If Georges Seurat had lived in Seattle, he would have been drawn to Green Lake, compelled to paint its shifting scenes of people, water, shadowed lawns and fluttering tree canopy.
Of course, in 1884, at the time Seurat was painting his masterpiece, “A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte” in Paris, Green Lake hadn’t really come into its own as a playground for Seattle urbanites. For those wishing to visit the park at that time, a trolley extending from the city provided an easy option. These days the trolley is gone, but nothing stops the crowds from flowing into the inviting lakeside spaces, especially when the sun shines.
This past September week summer finally visited Seattle. Nine days in a row of temperatures in the 80s. We dug out our fan and plugged it in.
Good times.
But if Seurat were to visit Green Lake now I suspect he might be a bit taken aback by the changes in fashion and social conventions since his time. Hardly anyone uses parasols anymore. Skateboarders and inline skaters whiz past the strollers on the path around the lake. And Georges might be dumbfounded by the constant stream of joggers sprinting by. The mood is tranquil, but hardly sedate.
Yet sometimes, when the light is right, if you squint your eyes and stare at the lakeside scene, you can still get a glimpse of what Seurat saw.
I spent too much time watching tennis on TV over the Labor Day weekend.
I always think I’ll be able to just check in on the matches, watch a couple of points, and get on with my life. But when it’s the U.S.Open, or any of the majors, really, I get sucked in. Break points, set points, match points – in a good match the drama keeps ratcheting up, like in a no-hitter between two gritty baseball teams when everything comes down to that last inning.
Anyway. To try to justify this obsession I tell myself that it’s instructional viewing. You get to see what to do (Roger Federer any time) and what not (Svetlana Kuznetsova – the mistress of self-destruct). But, as much as physical stamina and shot making determine the outcome of most tennis matches, the greatest challenge for all athletes is actually mental.
It’s so hard to stay focused, positive and calm while in the tumult of the battle. When I see Kuznetsova mishit easy overheads, or over hit easy volleys, I feel her pain. Been there, done that.
This is part of the pleasure of watching the pros, the recognition of their vulnerability. We can identify with their weaknesses. And on the other hand, it’s inspiring to watch some of them execute shots far beyond the abilities of most of us.
Every sport has a dynamic of its own, a constantly changing combination of challenges and opportunities which provide players with chances to win or lose. In the game of tennis, break chances can be the ticket to triumph, but only for those brave enough, skilled enough, and strong enough to make the most of their chances.
It’s a lot like life. We all get some chances to push forward, leap over the obstacles in our paths, climb higher, live larger. Sometimes we make it, sometimes we don’t. Some players fall apart when they miss a break chance. But the best players dig in, dig deep, and stay alert. Because you never know when that next chance will come along. And you don’t want to miss it.
The apocalypse dreamers must be riding higher than the floodwaters left by Hurricane Irene. It’s not often that a week begins with an unprecedented 5.9 earthquake in our nation’s capitol and finishes up with a hurricane bigger than Texas slamming into the Big Apple.
From the chatter of the talk shows, a conspiracy of sci-fi proportions might be presumed to be at work.
And yet. Somehow, as the floodwaters recede, the aftershocks diminish and the Dow-Jones resumes its customary pogo bouncing of alternate anticipation and dread, life, as we know it, goes on. The famine in Africa worsens. The violence fueled by differences of political and religious views lurches on with the tireless zest of a zombie horde. Racial prejudice continues. The drug wars rage on.
In light of all this, the passing blows of a hurricane and a small earthquake hardly register.
We experience life as individuals. When something cataclysmic happens to you, it’s hard to step outside the frame and look at the big picture.
One of the functions of art is to help us do just that – to broaden our limited perspectives and get a glimpse of other points of view.
Some artists write novels to address these ideas. But reading, for many, is too time consuming, too much like work. Music has long been a wedge to crack open the doors of perception. But listening requires an open mind. Visual art has an advantage of immediacy. And sometimes, the longer you look, the more you can see in a work of art.
