Noah Allen est arrivé.
Today, 6/3/09, he showed his happy little face.
Yours Truly, along with Jeremy, Toni, Maria, and various medical types, ringed Heady who pushed for one hour before her deliberate doc decided it was time for a c-section.
YT is about to see Heady again, who was in recupe mode.
More photos forthcoming.

Love Life.

Yours Truly did not believe the sign, not being a natural skeptic, but believing that the fishmonger was preying upon Middling City pride and such.
YT, peering into the case in Exhibit A (aka the photo at left), thought this was a laugh, a kick, a biota-driven bit of whimsy.
Buffalo Fish, hilarious.
Following this illustrative visit to Broadway Market in formerly incredibly thriving Broadway-Fillmore District, YT did some quick R&D of sorts.
There is indeed such a thing as Buffalo Fish.
Not to be served up with sides of Buffalo Fries, and Buffalo slaw.

Onwards.

Did some power gardening here & there over the past few days with dahlias taking the species lead in all things planted.
Amongst others were eternal favourites: nasturtiums, moonflowers, lobelia, pumpkins, elephant ears, canna, and more more more.
Plants and seeds.
YT does always, annually, experience the wonderment of wonder upon gazing at a cart laden with plants and possibilities during every garden centre/growing opportunity center visit.
Suddenly the cart is teeming.
Upon checkout at garden shop stop numero uno checkout lady said Well that looks like plenty for now.
Indeed.

Onwards still.

Tomorrow YT will be accompanying Heady to l'hopital for the delivery of baby numero duo for good vibes, and photo documentation.
YT has already made the executive decision that all will be ambiently lit for who in h-e-double-hockey-sticks wishes to arrive into the world in a barrage of flash, red carpetlike bluster.

Big Green Love.

Well. Well. Well.
Here is Yours Truly with newest pal, Prime Minister Odinga of Kenya.
This image was made by the Big U's Law School Dean, a special request by YT.
We three were in a brief moment at a brunch on the 24th and in a flash I asked the Dean to make the image.
And voilà.
Odinga has a great sense of humour and travels with his handlers - his wife and daughter.
I photographed him all last weekend.

Things have been merrily hectic as of late in the Middling City and today Heady phoned to let me know that on Wednesday her newest baby will be extricated.
YT will be there, coaching–and documenting.

Onwards to special deliveries.

Love of all things documentary.

This here's Yours Truly's favoured YT-crafted image of Marshawn Lynch the other day at New Era Cap Co.
YT enjoyed watching him watching others in the room - like YT he is a professional watcher.
Photogs and defensive linemen have a nose for news, so to speak.
Is he in fact a defensive lineman or did YT just pull that our of her arse erroneously.
I do wonder.
I do not wish to Google.
Perhaps he is a tight end.
Perhaps a corner launcher.
That last was a test for there is no position called a corner launcher.
YT does know that Marshawn Lynch gets the ball and runs like hell, reportedly at times off the grid so to speak, off the clipboard of his coaches.
He is as improvisational as a well-tested, tried and road-true jazz musician.
In terms of his cap YT was impressed that he was apparently going the route of the New Era 20's-era worker cap.
But by meeting's end he was then veering toward a soft model of ballcap.
YT gave some thought to the possibilities of designing her own New Era ballcap.
Should Dana or anyone else over there call YT to say Hey Nance, come on down and design something special, YT has this in mind:
Green on green, some nice embroidered 10/10's, some other important and significant iconic objets.

Onwards.

Onwards to deadline fun.

Love of Football Terminology, faux and non-faux.

This delightful and informative epinw blogpost is all about apps.
And not that kind on page two of menus of note.

Utterly minding my own business - yet again - found myself in a common photog moment (waiting for some files to export) - and, to optimize productivity and such, found myself searching iPhone app store for LightRoom.
LightRoom, as You may know, is the recent new software tool that Yours Truly has plunged into and is slowly mastering.

It's been about six days but LR is not the bottomless pit that PhotoShop is.
Thankfully.
It's for photogs and more than any other app emulates the language of temperature and the like.

