Category: ART

GUEST POEM BY SOARING CROW

~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

“Message in a Bottle”

 
Floating forever, on the tides of a thousand seas…..
 
With the lives of the oceans, and all that dwell unseen…..
 
Deep in the abyss, a multitude of eyes see unheard…..
 
yet from the fingers of a writer, there echos forth some words……………
 
Words of expression, artistic and true…..
 
Deep in her mind, she writes who is who…..
 
With an internal calling, writing creative and free…..
 
That enlightens the Worlds, of both you and me…..
 
Her thoughts they are written, of magic and spells…..
 
Just open that bottle, she has a story to tell……
 
 
from an admirer of your works

ADVENTURES WITH THE TIDE OF THE THINKER

~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

Audrey. Photograph By Edward Quinn

I asked the sky to send the Thinker.  Then it  rained in southwest furry,  small 22A65Ca5ndFhXTcktfb98jnckTJl4rZP0060[1]white knots of hail and dark feuding winds. The thinker heard and whistled to me. It was a sweet flutist tone, and he appeared in black and grey, the silver lining of his head like a crown of light. Flashing the boyish grin, he opened his wrestling toned-warm fins to my goose bumpy arms, and I swam along side tentatively. Even though it was my chime, I was unsteady, unwilling to climb on his back, so we swam on our toes, around my house, and the Plaza. We battled sharks from Beverly Hills, whose fins were frozen from love and kindness; we faced one of our own school, who would not lend a dollar on good faith and loyalty for their Merlot Cabernet fish oil, and we strung pearls around each other necks, with a clasp that is easily unhooked. The current drove us through three more days of rowing backward, sleeping quietly without intertwinement, and meeting as friends instead of lovers.
The absence of touch, struck like a lightning storm. I didn’t see it coming, and I may be wrong. To read the Thinker is to understand his language; a circumcision of predictability, logic, or reasoning. Like a tsunami, uncharitable waves of enlightenment he doesn’t even understand drown his soul.
I understood that he airbrushed my appearance, and dropped deep into my eyes as they widened for him. I blushed before he engulfed me, and pressed my undertow.
If tonight was the last swim because of a storm I didn’t see coming, or understand. It is because my eyes blurred by his presence.
The tide goes out, but it always come back. Sometimes it touches where we left off.

CANDLES OF THE MOUNTAIN-MALIBU

~ LouLou ~ 2 Comments

                                                                   CANDLES OF THE MOUNTAIN PART 3

“Ahh Nico!  Come meet LouLou.” 
A young man with cha-cha rhythm danced in and kissed me on both cheeks. He and Chantal are speaking at a galloping speed in French, embossed with the wildest sort of laughter, and then another man, Speedy, a leading Parisian graffiti artist walks in, and addresses me without movement; just eyes that seem to sum me up speedily. Behind him is Nathan, a man of composed attentiveness. Then came Fabien, although we met a few days later, I include him now because creative nonfiction allows poetic license of time and place. Fabien is a Frenchman who owns a progressive gallery in Culver city, Castanier Gallery, and shows Speedy.

If the address is Malibu on the mailbox, it is not inside the house. This party began as they all crossed the threshold. The ooh la la’s,  kisses, hugs, gifts, and food that joined the beef, chicken and my guacamole was an appetite odyssey.

The evening began as some sort of theatrical reenactment of a French film. I have longed to return to Europe; instead I found it in Chanel’s home. You must meet Bibi, and Bruce. I coined Bibi, Joplin, because when she danced on the dining table, with her flowing blond hair and abandonment to free spirit she reminded me of Janis. Bruce, her husband wears a flag of acceptance for human imperfection and relished a young Walter Matthew. He is highly educated and so grounded in realism his wife’s antics do not astound him as some husbands may disapprove of such a blooming spirit. There was a Swedish beauty and her friend Shawn, a British theater actor, who inflamed the party with the grandest authentication of the English language in conversation, and joking that turned everyone into belly aching laugher. We were also joined by  two Brits from London; superbly mannered and educated professionals, Rebecca and James, and then a French woman with delicate features and European charm.
“Let us have a toast.” Shawn raised his glass in the light of candles and softly sliding sunlight. I suggested everyone join in with their own toast. When it came to my turn I said,

“  L’ chaim”
“Oh, you are Jewish?” someone called out.
“Yes. Can I stay?” I said with a smile to encourage laughter and not the awkwardness of being the only Jew. I’d rather people know so they don’t trip up and provoke my Jewish temper.
To be myself amongst strangers is rarely so effortless for me. Like the new moon rising over the mountains; the time for full powered laughter and elation had captured all of us. I felt that we were ravenous for a few hours of relief from the catastrophic state of world affairs that we are not personally suffering. There is very little discussion of current events in public places; and I have not seen many people reading the news. My gratitude for the freedom to luxuriate in a pampered and nourishing environment enlarged every time I watch the news.

