Easy Times in The Big Easy

Also known as Crescent City, NOLA,  but NOT the capital of Sportsman's Paradise as license plates dub the state (Louisiana)..
And what a city it is, especially  between seasons, as I and my friends found it the second long weekend of January, starting on the 6th - officially the first night (Twelfth Night, Epiphany, if you follow church calendars) and first parade of Mardi Gras with a casual ambulatory march honoring Joan of Arc, New Orleans' patron saint (she liberated the citizens of Orleans, France, from the British in the 1400s) , that included bagpipers in Scottish dress, great numbers of costumed folk heroes (cardboard, foil, fanciful touches of all kinds), horses with knights aboard, and  even angels fluttering their wings. Brassy and solemn at the same time. Spontaneity on every side of the evening procession witnessed by residents and tourists in equal number. This was  a legitimate 'crewe' or Krewe as the traditional celebratory groups or clubs are known. Mardi Gras itself is Feb. 5-9, with Fat Tuesday the last of Carnival before the first day of Lent on Ash Wednesday.
Famous if seemingly unlikely folk of all sorts put down roots in past days, including the French  painter Edgar Degas who lived  here in 1872 visiting the American branch of his family for five months at a key time in the city's cultural history. And British architect  Benjamin Latrobe,  (designer of the U.S. Capitol among other significant American buildings) who ended his life here, a victim of yellow fever in 1820
How to resist a city where a  funky restaurant with the odd name of Jacques-Imo advertises itself in neon as having "Warm Beer Lousy Food Poor Service." Not yet on the wholly Discovered list except to locals and friends. Paintings on the ceiling, Watermelon mojitos. duck breast with - what else? - pecans and mushrooms. Louisiana has plenty of all these.
The high point for visitors is being identified as  locals. Our party of four sat in Mr. B's bistro on Royal St. drinking our wine and Sazerac (rye whiskey, absinthe, bitters and an orange peel, no ice) when two women interrupted to comment  with words to the effect "oh you all must be natives." Because we were, if nothing else, wholly engaged in the ambiance and they were a pair of visiting physicists from the state of Washington, coming to town for a convention.
In NOLA, it's easy to pass for legitimate, since the mix of insiders and outsiders is  throughly blended. And make note too: the streetcars work - oldest continually operating trolleys in the world, going back to the early 1900s.

'Anything Goes': Cole Porter's World

Another Washington, D.C., November note:

For a farm boy, Cole Porter has to be considered one of the most 'urbanized' of men.
As the New York Times noted at the time of his death, age 72, in 1964, he and his wife were unstinting in their embrace of a grand lifestyle that took advantage of what every major city could offer, Paris, Venice, etc:

Their home on the Left Bank in Paris had platinum wallpaper and chairs upholstered in zebra skin,  and Mr. Porter once hired the entire Monte Carlo Ballet to entertain his  guests. For a party in Venice, where he rented the Palazzo Rezzonico for $4,000 a month, he hired 50 gondoliers to act as footmen and had a troupe of high-rope walkers perform in a blaze of lights.

 Unusual taste for  a man born on an Indiana farm. His talent showed early and later garnered him  enormous success and admiration across the board for a sophisticate who knew how to entertain the masses with such jazzy tunes as those in 'Kiss Me Kate' now playing at Shakespeare Theatre Company's Harman Hall. The production is loud and brassy -  starting with the opening sequence (the familiar "Another Op'Nin, Another Show") on a Baltimore backstage. (More city references follow: Padua, Mantua, Verona, etc., introduced in the show-within-a-show.)  What the revival lacks in subtlety, it makes up in a joyful display of acting and dancing talent. This is a show for a new generation hooked on instant feedback and sound bites, aiming for the solar plexus rather than the brain. Musical numbers come and go with crackerjack timing and breathtaking gymnastics. the www.shakespearetheatre.com

