THE SOUND OF MUSIC

It’s easy to imagine Rogers and Hammerstein hearing music pouring out of those hills, especially after a Spring rain. Niles is a lovely district tucked up against the hills in Fremont where I live. In the summer the hills are golden with dark green accents of oak in the hollows, where we imagine families of small animals congregate to pass the time of day until the cool of the evening. In Spring after a healing rain, shades of green challenge the painter’s palette, and herds of cattle appear over the crest thankful for Nature’s bounty.

I didn’t hear any music coming from the hills, but Julie Andrews would be happy to know that I saw this intrepid little red-winged blackbird hunching his shoulders and auditioning for a Spring concert.

Each of us, wherever life may have led, has something that sustains us. We won’t find it by looking over our shoulder, but if we’re lucky, it’s forever right beside us, waiting to be called upon.

You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by. Yes, but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by. (James M. Barrie 1860-1937)

THE NAMING OF CATS

THE NAMING OF CATS, BY T.S. ELIOT

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all,there’s the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo, or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey—
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter—
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,
A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkstrap, Quazo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum—
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover—
But the CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable, effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

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T.S. Eliot was the inspiration and wrote the lyrics for the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical CATS. It was based upon “OLD POSSUM’S BOOK OF PRACTICAL CATS”. Old Possum was the name Eliot used for himself in playing with his godchildren.

WHEN WE WERE CHILDREN

The Church Pew” stoneware sculpture by kayti sweetland rasmussen

I was not a willing churchgoer as a child. Beyond dressing up in my hat and little white gloves, I was probably like the child on the far right of the sculpture. And then I discovered music.

The music in the church of my grandmother did not reach in and grab me by my soul as I thought it should, but by my teen years I had quietly visited a number of other denominations, including a Southern Baptist church where mine was the only white face. I found the music uplifting, and the faces of the faithful inspiring.

I dressed my daughters in hats and little white gloves and sent them off to church, until my youngest embarrassed us all by singing an old Salvation Army song in the middle of the service; “Put a nickel on the drum, save another drunken bum, Hallelujah!” at which time she was whisked off the stage. Be careful what you sing to your children.

Sitting in the front pew at a guitar Mass in the 70’s I looked down at a quiet grandson and stage whispered him to “Sing”; “I don’t sing” he said. “Of course you sing. EVERYONE sings.” “I don’t sing”. When we left the church I asked him “If you don’t sing, why do you want to go to church?” His answer was “I like the stories.”

My father was an agnostic, sent off to a parochial school as a child after being suspended for being somewhat of a troublemaker. His delight during his stay at the new school was researching the Bible to refute any chapter the teacher had assigned. He had a sharp wit and an astonishing memory and was able to point out dozens of phrases which contradicted a previous one. He was not beloved by his teachers, but the other children loved him.

My maternal grandmother set the style of my religious education, and my mother and aunt followed in her footsteps. I’m sorry to say I was a rebel and a disappointment to them, but my wise little grandson was right; the stories are not bad.

THE FOUR MANIFESTATIONS OF BEAUTY

“Sachiko With Bamboo” watercolor painting by kayti sweetland rasmussen

“With any form of beauty, there are four levels of ability. This is true of painting, calligraphy, literature, music, dance. The first level is Competent.

We were looking at a page that showed two identical renderings of a bamboo grove, a typical painting, well done, realistic, interesting in the detail of double lines, conveying a sense of strength and longevity. Competence is the ability to draw the same thing over and over in the same strokes, with the same force, the same rhythm, the same trueness. This kind of beauty, however, is ordinary.

The second level is Magnificent. We were looking a another painting of several stalks of bamboo. This one goes beyond skill. Its beauty is unique. And yet it is simpler. It conveys both strength and solitude. The lesser painter would be able to capture one quality but not the other.

The third level is Divine. The leaves of bamboo are now shadows blown by an invisible wind, and the stalk is there mostly by suggestion of what is missing. And yet the shadows are more alive than the original leaves that obscured the light. A person seeing this would be wordless to describe how this is done. Try as he might, the same painter could never again capture the feeling of this painting, only a shadow of the shadow.