Seattle artist Spenser Little creates provocative works from twisted wire that explore fundamental issues of human existence. In spare imagery that brings to mind the great line drawings of Saul Steinberg or Toulouse-Lautrec, Little creates extraordinary images of men, women and words. Many of his works include pithy quotations from the likes of Oscar Wilde or Ambrose Bierce. An original inventive spirit animates all of his works, from the smallest dog sculpture to the stunning near-life-size portraits.
You can see his works most Sundays at the Fremont outdoor fair. Weather permitting.
A little touch of heaven borders the sidewalk in Ravenna.
What’s brown, fried, and crackles when you step on it?
If you answered the grass next to the sidewalk, then you might be the not-so-proud possessor of a hellstrip. That arid strip of exposed soil between the sidewalk and the street can be a living hell for tender plants. The parched patch in front of my house is never a thing a beauty, but right about now, after baking through another August drought, the so-called grass looks about as inviting as a cactus bed.
Sedum, ornamental grasses and sun-loving perennials give a full look to this sidewalk border.
From time to time I have considered taking on the challenge. I’ve sketched plans, gotten books from the library, seen some thrilling ideas on the blogosphere, but my energy flags whenever I try to do battle with the entrenched hordes of dandelions. I haven’t totally abandoned the idea, though. Here, in a city known for its vibrant gardening community, it comes as no surprise that many thrive on the challenge of tough terrain.
Lavender basks in the heat of the hellstrip.
The City of Seattle encourages people to get creative on their strips (although they prefer that you get permission and advice about what sort of trees to plant, and access to city utilities, power lines, trash pickup, etc. all factor into the equation). You can even pave over your hellstrip if that’s your idea of a good time.
A sidewalk sunflower display adds perspective to a mini.
If I ever get up the energy and vision to follow through with my ideas, I’d be inclined to follow the example of some of my neighbors. Or the fine gardeners in Buffalo.
That’s right. Buffalo. New York. The place we usually associate with three feet of snow or more, kind of the way people associate Seattle with endless rain. Yet, although the rain here is more or less constant for nine months, there’s never a whole lot of it. Washington, D.C., gets more rain annually than Seattle. And judging by the photos of the “hellstrips” in Buffalo as posted by Art of Gardening, in spite of their brutal winters, the lucky gardeners in that northern city enjoy a lush and verdant summer, the likes of which Seattle rarely sees.
Just goes to show, I guess. One man’s hellstrip is another man’s horticultural bonanza. I’m rethinking Buffalo, that’s for sure.
What can explain the curious alchemy of sun, surf and sand?
Experienced separately, these ordinary ingredients seldom inspire flights of fantasy or romance. Yet put them all together and you have The Beach, a state of mind as much as a place, where humans gather in hopes of getting whatever it is they think they want. Oftentimes they get something rather different than what they’d planned, and yet, thanks to the mysterious power of The Beach, many people who arrive loaded with lists, expectations and coolers full of alcohol, depart some days later without any of those things but feeling strangely restored nonetheless.
Our little band of sixteen extended family members spent last week sharing a large house on the Gulf Coast of southern Florida, and, in the first day or so, I had doubts about whether or not the event would prove as relaxing as I’d hoped. For me a vacation represents a chance to ignore the grim and sobering facts that loom so large on the daily menu. At The Beach it’s as if there were a quiet hum of optimism beneath the whispering waves, and, for a limited time, it’s possible to imagine a world where people of all kinds get along in harmony, sharing the Earth’s bounty.
Of course the world is full of real problems and serious issues and not everyone is as adept at ignoring them as I. Thus, in the first day or two of our stay the conversations tended to linger on contentious topics such as politics, the economy, and the scheduling of various personal agendas. I elected to sit out these debates, filling in the idle hours with long walks on the beach, broken up by hours of staring mindlessly at the water. My seemingly endless capacity for staring into space comes in handy at The Beach.
Space: the final frontier
And eventually, even the most driven and focused among our little group ran out of gas and sauntered down to the sand, where the treatment is most effective. This is perfectly normal. We are all of us, in these hyper-active, over-connected, tech-happy times, too wired to shut ourselves off. Even on the beach these days the number of people staring at their iPhones and plugged into their iPods testifies to the addictive power of connectivity. But really? If E.M. Forster were writing now he wouldn’t be urging “Only connect!” but rather the opposite.
