Feijão Dreams

The first definition of food in Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary is: “a: material consisting essentially of protein, carbohydrate, and fat used in the body of an organism to sustain growth, repair, and vital processes and to furnish energy” Can it be even more than that? I believe that it makes life, which it essentially provides, worthwhile. It is a conduit to bonding with people and understanding their culture. I’m Latina, and in my culture, it is also an expression of love. Sharing a meal with people makes me feel at home wherever I am. Food is one of the essential elements in and a reason for my travels. So, it’s no surprise that I also dream of it, and it is what wakes me one morning with a sudden pang of saudade, a Portuguese word whose definition includes longing, melancholy, and nostalgia.

The origin of the feijoada, Brazil’s national dish, and the comfort food I have been dreaming of is debated. Some believe that it was the slaves that created this stew-like concoction with the leftover, unwanted cuts of meat from their masters, adding what I assume was readily available beans. Others that it originated with the colonizers from Portugal.

The image of steam rising from a bowl of black beans in a clay casserole with bobbing beef ribs, pork belly, pork feet, and linguiça (Brazilian sausage) entwined in a unique dance as the serving ladle digs in, was engraved in my mind as I slept, and it remained there even when my eyes were wide open. When saudade invades, I usually jump on the next plane, destination to anywhere where I can squash the feeling and satisfy my palate as well as nurture my soul. But doing so is not always feasible and my schedule does not presently allow it, so I try to brush the image aside. Yet it becomes more vivid, now infused with a distinct herbal aroma -predominantly of bay leaves, cumin, onions, and garlic.

Feijoada (name coming from feijão -beans in Portuguese) is usually served on Wednesdays or Saturdays in Brazil. Restaurants in the States usually serve it on the weekend. It’s Tuesday in New York but I trust I will find, in this city that has it all, somewhere to satisfy my ever-pressing desire to travel even if in a metaphorical sense and taste the flavors of my youth. The first restaurant that comes up in my search has the name of a beach –Ipanema– the one that I would walk to with a family friend (click here if you want more info on the beach) while my mother stayed at home continuing the making of the feijoada which she started prepping for the day before. The dish would provide us with the energy that the sun and sea would drain us of and would be the reason for the gathering around my parent’s dining table, of any person that did not have family to be with on the weekend. I call the restaurant and ask if they serve feijoada today. They do. That’s all I need to hear and off I go.

Ipanema, the restaurant, has soft, welcoming lighting. Brazilian bossa nova plays soothingly on speakers. It’s cozy but all I truly care about is the feijoada that I dreamt of and came for.

I sit and order a guaraná, what I consider the original energy drink. And the journey back in time starts. At the first sweet sip I remember how my mom allowed me to have a soda only once a week before the Saturday feeding feast. No sodas at any other time. The waitress talks to me in Portuguese which I am fluent in, and it further transports me back to the days that I could count my age on the fingers of my hand.

My order arrives. The main part of it comes in a clay pot just like my mom served it. I place a large spoonful of white rice on my plate to be topped by a spoonful of the black beans. As I submerge my serving spoon in, up come pieces of beef, meat on bone, and pork. Next on my plate go the collard greens and the farofa (made of toasted cassava/yuca flour). And what may seem odd to many, a slice of orange that is meant to be eaten to aid in the digestion of this very heavy meal. I stare at my plate and put a little bit of it all in my mouth. The finale comes in an artful shape and incredible taste.

The place is on the dark side, so I close my eyes to fully identify the individual flavors. I continue being transported to where no plane can take me. I can hear the adults discussing current events which I don’t fully understand yet, the sound of utensils against the plates, music in the background, the sound of crashing waves a bit further off, and my mother’s soft voice offering a second serving as she manages to fill my plate while surrounding me with her arms at the same time.

I open my eyes to serve myself again and I see a man in a white coat, the chef, standing by my table asking if I am enjoying my meal. He’s Brazilian, I think he said from Rio, French-trained. As much as I love French food, I thank him for not altering the original recipe, making the feijoada the way I remember my mom made it (though there are variations depending on the region). I refrain from thanking him for this trip back in time he aided me in taking, though I do tell him my belief that food unites as well as delight. He believes it so as well.

As promised a while back, I am ending this blog with a video/song that either I love or find fits the theme well. This one does both…

Studio 54 Doors Bring Pictures From Home

The only connection of Studio 54, the disco nightclub that opened in the late seventies, and the Broadway theater it now houses are the doors, and the building of course, and a disco ball which I managed not to spot. And my brain which now regresses to my disco dancing days in New York City (Manhattan).

But I’m thrust into present time when my purse is searched and I pass through a metal detector to enter the theater. I’m already entertained with the architectural details.

I’m here to see Pictures From Home by Sharr White with Nathan Lane. I know nothing about the play, nothing about the photographer, Larry Sultan, whose project of photographing and exploring his parents’ life the play is based on. But I am a fan of Nathan Lane, and this is his 25th Broadway play.

