’s water supply and the whole game would eventually be celebrated with us running back to the Batcave (our house) and stuffing our faces with pizza lunchables and gallon jugs of Kool-Aid.
Hey, even superheroes need a lunch break.
We would pretend to be other things too, like secret agents protecting the president and Indiana Jones, but this would also lead to the usual fight because Joe would always be Indiana and he’d make me a Nazi. I admit I was young at the time, but our Grandpa fought in WWII and I knew just by listening to his stories that being a Nazi was an insult.
“I’m not going to be a Nazi!” I shouted.
“You can’t be anything else!” he said flatly.
“I can be Dr. Henry Jones,” I offered.
“No, you’d have to be older than me. There’s no possible way you could be my dad when you’re younger,” he said.
“Well then you be Dr. Henry Jones and I’ll be Indiana,” I said.
“Nice try, but that’s not happening.”
“You’re not being fair!” I shouted.
“Look, there’s no way you’re going to be Indiana Jones! So, just suck it up and be the Nazi I get to beat up on!”
Not without a fight you won’t!
And we’d have at it. We were nothing but flying fists and swinging feet, landing a hopeful knock out punch anywhere we could.
We’d come in after a brawl and, as usual, my mom would pitch a fit at how we looked and behaved. Joe’s t-shirt would be torn from where I grabbed him by the collar and he’d sport a bruise and gash on his arm from where I bit him while I had a busted lip from where he clocked me with my hair disheveled from rolling around in the grass. Dirt would cling to our faces making us look like we’d just come in off the street from begging.
“You two will be the death of me!” my mom would shout. “Why can’t you two just get along? I just don’t understand. This is not how a brother and sister are supposed to act! Me and my siblings never fought each other!”
And then there was that one terrible thing she made us do after a fight and we both hated it. “Now, you two apologize and hug each other,” she’d say.
Ugh!The dreaded make up hug. Not cool.
We’d both slump our shoulders, say a non-heartfelt “sorry,” and hug one another, patting each other on the back a little too hard.
“I’m taking you down. Same time tomorrow you little snot,” he’d whisper.
“Fat chance, butthead,” I’d shoot back.
God, I miss those days.
That was the normal life between us, but unfortunately there was a time when my brother and I were our only companions in life. When Joe was eleven and I was seven, my parents had gone through the necessary procedures to get a divorce which led to my mom moving us to Florida, living on the same property as my aunt, uncle, and cousins which Joe and I formally called: “Enemy Territory.” From the moment we set foot on that turf it was The Farris’s vs. The Kurtright’s. There was no safe haven, no place of solace, and never a moment of peace when the cousins were together – whether it was us arguing over whose turn it was to choose a movie to watch, what after church snack we were going to have, what order we were going to be served in for dinner, or who would sit where in the van. It was hell on earth. Joe and I were all we had.
One summer night, I sat in my room staring out of the window wishing I was back in Georgia reflecting on an argument I had with my older cousin, Sarah, when Joe walked into my bedroom and gently nudged me with an elbow.
“You okay?” he asked.
I looked to him. Joe was tall and scrawny as a boy. A light dusting of freckles covered the bridge of his nose and only darkened when he caught the sun. His scruffy brown hair had a mind of its own, laying however it wanted while his light brown eyes glowed, even when he was down or cross. He looked directly into my eyes and somehow I felt like he could see what I was feeling at the moment, but I didn’t say anything. I just sniffed and shook my head.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, sitting on my bed.
That was a strange moment to me. I wasn’t used to his generosity. My brother was the boy I fought for sport my entire life and this was the first time he had ever shown any concern toward me. I looked into his eyes and in them, there was a melancholy presence. There was sincerity that I’d never seen before and even though we’d fought in the past, it occurred to me that as long as we were in Florida and living on our cousin’s property, on enemy turf, he was my best bud. My companion. My battle buddy. He was there for me and I was there for him.
“Sarah called me Frog-Lips,” I finally whimpered.
“Why’d she call you that?” he asked.
“Because of my birthmark,” I said with a sniffle, pointing to the white line going down the middle of my bottom lip.
Joe snorted. “She’s stupid, Katie,” he said. “You can’t let her do that to you.”
“She always gets away with everything, Joe. It just makes me so mad!”
“I know,” he said. “The next time she says it to you, punch her in the face.”
