A thoughtful story

January drifting towards February at 5:30-ish or so on a Saturday evening in western Pennsylvania. I love the midnight blue of the winter sky.

Last week I finished "The Sense of an Ending," by Julian Barnes.

C & I went on a buying spree the previous weekend at Barnes & Noble (gift cards!). I had been looking for Stacy Schiff's biography of Cleopatra, but it was nowhere to be found. Had read a review of the Barnes book, so I picked it up.

It's a book that makes you think about who you, and the people you have known, are.

The protagonist, Tony Webster, is average, normal, full of the youthful expectations, along with his pals, of a life waiting to begin. A romance goes wrong, a letter is sent and Tony goes on to live a quiet, ordinary, life, avoiding being hurt.

There's the rub. Even ordinary people can be awful, without meaning to be. The survival mechanism, to avoid pain, turns out to have the ironic ability to inflict it.

Having avoided pain, Tony is oblivious to how he causes it in others. He's not a bad person, he's very reflective, but keeps missing the main point.

The tale ends, as he puts it, with "Great Unrest."

This is a book that demands rereading it. Read for structure first and nuance later.

Not to go on a rant, but in terms of cultural experiences, "The Sense of an Ending" beats "The Artist" hands down. End of not going on a rant.

"The Artist"

Is not all that great.

Where there should be mugging, there is silent talking. And talking. And more talking. For a silent film, there should be more shuttin' up.

What was great about silent films? No dialogue. So the action had to move fast. This was a long, slow, boring, poorly edited film. Oh, and in black and white, with the opportunity for lots of shots with good contrast? Meh.

My vote goes to "Hugo," richer visually and a better story.

Bad Design

So.

I am having kind of a bad run. Not writers' block but designers' block.

Perhaps today that run is over. More on that later.

Here's the thing. Design is a big buzzword these days, but what it is truly about is communication. Something needs to be made and someone needs to make it. Easy, right?

No.

Something needs to be made and too many people weigh in on how. Someone needs to make it and too many people have weighed in on how and the people who have made the parts have made them in a vacuum.

Today's case in point. A newspaper page with several stories. One deemed the most interesting. Problem: No communication between writer and picture taker. No discussion about story angle, what's interesting, good details. Just two souls in the same room, oblivious to each other. Oh, and the subject, who looks unhappy.

Result: Bad picture (Fact). Not real great story (Opinion).

Further result: Designer (Me) trying to make lemonade out of lemons.

So. First attempt, I am ticked off and do the dumb thing: Draw a lame page, because, why not? Apparently no one else cares.

Then. I go to the gym and sweat out the ticked-off-ness. Come back to work and make a save. Not great, but better than first attempt.

Page tomorrow will show a saddish-looking man in a static pose with a nice headline and a sort of OK background.

Could have been better. But no one talked to each other.

The more-on-that-later part: Never let someone's half-assed-ness (or even less than that) become your own.

The end.

Then & now

Walking from the Mon Wharf parking lot this morning, I passed, the pylons for the Wabash Bridge. The bridge is long gone, along with a fabulous building of the same name.

But when I first moved to Pittsburgh in the early 1980s, the amputated pylons had flagpoles on them. The flags were just tall strips of colored fabric, but they made the relics seem that some part of the present recognized their past. Gradually, the flags faded and frayed and today the pylons are unadorned except for more than a century's worth of soot, grime, coal dust and other noxious lichens.

As I walked, the soles of my shoes slapped against the 21st century: A river walk paved in Pennsylvania blue stone that will eventually connect with other trails, but that is, for now, an isolated patch. And not quite as the architect's rendering envisioned. College kids hang out there, and so do the homeless and Canada geese. They all leave trash. People who park on the wharf there just scurry from car to stairway, under the rumbling of interstate traffic overhead.

Still, it's nice. I like it anyway.

