Feeling Blue

A few months will be fifty years since French minimalist artist Yves Klein received a patent for the color that bears his name, International Klein Blue (IKB).

IKB, to this day, is a very busy color. It has its own Web site, Facebook page (a modest 308 fans), movie (1962’s NSFW Blue Women Art, below), song (Helene’s International Klein Blue) and band (Brisbane’s Yves Klein Blue). Chanel designed a patent python chain bag in the color.

It’s ubiquitous, yet allusive; Wikipedia claims, for instance, that it cannot be “accurately displayed on web pages” – the perfect excuse for a road trip.

So next month, during winter break from school, I’m going to Europe, which is, as far as I can tell, the place to go for all things IKB.

Points of interests? Paris, and the Centre Pompidou’s Yves Klein: Body, Colour, Immaterial exhibit; then to Gelsenkirchen, Germany, where their Musiktheater im Revier is decorated in the color; on to Berlin’s Neue Nationalgalerie, which has some works; and finally to the Tate Gallery in London, where they have at least one piece on exhibit.

It’s quite a distance to travel for a color that I find hard to describe. But I can’t wait to hear why other people are drawn to it. Check back in January for updates and photos.

Arto Lindsay’s “Somewhere I Read”

Slideshow here…

Cat Guilt or Everything Tastes Better with Ranch

I wish that could say that my cats, Lewis and Clark, get nothing but the best, but that would be a lie. How healthfully they eat varies, just like it varies with me, and for all the same reasons. According to my schedule, they eat: Solid Gold, Iams or, in the most dire of circumstances, Purina Cat Chow from the deli on the corner. I’ve never heard any complaints.

Today I wandered into Whiskers Holistic Pet Care in the east village with a friend and was left feeling inadequate and guilty as a pet owner. Irresponsible, even.

Living in New York I’ve grown accustomed to being in shops, surrounded by merchandise that I know I can’t afford. It just usually happens at the Barney’s Co-op or ABC Carpet & Home and not pet food stores.

At Whiskers I got into a conversation with one of the owners, Randy. Somehow the topic of what I feed my cats came up.

“Do you eat meat?” she asked.

I didn’t know what to say. I weighed all possible options and outcomes and opted for the truth. “Yes, I do,” I said.

“Then share,” she said.

Whiskers has been open since 1988 and occupies a small, crowded space on east 9^th Street. The store has another location in Astoria. At the east village store I peered into one of the gigantic freezers that sit on one side of the store and pulled out what looked like a plastic take-out container of some frozen tofurkey salad like one might find at Whole Foods. I saw what looked like carrots, meat and pasta. It looked delicious, like something that I would absolutely eat. It was dog food.

My friend, Robbie, was there for Primal Canine Beef Patties; Primal Feline Chicken and Salmon Nuggets; Nupro Silver with Glucosamine, MSM, and Ester-C; and Halo Dream Coat. I would probably eat all these items, as well, if they were offered me a silver platter with a ramekin of ranch dressing.

At the end, my guilty conscience prevailed and I left with Primal Feline Chicken and Salmon Nuggets, four of which are defrosting in the fridge and the rest of which are occupying not a small amount of space in my already crowded freezer.

Andy Velez on Gay Civil Rights: Past, Present, and Future

As the AIDS epidemic took hold in the 1980s, there was plenty of anger and fear to go around, especially in New York City. Familiar faces withered and became unrecognizable, then disappeared completely. Misinformation from the scientific world and inaction from the government abounded.

Out of this grew ACT UP, a group committed to effecting political change and action in the face of the growing epidemic. Their tactics, though non-violent, were radical – an expression of the urgency of the matter at hand. There was no time for politesse.

With the National Equality March in Washington, D.C. days away, I spoke to Andy Velez, 70, a member of ACT UP since those early days. Andy is a writer, a trained psychoanalytic psychotherapist, and an educator. We spoke about his experiences with ACT UP – about which he’s currently writing a book – and how fear and anger can motivate.

It left me wondering… are we angry enough now?

“I happened to see a flyer…”

“We were dealing with life and death…”

“Power is never transferred willingly…”

“Something has shifted…”

“…they couldn’t be quite so comfortable.”

Opera Diva Estate Sale

Estate sales can be melancholy events. Someone, after all, has died and, no matter how dignified the setting, a lifetime of treasured possessions is up for grabs. Even so, Wednesday morning’s auction of soprano Beverly Sill’s estate, at Doyles New York, was more a celebration of the singer’s life, thronged with fans who had traveled from far and wide to take part.

“Beverly Sills gave a recital in my hometown in 1977 and I never got over it,” Nancy Guy, an author and associate professor of music at U.C. San Diego, said. Sills had in part inspired her love of opera in general, including Chinese opera, she said.

Speaking to people about Sills is a reminder that what attracted them to her was not only an immense talent. She was equally loved for her commitment to her family, her humility, and her business savvy. Friend Carol Burnett, among others, affectionately referred to the Brooklyn-born singer, who rocketed to fame in the late 1960s, as “Bubbles.”