I shot him a look. “Mom told me to turn the other cheek. She said that’s what the Bible said to do,” I told him.
Joe gave me a wicked smile. “True, it says to turn the other cheek, but it doesn’t tell you what to do after that.”
A revelation! I’d never thought of that!
I smiled at him. “That’s a good point,” I said to him.
“This is why I’m your big brother. It’s my way of looking after you,” he said with a smile.
The next day while Joe and I were in the yard arguing whether we wanted to play Star Wars or The Power Rangers, Sarah and her little sister, Brittany, walked up on us.
Sarah’s dirty blonde hair fell around her shoulders, her banes darkening and clinging to her forehead from the sticky Florida humidity. She was thin with no figure while Brittany was a short, chubby child with dark brown hair.
“What are y’all playing?” Sarah inquired.
“Why?” I asked, annoyed at her presence and hoping she’d go away.
“We just want to play with you,” she said with a sinister smile.
Uh oh, I thought. I know that smile.
“We’re playing Batman and Robin,” Joe said quickly. “So, unless you want to be the bad guys, you can’t join in. Sorry.”
Brittany began to cry. After all, she was only four at the time, but Sarah, even at the age of nine, was a devious monster that could manipulate anyone into getting what she wanted. Up until that point, I’ve never wanted to hurt someone as much as I wanted to hurt Sarah.
“Well,” Sarah began in a diplomatic voice, “I think Katie and Brittany should be the bad guys.”
Brittany let out a loud obnoxious sob after hearing her sisters betraying words and I rolled my eyes at my baby cousin.
“Why do you say that?” my brother asked coolly.
“They’re the youngest. They should be the bad guys while you’re Batman and I’m Robin,” she said while that sadistic grin of hers grew.
But I’m always Robin, I thought as hot tears filled my eyes. If there was a time in Georgia where Joe and I got along, it was when we played Batman and Robin. We were the Dynamic Duo. She couldn’t be Robin. I wasRobin! I always have been.
I glance at my brother with a hurtful look, but his eyes didn’t leave Sarah. His nostrils flared as his jaw twitched, his face gradually turned red and his breath grew into rapid short bursts. He clinched his fists at his side. “Katie is my Robin,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I’d be a better Robin,” she said. Her words triggered my tears and they steadily flowed down my cheeks.
“You don’t even know who Robin is!” Joe screamed at her. “I’d choose Katie over you any day!”
“What?” she asked pointing to me, “You mean you’d choose Frog-Lips over me? You’re more stupid than you look, Joe.”
I stepped closer to Sarah and got in her face. “My brother is not stupid,” I said out of anger, “If you want to join us, why don’t you be Two-Face? You’re really good at that!”
“Watch what you say, Frog-Lips,” she whispered.
“If you call me that one more time, I’m taking you down,” I huffed.
“I’ll scream bloody murder and my dad will come out here and whip your butt,” she said in a quiet, threatening tone.
“It’d be worth it,” I snapped.
Very gently, I felt the collar of my shirt being tugged from behind. I turned and saw my brother mouth the words, “The other cheek.” Angry and disappointed, I turned my back to Sarah and Brittany and began to walk away from the whole situation when I heard, “Froggie can’t jump!”
Oh, Froggie’s about to jump alright!
All at once, a surge of anger built up inside of me and was near its breaking point. The recent memories of name calling, purposely lying about us to get us in trouble, and the manipulation all fueled my animosity towards her until it boiled over. I felt my breath quicken and my face inflame as I looked to my brother. In his eyes, I saw his resentment as well.
“Go get that turd,” he whispered.
Without any warning, I turned and charged towards Sarah. She tried to run, but by the time her back was to me, she was already eating dirt. I began swinging, landing punches wherever I could. Sarah had somehow turned on her back and tried to block my attacks, but the great thing about having a big brother to fight with, is that I know every possible gap that you’re going to leave open, especially when you haven’t fought a day in your life. I continued to swing, tearing through every barricade she put up.
“Get off of me, you crazy mutant!” she wailed, “Brittany, get her!”
I felt a slap on my back that tickled more than it hurt and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Joe dragging Brittany away from us. “Get her, Katie! Knock the crap out of her!” Joe egged on and a burst of energy rang through me as I continued my assault on her.