Seeing the pylons for the millionth time this morning, I thought of all the lives, buildings, dreams and plans that have rushed by, faded and blossomed, or died in the years since they were built. And still, there they are. Worn, weathered and pretty much forgotten, but reminders of the passage, and deep richness, of time.

(No photo tonight. Blogger not in an upload mood.)

40 years later

Mom's house is for sale.

The last home we moved to, after Georgia Avenue, Stillwater Avenue, Gregorio Drive, Rue de L'enfer and I don't know how many others because I was too young to remember the names.

The house that Mom and Dad painted, dressed in blue painters' jumpsuits.

The house where I got married and celebrated my 25th wedding anniversary.

The house with the pool that made for so much splashing hilarity.

The house with the wormwood paneling around the living room fireplace and the ancient swingsets in the side yard.

The house with a landscape for birds (hummers!), deer, skunk (to Cole's and Elizabeth's and Ralph's dismay).

The house where Daddy died, and where Grammio died, too.

The house of family time, dinner conversation and quiet places.

The house of mirth. In the very, very best sense.

And the house of love.

Paul Rudd v Jack Black (or) xxx v xxx. Discuss.

Picture this:
Four sisters, ranging in age from around 50 to around 40, lucky enough to still be able to gather at the family home for Christmas. We four rent a movie, "Our Idiot Brother" and settle in to watch in the family room. There is a lot of silence and a few chuckles. Consensus: Um, OK.

Now picture this:
The night shift guys at work, talking about "Our Idiot Brother" tonight as I left. Their description: Awesome. Then more guy-sharing about guy-type movies. I withhold comment and say goodnight.

Paul Rudd is not bad. "My Idiot Brother" is. "Wet Hot American Summer" was better and "I Love you Man" falls in between.

Is he better than Jack Black? Hmm.. JB has "Hi Fidelity" and "School of Rock" to his credit. Then there's "The Holiday" and that's 2+ hours of my life that I want back.

So:
PR: Pretty darn good in "Wet Hot American Summer." But that doesn't beat JB in "Hi Fidelity" and "School of Rock."

Win: Jack Black

That's a wrap, everyone!

Cut the chatter

One thing I like about public transportation is the simultaneous sense of community and solitude.

We board, stow bags, adjust devices or open reading materials. We chat with or nod to fellow passengers, watch from the windows or drowse after a long work day.

On buses, planes, trains or ships, we are connected by vehicle, by departure and destination.

In sports stadiums, once upon a time, there was only the sound of the crowd murmuring or the crack of a bat. The whoosh of a football perfectly thrown or a puck perfectly passed. A punch perfectly aimed.

On the bus, plane or train, there is still the settling in murmur and buzz. In the sports stadiums, all sense of community has been abandoned in favor of obedience to the scoreboard messages and sideline performances of manic cheer kids, racing mascots and flying T-shirts and hot dogs.

I like the quiet murmurs of going home because it means the constant chatter of the brain -- the hum and buzz of the mind guiding us through the day -- goes briefly quiet.

Getting outside is another way to quiet the chatter inside.

I snapped this picture of the Mellon Square fountain steps today (Omni William Penn in the background) on the way to buying bus tickets at Port Authority's Smithfield Street center. If proposed cuts go through, I'll have one less vehicle on which to savor community and solitude.

But the daily walk will still be there, and I am looking forward to seeing this space restored. A truly great mid-century design in Pittsburgh, Mellon Square, is getting a face-lift. At the one-minute mark of this video, you can see the steps as they appeared in the 1950s, when the park opened. The narration notes that little remains of original plantings. That's true of other Pittsburgh Renaissance projects, including some of the Gateway Center spaces. (That's fodder for another day.)

My mom & I stayed at this hotel way back in 1980 or so, when I had been hired for my first job in Pittsburgh. Mom came with me to help me look for an apartment.

We both remember there was a lot of chatter in the room next door.

Martin Luther King Jr. Day

Left the house at around 8:25 a.m.; first thing I saw was a hawk swooping toward the park, a small shadow of something in its talons. It kept lighting on branches then lifting off, finally flapping out of sight. I couldn't see details, because the sun was in front of him; only silhouette.

