Shameless plug for Divorce Bard's Blog

A friend of mine, who must remain nameless, has started a blog where he writes one rhymed poem a day. His self-inflicted rules: must be iambic, must be true rhyme.  Like Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Eat, Pray Love, he is writing through the pain of his life post-divorce. Add to that he is also a father with a very touchy ex... He is becoming a more accomplished writer from the daily practice. Today's offering is particularly fine:
Genesis I:1-3. Tuesday July 27, 2010

Now Listen.  The Beginning knew no dark,
No light, and so no difference in the two.
No notion of contrasting things, no stark,
No sharply.  Impulse, verbs, to make, to do,

Could not exist.  There was no mind to know them,
The void held none, where absence could not be.
Then somehow a potential formed, to show them
To one potential Word, this only: See.

And then, a flickering.  A just potential
Of particles, where none had been before,
And time would soon begin, in exponential
Increase of things that may.  And this Word: More.

One flickering had sparked Imagination.
And More begat Desire.  And Coalesce.
Potential matter took on gravitation,
And space that would be, started to compress,

Collapsing on itself, to gather force.
Potential metamorphosed into Power,
Collecting in a single point -- the source
Of time itself.  And soon, a day, an hour,

Would come to be.  But first, Desire must peak.
That flick'ring.  Now with all the gathered matter.
Desire, now infinite, began to speak:
Let There Be Light.  And Space began to scatter.

And Time began to be.  Creation sang.
Some fourteen billion years before us.

Bang.

Chinese poetry

I am reading from one of my thick anthologies of  world poetry and flitting online as well. I do love the succinctness of the great classical Chinese poets. But...what is not coming through? I know so little of daily life a thousand or so years ago. And then, when something does touch me, I am sitting near the poet and time is the question not the barrier...


The Ching-Ting Mountain
by: Li Bai (701-762)
translated by Shigeyoshi Obata

Flocks of birds have flown high and away;
A solitary drift of cloud, too, has gone, wandering on.
And I sit alone with the Ching-ting Peak, towering beyond.
We never grow tired of each other, the mountain and I.

Bumble & bumble and hair tumbles...

My friend Flash has treated me to a new concept of self through a haircut at the trendy, delightful, multi-floor loft/salon of Bumble & bumble on far west 13th street in Manhattan. Before meeting Andrew, Flash and I drank gratis fizzy bottled water while overlooking the Hudson River and most of Manhattan's skyline in their airy boutique/cafe. I had grown out my hair and it was a fuzzy topiary. Having had no time to get home and change into my (one) chic casual outfit, I arrived in salt stained tee shirt and jeans, straight from the beach. I also had my recent self inflicted dye job, which I'd left on a tad too long, turning my brown with gray to black. This I regretted, but c'est la vie.

Pre-haircut portrait by Flash Rosenberg

Andrew's Bumble & bumble haircut, photo by Flash Rosenberg.

"Andrew, Claudia is a cool, mischievous, fun artist--poet, please give her a haircut to match. Right now she has a Long Island matron helmet do, this must change." Flash placed some images she had pulled from the web on the counter. Andrew glanced and nodded. Short, asymmetric, wispy bangs, but with some loft to the top in a spiky way.

"Yes, that's what I had in mind as soon as I saw her!" he said to Flash. His own short curly hair gave me confidence, it was natural, appealing. Not to mention Flash's own fantastic look: dramatic, feminine, quirky and in harmony with her features.

He cut my damp curls with a razor and half moons of black fell to the polished concrete floor. My head felt lighter and lighter, a balloon on a string.

Then I put on my glasses saw it was very short and different than any cut I've ever had. Andrew showed me how to tousle it with their magic cream and pull up artful bedroom hair tufts. I now had an Annette Benning style short do. And the hair fit my funky French glasses. Now all I need to do is find some fun, off-kilter, artsy used clothing! I think I will go with daughters to the nearby thrift stores, for the same price as shopping at Target, I can find things that feel in harmony with me, not just with my budget.

Next we celebrated with a half carafe of wine and a plate of sardines at nearby Pastis (self-described as a French bistro located in Manhattan's meatpacking district). We sat outdoors in the shade of the building and watched most of trendy young New York wobble by on the cobblestones. Best people watching spot in the city!

