Chihuly Garden and Glass: New Seattle Museum worthy of "Wow!"

View from Chihuly Garden of "Sun" and Glasshouse

It's been open just three weeks, but even months before, my husband and I were peeking through the reed-like iron fence and boarded-up perimeter of glass-master Dale Chihuly's new museum taking shape in the shadow of the Space Needle at Seattle Center.  Now that I've had a chance to wander through, my reaction is "Wow!" not just for the brilliant colors, wormy, blobby and creative shapes, stunning yet familiar compositions, but for the fantasy-worldly experience that plucked me from normal life into enlarged imagination.

I'm a sucker for bright colors, and so's Dale Chihuly, as most of his innovations involve strong hues in moving shapes.  The only muted room of 9 honors the Northwest, where a display of vintage earth-toned Native American baskets, warped by use and time, is mimicked by similarly slumping glass cylinders and bowls in pale egg and ochre tones. But even that display, complemented by dozens of sepia Edward S. Curtis photogravures of dignified local native residents, occupies a hall where spotlights illuminate a wall of brightly-patterned blankets. It seems every Chihuly idea needs primary color pop.

Rowboat of floats reflect; at right is end of Ikebana boat

And so, entering each subsequent room brings a gasp of surprise and delight. My personal favorite was the Ikebana and Float Boat room, where twin wooden rowboats, reflected on black acrylic stands, hold colorful round bubble-floats, and twisty spiral tubes, respectively. The bubbles, some nearing two feet in diameter, had been tossed as an art experiment into the river near Chihuly's Nuutajärvi, Finland workshop and gathered by local teens into their rowboats, inspiring the arrangement.

Mille Fiori, with 'tower" element in foreground

Another of my faves is the Mille Fiori room, where brilliant oceanic forms squirm and writhe up from the reflective acrylic, culminating with a yellow "tower" of wriggling tubes, the form for which Chihuly is probably most famous. Mille Fiori, of course, means "thousand flowers," but this darkened room definitely feels underwater, despite the tower's explosion of hot colors. The long, hollow forms were fitted over pipes embedded in a concrete stand, not only to provide secure structure but to allow the artist to change the composition's components with ease.

I learned about the exhibits not only from posted descriptions but from a docent whose five-minute explanations suggested her own expertise as a glass-blower.  The garden, with its central medusa-ish orb, often the only "Sun" in our rainy clime, fascinated tourists who learned how long reed shapes are gravity-pulled and annealed, and how chunks of a resin-ish looking material in another garden feature were Chihuly's own invention, for outdoor projects that would otherwise burst from heat and cold. Four-foot glass spikes were like sister shoots in the garden surrounded by the sticker-edged growth of (real) blue thistles.

My friend capturing a piece of the Persian Ceiling

Other memorable environments were created in the Persian Ceiling room, where overhead an amalgam of bright back-lit pieces jumble large and small. "Persian" glass forms are circular, open plates, irregularly and flowingly devised, reminiscent to me of splayed jellyfish or seaweed flowers that would undulate with the currents. With Chihuly's penchant for unusual spirochete, amoeba and anemone-like forms, nine resin-style cherubs tucked among them seemed out of place, but easily ignorable as your neck crinks in fascination with the ample array of weird, mutatious shapes above.

The architectural centerpiece of the museum is the Glasshouse, an arched-sided greenhouse-like hall inspired by Chihuly's love of plant conservatories. Looking up through the clear roof past suspended sets of flower-vine-like Persians, you can see the Space Needle loom, peering at its curious Lilliputian admirers.

Space needle seen through roof of Glasshouse

And so we were indeed in awe, captivated by the creativity and revved by the intensity of the panoply of Pantone, blasted in our awareness by startling confrontation. And of course, I wanted to capture it all, and yes! Photography was not only allowed, but roving staff photographers obligingly took our photos free, with the stunning glass backdrops, sent home by email.

My thrill renews when I view my photos (some in this post) from yesterday, but the images only urge me to escape again to that wondrous world of shape and movement and color. If you come to Seattle, don't miss it.
www.Chihulygardenandglass.com

NY Show Feeds Graffiti Vandal B.N.E.'s Criminal Ego

This isn't the first time that a graffiti vandal gets glory. But it may be the first time one gets a Big Apple "art" show, sponsored by the New York office of a British advertising agency.