I walked on, stopped for coffee and hopped on the train.

Got off, and felt utterly surrounded by the sounds of shuffling feet, shifting bags and ultra loud PA announcements in the underground cave of the Wood Street Station. It seemed, for lack of a better word, really enormous. Because I began to think of people all over the world, shuffling off to work on a January Monday.

Spies and curls

Sunday.
Sleeping in. Late brunch accompanied by the NYT.
Showers. More newspaper time. (I really like Sunday with the paper.)
Then a movie.
"Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy."

Made me sleepy. (Sorry, Gary Oldman).
Betwixt and between, laundry, dinner and other sundry things having to do with daily life.

After dinner, rolled up my locks in rags. Hope hair looks nice tomorrow.

In which I meet Gerry, Bear and Edie (and miss 2 trains)

Here is how the day started: Yep. That's what I saw at the T station. Missed the 8:36. Figured I'd wait for the 8:55 instead. What the hell.

I had part of the paper, a magazine and a book. Dropped the paper and the book onto the wet pavement, picked up latter trying to figure out how to dry it without wiping it on my: hands, coat, skirt, stockings. No worries. A young woman in jeans and a jacket saw me holding the book between (figuratively) thumb and forefinger, marched over, grabbed it and said, "I'm wearing work clothes. Here." Then she swabbed it across her jean-clad thighs. What a sweetie! (Though I was kind of embarrassed.)

Pittsburghers are nice that way. (Oh, and a gentleman also picked up my newspaper. Seriously, I was not only late this morning, but a total klutz. And I wasn't even carrying coffee.)

So.

Finally Downtown, and even though I am looking forward to having a closer stop once construction of the North Shore connector is done, I will miss getting off at Wood Street. Because walking from there, I get to see this cool, white terra cotta-tile clad building on Liberty Avenue (left and detail at right). Interviewed (very badly) for a job there once, long ago. Still like the building.

The day hums along. I work. Drink coffee, go to the gym, work some more and ask my boss if I can leave a bit early to start my weekend. (Off Friday, woo hoo!).

Passing the Fairmont, I spot Edie, the hotel's canine ambassador, inside. I've been a wanting to meet her, so in I go. Edie proves elusive, trotting off to meet guests having drinks, including Gerry (pronounced Gary, she tells me) and Bear (true names, seriously). Gerry works for the Pittsburgh Public Theatre. Bear has very long hair and looks like an actress. Gerry says I look familiar and then we all agree I look like Tina Fey.

I had followed Edie to their little lobby nook, we exchange pleasantries and find that my friend Sharon is a mutual acquaintance.

Edie wanders off and I say my goodbyes to G & B and a staffer offers to take my picture with Edie.

Aren't we adorable!?

However.

My little diversion means, again, at the end of the day, I arrive at a train station only to see the caboose (figuratively again) disappearing into the distance.

That's OK. I got to meet Edie and Gerry and Bear.

Detroit

I had something else in mind to write about tonight.

Then I got to thinking. (Uh oh!)

Here's how that happened. I put together the business page for Tuesday's (011012) Good Morning Post-Gazette. (Inside A, black and white, boring -- or inspiring if that's how you want to look at it -- art.)

Anyway, main story is the North American Auto Show, opening today (1/9/12) in Detroit.

Hey! I've been there! And I've had a great tour guide in my friend Carol Morton. Friends Ellen Mazo & Virginia Linn and I drove up for Carol's birthday in October and she treated us to a day's tour of Detroit, which we followed up by driving to Grand Rapids, about 2 hours west, to take in the Art Prize. (That will be another post.)

It was a great weekend and I am so glad to have had the chance to see Detroit. Admittedly not the really dicey parts, but wow, the center city architecture is wonderful.

The Book Building is my favorite.

The picture is of the abandoned lobby of the Detroit Free Press, which moved to cheaper digs. Sad in so many ways.