The fourth level is greater than this, and it is within each mortal’s nature to find it. We sense it only if we do not try to sense it. It occurs without motivation or desire or knowledge of what may result. It is pure. It is what innocent children have.

Turning the page was a painting called Inside the Middle of a Bamboo Stalk. . It is the simplicity of being within, no reason or explanation for being there. It is the natural wonder that anything exists in relation to another, the viewer to the painting.”

This fourth level is called Effortlessness. It is like the effortlessness with which one falls in love, as if actually being two stalks of bamboo bent toward each other by chance of the wind. The two have become inseparably one.

(With thanks to Amy Tan for borrowing some of her words.)

REMEMBERING GLENN MILLER, 1904-1944

Glenn Miller’s recording of Moonlight Serenade was made in the summer of 1939.  World War II broke out that summer.  For the young of dancing age no sound recollects that time more than the sound of the Glenn Miller orchestra.   It was a time for having fun and perhaps falling in love before those boys were swept away into the war.

Maybe it was because there was a sweetness to his sound which made it especially irresistible to teens and 20’s who still wanted to swing but who were painfully aware of the sadness of departures.  Maybe Tommy Dorsey, Artie Shaw, or Benny Goodman made more sophisticated music, but Glenn Miller topped the charts.  Record stores had listening rooms where you could sample the sound and the beat in quiet while you decided which you were going to buy.

He had America’s music pulse–he knew what would please the listeners.  He exuded little warmth on the bandstand, but once the band struck up, audiences were done for.  Throats clutched, eyes softened.  Can any other record match Moonlight Serenade for its ability to induce a Pavlovian slaver for so long?  His recording of the telephone number of the Pennsylvania Hotel in New York; Pennsylvania 65-OH-OH-OH was on everybody’s lips, and American Patrol  created the proper patriotic lift.

Miller enlisted and formed a band playing for the troops in Britain and France.  He boarded a plane in December, 1944 to fly across the English Channel.  The plane never arrived.  It was the night the music died.

DON’T RUSH ME

If I hear the Little Drummer Boy beating that drum once more, I’ll kick a hole in it.  And Rudolph.  Don’t even go there.  Why someone hasn’t taken that poor reindeer to a doctor for that red nose, I’ll never know.  I love the Christmas music, but it began being piped throughout all the stores (along with the Christmas decorations) before Halloween.  Our local radio station  has played every Christmas song invented 24 hours a day since the beginning of December.  I know what you are thinking: “change the station,   Stupid!” But actually, it is quite  pleasant.  Even Rudolph!

The season has changed immeasurably since my childhood.  The things I remember, my grandchildren have never experienced, but then the things MY grandmother enjoyed, seem antidiluvian.  I’m not sure which is better.  The best present I ever received was a red-and white checkered rag doll I saw high on a shelf in the dime store when I was six.  They don’t even have dime stores anymore!  Of course NOTHING was ever a dime even then, and during the Great Depression, even a dime would be too much for some.

Today’s wish list runs to X-Box, IPads, Kindles, etc., draining the wallets of indulgent parents by mega-bucks.  The Norman Rockwell vision of Holidays is simply that; a vision.  The answer is just relax and enjoy it, it is what it is.  Like the 10,000 teenagers yapping away on their cell phones in the mall.  Of course, they do this soundlessly, because of non-stop texting.  It is amazing to me that a teenager can be present at a family dinner, cell phone in lap, and carry on a fairly lucid conversation while meanwhile notifying all of their friends of even the most minute details of their existence.  Talk about multitasking!

But the tech world has captured all of us.  “I have to start the going to bed ritual 30 minutes before I have to actually be in bed.  Plug in personal cell (android, so it soaks battery juice like a Hoover.)  Work cell (Iphone and this one sucks like a Dyson,) IPad touch, IPad and Jawbone bluetooth headset.  The sad thing is I can’t remember my life before I had more phones than pockets.”

