I had the honor of sitting down with Lauren Grinnell to discuss her Seattle fashion show, Runway to Freedom. Grinnell created Runway to Freedom four years ago; it’s a fashion show showcasing local designers and a live auction, with proceeds going toward New Beginnings, a domestic violence shelter and help-network for women and their children. New Beginnings offers shelter, job training, social workers, and daycare to these women and children.

Lauren Grinnell has always been into fashion. However, she wasn’t as interested in creating clothes, as the styling of hair and makeup. After her first year of interning after hair school, Grinnell was introduced to New Beginnings at a salon called Red. The salon did haircuts for women and children that were in the New Beginnings shelter. After visiting New Beginnings she thought, “It’d be cool to have a fashion show, style the hair, and then raise money for a good cause.”’

“The subject of domestic violence is really important to me not only because I was affected by it, (and am a survivor of it, on a smaller scale) but they say the statistic is one in three, but really its everybody who is affected by domestic violence. If you have never had an encounter with domestic violence in your life, it would be amazing to say that. But say you were walking down the street and you see a couple arguing with each other, and that in itself is traumatic, but then you turn on the news and you hear about this guy burning his house down, and hurting his children, and then you look into it, its because the man and the woman were fighting. The guy was violent. Or a same sex couple were fighting, it got violent, one killed the other and then himself, it’s usually domestic violence. Within drug and gang violence, a lot of the time there is domestic violence. It’s so important because it affects so many people”

“The law has changed a little bit, but our long term goal with Runway to Freedom is to have the law be changed for abuser and victims. And the reason I say abuser is because if you have been shown your whole life that this is how a healthy relationship is, this is normal. And, well then you just go about life like ‘this is how I do things; this is how I treat other people’. You need the education. Once you have one charge, stalking, or hurting another person, it should be taken very seriously, and that person should be put into an intense program. They need to be taught that this is not okay, and shown what is okay, what is healthy. You know, nip that in the bud at an early age.

“Also, we need education for the young people, starting in middle school, show them examples, have workshops for them, and show them what a healthy relationship means. There’s so much funding cut from education, we don’t learn those things.

            “Imagine a woman comes here from Poland, or wherever, and met a guy, and they get married. They don’t have anybody. Or a man for that matter, he’s being abused by a woman, and it’s quote unquote, ‘embarrassing’, as a guy, to show weakness like that.

 

These are stills from a slide show, located online here: http://samysfoggia.wordpress.com/the-happy-wedding-of-mr-nobody-and-ms-obvious/

Samy Sfoggia was born in Brazil in 1984. She lives and works in Porto Alegre/RS. Samy has a bachelor’s degree in History from Faculdade Porto-Alegrense (FAPA – 2007) and studied Art, Body and Education at the Universidade Federal do Rio Grande do Sul (UFRGS), post-graduating in 2009. Since 2006, she is an undergraduate Photography student.

Samy shoots with film cameras (mostly her Zorki-C) and works primarily with 35mm black and white film. Her negatives are scanned at high quality and the images are digitally altered: assemblages; color inversion; drawings on the tablet. After that, the images are printed and then Samy draws on paper with a knife and oil paint. The images are scanned again and reprinted.

On Samy’s creative process, photography is used as work material, but her artwork is not limited to this medium. Most of her work is influenced by movies (David Lynch) and by literature (Franz Kafka). She tries to represent the subconscious mind by creating fantastic imagery and by juxtaposing elements that seem to contradict each other. Her pictures are like frames of an unconscious deliberately incoherent and illogical. She tries to create the nightmare aesthetics.

Samy has participated in group and solo exhibitions in Brazil (Novo Hamburgo/RS; Porto Alegre/RS; Recife/PE; São Paulo/SP). Her work has been published on several websites and international magazines (Lost At E Minor; Powerscourt Gallery; International Times; Trend Hunter; Empty Mirror Arts & Literary Magazine).

 

The Nearness of You

    Sue should have been surprised, when she saw the top story on Google News about Len

slashing the throats of a black man and white woman on the busy square. She wept

reading about Alice’s death. The black man also died. Alice, her bisexual, longtime

partner, had done what came naturally and Sue hoped she had not pushed Len’s hate

button.

    Sue waited for a table at a vegetarian restaurant, and seated next to her was a man who

beat his feet on the floor and rubbed the stub of his ring finger which had two digits

missing.

    “Rousseau took walks to think. I tap and think,” he said. A table freed, he asked

whether she wanted to sample what he ordered and he would share some of her meal. “A

few bites, I don’t have HIV.” His energetic speech appealed to her, whose stamina

needed a recharge, so she and he sat across from one another.