So YT searches iPhone app store for LightRoom, out of curiosity.
And up comes a free app called Photon.
Promising.

Here is documentation, in real and Warholesque time, of YT exploring this new app.
As, delightfully, a guilty pleasure tune comes on pandora - Dave's Grace is Gone.

1. Push Photon icon.
2. It wishes to use my current location. Henh.
3. OK.
4. (thought) Why in hell.
5. Create new account. Come on, this is a fun photo app, I thought.
6. Jeez. Link to confirm sent to yahoo account.
7. (time lapse) All things are a green light g.o. go.
8. (more time lapse) After looking at online version of this app am horrified to discover that it creates access (albeit Private) to my harddrive. YIKES.
9. Deactivate app quick fast in a hurry.
10. The End.

Quickest download to deactivation in history of the iPhone.

Love of Security.

Quel day.

Finally feel like things are way underway and under control with newfangled and most excellent LightRoom - post-SOS fix by LukeC.
Heading out shortly to see a Sam play with Annie - Endwords at Adam Mickey's where annual Dyngus magic happens.
A nice warmup and prequel to seeing Godot with Justy in the Shiney Apple in a few weeks.
Time for poesie, breath - kind of like yoga, but it's dramatical.

Above is the sig of our President v44 and Yours Truly was most inspired and awestruck by its inherent artfulness.

Spoke with Brucey earlier about art supplies - namely Yupo, mastic crystals, and the like. Will bring a sketch pad to the Sam event tonight as sometimes his words can be oso inspirational.

Last night's all-gal gathering chez CJ for her b-day was full of good friends, and hilarity.

Onwards to the theatre.
In the Polish rec hall.
On the Middling City's fabled east side.
On a semi-balmy night.

Eternal Love of Sam.

Finally the big, LED-fueled word is out.
The Peace Bridge, it was printed in the Middling City News, is superbly lit with chaser lights - much like venerable and encroaching Pano's resto on the Elmwood Strip.
Yours Truly several times drove along the 190 to witness the Peace Bridge in blazing technicolor©.
And when YT asked others if they had seen such a lighthearted display they had not.
This happened three times - and three times I beeped my horn heartily to let whomever might be up on that bridge tweaking (and listening) that one enthusiastic motorist like totally gave it a non-hands-free two thumbs up.

Onwards.

In the midst of editing out the proverbial wazoo yesterday took a brief ten-minute respite to watch the vid of our delightfully left-handed and handsome president deliver his comments to those black-tied and little-black-dressed correspondents at their annual dinner in WDC this past Saturday.
A favoured quote:

I believe my next hundred days will be so successful that I will be able to complete them in 72 days," he said to a roar of laughter. "And on my 73rd day, I will rest.

And here is the link, Your homework assignment du jour is to watch, and chuckle along with the infectious (ooh, perhaps poor adjective in these troubled H1N1 times) chuckle of Obama.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0GwZFAV1Lw

YT documented thousands of wondrous minutes this past week, as is my wont this time of year - including commencements. Commencements in the parlance of YT are always referred to as BigC's.

At one of the biggest BigC's, a pre-BigC warmup in the shape of a dinner to introduce various honorees to one another, YT witnessed a poignant moment.
Nobel Prize Winner Doctor Herbert Hauptman gave remarks after receiving (unofficially) his honorary doctorate from the BigU and stated that he never thought in his lifetime (he is 92 years old) that he would ever see an African-American president in this country.

The other honorary doctorate this year was former SNL writer Alan Zweibel who hilariously compared himself to Hauptman. He noted that Hauptman studied the atom, and he has a son named Adam.

For your delight, here is an image of YT with Zweibel, as You would expect good fun to talk to with a slight shy streak.


Love of Occasional Documentation of YT.

This just in.
Above is primo example gleaned today of Buffalo-ese sweeping this madcap internationalized world.

Yours Truly considers this A triumph.

Also a Triumph is that today on BBC, or was it CBC, YT also gleaned the press corps at the venerable White House is standing patriotically and respectfully for Obama, whereas they did not for ol' Whatzizname.

