As promised, here are a few more stories inspired by the paintings in The Pfister Hotel. The first was written by Amy Miller–we squealed in delight at its ability to be both formal sounding and naughty. The second is another by Amy, a letter from a character in the hazy painting who is barely recognizable at first. And the last is mine, also a letter, based on the dark-haired woman’s gaze vs. the glazed eyes of the red-haired woman, the position of the old man’s hands, and the dichotomy of Catholic religious items and the reasonable scale.
“The Poppy Field” story is one of imminent marriage, “Moonlight Scene” is about a hoped for return to married life, and “The Fortune Teller” tells the story of a young woman looking for good fortune in the love department.
“The Poppy Field” (Louis Aston Knight)
by Amy Miller
The sun was warm for late summer. The scent of the flowers was strong in the air, delightfully suffocating in its heaviness.
Isabelle looked over at her sister Henrietta, already dressed in her best clothes and wearing an apron to protect against soiling. “Dear sister, I am so happy to be here with you,” said Isabelle, plucking another perfect, pink bloom.
“Not as happy as I to have you with me!” replied Henrietta. “Just to think, the two of us picking my marriage bouquet. It will be as if you are holding my hand down the aisle.”
Isabelle could hear the joy in Henrietta’s voice. It was heartwarming, even in the heat–and the dizzying profusion of color abounded around them.
“You have accepted a good man. I’m sure he will bring you a happy life.:
“Thank you for your blessing, dear sister.”
“Well, it’s really hisblessings you will be concerned with this evening,” said Isabelle with a conspiratorial nudge.
Henrietta gasped and blushed. “Izzy,” she cried, with playful horror.
“Well, Is it not true? T’would be a sad life to be bound to a man who could not fulfill all his duties.”
“Izzy, I’m sure he will make me happy,” Henrietta said, dropping her gaze and blushing.
“Moonlight Scene” (H.M. Kitchel)
by Amy Miller
20 September 1872
I write to you by light of fire and full moon. Camp tonight is by a small stream bed. Work fills my days, but it is in the long, lonely hours of the night that my mind turns only to thoughts of you.
I have managed to capture an excellent harvest of valuable pelts. If all goes well, this trip will buy us provisions for a comfortable winter. We may even have enough to try buying seed to plant in the spring. I know how pained you feel at the risk I take on these trips. With any luck, this one may become the last.
I hold your handkerchief close to my heart each time I sleep, trusting your love and divine providence to watch over me and hold me safe from harm. I long for the day we shall be together again in one house, as husband and wife should be.
I will post this letter to you when I next arrive at a fort. I hope it will find you well and safe in your father’s care. Tell him that soon he shall have a son-in-law worthy of the title.
Yours in love.
“Beneath the Table” (inspired by Ludwig Vollmar’s Fortune Teller)
by Dominic Inouye
Dear Herr Vollmar,
I write to you today with a quite serious request. Two days ago, I accompanied my younger sister–you’ll remember her as Lotta–to your home, despite my initial concern about two girls such as us visiting a stranger, let alone a man, in his private abode. You must know that it was not without a moral struggle betwixt us that I finally conceded to this most curious venture–if only, I told her, to unleash my feminine venom should anything unseemly occur.
She sought your sage advice, believing you to be a man of both your word and a man of God, inspired by the holy scriptures. Indeed, the icons and crucifix and prayer beads that hang on your wall seem to speak to this truth. But, sir, I studied you, since I am an observant and cautious girl, just as my mother always taught me to be. Your holy words, on the contrary, belied the archaic babble inspired by the arcana of your dusty tarot cards, hidden as they were beneath the table. I was wise to your charlatanism, but refrained from intervening, as my sister had willingly clasped her heart over her ears. She would have been as deaf to my plea for her to leave your foolery as she was deaf to your foolery. You spoke no godly words, only ones of devils and towers, hierophants and suns–and the Hanged Man–which she no doubt heard as favorable signs gleaned from the Old Testament or, better yet, the Apocalypse, that her long months of pining for a certain young man, nay fool, would soon be over.
This is why I write to you now, in her absence, to insist that you never allow her to visit you again; neither will she procure your services nor will you promote them. For you have gained in coins what she has lost in faith and decency. Yes, she has more hope now, but it is misguided, turned awry by a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I promise to not be too slow to call your bluff and reveal you as the false prophet you are. For now, she must not know I have made such demands on her behalf. I trust you will heed this warning.
It’s what comes out of our mouths when we speak, the reverberation of air through our vocal cords that makes particular sounds, with a pitch and a timbre, a tone and a frequency. But is that all it is?
Is it the expression of our unique style, whether spoken or written (or even painted or danced)? A feel, a beat; a rhythm, a pace? The formality or informality of how we are communicating, indicated by our vocabulary and inflection and even our body language? Is it our accent, revealing our genesis, a region whose inhabitants have trained their vocal cords to reverberate in “ahs” versus “ohs,” a drawl, a click, a cadence–to say “bubbler” instead of “water fountain”?
Is it a descriptor, as in “professional voice” or “stuffy voice,” “silly voice” or “natural voice” (whatever that is)? Is it our way of interpreting a situation in which we vary our vocal cords to fit an environment, like a “church voice” versus a “teacher voice”?
Or is it even bigger than all this? Is it part of our identity, our very self . . . a power that we are given or that we develop or that we sometimes choose? And something that can be taken away in a suppressive and even oppressive way, as in “taking away someone’s voice”?
The six writers who gathered with me this past Saturday afternoon for the second Plume Service writing workshop determined that it could be all of the above. While the first Plume Service asked participants to step into a painting and experience it on all five sensual levels–seeing, hearing, touching, tasting, and smelling–this second gathering invited the writers to try on a different persona and develop his or her voice. No landscapes devoid of humanity this time. Only paintings which featured humans or ones with humans distant or obscured and therefore unheard. Their goal was to let these humans talk and to venture into the distance or through the haze to meet up with those humans who they could barely see.
The ultimate goal, as with the first Plume Service, was to amass creative pieces of writing inspired by the painting in The Pfister, from which I will be able to choose selections to accompany the paintings with placards and, I hope, audio.
After an insightful brainstorm around the definition of “voice,” the participants each wrote down three adjectives that they (or others) would use to describe them. Then I asked them to ask themselves “Is this how I talk?” and “What does it even mean to ‘talk’ this way?” For instance, I wrote down observant, gregarious, and kind. One way, I told them, that I speak gregariously is that I use people’s names as often as possible, addressing them often and referring to them as examples (a skill I mastered while a teacher). I also look people in the eye and try to engage them as interesting individuals worthy of my attention. The examples they gave were all quite personal and revealing, almost confessional at times. But we talked about what it means for someone’s voice to be “shy” or “sassy” or “anxious” and interrogated the validity or profundity of these meanings.
We could have talked for hours, I think. But the paintings were calling out: “Hear our voices” (whisper) or “Hear our voices!” (cry) or “Hear our voices” (lament or plea).
