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Suspended is Belief

cloud-terrace — The scene is set for dreaming.

Like dewdrops caught in a silken net, thousands of crystal droplets shimmer in the slightest breeze above a secluded parterre in Dumbarton Oaks.

For the last year, this unexpected confection of light and space has enchanted visitors to the historic garden at the north end of Georgetown. The work of the Cao-Perrot Studio of Los Angeles and Paris, the “Cloud Terrace” was supposed to have been dismantled last November, but it has proven to be so popular that the garden directors decided to leave it up all winter. It’s now expected to be gone at the end of March. We’ll see.

In the meantime, the quiet shimmering beauty of the work continues to draw crowds who attempt to capture its mysterious allure with cameras great and small.

crystal-gawkers — Cameras click like castanets, trying to catch pixie dust.

I was lucky the first time I went to see it. Perhaps because it was a weekday, and a rare sunny day between windy storms, there were few people there. I could sit and savor the way the hand-tied Swarovski crystals catch and throw the light.

Such a distinctive temporary art installation seems all the more striking in Beatrix Farrand’s classical garden setting, where little has changed in decades.

Even the most meticulously designed garden is subject to the relentless tide of time. Blooms come and go. Trees age and die. The entire composition of a garden is in a continual state of flux. You could say that every garden is a temporary work of art. Many gardens vanish when the gardeners who created them pass on. Luckily, when the great gardens of the past are championed and sustained by successive generations of garden lovers, our lives continue to be enriched by these dynamic works of living art.

I don’t know what Beatrix Farrand would have thought of the “Cloud Terrace,” but it’s clear as crystal that modern crowds can’t get enough of it.

Ship of Cools

The Northern Lights are shining above the Potomac this month, thanks to a brilliant festival of Scandinavian culture at the Kennedy Center.

The Nordic Cool exhibition, which runs through March 17th, showcases music, theatre, dance, film, art, and culture from the countries of Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Sweden, Norway and more. It’s a stimulating smorgasbord of ideas and talent, and many of the presentations are free.

Perhaps the most dramatic of the many offerings is the nightly spectacle produced by Danish lighting designer Jesper Kongshaug, which recreates the effect of the Northern Lights on all four sides of the Kennedy Center each night from sunset until 11 p.m.. Subtle at times, breathtaking at others, the effect is mesmerizing.

Inside the center, free exhibitions range from stunning stained glass birds to demonstrations of Nordic cuisine and informative displays highlighting the history of the Nobel Prize and plywood. Yes, plywood.

For me, however, the work that really hit home was the remarkable creation of Finnish artist Kaarina Kaikkonen, whose installation titled: “Are We Still Afloat?” evokes a giant ship, broken in two. The nautical illusion is all the more marvelous considering that it is fabricated entirely from a thousand used shirts hung on lines. Laundry never looked so cool.

Visual art involves the magic of translating the human experience into something universal that speaks to us without words. This “ship of shirts” spoke to me, of souls gone, of hearts broken, and of hope still aloft in the wind.

Not Like The Others

beasts — Hushpuppy adrift in a wild world of her own.

In my Sesame Street years, a brief window when my children were preschool age and we lived within range of a television signal, some things rooted in my memory. Among them was a regular feature on the show that revolved around the idea that “one of these things is not like the others.”

That’s a concept to which I can relate, having always felt a bit out of synch myself.

Last night, as I sat through the hours of predictable puffery and praise that fill most Oscar shows, I mused on the always curious mix of contenders for Best Film. I had seen only two of the nine, so I was in no position to judge their relative merits, but I had read and heard a lot about most of them, and I had a pretty good hunch about how the night would go.

My friends have been raving about “Lincoln,” and “Zero Dark Thirty.” “Les Mis,” and “Silver Linings Playbook” also seemed like sure bets. And, having read the “Life of Pi,” and being a great admirer of Ang Lee, I was prepared to see him holding an Oscar before the night was over. Eight of the nine contenders could be defined by genre: historical drama, magic realism, quirky romance, tear-jerking drama, over-the-top theatre musical.

But, while all the films nominated for Best Picture were admirable, I didn’t really care much about which of them won. I was certain that the one that had stolen my heart had no chance in hell of winning. In fact, it’s kind of a small miracle it got nominated at all.

The small miracle at the heart of “Beasts of the Southern Wild” is its six-year-old star, Quvenzhane Wallis. Hers is the enchanting voice that tells the tale, part folklore, part dystopian fantasy, of a little girl living on the edge of the Louisiana Bayou, a watery wasteland beloved by its recklessly independent community. The only love story in the film is that of the child and her father, who is wasting away from disease.

The forces of the modern world seem to be lined up against this small band of misfits, yet there is much joy and lyrical beauty and a kind of epic poetry in this film.

