These Are the Songs of Our Lives

Dory singing/speaking whale

Intermittent weird sleeping and nightmares have continued for the child over the past few days, but also lots of impromptu singing. Primarily of the mundane narrative kind: the decision to go for all-unicorn attire (but NO unisocks, as one DOES NOT HAVE THEM, ooooooooooooonly YEEEEEELLLLLOOOOOOW -- so that will have to do*), the rejection of toast, followed by the louder insistence of avocado toast**; later, the demand for a snack laid out, whilst one's mother showers. The barest suggestion of a tune loops in and out -- up and down and over -- and the loudness is similarly variable, as she tramps from one room to the next, leaping from the much abused footstool, crashing into a doorway (which is then depicted in the next doleful song).

I cut up some strawberries, leave them on her craft table; and then am sucked in by emails before the shower. She swans into the kitchen area, to sing:

"I willllllll not eaaaaaaaaaaaaat those strawBERRRRRRRRRIEEEEEEES even-though-they-match-what-I'm-wearing...I willlllll not eaaaaaaaaEEEEEaaaaaat them~~"

I glower at my laptop and join her, singing: "BuuuuuuUUUUUUuuuut, I have CUUUUUUUUt them FOR YOUUUUUUUUU for SNACCCCCK~~"

"I can TELLLLLLLLL they are NOT SWEEEEEEEEET, so no-no-nooooooo!~~"

"You do not knoooowwww some-are-sweeter-than-others, you have to Tassssssssssste them~"

"No, and, noooooo! They are too-harrrrrrd-to-be-sweeeeeeeet~~" and she swoops the wings of her cape dramatically and twirls from the room, this time managing to avoid all doorways.

And then eventually the (barely) crooning gave way to being a frog, which made getting ready for anything a real hassle, since everything must be leapt to and vocabulary was limited to ribbit ribbit, and I really don't see how parents with multiple young children get anywhere/get anything done/retain sanity.

But! Speaking of music, we started dropping in on a morning music session held at her preschool. This has been great -- more little tastes of culture, breaks up one of our days without school, and I get to watch her classmates. This Monday, we arrived later, minutes before snack time. A grown up opened the door, carrying two stainless steel bowls, one with dried mango, the other with popcorn. "SNAAAAAACKKKK!!" a couple kids shouted, and several kids bee-lined it to kiddie seats at the long table. Others kept playing at the water table, or clay table, or with dolls. My daughter took her place and they collectively navigated serving/sharing/table manners. One of the teachers passed a boy seated at the table, "Hey, nice haircut."

"I HAD!" piped up the next boy, "I HAD! a haircut one time. And I came to school the next day! and I LIKED IT THE NEXT DAY!" Kids chorused about Zoey & Joey, the kids haircut chain that seems ridiculous until you have a young child.

"Where I go, they have a rollercoaster--"

"Me, too, yeah! And you sit in a car-"

"*I* sit in a car!-" 

My kid sits in silence. I try to stay out of it, but I can't always manage this. "Hey, that's also the place *you* go to, right?"

She sits there. And then says, grimly: "My Mom. says I can only have ONE lollipop.***"

The apple-cheeked boy across from her is astonished: "My Mom SAYS THE SAME THING!!!!!" Do the Moms know each other? Are they conspiring? The grown ups in the room snicker.

At that, talk shifts abruptly. A boy announces: "152 is the biggest number in the world!"

"Or two. Maybe two," offers another.

"A thousand and one," adds my daughter. I pop over to a nearby (so very low) table to jot down some of their comments. "hey Mom!" I look up. "You're doing good, Mom!" I give her a thumbs up. The days that we both visit her classroom aren't necessarily easier than others -- but she does seem more affectionate, sweeter with me. I suspect she likes that I have entered her world for a bit, in a different way.  

* no clue on the unicorn-yellow connection
** which will not occur, yes we have no avocados
*** that they hand out at the end, right.

Skeletons, MegaShoulders, and Moody Stares at Detroit Institute of Art

We woke up to snowfall this morning. "I WILL NEED MY SNOW BOOTS!" our child exclaimed, as she lifted the deck curtain and saw the thinnest dusting on the leaf piles mouldering on our deck. I scooted her along, for today was special: her first FULL day of preschool and I was determined for us both to get as much out of it as possible. Now we are in the last few minutes of the day before I re-enter rush hour, but I find it's better to start something, even if in the very tiniest way. So, here we are. With the cold and with the cloudy, I need more museum time. I have resolved that I will actually honor this need consistently, going forward. So after a morning appointment, I was on the road to the D.I.A.