And off they went to explore. When they returned, I was surprised to learn that even more people had chosen to write about Charles Clement Calderon’s A View of Venice (note to self: Charles Clement Calderon’s A View of Venice is off limits for Plume Service III!). I have already published three poems from the first workshop all inspired by this one painting. I don’t know what it is about this painting: Is it enigmatic? mysterious? inviting? soothing? Is it that we all connect somehow with ships going out to sea and ships returning? A coming and a going? A longing for adventure and a yearning to return?
Whatever it is, I give you three more versions of Calderon’s oils. The first is by Cian MacDonald-Milewski, a senior in high school, who writes an interior monologue in the voice of a man returning to his wife and child. The second, by Iris Geng, steps out of the painting and describes the scene from the Calderon’s perspective. And the third is the first of a pair by Christina Oster: the Venice poem is in her father’s voice and a second, inspired by a different painting, is in her mother’s.
“Man in Tall, Docked Ship Thinking to Himself”
by Cian MacDonald-Milewski
I am so glad to be home to see my wife and child. It has been so long . . . I wish I wouldn’t have had to leave them for so long . . . When I left my child, she was so small, so bright, like a yellow daisy on a warm summer day in an open field. I pray that they have not struggled while I was away. Now that I have gained enough coin from my venture to secure us, I hope I will not have to venture again. I do not want to be ripped from my family because of finances . . . I will tell my wife the love that I feel deep inside my soul, this ember that has only been fueled while I have been away. When I see my child, I will whisper in her ear and tell her promises of being there for her forever and always. I long to embrace my wife and child and never part from their side again.
When participants heard Cian’s piece at the end of our workshop, they remarked at his vivid, poetic use of language and the formality of his thoughts, which, he says, he was trying to choose his words purposefully in order to replicate what might be a cultured voice from the late 1800s.
Iris’ poem chose a different angle with a short narrative from the perspective of someone observing the painter Calderon who was observing the scene on the water. She captures nicely a potential disruption to an otherwise peaceful day.
“A Partly Cloudy Day for Painting”
by Iris Geng
It’s a nice, partly cloudy day at the dock of San Marco Square. The painter had set up. A schooner with massive sails toward the dock and a gondola with six guests tries very hard to row to get out of the way of the schooner. The rowers sing out loud to coordinate and energize the gondola, but the three passenger couples are observant.
“Watch out for that sailboat!” cries the man with a red hat and white gown.
“No worry,” his friend says calmly. “We have the right of way.”
The fear on their women’s faces relaxes after hearing his remark.
“What a gorgeous day to be on the canal,” the woman in blue chants. “I am looking forward to our meal near the Riolto Bridge.”
This next Venice poem is the one by Christina Oster. It is written in the voice of her deceased father, who succumbed to dementia, writing an imagined letter to his wife. In a recent email, she shared, “Due to my father’s dementia right before he passed, they never had a chance to truly say ‘goodbye’ to each other. This exercise proved the perfect way for me to bring closure of some sort to his unfortunate passing 6 months ago.” The poem that follows is inspired by a different painting, Antonio Torres’ Grecian Girl, and written in the voice of her mother, writing to her husband. Both are haunting and sad, but also, as Christina writes, words of closure.
by Christina Oster
Mother, Demon vessels have demented my sails. Waves crash, carrying away sediment filled with sentiment. A mirage to think that my mast was made of steel. It is not. My mast is frail and feeble, getting weaker with the pelting storm. But, my love, don’t ever question your presence through it all. My view of Venice is not a blur. I do recall. I recall your beauty, your heart, your service. I am soon approaching inevitable shipwreck. But I will forever remember what the sea has forced me to forget.
by Christina Oster
Father, Finally, our Parthenon crumbles to ruins. The Aegean Sea sailed your ship to sunset well before I could perform a final tidy-up. My exhaustion prevails, but faith through my passion and pain will pulse and persist until our life Our structure is someday restored. But for now, my love I have poured my last service.
I am thankful that Cian accompanied his mother to this workshop and unabashedly shared the romantic words of the sailor.
I am thankful that Iris, who is Chinese, overcame her anxiety about her written English so that we could see the Venice painting (yet again!) from a new perspective.
And I am thankful that Christina felt empowered enough to share her work with six complete strangers, let alone see in the two paintings an opportunity for personal healing and growth. In her words, “Thank you for reuniting me with a style of writing that I’ve abandoned for far too long. I often think I can only write a certain way – a more edgy, promotional, advertise-ish way. I forgot that the romantic, compassionate voice still exists.”
It doesn’t matter who you are: there is surely a painting in The Pfister Hotel’s beautiful collection that is bound to hook you, draw you in, transform your vision, and help you find (or reconnect with) your voice. I hope you’ll consider joining me for Plume Service III. The January date is yet to be determined, so stay tuned!
As always, thank you for reading!
p.s. More Plume Service II stories and photos to come–including my own!
p.p.s. And stay tuned, also, for a little post on a little thing that happened to me this past Sunday: I got married and had brunch at The Rouge with 25 of my closest family and friends! 🙂
In today’s edition of Plume Service Vol. 1, you’ll read different stories inspired by the same painting.
The Olive Branch and Stone by Zoë Lindstrom (aka Countess Zoëlla Germaine)
Yesterday you were our enemy.
We rolled our hearts
with the old sea–
the nets yielding unspoken things.
Ochre sun and stone,
such strangers you became–
the church bells chime,
olives and grapes and girls are crushed
Too rich a lie, too small and shrill and bustle–
Welcome to shore
my ghost captain,
though you belong only
to the line
between sea and sky.
A View of Venice by Alexa Hollywood (aka Madam Odohata)
As an old woman, I live as much in my reveries as my real life. Venice . . . a friend once called it a beautiful city and an open sewage system. I remember Venice, indistinct, as if in a haze.
In this painting, I see the ship, Venice as a major power, a crossroads of civilization. And I remember the Doge’s palace. I remember all of the Hieronymus Bosch paintings. One of the most powerful men in the world collected and contemplated visions of Hell.
I walked the narrow sidewalks along the canals, crossed the tiny bridges. For the uninitiated, it was a maze to get lost in, briefly recover, and get lost again. The sidewalks were wet, sometimes with dog poop, sometimes not.
I was with two Jews. They did not want to visit churches. I understood. I also understood the Renaissance and earlier about art in churches. I missed so much. But I reveled in modern-day Venice.
But I reveled in modern-day Venice. The Venetians could be rude. We jumped on a water taxi. The operator closed the gate as someone tried to jump on. One Venetian began to argue with another Venetian about civility. Drifting down the canals, we could see the magnificent palaces. Now, I wish I had visited Peggy Guggenheim’s palace. It seems visual art is a recessing gene in me that has emerged in old age.
And so this is Venice, to me, an old woman and a diarist. And the old woman notes the artist’s lifeline: 1870 to 1906. Child, what could you have become?
Here’s one more inspired by a more zoomed-in Bondietti painting of Venice’s canal shoreline:
Venice by Aimee Sellon (aka Salvadora Hemisphere)
Venice is sinking, you know!