I bought my tickets on Today Tix, an app that allows you to get Rush (day of) Tickets at a deeply discounted price. I expect a really crappy (excuse the highly technical adjective) seat, yet it ends up being in the Loge with an unobstructed, wonderful view. I’m lucky enough that the next three seats adjacent to mine are empty so I can maintain a distance from fellow seat neighbor and cross my legs. When handed my Playbill I am told that the play is 1 hour and 50 minutes long with no intermission. I’m already impressed. Only three actors, mostly on stage at the same time… that’s a heck of a lot of memorizing to do.

As I read Sharr White’s words: “This play is my exploration of Larry’s exploration. But take one further step with me: it also represents these extraordinary actors, along with our director, interpreting that exploration: Larry’s pictures, his parents’ images, this play, all further interpreted by you.” I, the analyzer, the one that delves deep into what seems simple things and actions, am already hooked.

And the lights dim and people are silenced and it all begins. I’m unprepared to give a truly educated review of what happened on stage even when this is my world, or was. Yet I will do so, in the same manner as I “rate” wine. Did my palate enjoy it? Does it have any undertones? Do I want another sip? And the answer to all is yes. Oh yes.

The actors were absolutely superb. Aside from Nathan Lane, Danny Burstein was perfect in his portrayal of his father, simple in his way, more complex than the character would ever think of himself, Zoë Wanamaker, so perfect in her role that even a small glitch in the lines suited the character. I was drawn in, immersed in the life of a grown, successful man digging through his lens and his actions into his parents’ day to day life and past. I was going through my dad’s 8mm films once and they revealed so much. Wish I had my parents alive then to further confirm what I sensed. How lucky for this photographer that he had the opportunity to talk, even quarrel with them, and just delve into their beings when they were still alive. Perhaps finding himself along the way. Creating with his staged photos a reality. Truth or fiction. The photos are masterful either way. His angst is noticeable in the pursuit of his never ending project. I left the theater having been a part of that family. I was moved. I also laughed, maybe a bit awkwardly, because some things hit a bit close to home. And thankful, grateful that witnessing it impulsed me to write again, an activity that I love almost as much as acting.

I leave my happy place, the theater (second only to when I am on a film set doing my thing) and am reminded of another life when, as I cross the street, the SAG/AFTRA Foundation building is lit up. Robin Williams’ name is spotted as well on a building. His name always brings a second of sadness to me. I’m on 54th Street and need to get back to Penn Station on 33rd Street to take the LIRR (Long Island Railroad) back to where I live. I was going to grab an Uber but I decide to walk back experiencing this city that never sleeps. All lights are on. Eighth Ave. is crowded at 10 pm, New Yorkers walking fast and purposely and tourists of all nationalities slowly absorbing the vibe Manhattan gives off. I pass many bars and only then do I regret not being with someone to share a drink and thoughts. Then I pass a hotel and the feeling passes for it reminds me that in the anonymity of a hotel and the solitude a room provides when traveling I do not feel alone. I pass crazies, and homeless people (one giving a dollar to another), cops, and dogs being walked and I bask in memories of my life here. New York, Manhattan in particular, energizes me, yet it also crushes me, steps on me, leaves me with no breath and resuscitates me. I don’t believe any other city can elicit so much in such a brief span of time.

I’ve reached my destination just in time to jump into my train and depart. It’s been a good day.

A Walk in The Woods

It started with me weighing myself on a scale that had no inclination of lying to me. I was horrified. I had managed to disregard the fact that the jeans were becoming a bit —okay, way too tight— but the digital numbers brightly announcing the pounds that I had gained were hard to ignore. 

I have never been good with gyms and now, with the pandemic, I was even less motivated to go. But I’ve always loved walking and it was time to start again. And it would do me good mentally too. 

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Near the apartment is a wonderful trail that does wonders to transport me to another world. My walks the only alternative to traveling for now. 

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Not many steps in I encounter an unkempt stone wallI and the writer in me spins tales of a lost civilization being desecrated, the only vestige of their existence this stone wall that did not properly protect its people. A few more steps and my mood is echoed by trees that seem to cry with me expressing their sadness of these people’s demise through a strange vine, weeping willow style, that hangs from its branches. 

I later come across an old stone gate and wonder what it may have welcomed in some time past.

My mind, continuing creating tales, takes me on a survival trip where I must find food as the grumbling of my stomach grows louder. A burst of red , and another indicates that I would not die from starvation. Or would I die from popping any of these in my mouth?

There’s another kind that resembles a very inoffensive blueberry. 

And then come the signs that I am not alone. Someone has been making little canvases and putting them along the path.

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Each makes me smile and I commit to making one of my own to attach to one of them so as to thank “CM”, for making my passage pleasant. 

I encounter a painted rock that reminds me of a group of “rock painters” that a dear friend, Grace Kono-Wells created – Random Rocks of Kindness – their rocks meant to be put along various paths to brighten someone’s day. Her beautiful “Breathe” rock probably has reminded me more than once to take a breath. The painted one on my path, “mask up”, gives us a much needed reminder of the life we lead now. The sign on its side (Nottely Hidden Cove) is displaced, for it seems to belong to a farm in Georgia that oddly advertises as “a great place to social distance” so I figure it is somehow appropriate that it be paired with the “mask up” rock.

