Still waiting for Santa?… I hear you ask, with a bit of eye-rolling in the background.
Well, yes you do, if you’re a Greek kid. For in my country of birth, Santa – or Saint Basil (Agios Vassilios – ‘Αγιος Βασίλειος) to be precise – comes all the way from Caesarea in Asia Minor to bring gifts to the children on December 31st. That’s because the Greek Orthodox Church honours the memory of the kind Saint who was always on the side of the needy aiding the poor, on January 1st. And every Greek family serves vasilopita, a round brioche-like cake with a coin inside. The cake is then swirled around before cutting it in equal pieces for everyone present, not forgetting those living in the family’s memories, the church and, of course, Saint Basil.
Tradition has it that who finds the coin is blessed with good luck the whole year round.
You see my friends, all good things to those who wait…
And the fact that the Doctor landed in New York and joined forces with a brand new superhero in his effort to save Manhattan, made the story all the more poignant.
Also, ”The Return of Doctor Mysterio” marked the return of the universe’s most resilient Doctor on the screens after a full year’s absence, and got us Capaldi-deprived Whovians even more excited about his – eagerly awaited – next adventure.
Viewed on a big screen in AMC Empire 25. Edited to include a link to the current wpc.
I was longing to see them up close, the famous Christmas lights in Dyker Heights. These are some of the decorations to be seen between 11th & 14th Avenues and 82nd & 85th Streets. They range from zero to elegant minimal to mesmerizing to hypnotizing to glorious to explosively colourful to downright extravagant. In all cases they are magnificent and are best enjoyed on foot. Choose any route but, whatever you do, save the displays on the Spata house at 1152 84th St. and that of Polizzotto at 1145 84th St. for last. You’ll be so bedazzled everything else will seem just a little bit dimmer (if that is even possible!) next to them.
We took the subway from Manhattan: the D train to Brooklyn Heights until 18th Av. and on the way back, the R train from 86 St. The trip was an hour and-a-half long each way, with a 20-minute walk from/to the subway stations. But it was worth every minute.
Whether you walk on a tightrope or safer roads, follow the Moth Fairy; she will show you the path to where your heart lies. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.
Well, it was about time I discovered Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater and why it is so popular. I did so thanks to the stunning, heart warming performance the dancers gave in front of the most expressly adoring audience one could ever hope for.
”Untitled America” in world premiere opened the evening. Choreographed by Kyle Abraham, it examines the impact of the prison system on African-American families. Performed by a large ensemble of dancers to an ambient music interrupted by spoken word, narrated by former prisoners. The audience was blown away and I thought it was the best possible introduction to Ailey’s eclectic, humanistic style, a style that combines classical ballet with modern and traditional dance moves creating fluid, light yet strong, convincing silhouettes.
It was followed by ”Awakening”, a ritualistic piece choreographed by the company’s Artistic Director, Kyle Abraham.
”A Case of You” came next, an intimate, sensual and intense duet, danced to Diana Krall’s version of Joni Mitchell’s song.
The evening closed with ”Revelations” Ailey’s upbeat signature work which ”using African-American spirituals, song-sermons, gospel songs and holy blues, it fervently explores the places of deepest grief and holiest joy in the soul”.
It closed to a standing ovation and made me want to dance again.
Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater are performing until December 31st at the New York City Center and their repertory varies depending on the date and time booked. For more info click on the link above.
**
At this point, it would be an omission not to mention that our evening was enhanced by an excellent dinner at the renowned Greek restaurant ”Milos”, just two doors away. Although the exorbitant menu prices are prohibitive to those of us with small to medium-sized pockets, an occasion like Christmas eve is always a good excuse for a splurge.
Image credits:
Different productions, from the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater website.
Milos New York, from the restaurant’s website.
Last two images of the performance, from The Humble Fabulist’s archives.
And for those in hibernation escaping Xmas Blues: don’t worry, it’ll soon be over; it will go away before you know it and then you’ll be counting the days until the next.
There were two lines outside the Carnegie Deli, a longer one for sitting and a short one for take out. None of them moved. And yet, despite the cold, everyone waited patiently in anticipation. I decided to pay my respects to this NYC institution, which is about to close for good at the end of the year, by ordering online.