The fog today has brushed the mountains with a thick white mist almost like a snow mass; yet the temperature is warm and humid and my pores feel moisturized. The wilderness holds my attention to reflection as the natural beauty of eucalyptus trees fanning the wind and wild flowers feeding hummingbirds surpasses the perfection of model bodies and designer outfits of 92065 residents.

Malibu is not all celebrities20140718_174353[1] and rock stars as you may think. There is an abundance of families that flock to the beach, and live the art of hanging out around the Malibu Mart. The community offers weekend festivals, and fund-raisers tied to the care of the ocean, landscape and horses. They offer child and adult surf classes, book readings, hiking clubs, and even have their own Malibu Playhouse and a Movie Theater. The Santa Monica Mountains   open into a hikers paradise, and full suited black leather BMW bikers are everywhere you look .

The night life begins at Sunset when a litter of limo guests enter the driveway of Geoffreys Restaurant for glistening views and cocktails. Down at the Malibu Pier the plank boards are as weathered as I remember as a teenager; only now the restaurants are uppity scaled organic. My favorite restaurant, Malibu Seafood, is still sitting on the shoulder of Pacific Coast highway and as the locals know, you don’t get tossed for another reservation. You can bring your own wine, sit on a deck overlooking the Pacific and taste the freshest fish in California.

What I found most entertaining in a writers way, was the night Chantel and I visited NOBU; “No One Beats Us.” To be continued….

 

CANDLES OF THE MOUTAIN PART TWO

~ LouLou ~ 2 Comments

ADVENTURES IN LIVINGNENESS

“There is more enterprise in walking naked (in the Yeatsian sense) and being tough enough to survive such intensity of caring and such openness, between a driving need to share experience and the need for time to experience and that means solitude, a balance between the need to become oneself and to give of oneself…and of course they are closely related.” May Sarton.

The Journal of Solitude.

This book was one of the first of ten that injected my veins with the thirst to write. It was
1992, and while I scanned a bookshelf in Capistrano Beach, this book seemed to say, read me. Several months ago I ordered it online and began reading it after I wrote my segments on the Puzzle of Solitude. How curious that this is book I brought to read in Malibu; as I may teetering between this excerpt every moment of the day.

I landed on Pacific Coast Highway on the fourth of July and zipped up the curves of the road squinting to read the signs. This highway that was once my weekend adventure in a packed mustang filled with high school friends was now mine alone. Inhaling the salty sea breeze, and listening to Tom Petty sing, Free Fall, my heart opened to what I was about to experience. The doubt had vanished and as I crossed the lanes to turn up Encinal Canyon road, I broke out laughing.
Only a few days ago I was sobbing as my doubt and confidence were inflamed with childless fear. Just past Malibu colony the scenery seemed to sigh with relief from blaring radios in convertible Mercedes, motorcycles, and a river of beachcombers flip-flopping down to the shoreline. The terrain rises into a rugged enclave of sand crusted
boulders, as I passed the perfectly seamed and shaved lawn of Pepperdine College.

Chantal’s directions were exact as I pulled into the dirt and rock driveway and parked in front of the house. She has an alert buzzer on the gate so she was already on the flagstone steps when I got out of the car. Even before she welcomed me in words, a radiant warm aura illumined my response.
“You are LouLou, I am Chantal. Come, I will show you around.” Her effortless smile and fluid swaying hips led me through a garden of birds of paradise, palm trees, elm, succulents, pepper trees, cactus, and so many varieties of flowers that my first impression was already sealed,  I was in Shangri-La.20140712_18273120140707_175334

“This is the main house, where you come and go as you please,” and then she  continued through the open rooms sheltered in wood and glass into the living museum of the legacy of  her deceased husband, Carl Gillberg: chest- high clay pots, bronze and cherry wood sculptures, masks, paintings, and photographs.