There are other signs that tell me where I am and to where not go. Others that give out a set of rules so long that my enjoyment would be marred should I stop to read it all. 

The woody trail ends, I cross a street and follow another path that leads me into an expanse inviting me to go further. I cannot resist its beckoning. 

Turtle alert! In other short walks I have come across some turtles. One, named Jacinta (we are in Latino-land and she deserves a Latino name). Please don’t ask me why I denominated her a female for I’d be at a loss to answer. And another that was named Jazmin. She had yellowish markings on her shell. She was quite pretty.

This one I believed was a “he”. Again, no rhyme or reason to my gender designation. I know nothing about turtles. I get real close and his eyes get squinty and he begins to go into his shell. I take another step and he surprisingly comes out again, opens his eyes and seems truly comfortable with my proximity. I’m touched by his trust. Or is it his naiveté?

I continue on to owl-land. Part of the sign announcing: “Our nest is a mess! We keep trash near our nest. Do not remove.”, makes me laugh and I am reminded of a hoarder I once met and of another that is his exact opposite. Funny how my travels -be they of any kind- seem to remind me of past and present lives lived, and those that populated them.

The same way that the manmade signs along my path have bettered my mood, the flowers along my way seem intent on competing for my delight. There are those that show off in a burst of color very similar to the sparkle firework sticks of my youth and those that resemble slender bells, and there are the leaves that seem to try to outdo the flowers in shades of green and red.

And a papaya tree which reminds me of one -actually two- that my parents had in their backyard. Images of times that will never be again flashing so vividly that they stop me in my track.

My steps grow slower as my heartbeat grows faster with the memories but lessens with images of a sunset that my camera does no justice to.

And because I have promised to end my blogs (and because you have at least scrolled up to here) I give you two songs.

One from Alfred Sheppard (who I had never heard of before) and Mandy Harvey, the deaf singer with a heavenly voice, which wowed pretty much everyone at America’s Got Talent a few years back. We should all fall into our dreams.

The next one by J.P. Saxe ft. Julia Michaels. I love the original song all in English but this one with a singer I had not heard about, Evaluna Montaner, is not bad. Besides it gives my Spanish readers a way to understand the song.

Holiday Blues

I feel blue. In this time of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s I feel an oppressing pressure to be joyful. Solitude -which I treasure- turning into loneliness at warp speed and in slow motion at the same time. I do envy those who truly like being alone. And regret not being one of them. I am grateful for so much and so many but today I just feel blue. Winter creeping on me both physically and metaphorically.

A snowy cold day on the edge of the Grand Canyon.

Remember the movie Inside Out? On Halloween the year the movie was out (2015), I dressed up as one of the characters: Sadness. So this is an accurate portrayal of my state of mind now.

In the past my solution to my “blueness” was to travel. But I can’t anymore, so when I’m low I reminisce and travel again in my mind. For some reason Vietnam came to it. Which is odd, for of all the countries that I visited in Southeast Asia, it was the one I connected to the least. Yet, it was there that I was introduced to Caodaism. According to caodai.org: “The noble effort of CaoDai is to unite all of humanity through a common vision of the Supreme Being, whatever our minor differences, in order to promote peace and understanding throughout the world. CaoDai does not seek to create a gray world, where all religions are exactly the same, only to create a more tolerant world, where all can see each other as sisters and brothers from a common divine source reaching out to a common divine destiny realizing peace within and without.”

A dirt path strewn with litter that leads to…

A beautiful, well-kept building…

Which is absolutely breathtaking inside.

I realize I am in Rossmoor and that in Garden Grove, only 17 minutes away, is a Cao Dai Temple resembling the one just outside Long Xuyen, Vietnam that introduced me to this religion. Did someone say I could not travel? Off I go in a virtual journey no more.

So the path to the temple in Vietnam is dirt and rubble. Here it is busy streets that lead me to a residential area in Garden Grove, CA. I see the colors and it’s as if they are mermaids singing to me. I must go to it. Hopefully this visit has a better outcome than when the mermaids lure sailors in.

They have a parking lot and as I park I hear the sounds of a language I have not learned and probably never will.

The entrance is a mini-me of the temple I so admired and moved me in Vietnam.

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However the main pole in front of the temple does not have the reversed swastikas which happen to have a Buddhist influence and is sacred to many Vietnamese. The swastika (a Sanskrit word) is also a tantric symbol to evoke ‘shakti’ or the sacred symbol of auspiciousness. I don’t doubt that its absence is due to trying to avoid controversy.

The one in Vietnam.

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The temple in California.

I take a few photos. Take off my shoes (as ordered) and enter another world.

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All-Seeing Eye

The place is smaller than than its parent in Vietnam but is just as colorful. The quiet I expected is not quite there for the side doors are open and in comes loud voices in Vietnamese from the courtyard. There’s a gathering of followers who are sprucing up the church. One side door is being primed and the other has already been painted yellow. It is noticeable that the congregation takes pride in their home. I kneel and find my inner quiet.