“Don’t. You. Ever. Call. Me. Frog. Lips. Again!” I said between every punch, emphasizing each word.
“That’s it, Katie! Break that scum sucking snake’s nose!” I heard Joe shout.
Then, Sarah rolled and I somehow ended up underneath her. She slapped me across the face and stood up, straddling me, towering over me with blood dripping from her nose and that’s when I saw it coming. It was like slow motion. I saw her foot come down and marry my face while a stinging sensation swept through my bottom lip. The taste of dirt and sand tarnished my mouth which was quickly joined by a salty flavor. Hot tears stung my eyes as I put my hand to the lower part of my face and that’s when I felt it. One of my canines had made a clear passage through my bottom lip. I carefully pulled my lip free from my tooth. What a cheap shot! I thought to myself as a few tears escaped to my face.
Suddenly, I heard Sarah scream and I looked up to see Joe running after her with a shovel in his hands. “No one hits my little sister but me!” he shouted.
“Get her, Joe!” I screamed as I winced from the pain radiating from my lip. “Knock the daylights out of her!”
I stood up and I ran after him, passing a hysterical Brittany and cheered him on, but we were stopped when our uncle came out and tried to defuse the situation.
“What do you think you’re doing?” my uncle asked as he snatched the shovel from Joe’s hands.
“Look what she did to Katie!” Joe shouted as he pointed to me.
Sarah ran behind her dad and began to weep. “Daddy, they started it! We wanted to play with them, but they said we had to be the bad guys and when we agreed they started to beat us up!”
“You’re lying!” I screamed.
My uncle bounded towards me and I knew clearly what his intentions were. I was about to get the whipping of a lifetime for something that she had coming to her. I turned to run, but I felt a strong hand grab my arm, his calluses and fingers digging into my elbow.
“Look what you did to my daughter!” he yelled at me, gesturing towards Sarah who had the same evil grin on her face from only a few minutes before.
I pointed to my lip. “Look what she did to me!” I yelled back.
He spun me around and I felt him rear his hand back. Brace yourself, Katie, I warned myself. This is going to be bad.
Suddenly, a familiar voice came from behind us, bringing the world as I knew it to a halt.
“What are you doing?” I heard the voice say. We both turned and saw my mom, who is a good foot shorter than her brother, marching towards us in her maroon scrubs with a look that could scare Hulk Hogan, but at the same time I felt a wave of relief sweep through me. She’d gotten home from work just in time to save me.
“And just what do you think you’re doing with my daughter?” she asked in a low voice, her eyes narrowing in on my uncle.
“Look what she did to Sarah,” he said to her.
“Did you ask Katie and Joe what happened?” she asked.
“Sarah told me what happened,” he snapped.
“I’ll ask again. Did you ask Katie and Joe?”
“No,” he simply said.
“You need to hear both sides of the story before you carry out a punishment. Now, let go of my child,” she said.
“She gave Sarah a black eye!” he screamed.
“Yeah, but look at Katie! I think she’s going to need stitches!” she bellowed back. “Now, let my child go or so help me, I’ll give you a black eye to match your daughter’s!”
He quickly let go of my arm and ushered Sarah and Brittany into their house while Mom made Joe and me get in the car. She drove us to the hospital while we explained to her what happened, the air growing thicker and thicker with anxiety.
“What were you two thinking? Katie, what did I tell you about turning the other cheek?” she asked out of frustration.
“It doesn’t tell you what to do after that, Mama,” I said quietly, using Joe’s line he’d taught me earlier.
Mama gaped at me before she turned her head to look at Joe. “You told her that, didn’t you?”
Joe beamed at Mom in the rearview mirror, not saying a word.
And then something surprising happened. Mama laughed and the tension that brewed in the air evaporated immediately.
“You know,” she began, “I prayed to God asking Him to find a way for you two to work together and stop fighting one another. It wasn’t exactly what I was thinking, but I think my prayer was answered.” Mom, of course, punished us by giving us extra chores to do for the next few days, but I didn’t care. My brother and I had given Sarah a beat down she’d never forget.
By the end of it all, Sarah had several bruises, a busted (not broken) nose, and a black eye that she couldn’t see out of for several days while I only had that busted lip and, thank God, I didn’t need stitches.
Before going to sleep that night, I sat on my bed and read a little as I’ve always done when I heard a knock at my door.
