THE BEST WAY TO DIE

On Thanksgiving night, after our friends left and my family was asleep, I watched again the recent film about Edith Piaf called "La Vie En Rose." It's an interesting film. It gives her an horrific childhood, fame in mid-life, and loneliness and isolation in old age. The old Piaf would lay flat on her back in bed with the covers pulled way up to her eyes, shivering with fear in the dark. Maybe she was afraid she'd go to hell. Maybe she was just terrified to be at the brink of death.


Watching this I wondered if hers was the wrong way to die. I always imagined myself dying the philosophers death where I calmly said goodbye to family and friends, and maybe even joked a little. That's not what Piaf did. She was terrified and tortured. I wondered who had the better plan.





Maybe Piaf did. I remember what Homer said about what we would call tragic heroes. The hero finds what he's good at and enters into a mystical relationship with it. He sacrifices everything to be the best at it. He may be a lousy father and husband, he may have bad table manners, but he's the best at something and that's no small thing. When the end comes, such a hero dies badly. There was never any attempt at balance in his life. He lived to experience life at its fullest through his skill, and nothing in his experience prepares him for death. He dies crying and digging his fingers into the ground. And Homer says it's a good death.

Maybe the kind of person who lives life well is incapable of dying well. Maybe living life well requires us to love life too much to casually put it aside.

Or...maybe Piaf was neurotic and her extreme attachment to her lovers was a sign that her life was lived badly. What do you think?

THANKSGIVING 2007

I was dying to post some some Wally Wood and Don Martin parodies of Thanksgiving but alas, they weren't available to scan. Maybe it's just as well because looking for them led me to discover this magnificent photo (above) of Canadian troops observing a thanksgiving service in WWI. The small version of this picture doesn't convey a shred of the grandeur of the occassion. On pain of death, be sure to click to enlarge.

I wonder what they were praying for? Maybe it was to give thanks for a recently won victory. I like to think that they were giving thanks for the wonders they'd seen in their lifetimes. It would be very touching if soldiers, who must lead a miserable life during wartime, could stop to be grateful for the gift of life...not just for survival, but for the sheer wonder of it all.



Here's (above) a mid-Civil War picture. The emotions here certainly seem heart-felt. Click to enlarge.

Here's a Victorian family (above) enjoying after-dinner coffee together. Of course the baby participates. Didn't they give gin to babies in those days?

Here's the classic Norman Rockwell picture, with ice cream substituted for Turkey.

And a Wally Wood varient.

Here's (above) a terrific picture of a family celebrating the holiday together. It's meant to be seen large so be sure to click on it.

I was tempted to run several pictures like this. I find happy famiies to be endlessly fascinating.

YMA SUMAC

The queen of exotic records in the 50s was Yma Sumac. I'm guessing she was Peruvian. She took exotic elements from all over the world, including Polynesia, and blended them with her own native Peruvian music to make a mix that was full of mystery and the promise of adventure.

Sumac had a unique voice that could sing comfortably in five octaves. People were always asking, "Who's the guy she sings with?" Well, the guy was Yma sumac. She was a whole ensemble, all by herself .

Here she is (above) in the Andes.

Here she is in Mike F's harem (above). How did she get in there? Man, Mike is gonna be mad when he finds out!

GREETINGTH, POETRY LOVERTH!

This poem of Longfellow's is one of the funniest I know, rivaling even "Jabberwocky." One of these days I hope I'll get a chance to animate it.

It was taken very seriously in it's day. Towns were named for it as were high schools, an aircraft carrier, a TV space ship, a corporation, a bath mat, and shipping fodder. There's even a book called "Excelsior, You Fathead," which is my very favorite name for a book. If you're not familiar with this poem , then read on. Excelsior!

MY FAVORITE HIPPIE PHOTOGRAPHER

I'm no fan of the hippies but I have to admit that they came up with some interesting graphic ideas. The best hippie photographer I know of was Jerry Ulesmann. What imagination! I'd love to stand in a real philosopher's study like the one he did above, and see tumultuous clouds overhead. Click to enlarge. Imagine experiencing the wind and smells you encounter just before a thunderstorm while simultaneously feeling the staid, musty smell of a book-filled room. Why can't we have weather- protected rooms with no ceilings?

Actually, I have this in my own house, sort of. I have a sleeping porch with a bed where most months of the year I can wake up to the dew and that early morning fresh smell. It's unbelievably great to sleep out there in a thunderstorm, completely protected yet sort of in the thick of things at the same time. Learn from Jerry Ulesmann! Get a sleeping porch!