And yet so much has remained
happy bird stalking tourists,
children refusing to end their play,
young ladies deep in conversation,
ocean wind and a pleasant salty scent
with the hint of fresh fish.
Although the sun shines,
the air is cold. But this place is
warmth. The buildings are
kind, the water is
honest, the stone streets
remember your face, the wind
knows when you are feeling
sad, and will gently touch your hand
until you are feeling better.
Coming soon: Men curl, kittens mew, and moonlight pierces the night sky!
The next Plume Service will be Saturday, December 10, 12-2:30pm, in the Mezzzanine!
Sign up on Facebook (search “Plume Service”) or contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org
About a week ago, on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, fifteen people participated in the first ever Plume Service writing workshop, the first in a series of monthly writing experiences whose goal is to bring The Pfister’s paintings to life.
We gathered on the mezzanine, with a view of the lobby below and an ear to the flurry of activity into which we would soon enter (or from which we would retreat, as it were). A beautiful spread of tea sandwiches, wine, and other beverages promised to keep us satisfied for the following two-and-a-half hours.
Participants wore nametags with their real names and their noms de plume, which included delightful disguises like “Lelia Allen,” “Lady T,” “Alexis St. Amand,” and “Salvadora Hemisphere.” I invited them to unveil and reveal the stories in the paintings they would view today, whether in the lobby, the 2nd floor, the 3rd, or the 7th. Their methods: use their senses and their perspective. Today, they would–not literally, of course, I warned them!–hold their ear up to a painting and listen to what the subjects were saying or enjoy the waves lapping onto the shore. Today, they would lick the paintings and taste the apple or the cold, thick air. They would sniff deeply to detect the flirtatious perfume or Venetian river banks, reach out and pet the hunting dog or the delicate dress, and, of course, observe closely or from far away. They could, too, if they were careful, step into a painting and become part of the landscape or join in on a conversation–or eavesdrop.
Their range of observations, I told them, did not have to be limited to the framed space that each artist had offered us. Instead, they could imagine what was to the left or the right, above or below, in the foreground or the background. They could, too, unstick the paintings from time and travel to the moment prior or just after, or three years before or two days after. They could focus on the entire painting or just one part, one just one painting or many. And they could choose to write in any form they wished: narrative, poetry, monologue or dialogue, pure description. The operative word was “could.” No limits, no rules. Just use their senses, play with perspective–and don’t touch the paintings!
I certainly got my exercise trying to find the fifteen writers all over the four floors. At first, some of them dispersed in pairs or small groups, but eventually I found almost all of them in various states of contemplation: sitting on the carpet in the long second floor hallway in front of an intriguing painting, lounging on the chaise on the grand landing, scribbling prodigiously while standing, or relaxing in the lobby or the mezzanine.
We talked about each painting briefly: about the sensuality of Love’s kiss or where the woman with the empty basket was going. About the longing gaze in one or the surprised expression of a monk as he witnessed the canoodling of two lovers. About the three women in the sea of curling (as in the winter sport) men or the composition of the hunting dog painting. Each participant had found his or her writing home for an hour or so, had taken that time to escape from the hecticness of their own lives to contemplate a work of art and be moved by it to tell stories.
When we reconvened in the mezzanine, they spent some time sharing their writing with their fellow participants. Few instructions were needed–they leapt directly into the experience with positive, affirming, interested attitudes. In one corner there was laughter about a witty poem, in another there were nods of approval and insight.
Finally, to cap off our first Plume Service, we retreated to the plush white carpet of the Pop-Up Gallery (many with wine in hand–white wine, not red!) and gathered in a circle for an informal reading of our work. Each new work was greeted with snaps or claps and often words of praise. You can tell by the photos that much fun was had as we honored each other, each others’ writings, and the paintings that inspired them.
Over the next week or so, I will be sharing excerpts from some of these writingsfor your reading pleasure. After the workshops are concluded in early spring, I will be working with The Pfister to create placards to accompany some of the paintings and an audio tour that will enliven guests’ stay at the Hotel.
The next workshop will be held Saturday, December 10, again from 12-2:30 pm. Same goal, different focus: VOICE. Please sign up on the Plume Service Facebook page or RSVP at email@example.com. I hope to see some of the same faces–and new ones–next month!
Windblown and soggy, they escaped the dark cold. They entered the bright gallery space where new art was being hung for an upcoming exhibit, one girl wrapped in a beach towel for warmth, others with curls worried about frizzing. One boy shook his purple hair, others nudged each other as they talked about their day. Last Wednesday, a dozen teenagers introduced themselves to me with friendly smiles that revealed their eagerness to begin their experience. At their exuberant leader’s suggestion, they immediately got into a circle on the carpeted floor and began introducing themselves more formally, if “formal” means taking turns gently tossing a Nerf-like skull to each other. I had a good vibe about these kids.
Last Wednesday, a dozen teenagers introduced themselves to me with friendly smiles that revealed their eagerness to begin the experience. At their exuberant leader’s suggestion, they immediately got into a circle on the carpeted floor and began introducing themselves more formally–if by “formal” I mean taking turns gently tossing a Nerf-like skull to each other. I had a good vibe about these kids.
Helene Fischman, the Manager of the Milwaukee Art Museum’s Teen Leadership Program, had arranged to bring these twelve teenagers to The Pfister, a few blocks west of where they typically meet, to learn about the Narrator program and to practice their writing by responding to their experience of the Hotel. This special Teen Advisory Council is, according to MAM’s website, “designed to develop teen leadership skills, build teen career connections to museum- and arts-related professionals, and bring about systemic change within the Milwaukee Art Museum.” The teens–who attend schools as diverse as Marquette, Rufus King, and Milwaukee High School of the Arts–were invited to serve on the Council based on their demonstrated leadership and enthusiasm for the arts in previous MAM programs. Helene takes them through intensive exercises that focus on how to respond to the world around them in different ways. And, as was clear by how they acted with each other and with Helene and me, she teaches them how to respect that world and the people with whom they interact. They are currently creating a monthly eNewsletter–with articles about goings-on at the Museum and around the city, recommended pairings of art and music, comics, interviews, and more–and getting ready to set up a Teen Art Exhibition.
Before most of them got a chance to view the magnificent lobby (only two of them had visited before), I offered them a mini-history of the Hotel as we relaxed in the Pop-Up Gallery. I’m not the greatest historical storyteller (aka I’m no Peter Mortenson), so my histories usually get reduced to timeline highlights. However, the teens listened dutifully (and with what seemed genuine interest). In fact, we even had some good laughs. For instance, once I told them that a fire destroyed the grand Newhall House in 1883, everything after that became, for the teens, about fire. They guessed, incorrectly of course, that Guido Pfister died . . . wait for it . . . “in a hotel fire!” That four days after the Hotel Pfister opened in 1893 . . . wait for it . . . it, too, “burned to the ground!” (The correct answer? The stock market crashed.) So we had a little fun and took some liberties with the history of the “Grand Hotel of the West,” amused by Dick and Harry (the stately lion guardians), awed by the idea of the glass ceiling, tickled by the fact that someone wrote a march just for the Pfister Hotel, and, well, I’m not sure what they were thinking when I told them there used to be Turkish Baths where the WELL Spa + Salon is now. I detected a smirk or two.