 

Carl Gillberg

 

In the kitchen she announced, “Here, you see this shelf is for you, and here is your vegetable bin to put things, and you take what you want. Just because I bought it doesn’t mean you can’t take it. You see, we are very open and relaxed here.  You just be at home; like it is your home.”
I followed her through a gate; to an open garden. Here is where we shower, you like it?” She looked into my eyes and her mouth widened with anticipatory pleasure. I glanced at the claw foot tub, expansive banana plant, and shower head.
“Does anyone else share the shower?
No no, just you and me. You close the curtain see?” and demonstrated the act.
“You will love it,” and as she parted the corrugated sliding door to my room and I looked inside, the chime of change rang.
“What is your nationality?” she asked placing her hands on her hips.
“Russian Irish.”
“Oooh la la; very strong.”
“And you?”
“I am French Haitian.  I left Haiti when I was very young and went to France.  I will tell you more. Now, where is your luggage?”
“I’ll get it.”
“You need some help eh?”
“No, I loaded it in so I can load it out”
She chuckled.
Her cell phone rang. “ Oui, Cheri—it has been a long time since we talked. What has happened in your life?” Her fluid intoxicating French conversation sent me skipping off the flagstone steps to my car.

I was hopelessly impressed. The majestic mountains, slopping hillsides, and crusted canyons open to the faded-jean blue sea. The spring of joy rose like an orgasm as my eyes blinked with every turn of the head to capture another slice of the Santa Monica Mountains.  20140704_162840

When I returned, she was preparing espresso?
“You like a cup of coffee?”
“I love it.”
“Good. We sit on the veranda and you tell me your story. You like my house LouLou?”
“ Chantal, this is Shangrai-la.”
She threw here head back and her birch brown curls took flight.20140707_194504

Over the next week my life was an interpretation of the beginning except from May Sarton. To be continued.

 

 

SOCIAL MEDIA SPARKS MY EMOTIONS

~ LouLou ~ 2 Comments

real socializing
real socializing

Our society has led us to the path of non-involvement. FB did that,
Email did that, cell phones did that. Yea, I love em’  for the
thing they knew we’d love them for; a delete button.

We, I mean most of us that don’t control millions of political decisions, cannot handle much more. But we could save ourselves from a real famine, a civil war , or  war on our country.   Who  would come to our aid? I really wonder.  I bet on us; the ones who’ve always struggled.
We are not involved with each other anymore; it’s like having a manicure to break out of a relationship, and if you lose your job you won’t have enough money for a manicure. So you don’t lose your job; you work  eighteen hours a day and get paid less than your staff.   But nobody cares; not unless you go viral or if you have a million   Blog stats. Social media. Then you will go somewhere; you will have a job. Artists, are  digital: writers, photographers;  musicians. Who knows whose who anymore.  I think Theater is the only venue left of our physical   involvement.  Theater is life; and no one walks out without having something to say.  I also include: dance, concerts, opera, poetry readings, performance artist, and comedians.  I prefer to see it live!

PUZZLE OF SOLITUDE FOUR

~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

 

I wrote this short piece by hand in April.

It is snowing today; the first time since February. A collage of scenery rearranges the birth of spring as a brisk snow flurry sweeps through Santa Fe.  Across the street, inside the hotel families are dining, or comparing observations with other guests, drinking apple cider and being in vacation. I see them unload suitcases, and several tote bags, a lot of luggage seems necessary for tourists these days. Teenagers are multi-texting; unaware of the flawless blue sky or architecture. I am looking for artists who’ve come to capture the light, or heal  city bruises with the language of the Indian world. The coterie of artists drawn to Santa Fe are now a minority; and on the horizon are  tour buses, family reunions, and corporate retreats.

I am standing in the center of the garden, studying the entanglement of spindly branches, clinging to the brick wall. The wall looks like an abstraction of a Kandinsky painting.My sense is that I should not pester myself about unfinished desk business-but to just turn off the motor and observe my fortune. To watch clouds so deeply, and see the shapes turn from a penis to a whale, (analyze that) has always been an act of love. Some people stare at rocks, or flowers, or rain; for me it is the clouds.
The sky has just been ticked off by the sun and she is spreading like butter over my face and legs.

Costume design and realization for ‘Seeing’ by Kandinsky. A contemporary dance interpretation.