In some ways, the visit served to remind me of things I already knew.

1. I tend to love a good Parisian bar/cafe scene. The men are smoking, the women are bored, the female attire tends toward the constrictive and frou frou/confectionary.

detail of Cafe Scene in Paris (1877), Henri Gervex

Here we have the mysterious right edge, which seems to be rejected underpainting, but why was it framed to show it? The docent didn't have an answer, but thought it maybe reflected the artist's wish, "It's *part* of the painting," but I have trouble buying that.

So many things to love: the veins perfectly visible in this man's hand, the glowing cigar tips, liquid light in the glasses, the satin gloss of fabric and ribbons, the individual pools of isolation.

Painter inclusion: Gervex lighting his pipe

Visit full image here.

2. Portraiture: Degas beats out Renoir
My lack of affinity for Renoir nudes was brought home to me when I attended a solo exhibit in Philly years ago, but in this "Humble and Human" exhibit I was faced (hah) with a Renoir portrait next to a Degas. 

Woman in an Armchair (1874), Renoir

Portrait of a Woman (1877), Degas

I like that Renoir's woman seems to have some kind of interior life, but there's still too much peaches-and-cream to the skin. Degas' portrait draws me in so much more, though what can we really tell about her? She is half in darkness, the shadows render her face almost sooty and the coloring is splashy, on the darker end. I love the richness of the color, the strange brightness and sudden detail of the flowers inexplicably behind and above her. Somehow I believe in a richer interior life for this sitter, and a more storied life. Perhaps the clothing plays into it.  I'm not bothered by the artfully drooping chemise, but it does play up the appeal of the subject -- and positions her appeal at the forefront.  So I guess I'd offer the Renoir woman a cardigan (she'd probably ignore me, sigh loudly, or insist she was fine without) and ask the Degas sitter if she'd like some tea or something stronger, and see if I could draw out some stories.

3. I still don't care about Seurat or Pissarro. What else to say? They are not hurt for my lack of care.

Portrait of Postman Roulin (1877) Van Gogh

4. I love any of Van Gogh's paintings of the Postman Joseph Roulin. I don't think I can unpack it more than this, because what I like about it is what I -- and most people I think-- like about his work -- the heavy, energizing paint strokes, the vibrant colors, representations that are realistic enough to make us believe, but which then take us beyond, into a different realm.

Delicious hand-painted frame

And ALSO (one of my 4 yo.'s favorite phrases, currently): "You watch any Sponge Bob Square Pants lately? Because he's on there," The security guard gestures to Roulin. "On an episode. They have him mouthing, 'Sponge Bob Square Pants! Sponge Bob Square Pants! ' It's pretty funny...I spend a lot of time in here" With that, the guard recedes back to the far wall. And so it goes.














5. The annual Ofrendas exhibit is always worth a visit. And this exhibit is gaining in popularity! It used to only last 3 days and now they keep it up for almost a couple weeks -- closes on November 10th. This year brought several ofrendas honoring migrants, or those who have lost their lives attempting to get here.

"Desconcido" by Joanne Coutts was especially cohesive in its vision of three migrants traversing the desert. The description card reported 1,237 migrant deaths have been recorded in Arizona since 2011.

 

 

Refugee Ancestors: Descendants United in Friendship

Note the train tracks: a little train rounds the tracks, with engine and cars labeled "A Better Life," "Oportunidad," and "Safety."

 

Touching tribute to Dr. Christopher Pfaendtner, who died at 60

Christopher: the Healer,  by Patricia Pfaendtner

****Unexpected Bonus****

Gentleman, Possibly of the Trivulzio Family, late 1400s

I have passed this by for years. Exceptional artistry by Bernardino dei Conti, yes (if, indeed it's by him). European paintings of privileged white men, yawn. But, wait~~! It stopped me in my tracks today. Why does it feel so modern, so fresh? I envisioned it in my vaulted cieling-ed, glass and metal skyscraper flat, himself surveying a future domain from one very white wall. New sharp frame minimal enough for him to step out beyond it.


I love his eye sockets and nose, the set of his mouth. The ridiculous out-sized shoulders and heraldic red & gold of his...tunic? What was that even called? The delicate folds of white against his skin. The gentleman's gloves which looked suitable for hawk landings, though this is probably far from true. I love that the background is so heavily painted and textured it takes on a different sheen than the rest of it. And more than all of it, I love how indifference can morph into delight, with repeated exposure to any art, how resonance ebbs and flows, highlighting the variability of our being.