“Come in,” I called out and Joe’s face appeared.
“Is your lip okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “It hurts a little, but I’m going to be okay.”
He smiled. “You really gave it to her today.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It felt good. Is that bad of me?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It might be, but I can understand how you feel.”
I breathed out a shaky breath. “Joe,” I said while looking down. “Thank you for sticking up for me. I know I get on your nerves a lot, but it felt good that you did that for me.”
I looked to him and he smiled. “You’re welcome, Katie.”
“Why did you do it?” I asked.
“You’re the only little sister I have. I’m the only one who can hit you and get away with it,” he said with a chuckle.
I closed my X-Men comic book, placed it on my night stand, and turned my bedside lamp off. “I’m kind of tired. I’m going to go to sleep,” I said to my brother.
Joe nodded. He began to close the door, but stopped when I called his name. He stuck his head back in my room, gazing in my direction.
I stared at him through the shadows, the memories of us working together earlier that day flashing in my mind, how we were like Batman and Robin, vigilantes acting outside of the law, enforcing justice when no one else would, how he stuck up for me, and how he said I was his Robin. Would he always choose me? Would he one day push me away? Would we always be the Dynamic Duo? I peered through the darkness of my room and took a deep breath. “Will you always choose me as Robin over Sarah?” I asked in a timid voice.
Joe smiled and before he answered me, I knew what his answer would be.
“Katie,” he said, “You’ll always be my Robin.” And with that, he closed the door as the darkness settled in my room.
And you’ll always be my Batman, I thought.
I closed my eyes and slipped into a dream of us jumping buildings in Atlanta, he as Batman and I as Robin, protecting our homeland, fighting Two-Face and The Joker, taking on crime and bringing criminals to justice. Joe and Katie. Batman and Robin. The Dynamic Duo until the very end.
Piece by Katie Farris of Georgia Southern University. You may reach the author here: sf01525@georgiasouthern.edu
Music by Morten Lauridsen, Pauline Oliveros, Nik Bartsch and the Tin Hat Trio
Thekla Hammond, Soprano; Lucy Collier, Alto; Marguerite Barron, Alto; Griff Hulsey, Tenor;
Dean Fukawa, Tenor; Glen Leggoe, Bass; Richard Stanton, Bass.
At the San Francisco Performance Art Institute
Performance: May 4, 2013
By Christopher Bernard
I couldn’t make it to the performance of “Continua in Light” at the San Francisco Performance Art Institute, but was invited to the dress rehearsal the evening before.
The stars were in conjunction, the talents were promising, the evening was bright. I was ready for a little adventure.
The institute is housed in a big, blocky facility that looms at the edge of San Francisco Bay with a lonely and mysterious banality, like a building out of a de Chirico painting, in a part of the city I had never heard of: Dogpatch.
Hold on. Here was a moment of surprise, puzzlement, charm. I was intrigued: anyplace called “Dogpatch” has already half won me over.
I was instructed to take the “T” Metro line to 23rd and 3rd Streets. Hold on! Don’t numbered streets run in parallel – except, perhaps, when they meet in infinity?! Where, by all the stars, was this place?
Simple: tucked between the southern end of Portrero Hill and the bay, a mile or so south of AT&T Ballpark, this place where (it seems) all parallel lines meet is an old working class cum industrial neighborhood, made up of half-retired warehouses, abandoned wharves, a neglected electrical generation plant, acres of parking lots, and a string of residential blocks built in the early twentieth century that – partly because it’s so little known, and so comparatively cheap, and partly thanks to the new “T” line – has been discovered over the last few years by artists and the evening set. A dance studio, the aforementioned PAI, and live-work spaces, and a handful of wine bars, clubs and restaurants have made it their home. There’s even a Dogpatch Saloon.
I swallowed my skepticism (which I have found can be as useless as another person’s unquestioning faith) and, trusting my instructor, took the “T” down down down the rabbit hole of Third Street, miraculously, to the implausible intersection.
I’d been told to walk from there toward the bay, go to the second of three walk-in gates at the building’s address, wait to be let in, make smoke signals with my cell phone in case of distress, and, if my psychopomp to this new underworld showed up, accept from him further directions to the mysterious venue.
