Arts Therapy 2020

Never mind it's been November in my soul since the end of August, with last year's retirement begetting a seemingly endless march of funerals (and the one wedding on the fall calendar offset just three weeks ago by the last and most devastating of these rites). The usual course for most people is immersion among more people. This is not my way.

I'd already had a ticket for the February 12 Giselle at the Kennedy Center, starring my oft-discussed Daniil Simkin as Albrecht, and it was an outing I could not deny myself despite that morning's fatal news. My evening of solitary reflection among crowds was briefly and pleasantly interrupted before the theater opened as I sat with a gentleman (stranger to me) who loved music and dance and all things beautiful and heart-swelling. Enjoyable encounter. I even told him about the time I wrote a ballet during a National Symphony Orchestra open rehearsal of Mahler's Fifth ("My, My, Mahler" and "The Mahler Ballet").

That was pretty much the end of the enjoyable encounter with another solitary member of the crowd. The ballet was dreary. Act 1 was all acting, little dancing. Too many people on stage standing or sitting about with nothing to do. And other than a few fireworksy variations from Daniil and his Giselle (Sarah Lane) and the expected excellent corps work in Act 2, not much from Giselle's gang of "ghost bitches" could get my mind away from the personal sorrows at hand.

A week away to tend to the sorrows at hand, and I felt a little more ready to face the crowds for the next outing already on my calendar, Silent Sky by Lauren Gunderson at Ford's Theatre. Science, history, feminism, families, problem solving, romance, humor--a few of the starry elements crossing the sky. The tourist-heavy and generally youthful audience was exuberant and gave a well-deserved standing ovation. I love standing ovations at Sunday matinees. I always smile and say to Edward Duke, "See? They're not the worst houses!"

Ballet, theater ... two of the couches I crawl onto for my art therapy. The other is museums, particularly art museums.

Yesterday's excursion to the National Gallery of Art was inspired by the Washington Post review by Sebastian Smee (author of The Art of Rivalry) of the "True to Nature" exhibit. I got there in time for the 11 a.m. guided lecture and again had a delightful pre-tour chat with two like-minded strangers. Unfortunately I lost them in the crowd that followed our guide through three small and fully occupied rooms. I enjoyed what I could see, cornered by the crowd, but didn't have quite the same reflective experience Sebastian did.

Artist in a Renaissance Costume Sketching in the Arena of Nimes (1822) by Fleury Richard.

crowd

As is my custom, I went directly to the Garden Cafe for a Ladies Who Lunch lunch (alone in a smaller and quieter crowd). I think "garden cafe" is a sweet aesthetic; if and when I move, that might be my new design guide. The mouse (I think) scurrying across the floor rattled me a little, but not enough to scream out. Just pick up purse from floor and rest feet on the cafe table's ornamental iron legs.

Garden Cafe, ornamental legs and shadows

National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.: West facing East

The Sacrament of the Last Supper (1955) by Salvador Dali. (NGA link)

For the remainder of my visit, I went back to some of my favorite rooms (starting in Gallery 71) and looked more closely at pictures, observing specificity without detail (as with the True to Nature paintings).

South Room - Green Street (1920) by Daniel Garber. (NGA link)

Detail--or specificity? Light and reflection.

Wandered around some more, spending more time with each picture, including Albert Bierstadt's epic Lake Lucerne.

Lake Lucerne (1858) by Albert Bierstadt. (NGA link)

  

And many more. Please pardon the colors and blurries. Go in person. It's better.

Love, hosaa
Therapeutic art trekking

Books of 2019 (reading list)

A goal for this year was to keep better track of the books I read, and cataloguing my library (600+) unearthed a few gems. This is roughly in chronological order, with some overlaps (anthologies interrupted for change-of-pace material).