How wonderful. Here's to kind and kindred spirits, here's to my friend Flash. With love and thanks for this new do. And the thing to do with generosity is...pass it on.

Ocean Grove in summer

My Aunt Sonya has invited us out for a couple of days to her lovely home on the Jersey Shore. The entire town of Ocean Grove has a quaintness code that is enforced seriously. It is a shock of Victorianna. The wooden houses stand cheek to cheek, displaying their lacy fretwork and fancy porch rails, chintz curtains like drooping eyelids, and exteriors tarted up in the 15 approved colors. I could also draw them as a flock of creaking wedding cakes admiring their reflections in a briny mirror.

Did you know that "chintz" is a word adapted from Hindi meaning “spotted”? Calico cloth was stained or painted in India sold to Europeans, starting in 1600s, and became the general name of floral patterned fabric. The word chintz seems to call forth the word cosy and that immediately suggests this town would make a great background for a whodunit mystery.

As we walked in the almost warm surf, I noticed how white everyone is. The town's summer population is swelled by visiting church folk who fill the giant tabernacle and eat lots of ice cream. They are friendly and say hello as we stroll past their tent cabins. There is a 10 year waiting list to rent one of these tents. They are passed down through families... I feel like an anthropologist in a unique cultural niche. There are also locals who have the look of year round hardscrabble lives. Older men and woman with tans, tats--their bodies and smiles noticeably unsymmetrical, and attitudes that suggest, however dry the town is, they are not.

So what am I to the Methodists or locals here? How do they see us? With no doubt we look like Methodists (white, middle aged, wearing fresh tee shirts and displaying no body art) but if one were to listen, we talk a load of writer's nonsense peppered with pungent unchurchy phrases. Of course, there is the third population in the town, people like my aunt. Comfortably funded types who buy or rent homes here, some of them Jewish, others gay, all artsy, smart, and in love with decor... and then there are the shopkeepers, craftspeople, and people that fix and restore wood and pipes.

If I were giving a writing prompt I'd ask for a description of a herring seagull by each of the four groups: tent camp Methodist child, one armed pony tailed man who does small jobs, the elderly homeowner who is determined to recreate her house into a prize worthy magazine feature, and the waitress on break from a lunch spot that uses bad puns to name its specials.

I noticed the young gulls with tan and gray spots eyeing me intelligently from small dunes. They molt into birds with white heads, gray wings, and a bright red spot on their lower bill. Some of the young ones were exactly in between, as if I had merged two photos. All of them waddle on sand and hover in the air. Where, exactly, is the poetry in that? I guess as a tourist, the poet in me has gone on vacation.

Unexpected Waterfalls

Today I met a new friend, Valeria,  in a cafe I've never been to before, Society Coffee Lounge at 2104 Frederick Douglass Blvd. at 114th St. We had a lovely talk about writing and how to reshape pieces of life into fiction. We enjoyed the coffee, crab cakes, grits, and each others company. She has had a fascinating life growing up in Russia!

As I walked back, I decided to try a new route on 113th through Morningside Park. The view was lovely, cathedral and trees forming a scrim behind Harlem's rooftops. Now as odd as this sounds, I have never ever walked this particular path before. Not in all the years I've lived in this neighborhood. I've walked north along the top of the hill on the Columbia University side (looking down into the valley of the park), walked the south side on my way to the much larger Central Park, but simply never entered it going west at 113th street. Following a man leading two large dogs onto a green lawn near a baseball field, I discovered a tall (for a city) waterfall rippling into a pond near a flight of stone steps. I walked up 18 flights of stairs through dappled leaf and earth scented shade. Soon there was no view behind or above me, just green and green and I felt like I'd reached the heart of summer. I was magically alone in this huge city. Butterflies bobbed, a few wildflowers shook their heads, and even the occasional dented cola can seemed like a glint of treasure.

I thought about friendships new and old. Today is my friend Deborah Atherton's birthday. The days feel lighter with friends, the heart fuller. Happy birthday Deborah. And to Valeria too, who had a birthday last month before we had gotten to know each other. Known paths and new ones, all welcome.