YT, in a May flurry of events that does not include imbibing of 5-O May-O beverages, is ending this epinw post with a tip of her laptop sobrero to You.

More Love later, Love.

Image from CEPA Gallery Visions of Greater Buffalo charity auction event this past Saturday night. Yours Truly, wearing fav green belt, in a self-port milieu, next to Sherry Burns.

YT wishes that she could recall with absolute clarity just who in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks it is who is her pal who revealed that they Love their dentist.
And, in reply to their expression, YT stated that she feels the same.
One should Love their dentist.
YT had the verysame dentist from childhood until late 20's, until his retirement.
I adored him.
He was a lefty (as most good men are) and was prone to getting tangled up in a good story (always egged on, as they say, by YT), lowering his mask, leaning back against a counter, arms crossed.
He worked in the Brisbane Building of downtown Middling City and YT always loved going there and going up to his office in the shambling elevator.
The waiting room furniture never changed, there was a faux lemon tree.
YT has some signage from her childhood shoe store and desperately wishes that she had the faux lemon tree of her childhood/near-lifelong dentist.
Onwards.
So there was the retirement.
Then there was another lefty dentist who acquired some of the practice.
But as wacky of a sense of humour that Dentist2 had, the drive to his office was a bummer.
So then there is Dentist3.
A delightful Deadhead and he just simply adores YT (a fact intuited but also backed up by the receptionist who stated today that Some patients are ... you know. But others are just so nice to see. When I told Dr. Deadhead that You were coming in, he said Oh good.
Dr. Deadhead and I talk music - concerts, recordings, and the like.
What we've seen, You know.
I told him that Phish hired YT for images for one of their live recordings, at Darien Lake.
And Dr. Deadhead and I, as it turns out, were at one of thee finest, earliest Phish shows in 1990 - at Arena Rollerskating Rink in the MC.
Dr. Deadhead today removed the last of my silver fillings and now I am like a house rid of old lead paint.
(sidebar: So loving Kings of Leon once again, immediately.)
Dr. Deadhead so juiced up my jaw with novacaine that YT is still a little tingly from that.
Fercrissakes, Dr. Deadhead, sometimes less is more.

Less Love is never an option Love.

++
This just in.

Latest of the Accidental Frame Series.

Yours Truly is returning to Street Green Series as it is the season of streets springing to life with green.
Above made along Genesee Street in the Middling City, post-gig.

Writing of sidewalks, three vignettes:

1.
This morning saw a curious bundle of pussy willows, branches all of same length and tied neatly with red string.

2.
In a suburb of the MC, also this morning, saw a sheared-off ten-pound weight sitting end up underneath a mailbox.

3.
Saw, today, a sight much more common in more x-l cities - the broken and abandoned umbrella, black, upside down and opened.

Onwards.

Last night attended dual birthday party for Susan and JT, at Broady's home in picturesque Allentown. YT, as was promised, brought a piñata to the party, a nice skull model filled with airplane-sized bottles of liquor, appropriate candies, lip gloss, and a hula bobble head girl.

As YT had just run a marathon day of typical Friday proportions, arrived later than planned to discover some disgruntlement. A party. A Friday. A piñata. Fercrissakes.
After some initial shit was given and the like, got everyone together, with help of Liz, outdoors to wack the crap - literally - out of the papier maché skull. Much to the chagrin of an early-to-bed next-door neighbor.
But the goods were finally wacked free and indoors we went to enjoy those items, and more cheese. Including a most pungent variety that Deb had brought, presumably from the foreign soils she had just visited.

Tonight more more more.
How do You like it. How do You like it.
YT was just informed via SherryB that YT is nominated for Best of Middling City, as Best Photog, by the paper where she toiled most diligently as a founding staffer in 1990 and worked as intrepid photo essay columnist for fifteen years.

The past, oft-repeated words of nominees the world over appeared in the mind of YT:
It's an honour just to be nominated.
And so it is.

It is Love, Love.

And who, You query, is this.
Well, Yours Truly shall divulge.
This is Uma and she is just about the most serene caninus fervidus You could ever hope to sniff. YT made these Uma ports, along with some of Uma's handler, earlier today.