1. Rediscovering Lone Pine by Andrew Popper. Fiction. (Re-read)
2. The Happiness Curve by Jonathan Rauch. Sociology/Psychology.
3. A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. Fiction.
4. Accessory to War by Neil deGrasse Tyson and Avis Lang. Military technology/History.
5. "Master and Man" by Leo Tolstoy. Short story.
6. Nijinsky by Lucy Moore. Biography.
7. A Doll House by Henrik Ibsen. Play.
8. Blandings Castle by P. G. Wodehouse. Short stories.
9. The Art of Rivalry by Sebastian Smee. Art history/Biography.
10. The Mueller Report (2-vol. PDFs) by Robert Mueller. Government report.
11. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Fiction. (Re-read)
12. The Lower Depths by Maxim Gorky. Play.
13. Scoop by Evelyn Waugh. Fiction. (Re-read)
14. Memoirs of Jan and Eva Rocek (unpublished PDFs). Autobiography/History.
15. Meet Mr. Mulliner by P. G. Wodehouse. Stories
16. Diary of a Superfluous Man by Ivan Turgenev. Fiction
17. America's Political Dynasties by Stephen Hess. History/Biography. (In progress)
18. Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. Fiction (Re-read)
19. Nocturnes by Kazuo Ishiguro. Short stories.
20. The Zebra Derby by Max Shulman. Fiction.
21. Why Orwell Matters by Christopher Hitchens. Literary criticism.
22. Paris Sketchbook by Mary Kelly, illustrated by Fabrice Moireau. Travel.

Aside from the books I re-read because I love them so, I most enjoyed Nocturnes by Kazuo Ishiguro (No. 19, but having finished the final story today). Now I am depressed that I'm all caught up on everything he's written. I need more!!

I was most deeply moved by the Roceks' memoirs (No. 14). They were scientists, Holocaust survivors, escapees from communist Czechoslovakia, and our neighbors in Bethesda for a short time in the 1960s--their sons were our classmates in elementary school during a time of segregation I was never fully aware of until we were older.

Not sure what to do with a library that's only about one-third read so far. They'll be hard to move but harder to part with. Culling will be a project for the New Year, but as I discovered with Nos. 20, 21, and 22 above, few books will leave my possession until I've read them. And even then....

Love, hosaa
What's next?

How Now, Voyager? Or, Saving Dr. Jaquith

A Further Adventure of Clarence the Wonderful Life Angel

As has happened to the best of films and the worst of films, perfectly good scenes sometimes get cut for time or other considerations, leaving the lives of some characters unhappily in the balance. Our mission, since we have undertaken it, is to put right these lives that were once put wrong.

As always, the agent of these remedies is the divine Angel Clarence, introduced to us in the faraway, long-ago Capra galaxy, It’s a Wonderful Life. He is typically guided by Mr. Jordan of black-and-white vintage, but there’s a problem.

EXT. HEAVEN. NEITHER NOW NOR THEN, HERE NOR THERE

Materializing through the heavenly mists, our beloved MR. JORDAN can be seen leaning contemplatively upon a cloud. He pulls a nifty little multipurpose device from his breast pocket, subjecting it to a series of taps and swipes with the tip of his ginormous AngelWing.

ANGEL CLARENCE wanders into the scene, distracted by similar activity on a similar nifty device. He trips over JORDAN’s wing tips. The shoes, I mean. CLARENCE scrambles quickly to attention as JORDAN puts his device back in his pocket.

CLARENCE
Oh dear, oh dear, I’m so terribly sorry, Mr. Jordan. I was just catching up on the new season of Project Runway. That unconventional materials challenge gets me every time! (He straightens his AngelWear gown.) Wish we could try something less conventional here. Just once in a while. Just a suggestion. Is something the matter, sir?

MR. JORDAN
I’m glad to see you, darling Clarence. I’ve just been contemplating our upcoming assignment, but I’m afraid that I will have to recuse myself.

CLARENCE
Excuse yourself?

MR. JORDAN
Re-cuse. That is, to remove myself from participating directly in an intervention, due to my partiality.

CLARENCE
Golly, I would have thought partiality is what we needed. I’m partial to pink, for instance. But I see you’re not quite in the pink yourself.

MR. JORDAN
“In the pink.” That has become a most tiresome expression. It was in the vernacular of a blacker-and-whiter era than our present condition. But it does bring me to the point, to introduce my replacement. I have summoned a noble spirit who has also previously played my role, in my name, and done so with honor, grace, and agility.

CLARENCE
Oh, you mean like when they switched Darrins on Bewitched?

MR. JORDAN swooshes his mighty AngelWing and disappears, revealing a slightly more recent version of himself.