Hanging on to home for a lot of us has become a business; a renting out rooms, and converting to a vacation rental to avoid foreclosure. I can sit inside the Movie Theater (a converted garage) and launch into a montage of memories. The Michael Jackson tribute party after he died, when friends came and we danced to his videos; and the Jimi Hendrix live DVD night that mixed jubilation, remembrance, and a lot of laughing as I expelling all I knew about Jimi to a man of twenty-seven. We always showed a film coinciding with a new exhibition of photography. Guests lingered past midnight and I had to turn off the lights to demonstrate closure. Couples in the theater necking, young adults roaring with inflammable laughter upon each opportunity, and hungry men and women waltzing around each other for a bite of passion. Gallery receptions were packed back then; a staggering amount of partying and dancing collided on Canyon Road to live music and open bars.
Hanging on to memories in corners of the house. I’ll take them with me. It will be a leap of courage to untangle myself from this home.wassily kandinsky art artist
I can almost hear the birds wind as they fly over me; my eyes close to listen. The lullaby is a bath of nature and would not have occurred unless I was alone. I want to reach through writing,  to the subject of misfits and loners, outcasts and unrecognized that are too ripe to touch, to sensitive and unyielding; annoyed with the outside world. Like me.

Contemporary PaintingKandinsky-my tree

 

 

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THE PUZZLE OF SOLITUDE Part One

~ LouLou ~ 2 Comments

Adventures in Livingness

The people who pass my window aren’t snapped into wool and leather collars any longer. Now their heads raise to the sun; but their movement is sluggishly unfamiliar with spring steps. Soon they’ll be jogging and eying the world through sunglasses instead of face-warmers. Street scenery is similar to my garden; fresh green stems courageously pop up while the rose bushes remain embryos.  20140410_183024[1]
Today I read for two hours; the longest stretch since last year. I had to stay in bed with a tray of coffee and closed curtains. I was restored to the first readings of Anais, when people still talked about her being a lesbian; when in fact she was not expressing that kind of love at all. Only the love as deep as two women want to go. Belonging to her group of artists and bohemian so appealed to me then as a teenager-I manifested that camaraderie by finding love in artists and misfits, malcontents, with rare wisdom and foresight. Men that chose not to belong because they had their own opinions.
The farolitos reflect diamonds of light when the sun is out. I can look out the window by my desk all day to catch surprises. The exchanges with staff at the hotel in a hand swipe and face to face muses on hotel complaints. A man in khaki’s and hiking boots taking studied photos of my house, and the same woman, who talks incessant baby talk to her dog as he pranced ahead.
My emotional tail is wagging; curled up in my desk chair I feel almost as if I was born in this chair. It’s cushioned me through a cyclone of adventures in livingness.
This piece of writing was handwritten on a tablet back in late January. I’ve made some minor additions and deletions. The editor I use before submitting to a publisher asked me, “Why do you keep switching between past and present tense?” I told her I don’t control that until I’m in final editing. My control over my writing is identical to my control over how I live. Acting on impulse, expanding the mundane into a musical, feasting on all the emotions, and fabricating thorny Walter Mitty encounters. I don’t even think of applying proven methods; I make up new ones.
Back to this plateau of solitude. Love what you have and especially yourself; with all your flaws. Integrity is more critical; be proud  not just for yourself, but because someone out there needs you.

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PUZZLE OF SOLITUDE PART TWO

~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

PUZZLE OF SOLITUDE PART TWO.

PUZZLE OF SOLITUDE PART TWO

~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

DSC01598THE PUZZLE OF SOLITUDE will always be a puzzle because our lives, solo or mated, are puzzled by too much solitude, or not enough.

December and January. I fought what seemed endless solitude with my Irish Russian temper; bashing and short-tempered with customer service, world news, and mindless tasks. Then in February, it seemed that the fire dulled, and consciousness triumphed. It was a long wait; sometimes I have convinced my basement of survival would sink. It did not. There was an adventure that I did not know was happening until now, three months later.
I learned how to make friends with myself, and find the frolic and follies in the world that I created. I had to laugh alone and so I watched screwball comedies and recognized the humor of my irregularities; wearing a sweater inside out, pouring coffee into a wine glass for a cocktail, and chuckling up and down the staircase, because I kept forgetting where I left my phone. My head was elsewhere-daydreaming.
I learned how to repair house calamities; screw and unscrew doors and windows, seal up cracks, and paint. I rejuvenated every wood board, handle, chair, and table with Old English Oil. As one pal commented on a visit to the house, ‘ It’s a perfect day for Old English! ‘I needed to see a transformation, and at the time, my direction was to convert this house into the museum of cool. Then I would get a swell of vacation rental bookings from Trip advisor, VRBO, and Homeaway, and drive west, north, and south; lifting up the curtain on a new and more exhilarating act.
A surprise from the weather channel, we were basking in the sunlight in March. The winter was milder than I had ever experienced here; and how could I complain when half of the USA was sliding, sinking, or snowbound without a way out. The ease of adaptation was preserved by the horrific scenes in the Midwest and East. In the kitchen; my heart simmered while stirring my weekly slumguillion gumbo, stew, and casseroles, chopping away while listening to Tony Bennett, Nat King Cole, and Frank Sinatra.
Winter has in the past been a funnel that leads to writing. Not this winter; my last column was in November. The activity of pushing forward became important, and the results were compelling. If I was not able to write it was because the material was not dry. TOO