And I know it’s hard at first. You think you might miss something. Or somebody. Or, if you’re really lucky, somebody might miss you. But, more likely, the world will get along without you for a week, and even that special someone might survive, and possibly be even gladder to see the new serene you, all smoothed out and centered after a week of communing with The Beach.
Of course, if it rains during your beach week, things can get a little tense. There’s nothing quite like being stuck in a house with a large group of people of widely different ages and tastes with nothing but a television and a deck of cards to see you through. Yet, it’s trials like these that bring out the best in some. You know who you are. Fortunate the family that has a few members who can tell stories, invent amusing activities, and tell jokes without screwing up the punch lines. The important thing is not to give in to despair when the sun disappears for a day or two. You have to trust that it will come back. And keep the cooler stocked.
And after a couple of days you begin to realize that all those plans, those agendas, those serious conversation topics, well, really, they’re a lot like work. And that’s what we came here to get away from, right? It just takes a few days to get into The Beach rhythm: get up, eat, go the beach, drink, repeat.
For chronic worriers, planners, schemers, etc., the challenge of The Beach is to Not. This becomes easier in a place where the temperature at 7 a.m. is 85 degrees, with steam. There’s no percentage in getting worked up in that kind of situation, when mere talking can be too much effort. We find ourselves slipping into an easy reliance on the catch-phrases of the current generation, a mindless shorthand that can cover any conversational gap.
Example: “Do you want to go shopping for dinner?” “Not so much.”
“The kids want to rent kayaks and paddle over to the causeway.” “Just go with it.”
“Is this beer yours?” “It is what it is.”
“Can I get you anything?” “Sex on the beach.” (By this time the kids are out on the kayaks so it’s all good, another all purpose bit of empty verbiage.)
Ah yes. The Beach. We came here for a reason. We can’t remember what it was. But it’s all good.
Some readers don’t. Some prefer slender paperbacks, which tuck tidily into a suitcase, books which promise not to weigh the reader down with sorrow or reality, even when the plots involve serial murders or child molesters. In fiction, we can expect to enjoy the satisfactions of justice, or, failing that, at least the comfort of revenge.
I’m a fan of Dickens and Melville. I like sagas which go long, take detours, ramble through the wayside and offer disparate views of the action. But, in all my years of reading I’d never met a fantasy saga that got under my skin until I took a chance on George. That’s George R.R. Martin, for those of you who, like me, pay little attention to The New York Times bestseller lists. Had I been taking notice in the past decade I would have been aware of this colossus of invention.
But, wait, you may say, what about Tolkien? Yeah. About that. Back in the day (that would be the late 60s for those of you born too late to enjoy the peculiar blend of insanity and merriment that flourished under the reign of King Richard) the legions of Lord of the Ring worshippers were recruiting heavily, and I tried to like the books. But seriously, I could barely stomach The Hobbit, with its almost complete lack of female characters, its tiresome pacing, its creaky attempts at humor and its general tedium. For years I refused to even pick up the actual trilogy, until the looming film version inspired me to see what all the fuss was about. I dutifully plowed through all three books. And I repeat: almost complete lack of female characters, tiresome pacing, creaky humor, and OMG the tedium.
I realize there are those who hold LoTR as a sacred text, and I mean no disrespect to Tolkien, or the thousands of wannabes who have been trying to follow in his literary footsteps ever since. But really, I think literature grows through innovation that draws not only from the past, but from the gritty present and the vast and unknowable future. And, if that’s the criterion on which we judge the merits of fantasy epics, then the contest is over and George R.R. Martin is the clear winner.
I started A Game of Thrones after reading a funny piece in The New Yorker about Martin’s difficulties with his immense fan base, a vocal minority of whom were irritated because they thought he was taking too long writing the final book of the five-part epic fantasy A Song of Ice and Fire. Within the first hundred pages I was trapped. There was no way I could stop reading this thing.
Some critics have described the work as a blend of Lord of the Rings and The Sopranos, and I can see why they’d make that connection. The story contains some of the classic elements of fantasy – the sword fights, knights, castles, magic, etc., combined with the cold-blooded violence and misogynistic male bonding of the Mafioso genre. Fundamentally it’s about power struggles, and how they warp and wound everyone who gets in the way. But Martin’s epic offers much more in the way of characterization, plot development, and stunning action.