The tagger called B.N.E.--who's less a tagger than a paster, because he plasters 10,000 printed stickers monthly, with "iron grip adhesive," in selected cities internationally--put his unexplained three initials on a 15-foot wall in Manhattan as part of his exhibit. Seems hypocritical that he's challenging corporations ("You have these billion-dollar companies, and I've got to look at their logos every day. Why can't I put mine up?") but sponsored by an agency called "Mother" happy to exploit his "globally recognized and valued brand."

And he got an interview in the New York Times today, too. And for what? For sullying private and public surfaces from Japan to Bangkok, Prague and San Francisco, where liberal mayor Gavin Newsom, who you'd think would approve such added "art," is offering a $2,500 reward for his capture.

I can understand ad agencies trying to boost clients with edgy appeal, in itself not the most original of strategies.  They probably adore conventional folks' publicity-generating disdain.

But come on--all this does is fuel egomaniacs, whose "art" has the sole aim of increasing their personal domain, leaving evidence of their existence in much the same way dogs lift their legs to mark their turfs.  Dog urine, however, is a biodegradable substance, legal, and doesn't require human costs of time and expense to correct.  Nor does it stir neighborhood consternation and police action.

  In some cases, owners of homes or small businesses scarred by this smug defacement lack the wherewithal to remove it.  Santa Monica, California, where I used to live, provided property owners paint to cover the blight. Like many cities, it has a "graffiti removal team," and on its City website asks, "Which of the following impacts does the appearance of graffiti have on a neighborhood? 1.Decreases property values 2. Increases residents' fear of crime 3. Attracts more graffiti "artists" 4. All of the above.  If you answered '4, All of the above,' you're correct."

 Promoters who abet this community disfigurement, like the ironically named "Mother" and organizers of commercially-sponsored "jams" are responsible for its increased proliferation.  A program called "Graffiti Hurts," started in 1996 by paint-makers Sherwin-Williams (probably hoping their Krylon spray-paints wouldn't be banned or restricted, as many cities proposed) offers prevention and eradication information as well as school curricula to shape kids' attitudes.  They provide statistics showing that Jams for graffiti vandals, sponsored by video game makers, clothing companies, artists' agencies and even Hawaiian Punch, cause an increase in output in the surrounding neighborhood within hours of the events.

 

This doesn't bother ad agencies one bit.

 

Now, I support the free market system; the creativity of advertising agencies fosters the supply and demand that enlarges our options and makes our economy thrive.  But "pushing the envelope" by encouraging destruction of property, criminality and visual intrusion on the landscape ultimately doesn't get clients more business. Hawaiian Punch pulled the plug on a 2006 Houston jam because the community expressed its concern.

 

When my husband sees a new tag on a freeway wall, he goes into a funk. If the tag stays there more than a week, he phones the mayor's office to urge its removal.  Seattle applied for $547,000 from Pres. Obama's stimulus package to fund a Graffiti Investigation and Prosecution office with a dedicated detective, City Prosecutor and aides, to promply paint over and address the problem.  The plan wasn't funded, but clearly our town sees the increasing amount of audacious freeway and street tags as a plague.

 

When Paul Allen's vanity rock museum, the Experience Music Project, opened in Seattle Center in 2000, it featured an exhibit glorifying graffiti, showcasing a real New York Subway car whose original gray lay deep under wall-to-wall spray-paint. Photos of early taggers and their imprints appeared in glass cases for school kids to admire.  With fancy lighting and interactive videos, the show legitimized trashing somebody else's property and environment. I don't think the EMP would mount that display today.

 

B.N.E. knows he's a fugitive, and I think that's part of the allure--getting away with something despised by the establishment (governments, homeowners, businessmen) and lauded by a fringe underground.  Vandals splash their tags conspicuously as proof they can foil rules.  "I've always rebelled against authority," B.N.E. boasts. "Like any kid, I wanted to write the whole neighborhood. Most kids like that would then want to go out and do the whole city.  In my case, I wanted to do the whole planet."  Well, we're encouraging him, with glitzy ad agency "shows" and features in the New York Times.
 
B.N.E. arrogantly suggests his despoiling urban environments is freedom of speech:  "This is my voice," he insists, "and if you try to remove it, you're shutting me up."  (OK then, shut up.) Thus the super-tacky adhesive on his stickers. He loves being a famous snot.
 
