How Alfred Brendel Changed my Life

When I was younger and abroad for a year of studies in Rome, Italy, the arts--opera, dark churches with Michelangelo's statues lit up with a handful of lira coins, Italian fashion, the Renaissance streets of Florence, the endless hallways of the Louvre in Paris--overwhelmed me.

I worshiped at the feet of the David, succumbed to Verdi's Macbeth, and penned dribble in my journal surrounded by Monet's Water Lilies.

For Christmas, my traveling companion and I had purchased "limited view" tickets to see the Nutcracker in Paris. We stayed up for midnight mass at Notre Dame on Christmas Eve. It was cold, Paris quiet beneath snow, on Christmas morning. We bundled up, groggy and without a cafe in sight open, and headed into the postcard-perfect streets toward the theater.

"Limited view," we found out, translates to entirely-blocked view except for the thrilling bit of tulle gone airborne in the far, far, far left corner of the stage. (Needless to say, I have never been lured into "limited view" tickets again.)

Despite not being able to see the Nutcracker, a highly visual show, my friend and I were ecstatic with joy. We could hear every luscious note. We basked in the joy of the warm theater. (As student travelers in Europe during the winter, cold weather was a constant drag. Yet, of course, blustry winds gave the perfect incentive to stay in cafes or museums, feeding our caffeine and art addictions, respectively).

My year abroad in college was filled with art and conversation. We could pursue our passions with abandon and be rewarded with even more existential questions, a deeper thrill for life with a capital L.

Then life (with a very lower case l) intervened. Years pass. I was still in love with art, still in love with conversation. But life has a way of taking you along, taking you out of yourself. Perhaps this is called adulthood. The escape from constant (sometimes debilitating) self-awareness and longing for meaning with a M.

At any rate, my worship of art and artists remained, unexamined. I play chess like a fourth-grader, because that is when I learned to play. I played intensely and then moved on to other things, like four-square and dodge ball. In much the same way as I am still a fourth-grade chess player, my notion of the arts and artists got frozen in my college era.

Until. No single ah-ha moment to report here. Actually, still in college, I forced myself to read a biography of Rothko because I wanted to "get" modern (i.e. beyond the Renaissance) art. I fell in love with his work, much as I fell in love with just about everything I studied in college. I was an easy girl back then. Give me a book, an idea and I will love it. Period.

Since college I have met modern art fans. I started to go to modern art museums. (Gasp.) I saw a lot of stuff that irked me. I am tired of art that requires me to read the paragraph of drivel (sorry!) that explains it to me, the viewer. I grew tired of video installations that demanded my attention for (long) minutes of time with zero payoff. But.

But, some stuff has blown my mind. Hermann Nitsch, recently, for example. Or made me see the world and its truths more clearly, even when they are uncomfortable truths.

Somewhere along the way, I died my hair deep blue. (It only lasted a few months, but still.)

Then I read the biography of Marcel Duchamp. If you don't know his work, you can not understand modern art--both the Good and shockingly mediocre varieties.

I met some living, working artists. Saw their stuff. Visited studios. I debated with them about "art" and the role of the artists. We drank beer and doodled on napkins.

And finally I got a really whacked idea: write my own novel. And perhaps it is this last endeavor that really changed my relationship with art.

And I suppose I did have one ah-ah moment. It was last weekend in Vienna, over soft-boiled eggs, ruminating on the symphony's performance we had seen the day before. As I worked my way through a monologue about the experience of watching Alfred Brendel work the piano keys for Mozart (no problems with limited view tickets this time!), I put it all together for my patient brunch buddy between bites of yolk smeared on bread, for the first time:

When I was younger and being overwhelmed by art, I thought that superhuman geniuses had created art. (Of course, in some cases, this may be true. I believe in genius.) But now I see that art--painting, sculpture, collage, writing, poetry--is made by humans. Humans in touch with being alive in a fundamental, radical way. And so, I write. I write (create art) and teach because I am compelled by human nature to make art. To consume art. Or at least, the very least, die trying.

(Whew. That was long. I feel better now.)

What is Beauty?

You may have seen the ads for Dove's campaignforrealbeauty with real women showing off their non-model bodies--illicit curves, bold wrinkles, and plains as God so created them.

What is real beauty? And who gets to decide?

Damn. What a good ad campaign. I wonder if it will actually sell more Dove products? Who cares?

This video is short (less than a minute) but strikes a nerve.

Here is the video link:

http://www.campaignforrealbeauty.com/home_films_evolution_v2.swf

Wien

A weekend in Vienna:

espresso with orange liquor and cream,
boiled rump with apple horseradish, knee-high boots,
brunch everyday,streets crowded with shoppers,
Klimt, apple strudel, the symphony at 11 am, schnitzel,
Freud's House, organ concerts,
blood sausage strudel,
Beneton, Mozart, Genomics,
Mozart torte, dobos torte, The Couch, melange,
important scarves, Secession, Mango,
too much wine at dinner,
whipped cream,
Oberlaa, MQ, Demel, einhahn street,
Budapest but more, wiener,
soft-boiled eggs in egg cups and tiny spoons,
Bauhaus, bicycles, Hermann Nitsch,
bread and butter.