The Monkey King visits our apartment

Since Jim and I will be visiting China in the somewhat near future, I decided a spot of education would be advisable. Since I have mastered "good day" and "thank you," or at least say them in a way that suggests I am trying, I decided to tackle culture next.  Off to the library!  I am now reading a condensed version, told for children, of The Monkey King. What a great series of trickster tales! Here is where Curious George is just a weak imitation. King Kong a humorless expansion. And George W. Bush an unwitting example. Naturally, I am aware that I have a bit more to learn about China's uber-mega-vast history and culture, but there is no better place to start than where a child starts.

Next, poetry... suggestions wanted for which poets to read in translation!

Marilyn Stimac, producer and wife of Tony Stimac, told me the spouses, of people on work visa's in China, need to make a life for themselves while they are there. You can't be a tourist forever. Some of them play cards, others visit for afternoon teas--very 1950s diplomatic wife stuff--but there is much more than that if you look for it. Even though you can't work there, join groups with interests that fit well with yours. And keep meeting new people, the visas run out...everyone moves on. Except, of course, for the 1.3 billion Chinese whom I look forward to meeting as well.

Poets House reading

I am lucky to have poet friends who write delightfully well. Maybe, and I admit this is a prejudice, I cannot be a supportive fan of dreck. For instance, when Jim and I met for a first date we both brought examples of our writing, no point in pursing a kiss if the prose was a miss. Or in our cases, poetry and lyrics...

Last night I attended one of the readings held in honor of the annual show of poetry books published in the previous year and, er, donated to the library at Poets House. Included in the line-up of readers was my friend Estha Weiner, who is finally having multiple books and chapbooks published after too long a wait. She is a delight as a teacher, writer and reader (her other life was as an actress). Baron Wormser said of her book, Transfiguration Begins at Home, "a blend of Beckett and Dorothy Parker." Most true. You can buy it here.

I looked around the somewhat too small room for readings and enjoyed the array of 2009 books on the shelves. Happily several of my cover designs were presented face out. I designed many of the Marsh Hawk Press books as well as the cover for Gardner McFall's Russian Tortoise. Missing was Benu Press because they are new and most likely just didn't know about contributing to this annual show. I will make sure next year's poetry books are submitted.

Spoke with Martin Mitchell, Sarah White, Rachel Hadas (told her I'd just finished my first kid's novel!), Jeanne Marie Beaumont, and other friends of poetry and Estha at the reception. 

The new lower Manhattan space for Poets House is lovely, despite the too smallness of the performance room on the ground floor. I adore the long reading gallery upstairs with its ample chairs, tables, and couches, and above all the astounding glass wall views of the harbor with light that bounces off the Hudson River and the ribbon of comforting green public space that now frames so much of this island. But...change is hard. I miss the cosy lived-in feel of the SoHo loft. Maybe I miss the location, it was easier to drop in after work, free lectures (at Noble Desktop), Alimentum readings at the Housing Works cafe, and museums such as MoCCA which were so close by...

But in time, the new becomes lived in, gains a personality that comes from being occupied by the passions of it's tenants and tenents.

A Happy Birthday to Elof Carlson

We should all wish my father a very happy birthday. Since he measures his time in chapters, let us wish him a shelf/hard drive full of books before his next birthday. Which he will write without breaking a sweat. You think I exaggerate? His prodigious talent and copious productivity with sentences and ideas makes Pepys look like a mealy mouthed jotter and Dickens only a half-hearted wordsmith. No, really. He writes a chapter a day, with footnotes, and a book a month. Half the books are hard science history, the other half delve into the messy intersection of society, ethics, and science and then just because he can, he writes the occasional novel, libretto, poem, limerick, or play. Oh, I forgot the reviews and essays, blog, and articles. Ah, also his lengthy daily journaling. Apparently he sleeps a hearty 3-4 hours a night and pauses to eat, read, write letters, watch the news, nod happily at his wife, and read this blog.

This lucky man has a press that adores him and publishes nearly a book a year. And this third career came after two most successful careers: first as a research scientist (genetics, drosophila) and then as an award-winning teacher at universities both on land and sea. He also attends conferences and gives talks.