CLARENCE staggers backward slightly. NEW MR. JORDAN looks around, brushes his suit off, and catches sight of CLARENCE. They recognize each other from a previous mission.

CLARENCE
Ah! Oh! Uh-oh.

JORDAN
Do not be alarmed, dear one. Clarence, isn’t it? I accept full responsibility for the Scut Farkus affair. It was a matter of probability and outcome. In any attempt to correct the balance of good and evil in a system as chaotic as that place they call the White House … well, it’s best we not talk politics at this point. Fair?

CLARENCE
Oh yes, fair indeedy! And if I may say so, sir, I am very relieved to be staying on this side of the rainbow for this mission. I spent a hundred and fifty years or so in black and white, and it’s a joy indeed to experience so much color! I am partial to pink, you know.

CLARENCE twirls the skirt of his AngelWear ballgown, a silhouette he had not previously attempted. JORDAN picks up a clipboard and glances at it quickly, then puts it down again.

JORDAN
You don’t use these anymore, do you?

CLARENCE
Goodness, no, we have all sorts of upgrades to update. Here, please, borrow mine.

JORDAN and CLARENCE peer studiously into the viewer in the nifty device. CLARENCE dramatically waves his wing across the surface and casts the image onto a nearby puff of cloud. Sadly, it is black and white. The image, I mean. CLARENCE sighs.

JORDAN
Now, now, dear one. We’re here because it’s never too late to correct a mistake, to heal a broken heart, to retrieve a soul left desolate on the cutting room floor of Life. Now, then. Let’s see who we have here.

Through the mists of heavy filters, what might have been a dream sequence in a less-capable cinematographer’s mitts quickly clarifies and adjusts to reveal a distinguished gentleman of maturing vintage arriving at the door of a past-expiration-vintage mansion in Boston—the right part of Boston, where the world is small by comparison. On closer inspection, the gentleman bears an uncanny resemblance to our own black-and-white MR. JORDAN.

CLARENCE looks surprised; NEW MR. JORDAN does not.

CLARENCE
Is this, um, what-do-you-call-it. Is it one of those past life recessions?

JORDAN
Regression? Not exactly. But you’re on the right track, darling Clarence. Have we never told you the story of the Voyager?

CLARENCE (raising and waving his hand eagerly)
Oh, oh! Is it the one about the Voyager—from the poem? Let me see, how did it go. We memorized it in school. “Something, something, duh-da-da something, Now Voyager, sail thou forth.”

JORDAN
Yes, “Sail thou forth to seek and find.”

CLARENCE
Oh, and he didn’t find, did he?

JORDAN
Oh he found, all right. But she whom he found seems to have missed finding him.

CLARENCE
“Whom”?

JORDAN and CLARENCE resume watching the story unfold, in synopsis, on the giant cloudy projection.

JORDAN
Meet Dr. Jaquith, by the way. Even his author forgot to give him a first name.

CLARENCE
I always liked “George” for a first name. George Washington, George Cohan, George Bu- (JORDAN frowns warningly) uh, Bailey. Right, no politics.

ON CLOUD VIEW, we see JAQUITH entering the Vale home, meeting shy and mousy spinster CHARLOTTE VALE. She cowers at the sight of her domineering mother and rushes upstairs to her room. JAQUITH follows, and she allows him to enter. He casually examines objects in her room, focusing on a beautifully carved ivory box (don’t judge—ivory trade was legal back in black-and-white days).

JAQUITH holds the box up to admire its craftsmanship, showering praise upon CHARLOTTE’s skill. Receiving such praise for the first time in her life, she gazes at the kind man she has unexpectedly found in her life. JORDAN nods quietly at the view and stops the action.

JORDAN
I’d like you to take a close look at these two souls, dear Clarence. Miss Charlotte Vale and Dr. Jaquith.

CLARENCE
Nice faces. Not exactly Romeo and Juliet. Or Jack and Rose. But I like ’em. I like Charlotte and George. Er, Jaquith.