The chairman of the Queens, New York, City Council Public Safety Committee, Peter F. Vallone, Jr. is right: "This is an unrepentant criminal who has cost honest taxpayers a lot of money, and he's profited from it." Times writer Corey Kilgannon as well as Mother brass know who this guy is and could end his career. But they wouldn't betray B.N.E., because they think cool and edgy trumps respecting the law.

The Thrill of the Blue Angels

Once a year, residents of the number one summer American vacation destination thrill and squeal when the sky rumbles and shrieks. They croon when the water rustles from booming churners, and sway as aerial somersaults tumble hundreds of feet nearly on their heads.

A Jabberwocky experience? No, Seafair weekend in Seattle.

Heart be still. No, keep palpitating! It's too excruciatingly exhilarating, too endlessly enthralling! Millions of people, all craning, jumping, waving and cheering, over at least a dozen square miles, at the same time, cameras snapping, video cameras whirring...

The floating bridge I-90 freeway that spans from downtown Seattle across Lake Washington is completely closed down. All along the southern-most shores of the 22-mile-long lake, terracing up on island and community hillsides, people perch, sparks of excitement binding them like timber ready to crackle.

The buzz is faint at first, growing louder. It's slow old Fat Albert Airlines, the Marines' propeller support craft that does loops and turns around the Lake, the City, the Sound, alerting the eager minions that the Blue Angels will soon appear. As the plump plane scoops low overhead, the crowds jump. We love Fat Albert, the endearing prelude so close we can throw kisses.

Fat Albert descends behind the Duwamish ridge, and it's silent as all search the skies and strain to hear and see them first. Suddenly: "Across the Lake!" Six small dots, approaching, nearly touching, promising. "There they are!"

So quick, so unified and tight, six deep blue Boeing F/A-18 Hornets with "US Navy" in yellow on their bellies, sneak up and pounce, their faster-than-the-speed-of-sound approach startling all with the thundering "zoom" rattling the sky overhead. They zip low to the lake, in unison emitting a trail of white smoke, souvenir of their ownership of the water, the heavens, and our ecstatic hearts.

Whether standing with neighbors on the crest of a hill a few blocks from home (as I was Friday for their practice), or gathered in a Seattle beach park with picnickers and bathers floating on inflatable rafts (as I was today), the childlike wonder, the joyous camaraderie perceiving and gawking at the feats and power of the Blue Angels binds Seattle in unique rapture.

We ooh, ahh, and applaud together. We leap to our feet and scream as the sextet of synchronized machines snarls mightily above, so close we are united in astonishment. We congratulate each other on being quick enough to catch them in our lenses, at keeping them within viewfinder, they dip and weave and drop and part, to altitudes so high they become nearly invisible; and skims so low we instinctively duck.

They loop in a line; they meet from divergent points and nearly collide, only to splay out, jet streaming a flower in the sky. They squiggle; they zip toward each other from opposite directions and when you fear they must explode, two shift sideways--a near miss! While five circle 'round, one twirls over and over and over until spectators are dizzy; the five return and leap straight up to the stratosphere, curling backward in a sky-flip. For more than an hour, we stand agog, turning toward sound, reeling from surprises, awed by audacity.

Though I have yet to attend Seafair's fabled Hydroplane races, I hear the powerful craft that, due to new turbo engines merely blare rather than startle. Seattleites harbor nostalgic fondness for the old days, but the adrenaline still flows at the low-slung craft that can beat 150 mph. One-fourth of residents own a boat, and many of them are moored just outside the raceway perimeter; in fact, Lake Washington is hull to hull with anchored fans seeking the perfect view.

The hydroplanes and Blue Angels are followed by the airshow, and as we drove the floating bridge home, we gaped at stunt pilots' flits, corkscrews, dives and swirls.

Seafair has its mascots, too, a swashbuckling crew that drives a wheeled facsimile of a pirate ship, sword-wielding mateys with eye-patches, bandannas, beards and a penchant for words containing R-r-r-r-r! Our daughter was driving on the I-5 freeway when the ship pulled aside and the captain bade her roll down her window. With the whiz of the freeway, he offered her free tickets to Seafair, gesturing to pull off at the next exit. She waved him on, ambivalent though many events, including the concert and fireworks, coincided with Shabbat. Rrrrrats!