Larry Strachan, 29, a systems engineer from the Bahamas, flew to New York from France at 10 p.m. the night before. He was on vacation in Paris when he heard about the auction and he planned to fly back to France the day after to resume his vacation.

“I’m a fan because of her story,” Strachan said. “Here is a woman who has two children with special needs who overcame the odds and became one of the most famous opera singers of her generation.” Sills’ daughter, Muffy, has been deaf since birth; son Peter was born severely mentally disabled.

Philip Morgan’s wife Susan brought him to New York for the auction as a surprise trip for his birthday. They were vacationing in Montreal. A singer and former professor of voice at Lebanon Valley College in Pennsylvania, Morgan performed with Sills in 1960 at Central City Opera in Denver, Colorado.

“He’d been talking about going to Montreal, so I planned this surprise trip,” Susan said. “This is a kind of special day.”

The entire back row at the auction house was full of out-of-town fans. Freeman Stamper was there from San Francisco. He had his eye on Lot 371, two Emmy Awards from the mid 1970s.

“I have a collection of anything and everything Beverly Sills,” Stamper said before rattling off a list of dolls and memorabilia. He described himself as such a fan because of what he called Sills’ “rhythm of life,” adding that she was in the first opera performance that he ever saw, at Wolf Trap in Virginia.

In the back row in another group was Roy Dicks, 62, a performing arts writer visiting from Raleigh, North Carolina. Dicks runs beverlysills.com, the star’s unofficial Web site. It catalogs the singer’s performances and offers a discography and video links.

“Most people think of opera singers as aloof – the diva – but she was not that way,” Dicks said. He hoped to meet Sills’ daughter Muffy, who was expected to attend the auction.

Louis Webre, a senior vice president of marketing and media at the auction house, stressed the worldwide appeal of the Sills’ estate auction before launching into a history of the star’s rise to fame as Cleopatra in the New York City Opera’s 1966 performance of Handel’s Giulio Cesare.

“It’s always a special opportunity for fans worldwide to have a piece of something that a celebrity chose.”

On Shame, Librarians

My Kindle shame reached critical point Monday evening on a bench in Washington, D.C.’s Union Station. It seems most aggravated by trains and subways.

I bought my Kindle a few months ago, before starting graduate school, thinking that it would be a handy way to read magazines. Several friends expressed their concerns, announcing that I would look like an asshole reading it on the L train in the mornings. But I bought it anyway.

The Kindle 2, which I own, is an electronic reading device developed by Amazon. It allows users to download, via a service called Whispernet, which frankly sounds lame, electronic versions of books, magazines, newspapers and the like. From a design standpoint it’s an amazing device – sleek, light, and easily navigated. But many “book” people don’t like them.

“And you can’t even burn them, as they’d produce toxic smoke,” lamented one group member on the “I Hate the Damn Kindle” Facebook page. Other consumers agree, citing complaints about battery power and something or other about the Orwellian nature of remotely deleted books.

Anyway, this past weekend I was returning from visiting my family in Virginia and waiting for my connecting train in the crowded waiting area. Two older women sat beside me, in thick cable knit sweaters and glasses, books open. When I brought out my Kindle and started reading, the whispering began. From the corner of my eye I could see them pointing, gesturing. So I stopped and showed them.

Turns out that they were librarians returning to Philadelphia from a library conference. They held it, balanced it in their hands. “What books do you read on it?” one asked. I didn’t want to say “Lauren Conrad’s LA Candy” so I lied and told her I was reading To the Lighthouse. She nodded approvingly. My shame decreased, just a bit.

When Queen Helene Won’t Do

I dated this Dutch guy last year. One evening, in the process of explaining the bleakness of Dutch cooking, including, unfortunately, the meal that he had just prepared and set before me, he told me something about shortages. In Holland, during World War II, he said, due to extreme food shortages, some people were forced to eat tulip bulbs.

After pulling them from the ground, the bulbs were boiled, mashed, or put in soups.

I mention this because I’ve just experienced firsthand the desperation that shortages can cause. For weeks, you see, Kiehl’s has been out of its Rare Earth Deep Pore Cleansing Masque.

“I can tell you that Rare Earth was a very successful introduction,” said Rachael Kelley, a Kiehl’s public relations manager. I had called her, desperate for news.

For the uninitiated, Kiehl’s is a cosmetics and skin care line founded in New York’s east village in 1851. I’ve tried each and every one of their lotions, lip balms, body washes, moisturizers, and masques (thanks to free samples). The Rare Earth Deep Pore Cleansing Masque is my favorite.

Rachael explained that the shortage is due to the popularity of a new formulation that they released this summer.

“The original products have been long-time favorites,” she said. “The new line has a built-in fanbase.”

When I announced to friends that I was temporarily going to leave the working world and return to school full-time, their reactions were much the same.