We made our way to the Mezzanine, got ourselves settled on the floor again, and I talked to them about the joys and difficulties of being the Pfister Narrator, in particular what it’s like approaching strangers. “Sometimes, honestly, it feels like I’m looking for a date,” I tell them. “I know, that’s creepy, but it’s kind of true.” I give them my best Joey from Friends: “How you doin’?” Sometimes, I add, it takes some coaxing and getting over inhibitions or even language barriers. Sometimes it’s about seeking out the “loudest” person in the room, whether that means volume-loud (like the LSU fans when they were here to go to Lambeau) or appearance-loud (like the one person in the room that looks like he works on Project Runway, covered in tattoos and incredible floral skinny jeans). I admit that sometimes I’ve prejudged people unfairly (“too sporty,” “too quiet,” “too north woodsy”–whatever those things actually mean, which is nothing) and that I’ve more often than not been humbled by what people are willing to share with me. I meant to give them these examples in particular: the “too sporty” guy who I thought was just going to talk about golf but who told me that the time he felt most alive was after he gave one of his kidneys to his eleven-year-old daughter and started embracing Buddhist values; the “too quiet” woman who wowed me with her photography and oil paintings, embracing her inner Bohemian; and the “too north woodsy” guy who talked about fishing like it was a spiritual experience. I do share with them one of my most recent Humans of the Pfister, Claudia, an Associate at The Pfister who was serving wine and hors d’oeuvres at a recent function that I was at. I told Claudia to take a break from pouring us wine–we could do that ourselves–and tell me a story about a fear. After breaking down her inhibitions a bit, I got to hear her moral philosophy on the light and the dark. I’ve come to not be surprised when eloquent wisdom comes from the mouths of anyone I talk to here at the Hotel. I think I used the word “humbled” at least a dozen times.
It was time, then, for the teens to do what they were here to do, which was to explore the Hotel and respond to it. Helene and I had decided to offer them three main observation subjects: Painting, People, or Pillars (a third “P” that meant any of the architectural details of the Hotel). I invited them to imagine what was to the unseen and unrepresented left or right each painting’s scene, or above or below, beyond or in the foreground.
I suggested they observe guests’ and Associates’ characteristics and eavesdrop a little, or even talk to them if they seemed willing.
And Helene asked them to consider what the pillars or carpeting or handrails had to say to them, or imagine who had constructed or walked or touched these elements in the Hotel’s past glory days.
And then they were off.
Some of the teens headed directly to the third floor, others ventured down the stairs into the lobby, gazing up at the ceiling or walking down the hallway toward Mason Street Grill. At least one remained in the mezzanine, contemplating the rendition of Domenichino’s The Hunt of Diana. Jack West and I were doing some serious art criticism about this piece!
Helene had encouraged them to be patient and take some time to look around, observe, and listen before they took their thoughts and imaginations to paper. As Helene’s beautiful photos show, the teens took her words to heart and also embraced the Hotel’s offer of “Salve”:
When they all returned, we took a break, ate some boxed dinners prepared by the MAM chef, and talked about, among other things, the seniors’ college application process (two of the teens were still juniors), where they were applying, what their dream schools were. The teens enjoyed each others’ company, clearly enjoyed having Helene as their leader, and welcomed me into their conversation with ease and delight. In particular, talked a lot with Montaser Abduljalil, a polite and inquisitive young man. We talked about art at his school and the school where I used to teach, about my photography project called ZIP MKE, and about how marvelous the Hotel is. Monty, as people call him, loves that “one of the Pfister’s goals is to make your stay feel as cozy and home-like as they can, with carpet and marble everywhere and the welcoming staff.”
When we moved back to the Pop-Up Gallery where there was more light and less noise (the lobby was hopping!), I learned that some of them had talked to Pamela in her studio and that Monty had approached Dr. Jeffrey Hollander at his piano and talked to him for awhile, learning how Hollander remembers every song that anyone has ever asked him to play. (In fact, before we left for the evening, Monty asked him to play Debussy’s Claire de Lune–and was simply in awe when he heard Dr. Hollander play it. We had to stay to hear the entire piece.)
Dang, these kids were good! And then, again gathered in a circle on the floor, Helene and I heard each of the teens share what they had written. Each was written in a different style and form. Some were poems, some were lists of observations, others were dialogues imagined or overheard, still others were written from the perspective of, say, the carpet or an empty display case, as with Sarai Van Leer’s insistent poem:
A space waiting to be filled
Hollow, for decoration?
They are saving me for something special that’s why there is nothing in me yet.
Every other one is filled with careless objects,
Just things to look at
Never to take note of
Wine, conditioner, advertisement, glasses, and more liquor
Why am I empty?
They must be saving me for something special, right?
I mean they must be!
I won’t be just something to pass by and look at,
Never to take note of!
Yet, I am special.
I am not filled
Nothing is there, my beauty is too precious
Too beautiful to be filled with nonsense objects.
I am something to take note of!
Or Thomas Krajna’s elusive “Vending Behind Closed Doors”:
Fitting in is obsolete.
Practicality and manner outweigh her. Endless possibilities of consumerism.
One action outweighs your trust.
The windows can’t see.
The doors can’t see.
Technology inputs and uneventfully changes history.
And Marcelo Quesada’s vision of the lobby:
The people mingle. The walls tower, a rich light brown of milky coffee. They curve in a heavenly, sweeping motion towards the ceiling, switching to a creamy baby blue that sings of church hymns and lullabies from my mother. The angels, depicted as children–soft, floating, just like the warm mumble of the lobby conversations. The piano is distant–the notes drip and sing and dance off the mocha walls, giving dead paintings a kiss of life. Glasses of ice and liquor clink and swish in a familiar gesture. Soft, dim yellow lights warm the space. It is full.
All the pieces were rough drafts, but each held a new an interesting insight into the life of the Hotel–and each was read not from the floor but from a ceremonial chair, holding the ceremonial Nerf skull. And, more important than the writing they had accomplished, after each reading the teens snapped or clapped for each other and rolled an orange to someone who would be the designated reviewer, offering one thing they liked about the piece their Council colleague had shared. This was no time for critique, just celebration and positive response. It was a pleasant bookend to the evening, which had begun in a circle of warmth from the cold and warmth in each others’ company.
Oh, and did I mention that Monty was taking photos the entire time? A few of his photos are above in the article, but here is only a handful of the nearly 75 that he sent me. I don’t think that last Wednesday will be the last time that Montaser Abduljalil (or the other teens*) will be visiting The Pfister Hotel!
Over 80 Victorian paintings and other art pieces grace the walls of The Pfister Hotel, an impressive art collection worth more than the original cost of the Hotel in 1893. It is considered to be the largest collection of Victorian art in any hotel in the world. Each art piece captures people, animals, and nature, sometimes posed, sometimes in medias res, in the middle of some exquisite, or mundane, action. Very often, the carved and gilded frames are artworks in themselves.