In the long history of the Oscars, from time to time something altogether “not like the others” finds its way into the final Best Picture list. This year it was “Beasts of the Southern Wild.”

It ain’t Sesame Street.

The Earth Remembers

NMAI-sinuous-curved — Landscaping at the National Museum of the American Indian reflects harmony with nature.

On the razor-thin borderline between the new and the old, we the people balance on this elusive current moment.

It changes constantly, as do we. Our efforts to hold onto the moment, to capture the past, or predict the future, generally fall short. Yet we keep trying. I like that about us.

Here in D.C. there’s a lot of emphasis on the present, in the form of news. Yet the rush of time is such that nothing has a shorter shelf life than news. Today becomes yesterday, and the ravenous public looks for what’s next.

Among the more inspiring aspects of life in the nation’s capitol is the reverence given to our shared history—the good, the bad and the ugly.

The good is easier to take, of course. The glories of the art museums, the beauty of the landscape, the pride in our heroes—these things are evident in the war memorials, the grand presidential monuments, and such.

But those parts of our history which are more painful and shameful to recall are also on display, lest we forget the cost paid by some, and the debts we can never repay.

The National Museum of the American Indian (NMAI), one of the relatively newer structures on the National Mall, stands out from its mostly marble neighbors. Its striking golden stone facade and sweeping curvilinear architecture instantly bring to mind the grandeur of the American Southwest. But inside, the scope of the museum extends even farther, from the Arctic Circle to Tierra del Fuego, representing the collected histories of all the indigenous peoples of the Western Hemisphere.

It’s an overwhelming subject, and for someone like me, of Scotch-Irish heritage, something of a guilt trip. The native people who lived on and cared for this land we all love were systematically forced off it by the pioneers, most of whom came from Europe.

We who have overrun this land in the past four hundred years haven’t done such a swell job of preserving it. The Dust Bowl springs to mind.

But for this very reason the NMAI is an invaluable resource to educate and preserve the history and the spiritual heritage of the remarkable country in which we all live.

Monuments to heroes are all well and good. But even more important are the memories and history of our shared past. Where we will end up remains a mystery. But if we can at least remember where we came from, and how we paid for the trip, perhaps we can be mindful not to waste what we have left.

NMAI-totems — The newest totem poles in D.C.

Wanna Bet?

Global-lawning — The calm before the protest.

It’s hard to sell the concept of global warming to folks digging out from a couple feet of snow.

However, the winter storm which silenced much of the Northeast barely frosted the windows here in D.C., where we’ve been enjoying a snow-globe kind of winter. Every couple of days a few flakes shake down from the clouds, but it never amounts to much. Kind of like our national approach to dealing with global warming.

This coming Sunday, February 17th, thousands of people concerned about global warming are expected to mass on the National Mall to bring attention to the rapidly changing weather patterns on planet Earth.

Naturally, in a country such as ours, where dissent is considered a birthright, there will likely be a contingent of outspoken global warming deniers, who insist that a couple of degrees here or there aren’t worth getting all worked up about, and certainly not reason to trade in our SUV’s for more modest vehicles.

Not being an expert myself, I can’t claim to understand the Big Picture. But I do think the key word here is “global.”

While it’s easy enough to read the mercury rising in a thermometer in your own backyard, it’s far more difficult to appreciate how the rise of one degree at the North Pole can lead to oceans swallowing coastal towns and island nations.

Yet this is what the data tells us. This is what all the computer simulations predict. This isn’t just one or two crackpot doom scenarios, or some completely random Mayan prediction of world-ending chaos. This is quiet, steady science—the same kind that brought you laser surgery, high definition television and the Internet. You believe in those, right? At least the first two anyway.

The problem is that for most humans that global perspective is tough to maintain. One minute you can see it—how we are all just tiny specks in a vast soup of cosmic possibilities; the next minute you’re hungry and the only bowl of soup you’re interested in is minestrone.

So, much as I’d like to think that Sunday’s demonstration will have lasting impact on policy makers, I’m doubtful of our nation’s ability to make the hard big decisions, and less than optimistic about the will of people like me when it comes to making those hundreds of small decisions every day that add up to climate change: whether to drive or walk, to recycle or throw in the garbage, to turn up the heat or put on another sweater, etc.

In the long run it may already be too late for us to reverse the course of the planet’s mood swing. The fact that most of us won’t live to see the way this all turns out makes it all too easy to ignore.

This past Sunday I went down to the National Mall, where the mild weather had brought out the kickball teams, the Frisbee tossers, and a smattering of happy tourists enjoying the sunshine and the wide open spaces. On such a day it’s easy to forget about polar bears running out of ice, and the tiny atolls in the Pacific which will completely disappear in a matter of decades at the rate things are going.