After walking down two long, lonely blocks through a wasteland of open lots, with a half-abandoned electrical generation plant in the distance, its enormous unused chimney stack, the color of blood-red brick, towering against the sky, I came to a warehouse-like building with the word “STORAGE” painted in huge letters across its western face.
An amiable white-haired gentleman greeted me as if he’d been expressly sent for me, and another invitee (who appeared mysteriously behind me – hold on: where in heaven’s name had he come from? but by now I was starting to get used to this) and I wound our way up to the second floor and through a cluttered maze of artist’s quarters to a dark, cavern-like space at the back, divided in two by a long white backcloth, in front of which was a performance area and a several rows of small pale chairs.
A muttering of greetings in the dark. A moment to find a seat. A quick look around at other shadowy forms come to witness the ritual of rehearsing. A little eavesdropping on furtive laughter and chatter between the women. Then a little flash of light from two hanging bulbs. A stringing together of two hauntingly lovely female voices. And two female dancers work through the motions of a delicate, highly formal dance in a pre-full rehearsal version of the performance to come.
Think of yourself as watching the tracing of a bare-bones sketch before you see the full painting. That is what I felt, though I didn’t realize it at the time.
The air of a rehearsal is often one of casual informality alternating with intense focus. Stagehands put up ladders, remove ladders, disentangle lights, confer, change their minds, try again. The choreographer (the warm, quietly intense Nancy Karp, one of the Bay Area’s most admired dancers and choreographers) suggests this, that, the other thing – sits on the stage with her dancers giving notes, advice, encouragement.
Much of the music is staged live, and part of the rehearsal is strictly musical, with a small chorus singing in subvocalized polyphony off to the side.
As it turns out, only the first two “acts” are being rehearsed tonight. The first, “Gioia and Sine Nomine,” incorporates music and a large video projection. The second adds two graceful and tireless dancers, Diane McKallip and Randee Paufve. The third act, with its promise of audience participation, makes rehearsing it largely moot.
After half an hour, the rehearsal lights are finally disconnected, and a full dress rehearsal takes place. As so often happens, seeing and hearing the parts rehearsed separately gives no idea of the particular magic that will occur when the parts are finally blended.
What I then see is the final bit of mystery in an evening that has been, since its beginning, of a most lovely strangeness.
The opening act begins with a double projection against the large backcloth, of partly abstracted views of what I imagine are immensely long traffic flows at night along busy freeways, seen from a distance, the lights elongated through some sort of filtering, mingling and mixing, in long diamond shapes, pencils and pins of light, with starry foci generating them; the end result being an almost mystical play of light, random and yet directed, free yet orderly, bright and vague and shapely, created from the most ordinary of sources. Another projection includes a single light, stretched vertically so it looks like an electric candle flame. (This projection will return at the end, when the lights, stretched vertically before, will be stretched horizontally before re-emerging into their attendant darkness.)
With these projections are performed two pieces by Morten Lauridsen, “O Nata Lux” and “O Magnum Mysterium,” and the modern classic “Deep Listening,” by Pauline Oliveros, sung by a small, tight chorus and a soprano and alto duet.
There seems to be no break between acts one and two. In act two, the two dancers join the video projections, with piped-in music by Nik Bartsch. The dancers perform, stretch, turn, reach out, reach up, reach forward, turn toward one another, then away, summoning and rejecting, embracing, meeting, parting, on an almost entirely dark stage, with low lighting placed along the stage front that projects the shadows of the dancers against the back-projected screens, creating a complex, immersive fusion of light and shadow woven together by the mildly pop-jazz-flavored score. A strikingly beautiful effect results, as the dancers dance not only with each other, and with their own and each other’s shadows, but with the video projections, continua of light and shadow in darkness and light. It is especially fascinating when the shadow of one of the dancers momentarily disappears (while the other dancer’s shadow remains), and the dancer seems to dance, shadowless, with her darkly doubled partner, like a spirit, a ghost, against a backdrop of dazzling streams of brightness. At the end, I could hardly believe I had been watching only two dancers; the stage seemed to be occupied by a perfectly coordinated corps.
I think I detect a story I have often felt in Nancy Karp’s work: a story of independent inspirations working together almost by osmosis, but without willfulness or constraint, to create a mysterious whole larger, more ramifying, more suggestive, than the mere sum of its parts would suggest alone.