I will admit that his productivity can be a bit daunting...I am sure my siblings would agree. Here we struggle to complete a project that can take us months or years and Dad will be nicely encouraging and then ruin it by saying "oh well, they didn't want that last book I wrote on agent orange, that's sad...but...I'll just write another book this month." Are you secretly thinking, how good could this spewing font of words be? A veritable Vesuvius of vapid patter?  Can a man that makes the spouting oil leak look like a thin drizzle of spit actually write well? Sadly, yes, he gets good reviews and has been nominated for things like the pulitzer...

So happy birthday Dr. Elof Axel Carlson, Ph.D. as the man who ought to have his photo in the dictionary next to both productivity and professor, absent-minded! To all the books of you! And also, for being my dad, with all my love.

(And for all the former students...say hi to him on facebook!)

When the comics go to the museum

Last night Caitlin and I joined Flash Rosenberg at an opening of the NeoIntegrity show at MoCCA (Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art) at 594 Broadway. From Hogarth to video, it filled every wall, column, and baseboard and left nary an inch between each item. While this made the show feel somewhat like walking into a manic double page spread of a superhero smack down, for this particular viewer it lead to dizziness and the occasional padded chair helped me recover.

I loved seeing original art, complete with pencil ghost lines and the crunch of pen over paper for Maurice Sendak and Edward Koren, "Seuss" drawings in pencil, Roz Chast water coloring photocopies of the original drawings (as Flash does), Allison Bechdel's ink line, and so so much more... Also a fun show of R. Sikoryak's process for adapting classics into comics.

I met lovely staff, curators, a fascinating woman who studies graphic novels and medieval manuscripts, and a man who paints covers for The New Yorker.

I do hope the "museum" gets to grow from a suite to a building with abundant galleries. Imagine the rooms devoted to Batman, Will Eisner, Posy Simmonds, William Blake, Charles Addams, Disney, 8-page "bibles"(of which I could contribute a few of my uncle's collection), Jules Feiffer, our own Flash Rosenberg... but please with more space, a bit more room around each piece of art.

Great show, go!

(Inspires me to think of how I'm going to create my graphic novel...hmmm...)

A very busy day

While it was delightful to visit the worlds of musical theatre, I came home to find a great many jobs needed to be finished or started.

I finished a new teaser chapter (to lead into the next book) for the novel for the toy manufacturer. Plus a synopsis. This means I am done! There will hopefully only be small corrections. Off it goes...

I finished designing a book for Norman Finkelstein, The Ghost Factory. It is a satisfying read, full of the machines people devise both with hands and heads.

I made much needed updates to Jeanne Marie Beaumont's website. She has a new book coming out, The Burning of the Three Fires, and I highly recommend reading ANYTHING she writes. Seriously, she is one of the most brilliant poets I know.

I billed two jobs.

I looked over the manuscript for my next poetry book and concluded it is not ready for print, it needs a LOT of work and must be stewed accordingly in my brain. So I let my editor know it won't be part of next year's line up...

I listened to a CD Jeffrey Stock gave to me and Jim of his work (musical director for Jim's staged reading) and I smiled, sighed, and tapped my feet and wrote to tell him he is an absolutely wonderful composer, really really good, but that I am an idiot when it comes to opera and could not comment on those pieces. (I keep seeing Bugs Bunny singing, I know, I know, I'm a cretin. Ignorant, that's it, I'm iggggggorant.) One of these days I plan to learn to speak opera.

I've been invited to write something for my favorite magazine.

I need to write explanatory notes (in the back of an anthology) about a poem of mine.

All my other clients had left small notes indicating some attention on my part, for their projects, would be much appreciated. A few applied spurs. I concur. Tomorrow I will finish designing another book for Benu Press.

I ate dinner with my family and enjoyed each of their flavors including the food Jim made. I hugged Natalie for a long good hug. I thought about the lovely long walk and Guggenheim museum trip with Caitlin yesterday and the work of two artists (Julie Mehretu and Sarah Anne Johnson's Tree Planting) I loved who I had never seen before. Then we watched part of The Music Man on an old VCR with drifting attention... And now...I'll...yawn...sleep...

The last chair folded and the magic leaves the stage

Unlike Jim, I didn't suffer preshow nerves...in Jim it manifested as a sudden inability to figure out where he was. His mind was so full of lyrics and scene changes that when he transferred trains, in Times Square, he was momentarily lost despite this being a route he ordinarily follows unthinkingly. He spun like a human top. I walked by his side and he looked around for me...we could call this Absent-minded Situational Syndrome (A.S.S.) but my preshow (poetry reading) nerves involve urgent needs to pee even when I don't need to go, so let's not name mine.