Maybe the complacent deniers will win out, and we’ll continue to burn through this planet’s resources as if there were no tomorrow. But even if we won’t take responsibility for the planet for ourselves, shouldn’t we at least do it for our children?

It’s their world we’re gambling with.

The Pinch of Time

Bishop's-Garden — Leave your worries behind, all ye who enter here.

One of my early favorite books was “The Secret Garden” by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Like many a soft-hearted young girl, I was moved by the story of a hidden garden in which a lonely girl and a crippled boy find inspiration and joy.

I wanted a garden like that.

All through my life I’ve been drawn to such places. While many public gardens put on lavish displays of horticultural artistry, those which retain that “Secret Garden” sense of magical reprieve from the harshness of modern life are rare.

The All Hallows Guild of the National Cathedral has nurtured and sustained one such garden in Washington, D.C., for nearly eighty years. The AHG, an all volunteer group which raises funds and helps maintain the Bishop’s Garden, also puts on the wildly popular annual Flower Mart on the Cathedral grounds each May, and offers many education programs including tours of the extensive grounds.

Since 1934, one of the Guild’s most beloved projects has been The Herb Cottage, a little slice of old English charm nestled in the shadow of the Cathedral. The cottage actually predates the Cathedral and has a fascinating history of its own. However, the march of time trod rather heavily on the charming old building during the aftermath of the earthquake which shook Washington in the summer of 2011.

While the earthquake itself left the cottage untouched, not long after repair work began on the Cathedral’s towers, a giant crane fell on the cottage, damaging the roof and some of the surrounding plantings. Since that time the AHG has been soldiering on, offering The Herb Cottage’s wares in the Cathedral’s underground garage while repairs began on the cottage.

But the shake up at the Cathedral seems to have affected more than the architecture. Apparently some in the church leadership viewed the crane accident as an opportunity to “repurpose” (yes, I loathe such words—can you tell?) The Herb Cottage and turn it into a café.

Ah. Where do I start?

I like cafés. Who doesn’t? Coffee, tea, muffins and whatnot. But is this the best place to locate a social hub? The Herb Cottage is only a few feet from the entrance to the Bishop’s Garden. It’s a landmark and a treasure. And what is more fitting than for it to be used as it always has been, as a place for gardeners and those who love them to buy souvenirs and gifts that celebrate the sublime serenity and grace of gardens in general and the Bishop’s Garden in particular?

A café somewhere on the Cathedral grounds is a fine idea. But it needn’t be housed where the clatter of cups and the chatter of customers would inevitably overflow into the sanctuary of the garden air.

I first stepped into the Bishop’s Garden more than forty years ago. It was a thrilling discovery, happened upon by accident. I’ve returned many times in the years since, though I lived far from the city for much of that time. Now I’m back, and they’re going to replace the Herb Cottage with a coffee shop?

I’ve been told that you can’t fight progress. And I’m all for progress.

But I’m not convinced that all change is progress. Some things are fine just the way they are, or, in the case of The Herb Cottage, the way it was.

Bear With Me

Red-Bear — Crafted in resin, Xavier Veilhan's "The Bear" suggests origami with attitude.

Surprise!

You’re walking down the street, or perhaps riding by on the bus, numbed by the stone gray face of the winter city, when suddenly a burst of tomato red, taller than the average bear, shocks you awake.

The glorious creature lighting up a corner outside the Phillips Collection is another provocative example of the work of French artist Xavier Veilhan, whose intriguing installations have earned acclaim from critics worldwide. His installations at famous locations such as Hatfield and Versailles have dazzled visitors with the unexpected mash-up of past and futuristic concepts.

“The Bear” is part of Veilhan’s first major U.S museum exhibition in the United States, in The Phillips Collection’s ongoing “Intersections” series, which highlights works that offer fresh perspectives on the influence of the past on the present. Veilhan’s work often combines modern technology with classic themes.

One of the perks of living in a major city where an international community supports and appreciates artistic endeavor is the abundance of public art. Many of the museums in D.C. are open to the public year-round free of charge. But even the museums which must depend on private donations and public support give us glimpses of the wonders inside their doors.

Thus we have the red bear seemingly directing traffic on the corner of 21st and Q Streets. He’ll be gone soon, off to startle other viewers after February 10th.

I wish I could keep him in my front yard.

“One Sky”

Inaugural-sunrise-2 — The Inaugural dawn evoked poet Richard Blanco's line about "Hope, a new constellation, waiting for us to map it."

So I wimped out on going down to the National Mall to watch the inaugural hoopla. But I watched it on TV. That counts, right?

At least I was able to hear all the speeches, which is more than some of the unlucky visitors who happened to be corralled in the farthest areas open to the non-ticketed public, where the Jumbo-tron screens flaked out during Obama’s speech.