Out of the simplest of elements, and imagination, trust and skill, a “magnum mysterium,” truly, emerges.
The next night the show went up. For one night. Then, like a candle, went out. Hold on: you mean, that’s it?
Christopher Bernard is a poet, novelist and critic living in San Francisco. His novel A Spy in the Ruins was published by Regent Press (http://www.regentpress.net/spyintheruins). He is also a co-editor of the literary and arts webzine Caveat Lector (www.caveat-lector.org).
On a map of the Chattahoochee River National Recreation Area, a thin, nationally protected line runs through a strip of green trees just north of Atlanta. As the winding curves pass water through a worn path in the Atlanta bedrock, it puddles at points and looks much like a vein, with its deformities and natural eccentricities, weaving its way around the terrain to find the path of least resistance. From its mouth at the Buford Dam, which is supplied by the northern Chattahoochee and the Chestatee rivers, it gulps the water that the turbines release during generation. The water is merely a trickle compared to what Lake Sydney Lanier has to offer, but the river continues to take all the water it is rationed.
The alarm sounds and echoes off the nearby trees and the massive concrete dam. All of the fly-fishermen and the screaming, splashing children, who enrage the sportsmen with their Trout scaring ways, disappear into the tree line as the dam releases rushing water. When the Buford Dam finally became operational in 1959, the waters within the manmade lake filled to the magnificent potential of 105,000 kilowatts, which is used for both power and to control the flooding of the river. Within minutes of the alarm, the shaped and dynamite blasted granite walls fill with this chilling, churning offering from the bottom of the lake and the water rises over ten feet. The clay colored, sandy beaches disappear under feet of brown water, along with the tall grasses surrounding the boardwalk, which sits safely above the rising levels. After the generating settles to a calm flow, at its new level, the coldness of the river eerily chills the air and sends a shiver down the spine, allowing the body to adjust to this new temperature. Before long, a dense fog settles in the valley of the dam, and the water’s temperature reacts with the condensing air, hiding the Chattahoochee under this blanket of smoky vapor.
During each generation, the water shoves its way through the dam, like passengers in city train station kept on time with the precisely calculated clockwork of the hydroelectric schedule. The dark water turns frothy as it churns its way into the accepting river, and comes out around fifty degrees Fahrenheit. This water has the ability to rage at an unforgiving 8,000-9,000 cubic feet per second. To truly realize the magnitude of this, picture a box that is able to snuggly contain a basketball, and think of it tumbling down a flight of stairs. Obviously, this image is nothing by which to be frightened. Now, picture 8,000 of these boxes rushing by in one second. This is the power of the dam and the waters it contains.
Nearly half a century after the dam’s first generation, I met the beautiful, manmade headwaters. Introduced, at seventeen, by some rowdy, boyhood friends, I began to spend afternoons casting lines for the beautiful pink and green Rainbow Trout. The river was illegally populated with these trout by my father’s father in 1961. By this transgression; he ended up a Chattahoochee hero. One night, my father told me the abridged story, after I came home from the river with friends and a fresh catch. “Your Grandpa and his friends thought it would be a terrific idea to introduce an invasive species in an unnatural habitat. Fortunately, they knew what they were doing and knew the water from the bottom of Lake Lanier would be cold enough for the trout. Still, he is so lucky he didn’t get in trouble,” he added with a breath of relief. Luckily, the area was not nationally protected by Jimmy Carter until 1978, or my grandpa would probably still be paying off fines, or constantly reminiscing on the prison sentence he would have undoubtedly received. My grandfather helped to make this river what it is today, and I didn’t even know it until I found the river for myself, as if I was supposed to find this river. This river flows in my blood and I didn’t know it until I was seventeen.
My grandfather has always been an aloof character in my life. When my older brother was born, grandpa showed up long enough to say, “Cute kid.” By the time I was born, my Grandma Carolyn managed to make him stay for a couple hours, before heading home to Ellijay, in the north Georgia mountains. As a young boy, he would tell stories that I was far too young to understand. I would sit on the wood floor of the cabin and play with vintage toy cars and rusty cap guns. My mother, who was born the same year Grandpa stocked the river, and father would break into smiles after Grandpa’s life stories, which were inevitably a product of his mischievousness or wayward friends. After the punch line, Grandpa continued laughing till his face turned as red as a tomato.