On Saturday, November 12th, from 12 noon to 2:30 pm, you will have the opportunity to join me for PLUME SERVICE, the first in a series of free writing workshops that will have you not only staring intently at the paintings but stepping into them (well, not literally–I don’t think the Marcus Corporation would appreciate that!) and imagining what it would be like to exist in their worlds. If not stepping into them, then stepping back and contemplating the bigger picture, the world just outside the frame. What’s to the left and the right that the painter’s eye has cropped out? What’s happening above or below? What is that figure looking at beyond the boundaries of the canvas and wood? If not stepping into or stepping back, then stooping a bit closer to the oils and watercolors to notice details you might have missed. If not stooping to look, then bending an ear to listen, perhaps imagining the taste of a fruit, even breathing in deeply through your nose to smell the salty air (no one will judge you!).
What is Diana telling to her women at the beginning of the hunt? What are the two women talking about at the altar of Athena? And what is going on in the head of the nude figure at the edge of the pool?
The paintings offer us intriguing compositions and perspectives and colors, but since Domenichino, Bompiani, and Mayer are no longer here to give us the scoop, we’ll become art (and artistic) sleuths uncovering the stories these paintings tell and expressing them in our own words, through flash fiction, poetry, and other written forms.
I want to know how the girlfriends in Scadrone’s painting met, what’s going to happen after the chianti is bottled in Giachi’s, and who loses Lesrel’s card game. I’m curious to know the words to Peluso’s romantic serenade or how the woman in Grolleron’s piece is going to get that man to leave. her. alone!
Speaking of which, there are plenty of, uh, amorous scenes–I’ve never seen someone so happy while cutting an apple.
I also wouldn’t mind hearing your vivid descriptions of the horses in Schreyer’s “The Wallachian Post-Carrier,” the title of which fails to capture the raw intensity of hoofs and sweat and earth. Or of Lindsay’s “Mahomet,” the noble lion (who actually looks a bit perplexed), and even of those too-cute kittens in a basket by LeRoy. Oh, and the monks–very amusing!
I envision the pieces we write together becoming placards that will accompany the paintings on the walls and, quite possibly, becoming audio recordings that will be available to guests who would like to take an art tour. Imagine: your words becoming part of the life of The Pfister Hotel.
So please join me on November 12, bring your favorite notebook and writing utensil, and prepare to bring the Pfister’s art alive in a new way!
NOTE: The December workshop will be on Saturday, December 10. We will continue our work of storytelling. You can certainly attend both–there is a lot of art!–but you do not have to attend the November workshop in order to join me in December. And stay tuned for early 2017 plans!
Suggestion: Turn up the volume on your device, click play, and prepare to get happy!
One of the many privileges of being human is that we experience emotions. While some might argue that other creatures express emotions, too, or that it’s not much of a privilege that we have to experience the painful ones, no one can argue with the fact that we are indeed “moved out of ourselves” (Latin emovere – “move out, agitate”) by a myriad of complex feelings stemming from the four basic emotions of happiness, sadness, fear/surprise, and anger/disgust. These emotions, each registered by different combinations of our 42 facial muscles, can cause us to love, cry, scream, or punch. Sometimes we bottle them up or keep them hidden; sometimes we let loose and express them with reckless abandon. And in our digital world, we don’t just register emotions with our faces: think of the billions of emoticons and gifs and memes that we use now to express our feelings. Emotions are the stuff of our lives–and the building blocks of the stories we write about ourselves. One such story—the directorial debut of Michael Patrick McKinley–hit the screens during the recent Milwaukee Film Festival.
While the festival is over, if you missed the Milwaukee premiere of McKinley’s delightful documentary Happy, don’t fret. Just put on a happy face and head over to The Pfister’s Pop-Up Gallery for a glimpse into the sketchbooks of the subject of the film, Leonard Zimmerman. Curated by Steven Uhles and hosted by Artist-in-Residence Pamela M. Anderson, “Don’t Erase Your Crooked Lines” features numerous prints from Leonard’s sketchbooks, an enormous collage of 32 photographs with Happy stickers in them, and an extended trailer of the film created just for this exhibit.
Uhles describes Leonard’s art, with its whimsical robots and recognizable motifs, as “art as memoir.” Even though this exhibit can only offer visitors a miniscule, microscopic fraction of his sketches, one can find even in it Leonard’s story of love and loss, depression and recovery–a story of falling in love and creating a life with Brian Malone, then losing him to cryptococcal meningitis. The sketches depict Leonard’s subsequent depression and how his art became therapy, how it helped him hold on to his love for and memories of Brian and recover his capacity for boundless happiness. Additionally, as with all good memoir, one can find in the sketches echoes of one’s own life events.
The collage of Happy stickers–created by the Coalition of Photographic Arts–speaks to the participatory nature of Zimmerman’s art: the ubiquitous stickers of his Happy campaign, with the endearing smile and flashing bulb that people all over the world have attached to parts of their cities then shared with Leonard through social media. While the yellow smiley that appeared in 1963 stares blankly ahead, this smiley tilts its head, its eyes have life, its bulb flashes a message of happiness. Anyone can get free stickers by sending Leonard a self-addressed stamped envelope.
One of the first things we hear about Leonard in the film comes from Alex Wier of Wier/Stewart, the branding, advertising, and graphic design company where Leonard is a designer. Alex says, “Leonard comes from a different planet.” Yes, Leonard’s infinite number of smiles and laughs are contagious, and yes, he can bring “childlike enthusiasm” to seemingly bland ad campaigns like ones for banks. Yes, Leonard loved Christmas so much as a child that his tinsel and light displays rivaled, surely, Clark Griswold’s, and his parents even wondered, “Where does this child get all these things?” But I have an inkling that Leonard is not really an alien from outer space, that his story is the story of being human on this planet. One of wonder and delight, and one where there’s room for pain and suffering.
We embrace our pains in different ways. Leonard seems to have embraced it in every way possible. In the film, we hear him embrace it with raw honesty, as when he describes for the camera the spinal fluid from Brian’s first spinal tap. He describes how he embraced it with confusion and disorientation after Brian died, as when he would walk into the grocery store only to abandon it in tears because Brian usually did the shopping–he didn’t know what to buy. He embraced it with self-medication, too, (“I didn’t think I would hurt”) and eventually had to move back home to Augusta after he lost his job and the house that Brian and he had bought together in Savannah.
“My best friend was my notebook,” Leonard says in the film. His sketches, some of which can be seen in the Pop-Up Gallery, allowed him to express his early love, the loss of his love, and the love that remained after his loss. What emerged were lovable robots, some distinctly Leonard and Brian, others distinctly masculine or feminine, but more often than not, his robots eschew gender or race or sexuality. Which brings us back to memoir as art: he has interpreted his life for himself, then shared it with us so that we can interpret it and interpret ourselves into it. As one guest at the gallery’s opening night says, “His art is refreshing. It makes you think about your own emotions, where you go through break-ups, life, death. This one is about holding in that bad and not wanting to release the negative energy. And in this one he has an indifferent face–but he has a bag puppet which suggests that he still has emotions.”
