lies like truth

Exhibitions based on handicrafts have been making a big comeback in the Bay Area in recent years, what with the city’s two museums dedicated to crafts helping to spotlight artists who work in handicraft media and organizations like YBCA also doing their part to put on exhibitions focusing on crafts.

The visual art show of works by the fiber/DIMENSIONS artists’ collective currently going on at The Presidio Officers’ Club Exhibition Hall through December 19 — intersections 5 — furthers the campaign to divest basket-weaving, knitting, crochet, applique and other time-honored techniques from the musty clutches of the village hall blue rinse brigade.

The diverse exhibition curated by Richard Elliott includes everything from kimonos made of stained coffee filters (a fascinating combination of Eastern and Western cultural traditions) by Lucia Matzger (pictured), to delicate lace forms by Jeanette Carr. The variety and color on display as well as the ways in which the artists nudge us into thinking about the materials and unusual structures they take makes us the world of things in a new way.

Chanticleer‘s attempt to reach broader audiences through online music downloads and adventurous forays into new repertoire are laudable.

But the release of its first ever music video, featuring the group singing Vincent Peterson’s arrangement of indie-pop composer Erika Lloyd’s “Cells Planets” is the first time that I have seen Chanticleer, a group which epitomizes choral professionalism, put out anything amateurish.

There’s nothing wrong with the music per se. Soprano Casey Breves does an angelic job on the song’s spiraling, heartfelt solo line. And the rest of the ensemble backs him up with understated warmth.

The trouble is that the filming looks thrown together in the mould of an iTunes video. I know this was a deliberate move on the ensemble’s part. Perhaps they think this makes them seem more approachable. But it’s not cute. It just makes the singers look bad.

Plus the concept — which involves Chanticleer members traveling around the country while trying to stay in touch with loved ones back home — is pretty trite and unimaginative.

Come on, boys. Apply the same level of perfection you bring to singing to everything you do. Go ahead and hire a real movie director next time you want to make a film. It’ll be worth it, I assure you.

Shattered but happy after pulling off first ever full-scale fundraising event for VoiceBox, my weekly public radio project on KALW 91.7 FM all about singing, last night. Leah Garchik, the fabulous San Francisco Chronicle columnist who co-hosted the soiree with me, touched me deeply by penning some sweet and funny verses for the occasion. Leah read out her poem infront of the assembled crowd at Salle Pianos in Hayes Valley, San Francisco. It went like this:

What new on the Rialto
Inquires the nosy contralto
The venue is local
For melodies vocal
For tenor or even an alto

A trill or a glide or a croon
There’s never a way you can ruin
A ditty or chant
Or even a rant
As long as it’s set to a tune

So if you’re gay or a breeder
The songs will say it in meter
The angriest cur
Is likely to purr
In yodels or even in lieder

The process can seem quite remote
But experts are swift to take note
The connoisseur’s pleasure
Finds something to treasure
When music comes out of the throat

In elevators, even in showers
Alone your ability towers
The phrases come pouring
Crescendoes are soaring
My God, you have wonderful powers

But aiming the soul to unfetter
In chorus, it’s even much better
And just like the birds
With tweets or with words
Each song-mate’s a tuneful abettor

It’s true that in music and life

When pitching-in chances are rife
The lesson is oft
A solo is soft
But harmony overcomes strife

Each broadcast deserves an ovation
And happy support from the station
But even while eager
Resources are meager
So thanks for your every donation

Because she is nuts about singing
This gathering Chloe is flinging
VoiceBox deserves praise
And bucks she can raise
The registers should be ka-chinging.

Thank you Leah! And thanks to everyone who came out and supported last night’s event.

When ArtsJournal publishes memorial pieces or formal obituaries, they’re usually of household names or at least leading figures in the world of the arts. This morning, however, I’d like to pay homage to an amazing choreographer, beautiful dancer, deep thinker and dear friend, Niki Pollard, who passed away on Monday following a nearly five-year battle against cancer. She was 37 years old.

Niki and I attended university together in the mid-1990s in England. We both read English literature and bonded over dance. Following graduation, I spent much of my early 20s rampaging around London with Niki. It was Niki who took me to see a lot of the great UK dance companies for the first time such as the London Contemporary Dance Theatre and Ballet Rambert. I also enjoyed doing contact improvisation classes with Niki in the west end and being a body whenever her choreographic inspiration took hold — she enjoyed making up dance sequences on the living room carpets of friends’ homes around town.

Inn addition to being deeply connected to her body and soul, Niki also had a mind to be reckoned with: She earned a double first class degree in English literature from Corpus Christi College Cambridge and went on to win an extremely competitive humanities board grant to undertake and earn Masters and PhD degrees in dance. Niki did her masters at the Laban School and her doctorate at Middlesex Uni. She finished her PhD, raised two lovely children — Amy and Robin — and lived in the west country with her kids and husband Chris.