As I’ve gotten older, we have grown closer, and have hunted Quail, Dove and Snipe together, while he recited the stories I could not understand as a child. His face still turns just as red as it did when I was a toddler. He tells stories about his entrepreneurial conquest, his wonderful hunting experiences, and the fishing which makes up so much of his passion. On winter break, during my eighth grade year, Grandpa took me hunting with my Uncle John. I was just a lazy kid with a new pair of boots and a shotgun, but Grandpa let nothing slide. He was never mean or spiteful; he just sent whispered shouts my way, so as not to alert the birds while getting his point across. He breathily hollered, “Keep up in case of a covey flush!” or, “You stand back there and accidently shoot someone, I’m not gonna be happy.” He was a good teacher and I constantly think of those pine forests and dirt roads in south Georgia, where I did so much growing up in only a few days. Since I’ve grown up, Mom sees so much of him in me, and tells me with increasing frequency. Still, I wish I knew him better.
I used to think of Grandpa while listening to the generation schedule, with my friends, on the way down the winding river-park roads. We used to listen so intently, onlookers would have thought it was our religion. For the only time that day, all of the teenage boys would silence themselves and take heed of the electronic woman’s voice by leaning close to the nearest car speaker, which delivered the news and told us whether we would fish in calm or cascading waters. After unpacking rods and tackle, we always trudged our way through a worn dirt trail and fished off a cove in the bank. Watching the dam generate was one of those experiences that reminded me of how small I really was, with complete disregard for my overblown teenage ego.
Other than the story of Grandpa’s trout, I can only recall one other story my father told me about the Chattahoochee. When he was young, his group of friends used to drive down to the river at night and misbehave. They would drink cases of beer, squeal the tires of their ‘60s and ‘70s cars, and stereotypically make out with girls in the back seats. Turns out Alan Jackson was telling the truth when he sang “Chattahoochee.” Unfortunately, this was the story my father chose to use in the explanation of the birds and the bees. What my father didn’t seem to understand was, I had already fogged up my fair share of windows and seventeen was simply too late for the sex talk from dad. I am my father’s son.
My father has always been my conscience, telling me “I’m proud of you, you’re the kind of guy that sticks up for the little guys.” He tells me this all the time, since I got in a fifth grade fight to stick up for a bullied friend. We differ infinitely and I argue with him on most every subject. He can fix anything he sets his hands on, and fixes engines the size of my Ford Ranger, at his Ammonia Refrigeration Service job, while I don’t know how to change the oil in my truck. I will never understand how he stays so level headed while my mother and I are so emotional, but he has always kept me on the path to being a better man. I do know, however, that I will never be half the good man my father is, and I am fine with that, because if I even come close to half I will be better than the majority.
Sometimes while watching the dam generate, fishing, swimming, or kayaking I think of the destruction of 14,000 acres of forest and the required relocation of thousands of people, which was planned and carried out to allow for the dam. I think of all the old buildings and memories trapped under Lake Lanier, after its flooding. I think of the sacrifices that were made for this river which I love so much. Still, this allowed the growth of a new and lasting system, which flourishes while it provides drinking water and Electricity to many Atlanta residents, my family included. I owe this river.
The Department of National Resources protects the CRNRA. Their green and gray uniforms populate the boat ramps and banks of the river, as they stand with watchful, darting eyes, hidden behind their calm dark sunglasses. One day, while fishing during my senior year of high school, one male officer and his female partner approached me, in a canoe, and asked for my fishing license. Upon being told that I did not have the correct stamp to fish the river, I began to apologetically pack my pole and tackle, knowing there could be a serious fine. The officer stopped me. “A teenage boy like you, on a Saturday afternoon, could be out drinking, smoking, and breaking a lot worse laws,” he explained. “Enjoy your day of fishing and get that stamp before you come back. Have a great day,” he said as he paddled away. I released the sigh that was building up during my conversation with the officer as I cast out my line and waited for a bite. I belong on this river.