YT is practicing some Band of Horses yoga before embarking on yet another night of jazz, some pals from out of town and out of the country. Same tomorrow evening. An aural treat of free jazz proportions.

Today, whilst motoring down Oak Street, YT was nearly in a head-on collision with some geriatric Deadheads who wanted to drive down the one-way Oak Street in the wrong direction: whereas the street heads south they really really needed to head north, by golly.
YT, having survived one crash via an asshole downtown, began to lay on horn and then flail at them. They still wished to proceed in a northerly fashion.
YT was close enough to their equally-geriatric van to note that the Deadheads had a handicapped hangtag, were each wearing raucous tie-dyed t-shirts and one of the couple had some sort of hat on.
They hesitated, not believing, then finally stopped.
As I passed them I motioned that THIS IS A ONE-WAY STREET YOU FLIPPIN' ...
anyhoo they motioned back in a manner that we humans can really excel at, in a manner in a flash of CHEESH, as if I was stepping on their hi-jinx.

Kennergy was down at sadsack Exchange Street AmTrak station to pick up some musicians for show #1 and was suddenly perplexed at the large number of homeless people, folks wrapped in blankets.
Then, suddenly, noting the presence of hemp and tie-dye recalled that the Dead plays the Middling City this fine evening.

Onwards.

Tomorrow is Earth Day and for the occasion YT is singing, so like non-sotto voce, the theme song from Big Blue Marble.
A show that taught us that we are all the same.
All the stinkin' same, on this same mass surrounding a ball of fire.

YT is going to see Waiting for Godot once more.
Next in the Shiney Apple, via a director who knew Sam.
So it has a cosmic stamp of approval.
But for the non-bare stage.

Onwards once more.

Love of jazz, elevated and percussive.

My latest self-port, part of a sub-group of self-portraits made in dance studios.
No, this is not metaphorical, like Yours Truly is always the bridesmaid, never the bride.
Nor always the photog, never the twirling dancer.
For YT prefers to ever be the bridesmaid, ever the photog.
The Clash (specifically Janie Jones) is presently on my pandora Feelies mix and it's as rejuvenating as this nice cuppa tea - both British.
Coincidence.
I think not.

Last night's gig ended at the appointed hour and a word about the gig.
A few people who I know were at said gig and marveled at my mad wrangling skills, namely, how YT is able to turn a group of conventioneers/reunionists into a cohesive group displaying excellent body language skills.
Most of this YT attributes to a decade of camp counseling, working with some of the toughest and, at times, saddest kids on the planet.
A decade of prepping, planning, crowd control, pop psychologizing, step-momming.
After that all of You are a breeze: conventioneers/reunionists, shy/displeased/out-of-town wedding guests, over-sugared children, rock & rollas, and the like.

So the post-gig gig was that of Cecil Taylor, jazz pianist and irascible person in general.
I arrived for the final 10 minutes of his first set, receiving updates from a few folks in the audience.
After those 10 minutes there was an intermission of crowd-challenging proportions: Cecil (in comfy sweats) left the stage and resumed the sipping of Veuve Cliquot.
In his rider, in his major agenda.
His intermission was approximately 1.5 hours and about 1/3 of the audience lost their mettle and split.
I likened it to the watching of certain Andy Warhol movies.
And now, upon further introspection, it might be likened to the climbing of certain mountains.
You presume there is a course, a zenith, a purpose, and an ending that is logical.

So Cecil reappeared, read from some medical treatise.
Then sat down at the piano and took we remaining listeners on an interesting journey.

Thanks Hallwalls friends for allowing me to come in gratis for the second half. I'd been in their offices running a show-related errand earlier in the day and explained I'd be coming late from said gig.
And thanks, too, Hallwalls, for serving some decent post-extended workday, jazz-enhancing vino.

Onwards.

Love of all things spontaneous and non.

Yours Truly saw two quite incredible imPerfect situs yesterday, both involving trucks if You can freakin' believe this.