White Noise by Don Delillo

The writer is the person who stands outside society, independent of affiliation and independent of influence. The writer is the man or woman who automatically takes a stance against his or her government. There are so many temptations for American writers to become part of the system and part of the structure that now, more than ever, we have to resist. American writers ought to stand and live in the margins, and be more dangerous.
Writers in repressive societies are considered dangerous.
That's why so many of them are in jail.

Don DeLillo, from the 1988 interview with Ann Arensberg

I decided to read my first Don Delillo work after I heard Curtis Sittenfeld, author of Prep and The Man of My Dreams (see May 23rd blog entry) mention "White Noise" as her top pick of novels from recent literary history. I believe the New York Times had just published a list of the top novels selected by a list of current authors. The top choice was Beloved by Toni Morrison, which Sittenfeld candidly admitted that she had never read. When she mentioned White Noiseas her top choice, I made a mental note to include it on my reading list.

The first person narrator, Jack Gladney, tells his story with relentless honesty. The world is too much with him, indeed. Technology's comforting white noise is always present. His children have jaded vulnerabilities that make you ache and cringe. His youngest child, Wilder, is too young to speak at all, yet brings the most comfort to the family (and the reader) by simply existing. His needs--food, water, sleep--give human life a simple purpose.

As I read through the increasingly bizarre events, which take place in an all-too-familiar traditional college town, I found myself admitting to my own fleeting (yet real) fixation on my own death and the death of my loved ones. Do you indulge in detailed visions of what-if cancer strikes? What-if the drunk driver hits my car? What-if it is my bag of spinach that carries my deadly calling number? Admit it.

The characters in White Noise often wander the supermarket and ponder its contents and displays for meaning. Delillo's choice to have them observe the supermarketplace was a clever choice as shiny tinfoil packages of snacks can tell an eloquent tale about the America of this era.

My father worked in the grocery industry and so I grew up knowing that there were stories behind how the bananas got to the produce section. I learned that bananas start off as vegetables and end up as fruit. I saw the climate-controlled rooms where bananas are held--frozen in time--until they are deemed ready to ripen for the stores. I used to think this destroyed the poetry behind the apples and oranges. Of course now I realize that seeing behind the display cases was seeing the poetry of the process. As mechanical and ugly as the process may be in comparison to the finished fruit.

Jack and his wife Babette go about their daily lives and deal with an airborne toxic event causing them to evacuate their town beneath a comforting blanket of white noise. Beneath the noise, however, is the ever present fear of death. A fear that drives them to confront or avoid their existence with a fierce determination to escape the fear, even if they can't escape death itself.

While I have not had a chance to discuss White Noise with fellow readers, I have read a few reviews and visited other useful sites:

Crowding Out Death
by Jayne Anne Philips (originally appeared in the New York Times, January 13, 1985.)

New York Times Featured Author: Don DeLillo
This site contains reviews of DeLillo's books and an audio reading and interview.

The Don DeLillo Society
This site contains a bibliography, events, links, and more.

White Noise on White Noise
This site is a fun creation about White Noise.

Here are a few DeLillo quotes about writing:

I became a writer by living in New York and seeing and hearing and feeling all the great, amazing and dangerous things the city endlessly assembles. And I also became a writer by avoiding serious commitment to anything else.

DeLillo to Jonathan Bing, 1997

I write to find out how much I know. The act of writing for me is a concentrated form of thought. If I don't enter that particular level of concentration, the chances are that certain ideas never reach any level of fruition.
DeLillo in an article by William Leith in 1991

Literary News

Murakami Wins Short Story Prize

by Lawrence Van Gelder
Published September 27, 2006 in the New York Times

Haruki Murakami of Japan has won the second Frank O'Connor International Short Story Award, a $44,700 prize billed as the world's richest for short stories, The Guardian of London reported. Mr. Murakami is to share his prize for "Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman: Twenty-Four Stories" (Knopf) with his translators, Philip Gabriel and Jay Rubin. When the announcement of the winner was made in Cork, Ireland, the hometown of O'Connor (1903- 1966), the jury hailed Mr. Murakami as "a master of prose fiction," saying he "writes with great integrity, unafraid of dealing with tough and difficult situations between people who constantly misunderstand each other."

Read my January 4, 2006 blog entry about reading Murakami's book, "Kafka on the Shore."

Updating My Bookshelf

A not too smallish box arrived from Amazon today. This means it is time to update my not so current "current" bookshelf. I'd like to make separate entries about the following titles, but time may not allow.

Recently read:

White Noise by Don DeLillo

Three Junes by Julia Glass

The Bonfire of the Vanities by Tom Wolfe

The Road from Coorain by Jill Ker Conway

Uglies by Scott Westerfeld

It is an eclectic collection.--literary fiction, autobiography, and young adult fiction. I would be happy to tell you more about any of these titles if you would like a preview before you buy.

I've updated my "Current Bookshelf" in the sidebar to reflect my newest obsessions.