OUR LIFE WAITS TILL WE CAN

~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

WAKE UP  in the morning and be thinking of someone else.  Copy of ScannedImage-1

Photo from 1991 as I launched

the Jammers; aspiring Afro Cuban, HipHop

and Jazz Funk dance Combo. 

That was just as satisfying YES, as falling in love!  Wake up to another voice or voices that need you.

THE PUZZLE OF SOLITUDE

~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

The oaks and  elm trees are almost naked;  butterscotch leaves are face down, like half eaten lollipops. Lurching in the east; a mass of thick charcoal clouds without any wind to push them towards us.  This outdoor stillness and the hum of my refrigerator are subtle signals of the approaching hand of winter. The silence is like a cooking pot cover that secures my spirit into acceptance.  Listening to classical piano concerto’s, blue grass on Saturday, the blues on Sunday and rock & roll on Friday. Musicians are my guests, as much as the wild birds that pluck  from my feeders.

Sometimes, solitude feels like a draft and no matter how many sweaters I  put on, the seclusion tugs at my bones. There are a lot of us soloists that reside in Santa Fe. We are not questioned or scolded for our behavior, we are left alone!  If I am drawn into an empty canvass of what seems my destiny, I draw the opposite silhouette.  I am the light against the dark.   The green light in my head  reminds me that I have my teeth, my long legs, and some passion for almost everything that God and man created.  I just can’t decide which passion to follow. Should I do a  museum, gallery, lecture, drive to Taos, go to a concert, dance at El Farol, take Flamenco lessons, engage strangers in conversation, watch old movies, read more of the stacks of books on my bedside table. Should I interview the straggly teenagers in the park or hit up the high rollers? Should I write, submit or edit:  clean the laundry room, make a thick chili stew, iron my clothes or pick up leaves. Living unstructured is a discipline that threads easily some days, and when it doesn’t, I have to control my passion for daydreaming.

My daydreams: to inhale ocean air, to bogey board, to hike, ride horses, go to Lincoln Center, the wine county, Prague, Sicily, and Russia. My passion to be around little children at Christmas and stare at their patent leather shoes, and to eat pumpkin pie for breakfast, to converse on philosophy, the arts, social trends, and the interior life.  My passion for impulsive trips on the road to Kentucky and Tennessee, anywhere I’ve never been; I will go.  The obstacle I place in front of me; I don’t want to travel alone. I’m plain afraid. I’m afraid to fly more than two hours, my sense of direction is worse than anyone I’ve ever met, and I pack too many clothes to carry, and end up with a raw neck and numb arm.

Once in Annecy, France, I walked for hours trying to find my hotel. I circled the squareOld part of Annecy (France)

twelve times. I’d not eaten a meal in several days because my coin satchel was half full . In a moment, I just fainted and swooped down to the ground. A Frenchman was kneeling beside me when I opened my eyes. We sat on a little iron bench, and he offered to take me to dinner.  He was so kind, he kept bringing food to my hotel because he said I didn’t know how to travel.

The train of clouds are still in the east; fluffy white cream and silvery puffs of pastry. They too cannot decide whether to cry; or remain strong and commanding.

Dating is one passion I never had.   Even when it was as organic as sharing a cup of coffee or taking a walk after dinner. Dating now is about business and getting connected. It’s selfish sex with a price. I hear men and women tell me these stories and my response  freezes.  ‘Oh yea, she wanted $250.00 for a few hours; without sex.’  For  a woman she is expected to be complete; with independence and like total clarity about who she is and what she wants. ‘He  told me I had too much baggage; who doesn’t over fifty?’  I think we are always in an  evolution of  personal understanding of our experiences.  You can’t put people into cross word puzzles and expect them to stay there.

Now, hours later the clouds cried, and their tears pranced in a slight wind. I curled into my favorite club chair and watched a 1937 screw-ball comedy, ” We’re Rich Again.”  Like my Dad used to say;’ You’re whole life can change overnight.’  My bed is warm. My friends are loyal. I allow myself to write everyday.

SHEPARD & DARK

~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

SHEPARD & DARK.