    “My name’s Sue. I drive a bus, 200 miles a day,” she said. “I do what I want on

weekends.”

    “Call me Len. This is my first day in town. You know, I never had a job.” “How in the hell

had he supported himself”, she thought, sipping the smoothie as he said, “Prosit,” and

clicked her glass with his smoothie. He mimicked her frown, two pairs of eyes staring

over their glasses. The waiter brought them smoothies while they waited. “I dreamed

about blueberry smoothies in the slammer.” She heard his feet bop the table’s metal

stand.

   

    “Prosit,” she echoed. Soft, electronic harp music and ocean waves played on the sound

system and swept away Sue’s qualms. The bright, colored framed images on the walls,

diners’ comfortable conversations, the hum attuned to the shared experience, appeased her

doubts about him.   

   

    They ordered soup, salad, and entrees. Len said, “Good German word, ‘prosit’, they

really made Europe tick, cleansing filth. Where would we be without Germans?”

    Alice, her Jewish partner, would have thrown a barrage of punches at this asshole with

that. Alice at the beach with some guy, Sue had slipped out of her familiar orbit and

bumped into this, but why walk away from fine food?

    She turned in the chair, stretched out her hairy leg, and said:

    “I can bench press one hundred pounds ten reps. That makes my fear threshold pretty

high.” He stared at her exposed leg. She wanted to make it plain that he would not hit on her.

    “It must put hair off your chest and lead in your pencil.”

    “That’s a guy thing. What about you?”

    “About what?” The waiter placed the orders on the table and when he left ,Sue

asked with a smirk, “How much lead’s in your pencil?”

    “Before my trial, I wrote a blog. I don’t ejaculate anymore. Are you sorry?” He had no

sorry bone in his body. Was he intentionally ambiguous? Either the blog or trial was

responsible for his sexual retreat. “Why had paranoia begun to encroach?” Sue thought,

uncomfortable with its alien presence. Interjecting sex bluntly did not gel with organic

food.

    “Why the trial?”

    “See this? A groid cut most of it off. I survived but he caught a cold.”

   

    “Caught a cold”? You meant ‘black man’, don’t you?” Her voice rose and

diners turned their heads. Her aspirations proved too high for this lowlife. “Alice and I

usually eat at that table by the windows,” she added, pointing at the teenage trio at the

table.      

    “Got killed, but not by me. I didn’t want to do a backdoor parole and die a natural

death inside.” He looked smug, boasting his prison slang.

    She would stick it out with Len. His disclosures both disarmed her and threatened her.

When she told Alice about Len, she would undoubtedly tell Sue that she should have told him

he was a thug, and ‘accidentally” kick him in the shin beneath the table, and leave with

two checks to pay. 

    “I marched for gay rights and got arrested but they released me after three hours.”

She wanted to demonstrate their differences – she, a genuine progressive, he, an inveterate

criminal. There was no hope of converting Len. She had marched for an end to those

Christian conversion groups, thinking gays could become respectable heterosexuals.

But it took mass movements to get rid of racists like him. Or, Sue might arrange for her

black weight trainer to put the terror of God into Len, get him the hell out of this laid-back, cool town.

    “Protesting is a dead end.”

     “Who’d have you in their demonstration anyway?”

     Sometimes police infiltrators joined them during protests against the treatment of

Bradley Manning, world-famous whistleblower that leaked damning documents about

this government’s illegal and genocidal atrocities in Iraq. But, the march continued with

the undercover uglies anyway. It was difficult to avoid enemies.

    There was an empty table to their right where she might break bread alone, yet she

remained seated. What held her there? She hoped never to run into Len again, but if he

stayed in town, that would be impossible.

    Sue ate her meal slowly. Len slurped his soup and chewed maple glazed

walnuts, goat cheese and roasted beets, then plowed into the Shepard’s pie, chomping

down the mashed Yukon potatoes and sweet potatoes, soy sausages, steamed veggies and

cashew gravy. He then reached over and snagged half her spinach salad, stabbing with

his fork the grilled bosc pear slices, dried cranberries and toasted hazelnuts, and

Ethiopian tempeh, then spooned lots of her millet loaf.

    A little too loudly, Sue said, ‘Save some for me, dammit.” Diners fell silent a few

beats, then resumed conversations.

    “Lebensraum, my dear, I needed more food and the Germans in the thirties needed

more land.” After Len’s pillage, Sue’s remaining food had the taste of paranoia.