YWCA and Ten Thousand Villages

support the
YWCA of St. Joseph County

by shopping at
Ten Thousand Villages
919 W. McKinley, Mishawaka
20% of the day's sales will go to the YWCA
10 am-6 pm Friday, Sept. 22

For more information:
Joann Phillips
Resource Development Director
YWCA of St. Joseph County
1102 S. Fellows St., South Bend, IN 46601
PH (574) 233-9491, ext. 316; FAX (574) 233-9616 jphillips@ywcasjc.org

mark your calendars!

spread the word!

Club Noma, Downtown South Bend

I had heard the owner of the new Club Noma speak about his plans for the hip new bar and restaurant for several years. Those well laid plans have finally been realized.

Last night we headed downtown South Bend to find some dinner and catch a bit of the Ohio v. Texas football game. The regular haunts were packed and so we gave up on the game and enjoyed the delicious soups at the Chocolate Cafe. Heading home, we noticed the Now Open sign in front of Club Noma. Despite our grungy dress, we couldn’t resist the opportunity to peak inside.

We were greeted with hors d'oeuvre of duck, salmon caviar, and chicken--all tasty Asian fusion morsels, a promise of what the dinner menu holds. The bar is a work of art. The owner's eye for detail is truly extraordinary. The bar attendants are stylish and classy (not to mention hot). The live DJ is turning the tables, backlit by smooth water lights. The music is right on for the hip vibe pulsing through the miniature jellyfish orbs over the bar, the bare brick walls (waiting for their soon-to-arrive neon logo), and blood red leather couchettes. Hot, hot, hot.

And soon the center stage will be taken by an enormous free standing jellyfish aquarium. We all know how mystically gorgeous those creatures are. They captivate with their sensuous arms and transparent bodies. Hot music, throbbing jellyfish, and did I mention the martinis?

I am a classic vodka martini girl, a little dirty, with blue cheese olives. None of those fancy sweet concoctions for me. But you would be surprised how difficult it is to find a good plain old martini--and I am not just talking about our bendy city.

Martini Report Card for Club Noma: A+

While I am a straight up martini kind of girl, Club Noma has a tempting list of martini cocktails. I might have to go for the one with pear in its description. Sounds healthy. I need to balance my olives with a daily fruit serving, per the suggestion of my good doctor.

Congratulations to the owner and staff at Club Noma. Well done.

Applause. Applause. Applause.

The official grand opening will be Thursday, September 14th.

Club Noma description
http://www.opentable.com/rest_profile.aspx?rid=4936

Club Noma
119 North Michigan Street
South Bend, IN 46601
Their website:
http://www.clubnoma.com/

South Bend Tribune Review
September 20, 2006
"New South Bend fusion restaurant reflects a vision"
by Heidi Prescott

Art Beat 2006, Downtown South Bend

http://www.artbeatsouthbend.org/

Russian Tea Time

My parents emailed us with the announcement: They had planned a tour of their six children to celebrate their 45^th wedding anniversary. This trip would take them a few miles across town, hundreds of miles across the prairie, to Northern Indiana, the East Coast, and the Rocky Mountains within a week. They asked us to pick out a nice restaurant for each night of their weekly weddinganniversarypalooza.

I met them in Chicago and took them to a little place I had discovered a few years ago. It is a Russian restaurant, Russian Tea Time, with old world red velvet drapings, samovars, and nesting dolls. Lots of mirrors and attentive waiters. When I was sixteen, I convinced my parents to let me become a People to People Ambassador. I flew to Moscow and studied biology in Sochi along the Black Sea Coast. I viewed Stalin’s mummified body in great solemnity. I visited a tea plantation and ate fresh raspberries atop a mountain.

I was a sixteen-year-old Kansas girl serving as Ambassador of Peace. It was 1991 and political upheaval was the rule, little did I fully realize as I went about selecting the perfect black-lacquered box as a memento for my treasure chest back home.

So the selection of Russian restaurant to honor my parents’ 45^th anniversary was no accident. They gave me Russia, and I thought it would be nice to share a Russian meal with them.

We started with a flight of vodkas—bilberry, cranberry, and plain. These vodkas, served with dark rye bread chunks and pickles, go down like velvet. A fine way to start any long, long lunch.

We decided to share a sampler meal because we couldn’t decide between all the delicious options. Borscht (served hot, the traditional way), beet caviar, stuffed mushrooms. Followed by stuffed cabbage, Moldavian chicken meatballs, a breaded chicken delight, beef stroganoff, kashi and rice.

The finish must be handled with care. We managed it properly by drinking endless cups of deep amber Russian tea (available for sale on their website) and a selection of strudels, cookies, and cakes.

A hearty almost three-hour celebration.

The restaurant is located a few steps from the Art Institute, but the day was too mild to ruin by going indoors. So we headed to the Millennium Park to watch kids and adults splash in the Crown Fountain, a public art fountain. If you haven’t visited this park, go now. It is really one of my favorite parks in the world. Very well done. Especially worth it on a mild, sunny, and breezy day.

It was a brief world wind visit. I hope they do the same for their 46^th anniversary!