Snowflake Shadows

It started with the lightest of touches: tiny crystals, pinpricks of light, danced before us like part of our personal 3D movie, as we left the late show of Avatar.

The big snow that saw out January in Richmond didn't have winds forceful enough to earn the name of blizzard, nor were we exactly snowbound, but by morning there was sure a lot of it.

From upstairs windows, we watched a stuck car shimmying in the middle of the block, wheels sunk halfway into the snow, while a few yards further on, some young folks pushed a truck across its path.

It was well past noon when Jim and I finally bestirred ourselves and, fortified with French toast and fried potatoes, ventured outside, he to shovel the sidewalks and I to play.

The snow was dry, so instead of a snowman, I heaped and pressed it into a castle, which ended up looking a bit like a lopsided wedding cake ensconced in a wagon wheel. I used a stick to poke it full of windows, and stuck some twigs in it to stand for ramparts or flags.

Late in the afternoon, we tromped around the neighborhood. Amazingly, the wine store was open so we of course supported our local merchant by buying a bottle.

Down the block, even more amazingly, a placard outside Taste Buds declared it to be opening at 5. It was already 6 and the place was empty.

"We could save the soup for tomorrow," I said, "and support our local restaurant." Jim thought that would be a fine idea as long as I we went there right away, after turning off the soup, without showering or changing.

That we did, and as we walked back to Taste Buds through light but steady snow, on the road ahead we saw something neither of us remembered ever having seen before: 

Gray spots, shadows of large snowflakes, dipped and twirled, then disappeared in an instant, as the flakes landed on their bed of snow.  It felt like watching candles going out, but these were anti-candles. 

Magical, mysterious, hypnotic--they held our eyes till we stepped inside, and I missed them when they were gone.   

I wish we could have filmed them--surely someone has (Maya Deren, Stan Brakhage, Michael Snow?). Later I searched YouTube for Snowflake Shadows, but found only constructed snowflakes--mobiles and stationery and stuff.  

I'm still looking.

Waste Not

Joanne and I managed to catch "Waste Not" at MOMA on Labor Day weekend just before it closed, and months later I'm still thinking about the show, remembering the hypnotic power of all the stuff--possessions gathered over a lifetime--laid out on the gallery floor, the experience of walking through it, and how people reacted to it.

"It's to show where something goes," a guy behind us told the woman he was with, who'd asked about a mark on the floor. "Not that this is a show that's likely to travel. Might be when it closes, they should just haul everything to the dump."

Actually, the show, by Chinese artist Song Dong in collaboration with his mother, Zhao Xiang Yuan, had already traveled--it was first installed at Beijing Tokyo Art Projects in 2005.

Wherever the show's future--and I hope there will be one--it's well documented on MOMA's website:
http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/961





There, along with photos and an interview with Song Dong, you'll find the book prepared for the show's first installation in both Chinese and English.

Keep clicking "Next" and you'll be able to read all the text that accompanied the exhibition at MOMA (including Zhao Xiang Yuan writing about laundry soap).









Maybe like me, you'll find yourself thinking about the meaning of the stuff in your own life, and what you value, what you crave, and what you fear.

Magic Circles

Last Saturday, for 45 minutes, I race-walked the ramp of the Guggenheim, reveling in the magic and beauty of one dazzling Kandinsky after another.

An hour would have been better, two hours would have been better still, a night in the Guggenheim would have been great, a week in the museum might have been ideal.

But 45 minutes were all we had, and we made the most of them--30 minutes up the ramp, with a quick detour to take in the prints, and 15 minutes down, as lights were being turned off on the levels above us.

To earn those 45 minutes, my friend Jeff and I had spent an hour shivering in the slow-moving line that circled the Guggenheim, wondering whether we would actually get in. It was pay-what-you-will evening--a paltry two hours (5:45-7:45 pm)--and we'd naively assumed that the cold would be enough of a deterrent to fellow art-lovers that we'd get in quickly.

I'd have happily paid the usual admission for this show, steep though it is, but given work commitments, this was my last chance--which I'd have missed entirely if not for Jeff's email earlier in the day.