When people like his sister and old art teacher got him canvas, encouraging him to take his sketches one step further, he started painting again and Leonard was born again. His paintings became a timeline of his emotions and experiences, his process one that echoes his own life: “I always paint messy, then clean it up along the way.”
One of the best sequences in the film, for me, is one in which we watch Leonard painting in his studio, a soft spotlight on him and his easel in the middle of the room, the background darker. With headphones jamming–probably to Sam Smith or Telepathic Teddy Bear, both featured heavily on the film’s soundtrack—and red Chuck Taylors on his feet, he swoops around his painting with gusto and giddiness, with bright, broad brushstrokes and thick black outlines. We see his messiness and what he does to “clean it up.” Ane we can only imagine what he’s thinking as he paints. Probably something like the quotation from Mother Theresa that he used during a TEDX Talk in 2014: “Every time you smile at someone, it is an action of love, a gift to that person, a beautiful thing.”
Seeing the TEDX Talkfor the first time brought director Michael McKinley to tears. He says that something stuck with him, until six months later, while he was in Las Vegas and had his “epiphany”: to make a documentary about Leonard’s story. An audience member at the film’s showing that I attended asked Michael why directors don’t make more inspirational movies instead of ones that leave viewers feeling ambiguous about their feelings or just plain empty. He replied, “There need to be more movies that do the opposite of movies that make you feel sad and crummy. Now I’ve got the bug.”
Another audience member wanted to know when she could see the film again so she could share it with her family and friends, but Michael reminded her that releasing a film to DVD or streaming while it’s still going through the film festivals gets tricky. It could be another year, he said, to which she replied, with an apocalyptic tone, “The world doesn’t have twelve months.”
Well, you’re going to have to wait awhile before you can see the entire documentary, though, because Happy is indeed enjoying the film festival circuit. It premiered at the Historic Imperial Theater in Augusta, Georgia, delighted viewers at Milwaukee’s festival, and will soon show at New York City’s Chelsea Film Festival as one of only 24 North American films selected. It will also appear, so far, at the Savannah Film Festival later this month, and the Southern City Film Festival in Aiken, South Carolina, in November. Its likely that Happy will make it into other festivals as well. So you could hit the road and head east or south–or be satisfied for now with the “Don’t Erase Your Crooked Lines” teaser, which will remain popped-up in the gallery through October 23.
And in the meantime, do as Leonard does: “You can make the choice to be happy, because happiness matters.” And visit Leonard’s website and Facebook page to follow his adventures. And don’t forget: self-addressed stamped envelope sent to him will get you four Happy stickers all your own!
While Artist-in-Residence Pamela M. Anderson was enjoying a well-deserved vacation in Colorado to see the Women of Abstract Expressionism exhibit at the Denver Art Museum last week, she left the studio in good hands: Stephanie Barenz, the Hotel’s 5th Artist-in-Residence in 2013-14. Stephanie exhibited some of her own paintings over the weekend, just in time for Doors Open Milwaukee. I ran into Stephanie on Friday, and she was gracious enough to offer a tour of her artistic mind, as well as some intriguing words about her own learning experiences, especially at The Pfister during her residency, but also in her travels in Milwaukee, New York City, and Hang Zhou.
First, she reminisced:
The residency was a lot about storytelling because I was collaborating with Molly Snyder [the Narrator that year] to create a book. So all my paintings that year–there were 30 just for the book–were bursting with activity, more colorful and illustrative than normal. Molly would come in to talk about the painting process and she would write the story. There was one 6′ x 8′ painting of a cart pulled by a motorcycle that was filled with my experiences–that was my self-portrait. Our book is called “The Carriers.” You can actually read it on my website. All in all, it was a magical year.
As we talked, I could look out the studio doors to see her fancifully eclectic painting featured in the hallway, a tall tribute to the porters’ luggage carts, “bursting with activity,” as Stephanie would say, and memories of her experiences at the Hotel. Her painting-in-progress (see above) is indeed an obviously different vision, as is much of her personal work, many of which are palimpsests of pencil, pen, and paint, with layers peeking at us as through a mist or glass or haze of memory. I noticed how silhouetted figures–both dark and light–were often superimposed upon each other or how bodies allowed us glimpses of architecture that mysteriously shone through them (or was it that the bodies were reflecting the architecture as if they were made of mirrors?).
Stephanie’s time at The Pfister was also magical because it revealed a whole new world to her: the world of a professional artist.
It was also such an education for me because it was where I learned how to become a professional artist. When I was in school, the focus wasn’t on business, although there’s probably more of a focus now. So when I got out, I didn’t know how to approach patrons, for instance, or how to exhibit my work, or talk to visitors.
I taught in Hang Zhou, China, for a year (that’s where I met my husband). I had to get used to a very collective mindset and used to interacting in public spaces much more than I was used to. Here, I get in my car and go to my little studio, but there the question was always “How are my actions affecting everyone else?” My students would go to school, then go home to take care of their family. Some would even be in love with someone from another province, but wouldn’t pursue it because–they valued taking care of their family more. We don’t do that as much here. But they ask “How are we operating together?” From this experience I realized how important it is to have friendships, to have people to be accountable to. I mean, as an artist–and I’m sure you understand this, too–you can be alone a lot. I started the Pfister residency right when I got back from China, so that was perfect timing. I had to learn how to be public with my process. People would ask lots of questions about my art–they had so many questions, and so many personal stories. The residency at The Pfister was really an “education by fire.” I mean, I probably failed a lot, but I also learned a lot.
As individuals, organizations, and publications like Doors Open Milwaukee, Dear MKE, Urban Spelunking, Humans of Milwaukee, Urban Milwaukee, and the upcoming ZIP MKE all continue the difficult task of bridging the gaps between neighborhoods and zip codes, between different sides of the river or freeway, Stephanie’s artistic philosophy could never be more timely (well, in fact, it’s timeless):
My art is about navigating new places. When you go to a new place, it affects your perception of home. I learned from visiting other cities and countries that everyday moments are important, so my art is about making the ordinary extraordinary, about elevating the commonplace.
As you navigate a place, you’re bringing the past, present, and future with you. You’re bringing all your memories, you’re very present in the moment, and you’re also using your imagination to go into the unknown. I like to think of it as the layering of time. Even if you’re in a familiar space, it’s good to become unfamiliar with it, to try to engage with your surroundings in a new way. It reminds me of the Situationists, who declared that they would no longer navigate their city according to the prescribed grids. So they would take a map of Paris and make these games: they’d put a coffee cup down on a map and walk the perimeter that the cup made; sometimes they’d make shadow puppets on a map and investigate the shaded area; they’d take color walks and sensory walks, too, being aware of these things as they walked.
I am inspired now to try out a coffee cup or shadow puppet walk on one of these beautiful days as we transition from summer to fall. Who wants to join me? I want to see more of my city. I want to see the extraordinary in every ordinary corridor or alley, through every window pane or fence. And I want to meditate, with a new perspective, on the past, present, and future that I bring to each new (and old) space I am in.
