Kenneth Baker is an Elitist Snob

"I don't know what I like; I just know art." Okay, he didn't say that, but the San Francisco Chronicle art critic did say:

...In today's culture, people need not merely critics to tell them what art is, but also artists, curators, art historians, art dealers, collectors - and the viewers' own education and sensibility...

It is this very attitude that crushes budding artistic spirits. A child makes something to help her understand an experience or to express an idea for which she has no words or simply to create something from her mind which no one has ever seen before. Could be art, but how will she know if there are no "critics, artists, curators, art historians, art dealers, [and] collectors" to tell her so, or more likely not? If we need all these experts to tell us what art is, who would dare encourage that expressive child to believe that she made any?

...Most of us would prefer to believe that "art" is a quality inherent in or infused in certain things, but the history of modern art, and of its enveloping social reality, has left us in a much more complex and ambiguous position. Those who refuse to acknowledge this are the very dupes that the culture industry banks on...

Well, he started a little better here, if demeaningly, and then spiraled into exclusionist jargon and plain insult. If art can only be authentic in the context of art history, how were those historical pieces validated themselves? At some point, someone made a sculpture, did a dance, painted on a wall and knew it was art. Someone else saw it and agreed. Somebody else looked at it and said, "Horse feathers!" (or something to that effect). Art, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder... and the creator. Some is just more popular than most and only the artist knows if it was art when he made it. Now, if a piece is created without heart and mind and soul, it isn't art. But if a stranger experiences it, is moved by it, finds it worthy of consideration, it becomes art. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, cloth and fluff and glass eyes from a factory, experienced by a small boy he became real.

This particular Chronicle critique, which I had not cared to read but came back to because of the furor it generated, was a flat denunciation of the new Chihuly exhibit at SF's de Young Museum.

...Political philosopher Hannah Arendt defined artworks as "thought things," that is, things that materialize thought, things to be thought about and, in rare cases, things to help us think...

...Perhaps dreamy color, glossy surfaces and flamboyant design - the signal qualities of Chihuly's work - should be enough. But in a culture where only intellectual content still distinguishes art from knickknacks, they are not...

I propose what is failing in this whole evaluation is Baker's narrow ability to "materialize thought" for himself. The human mind is a wondrous thing. It can be fertile, stimulated to great thinking by almost anything. Or it can be dry, locked down, and fearful of having a thought which doesn't meld with what the experts currently extol.

So, if you've carved up a block of soap or taken chalk to your driveway or started humming a tune no one has ever heard, call it your art. It still may be unpopular, but if you made it from your heart and mind and soul and say it is so, it is art.

Obama Family Dog

Whether the man becomes President or not isn't the issue today. The whole world is watching and he's promised his daughters a dog. What an opportunity to speak out for millions who cannot speak for themselves. . . Of course it could be career-limiting to tell the AKC what they can do with their pure bred snobbery. But the positive action of going to a shelter ~press in train~ with those little girls to lift a life out of despair would show the world what it means to be powerful and compassionate.

Even as "just" a father, he will be instilling in his daughters a message: either we value a life by the prestige placed on it by men or by the dignity placed in it by God. When we have the opportunity, do we save the life already pleading for a chance or do we contribute to the demand for more? How can any humanly tender heart look into the faces of those who may die tomorrow for lack of space, and then ask that another life be created for their own satisfaction?

Please, follow the title link to the Best Friends Network website. The petition is simply to show Senator Obama that his potential constituents are watching and we care. While you're there, click through to the Best Friends Animal Society's main page and see the fantastic work they're doing in Utah and around the country.

All in One Day!

3:45 falls between 3:30 and 4:00 nearly everywhere in the civilized world, which is why I had no reason to expect that my new washing machine would arrive anytime before half past next Friday. But let me back up to the old washing machine.

It has been trying to kill me. But for thick-soled shoes, brushing the metal cylinder would put a tingle in my fingers. (Remember, we run on 220v.) If the clothes were wet, just touching them would give a little zing. If, to balance while bending over to the front-loader's door, I carelessly put a hand to the metal drain board on the counter and touched the metal cylinder... ZAP... and a strong reminder to be more careful in future.

But I had good reason to believe a resolution fell squarely in our court. We would have to buy a new washer. The electrocution was just the last affront in a series of malfeasances from this wretched machine, which Craig had ably addressed as they arose. So, when I went to Flavio ~the real estate agent through whom we pay rent and bills~ on Saturday with the pile of cash, I casually asked if something were wrong with the washer, say it's trying to kill me "zzt!" , what to do? Oh, he'd call Franco to come out and have a look. Hm, and who would pay? The proprietor, of course. It's normal wear and tear. Note to reader: "normal wear and tear" is frequently the renter's responsibility, as are mandatory inspections of various kinds. I still feel a bit guilty for dodging the water heater inspection on the last flat, but not more than the owner should for not repairing the bad plumbing in the wall before we moved in. So, back to Flavio. He called up the electrician and while making the appointment ~I'm pretty sure I heard him say, "She is American, so that is a problem."~ the concept of simply replacing the menace arose. Oh yes! That would be much better. I held my breath as Flavio rang the appliance store. Then we walked up the street, talked to the man, and made an appointment for delivery.

