Eight Yaks is Money, Yo.

This was my late Sunday afternoon a couple weeks ago:

The peaceful cafe goers of the Crazy Wisdom Tearoom are perturbed. There is one larger conference table with available plugs and seats; and one young woman seated at it, talking loudly on her cell phone. The South American flute music does nothing to mask the details of the data plan she is discussing. I have unpacked my laptop, but now hover. Would the sofa with collapsing cushions be any better? But her voice is audible everywhere in the small room. I scanned the neighboring tables. A woman pointedly cleared her throat and snapped her newspaper as she gazed at it. Another guy widened his eyes at me and thrust his hand up to one side of his face, as in, "Do you believe this shit??" People muttered to their table mates and cut their eyes in her direction. She talked about smart phones and the limits of downloads. The young counter person with fading pink hair offered to set up my rose tea* in the conference room. And so here I now sit: no people watching options here, but really quite spoiling otherwise. A sofa AND a huge table next to it. "We close at 8 PM, tonight, so you have about three hours." Psssh. If I had pajamas with me, I wouldn't leave. 

*Ok, and yes, chocolate cake. No matter how many times I opened the fridge this morning, no chocolate ever materialized.

***
This Sunday doesn't feel that much different, except more cold and grey. Mulligatawny stew is simmering on the stove, a cup of Korean corn silk tea is mellowing beside me and Beth Orton's newest is on repeat on Spotify.

The newly editioned "After the Snake, Before the Bite" is now up on Etsy, as of this afternoon. I'm hand-coloring the two remaining designs and should have those up soon.

Otherwise? Two of my favorite people are flying from out of town this week and I get to see them for the first time in five years! (maybe five? close)

In their honor, let's take a few moments to contemplate one of my absolute favorite bronze pieces for the Shanghai Museum. What does it have to do with them? Nothing, outside of the fact that I can not fathom them not being delighted by it...

So...I glimpsed this the first time I went to the museum, minutes before closing. It was the final straw determining that YES, despite the myriad places I hadn't had the chance to experience even once while in the city, I HAD to take another day to return.

We're almost there! Do you see it? ...No, because there are always people around it.

And why wouldn't there be, I ask you. 

Behold, Cowrie Container, with Eight Yaks.

Western Han 206 B.C. - A.D. 8

Attributed to the Dian people, from the Yunnan Province. 

The Dians' bronzes are renowned for their naturalistic approach; being an agriculturally based people, it's not surprising that animals figured in much of their sculpture, whether the items were ritualistic or more utilitarian. Since cowries shells were used as currency, this would certainly have advertised the ruler's prosperity. Of course to me, it's the idea that metalworkers, or those who commissioned the work, were like, "Okaaay, another cowrie container...Yaks! Yes, I see it now: there must be yaks. Six --no-- EIGHT of them. And the handles must be tigers."  

And it's not just that they're done *well* but that each yak has a personality. Unlike the more cartoony tiger handles, these are completely believable as animals. Some seem garrulous, others resolute, and at least one, timid. It's a different story from every angle. To see them in the round, in all their wonderful specificity, they amount to more than the sum of eight parts. It feels more like a proper herd.

He couldn't stop laughing.

Of course, to assume that their depiction on such vessels automatically indicates their beloved status in society would be a bit naive. And indeed, an interesting article from Anthropoetics (The Journal of Generative Anthropology) tells us that from their excavations in the Yunnan, they determined that: "oxen were not used to plough the fields nor to pull carts, but as sacrificial domestic animals, sources of food, and symbols of property, wealth, and power, whence their appearance on the lids of bronze vessels made to contain seashells. There are also war scenes, slaves weaving ... [on similar vessels]."

For a fascinating break-down of another vessel, which depicts "human sacrifice, animal sacrifice, and communal feasting" on its lid and somehow crams 125+ human figures and numerous domestic animals, click here. 

Pillow with 5 Yaks suffered from proximity. Only five? Really?

I don't know, I'd probably go with down anyway...

Ways to Welcome the Weekend

Greetings, Fine Folk.