I’m looking forward to the completion of the renovation of the Lobby Lounge so I can bring this new-found thinking to my experiences in the old/new space–and continue to share with you, my readers, the past, present, and future of the Humans of The Pfister.
My mother used to like to recount how one day in preschool, a classmate approached me and asked me, “What are you?” Yes, “what” not “who.” As my mother and teacher eavesdropped, I’m told that I (and this is all my mother, I’m sure) tilted my head in contemplation like some kind of mystic saint (okay, now I’mmaking stuff up), looked him in the eye, and exclaimed, “I’m Dominic. Just Dominic!” I love this story.
I was acutely aware of my identity from a young age. I just was. Nothing more complex than that. I didn’t need another name, another label. Thanks for asking.
As I grew older, I used to spend my weekend afternoons playing in the yard. I wasn’t throwing a football to myself in touchdown simulations or practicing backflips so I could impress my friends. Instead, I was often crouched with my Matchbox cars at the foot of the dogwood tree or in the earthquake-proof huddle of massive bamboo. From this perspective, my cars were life-sized, the holes in the trunk caves for them to hide, the rough bark slats dangerous roads for them to traverse, the water trickling from the hose a potential cause for a spin-out. If a one-inch black beetle or four-inch slug–both are common in Seattle–happened to scuttle or slime its way into the path of one of my cars, then a battle was sure to ensue. (Note: No beetles or slugs were harmed in the writing of this blog.) Sometimes, in the shadow of the bamboo, I would examine the nodes that punctuated the hard stem wall–and, I kid you not, I distinctly remember one day musing to myself something like, “Those are like the positive or negative events in our life that really stand out, that mark important things and make us who we are.” I’m pretty sure I wrote that down in one of my short-lived diaries.
I was still “just Dominic,” but, as I look back on myself, I began to develop a sense that there was meaning outside myself, outside what things “were.” No one taught me this directly. It felt more innate, something that revealed itself over time. Books could have contributed (Scott O’Dell, C.S. Lewis, the Serendipity series, Old Testament woodcut coloring books). Religion might have contributed (transubstantiation, forgiveness of sins, stained glass windows, incense smoke signals to God). But neither books nor religion told me to focus my perspective and imagination and make tiny things large, or told me that bamboo stalks contain poetry. No one taughtme how to interpret (in Latin, “to translate”). Meaning-making kind of just happens, I think.
On July 22nd’s Gallery Night, then, when I dug myself (metaphor) out of my lethargy after a week of some sort of horrific stomach bug (metaphor) contracted in Canada and dragged myself (metaphor) to The Pfister again so that I could enjoy the two new Pop-Up (metaphor) Gallery exhibits and Artist-in-Residence Pamela M. Anderson’s painting to the music of Nineteen Thirteen–it wasn’t surprising to me that my interpretive antennae went into overdrive.
. . . . .
TRANSFORMATION: AN EXHIBITION
An initial browse through the Coalition of Photographic Arts (CoPA) presentation of Transformation: An Exhibition revealed to me a stunning array of interpretations. I went in with no preconceptions or knowledge about the exhibit other than the expectation that I would experience photographic expressions of “transformation,” which CoPA defines on their site as “a thorough or dramatic change in form or appearance; a metamorphosis, renewal, a revolution.” I wasn’t aware before Gallery Night that the exhibit also had a civic component–
“Our city is working hard to reinvent itself, and as individual photographers we endeavor to move outside our comfort zones–to transform the way we interpret subjects.”
–nor was I aware of the process by which photographs were created, juried, and displayed.
It was curious to me, then, why all the placards mentioned the surfaces or substrates on which the photographs were printed: “the toothiness of the paper” (nice metaphor!), “the canvas substrate,” “the rich, elegant surface,” “the high-tech, rigid, durable feel of the material.” Even more curious, coming from an educational background, were the descriptions of each work that struck me as quite similar to assignment or learning objectives: “This assignment will ___.” “The student will ___.” Each followed a similar template:
“The paper will enhance the graininess of the photo.”
“The high-tech, rigid durable feel of the material will match the industrial subject of the photo.”
“The cold look and feel of metallic relates to the cold feel of the image.”
“There is a soft, dreamlike sense to the image that fits with the sophisticated look and feel of the paper.”
I learned that photographers submitted their work to CoPA, and selections were juried by the Haggerty Museum of Art, who determined how Prime Digital Media (PDM) should print each work. Pam Ferderbar, CoPA president, explained it this way in The Shepherd Express:
“The transformation occurs when you take a digital image and apply it to a surface that has the ability to not only provide a tactile experience, but that literally conveys the emotion of the subject.”
I studied Melody Carranza’s 3 Kings, Ruth Yasko’s ethereal Mannequins, and Dennis Darmek’s watercolor-like Swimmer. I wondered how 3 Kings would change if it were applied to something other than Sunset Metallic Photo Paper, whether some of the dreaminess of Mannequins would be lost on something other than Luster Premium Photo Paper, or if the liquid sunlight in one my favorites, Swimmer, could be achieved only on Big Jet Universal Photo Gloss Paper. I have every confidence that the Haggerty jurors chose wisely, because these three photographs and the dozen others are revealed in dramatic and moving ways by their surfaces.
I started thinking about how our daily lives are affected by the “surfaces” and “textures” in them: the ones we apply ourselves, the ones that others bring, the ones that pre-exist as part of our daily landscape.
If your day is textured from the outset by insomnia and an annoyingly blaring alarm, then God help the poor co-workers who will experience your rough demeanor the rest of the day. If your day, however, is textured with sunrise yoga and perfectly brewed coffee, then those same co-workers might be smiled upon by your yogic brightness. It matters, doesn’t it, whether others intentionally or unintentionally texture your day with nettling emails or mean gossip rather than meaningful conversation and positive reinforcement. It matters whether the sky is sunny or rainy, whether the news is uplifting or depressing, whether the pavement is rough or smooth. Most of all, I think, everything depends on what surface or substrate wechoose to apply ourselves to each day–no matter what the world has determined for us.
YOSEMITE & THE TETONS
I made my way to the back of the gallery, where a companion exhibit, Yosemite and the Tetons, features the photography of CoPA founding member Tom Ferderbar. A celebration of the 100th anniversary of the National Park Service, these photographs capture the majesty of two of our national treasures, both on a small scale (as in the rock at Mirror Lake or a black barn in a field at the base of the Tetons) and a large scale (as in Bridalveil Fall or Tetons #5). I got a chance to talk to Mr. Ferderbar, who studied under Ansel Adams in his Yosemite National Park workshop. He began by describing the difference between amateur photographs (like the ones I took on my recent visit to Yosemite) and professional ones:
I’ve been to so many other national parks, but the photos I took there were just snapshots. To shoot a particular mountain or scene, you have to think about the purpose of shooting it and go without your family, camera out the window. You have to go by yourself or with an assistant.