As I watched the Blue Angels, surrounded by happy families, it occurred to me that I was part of a wonderfully special spirit. Never in Los Angeles, my hometown, was there an annual community mania that bound together so many neighbors. Seattle has a sense of place, of closeness (sometimes snobbery) that is delightfully apparent. Then I got to thinking...how many other cities, states--even countries--enjoy something similar? And once again, I am eminently grateful to be born here, in this beautiful land, with this luxious summer, and the connection that lifts our eyes and our hearts heavenward.

Seattle Pro-Israel Rally: A Missed Opportunity

Our family attended Seattle's rally in support of Israel today, and while I was touched by the show of camaraderie, I'm wondering if it was worthwhile.

Certainly we support Israel's right--need!--to defend itself, after it forcibly removed 9,000 Israeli residents from Gaza in 2004, leaving their homes and productive greenhouses to destruction (rather than reuse) by hostile Palestinians, only to receive 6,000 missiles aimed at civilian targets in return.

Certainly we want the media to know that Jews in our community, regardless of affiliation or lack thereof, are united in our commitment to Israel, the land given by God to Jews as set forth in the Torah.

Certainly we want to publicize that action by Israel is not aggression, as portrayed, but a truly restrained and careful response to an enemy who not only uses its own citizens as human shields, who not only targets schools and hospitals, who not only receives arms supplied by Iran via secret tunnels to Egypt--but whose goal is the complete eradication of the State of Israel itself.

That said, the event we attended today, joined by about 1,500 others in the Alhadaff sanctuary of Temple De Hirsch-Sinai in Seattle, was more a feel-good affirmation of solidarity than tangible advancement for our cause. Upon passing the purse-check (umbrellas, on this drizzly day, had to be left at the door), attendees, who filled the auditorium to capacity, sang some Jewish songs, saw a couple of short films documenting the frightening daily lives of those within the 25-mile range of rockets regularly launched from Gaza, and heard a few speeches from local Jewish leaders.

I was bothered by some of the content, which claimed that neither side wanted this warfare, and that it was Hamas, and not the Palestinian people, who are our foe. But in reality, Palestinian children are brainwashed into believing that Israel is evil, and that they should be willing to fight, even kill themselves, to eliminate it. Most of the five speakers mentioned that "we" seek a "two state solution" to the conflict, and I blanched--I do not see that creating a recognized state of Palestine (for the first time ever) will do other than empower and embolden people who don't want to co-exist in peace but, with the fervent impetus of their religion, want Israel to end.

The main thrust of the program was that Israel's attacks are in self-defense, to safeguard cities that are under unceasing missile barage. Perhaps the most effective visual was in one film that illustrated the area subject to attack were Seattle the target--say, from missiles launched from Canada. Would the United States be expected to simply let Seattle explode, several times a day, injuring and killing residents, for three years?

But if the purpose was to educate the public to our position, or to include others in our mission, the rally failed. While the Jewish community was well represented, holding the event inside a synagogue implied that this issue is important to Jews only. We should get out the message that this isn't a Jewish cause; it's a just, human cause. If the rally were held in a public space--as was a highly publicized pro-Palestinian event a week ago--and if churches and human rights groups, as well as the public at large, were invited, this would have far better disseminated that message, and joined us with a far larger group of support. After all, we are Americans supporting Israel; we see Israel as the only Democracy in the mid-east; the only place in that part of the world where everyone, including Muslims, has full representation and rights, and we support Israel for those broader ideals.

My husband pointed out that today, small Israeli flags were distributed, but no American flags. That "HaTikva," the Israeli national anthem, was sung, but not "The Star Spangled Banner." He noted that the pro-Palestinian marchers last week carried only Palestinian flags and not American flags because they, unlike us, are anti-American. We need to remind the world of the similarity in tolerance and freedom between Israel and the United States, a confluence of philosophy and attitude toward progress, the modern world and liberty for all.