Chris sent through an email with news of her passing. The sad message arrived in my inbox an hour ago. Despite my numb feelings, his words in part made me smile. “Happily, Niki was doing the things she loved most, right to the end,” he wrote. “Even dancing on the moor with dance friends from Coventry last Thursday.”

I will always think of Niki dancing.

The festive season is fast approaching and once again the Bay Area is abundant with opportunities for listening to and singing along with The Messiah. Here is a shortlist of some of the regional outings of Handel’s holiday favorite in the coming weeks:

There seem to be two schools of thought on the question of whether performers who are sick should attend rehearsals or stay away.

One school says: “Keep the hell away from the rehearsal room. You’ll only make yourself feel worse and possibly infect everyone else around you!”

The other school says: “Come and sit away from everyone else. Even if you can’t actively participate all of the time, at least you won’t fall behind with the rehearsal process. And as long as you’re not at death’s door, you might even feel better for getting out and about a bit.”

Depending on the extent of a performer’s ill-health, the first option makes the most sense to me. Though there is a case to be made for the latter.

I’ve been down with sinusitis all week, which is why I’m thinking about this. Yesterday evening, after a weekend of lying in bed, I decided to attend a chorus rehearsal despite not feeling my best. My rationale: 1) I was over the worst of it; and 2) We have two concerts coming up this week, so missing this crucial final rehearsal would not have been ideal.

As it happened, half of the alto section of the International Orange Chorale was sitting to one side of the room at last night’s rehearsal with one kind of health issue or another: There was me with my sinusitis, Alana nursing a bad cold, and Lea coping with the stomach flu. We made quite a picture, the three of us, shivering in our coats, scarves and hats, with rolls of toilet paper and bottles of water spread out on a table before us. “How’s it going in the infirmary?” the music director asked us during the break, as the three of us sat there looking like we’d walked off the set of Les Miz.

As bad as I felt last night, I was glad I attended the rehearsal. It got me out of bed. It felt good to be around people, even though I was “in quarantine,” sitting away from everyone but my fellow invalids to the side of the room. And best of all, it gave me license to be still for a while and just listen to the ensemble, rather than sing non-stop. I’d never done this before. It was a lovely experience. For the first time, I could hear the jagged edges that need to be fixed before our concerts, and the gorgeous sound that the choir makes. It made me feel proud to be part of this group.

The American rocker Rufus Wainwright stepped out before an expectant audience at Davies Symphony Hall for the world premiere of his new song cycle based on five sonnets by William Shakespeare dressed in a puffy, white Renaissance shirt embellished with what looked like a piece of squashed Victoria sponge cake, lilac taffeta trousers and patent black clogs. A silver chain-link necklace glistened between the dark hairs on his pale chest.

Fortunately, Wainwright composes better than he dresses.

Five Shakespeare Sonnets includes a part for solo tenor voice featuring jagged atonal hops, swooping highs and lows and emotional melodic lines. The orchestration has some beautiful colors in it. A grave viola solo and sparkling glockenspiel scales are just two of the details I picked out of the texture. And the San Francisco Symphony does a wonderful job of balancing turbulence and stillness.

The only other thing, besides the soloist’s getup, which bothered me about last night’s performance, was Wainwright’s voice. Wainwright’s nasal twang always has a hint of desperation about it. At Davies Symphony Hall, it sounded overbearing and whiney amplified as it was with the swirling orchestra behind it.

As I listened, I couldn’t help but imagine how amazing the piece would sound sung by a classically-trained or jazz singer. I hope the work gets future airings with different kinds of voices. On its maiden voyage, I don’t think the the composer does justice to his own composition by singing it himself.

On a related note, it’s curious to me that the San Francisco Symphony would go to the trouble of commissioning such a famous artist to create a new work and then fail to engage the organization’s main figurehead, Michael Tilson Thomas, to lead the world premiere. Concertmaster, Alexander Barantschik was also missing. Last night, a young Englishman, Michael Francis, made his San Francisco Symphony debut on the podium and associate concertmaster Nadya Tichman sat in the first chair. The absence of the two uppermost artistic personnel of the organization suggests a lack of interest or faith in its commissioning strategy and process.

Soprano Measha Brueggergosman performed her recital debut in San Francisco last night under the auspices of San Francisco Performances at the Herbst Theatre.

The audience was on the small side: Though the singer is a big name in her native Canada, she’s not so well known in the Bay Area right now. But I suspect that every person who heard her last night went home clamoring to hear her lustrous voice again.

Brueggergosman’s voice takes a little adjusting to. It doesn’t have a uniform, bell-like quality. It has many many colors, from voluptuous, velvety tones to glittering, on-the-edge-of-breathy edges. She’s also a performer who sings with her entire body. She bends her legs, moves her trunk and emotes with every ounce of her being.