Once there, I placed the playbills on the seats, and listened to the final rehearsals. All too soon the doors opened and the audience of family and friends took their seats.

As I watched all the actors, who gave so generously of their time and talents, I was reminded of why people do live theatre. It is exciting to develop something new and work as a team. When I was a girl I used to make up plays and games with neighborhood kids, we had fun, and every one of our efforts ended in us laughing in a huge pile on my lawn or bedroom carpet. Play is the right word for all of it.

The staged reading was rough, with so little rehearsal, but the flavor of the play came through. People laughed and applauded, asked good questions at the end, and the script's wants and excesses were made clearer to the creative team. We folded up the folding chairs and stacked the plastic ones and the theatre cleared of actors and audience.

Then some of us joined my daughters and ate Indian food on East 6th Street. I got to know Kemin's mother and sister and Jim got to talk to Jeffrey and I met a film maker friend of Kemin's that has a documentary on fashion models coming out in the Fall. Jeffrey described learning how to carve wooden masks in Bali, using hands and feet.

What a week it has been. I loved it.

Who knew a lyricist could be called upon to fix a music stand with gaffer's tape?

Creative team post reading.

Kemin's sister, Jim, Kemin, Jeffrey, Kemin's mom.

How is a rehearsal like a shaggy dog story?

Yesterday, the last day of rehearsals of The Joker's Game, was a classic "stumble through" with frequent stops for cuts, changes, and new cues. It reminded me of a shaggy dog story, the actors being the narrative, and the creative crew frequently stopping them for edits, comments, and deletions; with the goal of turning it into something faster and sharper. Ba-da-bing!

Fun was watching most of the cast hear the "Hot Hot Girls" numbers for the first time, they, like me, enjoyed it with nods and grins. Big number songs sent good little chills up my spine. The ballads are also sounding great... I really appreciate how much work it is to learn a musical in 4 days! The staged reading will only be an approximation of what the final show will be like, but with such professionals involved, they sound like they have worked together for far longer. The actors ask smart questions too.

Tony had only three hours to get through the whole script. He knew that the concerns of the music people and the word people all had to take second place to the time constraints and the reality that the rehearsals must end in a few hours. Equity rules. This is what a director does, sees the big picture. "Let this or that go," he would say, "we haven't time, let's do it more simply for the reading..." And then he would suggest ways the actors could make their moments more powerful.

I finished the playbill and sketched the creative crew (got autographs) and photographed the non-equity folks. I was exhausted when I got home. All that creative energy is both addicting and tiring. In a good way.

Best of all, both daughters are home and will be able to come to the reading.

Program notes

At rehearsal yesterday I didn't get a chance to sketch...I created the program for the staged reading. But instead of Jeffrey Stock's calm back (music director) I had bouncy Mark Allen (composer) leading the "Hot Hot Girls" in their series of show-stopping, toe-tapping numbers. Mark would play, then leap up, jump back, watch them, chime in with a few notes on the piano to maintain key and sometimes our eyes would meet and he could see that I couldn't stop grinning, just as he was.

When the show goes to Beijing, I am sure this hip-hop quartet will be played by a well-matched young cute girl band Chinese dancer/singers, but for this staged reading there is an utterly delicious mix of women of all colors. Some of the actors had never imagined they would be singing hip-hop style songs for a Broadway style show. They're really getting into it! Hooray! When Jim and Tony came to listen they were happy. Jim has that cowboy habit of minimal facial expression but even he looked  gobsmacked.

I have never designed a playbill before. Jim loaned me an Into the Woods (older) playbill and I still had my Shakespeare in the Park Merchant of Venice (Pachino! Yes he was great!!) in my purse. I couldn't identify the blocky thick-thin font used for the heads but it was close to Poster Bodoni, so I used that. I eyeballed the thick and thin line that goes on top of heads and figured that Times Roman for the text would be just fine. I added a hint of playing cards to the title page... And, la voila, it was done. I know  volunteering to do something I am good at is always better than trying to help where I am helpless. The director's wife, Marilyn Stimac (also a producer) gave me the copy and I used Jim's script to fill in the scene and musical number list. Marilyn said it would have taken her far far longer to do it. But of course, I'm a book designer using professional layout programs (inDesign) so yes, goes faster than  adding endless spaces and paragraph returns to place things in a simpler text program. Here is the unproofed title page...