But with so much beauty there, and throughout the Rust Belt, a comeback is inevitable. (Heck, Frank Lloyd Wright was practically promiscuous in Michigan.) These cities are encyclopedias of 20th century Industrial Age architecture. Here's hoping they're all strapped enough to leave the buildings standing, rather than tearing then down.

Wouldn't that be fabulous? (By the way, the Motown Museum was fabulous, also. I miss Marvin Gaye.)

Memory & narrative

This is 2012 and I have a personal trainer at the gym. Twice a week for 30-minute sessions. Thursday was our get-acquainted session. Liz is a nice young woman and good in the enthusiasm/cheery/friendly mode.

While I warmed up on the treadmill, she asked me about me, my interests, etc. Kind of like the dentist asking same while you have a mouthful of gauze. I talked, jobbed and puffed, watched by Liz's very bright blue eyes.

I love to take walks, that was one of my interests for Liz. I got to explaining how Dad's mom would drag/march/accompany us kids all over D.C. when we were little. Not for the purpose of dragging or marching, but for pleasure and enrichment. Gram loved D.C. and she loved exposing her grand-kids to its treasures.

So few of the memories Grandma and Washington remain with me in full. So many years later, they are impressions.

A Marine band concert on a summer night.
The fountain of Mercury at the National Gallery.
The heart tree at the Library of Congress (we called it that because it had a scar in a heart shape).
The furniture at Gram's apartment at 215 C Street; the ladderback, cane-seat chairs from (I think) Aunt Clara's house in St. Louis. The heavy jar of change she kept in a bureau drawer, which she brought out for us to count on every visit.

Such tiny fragments. I don't remember Gram's love, or attention, but I hang on to those fragments so I can keep telling that story; a story that has helped build who I am. Someday the story may become part of Brynne and Henry and Louis and Graham, and it will get distilled and changed again.

Another memory, prompted by my evening ritual of braiding my hair:

My mother's mother, in her 70s and 80s, with a thick grey coil of braid wrapped around her head. Watching her plait it, the coil pulled around front to her chest it was so long. I thought it was beautiful and I loved that she tied it off with a strand pulled from her brush, wrapped tightly around the end of the plait.

After GrandDad died, she cut it off, Mom says. It was too much to take care of. I don't remember that at all.

Carl & I went to "Laugh Out Loud" by the Second City comedy group Friday night. (Wow, the improv was impressive and funny! I cannot imagine thinking that fast on my feet.)

We had a nice dinner, went to the show and chatted briefly with friends afterwards. It was really a lovely evening; a date, something, like traveling, we have gotten away from in recent years.

On the way back to the car, I took this shot of a pop-up art installation on 6th Street. Fraley's Robot Repair.

Peter Paul Rubens, please paint me!

So.

New year. New resolutions.

My first is that Peter Paul Rubens, somehow, should paint me, in my Rubenesque incarnation as a 5 foot, 6 inch woman who weighs, today, either 139 pounds or 142 pounds, depending on whether I weigh myself at the gym downstairs in the locker room (139) or upstairs in front of all the huffers and puffers and stretchers and benders (142) two minutes later.

Well. From now on, I weigh myself from upstairs to down.

Anyway, as someone who weighed 125 pounds two years ago, I'm thinking now is my only chance to be a carnal beauty like Leda here (leaving out, of course, all that ancient drama). Cause that extra lardage is a' comin' off. My personal trainer will take care of it. ;)

Really.

I signed up for a year's worth of sessions to amp up my desultory treadmill and rowing machine sessions. It'll cost me, but the first workout was worth it. My heart rate is still up eight hours later; I'll be sleeping shortly, but that muscle will still be working hard.

(Wonder if I'll get better dreams out of this?)

Anyway, Mr. Rubens, if you and your art pals in the great beyond are by some odd quirk of the cosmos paying attention, paint me, dude.

This is your only chance.

Only no swans.

Read more about Peter Paul Rubens at artsy.net