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One of the things I miss about the east coast is lilacs. On the east coast they bloom in great lavender and white clouds hanging in the trees, floral clouds shipwrecked in masses of branches and lush foliage. In southern California, it's possible to get lilacs from florists and grocers at great expense for a month or two in the spring. I get mine from Mrs. Ha of Ha Family Farm, growers of the most delicious apples I've ever tasted. I guess Mr. Ha grows the apples and Mrs. Ha tends to the lilacs (and also lovely peonies... ). If I get to the farmer's market early enough on Sundays, I can buy lilacs from Mrs. Ha for maybe three weeks. Their farm is in the mountains, so the cooler conditions there make the lilacs I know from my east coast upbringing, not the strange bloom known as the California lilac. Those pictured above are from this past spring. When I took this picture, I was excited to post it right away, but I just haven't been engaged with posting things here as much as I'd like to be this summer. But anyway, the scent of lilac is my madeleine. It intoxicates me with memory and also brings me immediately into that aromatic instant of wanting to keep breathing in and to never, ever have to stop to exhale, grounding me in my history and my present at once. Thank you, Garry, for urging me to post something today...
I just stood in the middle of my street for a while. I hadn't ever done that. I had parked my car, and I meant to cross the street to my house. I looked to my left to make sure there was no traffic and was stopped in my tracks by the sight of a fat moon that had just risen above the crest of the small hill that rises away from my house. The round moon was framed by two bushy trees on either side of the street. The trees were in silhouette against the cloudless, steel blue sky, and the fat, round moon just glowed and glowed at me, just for me.
Jed Ceasar at Suzanne Vielmetter
Sam Durant at Blum & Poe
Kim McCarty at Lightbox
(Stopped in to say hello to Drew and Flora and Justin at the Mandrake and then saw... )
Manfred Pernice at Regen Projects
Alexis Smith at Margo Leavin
Hanne Darboven, Evan Holloway, Jason Meadows, and Matteo Tanatt at Marc Foxx
Chris Finley (and a wonderful Bill Jensen) at ACME
Can't wait to read Bruce Hainley's feature on Mr. Johnson.
Robert Frank (American, born Switzerland, 1924)Rodeo, New York City, 1955
Gelatin silver print; 13 x 9 1/16 in. (33 x 23 cm)
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
Gift of Barbara and Eugene Schwartz, 1992 (1992.5162.3)
A hundred years ago (some time in the late nineties, I guess... ), my friend Jacob Hartman set forth on a quest for the Best Summer Ever. He organized all kinds of outings and games and cookouts and sundry stuff to do. I don't think I participated in many of his events, probably being -- just like when I feigned various illnesses to avoid swimming lessons as a child at camp -- too depressed, busy, angry, preoccupied, etc. to join in. Or maybe I just didn't get the invitations... Even so, I remember Jacob's funny smile as he would chant the refrain "Best Summer Ever" before or after pitching one or another invitation or rattling off a recap of a recent gathering. Ever since, as summer approaches each year, I start hearing Jacob's voice in my mind, and I regret that I really didn't have the best summer ever. Not that year. And, each year, I hear myself say it to one person or another, that this will be the Best Summer Ever. "B.S.E.", I say. I mean it, but I always also hear some cynicism in my tone. Or maybe it's melancholy, or some of that regret I mentioned before. Sitting around with a bunch of friends the other night beginning to plan our annual camping trip, the Best Summer Ever refrain was intoned yet again. I think it's going to happen. I have a nice feeling about this summer. Maybe it's the fact that we are having a mild spring, with the birds chirping like mad and the sky that heavy, endless blue, and the nights still chilly. Or maybe I'm finally lucky enough to have a little bit of Jacob's magical optimism.