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As I look through one of the windows and hear the background chatter, I am almost transported to Long Xuyen.

It is in the little touches of daily life and some writings that I linger.

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Before leaving I explore the back of the temple. I pass about 15 people sitting around a table chatting and as they turn their head to see me, I join my hands in prayer mode and bow slightly, saying nothing. They go back to socializing; I go back to the car knowing that I will visit again.

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And keeping my promise that I would end each blog with a song or two. Here are two. I did not see the movie that “I’m Standing With You” comes from (I think it’s about a mother and child) but I feel we all want that someone that stands with us through whatever we go through. I’ve been lucky to have those people beside me.

And then, one of Peter Bradley Adams, a singer that brings me happy memories. “For You” How can you not love a song that says: “If your wandering ever leads you, To a place where you don’t know which road to choose, Leave your worries behind, Take the road that leads to mine, And I’ll be waiting there for you”

There’s Not Much Hope in Hope

I have immersed myself in my friends’ lives (both past and present) for the span of a week. I am so very honored that they have entrusted me to help edit a book retelling their lives. Lives that have not only survived unimaginable events that could have destroyed (both literally and figuratively) most of us, but lives that have thrived in so many ways and went on to benefit others. I get teary-eyed when I think about it. One is a lawyer, the other is a doctor, both are activists. I am in awe of and love these two very much. Soon you will be able to read about it. “Beauty and Beyond” will be coming online and to a bookstore near you.

It’s Carlsbad where I have arrived after my 27 hours of car, train, and waiting time in between. Since I have a limited time here, I want to take advantage of the time with them as much as I can, so we have been immersed in the writing. It’s also been so very hot outside that it is not the place to be. Carlsbad is home to the Carlsbad Caverns which are beautiful and certainly worth a visit but I’ve been there before so not a good enough excuse to play hooky. But since even God rested on the 7th day, on the 8th day they take me to the mountains where they have a few acres. I am going to be a tourist with local guides!

Frank has left the night before and will be meeting us in Mayhill. So it’s a girl’s road trip for Marta and me. We don’t pack because this is going to be a day trip. From Carlsbad, NM to Mayhill, NM is about two hours. But first how can we not stop in a town named Hope? When Marta mentions it she has a twinkle in her eye. I need not wonder why for we arrive in Hope soon enough. It t is soon apparent that this town should change its name. An old building which housed Alice’s Treasure at some point is the first to great us. It initially makes me yearn for my little antique/collectible stall I had in a mall in Orange, CA but this store ended up like mine, shut down and lonely. The Hope Store also is closed. All that is left are the signs. In the “garden” a tractor that is very much like the ones I saw in my birth country of Paraguay. This one has no more life in it.

And then there’s the washing machine which brings me memories of my grandma. I can almost see her squeezing the clothes through the rollers to then hang them in the sun on the clothesline to dry. She was a strong woman. One that took control of the household and smoked cigars she rolled herself.

Surprisingly, this town has a USPS a post office that is large and new-looking. Even though, across the street is the only Fire Department that itself has burned down. I can’t think of no other with that fate. (I would later find out that the Fire Department in Carlsbad had a hotel construction next to it which burned down even with its firehouse next door.) It may be a New Mexico thing. Before we reach Mayhill, Marta wants us to stop at Tom and Pam Runyan Ranches. She wants the owner to meet me. Unfortunately he was undergoing some medical procedure and I didn’t get to chat with him. There’s a petting zoo here. One where a camel and an Asian water buffalo co-exist and, dare I say, have formed a friendship.

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Can’t find the picture of the Runyan, the camel.

In the pen you will also find pigs and goats and a few other species.

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It’s a rescue farm and they re-home as many animals as they can. I have a little kitten who hitched a ride in the engine of the car (TWO rides of 20 minutes each!) that I would love to find a home for. But they don’t take domestic pets. Anyone? I will deliver! Here is a picture taken by master Pet with Human photographer Johanna Siegmann.

Bootsie has the “Stop maaa, it’s my spotlight.” look.

This metal overgrown rooster has yet to find a home as well. A few signs catch my attention.

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And we arrive at their town. It’s only a few blocks long.

Then off to their property to drop off a few things.

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We arrive only a few minutes later and pick Frank up to go to Cloudcroft which is 9,000 feet up and a ski haven, therefore a more touristy town.

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Our main focus is to buy an incredible piece of pie and a really, really good burrito (not eaten in that order but listed in order of importance).

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That walnut caramel pie was divine!

With our bellies nice and full and our sweet tooth more than satisfied we are ready to move on.

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And on we go to Shady Pines. The house of a local woman that holds wonderful classical concerts in the summer.

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The place is pretty magical. She is super creative and the garden is chockfull of wonderful plants (she gives me a chocolate mint one, whose aroma later permeates the car and makes me hungry once again), of little quaint areas to rest in, and paths where you can channel your Zen.

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The first photo is of echinacea (which I had never seen before).

Everywhere you look there is something to smile about.

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And we head back with a pit stop to take a photo of flowers and bees.

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The day after comes my own trip back to Los Angeles.