Cartoonists Without Their Pens

It wasn't surprising that a public symposium at the National Archives called "Drawn from the Headlines: Communication & Political Cartoons" would draw (!) an overflow crowd. Four top 'drawer' names in the field spoke off the cuff with moderator David Sipress, the longtime New Yorker magazine artist: Keith Knight, Jen Sorensen, Tom Toles and Signe Wilkinson. This took place only days after ISIS' carnage in Paris, less than a year since the Charlie Hebdo massacre, so it was a bit of a surprise that only later in the evening a question was asked about what limits the panelists impose on themselves, given first amendment rights to 'speak truth to power.'
But whose truth and what kind of power?
"As a functioning cartoonist I'm extremely conflicted. it's a real quagmire. In the history of political cartooning there have been shameful chapters - viciously anti-Semitic and extremely racist  work- that have had serious consequences," said Toles (a Pulitzer Prize winner  with the Washington Post ). It's not that he would refuse to consider mockery but in what context, he seemed to say. To what end?
The balance, always the balance, was the answer to another question about the best way to get a point across: not to be too obscure'; not to be 'too clever.'
"You want [the point or message] to be like the viewer thought it up himself," said Sipress, whose introductory remarks included guidelines the New Yorker follows. (You can't advocate for a cause, or support any one party. Caricatures are forbidden, so he sticks to archetypes. I.e a politician who rants like a king can be portrayed in royal robes. Witness a recent drawing of his showing two kings in the midst of opposing armies saying, one to the other"On the other hand, we could join forces and attack the media." Which of the presidential candidates haven't hinted or proclaimed this outright?
Signe Wilkinson, best known for her work with the Philadelphia Daily News, one of two women panelists ('today there is woman who is a full-time paid cartoonist"), batted off any suggestion about a 'woman's point of view' as did Jen Sorensen, who called herself a 'generalist,'  open to the world. "The first goal is to make a point," in any piece. "The second is to be funny." Comedy chops are required above all or who would bother. " Knight, creator of (th)ink and other columns, keeps in mind "the guy in the bar." He told of the rise of 'niche' cartoonists, even one who deals solely in sex toys - a symbol of the  ever-divisible media world where the cartoonist has maybe have a thousand followers, receiving maybe $75 from each. An audience but not much of a living...

Urban Lady's Allure

November 2015
The French-American artist Louise Bourgeois was certainly an urban lady. She had all the family dysfunction  you could imagine but instead of taking out her hurts on others, she turned to art and the art world followed -  slowly. But it finally found and embraced her sculptures and later prints and drawings, although the latter  may not be as familiar to contemporary fans as her provocative and commanding sculptures. She is the spider woman, known best for the graceful but intimidating immense form she composed in many guises. (See it in the National Gallery of Art's Sculpture Garden, among other places.)
NGA currently offers a fine new exhibit of some of these lesser-known works in the West Wing, nearly all real and promised acquisitions for their Bourgeois collection. Curiously, one of the most arresting pieces on show is a small white sculpture (kept well protected so not to tempt prying fingers) illustrating the thrust of several fingers through a round base angled on its side.There is a suggestion of lusciousness in the shape, as NGA curator Judith Brodie  pointed out in a press preview, saying, coincidentally, how "Chocolate (for itself and as a subject) is very popular with artists." There's much to see in these two small rooms about variety of LB's creative impulses and their relation to the times. She grew up in the 'age of anxiety' so-called, a time when a existentialism was in flower thanks partly to Jean Paul Sartre. "No Exit," however , wasn't entirely a negative in her mind. It had also to do with free will  - the ability to choose one's life. Bourgeois did that to the end of her life, making freedom and positivity her hallmark, staying active and engaged until her death at 98 in 2010. 

Boom Boom Town

Praises be, the District of Columbia and a few - very few - of its suburban 'hoods, are being hailed as hot. With hot goes hype and high prices. And the hordes coming through.
While earnest informed voices offer free insights into relationships between art and literature at the National Gallery of Art these days (thanks in part to integration of Corcoran collection of American painting), a few blocks away the redoubtable Harrington Hotel and Harriet's restaurant soldiers on to accommodate the 'foreign hordes.' (Yes, increasing numbers of tourists coming all seasons to DC).   Notably, according to our chef source, a stutterers' convention came to dine,  as often do  FBI  employees having celebrations since the restaurant can guarantee no direct shot into its dining room from any outside protagonist. And recently, the entire body of a Caribbean island high school, plus  sons and daughters of some of Mexico's richest families who matriculate and travel with bodyguards in tow. Improbably enough, they were seated next to a group of solidly right white offspring from the  South, and never the twain did meet - or even talk together.
Such variety is the stuff of life. The Mexican kids - no surprise - opted for spice and more spice; the offspring of alleged KKK boasted of a rib eating contest - up to 12 and then 24, as though this were an initiation into manhood. Eat and compete; grow bigger, die sooner.