Which is where I had left you in the first paragraph, agog at the promptness and preparedness of said delivery men (on time, with all the tools they'd need). The poor fellows had to haul the thing on a dolly up four flights of stairs. But when they were finished, it worked and hasn't attempted murder once. I am ecstatic over the whole inconceivable process. This very fact reiterates that we do not live in what is conventionally accepted as Europe.

And that's not all. On the same day, Craig managed to work out a ride in the van going to Camp Darby to retrieve not one but two big shiny American Weber gas grills. He and a co-worker have been ogling these behemoths for weeks/months. So a brand new washing machine on the landlord's tab and two wondrous grills were acquired in one day.

The excitement was only beginning at that. Not long after the washer was merrily agitating, I went to dump the mop water down the drain. A beach ball was resting there, and plucking it out I found. . . a scorpion in my bath tub! We live in a seaside 5th story flat. Why is a desert floor dwelling arthropod hiding in my bathtub? Well, it's not anymore. Currently, it awaits transport to a budding young entomologist... in the freezer. But I'm left spooked: there was one, there could be infinitely more, sneaking around in the night when all I want is a glass of water. I've spent 80% of my life with the vague fear of drinking a spider after my aunt told me she'd found one in her cup in the middle of the night. Must I for the rest of my life put on slippers for sleepy sojourns and rinse out the bathroom cup?

So, if they aren't skittering about my feet in the dark, they are cruising through at eye level in the light. Yes, Heavy Attack Wasp is next for The Day When Too Much Happened. We have had bees like B-52 bombers thrumming through the place, but now I don't mind them. They are just big, lumbering, and loud. The HAWs look like something out of that particular style of science fiction where ginormous hyper-advanced insects take over the world, stinging and crushing humanity like the pathetic flesh-bags we are. They are long, almost an inch, obviously wasp-waisted, with creepy dangling legs when they fly and a curved stinger visible to the naked eye. They set off my personal perimeter alarm, as in if they get too close I emit involuntary shrieks.

Could it get any worse? Yes. "Local knowledge," to be trusted only as much as "what some guy down at the pub told me," says the HAWs are really a tricksy variety of fly; the horrific stinger is not, but rather the other thing. They are harmless. Mm hm. And the scorpion? Its sting is no worse than a standard issue bee sting. Great. So now I'll become complacent, allow the Raid canister to rust out of usability, and my last words will be, "See, that's what I thought." Also, "Aaaaaiiiii!"

Now I must go have a lie down. It's been a busy week today.

Fig Newmmmmmmans

With sincere appreciation and on-going gratitude to the powers that be, I enter the Camp Darby Commissary. As NATO affiliates, the good people in Livorno allow us to shop in the American grocery store, among other sanity-retaining perks. A serial e-missive posted several months after our arrival explains the deep sigh and lighthearted strolling I enjoy there. It's not that I need a Safeway or Kroger to fill my kitchen. It's just nice to browse things I recognize without needing to translate every label. There are only a few very specific items which I would really miss. You can guess good peanut butter (Darby even carries a nice organic brand) and anyone who has come to visit should be thankful that we do find fish sauce there (rather than in your suitcase). Of course, cheddar, tortilla chips, and refried beans are all too exotic for local stores, so Darby subsidizes our Mexican nights.

But for tea today, I nibble Fig Newmans. Our commissary is award-winning: it isn't large and, as it should, focuses on middle-American families and soldiers, but the variety they manage is impressive. 1st with the organic crunchy peanut butter, then Amy's Vegetarian Refried Beans, a nice selection of Morningstar Farms faux meat products (Hello, my name is Molly and I love corn dogs.), and even Newman's Own Organics The Second Generation Fig Newmans. I do my best to show support for such products, but especially Newman's Own. You see, I've met Nell Newman. The down-home, folksy image on the package isn't entirely marketing. Sure, Pa is a Hollywood movie star who has given more to charity than most people see in their lifetimes. I don't know where or how he lives, but Nell has a home in a small town in California where I used to live. She came into the store where I worked to look at some ecologically responsible clothing. As we were wrapping up the transaction, she commented on needing to get home. Her chickens had to be brought in for the night. Predators, you know. I was floored. Paul Newman's daughter not only keeps chickens, but actually cares for them herself. We spoke briefly about an early coop which failed tragically, but she has it worked out now and once inside, her chickens are safe. Happy walkin' around, bug-eatin' chickens tucked in for the night: what a beautiful scene. Now, one more fig Newman and a bit of meditation, and I might be able to face the world again.

