Tag: DC

Ship of Cools

Shifting shades of color transform the Kennedy Center to a house of cool.

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.

Ship of Shirts

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.

The Earth Remembers

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.

The newest totem poles in D.C.

Wanna Bet?

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

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

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”

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.”

Suit Up

Here Come Santa Clauses

Washington, D.C., is known around the world as a center of power. Traditionally, men in suits are the ones wielding that power.

Suits change, but do they change the men inside?

I wonder.

If, as they say, clothes make the man, shouldn’t it follow that if all men wore Santa suits they would find themselves becoming kinder, jollier, more generous old souls?

Perhaps, given the intractable nature of politics as usual in our fair city, it might be worth giving it a shot. We could start by insisting that all our elected representatives don red fuzzy suits for the month of December (white whiskers optional) and see where it takes us.

Would the curmudgeonly types suddenly feel the force of compassion for those less fortunate? Would the bickering and back-biting give way to cheery goodwill?

Yeah, I know. Not in this lifetime.

But maybe someday there will come a time when men in red outnumber the Scrooges and Grinches.

And that would suit me just fine.

Timeless

I have never been an autograph seeker. The whole notion of chasing after famous people and begging for scribbles has always seemed just another inane 20th century fad to me.

However, when I heard the news that Dave Brubeck had died at age 91, the first thing I thought of was the autographed program I still had in my desk from the 1964 concert  series Brubeck played with his quartet at the Carter Barron Amphitheatre in Rock Creek Park.

He was the opening act for Louis Armstrong. That’s how cool the Carter Barron was back then.

I was a callow teen. I knew very little about jazz, but my brother Jeff was enthusiastic about all kinds of music, and he had an extra ticket. He invited me to come along. I remember the summer night was beautiful, the air soft and warm, the sky lit with stars. And the music blew my mind.

At that point in his career, Armstrong was so beloved by the American public that he had only to walk on the stage with his trumpet and his ubiquitous handkerchief to be enveloped in applause. And he was great, of course. But the songs he played were familiar to me, from having heard classic swing and popular dance music all during my childhood.

But when Brubeck and his quartet played, it was like nothing else. This was the same foursome who had recorded the groundbreaking album “Time Out” in 1959: Dave Brubeck on piano, Paul Desmond on alto sax, Gene Wright on bass and Joe Morello on drums. The brilliance of their playing seemed impossibly perfect and yet spontaneous.

Afterward, I would have been content to float home in a state of euphoria. But enough is rarely enough for my older brother, never a shy one. When Brubeck finished his set Jeff said, “Come on.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about, but a few minutes later we were standing at the edge of the stage, getting our programs autographed by the very gracious players. And before we left, Louis Armstrong cheerfully added his autograph to the collection.

The access we had that night seemed totally natural at the time. I doubt it could happen so easily in these security-conscious times. Crowds have gotten so big, concerts so grandiose and over-produced. The lights, cameras and fireworks create a barrier of technology to keep fans at distance. That night at the Carter Barron had the intimacy of a small club.

Today, in memory of Brubeck and his magical quartet I listened again to “Take Five,” their landmark hit. Even now, after hearing it hundreds of times, it gives me chills. It still has an almost miraculous sense of tension and possibility. Paul Desmond’s playing is sublime – sophistication and cool made audible. And Joe Morello was a revelation. He was the first drummer I ever heard who played the drums not simply to bang out the time, but as an instrument with a voice of its own, dancing with the bass line.

The year 1964 was full of dramatic change in the world. When you listen to Brubeck’s music, you can hear it coming.

Joe Morello signed my program too. On the back.

Looking Up

Where there's light, there's hope.

Ahhh. Savor the pause button.

Now that the election season with its attendant antagonism and anxiety has finally blown past, maybe we can get back to work on the real problems in an atmosphere of quiet cooperation.

In a way, this started almost before the marathon voting began, when super storm Sandy delivered its walloping reality check. Natural disasters, and unnatural ones as well, shake us out of our complacency and remind us of our common vulnerability. We are none of us immune to disasters. And in the face of calamity we turn to those with cool heads and warm hearts for help.

In the summer of 2011, when the talking heads in Washington, D.C., were absorbed in business and bickering as usual, an unusually strong and widespread earthquake measuring 5.8 shook the suits out of their insular hive and into the open air of the common people. No one was seriously injured, but the event cast a long shadow in the city due to its lingering effect on landmarks such as the Washington Monument and the National Cathedral.

The Washington Monument remains closed indefinitely, awaiting repairs. The National Cathedral has remained open, even as repairs are ongoing.

At our best, that’s the way we roll in this country. We get knocked down, but we get up and keep going, looking for that higher ground.

High above the pews in the Cathedral a veil of black netting now shields visitors from any bits of debris which may yet fall. The netting could be seen as a barrier, diminishing the impact of the building’s magnificent windows. But when the light shines through those windows now, at certain times of day it gets caught in the netting, producing a magical transitory illusion, something like the magic of faith itself.

It will take time to heal the discord in our mighty nation. There’s no magic wand or super pac power that can unite our divisive reds and blues and make them like it. But maybe it’s worth a try. Sometimes we just forget to look up.

Taking Stock

Rock Creek in The Calm Before the Storm

The day after the super storm known as Sandy, we woke to find our electricity still on, our trees still standing, our flood levels not catastrophic.

All we had, in addition to the relief of feeling spared the worst of this extraordinary storm system’s brute force, was the ache of sympathy for those who weren’t so lucky.

The fickleness of weather is a gambler’s dream. People who build on sandy shores play a game whose odds are not in their favor, but as long as the sun shines and the breezes are soft and refreshing, beach dwellers enjoy the envy of many inlanders.

Not feeling much envy this week.

The after-effects of this nightmarish weather event will still be felt next summer, when the suntan lotion and beach umbrellas go back on the repaired beaches. The people who have suffered most from this storm will never forget it.

But for the rest of us, those of us lucky enough not to have had trees fall on our houses or cars or worse, lucky enough not have had the water rising inside our homes, the memory of even a storm such as Sandy will inevitably fade.

It’s human nature. It’s tough to dwell on frightening scenarios and carry on with the daily routines of life. Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, we all gotta work and play until we die. Dwelling on misery doesn’t make it any less likely to happen again. So we do our best to manage the fear. We keep it handy, right there on the shelf with the batteries and candles and extra rolls of toilet paper.

Here’s hoping we won’t need to restock any time soon.