    Sometimes, late at night, Alice and Sue would cuddle, listening to nostalgic, romantic

songs. Among their favorites was “The Nearness of You,” sung by Sarah Vaughn. It was

written in 1938. That same year, Nazi Germany announced its “lebensraum” policy. It

wanted more land, especially to invade Poland. Poland, on Germany’s eastern border, its

proximity marking it for invasion and enabling the Nazis to sweep into Russia, crushed

communism before it matured. Those nights, the lyrics brought Sue and Alice closer and

forged a union unbroken by boundaries. Len erected barriers, just as nations at war do.

    “Ever listen to music, Len?” Sue said.

    He blushed, then recovered. Everybody listened to music- it was inescapable, but her

question caught him off-guard, as if he were not part of humanity. He squinted his eyes,

brought both fists on the table, flicking the severed finger at her. It was like brandishing

the raised middle finger, but more menacing, more threatening. It was as if he had given

her a cliterectomy. He regained calm as it moved across his face, he unclenched his

fists and moved his face and body away from her. He had leaned across the table to

achieve maximum intimidation, and now relaxed, except for his restless legs.

    “I listen to Sabaton, a metal band singing about Germany’s wars and millions of dead

heroes. Their lyrics are taken from history and almost makes me shoot my load,” he said.

     Why his candid disclosures – had he nothing to lose? Most persons would have left by

now, but Sue would not leave the untainted food. After all, she and Alice dined here

frequently and it was as much as their territory as Len’s. She conceded space to him,

allowing all persons admission under the Big Tent. An exponent of multiculturalism,

even released criminals and their underworld culture had the right to co-mingle with folks

such as Alice and Sue. His extreme terrorizing and Sue’s maximal tolerance: inclusion

must be the price of human differences.

 

    “Peace is better that rehashing old history.” She pretended not to hear the “load”

business. “Metal bands thrive on fear.” 

     “Fear motivates me. In Florida, I was so scared of getting attacked by a groid that I

shot the sucker. I didn’t kill him, though.” His body vibrated as he spoke, and he bounced

in his chair. The diners had thinned out but the remaining ones looked alarmed.

    Finished, Len said he would pay for them. Sue consented as she had already done

by sitting three feet from him.

    They walked a few blocks to the square. His arms brushed hers as they walked. They

sat on a bench. “Damn, why does his thigh have to touch me?”

    “I’m broke,” he said laughing under his breath.

   

    “Why pay our bill then?”

   

    “Something will come up,” he said. “I can beg or mug somebody. The square looks

touristy. That’s where the money is, in their fat wallets.”

    He pulled out a nasty looking knife from a sheath, concealed at his hip, that was inside his pants.

    “Careful, don’t cut me.”

    “I couldn’t stop yapping to you. Prison does weird things. This finger’s missing

when I tried to mug an old gal in Florida.” His voice steadier than at the table, he stared

into her eyes.

     Sue stood up, said goodbye and walked home.

     Alice was not there. “I could’ve killed Sue, but instead knifed these two, she a n*****

lover and the groid too,” the article read. That puzzled the reporter. There was no mention

of who Sue was- Sue had not yet been notified by local authorities.

    Sue played “The Nearness of You” alone in the living room and asked herself whether

she, Sue, was responsible for their deaths on the day-lit public square.

    People are just too damn close these days, she thought.

risking the scraped knee

I must have looked like a crazy person.

The way our eyes met, and then, instead of quickly finding something- anything- to look at to ease the discomfort of unexpected human interaction, my eyes froze. They darted down a bit to the nose and then a quick swing around the eyebrows but they never left her face.

They dipped down to the lips.

And what lips.

A sudden rush of memories that had nothing to do with these particular lips came nevertheless. I wonder how much of those memories played across my crazy-person face as I fought to look away.

She looked like someone I once knew but there was no way to explain that to her without risking a good macing. I was already firmly in weirdo territory, no reason to push my luck.

I walked to a nearby bench and plopped down to collect myself. I could feel her eyes on me.

She was there with a child that I could only assume was hers based on her body language.

She was younger than the person she would look to be like today. She looked like she did when she was the person I was remembering. She she she. Obviously this wasn’t just any she.

You always think about riding past the old house to see how things look all these years later but the truth is that the little tree out front is now a big tree, and its roots have grown up under the sidewalk and pushed it all out of shape and made it uneven. And even a simple ride past now is treacherous.

You understand?

So when I sat on the bench I tried not to look at her but, as treacherous as it might have been, I wanted a quick look.

It might have been her, if time had frozen. It was uncanny. I didn’t think people could look so much alike. How she did her hair. How she moved. The jeans she wore. The shoes.

She even doted on her son like I’d always imagined she would have.

Some quick look, right?

Ok, it was a long look and for some reason I got the impression that while she was aware that I was watching her while trying not to look like I was watching her, she was alright with it. I would have looked just the same but it was nice of her not to run screaming.