JORDAN unpauses the view and we quickly recap the tale:

1. CHARLOTTE goes to JAQUITH’s asylum—er, spa—in the country and blossoms under his treatment, which largely consists of his kind words, his kind eyes twinkling constant approval, and her learning to weave.
2. CHARLOTTE leaves the asylum—er, spa—and takes a cruise to South America, now transmogrified butterfly-like into a beautiful and sophisticated traveler, attracting the attention of sophisticated—and married—fellow traveler JERRY. Driving through the jungle, they fall off a cliff and fall in love. 
3. Too noble to leave his wife for her, JERRY instead teaches CHARLOTTE to smoke. Like, a lot. Somehow this is very sexy.
4. CHARLOTTE comes home alone to resume life under her domineering mother, but now with strength and self-confidence. She pushes back on the old lady’s demands and, to get even with her disobedient daughter, the old lady dies.
5. Guilt-ridden, CHARLOTTE flees back to JAQUITH’s spa (but not into his arms; good doctors have rules about such things, as might a married man, you’d think).
6. At this spa, CHARLOTTE meets and befriends JERRY’s daughter TINA, a kid who is also tormented by her domineering mother. 
7. CHARLOTTE blossoms again by becoming a surrogate mother to needy TINA, taking her home to Boston. TINA blossoms under her Jaquith-like kind care and attention.
8. JAQUITH praises CHARLOTTE’s new-found confidence, drive, and direction, putting her on the board of directors at the asylum—er, spa.
9. Still not leaving his wife, JERRY acts all guilty for letting CHARLOTTE play “mother” to TINA. He gives her yet another cigarette. He lets CHARLOTTE keep TINA and asks, “But will you be happy?”
10. CHARLOTTE replies, “Oh, Jerry. Don’t let’s ask for the moon. We have the stars.”

The CLOUD VIEW image fades to black.

CLARENCE
That’s such a sad story. We really need to help her quit smoking.

JORDAN
Well, yes, there’s that. But what else went wrong here? All of the information you need was right there.

CLARENCE presses rewind on the “Don’t let’s ask for the moon” sequence.

CLARENCE
Well, that’s some fairly cheesy dialogue, in my opinion. Mark Twain could have done much better. But I do like the music. Hm, all the information I need, eh? That thing about the moon reminds me of something. And anyway, what’s wrong with asking for the moon?

With an angelic smile, JORDAN starts to swish his majestic AngelWing but stops short, eyeing CLARENCE’s AngelWear ballgown.

JORDAN
You’d better change before heading back to Boston.

THUNDER and LIGHTNING and other HEAVENLY EFFECTS swipe the scene to beyond “The End.”

INT. VALE HOME. EVENING.

As JERRY leaves CHARLOTTE alone in the library, he rejoins TINA with DR. JAQUITH in the living room, where they are eating weenies roasted in the fireplace.

JERRY
Well my darling. It seems you are to stay here with your “light lady,” Camille.

TINA looks bewildered, turning from her father to her doctor.

TINA
Is it true, Dr. Jaquith? Will I never go home anymore?

JAQUITH
What is it you want, Tina? You are healthy enough and grown enough to make your own decisions.

TINA
Daddy, it’s true. Camille is teaching me to stand up for myself, on my own two feet, just like her. And I’m pretty now, too, just like her.

JAQUITH
You’re pretty because you are loved.

JERRY
Yes, my darling, you are loved. But are you truly strong enough to face … whatever dragons may live out there?

TINA
You mean Mother?

JERRY looks down sadly, helplessly. JAQUITH watches warily. The front DOORBELL RINGS.

JACOB "BIFF" MARLEY (voice-over from Heaven)
Bell out of order. Please knock.

There is a KNOCK at the door, which TINA runs to answer. ISABELLE, the estranged wife of JERRY and mother of TINA, enters, accompanied by CLARENCE, now appropriately black-and-white and suitably pinstriped.

TINA
Mother!

ISABELLE
Who? Oh. Um. Hello little girl.

ISABELLE turns to CLARENCE for clarification.

CLARENCE
I’m terribly sorry for the confusion, madam. We were in quite a rush, you see. Christmas Eve and what-not. We didn’t quite get the necessary pages downloaded from headquarters in time for you to study for the part.

MARLEY (voice-over)
I’m just finishing up the second draft now.

JORDAN (voice-over)
Now Biff, don’t try and con me!