That last part, is not exactly true for me, but I’m sure it is a daily thing for a lot of people today.  And our kids will have to cope with even more tech as the years go by, so they may as well sharpen their wish lists in 2011.

My cards have been sent, the packages wrapped, Christmas cakes baked and distributed, Hanukah greetings sent, and special phone calls made, so I’m ready to relax and dance around the room to Rudolph’s cheery bounce.  I hope you do the same.

LANGUAGE OF COLOR

The boy spoke little; only when necessary, and then mostly in single syllables.  He had been adopted into a loving family as a newborn, along with another newborn boy, who took care of most of the conversation for both of them.

His mother had what she called “smiling” classes with both babies and whoever happened to be around long before he could walk, just to get a glimmer of sparkle from him.

As the years progressed, he became familiar with tests, therapists and doctors to no avail.  He showed an interest in art and music, so when he was five, his mother took him to a children’s concert in San Francisco.  Though she chattered about the music on the drive home, he gazed out the window with no response.  That night she told his father the afternoon had been  another failure.

In the morning, coming down for breakfast, she found the boy had taped sheets of printer paper together which stretched across  the floor.  On this “canvas” he had drawn the entire orchestra he had seen the day before.

He seemed to favor a cartoon medium for his drawing, and drew comic strips which his mother put onto the family Christmas cards.  His interests were his drawing, the computer and briefly, piano.  He tried to stay in his room most of the time, preferring to be alone with his computer.   He was very close to his brother, who found nothing strange in his behavior, nor did the neighborhood kids who included him in their games as long as he was willing to stay.  But to his parents and everyone else, he remained a stranger.

When he was twelve, his mother asked if I would mentor him as an art instructor.  Though I had known him since he was first in their family, I was hesitant.  He had been tested by experts in their field, and his parents had given him every opportunity that money and love could give.  I wondered if the fact of his adoption was the cause of his lack of response.  It must be difficult to wonder why your birth parent “gave” you away.  In spite of being in a loving family, with parents, grandparents, and a sibling, there must always be a lingering question.

He came to me once a week for about a year, and we covered art exhibits and museums and tried “off-the-wall” drawing.  I talked; he didn’t.  I tried not talking so much and he didn’t either.  It was abundantly clear that there was an unhappiness somewhere in his psyche.

One week there was an exhibit at my home gallery of a woman who did very large, very vivid abstract oil paintings.  As I unwrapped them for hanging, it was obvious that they  were more or less divided into two genres;  happy and unhappy.  She was an artist unfamiliar to me, so as we sat and talked over coffee she explained the reason for the difference.

She had been very ill for a long time; had not been expected to live.   Gradually she had gotten well and had resumed painting.  It explained the brilliant color, and the difference between the two groups.

When she was in distress, her paintings were wild with red, black and bright greens.  As her health returned, the colors were softer and happier.

The color red symbolizes danger, stop, and anger.  In other words, keep away.  But red also means excitement, and extrreme happiness!  Black is certainly unhappy, as were all of her violent brushstrokes and jabbings in mismatched color.  She had clearly shown her feelings in paint, just as she did in her “well” paintings, though the brushstrokes and color were still bold.  You felt the artist speaking to you.

As we toured the exhibit, I told the boy that I was so happy to be an artist, because you could put all your feelings on canvas, paper or whatever you chose to paint on.  Just the color alone did all the talking necessary.  You could show your unhappiness, and joy.  You just had to learn the language of color.

I made a self mocking remark and he gave me a weak chuckle!  In the year we were meeting, it is the only response I had from him.  I felt a failure at mentoring, so we stopped meeting.

The boy became extremely tech savvy, and unbeknownst to his parents, he discovered both of his birth parents.  They had married, though not to each other, and had families in the Midwest.

As a teenager, he went back to meet all of them, a trip which was highly successful.  In the ensuing years, they have exchanged visits a number of times and here in California meeting with his adoptive parents as well.

He now lives in San Francisco, and works as a performance artist.

Bammie & the Boys

Jazz

Oil painting

kaytisweetlandrasmussen

Don’t Worry Be Happy

Clay sculpture

kaytisweetlandrasmussen