On a Greek Island: So Near, So Far

Chios is one of several islands in western Greece nearest to Turkey that  represent salvation after migrants' uncertain journey across the sea in smugglers' boats that invariably are overcrowded and unsafe. Chiostown, like Mytilene on Lesbos, becomes their home while they wait for a ferry to take them to Athens and the start of a much longer journey north..
Because Lesbos is closer to Turkey - a bare three miles on a good day - many more of these voluntarily displaced persons (migrants and refugees are often interchangeable in purpose and methods) end up there. Media has made known many of their faces and stories  and many if not most migrants are  equally familiar with media.; cell phones are as ubiquitous as ponchos and backpacks - their only real home being what they carry with them in their pockets and on their backs.
I was in Chios recently,  staying in a small secluded settlement with a clean pebble beach that has excellent swimming. This particular  area draws locals and tourists alike but not in great numbers since there is no through road, and the island itself is not known as a tourist mecca. On my first morning I and a few  others were in the sea, enjoying weightless freedom in clear temperate water when one of the boats was approaching within a hundred yards.
It is an unsetting disconnect to be physically present, to witness  the sight of such desperate travelers that they probably have come almost by accident to a place they cannot name. Navigation never is a sure thing in these waters, where winds  change quickly, and it's even worse when the craft is so fragile. They may not be able to control their direction - which ideally would be closer to  the main port. Arrival time is equally guesswork. (One dingy turned up the next day at 4 in the morning,  only yards away from our bungalows. Someone woke up and greeted them and they immediately apologized, saying in English they they hoped they didn't disturb anyone.)
To see in the distance a flimsy black rubber dingy topped by indistinct orange blobs - life jackets of  devious quality on human forms - is to forever change your sense of what is means to scan the horizon. The group drew near in silence until they felt the crunch of something solid  underneath and knew the dingy has made it to shore. Then shouts and cheers went up. They had touched land at last - Europe, their real goal. This group was made up of some 40 adults and children, stepping gingerly out of the vessel, helping one another  and then sitting down to rest. The dingy  is immediately disabled, so no one can force them back to sea; it then becomes a crumbled eyesore surrounded by discarded inner tubes and life jackets. It takes a few days but eventually most of the detritus is carried away by locals.  The first to go is the small outboard motor; if it still is operational,  fisherman from a nearby harbor  will grab it.

Tourists are citizens with up to date passports welcome in nearly every country; they  represent what migrants hope to be and have - stability and personal recognition.
This gap, the one between them and 'us,' is huge; awareness of it stings the conscience. There is only so much you feel you can do, you say, except pick up a camera and document the scene. Or is there? My heart goes out to them, and guilt ensues.The same tug at the heart one feels reading remotely about the phenomenon of hundreds of thousands of people from the Middle East and Asia in search of new life.
 Before leaving Washington  I solicited donations from a neighbor for some 'gently worn' me's shoes that he generously provided me in a almost-new backpack that I had in my room barely a hundred yards away up the beach that day.  Their own shoes would be soaked, I reasoned; anything dry in the moment might be welcome.

I  ran to change out of swimwear into 'decent' clothing, grabbed the bag  and walked hurriedly to where  two young men from the dingy were  happily showering  - the sort of simple cold water facility used by day swimmers to freshen up. They looked up and smiled, slightly surprised no doubt by a stranger suddenly dropping  by barelegged in a flimsy dress. It probably wasn't their first  experience being given handouts this way; Turkish people reputedly had been very generous, although Turkish officials were no longer inviting 'foreigners' to stay. The name of one of them was 'Ali' and the only English he knew was 'thank you, ' though we tried to talk more. I asked where they were from, how long was their trip. Aleppo they said - Syria. And they wanted to go to Germany.  Of course. "Not America?" I asked.Ali shook his head.
A large bus eventually came along , charging each passenger 3 Euros to go some 10 miles into a central plaza in Chios town where the UN Refugee Agency has erected  tents - but never enough tents, especially in a storm. The plaza is large and accommodating, attractive even, with  room for children to play on grass. There are  public washroom facilities - the men set up an informal barbershop outside one of them -  and nearby markets have food.  Another day I watched another group milling around the port.  This was a foul smelling dissolute place by a busy street where lines had been set up - presumably  in order to be registered. But, again, the men I spoke with - women kept to themselves, minding children for the most part - were friendly and eager to talk though our exchange was limited. "Journalist?" they said while I proceeded to try to interview a few of them. But again I wasn't able to find anyone able to say much in English. "Why don't you speak Arabic?" asked one, introducing himself as a math teacher. Another asked my age  and where I was from. 'America' only elicited another question: "How you like Assad?"

On my last day I saw another dinghy that had steered its way to a smaller beach near my lodging. This group had taken refuge around a chapel  by the road, as though they knew was this spot  where a bus would come for them. They took advantage of some trees and had strung ropes between them  to dry  wet clothes while waiting. I didn't see any locals around; no one offering help. (A cafe owner on the bigger beach  below always brought new arrivals bottles of water. ) One man I stopped outside his house said he had already given clothing earlier in the season and didn't appear ready to extend himself any further. I raised my hand in greeting as I walked by,  saying "welcome' and ' hello'  and 'congratulations'  - whatever that might mean to them at this point.The children waved back. Then  a tall gaunt  man came forward and put out his hands  in an imploring gesture.  "Shoes," he said. He couldn't have known about my earlier supply, could he?  I had no more to give except the flip-flops on my feet. Did he want those? I  wondered, feeling helpless and trapped. Trapped by feelings of despair on his behalf, dismay of my own, since what could I do at that moment? All I knew to do was to keep walking, shaking my head in sorrow that I had nothing to give.
Awkward, like I said. Awkward to be the observer, a spectator, hiding behind her photo lens, photographing The Other. But not nearly as 'awkward' as creating a new life in an unruly unknown world.
The word awkward hardly suffices but what word will do for the complexity of their world to date.

New York/August 2015

A  high and mighty iconic New York symbol: a water tower looms up within view of the new Whitney Museum on Manhattan's west side.