For me one of the most striking aspects is Martin’s credible use of children in central roles. Harking to the grim realities of our own medieval times, when children had to grow up quickly and education was only for the nobility, Martin tells much of the story through the eyes of the five Stark children, most of whom are under 10 years of age at the start of the saga. It’s a measure of his gifts as a writer that we soon forget about age entirely, the way children themselves do, living in the now, believing themselves capable of almost anything, and in many cases suffering terrible consequences.
Another strong point in Martin’s favor is that he has fitted out his saga with more than one strong female character, some of them noble and good, some of them not so much.
And then there’s Tyrion, the dwarf. Brave, cunning, far more decent and kind than he lets on, and supremely likable, for this character alone Martin deserves some sort of merit badge. He’s added to the literary lexicon of unforgettable characters. I don’t get HBO, but I’m already looking forward to seeing the new series based on the saga, especially after I learned that the estimable Peter Dinklage is playing Tyrion. And Jason Momoa is Khal Drogo. OMG.
I’m up to page 700 in Book Two, with miles to go before I’m through. Just how I like it. So that’s what I’m taking to the beach this summer.
Boats, trains, strolling gardens, salmon and seals, the Locks has it all.
For two days in a row last weekend the temperatures here in Seattle rose above 80. There was much rejoicing in the land.
While we were keenly aware of the suffering of our fellow Americans in the midst of their blistering heat wave, still, for those of us who have yet to put away our sweaters even though it’s almost August, the chance to bask was blissful.
Knowing it can’t last is part of what makes any pleasure sweeter, of course. So when Saturday dawned fair and mild we headed over to the Hiram Chittendon Locks in Ballard to spend a few sunny hours watching the boats come and go.
A commercial fishing boat passes through the Locks.
The Locks provide the sort of real-world diversion that never stales. Tourists rub elbows with locals who come to watch the continual floating parade: fishing boats, jumbo yachts, sleek wooden sailboats, kayaks and humble dinghies all line up to pass through the locks which control the intersection of the salty Shilshole Bay and the freshwater of the ship canal.
The operation is a marvel of heavy gates, swinging walkways, pumps and bells which runs remarkably smoothly considering the hundreds of boats which go through it each day. But it does take a little bit of time. And as we watch the water level rise and fall inside the locks we always find ourselves musing on the Hollywood miracle in Sleepless in Seattle.
Wave sculptures enliven the scene.
There’s a point in the film when Meg Ryan’s character, Annie, is in Seattle, trying to work up the nerve to introduce herself to Tom Hanks’s character, Sam, and she supposedly follows him, in her car, when he and his son leave their houseboat on Lake Union in a small motorboat and go to Alki. Presumably Meg was able to intuit where Tom was headed. There’s no way she could have followed him out of Ballard and around Magnolia to get to Alki by car. Luckily, Hollywood doesn’t have to concern itself with the logistics of mere mortals.
Anyway. Quibbling about the inconsistencies in Sleepless in Seattle is just another way to pass the time on the sunny green hills which overlook the Locks. Reality is not the issue here. We come to get away from it all at The Locks. At least while summer lasts.
One of the reasons we moved out of our last house in Virginia was that, although it was gorgeous, beautifully sited, and roomy as all get out, it was just too roomy for us once our children grew up and left. But although our children had left home, a lot of their stuff remained, and when we were packing to move across country I kept having to make decisions about the boxes of Lego, Breyer horses, soccer trophies, old report cards, baby clothes, bureaus, fencing gear, fabric, jigsaw puzzles, board games, and tons of books. All of this stuff, to take or not to take. That was the question.
It should be easy to throw old stuff away, but sometimes stuff is not just stuff. It’s stuff with a past, and when you toss it, a little bit of your past goes with it. Sometimes that’s a good thing. But sometimes, you wonder. I mean, consider stuffed animals. Every parent buys these for their kids at some point. And other people give them to your kids. Before long you have closets full of the things – and you can’t get rid of them. In these germaphobic days almost nobody wants a used stuffed animal. Yet to toss these once-beloved toys in the trash seems wrong in so many ways.