Why I am the audience and the Director is both

Yesterday at rehearsal I sat and wrote a synopsis of a book I have written about a toy. This is my top secret hush hush but very exciting job I'm doing for a toy manufacturer... the rehearsal became a lovely hum of voices and pianos in two rooms as I was writing.

When I was finished, I put away my notepad and took out my watercolors. I painted and sketched as I listened and watched the actors master the music and expression in their songs as the music director pointed out places to adjust their rhythms.

I was so delighted. Loved the way the two singers acted the lyrics in a song about love of brand merchandise. Perfect, I thought, Jim's words much better sung than read on a flat page.

Then Tony Stimac, the director, came in. He is a tall, energetic silver haired man with sharp blue eyes. He listened. Then he urged the actors to throw themselves into the lust and get breathless with desire for the goods they are coveting. Slow down here, close your eyes, give it more emphasis here, then let it soar orgasmically... think of the scene in When Harry Met Sally... when the performers sang it again, the song was much better. Funnier, stronger, and the meaning crisp. I understood that Jim's words were like a blueprint and held more than I'd realized. This is directing.

Jeffrey Stock, music director and (not painted ) two of the leads Lannyl Stephens (looking on) and Matthew Schatz. Tomorrow I may go to the other rehearsal room and paint the composer at work with the "Hot Hot Girls" and their hip-hop songs.

The Life

I have the best seat in the house: in the corner, half hidden by the piano, a simple metal folding chair on which I sit and smile for about 3 hours straight. "Huh?" you ask.

I'm observing the rehearsals for a staged reading of Jim's new musical, The Joker's Game. Unlike Jim, I didn't have to find the space and the actors for the reading, photocopy the scripts and score, and deliver (bottled water too) in less than a week. Not to mention write the lyrics and co write the plot in less than 2 months. I got to relax and enjoy the energy of professionals coming together to help the authors (Jim Racheff, Tony Stimac and Kemin Zhang), director (Tony Stimac), musical director (Jeffrey Stock) and composer (Mark Allen) understand what they have created when it comes alive.

Up until today the four authors had worked via Skype and had never all been in the same room!

Jim had created a 40 pound box filled with collated scripts, scores, pencils, markers and clips. On this 100 degree day he was planning to lug the box from home to subway to the rehearsal studio at 440 Studios (near the Cooper Union) but I convinced him to take a cab. There is only so much lifting a playwright of nearly venerable years should do on a hot hot day.

While they read through the script, I did freelance work on my laptop. But then, at the end, I did a watercolor sketch of the music director working with the singers. It is amazing how quickly musical actors figure out how to sing together.

This play has been translated into Chinese (Mandarin) and will be performed in Beijing. Then it may get an American production. China is in the beginning of developing their own musical theater tradition. This collaboration between Broadway and Beijing is just the start.

I love being in a room full of creative people. My only responsibility is to enjoy myself. Especially with an air-conditioned seat.

Music Director Jeffrey Stock working at rehearsal of staged reading of The Joker's Game.

The Writers: Kemin Zhang, Tony Stimic, Mark Allen, Jim Racheff, photo & sketch by Claudia Carlson

Self-promotion for the business-impaired

The life of a poet and sketcher needs funding. Luckily I can do this by designing and mapping, cartooning and writing for hire.

But I am not, perhaps, my own best press agent. My current site is now looking fttttttpt. I need to redesign and update claudiagraphics.com Does having a site that lists all the things I do for pay make the message confused or murky? Many debates exist, wear all your hats proudly vs only one hat! Then I hit on a solution, do both.

I just created a very simple site to promote one of the things I do, cartography. I picked blogger because I am used to it. When I first showed it to my friend Joe Hayes (playwright and webdesigner) he told me "don't be so modest, put a big map right on the home page, shout!" So here it is, let me know what you think:  claudiamaps.blogspot.com If this gets me work, I will create one for book design and another for illustration. Then I will redo my multi-hat parade.