Archives for September 2003

Too much, too much–and a hurricane to boot. I’ve had enough for one week. You must content yourself with a varied but essentially miscellaneous set of offerings today. I’ll post something more ambitious on Monday. Today’s topics, from brisk to torrential: (1) Puck in shades. (2) Dancers without money. (3) The Iran National Museum and its discontents. (4) An opening line I wish I’d written. (5) It must be Jelly, ’cause jam don’t swing like that. (6) The debut of “Today’s Installment” (part one of an enigmatic new daily feature). (7) The latest almanac entry.

Have a nice weekend. In the immortal words of J.J. Gittes, I plan to do as little as possible.

I went to Washington last Friday for the opening of Shakespeare in Hollywood, Ken Ludwig’s new play, at the Arena Stage. My review is in this morning’s
Wall Street Journal. Here’s how it starts:

I’ve been spending so much time in Manhattan aisle seats that I almost forgot there was life beyond the Hudson River. To recapture my sense of perspective, I took a train to Washington, home of the Arena Stage, a well-regarded regional theater-in-the-round that launched its new season last Friday with the world premiere of Ken Ludwig’s “Shakespeare in Hollywood,” a noisy, funny, thoroughly agreeable play about what happens when two of the Bard’s best-known characters take a wrong turn at Albuquerque and find themselves stuck on a soundstage.

“Shakespeare in Hollywood,” which runs through Oct. 19, is based on a real-life event that in retrospect seems almost as comically implausible as Mr. Ludwig’s script. In 1934, Max Reinhardt brought his lavish staging of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” to the Hollywood Bowl. Jack Warner, of all people, got the idea of hiring the German

Artsjournal.com, which hosts “About Last Night,” linked to a hair-raising story
in Backstage about a recent NEA report
predicting that “not-for-profit dance companies may see as much as a 30% loss of earned income in the next few years, and even a heavier fall in contributions.” I haven’t yet seen the whole report (which is coyly titled “Raising the Barre”), but it clearly demands a closer look.

The “Leisure & Arts” page of yesterday’s Wall Street Journal carried an abridged version of a detailed briefing given last week by Col. Matthew Bogdanos, the Marine officer in charge of the official investigation of the looting of the Iraq National Museum. No matter what you think you think about this event, you need to go here
and read what Col. Bogdanos has to say about it.

In other news, The Minor Fall, the Major Lift, who is both cleverer and funnier than I am (that’s not news), actually managed to come up with a clever and funny way to explain why he wouldn’t be posting anything yesterday.

Meanwhile, Maud Newton passed along some famous and not-so-famous first sentences from novels (presumably they’re favorites of hers, though she didn’t say). This happens to be one of my own preferred games, so I am embarrassed to admit that she snagged one from a book I love by an author I love…and I never noticed it until now. Do you recognize it?

It was about eleven o’clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills.

If not, go here
and scroll down to behold the source of my shame.

One of my most loyal readers (who was kind enough to introduce me at the Mencken Lecture in Baltimore last week) has been after me to do this again, so…

Go here and click on “Wolverine Blues,” and if you have a RealAudio player you will be rewarded with three minutes of pure pleasure, courtesy of Jelly Roll Morton, Johnny Dodds, Baby Dodds, and the folks at www.redhotjazz.com.

Consider it my present to all of you for toughing out a long week with me.

1.

The grandmother didn’t want to go to Florida.

“But listen here, there ain’t anything worth doing a man can do and keep his dignity. Can you figure out a single thing you really please-God like to do you can do and keep your dignity? The human frame just ain’t built that way.”

Robert Penn Warren, All the King’s Men

A report on current events: I’m still riding the crazy-busy wave, and still staying afloat. I went to bed at three and got up at seven to write my review of Shakespeare in Hollywood
for Friday’s Wall Street Journal (watch this space for details). Then I hailed a cab that dropped me off in Harlem, where I ate red beans and rice (Louis Armstrong’s favorite dish) with Leonard Garment and Loren Schoenberg, masterminds of the Jazz Museum in Harlem, which at present consists mainly of a frugally decorated office and a lot of good ideas. It will be interesting to see where they go from here.