This evening, I checked out our local TV coverage of the pro-Israel rally today. Station KOMO gave at least as much time to the handful of pro-Palestinian protesters across the street, and footage of the pro-Palestinian rally last week, to which the newscaster claimed today's event was a reaction. The conclusion of the report wasn't that Israel has considerable support in Seattle, but rather that our town is sharply divided in its allegiance. To see the shouting, picket-waving hordes in the pro-Palestinian march juxtaposed to the seated auditorium of Israel-supporters, interspersed with an interview with a Jewish woman saying how tough it is for her to oppose other Jews and stand out on the sidewalk protesting, probably did more to confuse uneducated viewers than further their understanding of Israel's self-defense.

A frustrating result from an event that could have been significant. But, given the pro-Israel rallies taking place across our nation today, I'm glad Seattle was counted, and I'm glad I was able to join with other Jews to sing "Am Yisroyal Chai," the people, the worldview called Israel, live.

We are Thankful, not Mourning, on this Uniquely American Day

The Seattle Board of Education sent a memo to its staff last week urging they not treat Thanksgiving as a happy holiday, because some students consider it "a day of mourning." This is true. Native American students, the note cautioned, are reminded that day how their ancestors' generosity was "betrayed."

The memo was signed by Caprice D. Hollins, Psy.D., Director of Equity, Race & Learning Support, plus two members of Huchoosedah Indian Education, a federally-funded American Indian support arm of the School District. Huchoosedah Indian Education has six full-time staff to promote the well-being of 800 native American and Islander students (2% of 45,300 total). The staff clearly has too much federally-funded time on its twelve hands.

What is this deconstructing of Thanksgiving????

Thanksgiving is Jewish. I want to set that straight. We call it the mitzvah of "ha karat ha tov," recognizing the good that is done for you. An illustration of it is that Moses did not personally start the plague that turned the Nile to blood, due to his gratitude that the river kept him alive when he was set adrift as an infant in a floating raft. The example may seem a bit extreme, but the fact we even tell that story shows how much gratitude is part of Jewish tradition.

I wanted to clarify the Jewishness of Thansgiving because I was told about an incident last Shabbat where a rabbi, when making his announcements in morning services, said something like, "There will be no class on Thursday. Some people are taking the day off, though I frankly don't understand why."

If he was making a joke, he said it in such a way that listeners believed he was serious. The person who told me about this was a bit upset, because a local pastor had chosen that day to visit the synagogue for the first time, just to be neighborly. The pastor, who lives nearby, is a friend,and honors and reaches out to community Jews. He heard the rabbi's remark about Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is important not only for ha karat ha tov, but because it is a uniquely American holiday that expresses the essence of our culture as God-fearing. We are thankful to God, not to the Indians. We remember that the first white settlers were able to join with the inhabitants of the land in humble gratitude. A nation that pauses to gather family to thank God and celebrate our bounty and blessings is one set on a straightened path every year. (Jews enjoy this kind of re-focusing every Sabbath as well.)

Thanksgiving is a national group-hug. It joins Americans across religions, across thousands of miles, and across generations. Unlike Halloween with its pagan origins, deathly symbols and crass commercialism, little about Thanksgiving itself is negative, unless you consider its potential for gluttony. The Seattle School District is rightly the subject of snickering derision. In contrast to every other public holiday, on Thanksgiving, as we watch parades and make stuffing and set the table and hear the doorbell and the laughter of those we love-- we look inward, and upward, to realize the parts of life that truly matter, and contemplate their very generous source. Happy Thanksgiving...from one very grateful lady.

Seattle's Pike Place Market Celebrates its Centennial

Moving right along in the festival calendar, we come upon a rather momentous one...the 100th Anniversary celebration for Seattle's famed Pike Place Market. This was and continues to be a farmer's market where local produce, flowers and handmade crafts are sold, in an old, rambling building full of weird little shops. The first Starbucks coffee EVER still occupies its storied niche, always with some unique street performer attracting crowds at its ever-queue'd door.

This weekend, the Market, a tourist destination that struggles to attract sufficient nearby residents, offered a street's length of those ubiquitous white cubicle-tents, three pavilions where bands performed, and an array of startlingly weirdly decorated eight-foot-long pigs. Because a symbol of the Market is a brass pig that greets visitors at the crotch of the market buildings, supporters farmed out pig replicas to artists to decorate and later sell as a fund-raiser. The "parade of pigs" occurred on Shabbat, but its participants were stationed throughout the festival area, often accompanied by barkers urging passersby to contribute a dollar, in exchange for a snout sticker.