It's beautiful outside, the sun is shining and the new big next-door dog is not in his backyard to vociferously bark and growl warnings against me; EMU's Sunday Best has (hopefully momentarily) shifted away from swinging tunes to desultory guitar strumming alongside a mournful accordian. I'm tempted in many different directions for this Sunday, but why not begin with a blog post?

Another week passed in an excessively stressful and long-houred fashion. By Friday evening, I was exhausted and downcast; but knew I'd only be more discouraged by just going home. Luckily Ginger was up for a lazy night out. I plugged myself into my ipod and plunked down on a doorstep until he showed up. To start, we drove to Chela's. On a selfish tip, I don't even want to say nice things about this new Mexican place, because it's busier every single time I go -- and I have gone 4 times in less than two weeks. There are already 24 reviews on Yelp and one friend, who definitely knows Mexican food, professes to have gone there 20 times and never been disappointed. Compatriot said she wasn't blown away, but is open to going again; on my end, I can't stop going. It's inexpensive, the flavors are fresh and good and somehow most things don't have tomatoes, which I am allergic to. Maybe it's the last part, which makes me so excited -- a cuisine that felt shut off to me, for so long, I can now totally eat! Neither of the two sauces have tomatoes; and combined, they deliver nice heat and flavor notes. Their shredded beef Barbacoa is salty and fine and lovely in either the soft corn tacos, quesadillas or Tortas. They also have potato poblano tacos. I don't taste the poblano so very much, but the creamy potato filling in its soft shell is such a nice surprise, and (naturally) takes to the added sauces quite well. It's comforting there.  A little voice says: "If you cut out most of Starbucks, it would be fine to go here every week..."

So anyway, we show up to a full parking lot. The small interior is crowded with a nice cross-section of the community. People are picking up takeout as if they have also already worked the restaurant into their schedule. The young super-talkative counter woman says, "I feel like I have waited on you guys before, I love that!"

The owner says, "Have you tried our flan?" Not yet, I say.

"Now you have!" he hands me a dessert container. Yay, bonus treat! Clearly I need to cut out that Starbucks.

We settle in to wait at a small table next to the register. I can barely uphold my part of the conversation. Luckily, there's good people watching. A young picture book Latino family sits by us: serious, pretty mother; father who is stern when he needs to be, plus one young girl and boy. The boy is adorably boisterous. He so, SO wants to get at the (house made) limeade, but he is foiled by the dispenser's height and his lack of hand strength. He makes an impassioned appeal to his father, who rebuffs him. The empty cup variously becomes a horn, a hat, something to punch his frustrated fist into. He also swings around and punches a male teen's leg as he walks past; the guy is surprised, bemused; the boy stares up at him, his mouth agape. The teen gives him a wide berth when he leaves with his food.

Several newcomers come in as we are waiting and eating; some ask what we have. I eat too much. But it so lovely. What next? The potential movies start too late, I only slept 4 hours Thursday night. "I don't think I even have energy to beat you at Othello," I say.

"Oh ho! I have it in my trunk~~~" We decide to go to the Alley Bar. Next to Ginger's car a pale aqua swoopy little BMW Z4 is parked. A tiny, corn husk of a woman leaves Chela's before us. I'd place her in her late seventies/early eighties. She has a bob of fly-away white-grey hair and large moony glasses. She unlocks the door and slides the sportiness away.

We exchange glances.

"Life. Is Not. Fair," Ginger declares. "...It's probably her son's." Or maybe she has wanted such a car for decades. Mid-life crisis guys can't account for ALL sports car ownership, can they? "NOT what I expected..." I concede.

***

A small orange cat with huge ears has sauntered onto my deck and has been struck still by my night-gowned presence at the dining room table. The astounding fact of my existence! Once she regains the ability to move, she uses my outdoor table and chair set as a shield, in order to gain information. She pops her head up and stares at me intently, before darting down again. She looks terrified. In the normal course of things, I am rarely so impressive and incomprehensible.
***
We walked down Liberty. "It's going to be crowded," Ginger complained in advance. "It's going to be loud."

"If only they had sofas." I said, "That would be SO. Nice."