Following up theory with practice, I returned to my own office, signed off on the Journal piece, then went to the Jazz Standard to hear Bud Shank’s quartet. As I listened to Shank cleave the air with his flame-thrower tone and remembered that he was born in 1926, I asked myself, How does he do it? Of course it’s possible to play alto saxophone like that when you’re that old (I heard Benny Carter play as well–though with less stamina–when he was a decade older), but it’s a long, long way from possible to probable. And did that faze Shank? Not in the slightest. He stood up in front of a world-class rhythm section that was lobbing musical hand grenades into the crowd and soloed like a man half his age, if that.

After performing Gerry Mulligan’s “Idol Gossip,” Shank announced a medley dedicated to another “fallen warrior,” Bill Evans. That set me to thinking. Yes, the titans of prewar jazz are gone now, and the surviving giants of the Forties and Fifties are dropping like flies, but it’s still possible to go to a New York nightclub and hear a man who played alto sax with Stan Kenton in 1950, left an indelible mark on the West Coast jazz scene–and then got even better. Back in the Fifties, Shank’s playing was smart, elegant, and sweetly lyrical. Now it’s ferocious. Midway through “Idol Gossip,” he sauntered away from center stage, planted himself in the bend of Bill Mays‘ piano, and tore off a half-dozen choruses without benefit of amplification, soaring effortlessly over Joe LaBarbera’s drums. Microphones? He don’t need no stinking microphones! So forget the good old days–they’re right now.

(If I’ve piqued your curiosity, go here to purchase Silver Storm, a 2000 sextet date also featuring Mays and LaBarbera.)

Anyway, that’s what I did yesterday, and now I’m back home again, running on fumes and adrenalin in order to give you something to read today. I have two more items to write, then I’m taking the phone off the hook and going to bed for as long as my brain permits. Tomorrow is–thank God–another day, with no appointments, no deadlines, nothing to contend with but (A) a birthday party in Brooklyn and (B) a hurricane.

Assuming that I haven’t been washed into the Hudson River by Friday, I’ll be having lunch that day with one of the celebrated bloggers who graces “Sites to See” (guess who?), then going to the press preview of Bill Irwin’s Harlequin Studies
at the Signature Theatre, about which more on Monday. The fun never stops around here….

While in Washington last Friday, I dropped by the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden to see “Gyroscope,” a large-scale, long-running exhibition drawn from that museum’s permanent collection. I don’t plan to write about it in detail, mainly because I don’t need to (Tyler Green, who blogs at Modern Art Notes, did it here, better than I possibly could), but I did want to tell you about an educational experience I had while walking through the show.

As those of you who know me personally are all too aware, I have reached that unhappy age when I am sorely in need of bifocals. Alas, I’m too stubborn/vain/lazy to go to the trouble of getting a pair, so I continue to do without. I noticed for the first time at the Hirshhorn on Friday that I can no longer read the wall labels at museums without taking off my glasses. At first I found this to be irritating, but before long I realized that it was liberating.

Confession time: I have another little problem, which is that my eyes reflexively go to the labels in a group show, very often before I’ve taken in the works of art they identify. I can’t help myself–I’m a slave to the printed word. Only I can’t do it anymore. To read the labels, I now have to pull off my glasses and move in close, which takes away all the fun. As a result, I looked at “Gyroscope” the right way, meaning what first and who second, and not infrequently, I didn’t even bother to find out who. (In addition to a reasonably generous helping of good stuff, “Gyroscope” contains more than its fair share of crappy art.) Dr. Albert Barnes, who deliberately hung the paintings in the Barnes Collection without labels in order to force visitors to think harder about the art they were there to see, would have been proud of me.

Needless to say, I had no trouble identifying many of the artists whose work was on display (no points for spotting a Kenneth Noland at a hundred yards), but even in the galleries where there was no possible doubt about what I was seeing, I learned a lesson from consistently looking at the paintings first. Take the gallery devoted to what I suppose might be called Pop Art and Its Predecessors. The big stuff, the jumbo canvases by Roy Lichtenstein, Robert Rauschenberg, and Robert Indiana, caught my eye first, but as soon as I glanced at the two medium-sized Stuart Davises (one of which was the amazing Rapt at Rappaport’s) facing each other on opposite walls, I knew who the real master was.

I’ve just admitted to a naïve-sounding disability which I’m sure will make some of you smile. I came late to the visual arts, and I still fall on my face with humbling regularity. I’m no connoisseur, just a guy who likes to look at paintings, though I trust my eye and my taste. On the other hand, I don’t trust them far enough to be absolutely sure I’m always seeing paintings, not reputations, which is one of the minor reasons why I think I’ll put off getting that first pair of bifocals for a little while longer.