1.
Driving down Kenmore Avenue to a gig, minding my own business (of course, You proffer), was suddenly behind a truck behind a city bus that had stopped in its tracks.
The truck pulled around.
The bus was still, flashers flashing.
Immediate Middling City thought: OFCOURSETHATBUSISNOTWORKINGPROPERLY, it's MC transpo.
Passing the stopped city bus Yours Truly spotted the problem at hand - a downed power line at a rakish 45º angle as another truck, an oversized semi, had brushed the power lines and got stuck on them and then sheared the power line's wooden pole in half.
So, being ever-intrepid, sussed out the situ and drove underneath the power lines, figuring that the compactish vehicle would make it through sans worry.
Later, coming back from the suburbs, drove back down Kenmore Avenue to see that police of all stripes had that section of the Avenue blocked off, a number of signifying items in place.

2.
Later, still in the yesterday category, whilst driving with Kennergy to Nature for a Shiney Happy Mag story on Urban Nature treks, witnessed this moment.

YT has actually seen this scene before, where a semi does a crazy swinging around maneuver that looks like a left turn to suddenly crush a car or two on their left sides.
A bummer all around.

3.
In the Old First Ward there is a trucking institute of sorts so there all kinds of hacks, wannabe truckers learning how in h-e-double-hockey-sticks to accelerate, decelerate, BRAKE, and avoid killing innocent motorists and the like.

4.
Driving, ever a source of good old-fashioned adrenalizing moments.
And photo ops.

Love of

Snippets on this Good Friday.

1.
There Yours Truly was, truly minding her very own business, meandering back from a coffee expedition to Grant Street of all places, and heading in a southwesterly fashion. Suddenly it became of immense import to divert to LaSalle Park to make some images of ice on the water, in lieu of preparing the box of tax crap for the nice tax man who YT does not know but who was referred by Dorota and who is now lovingly referred to as YT's tax guru of sorts.

2.
Yesterday after a gig and shopping for some birthday gifts for tonight's SGB birthday throwdown, went to get a pedi at some joint in the suburbs, probably former marshland. As is my workaholic wont, laptopped the entire time. It is important to YT to make productive use of this time in midst of Asian arcana, oversized vinyl chairs installed with rollers and pinchers, curious signage and other women on the g.o. go.
At the end of the pedi the nice man at my feet required my attention, pointing at my large toes. Yes, I said, nice job.
He looked flustered and walked away. To get a dictionary, YT presumed.
He reemerged with a faux nail display with all sorts of strange hashmarked nails - art.
I pointed vaguely at one and he said Flower. Flower, I replied.
So back to work and when he was done he tugged at my rolled-up jeans.
I looked down and lo and behold he'd crafted tinyflowers with toothpicks and sparkles and paint. A tiny triumph.
Quite a master miniaturist of floral pedi creations, he was quite proud of himself.
And then YT proudly showed off her toes at the dinner party last night.
After first inquiring who'd like to see my toes.
NOBODY scowled Liz.
As YT unlaced her bitchin Pumas.
The girls did marvel at the Asian man's handiwork.

3.
Time to make and do, wrap and roll.
Off to fete three at once over birthday dinner, an artist pal's exhibition, some arcade games, some meeting & greeting.
And tomorrow, another visit to Broadway Market to make some stock images of all things sausage, butter lamb, and lily.
Another fine band name.

Love of naming bands.