It was not crowded. There were only a couple guys substantially upping the noise level. There was a leather sofa underneath the window sill and an overstuffed olive chair with fuzzy crimson floral shapes next to it. David Bowie's Fame was playing into the gloom. Well! "The baseball game is on!" There was a tender note to Ginger's voice. My Silver Smash was nicely tart. Perfect.

Ginger trounced me the first game. It felt off from the start and only got worse.

I turned to melodrama. "In my current state, it's hard NOT to take this as representative of my life~~" 

"HelllOOOO EMO!" sang Ginger.

"Screwed, whichever way I turn! AND I did part of it myself!--"

"EEEEEMMMMMOOOO" Ginger sang even more loudly.

Our second round came. We were excited. "You might be my favorite customer EVER," the waitress said to Ginger. "No one has ever clapped for their drink before."

The second game ultimately went in my favor. I marked my first triumphant move with a festive shadowboxing in his direction.

He peered at me: "Time for you to CALM THE FUCK DOWN, Spaz."

I made another good move and grinned at him helpfully. He glowered. "That'll DO pig, that'll do."

It was feeling much better. While I won that one, he delivered what was one of the best moves ever, within our collective games; I think he snagged 12/14 pieces of mine in one feel swoop; and we both agreed it was an unusually spirited game on both sides.

How wonderful to be able to separate from the week's unpleasantness and to get a bit of respite!

Yesterday I pulled 50+ prints of "What is Eaten, What is Known," so I can actually edition the designs I made for the Edsel and Eleanor Ford House "Grimmly Inspired" exhibit*. Yay! Felt exhausted and productive.

*HEY!! Apparently I got a "story award" nod in the exhibit! And Laurie Longo, local artist who has had a cool Red Riding Hood project going for years, snagged top honor for the exhibit! Go Laurie!

Prints drying, every which way.

inked block. absence of horse.

And then! Compatriot arrived in the evening, with a late birthday cake plus The Big Lebowski. Sigh. She also brought White Russian fixings, but we were all sugared out.

Looks similar to the Persian Love Cake of yore, without the candied rose petals

Swoopy saffron-rosewater whipped cream frosting (yes, same word used for car and frosting)

And inside, chocolate cardamom cake. Lovely!

 Time to head off to the Indian grocery and maybe spend some time outside. Happy Sunday, All!

Grimm Tales, Posh Grounds

What a chill, pleasant Sunday.

Before coffee this morning I ran through my newly received yoga video -- the same one that I had been repeatedly renewing from the library -- with the extremely calm narrative guidance of Marc Lewis, who tends to offer too many choices when the work out is at its most trying:

"Now. If this is good now, keep it right here. If you'd like make it...a bit more challenging, extend to the tips of your feet."

I stay where I am and continue trembling.

"If you'd like to...take it down a little...Bring your right knee to the floor."

I refrain from bending my right knee. One could say the trembling is closer to shuddering. I try to clear my head, which doesn't clear. Readers, you know I'm cluttery.

"Now," he opines, almost as if he were proffering a small gift -- if only his voice carried that much emotion -- and he throws in another gravity defying variation in movement. I attempt it before collapsing onto the floor, like some fool who has played past his Twister ability. I snort derisively and glower at the carpet.

This is pretty much how it goes. I usually boycott minutes 56-58, before he returns to sensibility and some delicious stretches.  Ultimately, I feel good about it. Ideally, I'll alternate this with running and work an actual yoga class back into the mix. I'm surprised to say that I miss the group chants at the end of prior classes, and the OMs. Marc Lewis at the end invites the viewer to OM three times to finalize the practice. Somehow doing this in a group is especially satisfying; sitting alone in your living room? Not so much. One even feels a bit nutty. I wondered if the Jehovah's Witness who banged on the door also heard my OMing. But what matter? Takes a nut to know one, or so they say.

(Cashew Nut. Macadamia Nut. Pine nut.)

In any case, a good start. I padded into the kitchen, set the water to boil for coffee and turned on a burner for a few strips of bacon, tossed some cherries into a bowl. I finished reading The Monsters of Templeton outside, settled on a few recipes for the day (broccoli and potatoes with curry leaves, amchoor powder; rice noodles with cauliflower; sweet potato salad with tamarind). The sky feels heavy and I'm hoping there will be a summer rain when I start cooking later, with front and back door open to feel the breeze...