And I wish not to forget that I would close my blogs with a song. Any song that resonates with me or that catches my attention. So here goes… because this is how I may be feeling.

Choo, Choo, Here Go I.

I am trying hard to fight the romanticism of what I am about to embark on. I’m going on a train ride. A very long one. 16 hours (and 10 minutes). On Amtrak, which isn’t the Orient Express or anything close to it. Before that I have to take a commuter train (Metrolink),  for an hour and a half. And before that a 45-minute car ride to Riverside, CA train station. In between, a 5 1/2 layover in Los Angeles. Oh, and then a 3-hour car drive from El Paso, TX Depot Station to Carlsbad, New Mexico, my final destination. All in all, about 27 hours of travel. Is it crazy that my enthusiasm and gushiness have not subsided?

After the 45 minute car drive I arrive at the Riverside Amtrak Station. I buy my ticket at the machine on the platform since on the Metrolink commuter train you can only purchase it on the day of.

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As I approach Los Angeles the old bridge studded with graffiti seems to ask if I really want to leave. The answer is a rotund yes. I’m due for a road trip even if it is on a train!

At one of my very favorite old train stations, Union Station, I take a seat in their waiting lounge where a friend I haven’t seen in a while agreed to meet with me to make the wait before my next train shorter. It’s 5:00 pm and the rush hour commute is full on as well as a sea of blue that arrives to go to a Dodgers game.

A while back I toured a space in Union Station that housed the Harvey House which closed in the late 60’s. It was a stop to men returning home from war and those going off. It was also famous for its “Harvey Girls” which were the subject of a 1946 Judy Garland film of the same name. I often wondered why such a magnificent space hadn’t been used. Well, about a year ago the Imperial Brewing Company went in and it is there where my friend Jon and I head to. There truly isn’t anything better than a friend to the rescue, good conversation, oysters and beer.

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My friend leaves and left alone I walk through “my” station. Union Station is the largest railroad passenger terminal in the Western United States and is widely regarded as “the last of the great train stations.” Inaugurated in 1939 I consider it a Grand Dame and give it the respect that entails. I love everything about it, including the characters in it. This group was singing loudly as they traversed it.

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An Amtrak employee befriends me and chats with me until my time to board. Such a nice man, the kind that saves Amtrak from any criticism. He has been with the company for over 20 years. I think his name was Cyro or something like it. Thank you sir. And before I know it the time comes. I’m boarding!

I’m really glad that I checked my baggage because not having had to lug anything through the 5 1/2 hour layover was such a relief. And the storage on the train is minimal. Besides, the stairs going to the second floor on the train are so narrow people with any luggage or disability were having a rough time. I started helping people going up. As a result I was on a first-name basis with a lot of them in my wagon. I became fast friends with a retired gentleman going to Louisiana that was seated in front of me and another young man who had never been on a train, also going to Louisiana (I think they both had about a 2 day ride). The older one takes this trip 3 times a year and knows the train very well. He takes us on a tour. We settled in the observation car and chatted non-stop for hours. I now know what a lot of expressions in Louisiana mean and how to make gumbo from scratch. They were both great cooks.

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We stop in Palm Springs and, with the lights, the landscape is eerie.

It’s around 2 am and we all head back to sleep a bit. I sleep soundly and quite comfortably. At 6:30 am Steve is up and looking my way. Want to go to breakfast? I say yes and off we go. He with a steady step, I bumping into the sides of the aisles. My equilibrium has never been good. At breakfast I forget my Keto diet and eat pancakes with syrup. The seating is cafeteria style and I smile inwardly when I think there’s a sense of intimacy to breakfast which I am now sharing with strangers. Train rides have a tendency to make total strangers into friends that tell you their life story.

Then to the observation car again where we claim the same seats we had last night.

As we cross Arizona we can observe the Cochise Head in the Chiricahua Mountains. If you look closely you’ll see his head, nose and chin. He’s face up.

Then we cross New Mexico (where I will backtrack to, once I “land” in Texas).

Train tracks all the way. The landscape is arid but I am most enjoying it.

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I can’t believe almost 16 hours have passed since I boarded this train… 27 hours since I left home, but it must be because the conductor announces that our next stop is El Paso. I’m excited to see my friends at the station but I also am sad leaving the train. I kind of want this trip to continue on. Maybe forever. My friend tells me that I should buy burritos from this lady on the platform. They are tasty, really big, he says, and cheap at $2 each. But my friends will be picking me up and I’m sure we will eat on the way, which turns out so. We stop at a local mom and pop restaurant with fantastic service and that has their last name. I have a menudo. No. I am not keeping to a Keto lifestyle.

We have 3 hours to get to Carlsbad and as we drive we pass a checkpoint that brings back memories of 9 years ago when doing a cross country from Los Angeles to Orlando I was stopped and was questioned about my nationality and status. But that’s a long story that will be told another time.

We pass Diablo Rock where it is said that people have died on its trail from heat exhaustion. It does look quite imposing.

The sun sets, my eyes can barely stay open. Guess it was a long trip after all.