However, once the moving process picks up speed, you run out of time to linger over sentimental attachments. You just have to throw stuff out or stuff stuff in boxes and hope you can remember where the important stuff is once you get to your destination.
Stuff. It’s everywhere. It’s everything. But some stuff is more important than other stuff.
Recently, we’ve been trying to clear space in our small house and I’ve been going through some of those hastily filled boxes which made the trip west with us. I still have trouble letting go of old letters, photos and some books. But as I’ve been learning to let go of more stuff, I’ve become interested in the fate of all stuff, and the mystery of how we came to acquire so much. When my husband and I started out together we could fit everything we owned in a Dodge van, with room for our dog too.
In 1807 the poet William Wordsworth wrote “Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers,” describing the trap of materialistic consumerism long before the word consumer was commonplace. The getting and purging of stuff has become such a fundamental activity in this country that few people remember how they spent their time and money before there were credit cards and online shopping 24/7.
Annie Leonard hopes to change that. Leonard launched The Story of Stuff Project (http://www.storyofstuff.com) in 2009 to help educate people on the true costs and consequences of the ravenous consumer cycle in which the modern world is trapped. In her 20-minute video overview Leonard gives a lucid analysis of the complex problems which arise from the current system, and she also offers some hope for solutions.
It’s not too late. There’s stuff we need, and stuff we can live without. The Earth is not a huge planet, but if we can get back to concentrating on the right stuff, it could still be roomy enough for all of us to share the good stuff.
When the sun shines in Seattle, the cruise ships come out to play. Tourists flood the market at Pike’s Place, get their pictures taken with the pig, watch the fish fly, buy trinkets. Some determined visitors even venture beyond downtown, riding the Duck to see Lake Union, the Space Needle, and beyond. But for those who have to hurry back to the ship, there’s never enough time to take in all of Seattle’s quirky charms.
Small wonder then that travelers who arrive from far away sometimes suffer from tourist fatigue, the inevitable result of trying to cram in too much tourism in too short a time. These are the sort of folks who need a vacation after their vacation. I sympathize. I think there’s a kind of axiom that applies to this syndrome – the farther you have to go to reach your destination, the more likely you are to feel driven to grab all the gusto available.
You see a lot of this in Paris, a must-see destination for many tourists, but also the site of a lot of vacation meltdowns brought on by the super-inflated hopes of an over-the-top romantic experience crashing into the crowded, confusing, over-priced reality of a town which doesn’t exactly exude hospitality.
Yet we keep on traveling. We are a restless species. And, perhaps we’re not the only ones.
Dark storm clouds were getting their game face on, tossing lightning back and forth as I walked across Key Bridge, the one named for Francis Scott Key, who gave us “The Star Spangled Banner,” the world’s worst national anthem, when I saw a driver execute a sudden, and I would guess, highly illegal u-turn in the middle of the bridge.
The traffic around him braked and swerved to avoid him as he whipped a u-ee and took off back to Georgetown. Perhaps he’d forgotten his wallet. Or suddenly realized that the only girl he ever loved was back there, soon to be lost to him forever (cue soundtrack). Or . . . maybe he just figured, “What the hell, why shouldn’t I?”
Well, setting aside issues of public safety, general adult responsibility and civil order, it could be argued that there was no actual sign forbidding the maneuver. And it could be further argued that creative driving is as much an inherent right in this country as the right to pursue pursue happiness – in whatever insane manner one chooses.
In truth, in this country, the right to be reckless, ridiculous, and a little bit nuts is one of our more cherished notions. Although our nation is founded on a firm platform of law, we began as revolutionaries, and the call of the wild card remains potent in our deck. We are a nation of innovators, risk takers, rule breakers. It runs in our genes to admire outlaws and thieves, as long as they accomplish their feats with flair and without hurting the innocent.
Perhaps we’ve all watched too many movies. And maybe there’s nothing wrong with that, until some fool tries to drive as if he were in a Hollywood chase scene, forcing the rest of us to be his expendable extras.
Ah well. It’s the Fourth of July. Time to celebrate our freedoms, which apparently, in the minds of some, includes the right to act like idiots.
So here’s to you, USA. Long may you wave, strike up the bands, set off fireworks, play ball, etc., etc.