CLARENCE
Mrs. Dorrance, of course you must recognize your youngest daughter, Christina, who’s been away at Dr. Jaquith’s mental-health spa.

MARLEY (voice-over)
In improv, always say Yes.

ISABELLE
Yes, of course. Darling Christina. How well you look. Have you been behaving yourself?

TINA (seething)
Yes, of course, Mommy Dearest. (Sotto voce) And my friend Camille taught me how to make it look like an accident!

CHARLOTTE comes out of the library to see what-the-what. TINA grabs a heavy umbrella from the stand by the door. As ISABELLE walks toward the living room, TINA starts to take a mighty swing at her mother’s head. CLARENCE throws out a wing to block the hit. TINA reels around and collapses on the floor.

Motherly, fatherly, and doctorly instincts take hold, and all rush to TINA’s aid. As JERRY and ISABELLE unite to help their daughter, a tender look passes between them. TINA sits up dizzily, beaming as happily as her parents.

CLARENCE opens the door and ushers them all out, as CHARLOTTE and JAQUITH look on.

CLARENCE
Well that was easier than I thought!

CLARENCE follows the family to the edge of the doorway, then reaches around just outside to pull a large, flat package into the room.

CHARLOTTE
Well. Now. It seems I am unneeded after all. And you have lost another patient, Dr. Owl. That won’t help the asylum’s bottom line very much.

JAQUITH
Spa.

CHARLOTTE
Pshaw yourself.

JAQUITH
What’s this twaddle about not being needed? And isn’t about time you started calling me “George”?

CLARENCE
Ha! I knew it!

CHARLOTTE (finally noticing CLARENCE)
I beg your pardon. I would by no means turn away a package-bearing party crasher, but would you be so kind as to introduce yourself?

CLARENCE
Alas and alack, dear lady, allow me to present myself presently. I am Clarence Odbody, AS-1. That’s Angel, First Class, in general charge of mulligans. Putting right what once went wrong, as it were.

CHARLOTTE and JAQUITH exchange smiles.

CHARLOTTE
One loony goes out the door, the next flies through the window, eh Dr. Owl?

JAQUITH
Mr. Odbody, please do have a seat. You must be extremely fatigued after such a long journey.

CLARENCE
Not at all, my good man! Not at all! In fact, I have come merely to present you with this present. For both of you, actually. Call it a … an engagement gift, perhaps?

CLARENCE winks, blinks, and evaporates, leaving no trace behind. Not even a memory.

CHARLOTTE and JAQUITH sit on the floor in front of the fireplace, looking over the new building plans for the spa.

CHARLOTTE
You know, Dr. Owl … George. I was a fool to believe Jerry really loved me. Oh, I know he was attracted to me, of course. But that wasn’t real. Was it?

JAQUITH
I may have to recuse myself from this particular question.

CHARLOTTE
Jerry made me feel beautiful. But I think it was you who made me beautiful. Well, you, and a sweet sister-in-law’s flare for fashion and clever grooming. You made me feel -

JAQUITH
Needed?

CHARLOTTE
No …

JAQUITH
Wanted?

CHARLOTTE
No … Talented. One does want to find a place where one is truly valued, on her own merits.

JAQUITH
And what about feeling loved?

CHARLOTTE
A woman is beautiful when she is loved, and only then.

JAQUITH
I’ll have to remember that one.

CHARLOTTE
And what about you, darling George? Do I make you feel that special kind of beautiful? I hope I do.

JAQUITH
Shall we just have another roasted weenie on it?

CHARLOTTE laughs and fetches a roasted weenie from the fire, handing the skewer to JAQUITH. While he eats, CHARLOTTE opens the package CLARENCE had left for them. It is a hand-drawn poster, with the caption “George Lassos the Moon.” They gaze at it—and each other—lovingly.

FADE TO STARRY, MOON-LIT SKY.

JORDAN
Well done, darling Clarence. What is that, exactly?

CLARENCE
Oh, just a souvenir from my first mission.

MARLEY
Scene stealer.

FADE OUT.

____

Author’s note: Previous Clarence adventures may be perused by following the following links.