“Where will you wash your face?” one asked. Another, my friend Alex, congratulated me and then announced that I was welcome at his apartment anytime if I needed a decent moisturizer.

So Rachael’s explanation of the shortage, though helpful, didn’t allay my anxiety. The masque’s key ingredient, Amazonian white clay, even sounds rare.

Then finally, the words I had been waiting for.

“The product is shipping as we speak,” Rachael said. Crisis averted.

In My Tennessee Mountain Home

Every once in a while, circumstances provide an unwelcomed glimpse into someone else’s private life. Like the woman laboring up the crowded subway stairs in front of you. How her low-slung jeans shift to reveal the pink, triangular wedge of a thong. When that unsightly thong becomes a belief or a set of values, the trouble really begins.

Sometime over the summer, toward the end of June, the first one arrived. “I hope there isn’t anyone on my email list that won’t keep this going!” the email said. A few days later I got an email updating me on the condition of a fellow named Ray. The email explained “Ray took a bad tumble while taping during the Tokens show at Lipscomb on Thursday night.” A quick Google search revealed that the people involved were in Tennessee. I wrote to all of them and politely explained that I was apparently getting their friend’s emails and to please let him know.

By mid-July I knew his name, that he was elderly and recently widowed, where he went to church, and that he owned an iPhone 3G and banked at Regions National Bank. He lived in a place called Old Hickory and his email address was identical to my own, except that mine ended in “gmail.com” and his in “comcast.net.” His friends were confused when I tried to explain that our email addresses had somehow become crossed. They didn’t seem to understand, really, what email was. I imagined that they were simple, country folk. Like Dolly Parton, for instance. She is from Tennessee – a small, mountain town – so these people were probably like her. They were rough around the edges with potential, like all of us.

Over the months, after several unhelpful calls to Comcast, I learned to simply block each new email as it arrived. Still a few filtered through. To me, we were like animals in one of Aesop’s Fables. Thrown together in unusual circumstances, we learned to tolerate each other.

Then, the Obama protests started.

“Seargeant Crowley, the sole class act in this trio, helps the handicapped Professor Gates down the stairs, while Barak Obama, heedless of the infirmities of his friend and fellow victim of self-defined racial profiling, strides ahead on his own,” started one email, written by my namesake’s daughter. This email arrived in reaction to the controversy surrounding the arrest of Harvard Professor Henry Gates in July. Since it was sent from her work address, I wrote and explained that if I received another such email message I would forward it to her employers.

“I truly apologize,” she wrote. “I will make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

Many of the group emails they send around are religious in nature. They’re Christians and so the racial intolerance that they often expressed seemed strange, and somewhat frightening to me. All the way in New York I began to feel threatened. They weren’t like Dolly Parton at all. I felt duped and hurt.

“Obama walks into a bar with a parrot on his shoulder. The bartender asks, ‘Where did you get that?’

Africa… they’re all over the place!’ said the parrot.”

This last email chain was started by a Professor at the University of Tennessee, from his university email address. I forwarded it to the head of Minority Affairs at the school, with a note.

White House Press Secretary Robert Gibbs explained recently that “the president does not believe that that criticism comes based on the color of his skin.”

President Carter, the parrot and many others disagree.

Mama

Last night I went to the women’s final of the U.S. Open. Now, I normally prefer to watch tennis on TV. With the benefit of TV, you can see facial expressions and the commentators also help to build the tension. Pink’s “Get the Party Started,” played during commercial breaks when you’re watching in person, does not build tension. Anyway, it was a good match and, in the end, I was glad that Kim Clijsters won, though I am frankly sick already of hearing about her baby and the fact that she is a mom. The media, particularly the tennis media, acts as if having a baby was some other physical and emotional hardship. The opening to The Bionic Woman comes to mind. She was a tennis player, too, afterall.

Also I was shocked that Serena wasn’t in the final. Temper, temper.

Winter Reflections

Not much has been going on, but it’s been so long that certainly something must have happened. Random thoughts include a mish-mash of  TV moments, which sadly illustrate how much of my time these past few months has been spent (it was cold). Celia having a not-so-fresh face; Kelly being a rotten, miserable egg jogging down Fifth Avenue in the middle of traffic like anyone would do that in real life and live; Alexis being voted off way too early; cooking every recipe Mark Bittman posts on the NYT all winter, then finding out I have high cholesterol; and being lief, then not.

I got into school this winter and went and sat in on some classes to see how I might like it. School means being subjected to others in a way far worse than riding the subway, even. The girl next to me went to great lengths to ignore me, while she basically spoke what I imagined to be the contents of her diary. Of course this was not relevant to the topic at hand. So I fixated on a large booger, poised at the entrance to one of her nostrils. Would it stay in? Fall out? Nothing happened, but it was fascinating nonetheless. At that moment I decided that I will like school. There will always be something interesting to focus on.