Just when I thought 2016 is about to end – at last – and leave us in peace to pick up the pieces, these news reached me simultaneously yesterday afternoon: the Russian Ambassador to Turkey was confirmed dead after he was shot at an art gallery in Ankara, an event that sent shivers down the spine of the world on account of Russia’s and Turkey’s relations, now more volatile than ever in view of their respective Syrian agendas; it was quickly followed by another shooting incident outside the U.S. Embassy in Ankara; three shot and wounded in an Islamic Centre in Zurich; ten shot dead in the popular tourist destination of Karak, Jordan; twelve dead and fifty wounded in Berlin when a truck was driven into the crowd at a Christmas market; and part of Schaerbeek in Brussels was on lockdown following a major security operation by police.
Not surprisingly, this was how the ”most viewed” list on the Guardian (international) looked this morning:
Claes Oldenburg – Nude Figure with American Flag – “ABC HOORAY”, 1960. Pen and ink and watercolor on paper
I am for an art that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum.
I am for an art that grows up not knowing it is art at all, an art given the chance of having a starting point of zero.
I am for an art that embroils itself with the everyday crap and still comes out on top.
I am for an art that imitates the human, that is comic, if necessary, or violent, or whatever is necessary.
I am for all art that takes its form from the lines of life itself, that twists and extends and accumulates and spits and drips, and is heavy and coarse and blunt and sweet and stupid as life itself.
I am for an artist who vanishes, turning up in a white cap painting signs or hallways.
Claes Oldenburg – Ketchup, Thick and Thin – from a N.Y.C. Billboard, 1965. Fabricated chalk and watercolor on paper
I am for art that comes out of a chimney like black hair and scatters in the sky.
I am for art that spills out of an old man’s purse when he is bounced off a passing fender.
I am for the art out of a doggie’s mouth, falling five stories from the roof.
I am for the art that a kid licks, after peeling away the wrapper.
I am for an art that joggles like everyone’s knees, when the bus traverses an excavation.
I am for art that is smoked like a cigarette, smells like a pair of shoes.
I am for art that flaps like a flag, or helps blow noses like a handkerchief.
I am for art that is put on and taken off like pants, which develops holes like socks, which is eaten like a piece of pie, or abandoned with great contempt like a piece of shit.
Claes Oldenburg – Soft Toilet, 1966. Wood, vinyl, kapok fibers, wire, and plexiglass on metal stand and painted wood base
I am for art covered with bandages. I am for art that limps and rolls and runs and jumps.
I am for art that comes in a can or washes up on the shore.
I am for art that coils and grunts like a wrestler. I am for art that sheds hair.
I am for art you can sit on. I am for art you can pick your nose with or stub your toes on.
I am for art from a pocket, from deep channels of the ear, from the edge of a knife, from the corners of the mouth, stuck in the eye or worn on the wrist.
I am for art under the skirts, and the art of pinching cockroaches.
Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen – Dream Pin, 1998. Graphite, colored pencil and pastel on paper
I am for the art of conversation between the sidewalk and a blind man’s metal stick.
I am for the art that grows in a pot, that comes down out of the skies at night, like lightning, that hides in the clouds and growls. I am for art that is flipped on and off with a switch.
I am for art that unfolds like a map, that you can squeeze, like your sweetie’s arm, or kiss like a pet dog. Which expands and squeaks like an accordion, which you can spill your dinner on like an old tablecloth.
I am for an art that you can hammer with, stitch with, sew with, paste with, file with.
I am for an art that tells you the time of day, or where such and such a street is.
I am for an art that helps old ladies across the street.
I am for the art of the washing machine. I am for the art of a government check. I am for the art of last war’s raincoat.
I am for the art that comes up in fogs from sewer holes in winter. I am for the art that splits when you step on a frozen puddle. I am for the worm’s art inside the apple. I am for the art of sweat that develops between crossed legs.
Claes Oldenburg – Pat Standing in a Radish Patch, 1959. Oil on linen
I am for the art of neck hair and caked teacups, for the art between the tines of restaurant forks, for the odor of boiling dishwater.
I am for the art of sailing on Sunday, and the art of red-and-white gasoline pumps.