Saving Mr. Potter
Christmas Belle, or Saving Miss Fezziwig
Saving Mr. Sawyer
Saving Mr. Jordan
Saving "Big" Susan
Saving Miss Gulch

Happy saving!
Love, hosaa

Detecting Art

With enough time on my hands (and apparently I have) I could easily spend two days "researching" the art work used as set decoration in classic TV shows and movies.

My first detection came years ago while watching Bewitched and noting the reproduction of Picasso's "The Old Guitarist" in Samantha and Darrin Stephens' living room.

It wasn't until I actually visited the original at the Art Institute of Chicago that I realized the set decorators of the classic sit-com hung the image on its side. A few others here on the internet have noted the error. Reportedly the picture was hung this way because it was too tall for the set, which begs the question, Why didn't they just find a horizontal masterpiece? Bewitched apparently abandoned Picasso after the second season.

Another mystery (or series of mysteries) obsessed me over the last couple of days after watching Elaine May's classic 1971 dark comedy A New Leaf. Though I've been a fan of the movie since it first came out, eagerly snapping up the VHS tape (with the wrong soundtrack) and then the DVD (original soundtrack restored), I hadn't paid a lot of attention to the art work in the set decoration of hero Henry Graham's apartment. The paintings are clearly "modern" (with a sprinkling of "primitive" sculptures) and intend to showcase the character's wealth.

A recent course on modern art at the Smithsonian set my curiosity for mid-Century American abstract expressionists (and others of that era), so I made it my unassigned mission to find out who these artists were. But I only found one I could definitively source.

The piece featured most prominently in Henry's (Walter Matthau) posh apartment is Multifarious (1959) by Morris Louis.

I am sorry to say I could not source any of the other artists, though the styles are very recognizably those of well known artists from the era. Mark Rothko? Barnett Newman? Robert Motherwell? Adolph Gottlieb?

In the film's credits, several galleries are given credit for providing the art (Marlborough-Gerson Inc., Edward R. Lubin Inc., Andre Emmerich, and French and Company). It's possible these particular pieces remain somewhere in private collections, never auctioned or sold to museums, and thus no records or images of them exist on the internet.

The image of Multifarious, identified above, is copyrighted by the Maryland Institute College of Art, but MorrisLouis.org states that the provenance of the painting is the estate of the artist and its whereabouts is unknown.

There is some evidence at least one piece in Henry Graham's collection is a work of fiction. The sculpture at risk of being destroyed by a young wedding guest is identified as a "Montrazini"--an artist who appears nowhere on the Web except in references to this film!

"She's unscrewing my Montrazini!"

At any rate, I've flunked the art identification exam. But I've enjoyed the investigation!

Love, hosaa
Returning over A New Leaf

Sketchbook Poems

Despite my mother's declaration that I "always was an artist," my attempts to draw have always been disappointing. I'd take sketchbooks with me to various inspiring landscapes and ultimately end up doodling words, not images. A few samples ensue.

 8-5-05, Lincoln City, OR

1

The seagulls
or the small girls squealed
as the cold ocean crested.

2

Hemming the shoreline
in anonymous seams
they declare themselves
in their T-shirts
and dogs' names:
Pippin
Max
Madison
or was that the son?

3

Waves bring no answers
from afar
but do not hold their tongue
long enough for my mind
to ask a question.
Rest.


8-8-09, Alps Boulder Canyon Inn, Colorado

Caravans carve the canyon
rushing rounded trails
to vacation destinations around the bend.
Time to go around the bend
but no time to stop.

Sun peers over the peak and
through the leaves, both ancient--on
the arete--and new--in the
potted plants.

Two lines gleam in the sun
extending its rays: the power line
tracing the highway's caravanned curves,
and a silky spidery gatekeeper's
fencing off of blossomed territory.

Hat Tip

It might have been Tolstoy, or perhaps P.G. Wodehouse's brainy Jeeves, who remarked to the effect that possessions are oppressive. I've lately had a moment to contemplate that concept as I look to clear out more than three decades' worth of possessions.

Most young ladies shed their prom gowns moments after the big party. Sometimes during. Mine has moved around in multiple closets up to the present and has resided with me in this apartment multiple dress sizes and fashion trends ago. A decade younger than the prom gown was a black strapless formal, worn once (or perhaps twice; it might have been taken out for a New Year's Eve waltz at the Kennedy Center).