The summer I turned twenty, my friend Walt gave me a job lifting rafts and kayaks for a Chattahoochee company based in Roswell. It was further southwest on the river than I had ever ventured, but it was a beautiful place to work, as the main location was a huge open expanse where the river slowed and the other location was a beautiful collection of rocky shoals, where the CRNRA ends its forty-eight mile trip at Peachtree Street and meets the water treatment facility just around the bend. Still, the pay was horrible, and the work was worse. Belligerent bosses and customers filled each day with some new form of irritation to conquer, which sent me to the edges of my sanity. People constantly raved about refunds for malfunctioning floats, which they often sabotaged on the last leg of the journeys just to get their money back. Employers pushed me to my wits end by creating nonexistent problems regarding the treatment and organization of tubes and rafts.
The only factor that kept me from needing a padded cell and a strait jacket was that I spent that summer working with my girlfriend Kaleigh and our best friends Walt and Bridget, the couple that got us our jobs. My co-workers and I began sweating in the morning, the boats became heavy by the afternoon and the work didn’t cease until sundown. Still, I loved the time with them, near and in the water. Every day I stepped in the cold river and felt the calm of the water run against me. I spent the evenings diving across the rocks to rescue drunken middle-aged patrons and retrieving life jackets, which somehow managed to get away from the hands of tubers with increasing regularity. At night, we went to dinners with our best friends, smelling like sun burnt skin and river water. Between carbonated gulps of Fat Tire, Stella Artois, and Honey Brown we downed greasy, meaty bites of Fellini’s mushroom and pepperoni pizza or bacon and bleu cheese bison burgers from Cheyenne Grill in Buckhead.
Being that we worked for a rafting company, our only perks were the free trips down the river, which took my girlfriend and me the entire day. Putting our kayaks in the water, just beneath Holcomb Bridge, I found that Kaleigh had already applied her sun screen and failed to bring the bottle along. I figured my backpack of beer would numb the pain of the looming sunburn, since I had not applied a drop of sunblock to my skin before we shoved off the muddy bank. We spent the day paddling slow and laughing, while tossing beers and sandwiches from one boat to the other.
I wish I could remember the conversations we had that day, but I do remember that was the day Kaleigh fell in love with the river too, even though she flipped her kayak. After passing through some incredibly rocky shoals, I turned around to wait and saw her gracefully flip and awkwardly escape the mayhem of her sinking kayak and escaping paddle. I pulled up on a rock and snagged her paddle on my way to her. She simply sat there with a look of embarrassment and acceptance across her face. I looked at her and asked her if she was okay, as I drained the water from her overflowing kayak. “I’m okay, I just look like such an amateur right now,” she said with a sulk. I couldn’t help it and began to chuckle. She tried to be offended by my amusement, but broke into an unstoppable giggle, while the last few liters of water drained from her kayak.
The day was breezy, which allowed the sun to creep in and out of the cloud cover, providing us with cool relief as we baked atop the chilly water, yet the wind pushed us upriver at points and this slowed our eight mile trip, we welcomed the additional time this provided Kaleigh to dry her clothes on the top of her boat. By the time we arrived back at the boat ramp, my torso looked like a medium rare steak and Kaleigh felt awful for forgetting the sunscreen. That was the day realized why I put up with that job, why I dealt with the hard work, and why I enjoyed that summer so much. I love the river and so does my love.
After that summer, I decided I was growing up and I needed to make better money on my summers, between college years. So, the next year I took a job remodeling bathrooms at twice the pay, but I missed the river and I missed the calm. The work wasn’t as hard, the houses were air-conditioned, and the pay checks didn’t hurt either. yet, the money didn’t matter and my friends meant so much more to me. The river meant so much more to me. I need the river.
Lake Lanier is the heart of north Atlanta with the Buford Damn as its valve, pumping life to the lowlands at a prehistoric pace. It isn’t just a river for recreation or a resource for light switches and faucets. This river pulled me in and taught me so much. The river is not just a tie to the genes that made me; it is what shows me that I am tied to my Grandfather and Father through more than blood. Although they are these strong men, to whom I never see myself living up, I still have this in common with them. This river is a part of me as it is a part of them. We share this passion for a place and we found it individually. We came here over the years with our own groups and our own minds. We have our own memories of this place. Together we have seen the history of this river and how it grew. We know this river. We know its shoals, its trails, and its people. I did not know these men when they spent summer day at this river, in their youth. Yet, we are together here, generation after generation.
Piece by Shaun Scruggs, from Georgia Southern University. You may reach Mr. Scruggs at ss03952@georgiasouthern.edu