I have said that I would end my blogs with a song. One that reminded me of something or one that touches my heart in some way. I haven’t done so but I do want to, so this one ends with a video of a forever friend that just happened to have written a “little” song that Pat Benatar made famous and that forms part of many lives: We Belong. This song is one of my favorites of his, Arrows, of maybe a relationship lost but friendship gained. Dan Navarro is truly a folk legend.

No! Not the Last, Please!

I write to remember. I remember because I write and revisit memories with my writing. Words and images. In uniting they offer me moments and emotions that would have sadly perished from my mind. So the name of one of my favorite bookstores in Los Angeles brings me a nostalgic feeling: The Last Bookstore. Joy that there is one and sadness that bookstores are probably on the endangered list.

After a quick snap of my shutter, I skip up to the second floor (I am childishly giddy right now). Each step proposing more sections to explore.

I get a grand view of the cavernous, old space, filled with books which I have just combed through.

How exciting… I am entering a labyrinth! Here I will find Science, Fiction & Fantasy. Then Mystery, Thrillers, Tru Crime, and Horror.

I have recently formed part of the jury at a film festival: the Festival Montevideo Fantástico, so Horror is a genre I am partial to.

Many of the genres in the back room are also of my liking: History, Cultural Studies, New Age, Religion, Foreign Language, Business, Travel, and Sports.

You know the Travel section is the one I spent considerable time in.

I love how the books are so artfully displayed, becoming more sculptural than reading material.

I’m not really wondering how they made this tunnel of books but which one I can pluck out without making it all come crumbling down.

Is the spotlight on me right now?

I have no idea of what these are but they seem at home in the horror section.

Art merges with the printed word here. It holds an art collective as well. Am on my way to it now.

As in The Broad, you may not touch the art.

Though you can sit on it.

Photography is an art and I’m happy to see the cameras themselves become one.

Music is an art as well and here, sculpture and music unite.

Art is often political.

Art makes a statement. It was January when I visited but this Christmas tree made out of prescription bottles was not brought down yet. I don’t think this was due to sentimentality; it had a message to relay.

Art makes me contemplative. I’m not into cuss words being used but it seems to be the go-to thing now, to provoke an emotion.

As is the use of animals to elicit emotions.

As I leave the focus goes back to words. The editor in me can’t help but question the “Nuestra Señora la Reina de la Librería Última de Los Angeles” translation from English to Spanish, under this sculpture on the wall.

I say goodbye to this bookstore. I thank it for entertaining me and I’m off to my next adventure.

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Down the stairs that run alongside the Angels Flight railway (the shortest railway in the world). Technically it’s a funicular.

And into The Grand Central Market to fill my belly up with German currywurst at Berlin Currywurst remembering having had some in a lounge chair from a vendor on the side of a park in Berlin that had the area covered in sand resembling a beach. Happy memory. It tasted the same!

What next? Follow me!

The “Broad” is not a Female

Definition by online Your Dictionary (yes, there is such a thing): slang, a woman: sometimes considered offensive. So this Broad is not female and it is The Broad: a contemporary art museum in Los Angles, California.

I confess: though I thoroughly enjoy contemporary art, I am not quite well-versed in it. This homage to it comes to us free of charge (all you have to do is get a ticket online –gratis) thanks to Mr. and Mrs. philanthropists and collectors, the Broads, – pronounced in a completely different way than the female kind. I did not take pictures of the Broad’s exterior (criticized and exalted – striking nonetheless) so I take some of the entrance and windows from the inside. The windows in the building designed to let light in, yet not damage the art.

Visiting the most famous works first.  You certainly can’t avoid Jeff Koons’ -the world’s most expensive living artist- Tulips. I believe this is the same one I once saw in Steve Wynn’s Bellagio in Vegas, who bought the sculpture in 2013 for a cool $33.7 million.

I photograph away as usual but this time I bring you me doing so, acquiescing to requests from readers that I include myself in photos.

Just as impressive as his Tulips is his Balloon Dog.  Koons is a master craftsman for sure.  An orange balloon dog sold for a record $58.4 Million in 2013. It was the first of a litter of five. I wonder how much this blue puppy fetched.

  In case you are thinking that he only has dogs in his menagerie, he also has bunnies.

Another of Koons’ favorite, most well-known works (part of his Banality series) is his life-sized Michael Jackson and Bubbles sculpture.

Before we leave Jeff (we’re on a first-name basis) I bring you Koons’ Jim Beam, J.B. Turner train (part of his Luxury and Degradation series) which has a super interesting story (it’s a decanter, so it involves liquor) of how it came to be. Click here. Worth the watch. It reminds me of a friend that not only loves trains but makes miniature ones. His, however, I am sure don’t cost near the $33.8 this one sold for in 2014.

Oh no! Honey, did I shrink the tourists? What I like about contemporary art is the humor classical art lacks. The way it makes us look at common things in a new way. Robert Therrien presents us with everyday objects offering a different perspective.

To prove that there is humor (even though I’m sure there is other intent in the work) here is something from a conceptual, performance, German artist. (His is the name on the plaque.)

The above is probably the only lifting that I don’t need! I sometimes feel like this monumental painting by English painter Jenny Saville, Strategy.