Above is a festively flowered-up cart at the co-op yesterday and Yours Truly could not - once again - resist buying more hyacinthius domesticus to get full spring sniffs.
I also bought one of these purple plants and left it, with a card, for Robert & Steve, outside their apartment door.
YT is completely numb and heartbroken for them and their families after the car wreck that Steve had on Monday night on the thruway, when his car skidded and went down and embankment. Steve's two children were killed.
YT will be going to the wake and funeral and there is nothing sadder than a funeral for a child.
If I had seen, ever saw, a car near me on the thruway going off the road there is no way in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks that I would simply call and keep driving.
YT, being the consummate big sister/camp counselor type, would have stopped, parked, and made sure I could do as much as I could.
I would never call and proceed.
YT in the past has aided people all over the world in perilous and not-so-perilous moments - and angelic strangers have done the same for me.
One moment that immediately springs to mind is a woman on her bicycle in Amsterdam who slipped on ice and had a head injury.
YT not only stayed with her assuring her that she'd be alright, asking someone to call for help, but made sure that her bags spilled all over the scene were not stolen.
This is Karma, and this is what we're here to do: share our strengths.
∞
YT began epinw on a day of chosen significance, Good Friday, the alleged birth date of Samuel Becket, 4/13.
Tomorrow is Good Friday but it is not the 13th.
Yesterday was the anniversary, 15 years, is that possible, of the suicidal death of Kurt Cobain and YT recalls that moment with complete clarity: where I was, how I heard the news, and the impulse to tell others around me of the horribly shocking rock & roll news.
Yesterday was also the Faux Birth Anniversary of YT, as YT was a year younger than her classmates and that was a social disadvantage. So YT, with the assistance of Loomis, created a lovely faux bit of identification that, when asked, would grant entrée to the public social gatherings of my classmates and the like.
∞
YT has just finished a gig that involved documenting some earthworks of a non-artful sort: a state-sanctioned improvement involving giant holes and PVC pipes. This necessitated the handy standing-on of trusty little Subaru.
YT forgot the SPF 5K so is now a shade pinker.

Pinker, Purple, Gracious Love.

Image from meandering through the newly-improved AGO (Art Gallery of Ontario) which has now a capping of Frank Gehry goodness and a Vaticani-reminiscent complicated staircase to boot.
Whereas the AGO of yore was kind of musty with a smattering of good bits in the collection and some curios that you would marvel at for a short while, now it is, as Yours Truly is wont to say, A Triumph.
Inside there are some traveling shows and a Whitney-esque comprehensiveness to follow along the various decades of art making and doing.
What is beyond the Henry Moore which was once the outer wall, is now the expanded facade housing what is called the Galleria Italia, a dreamy space of wood and windows and filled with tree-related art by Penone.
Favoured & featured piece shown is a large tree gutted except for an intra-arboreal work, a small tree.

Time to leave TO, now pop. 2.6 mill.
Cranes and clouds in the sky.

Northwestern Love.

Post wedding gig on Saturday Night met up with Mish & TD at Big Orbit to see some rock & roll - Dear Leader - a gig that ended early to keep the neighbors oso happy.
Rich Wall (below) did his managerial/lighting thing and, as always, eerily resembled lead singer Aaron. TonyC was there, who merrily handed Yours Truly an Amstel Light upon entering the venue stripped of all art on the walls in preparation of rock & roll mayhem. All stayed constrained with some hippie-style girl choogling in front of the stage. Rest of weekend was not rest at all with editing, a jazz show to watch at venerable AKAG, an all-girl brunch at Left Bank, a dinner later at Left Bank, and oso much more.
I did see MikeC (cuz of TonyC) and did inform him I'd be at his resto, Left Bank, twice on Sunday and that I'd like a prize. He said No.


Speaking resto speak, partook in the Middling City's version of Restaurant Week last Thursday, supping a late sup at Bacchus with Heady. Their curious rendition of RW was 1 choice of 5 choices of a glass of vino, 1 small plate, 1 dessert choice. In lieu of that Heady and I opted for a better combo platter. It was a primo night out with the room full and vibrant, but their RW concept was a little weak. My experiences in the Shiney Apple for their v of RW is that most places offer full dinner entrees, limited but full-portioned, and let diners fend for their own tippling/desserting selves.

Fending for one's own dining self, Love.

One image that was floating about the desktop, from the Los Angeles/Beverly Hills/Little Laura foray.
Lest you need anything horn-related in LA.

My Letter to the Middling City News Editor appeared yesterday and got some emails from people giving me e-pats on the back for speaking up regarding an insensitivity matter that several read/see but don't feel compelled to speak out about. Several are employed as freelancers, and depend upon the MCN for reviews and such and don't want to nip at the sole inked-up hand that feeds them.