But I Like the Big Brother My Parents Gave Me

“

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

”

Look familiar? If not, don't you worry your pretty little head, because evidently it is no longer in effect. U.S. citizens returning home are being searched in airports and at border crossings, having their electronics ~laptops, PDA's, and cell phones~ confiscated, tampered with, and retained without Warrant, cause, or explanation. [see title link]

Of course we can speculate as to the nature of the classified protocols for selection. The individuals being targeted have certain types of names and may go to certain places. But some are U.S. citizens. Let that sink in for a minute. Wait, I've been to Morocco, a Muslim country, in the last year. I go to Columbus, Ohio regularly... where there is a large Somali (Muslim) population. My name is "funny." Now I've gone and put "Big Brother" in a blog title and posted the 4th Amendment (r.i.p.) in the first paragraph. You may never hear from me again. Just in case, be aware, people. Use it or lose it.

Plastick

It's right there at Epcot, Fantastic Plastic. And truly, it's invention was life changing for the world. Plastic protects food and holds clean water. It is lightweight and strong, yet flexible. Dish soap and shampoo bottles don't shatter after slipping from the hand. Technical undergarments are crazy warm, even when wet, and then they dry quickly. Look around. Stores are full of plastic, regardless of what they sell. And it's cheap. Disposable. Reusable? Sure, if you can manage to be living in that kind of place. Recyclable? Sometimes. But where does it come from? And more disturbing, where does it go?

Short answers: it's oil and once it becomes plastic, it never goes away.

Plastic is one more side of our multi-faceted addiction to petroleum. Every container, tool, chotchky, CD, you name it is one more demand for oil; foreign dependence or domestic pillaging.

Rethink~Reuse~Recycle is a great motto, to be followed in that order. Think about your choices before you make them. Take the canvas bag to the store (tip: keep them by the door or in the car). Is there an option with less packaging? Don't fool yourself that it all gets recycled. Can you find it in paper, metal, or glass? Do you really need it?

But what of the stuff that escapes our careful plans? Doesn't it wear out, break down, dissolve? Yes, to a point, but it will always be plastic, just very small pieces. Like much of what we discard, it will end up in the ocean. Bags look like jellies and are mistaken by turtles for food. Birds eat a variety of plastic items, starving to death with their bellies full. According to the UN Environment Programme, plastic debris causes the deaths of more than a million seabirds every year, as well as more than 100,000 marine mammals. Beginning at the bottom, looking like zooplankton, up the food chain it goes. Maybe someday an industrious bug, like the termite, will manage to begin digesting it, but for now, it's just a killer. But out of sight, out of mind, right? So, after you read the wiki in the title link, read these:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/sci/tech/7314240.stm
http://www.independent.co.uk/environment/the-worlds-rubbish-dump-a-garbage-tip-that-stretches-from-hawaii-to-japan-778016.html

The genie is out of the plastic bottle. What happens to it now is every consumer's responsibility.

Doing the French Mistake?

It could be that 18 months in Italy have substantially altered my expectations, but I have just found Parisian clerks and shopkeepers to be pleasant, helpful even. No, really, one walks into a store and someone says, "Bonjour." At the counter, after realizing I've exhausted all of my three French phrases, they smile and find some way to conduct the transaction. Remember, it's not uncommon to walk into an Italian shop and find no one, maybe overhear conversation in the back room, but be left with the feeling that they just don't care if they sell anything, ever. The French waitress who said our chocolat chaud et pâtisseries were going to take a looong time barely registered on our rude-o-meter, but our friends who live in Paris were dismayed by her demeanor. True, she brought the wrong size drinks, but the bill reflected that. And it took only half as long as she had threatened. It was a chilly, drizzly day and we had tucked ourselves under the awning. She probably would have preferred to remain inside. In her position, so would I.

But, yes... gay Paris! The Tower has taken up sparkling again, there is art and inspiration for art everywhere, women go about in (reasonably) comfortable shoes. Le pain et les chocolats sont fantastiques. Even in a quiet little park there was an inspiring cat. It was thoroughly grey and rounded. Maybe there was more cat on its frame than needed be, but its lines were beautiful. It was so friendly so as to make photography difficult, constantly approaching the camera and playing with the wrist cord. It caused Craig to think that, perhaps, Chutney Wordsworth has been trying to emulate the drawings I've been doing, very linear. He's trying to be string-and-stick cat. I must draw this round grey Parisian cat and maybe my own little grey cat will attempt to become more three dimensional.

Then there is the transit system. Uncle John is right in that even the natives must carry guides. But that is no disparagement. The system is just so complex that to be most efficient carrying the maps is essential. Joe has even attached a little magnifying glass to his booklet for times of suboptimal illumination. Speedy, convenient, efficient, and economical: what's not to love? Yeah, sure, it's a subway and sometimes smells like it. But it takes my fond memories of San Francisco's Muni/BART system and sends them packing. As much as I love my City by the Bay, the City of Light has caught my eye. Nay, she's turning my head.