I am in downtown Los Angeles but whenever you mention my city Hollywood is the first thing that comes to people’s mind. Did you know that Hollywood is a verb? The artist Ruscha says so.

A bit narcissistically, I like what I can connect with in some way.  A few months ago, I came back from five months in Spain, a country that I hold a passport to, so this collage from the above-mentioned artist, had my eye.

Though I don’t quite understand what one has to do with the other, I like that this one (same artist) includes a flashback to my childhood with Cracker Jack.

To continue let me get rid of the paparazzi…

So kind of Barbara Kruger to tell me I’m a very special person (photographic silkscreen on vinyl). She’s an American artist that works with pictures, which automatically makes me like her.

The next piece seems just right for this town.  From the Broad’s website: Untitled (If you’re so successful, why do you feel like a fake?), 1987, is a direct interrogation of the motivations of contemporary society—career building, money, and the appearance of success and good living. Kruger’s assertive display demands an answer from viewers. Unlike in advertising, which may ask a question to compel a purchase, Kruger’s work uses the same techniques to compel ethical change and reflection.  Getting to understand this type of art better thanks to it. Will not delve why I like the”Hug Me” piece further than that that hugging is one of my favorite things. 🙂

I’m a Taurus so I connected with this collage Beef Ribs Longhorn by Jean-Michel Basquiat.

Before I even read the caption, this mixed media collage reminded me of Manhattan, a city I called home for over 11 years. Good work by Mark Bradford. Per the sign on its side: “Across 110th Street gets its title from the eponymous 1072 Blaxploitation film as well as from the social and physical dividing line between Harlem and the rest of Manhattan.”

America (the U.S.A. in this case) is represented in a grand way.  Firstly by Jasper John, known for this oversized, gigantic flag.

And in duplicate by Glenn Ligon.

Also represented, curiously, with a tribute by Jeff Koons to actor/film director Buster Keaton.

A good segue to an Andy Warhol silkscreen  (this a self-portrait) and of his Two Marilyn Monroes that impressed me, even more, when I read that this one was number #27 in the silkscreening process. “The silkscreened image deteriorates with each printing, acting as a physical metaphor for the waning of fame and the fading of memory. Warhol’s diptych of Monroe is of an icon losing her essence, becoming distorted by time and saturated retelling.” Per the Broad as well: “Marilyn Monroe died in the early hours of August 5, 1962. A few weeks later, Andy Warhol began silkscreening Monroe’s face onto canvases. Using a portrait of the celebrated star taken from a publicity still, Warhol cropped tight around the edges of Monroe’s face and hair with a grease pencil. Warhol had only learned how to silkscreen a few months earlier, but already he was able to achieve his desired effect with the medium.”

I reached a painting so big, in five panels, that I could not photograph it complete so I do it in pieces. Initially, I thought that it was by a female painter for some reason; the painter, Lari Pittman, has said he is gay and a feminist so I guess I wasn’t too far off.

I have a wish, a  (Desire, painting by Edward Ruscha), that I have not bored you. That you have learned something and that you will want to return to the museum by my hand or without me.

If you have not enjoyed visiting with me,   (I’m Sorry by Roy Lichtenstein).

We are going to get literary on our next trip.

The Road to Hollywood Forever is a Lifetime

I walk, drawn to side streets by colors of street art. I have stopped often but as Bill Murray’s character would say “It just doesn’t matter!” I am in Hollywood. 

Continuing on the color theme (not for long, I promise) there’s a building that just can’t help but catch my attention. It’s pink and garish and pretentious to call itself Hollywood Dream Suites. I suspect that they are not. I later find out that it’s a hotel and from the reviews I read, I may have been right.

I pass Raleigh Studios where I once filmed an episode of Castle.

Across the street is Paramount Studios.

I wasn’t specifically meaning to go to where it all ends for some, but the end of the year was approaching and there was some poetry into visiting a cemetery.  I had visited before but it was at night and my attention was held by a projection of an old movie on one of its mausoleums. A bit heretical perhaps but in Hollywood there is little that seems inappropriate.

I am greeted by a creature that is very much alive and quite interested in the chips I’m chomping down on.

 

 Near the entrance here is a little section that seems straight out of Southeast Asia. Possibly Thailand. I reminisce and long to be back.

  The niches of some are still decorated for Christmas. Very much a Latino/Mexican culture tradition.

I walk into some mausoleums. It is peaceful but cold inside. They draw you to whisper rather than hear your voice bounce back to you in an loud echo.

It is in one of them, a smaller one, where Judy Garland rests.

I go outside and enjoy the day and the greenery and flowers which abound.

This cemetery, dare I say, amuses me. There are people with sense of humor recorded forever in the engravings they commission on their tombs.

A graphic artist has his tomb shaped as a rocket. I believed that it was his way to ensure a direct flight to heaven. But engraved is “The atlas, pioneer in space, symbolizes the lifetime activities of Carl Morgan Bigsby, a recognized leader in many phases of the graphic arts, he too was a pioneer.”  The atlas, an exact scale of the original missile The Pioneer Atlas.  His tomb reads Carl Morgan Bigsby 1898 – 1959… RETIRED BY GOD.  Sad that he would not be able to see the smiles generated from that line.