Just downloaded Andrew Bird's newest, Noble Beast, in preparation for the TO gig Yours Truly will be seated amid on Friday night - Heady's b-day. Gave her a gentle, photon-related nudge about doing her pregnancy portrait: YT loves doing this genre of port, it's important self-documentation that some people let slip on by.

Got a text from a newsboy last night that a kid who was racing out on Beaver Island (about 15 or so miles from the MC, a beachy place of modest proportions, but does include the lovely River Lea) died after his volatile, air-borne crash. It did make YT recall how in her teen-fueled high school days (specifically, that strange limbo of one's senior year) Marie and I would take out her souped-up Chevelle (with a 442, I recall) and just drive muy fast out on that verysame road. And, one late afternoon, another driver (a teen boy) challenged us to a race. We did. To no ill effect. That was one of several racing scenarios of Young YT: the others featured the impromptu race track on Ohio Street and scads of motorheads, including Nick Beat and his Opel Manta.

Onwards to pixel pushing and deadlines of journalistic and artful matters at hand.

Muy Pixel/Portraiture Love.

Traveled with Kennergy to Northampton and another notable North (as in Adams) once again, in the Mass, to make & do, look & work.
As Eremite has sold his big old home we stayed in one of the rooms-for-hire places that I wrote about for my NoHaMa piece for the Shiny Happy Mag.
Image numero uno, the toppermost, is an exterior shot of the sprawling and mind-enhancing Mass MoCA, my second visit there.
There is an incredible installation by photog Simon Starling with ultra-magnified silver molecules, ultra-magnified stereoscopic images of Chinese immigrants who were imported to North Adams (home of Mass MoCA) to work in a factory that stood where the Mass MoCA campus now does.
Upon entering the expansive arts venue, a former factory, had the nice front desk lady remind me what was fabricated there at Sprague.
Capacitors, she said.
I thought to fabricate my own understanding of what in hell a capacitor is but opted for the big Q.
Capacitors, it turns out, store electrons.
And Sprague made the switch for thee H-bombs of H-istory.
Bad H-istory.
∞
The lines and spaces and concepts of Sol Lewitt are gleefully, thoughtfully drawn on nice white walls there, ready to be marveled at.
For your edification see image at right.
Whilst trundling through Mass MoCA came upon an installation and made my way through a little faux grassy knoll replete with music, some Gilligan's Island-worthy benches, some unstrung patio lights.
And, off in a corner, the sleeping artist.
Yours Truly sat there looking about making sense of the jumble before her, including a few computers and attendant circuitry.
After a few moments YT realized that the artist was simply exhausted and the installation was incomplete.
So moseying along was in hot pursuit.


Jubilant round-up of the journey's art sights.
1.
Finally saw Smith College Museum of Art which had Lauren Greenfield work hanging - two of her femmecentric series. LG has a lovely sense of light and her people always feel real. Upstairs had an excellent shoe conversation with a guard guarding a small gallery. She complimented my very new J-41s that I'd had for a whopping hour or so. She said she'd thought of purchasing them in black but couldn't commit because of the contrasting band across the top of the foot. That was the selling point for me, YT stated. Then I went on to point out other lovely features, including map of the Berkshires underneath. She was wearing Pumas. I pointed to the bag in my left hand stating that my own green Pumas were in that very bag. I also found, I told her, the comment of the shoe salesman to be most curious as he said How many pairs of black shoes could someone own. Not enough, YT stated with complete and utter conviction.
2.
Mass MoCa.
Full of wondrous sights - art and architecture. Walking distance from Porches hotel, excellent Gramercy Bistro, and a curious package store selling odd snacks.
3.
Williams College Museum of Art.
Nice compact arts venue full of grandeur and some lovely surprises. Sol Lewitt work makes an appearance here as well - drawn on walls as well as the sculptural pieces.
Nice room of examples of work by workaday photogs. Had a good time reading some of their collection of historical docs, like a copy of thee Declaration of Independence, not the fancy-schmancy copy that everyone signed, but one of 25 copies meant to be passed around to the VIPs and framers. Here they have a piece by the femme who invented cyanotyping, who used the ironific process to document flora.
4.
Clark Museum in historical Williamstown was another newbie surprise to YT. Some more surprises on the walls. The Singer sewing machine fortune translated into thousands of purchases, including some Toulouse-Lautrec prints and what made it all bigger and better and best was the inclusion of some historical documentary photos from thee place, Le Moulin Rouge, the ladies, and some work by other artists of the same era capturing the effervescence.
∞
Today/night documented the wedding of two favoured people, two I've known for a long time. One I've known for three decades, the other two.
YT went up to Niagara-on-the-Lake to capture the vows alongside the lake under the sun, a happy gathering. Onwards then to a dinner to celebrate but not before reaching the Peace Bridge with my very brand new pocket-sized birth certificate to show to the border patrol person in his booth. He was not overly impressed. He also wished to see my driver license. YT had just noted that this semi-impressive new card (all black and shiny with hologram of the Middling City's seal upon it) was not on thee list of acceptable docs to present in such circumstances in the near future to not be hauled off for further questioning and possible tears.

