My son is looking for his life. At 27, he is already an experienced filmmaker, director, writer, cinematographer, editor. As a freelancer his income is sporadic and meager. It is increased only slightly by a teaching job at a film school. His father slips him $20s. We pay his rent and his overdue utility bills. When his shoes need repair, I take him to the cobbler and pre-pay the bill.
He knows this worries me. Our funds are not without end. We get older. Read more
Butte, Montana was once a boom town for copper mining. Massive steel head-frames still dot the landscape throughout the city. At night they are illuminated in crimson. In the last part of the 19th century, more than 100,000 people lived in Butte, from all parts of the world. It was a cosmopolitan city with theaters, grand hotels, elegant mansions and a Victorian amusement park with a wooden roller coaster and vast public gardens. Read more
Chaturanga, savasana, mudra are familiar terms to me, and perhaps to you. They refer to core poses in yoga that are thought to affect our ability to connect to the spiritual world. Sitting in a yoga class after the mats are rolled out and noses are relieved of their morning stuffiness, we are asked to create an intention for the day’s practice. This is an interior moment, left unexpressed, that fills the mind with purpose. The body senses it. Intention is sealed with a prayerful hand gesture. Practice begins. Read more
The first dozen times I heard about “The Weather Project” I was confused. What did they mean by “Project?” What was a piece of theatre about weather going to be? Why was it going to go on for two years? Lots of questions. And I should have had answers. I am on the board of directors of The North American Cultural Laboratory (NACL), the sponsor and creator of The Weather Project. But every time I tried to explain the project I stumbled, uttering vague allusions to climate change, community projects and ensemble theatre. Read more
My call time was 10 a.m. Saturday morning in Brooklyn. The day before, I met with the director to finalize my costume and props. The vintage Burberry trench coat fit well, and I could wear my own black slacks and sensible brown shoes. “As long as you can run in them,” he said. He said nothing about jumping. Read more
Six large crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling of the lobby of Le Pavillion Hotel in New Orleans. Two oak-leaf gilt mirrors rise above marble consoles on either end of the room adding infinite repetitions of the highly decorated scene. At 10 a.m. on the last Monday morning in April, Jazz Festers slowly tumble from the elevators looking for some chicory-laced coffee to rouse them. Most have imbibed more liquid cheer in a weekend than a bartender pours on New Year’s Eve. Read more
The ice dam has broken, finally. A huge berg twirls in the eddy, unwilling to float downriver to the sea. Chunks disengage, spiraling off from the mothership. I imagine a huge umbilical cord of ice holding on to the riverbed below like a tether, but it doesn’t sound likely, or scientific. I am witnessing the end of a long winter. The night’s rain has turned to frost on the lawn. The only color is the dull gray of tree trunks and the bright green of the Narrowsburg Bridge. My imagination is as dull as the landscape. But, look! Read more