And of course, it’s Hollywood so a film camera portrayed in granite adorns the tomb of a foreign director.

And what is film without music? Johnny Ramone still plays on his grave next to the film director.

Hatie McDaniels has a surprisingly humble tombstone. She was the “mammy” figure in the film Gone with the Wind.  In 1940 she got an Academy Award for best supporting actress. She was the first African American to receive an Oscar.

The grave of Irene Guadagno “Mama Irene” caught my attention because she had my middle name -which I never liked so please forget I mentioned it- and because it was pretty cool to me the posture with raised arms with which she was immortalized. Since then I learned that was an Italian entrepreneur mother of Pasquale Rotella (who was married to Holly Madison of Playboy fame).

Anton Yelchin, an actor, who was killed at 27, in a freak accident when his car crushed him against a security fence is looking on to the cemetery lake. His grave is marked 3-11-89 – Forever.

And then there’s Toto, who is not buried here but has a granite statue of him in remembrance.

Mickey Rooney is here.

Entering another mausoleum before they close all at 5:00 pm. It almost feels like going into a European museum hall.

More smiles as I exit and encounter another tombstone of an English actor that only has the date of death and not of birth. So like an actor to never reveal his/her age.

Marzie Harris was a Loving Mother, Sister, Daughter… and occasional wife. I wonder if that engraving was her idea.

There’s a lake that has a small island with a huge mausoleum. It belongs to William Andrews Clark Jr. a philanthropist and a lawyer who founded the Los Angeles Philharmonic.

The lake is tranquil and full of life.

On the peripheral of the cemetery there is more life. There’s a group of cats, all white and black, that consider this their home as well as some peacocks that make any visiting car wait for long minutes until they cross the path.

On the way out an angel makes me sad.

I leave and roam the streets some more, searching for color. I don’t walk long before encountering it.

Can’t resist the urge to end the day with a sweet treat. A YumYum Donut with fresh icing on it. Life continues.

 

 

On my way to Forever

There are runners and there are walkers. I am a walker. Always thought that runners may be burning more calories but miss out on so much that observant walkers do not. So I walk. A lot.

I’m in Silver Lake and though the neighborhood lures you into just enjoying the camaraderie inherent in a barrio-like environment (not in the bad connotation the word barrio may have for some)  I put on my walking shoes and out I go. There is so much to see and enjoy along the way.  What seems a community garden populated by a giant spider that once must have been covered in flowers and a Love sign with ball and chain attached (quite appropriate I thought).

An old door sports my 2nd favorite color.   I truly like these oldies, even the decrepit ones.  Then a church in white and blue bathed in light.

The opening act to an alley that seems to have come alive out of a postcard from the island of Mykonos.

After a quick glance at a mural,  a climb up graffiti lined stairs as I huff and puff up. Don’t know to where it leads. Don’t much care. A bit the way I’ve been leading my life lately.

The climb was worth it ’cause it offers a fine view of downtown Los Angeles.

And now for a mural fix. One advertising one of my favorite guilty fixes: donuts.

One from a culture I am connected to.

Another on the wall of a Floyd’s Barbershop (a chain that has been popping up in all the hipster gentrified areas) painted by Jonas Never a baseball player turned muralist that has gained much notoriety. I liked the snippet of daily life being held in front of it as the one with the older woman in a bright color next to one of the few public telephones left.

At the back of a gas station a very detailed mural which I would think was done by a woman but have not found any information on.

Everywhere you look, be it on the ground or on the side, there is a mural waiting to amuse you, impress you or prompt you to reflect. Seems like in Los Angeles eyes are everywhere, Rolls Royce’s have wings, koi fishes don’t need water or food, alien characters like balloons, we love Annie, clowns are sad, and kitties are happy…

This one impressed me. 

This one with a quote of: “I am a reflection of my community” in the form of a butterfly, touched me.  Lest we not believe so, LA welcomes you.

I love buddhas. I am drawn in by the buddhist way of life. I left a huge part of my heart in the region of Southeast Asia where it is practiced so this wall of a meditation studio, Insight LA, attracts me. Its mission a laudable one and I here quote it:

“Here is our commitment: In this world, with its great beauty and many difficulties, we will train our hearts in peace and kindness and courageously take a stand against all forms of greed, hatred, delusion, and cruelty.  

We acknowledge the implicit and overt violence that has been done to individuals based on race, gender sexual orientation, immigration status, gender identity, religion, body size, ability, age and class. We recognize the violence that has been done to our planet and to the first nations peoples who have stewardess this land before us.

We pledge to undo the forces of ill-will and isolation in ourselves and in our world. We will offer to all who come practices of mindfulness, compassion and wisdom. And inwardly and in our actions, we pledge to hold all beings in a circle of mutual respect, love and unity. May our resolve and our practice together benefit all.”

You might think that my walk was only about murals but I’m actually headed somewhere but even though I did get there on this day, I will have to take you in the next blog.  Come along, won’t you?