Yesterday Stone Bridge and I drove out to the Edsel and Eleanor Ford house to submit my woodblock triptych to the Grimmly Inspired exhibit.

This was the coloring I decided on:

The White Snake: A Nutritive Triptych: One

The White Snake: A Nutritive Triptych:Two

The White Snake: A Nutritive Triptych: Three

Story refresher in case you need it.

I haven't pulled enough to make editions of any one yet, but will add them to my Etsy shop after more studio time.

After encountering numerous slow-downs, ramp closings etc., we were starving by the time we inhaled the posh air of Grosse Pointe Shores. Since this exhibit had grown huge in my mind, I anticipated a long line of fidgeting artists, hefting artwork of various dimensions. I regretted my unusual lack of snacks. But no, when we arrived at the appointed place, we were greeted by a single juror and her assistant. A cool oil painting lay to one side on the padded display tables. A cool book artist -- a shoe-in for the exhibit if there ever was one, as she has a long-standing project of imagining Red Riding Hood at all ages of her life -- reported significantly more activity when she dropped off her submission(s?) on Friday.

Both women were very pleasant and called over to let the soon-to-be-closing restaurant know or our imminent arrival. Not bad! Lunch was delicious and while we were not intending to dawdle, we talked about the role of art in our respective families, growing up; and wound up missing the last house tour by 8 minutes.

"Well ladies! What did we have for lunch?" inquired the gift shop woman. We told her and asked about tour tickets. "Oh, noooo, "she murmured, "The last one just left. You certainly took your time for lunch! I guess they didn't close at 2:30." She beamed at us. We smiled back, thanked her. It's hard not to appreciate the myriad ways bitchiness can be conveyed. Impressive, isn't it?

It was fine. We were both content to wander the grounds, snapping photos of architectural details.

The ivy was lovin on the house.

We lacked the magic key.

Photographer/artist who takes much better photos on her iphone than I do on my camera.

As we turned this way and that, a sparky five year old raised his hand in greeting. "I want to be at MY house now."

Valid. "Oh, I bet you'll leave soon." He considered this.

"Why are we still heeerrrrrreee?" He jutted his chin at his parents. He did not whine, but elongated his words. They seemed unconcerned. They wandered around one corner of the building.

Complicated by summer dresses and purses.

At this point, the five year old run happily past us. He announced triumphantly: "I need to catch the bus! We're going to take the bus." 

"Oh good, where's your Mom and Dad?"

He halted. "They're in the other direction!"

"Well maybe you better wait for them." He paused, but was clearly dismayed at this interruption. Luckily they rounded the corner. We wandered on.

The spout figures (technical term) were disturbingly servile.

What IS he?

Also mysterious. But he looks like a mensch.

The formal gardens and carefully laid out vistas reminded me of Edith Wharton's  Mount

This was her summer home, in Lenox, MA. First job out of college: tour guide.

Just beyond the gate, where we were also parked.

The restored models faced the front gate, but were separated from us by two lanes of traffic. I had to wait for current cars to stop streaming past and, closer still, pedestrians to stop shuffling through. An older person wearing fuchsia pants proved to be quite the lens louse*.

"Do you like Model A's?" inquired a voice to my right.

Oh yes, I said. "They're mine," replied the woman. She and her husband have been restoring them for some 40 years. They drove them up from Hershey, Pennsylvania! The above pictured are models from 1929/30/31 and are Tudors and Fordors. Fuchsia pants was one of their party.

*Favorite term of my Dad who would rather not photograph people in front of his trains/trolleys/model cars. Also used by my sister, when she is foiled by straggling people, when she is in the zone. Many years ago when she was traveling, Kevin Kostner, then prominent for his Dances with Wolves film, managed to ruin several otherwise good shots. Lens louse.

So, it was a lovely day! We did wind up going into the "playhouse" -- an actual house, built at little girl scale, with diminutive everything. The adult tourists lumbered through in our ungainly fashion, bumping into ceilings* and rounding our shoulders to take up less space.
We were both tuckered by the end, well fed, well wandered and stimulated. A fine way to spend a Saturday!