I am for the art of bright blue factory columns and blinking biscuit signs.
I am for the art of cheap plaster and enamel. I am for the art of worn marble and smashed slate. I am for the art of rolling cobblestones and sliding sand. I am for the art of slag and black coal. I am for the art of dead birds.
I am for the art of scratching in the asphalt, daubing at the walls. I am for the art of bending and kicking metal and breaking glass, and pulling at things to make them fall down.
I am for the art of punching and skinned knees and sat-on bananas. I am for the art of kids’ smells. I am for the art of mama-babble.
I am for the art of bar-babble, tooth-picking, beer-drinking, egg-salting, in-sulting. I am for the art of falling off a barstool.
I am for the art of underwear and the art of taxicabs. I am for the art of ice-cream cones dropped on concrete. I am for the majestic art of dog turds, rising like cathedrals.
I am for the blinking arts, lighting up the night. I am for art falling, splashing, wiggling, jumping, going on and off.
I am for the art of fat truck tires and black eyes.
I am for Kool art, 7UP art, Pepsi art, Sunshine art, 39 cents art, 15 cents art, Vatronol art, Dro-bomb art, Vam art, Menthol art, L&M art, Ex-lax art, Venida art, Heaven Hill art, Pamryl art, San-o-med art, Rx art, 9.99 art, Now art, New art, How art, Fire Sale art, Last Chance art, Only art, Diamond art, Tomorrow art, Franks art, Ducks art, Meat-o-rama art.
I am for the art of bread wet by rain. I am for the rat’s dance between floors. I am for the art of flies walking on a slick pear in the electric light. I am for the art of soggy onions and firm green shoots. I am for the art of clicking among the nuts when the roaches come and go. I am for the brown sad art of rotting apples.
I am for the art of meows and clatter of cats and for the art of their dumb electric eyes.
I am for the white art of refrigerators and their muscular openings and closings.
I am for the art of rust and mold. I am for the art of hearts, funeral hearts or sweetheart hearts, full of nougat. I am for the art of worn meat hooks and singing barrels of red, white, blue, and yellow meat.
I am for the art of things lost or thrown away, coming home from school. I am for the art of cock-and-ball trees and flying cows and the noise of rectangles and squares. I am for the art of crayons and weak, gray pencil lead, and grainy wash and sticky oil paint, and the art of windshield wipers and the art of the finger on a cold window, on dusty steel or in the bubbles on the sides of a bathtub.
I am for the art of teddy bears and guns and decapitated rabbits, exploded umbrellas, raped beds, chairs with their brown bones broken, burning trees, firecracker ends, chicken bones, pigeon bones, and boxes with men sleeping in them.
Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen – Soft Shuttlecocks, Falling, Number Two, 1995. Graphite, charcoal, and pastel on paper
I am for the art of slightly rotten funeral flowers, hung bloody rabbits and wrinkly yellow chickens, bass drums and tambourines, and plastic phonographs.
I am for the art of abandoned boxes, tied like pharaohs. I am for an art of water tanks and speeding clouds and flapping shades.
I am for US Government Inspected Art, Grade A art, Regular Price art, Yellow Ripe art, Extra Fancy art, Ready-to-Eat art, Best-for-Less art, Ready-to-Cook art, Fully Cleaned art, Spend Less art, Eat Better art, Ham art, pork art, chicken art, tomato art, banana art, apple art, turkey art, cake art, cookie art…
add:
I am for an art that is combed down, that is hung from each ear, that is laid on the lips and under the eyes, that is shaved from the legs, that is brushed on the teeth, that is fixed on the thighs, that is slipped on the foot.
Excerpts from Oldenburg’s art statement dominated the ”Conservative mother with family” film. It spoke to me particularly because I, like the artist, have been a firm believer in some or all of the parts, during some or all phases of my life.
Free listening and free download (mp3) chill and down tempo music (album compilation ep single) for free (usually name your price). Full merged styles: trip-hop electro chill-hop instrumental hip-hop ambient lo-fi boombap beatmaking turntablism indie psy dub step d'n'b reggae wave sainte-pop rock alternative cinematic organic classical world jazz soul groove funk balkan .... Discover lots of underground and emerging artists from around the world.
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