Getting more specific, Ferderbar pointed out two of the photographs hanging in the exhibit, Teton Moonset #1 (July 2012) and Teton Moonset Black and White (July 2012):
Thanks to the Internet, I could find out exactly when the moon would still be up even after the sun had already risen. By the time I took the photo, unfortunately, smoke had moved in from a forest fire. I had taken into account the topographic quadrangles, gotten to my spot an hour before, watched the moon moving down, sometimes having to move 100 yards or so to get the right angle. By the time I took the photo, unfortunately, smoke had moved in from a forest fire–you can see the glow in the clouds. The sun wasn’t right.
He rendered the photo in color andblack and white, saying he prefers the black and white because it obscures the glow from the clouds that he hadn’t been going for, but also because it creates a wholly new texture and mood. The white of the snow pops out differently, the moon creates a sense of mystery as it punctuates an otherwise dark landscape. As Ferderbar described this process, which I hope I’m rendering correctly, I couldn’t help but think about how he was describing the effect that atmospheric textures–and the time of day and I imagine even the temperature, as well as the forest fire, whether natural or man-made–had on this piece.
When I asked him what his favorite non-plannedphotographs were, he pulled up his website on his phone to show me a few from his Miscellaneous collection.
He likes the striking colors and textures in Record Shop, San Francisco CA (1968), the criss-cross of red and green framing the windows, the rusted cream fire hydrant in the foreground, the confetti-like litter.
A photo of his uncle is titled Soldier on WWII Furlough and it seems like a pretty straightforward portrait, but he appreciates the peculiar heft and angle of the cropped car on the left, his almost silhouetted uncle, standing stiffly with his right foot resting on the door ledge, a dog, left foot in motion, trotting toward him in the snow, with a weathered barn in the background against a white winter sky.
He took Dusk, Melcher Hotel, Milwaukee WI (1958) with a 35mm wide angle lens. Because the photo is way underexposed and the picture so tiny, it looks like blue film grain. It appears almost pointillistic to me. Ferderbar likes that there is a human component to the otherwise static photo: two guys sitting on the brightly lit steps to the hotel, which is where the Performing Arts Center is now.
Finally, when he showed me Plane and Birds, Milwaukeee WI Airport (1975), I told him how much it reminded me of the photo stills that make up the 1962 French classic La Jetéeand he mused about how he knew the guy that was in charge of Midwest Airlines at the time and he let him sit at the end of the runway in order to get his shot of a plane landing, a flock of birds peppering the sky in front of it just as he took it.
Just like the photos in Transformation are transformed by the surfaces and textures to which they’ve been applied, Ferderbar’s photos express to me a similar metaphor: Sometimes we can plan for hours, days, even months for the perfect shot or experience, and sometimes we are pleased with the product, sometimes surprised by the unexpected outcomes. Sometimes, too, that shot-on-the-fly or that spontaneous experience can reveal shapes and patterns and textures that we could have never planned.
I like that Ferderbar shared both kinds of photographs with me.
PAMELA M. ANDERSON, FEATURING NINETEEN THIRTEEN
I rounded off my evening in the Rouge Ballroom by experiencing a unique texture experiment that synthesized the experimental music of Nineteen Thirteen and the abstract painting of Pfister Artist-in-Residence Pamela M. Anderson.
I could try to do justice to Nineteen Thirteen musical stylings, but feel I should simply quote from their website’s homepage:
A cello crafted in Romania in the year 1913 is processed through today’s technology and framed by the percussion of Violent Femmes founding member Victor DeLorenzo.
Cellist and composer Janet Schiff creates multi-layered, electrically amplified cello loops to the solid pulse of stereo drum rhythms. They interact in a sassy and superb fashion.
The cello is from 1913 and the music is from today.
Sassy and superb indeed. At one point DeLorenzo drove–yes, like a car–his Zildjian cymbal, eventually using his snares to accompany Schiff in a plucking, strolling ostinato rhythm. She began layering on top of that a Spanish dance melody which I soon realized was Maurice Ravel’s Bolero.
In another sassy move, DeLorenzo tipped over one drum, then his cymbals, then the other drum, lifted each and dropped them, stamped his feet on the stage to rattle them, tapped the side of the drum, and used untraditional parts of each instrument as Schiff worked in tandem with the languorous bowing of her cello.
When it came time for Anderson to paint, Schiff’s plucking reminded me of the Japanese koto Sakura, her bowing more classical, and DeLorenzo would lightly tap the drums for awhile, then his snares would sweep the drum head in long circles, then rattle the sides with expressive bursts. The audience witnessed–perhaps for the first and only time–Anderson’s entire creative process, one shaped and textured by the music that Nineteen Thirteen was inviting her to interpret on paper. In fact, Anderson used as one of her painting tools some of DeLorenzo’s snares.
Anderson was most influenced, she says, by “Victor’s drama and wanting to end the painting with a flourish.” Her flourish? The sudden and surprising addition of periwinkle blue.
This was a perfect example of how texture–this time,musicaltexture–could influence how a person created her world. If Schiff’s cello or DeLorenzo’s drums had performed any differently, would periwinkle have appeared? Where would the red have emerged–and how? The black diagonal?
. . . . .
It is what it is.
It is what it is not.
I’ll always live in the first. But I’ll always prefer the latter, because interpretation has allowed me from a young age to see my world differently and wonderfully. It has allowed CoPA to transform photographer’s visions by layering them on one substrate versus another. It has allowed Tom Ferderbar to capture mystery where there might not have been or beauty in what would normally be ignored or passed by. And it has allowed Nineteen Thirteen and Pamela M. Anderson to create newness with every bow, pluck, snare, or stroke.
Rocman “Roc” Whitesell retires from The Pfister Hotel tonight at 10:00 pm after 18 years of service as Concierge. I got a chance to talk to him a few hours before he hung up his uniform. Roc affirmed in my a belief in and celebration of ignorance–there is so much that we don’t know about so much . . . and that’s pretty cool. I’ll be inviting Hotel associates and blog readers to share their favorite stories about Roc!
Gallery Night last Friday in the Pop-Up Gallery and the Rouge Ballroom taught me about textures:
How atmospheric textures can affect a photograph of the Grand Tetons, or how printing in black and white versus color can lead to striking differences–thanks to insight offered by Coalition of Photographic Arts (CoPA) founding member Tom Federbar during the opening of his exhibit Yosemite & the Tetons.
How printing a photograph on a different surface, such as Sunset Metallic Photo Paper or Brushed Aluminum or Breathing Color Elegant Velvet Fine Art Paper (all Prime Digital Media products), can change the way a photograph appears and is perceived.
And how the musical textures of an electronically-amplified cello and the dramatic swish of snare drum brushes can affect what an artist such as Pamela M. Anderson, our Artist-in-Residence, sees and feels–and how that can translate to a blank canvas.
All in all, to bridge the gap between the evening’s art and my life, I was reminded to attend to the “textures” in my own life–those I’ve been given, those others create for me, and those I create myself–and how they transform how I present myself to the world, how I am perceived, how I affect and effect.
Stay tuned for my full reflection on these stories!