And then there are the hats. The velvet Renaissance Faire cap my brother wore when he was a "Rennie." A British driving cap I bought on my very first trip to London. A black and white striped Chicago gangster-style fedora. And a red beret, that infamous "French hat" that made my niece's kindergarten classmates all laugh.

Other than a brief fling at the office Halloween costume party (I went as "employee who wears many hats") they never saw any action outside the mirror in my closet.

Oh, and a pair of jazz-style tap shoes, last worn at my notorious "feets of fury" recital, as one approaching-middle-age woman with a group of middle-school classmates. (I can still do a time step and shuffle off to Buffalo, but not in an apartment with hardwood floors.)

What to do, what to do. These are not things one donates to Salvation Army. Nor does one donate them to landfills, which are not exactly needy. I thought of local theaters, but they do not, as a rule, warehouse items, even of arguably theatrical value as vintage pieces.

At some point, this analytical creature needed to stop analyzing and act. I Googled and found this wonderful nonprofit, TDF Costume Collection, packed up my duds, and off they went. I hope they find the creative futures I could not.

A tip of the hats to you all.

Love, hosaa
checked hats and all

A Chair Was There

A little background before I play with a poem or story.

One of my projects this summer--between official retirement date and date of probable move to unfamiliar but more familial territory--is to catalog my belongings and appraise the praiseworthy. Not sure how to go about the latter, but an opportunity came up for free appraisals at the local community center. I asked whether furniture could be included and was assured I could bring in my step-grandmother's rocking chair.

Easier said than done. The runners on the rocker dragged their feet out the door, into my car, out of my car, and up the walk to more doors of the community center. Inside, items other people brought in were lined up on long tables, and the audience and item-owners settled in for two hours of storytelling and value-guessing.

Market value, we were reminded, is what someone will pay for something. Insurance value is what it would cost you to replace something.

One of the themes that emerged in the antiques appraiser's narrative is that today's market is down from what it was about 10 years ago (recession notwithstanding). Reason: Millennials. That's right. If millennials never heard of your celebrity portrait or autograph (not even Shirley Temple?) it's not worth much. If millennials would rather go to IKEA and put together their own chairs, rocking or not, they won't want to buy your used junk (aka, their great-grandmother's Victorian rocking chair).

For two hours we learned a bit about metals (jewelry and coins), pictures, porcelains, and what-not and how to tell what's valuable and what's not. Mine was the only piece of furniture up for evaluation, and I was afraid after all that time (the session ran well over the appointed time; people had lots of stories about their stuff) I wouldn't even learn the approximate date of Grandma's chair. But finally the appraiser got around to it.

I knew the chair's dark brown stain wasn't its original. When I'd seen it in Grandma's house (Eugene, Ore.), it was stained antique white to match the needlepoint. But clearly the needlepoint wasn't original either, and that's the second thing the appraiser remarked on. (The first thing he said is "Brown is down." Dang those millennials and their open-concept light and airy aesthetic!) The wood around the needlepoint in the seat shows markings of a previous seat covering, which he said was likely cane.

At any rate, it's likely Grandma or whoever she received the chair from thought they had better ideas than the original designer. My mother apparently liked her own idea of brown (more natural) more than the antique white. I've not touched it since receiving it from my mother so many decades ago that I don't even remember now how I got it in this apartment. Stubborn runners!

Since my very first sighting of the chair was in the mid-1970s, I really had no idea of its true age or even whether it was a mass market manufactured imitation of Something Fine. The appraiser had no hesitation dating the piece to 1880-1890. He also had no hesitation valuing it, at auction, at less than $50. (I didn't feel bad; other than the diamond jewelry brought in and a unique World War II silk pocket map, not many of the valuables were valued very much.)

Lots of things have sentimental value, which means they'll stay in the family or among old friends for longer than the IKEA chairs will last. This chair has been promised to my niece, who can decide its value based on her own aesthetic. Meantime, I have stories to get back to. This chair has seen some places I don't know about yet. It'll see a few more. Time to time travel.

Love, hosaa
hopefully not just sitting around