Eventually you loaded up her son into the minivan and left and that was the same minivan I saw pull up the next day at the same time.

I was now circling the house on my metaphorical bike complete with the nostalgic baseball cards in the tires and the emoting banana seat.

It wasn’t until the third day that I walked up to explain myself … as best I could. While I worried I might come off a bit creepy, she said it explained a lot.

She said she liked it. She liked finding out what little stories are going on in other people’s heads.

We met every day after that for a week.

Her husband traveled internationally and was gone much more than he was at home. Even when he was home. The tree out front was growing but he wasn’t paying much attention to the sidewalk.

She had started her own business and it seemed to be flourishing. It took me three days to find out exactly what it was. She didn’t want to tell me because she was afraid I would laugh. I told her I wouldn’t.

She explained that after that video of a squirrel waterskiing went viral, everyone who owned a squirrel wanted to have it learn to water ski. She had a big pool out back anyway so … she was a water skiing instructor for squirrels and other small mammals.

I laughed.

I laughed because that was something that could have helped me to picture the girl she originally reminded me of. The last I heard, she was a fencing instructor for disabled and mentally handicapped children. That was a long time ago.

The tree out front had no doubt grown plenty since then.

So now I knew one more little story in one more pretty head, but even as I talked to my new acquaintance, I knew I was only there because of who she looked like.

I could have her become her. Or vice versa.

Or I could continue down the street and leave the house behind once and for all.

Sinking back into the banana seat and feeling the wind in my hair, I peddled as fast as I could and never looked back.

Looking back on it now, she probably thought it was because she was a water skiing instructor for squirrels.

 

Lance Manion is the author of four humorous short story collections; Merciful Flush, Results May Vary, The Ball Washer and his latest, Homo sayswhaticus. He blogs daily on his website www.lancemanion.com and frequently contributes to many online fiction sites.

Falstaff Fantastic

I’ve always been ambivalent towards opera. On one hand, I love the voices-those powerful theater-filling instruments that make one ashamed to even try singing in the shower. Their power and majesty are thrilling, inspiring, and humbling—all at the same time.

On the other hand, they tell stories-with characters, and with dialogue. That dialogue–and the accompanying events–often do not achieve the same level of awe-inspiring performance as the singing. A singer might swell his voice to reach the stars–while asking for a sandwich.

I thought of this recently as I sat in San Jose’s beautiful California Theater and watched the opening night performance of Verdi’s last opera, Falstaff. Readers who know Shakespeare at all, know Falstaff as an overweight, loud-mouthed drunkard in Henry IV, a would-be seducer of women, and a bad influence on young Prince Hal, trying to keep him drinking and partying until Hal rises above, rejecting Falstaff to become the heroic Henry V.

The prince does not appear in Verdi’s version—which is based more on Shakespeare’s Merry Wives of Windsor— but Falstaff is there, with all of his bad habits intact—as befitting a comedy. He drinks, he brags, he welshes on his bar tab, he plots to seduce women, he berates his workers, but most of all—as played by Scott Bearden—he sings, with a thundering, powerful voice, the equal of anyone else on stage. Would that his comedic acting equaled his voice.

The true comediennes in this performance were the ladies. More capable of injecting feeling into their wonderful voices, and supporting it with animated faces, Jennifer Forni as Alice Ford, Lisa Chavez as Meg Page, and Nicole Birkland as Dame Quickly establish immediately that Falstaff is no match for them. Their indignation at Falstaff’s plan to seduce them, their glee as they plot their revenge, and their total joy as the revenge comes to pass, are all portrayed with liveliness of voice and face and gesture that keeps the audience in rapt attention. Of course their words and actions do not measure up to their awe-inspiring voices—but that’s opera.

The symbiotic relationship between voice and action and meaning, however, does shine through with the young lovers in the play. Nannetta Ford, played by Cecilia Violetta Lopez, and Fenton, played by James Callon, have the passionate language of romance to match their euphoric, elegant voices, and the results are amazing. Love sizzles in the beauty of their singing, the animation of their faces. And in Ms. Lopez’s larger role, as the Fairy Witch who dominates the final torture of Falstaff, she is the epitome of lively charm.

All in all, attending opening night of Falstaff at the San Jose Opera was a wonderful experience. Tuxedos and elegant gowns everywhere, a glamorous 1927 old-style theater—glittering from a recent 80 million dollar restoration, and a cast with voices magnificent made for an unforgettable evening.

Bruce Roberts is a writer and retired junior high teacher from Hayward, California. He may be reached at brobe60491@sbcglobal.net