A week of uncharacteristically warm weather meant a jumble of people in tatoo-revealing outfits filled the narrow aisles inside the "sanitary market" and along the nearby streets. Post Alley, a snaking lane parallel to the Market's blocked-off drive, bustled with its outdoor cafes and browsers in the nook shops. The vendors of brilliantly-colored chili peppers strung into foot-long edible pendants hawked their wares. Baskets offering clothes for a dollar, five and ten, lured ladies rifling through for a deal. Where Post Alley descended in its cobblestone path beneath part of the Market, patrons waiting for performances at the comedy club tucked in the brick passageway created the fabled "gum wall" of chicle wads.

And behind it all, sparkling Elliot Bay, Puget Sound, the curve of the Alki neighborhood, and the ubiquitous ferry boats shuttling patrons to the islands. What a wonderful way to welcome June, another reminder of the exuberance of summer.

Unfettered Performing at Seattle's Folklife Festival

As I mentioned in an earlier post, street fair season is upon us. But famous in my region are two bookends to the summer--Northwest Folklife Festival, every Memorial Day Weekend, and Bumbershoot, every Labor Day. Folklife is my favorite--a free (donations suggested) and crazy display of every type of music. Aging hippies are much in evidence, with their folk groups of banjo, guitars and--choose one from each column--washboard, fiddle, bass, tambourine, mandolin, autoharp. But equally present are ethnically-inclined groups--Polish, African, Peruvian (same guys as pictured in earlier post), Celtic, Hawaiian. Then there are the solo players--the ones with a violin and its open case. Or weirder instruments made often of gourds. The Hurdy Gurdy men, who, when I casually threw out the first line of the Donovan hit, replied, "but we don't come singing songs of love." If you get that reference, you're a boomer.

Folklife is fabulously ad hoc. Anyone can come with an instrument, or a group, and just plunk himself down anywhere and start playing to an appreciative audience. This invites a lunatic panoply of participants. Many have matted hair. Lots sport Goth black leather and spikes. Tie-dye is de rigeur. National costumes from Norway and Nigeria are equally in evidence.

In the middle of the huge complex called Seattle Center is the International Fountain, a two-story tall silver ball in the vortex of a shallow concrete bowl several hundred yards wide. The wonderful trick of the International Fountain is that it sprays water from many holes in the silver orb, at unpredictable intervals. The arcs of water make designs in the sky, and create an exciting game for all who venture it. You run toward the sphere to touch it, trying to avoid being drenched by a strong stream of water. Most people get completely soaked, but they're all laughing. Two-year-olds and senior citizens both sprint toward the center. It used to be that the fountain's squirt was calibrated by computer to music from various parts of the world--thus the International Fountain. Lately, however, the miss-the-stream-of-water game has had only giggles for accompaniment.

One Hundred Sixty vendors' booths share the cacophany. Most are hippie independent crafts people peddling their pottery, leather goods, tie-dye masterpieces and photography, but a large number offer imported goods. I love the Guatemalan textiles, the artist of dogs in tu-tus, and the rainbow-hued boiled wool shoes. This year, I bought some squiggly-cut wooden utensils for my kitchen.

If you don't require kosher food, you have a world of tastes to sample. For some reason, everything mango was popular this year. This is not the usual carnival food--no, here you find crepes next to African dishes next to northwest salmon. Most everything was vegetarian, though. This is Seattle.

My favorite activities at Folklife can be done simultaneously. Just noticing the people there fills me with delight. They gather in clusters around the musicians positioned every ten feet or so. As the viewers smile, tap their feet, or grope for a few coins to throw in a hard-shell instrument case, they become part of the show. Nearby, a young woman who made herself into a wings-to-toe white-clad fairy stands motionless on a pedestal until someone drops coins in her box--at which time she startles all with a series of jiggles.

From jiggles to juggles, as an astounding foursome combines acrobatics with flinging pins, swords and flaming batons, bringing oohs and ahhs from an impressed crowd. Face painters, henna-appliers, and balloon-animal creators all captivate children and their delighted parents. The International Fountain is ringed by hundreds of people, each one an observable and fascinating sight. So I combine my fun--watching people, listening to performers and--photographing it all, very subtly.

Life is always a show, but here at the Folklife festival, everyone feels freer and more joyful about making his or her own two feet of space on this earth into a stage.