What a great house (above) for a witch! I wish we had more trees with thick, exposed roots in the suburbs. We have to redesign the suburbs to make them more exciting and mysterious.

I absolutely love the idea of suburbs, where you can have some of the rural experience within commuting distance of a great city. I even love the idea that prices were made low enough so that ordinary people could afford to live that way. We've had the inevitable first wave of Levittown-type shoebox houses, now it's time to design the first cool suburbs...with the help of people like Ulesmann.

Nice (above), very nice.

This image has become something of a cliche in fantasy films, but there's still something to be learned from it. Nobody knows how to make things float in the air but the best architects know how to make things appear to be so light that they almost seem to float. Think how the cathedral builders made it appear that thin pillars were holding up massive ceilings. The idea of appearing to defy gravity in a serene, natural setting is gold for the architect.

I once took a train ride through mountains in the early morning. We raced along tunnels and high wooden trestles and I watched the first light struggle to get a foothold. You could see mist creeping through through dark ravines and pathways just like the picture above. Actually, it looked even more like the eerie mist in DeMille's "Ten Commandments," the one that killed the son of the Pharoh.

What is morning mist but vapor in the air? I'd like to have morning mist outside my window and live in an environment that would heighten the effect, wouldn't you? That may be an achievable thing for an engineer or for architects who know how to maximize it . This is what I like about Ulesmann. He's a true artist in the sense that he gives us something to shoot for. He stimulates invention by giving us tantalizing glimpses of what could be.

Cataracts (above)! Ulesmann's right, we need more cataracts! And we need light elements nearby, like boats or leafy trees.

HOLY COW! KATIE DREW ME!

Here's me (above) oogling Marlo!

Here's me (above) reacting to Nico's cup crushing! Gee, Katie even captured my tip-of-the-nose hairs. Actually I had only one and I finally cut it. I had a dentist appointment coming up and I was afraid he'd obsess over it and drill the wrong tooth.

Here's (above) Kali looking rather cute.

There's lots more Katie greatness! ! Check it all out at:

http://funnycute.blogspot.com/

WHAT TEXTILES MEAN

I know nothing about textiles but the subject still interests me, maybe because it's so philosophical. The texture on textiles seem to activate and energize the colors on the surface and push them into telling a dramatic story. Without texture color sometimes seems oddly flat and lifeless.

The pictures above don't illustrate what I just said, I just like the way they look.

When I was a kid I hated lace and couldn't understand what adults saw in it. Now it strikes me as snow crystals frozen in time. The plain white sheet in the middle of the lace seems oddly out of sync with the snow pattern, and yet when you see lace without the blank part it doesn't look right. Maybe lace represents order struggling against bland nothingness.

Lace is reputed to be an old lady's art form but it's hard to imagine old people having the dexterity to make delicate thread do what they want it to. Maybe the ropey stuff you used to see on the arms of chairs is the old lady's art form. It's hard to imagine that real lace would be wasted on a chair. Real lace needs to be worn but only on special occassions. It has to be kept snow white and somewhat crispy. Like diamonds it sets off the wearer but most women don't have the poise to look good in it. It's tempting to think that a woman who looks good in it is probably herself a work of art.

Wow! here's (above) a few things going on at once. A cool red manages to dominate the brilliant starfish and amoebas that erupt on the color's surface then sink back. Life seems to flourish on top of the red for a brief but glorious moment before it's killed off.

The black string and pom poms activate the space around the textile and remind us that the whole saga of life and death on the fabric is framed by a frightening void.

Here (above) color fights with design for dominance. The color seems to ooze and expand but a design pattern seems to be fighting to contain it. You can feel the tension. One or the other will win, but which one?

The white dots shimmer and glow like snow, distracting us from the battle underneath. It's like life: we battle each other furiously while time passes and gives a context to everything we do. It seems to render our battles insignificant, but we still have to fight. The pattern makes us aware that we're all involved in a beautiful unfolding tragedy.

This (above) is an amazing piece of work. Burning mouths from some mysterious void line themselves up to make what appears to be a musical statement. The checkered pattern makes a musical counterpoint. Surrounding it all is the wild, ghostly fringe. The pattern fights to stay together but the fringe tragically seems to be leaking its essence to the ether.

I hate to say it but I don't really like linear African patterns like the one above. The colors are depressing and seem like they're trapped behind obsessive geometry. Of course Africa's a big place and a lot of Africans are probably as indifferent to this pattern as I am.