Onwards and Onwards Still.
Artful, Loveful Love, Love.

Snippulations.

1. Yesterday whilst perusing the Middling City News and multi-taskingly having tea and kissing dogs chanced upon a theatre review. In most usual circumstances YT does not read theatre reviews if the play under the microscope was not sat through by YT. But it was a production by Buffalo United Artists and YT is a pal of founder Javier Bustillos.

There, amid the dissection and such was some phrases that oozed ethnic stereotype, the last remaining unchecked sort - Italian American bashing.

The reviewer, who has been noted as having made other blunders of ethnic stereotypical proportions, stated that the onstage action was "strained and repetitive even for the often heedless passions that can run rampant in Italian households."

YT did a stop, and restart of this phrase. And then immediately stopped the onhand multi-tasking that was truly just a bit of R&D for the pieces YT was about to write for the Shiny Happy Mag. YT fired off a letter to the editors of the MCNews and then sent the article in question (offensive sentence highlighted), along with my letter, to a list of media friends, writers, and others of Italian-mix.

Today YT received a call from the MCNews to verify not only my whereabouts but my heretofors and ID. Yes, it is YT, I stated. We will be printing your letter within the week, YT was informed.

And, for Your edification, here is my letter to the editor.

I had to reread a phrase in the Sunday, March 22 edition of The Buffalo News, a review of the Buffalo United Artists play “In Gabriel’s Kitchen” by Colin Dabkowski. The phrase in question was a jolt in an otherwise innocuous piece.

In this short piece, that glowingly announces the new home of BUA on Chippewa Street, and in the very issue in which News editor Margaret Sullivan states, rightly, that “newspaper journalism protects our freedoms and guards our way of life,” Dabkowski pens a phrase dripping with troubling ethnic stereotype.

While mentioning that several moments of “In Gabriel’s Kitchen” could have used some deft edits to shorten some onstage arguments, he goes on to say that these dramatic arguments “seem strained and repetitive even for the often heedless passions that can run rampant in Italian households.”

“Heedless passions?” “Italian households?” Oh my. In our historical era of both democratic revamping and change, as well as ongoing international wars and lines drawn for tribal reasons, it seems that most journalists would be more careful to pen such a careless sentence. This sentence could be easily read over, but it does much to re-instill generalities.

Onward.

Seems a little sensitivity training might be in order here.
A pal was asked to attend such a genre of meeting of minds recently for a dissimilar reason and she did inform me and some other femmetastic pals of some facts and concepts gleaned over those several hours. I asked her for a recap today, as I recalled there was a handy acronym. A very forgettable acronym, apparently.

She emailed back that it was EASY.

She writes:

E.A.S.Y. is as follows:
E.xpress (example: "Nancy, when you throw strawberries at me it makes it difficult for me to work.")
A.ddress (example: "my clothes are getting stained, it's a waste of good berries, and i like blueberries better.")
S.ay (what you would like to have happen) (example: "I'd like you to stop throwing strawberries at me while i'm working."
Y. (ask a Yes or No question) (example: "Can you do that?")

Oso handy.

Love of the Sensitive, Love.