There was something about the quality of last night’s recital with pianist Justus Zeyen, which featured songs by Mozart, Schubert, Duparc, Turina, Chopin, Strauss and Berg, that had the air of a jazz rather than a classical performance. It’s partly to do with the way that Brueggergosman sings — that breathy edge to her voice is very jazz — and partly to do with the way she stands (very close to the piano, with her hand resting on it) and sways. This gave the classical works she performed a slightly different tint which made us listen in a new way.

Speaking of brilliant stage performers who aren’t spring chickens anymore and yet hardly ready to screw the lids on their pots of greasepaint — as I recently did on this blog of Chita Rivera — Placido Domingo, who will shortly turn 70, shows very few signs of letting up.

As the title character in Franco Alfano’s Cyrano de Bergerac, which is currently being produced at the San Francisco Opera, the great Spanish singer holds the audience in thrall. His voice is full fills the sizable War Memorial auditorium effortlessly. He is as comfortable bellowing war cries at the bottom of his register as he is hitting the high notes while singing about romance. Even under the weight of his floppy, feathered hat and prosthetic nose, Domingo manages to exude a virile presence. At 69, he is equally capable of embodying youth in the throes of ecstasy, as he is a sick, old man lamenting lost love at the end of the story.

Domingo doesn’t move around a great deal on stage. During the sword fights, other people move around him but he stays fairly still. This conceit works quite well from the point of you of conveying a sense of the character’s effortless power over his enemies. But it also gives the game away slightly: Domingo has a great deal of energy. But he’s perhaps not going to dart around the stage with a sword as much today as he might have done in years past.

If only the opera itself were more worthy of its star. There’s a reason why Alfano’s Cyrano isn’t performed very often: Musically, it’s fairly inert, with few remarkable instrumental passages and no memorable arias. It takes a performer of the caliber and reputation of Domingo to bring it to the stage and keep us glued to our seats.

On another completely unrelated note: The School of the Arts in San Francisco, a fabulous and terribly under-funded public school which produces many fine young performers, is planning to undertake a tour with its choral ensemble to Chicago in 2011. The choir will be participating in master classes with renowned choral conductors and professional singers as well as presenting several free public concert collaborations with celebrated Chicago choirs. To raise the $75,000 necessary to send the students to the mid-west, SOTA is undertaking a big fundraising campaign. The school is selling CDs and greetings cards online. To find out how to donate to a worthy cause, please click here. “It’s a fantastic educational opportunity to build our repertoire and grow as artists,” says the head of SOTA’s choral program, Todd Wedge, about the upcoming tour. “Please help us realize our dreams.”

Journalists love interviewing people who don’t toe the party line, but give an opposing view on a subject. A detractor’s opinions provide that all-important bit of tension in a story that makes it more fully rounded and readable. This opposing viewpoint is particularly important (but hard to come by) in arts journalism, where most interviewees — not to mention the reporters themselves — tend to spend their time talking about how great an artist’s work is and how excited they are about it. This is why so much arts journalism is bland and expendable.

But what happens when you’re lucky enough to stumble on a person willing to state an unorthodox viewpoint on a subject but that person ends up making points that seem worthless, petty and ultimately unusable? Disappointment prevails.

This is the feeling I got yesterday while collecting insights on the work of a famous artist whom I am writing about this week for the New York Times. In preparation for the story, I talked to a number of people yesterday on the phone ranging from one of the artist’s project managers to curators at local museums who have worked with the artist on commissions in recent years.

With the exception of the detractor in question, everyone I have spoken with so far provided at least a few interesting insights.

Sadly, the one commentator who has an opposing view on the artist’s output said very little that is usable. A reputed expert in the particular field of art in which the subject of my article operates, the interviewee launched into a negative tirade about the artist’s work, but was completely unable to substantiate her feelings from an aesthetic standpoint. All I could glean from talking to her was that she objects to the artist on account of his fame and ability to command large fees for major commissions. She thinks that the money and commissions should be spread around and not automatically given to this particular artist.

Duh! Frankly, I would expect an expert of her caliber to provide me with insights that go beyond the blindingly obvious. That a few famous artists swallow up the lion’s share of the limelight and the corresponding accolades and monetary gains isn’t remotely interesting grounds upon which to base a critique of their work.

Oh well. On this occasion, I’ll be hard-pressed to use this detractor’s comments in my story.

The newly-reopened Venetian Room at the Fairmont Hotel was completely packed for Friday evening’s one-night-only performance by Broadway icon Chita Rivera. Bay Area Cabaret, the organization under whose umbrella the concert was taking place, was forced to turn people away.

And understandably so: The triple-threat stage diva displayed heart-palpitating emotional range in a show whose musical offerings ranged from songs from Westside Story to Bye Bye Birdie to the Kiss of the Spider Woman. Rivera moved like someone a fraction of her age. And her voice, if not quite as melodious as it once was, delivered the messages of the songs with a throaty and rich lyricism that made them even more meaningful than they might have otherwise been.

If I have even a fraction of the energy and joie de vivre that this consummate performer possesses at the age of 77 when I’m approaching her years, I’ll count myself exceedingly lucky.