I can only hope the excitement of Being There made up for the technical failure.

For me, it was an inspiring hour of speechifyin’, superb music and some thoughtful poetry thrown in to satisfy the high-brows in the audience.

Yet after Beyoncé had dazzled us with her unfailing grace, and the crowds began to head for the exits, I checked out the instant analysis online and was saddened, though not surprised, to learn that not everyone shared my enthusiasm for the proceedings.

The percentage of venomous ranters to giddy believers was at least small enough to sustain my habitual pie-eyed optimism that somehow, after the bands have packed up and gone home, after the balls gowns have been sent to the cleaners and the champagne corks swept up, there may be some period of detente between the various feuding factions, not only in the government, but in the public discourse.

Of course, I’ve been a gullible sap most of my life. Eager to believe the unbelievable, dream the impossible dream, etc., I’ve never taken to the general cut and thrust roughhousing of politics. I keep thinking grown-ups should be able to cooperate and work toward the common good more effectively. I forget that not everyone cares about the common good.

Earlier this past weekend I happened to see a license plate in McLean, Virginia, that hit me like a slap. It read: MEFIRST.

My husband suggested that perhaps it was intended ironically. But gullible as I am, even I don’t buy that theory. It kind of depresses me to think that there are people who would even think such a sentiment was funny.

But you know what? After this morning’s stirring celebration of all that is right and good about our one-of-a-kind nation, I’m not going to let a few sour apples spoil my pie in the sky.

My president is a rock star. And I do believe in “We the People.”

Make My Millennium

Okay, so here’s my guilty secret. I like movies where things explode.

Not all movies where things explode. But when Bruce Willis, or someone of his stripe, sets off to save the planet with a quip and a smirk, I enjoy the payoff as much as any backyard commando. Maybe more, since I have no personal illusions about being able to pull off anything remotely qualified to feature in an action flick. When I take action these days it’s usually in the kitchen, or, if I’m lucky, in the garden.

Yet much as I like action movies where things explode and steely-eyed heroes step in and light the match, I recognize these stories as fiction.

Fiction is something I understand. Reality, not so much. Perhaps that’s why it simply blows my mind that there are actually people in the “real” world who think it’s a swell idea for the United States at this point in the progress of the civilized world to build a so-called “Death Star” to protect us from anticipated alien attacks.

And here I thought I was delusional.

Well, it’s possible, I suppose, that the paranoid legions will have the last laugh when the aliens start bombing and scorching us with their death rays, but I feel fairly confident that at the rate we’re killing each other off down here on Earth there won’t be much for aliens to conquer, when and if they ever arrive.

I was comforted to read in The Washington Post today that the Obama administration “does not support blowing up planets.” Good to know.

In the meantime, that estimated $850 quadrillion which the proposed “Death Star” would cost (and you know how it is with estimates – nothing comes in under the estimate) could come in handy as we try to pay down the national debt, solve the problems in our education, health care and aging infrastructure.

And after we end hunger, poverty and injustice, then we can get that Death Star project up and running. Sure we can.

Coming soon to a theatre near you.

Pix Elated

Pop-eyes-2 — Lichtenstein's pop eyes speak volumes.

Perspective is everything.

The first time I ever read Moby Dick it was a Classic Comic. It cost ten cents. I thought it was a fairly gripping yarn, but it lacked the love interest which, at the time, I felt was an essential element to any story.

Years later in high school, when I was compelled to read the actual unabridged novel, I realized that there was much to be said for the comic book format. So much less blubber, for one thing.

Suffice it to say, the appeal of Moby Dick remained an enigma to me until I read it again in college, guided by an inspired professor who confessed that it was Melville’s sense of humor which really got to him.

This was news to me. Yet as I voyaged once again into Melville’s foaming prose, I found not only amusement, but moments of transcendent wonder. Go figure.

No doubt the passage of time had changed my perspective on whales, men, and the heartless workings of Fate. And, as time went on and I revisited other great works of literature such as A Tale of Two Cities and Les Miserables which I had first read in comics form, I came to appreciate the pleasures of the long slow read.

However, while my admiration for comics has held steady, in the last few decades graphic comics have sparked a kind of cultural renaissance of their own, with highbrow artists producing a whole new world of thoughtful, groundbreaking works suffused with drama, humor and the whole existential enchilada that is modern life.

On a recent trip to the East Wing of the National Gallery we took in a retrospective of works by Roy Lichtenstein. His brilliant conceit, to put comic style art on the wall, large and in-your-face, challenged centuries of traditions built on classification and exclusion. Seen larger than life and bolder than Iron Man, the artful appeal of this comic art is irresistible.

To me, anyway. But then, I’m a sucker for Melville, so perhaps not the most reliable source.