Once inside, there was yet another line to stand in, though a faster-moving one. A sign said the last tickets would be sold at 7:15 and we made our token payments at 7:12, wondering if someone would bother to tell those still waiting in line outside that they hadn't a chance of getting in.

Usually when I've sped through a museum like this, it's been for work that I have a more casual interest in, not for radiant, powerful paintings like Kandinsky's.

This felt like speed-watching, a few seconds at most for works I'd have entered if I could, or sat down in front of and taken in without thought of time.

Or gorging on the richest of meals, engaging in a 45-minute caviar-eating competition.

On the way down, we looked at more labels to find out where besides the Guggenheim we might be able to see some of these again--Moscow, Munich, Paris.

But for now, brief though our visit was, my winter, my year, my life, have been illuminated by images and colors that still burn in my brain.

If you're in or near New York City and haven't seen this extraordinary exhibit, go if you can. Your last chance will be Wednesday, January 13. If you're a grown-up, you'll pay $18.

It's worth it.

www.guggenheim.org

Aphra Behn lives!

. . . on stage at the Women's Project in Liz Duffy Adams' rollicking farce "Or," along with her pals, Charles II and Nell Gwynne. Beautifully written and dashingly performed by Maggie Siff (Behn), Kelly Hutchinson (Gwynne et al.), and Andy Paris (Charles et al.), the play's a tribute to Restoration theater, as well as to its brilliant heroine. Now I want to read everything Behn wrote.

You have through December 13 to catch this remarkable production, though I hope it reopens elsewhere soon.

Julie Miles Theater
424 W. 55
212.239.6200

World's Simplest Chocolate Truffle Recipe

Maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but this recipe is about as easy as they come and practically foolproof--about all you can do to ruin it is burn the chocolate.

9 1/2 oz. bittersweet chocolate
4 Tb unsalted butter
1 C. heavy cream
up to 3 T rum or brandy, or 1 T vanilla
cocoa or ground nuts (optional)

Melt the chocolate in a double boiler or (taking care not to burn) in microwave--or if you have neither, in a saucepan over very low heat stirring frequently.

Cook butter and cream in a saucepan over medium heat till they boil; then remove from heat, and carefully stir in chocolate and flavoring.

Set the pan in a larger pan of ice water, and whisk until the mixture thickens enough to hold a peak (it will lose most of its shine)--should take 5-10 minutes. Don't worry if you accidentally splash in a little water. My sister Kristine and I did this once, and thought the the end result had an unusually silky texture.

Use two teaspoons (or a melon scoop and the tip of a fork) to form truffles--number will depend on size.

Set them on a cookie sheet (no need to grease), pie tin, or similar surface; cover with plastic wrap or waxed paper, and refrigerate for an hour. Then roll them in cocoa or ground nuts if desired.

I've always just kept these in the fridge for as long as they lasted, but Kristine says they'll survive mailing.

Subtext of the Week

LOOK CLOSER

. . . read the headline on an ad I glimpsed through a subway window on Saturday. Below was the headless image of a lithe model, clad in white short shorts and brief, midriff-baring top, doing a backbend.

Look closer at what, I wondered--shoulders, knees, crotch?

Reading the text to the right of the model, I learned that she was advertising, not a yoga or exercise studio, but a giant health insurance company. Can't recall the exact words, but the message was something about "how well we've got you covered."

They'd chosen an odd image for such a message, but a revealing one. The model displayed about as little coverage as is likely allowed on a subway platform.

To me, the ad said--with more truth in advertising than was likely intended:

This company will give you the bare minimum of coverage.

And come winter--or when you really need it--you'll be out in the cold.

Debashish Bhattacharya

This is the fifth year of the Richmond Folk Festival, and every year I've been thrilled to hear some wonderful music that was new to me.

Last night it was Debashish Bhattacharya, an amazing slide guitarist and his brother Subhasis on tabla. The music was haunting, hypnotic, and powerful--and, to me, at least, incredibly sexy.

The festival continues today and tomorrow at Brown's Island and the grounds of the American Civil War Center. See Richmondfolkfestival.com

The festival is free, but donations are welcome.