clarahsu – Page 38

Angar Mora and the Wow! Art Salon

I met Angar Mora a few years ago through Al Averbach, who invited me to the Arriverderci Cafe in San Rafael to attend an “unusual” salon. Before we went Al sent me a flyer that has specific instructions on arrival time, order time, dining time, discussion time, feature time, etc. Everything was planned down to the minute. Al said he had not met Angar, but had only talked to him on the phone. Angar had an accent that he could not place.

A tall, gaunt man with a pageboy haircut greeted us at the entrance of the Arriverderci Cafe. Angar Mora looked European. His gray hair might have once been blond. It seemed he talked metaphorically and the evening was conducted very much in the same manner. After dinner, we introduced the person sitting next to us by comparing him/her to an object in the room. We listened to Angar’s story of the planet that he came from and the universe that he once belonged to. The evening went on like this, suspenseful, intriguing and exotic.

I have since been back to Angar’s salon many times. Sometimes to read as a feature, sometimes to listen. He always pair a visual artist with a poet. The restaurant walls are filled with artworks that Angar personally put up.

In my mind, I seem to recall Angar once shared his earthly origin, that his Danish family was Rom (gypsy). To escape persecution they changed the last name to Mora. But this is just a story. Like so many he tells, I accept them without question.

Photo by Judy Hardin Cheung

Walt & Emily & the Parking Lot

Emily-&-Walt — Emily Dickinson & Walt Whitman

There were two reasons to drive to the East Bay: to see the sun and attend Jannie Dresser’s Sunday Salon. It was a pleasant 40 minute ride for my friend Jori and I to reach the address in the Oakland Hills.

The topic for the salon was the Godparents of American poetry: Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman. Jannie gave an introduction to Dickinson before we read her poems. Short, terse, and some seemed to be written in codes. We picked a few poems after reading, examined and dissected the sentences to come up with some sensible interpretations. Then moved on to Whitman.

In contrast to Dickinson’s compactness, Whitman’s oratory eloquence took us on a wild ride. Like a broken faucet the words kept coming with such force that by the time the reading stopped I was exhausted. I could see his influence on the Beat Generation and why he was the fountainhead.

With mystic Emily and ultra-extrovert Walt on our minds, we zoomed down the hills and freeway to find the toll plaza before the Bay Bridge a solid parking lot. Jori and I scratched our heads. We would never know what caused the horrendous backup. Stuck in the mire for an hour before we were able to break through, we agreed it was the only disadvantage of driving to the East Bay.

In The Quiet

The milky fog enfolds the city as it has been most of the summer. It is Sunday morning. Outside my kitchen window Felton Street lies soggy from the moisture. I am preparing breakfast, cutting an orange and peeling a banana and missing something. It is the absence of sound.

Felton Street is a bus route. When the number 54 makes its way up the hill it usually gives a good grunt at the stop sign before taking on the next climb. At this moment—and it has been a long moment—not a car has come into view. Not one person is walking in the street. The birds outside and my three cats snuggling in bed are still in dreamland. The day has begun with biblical significance.

The chill in the air, the smell of yesterday’s cooking and the sound of my knife separating the fruits on the chopping board, I think about what I read in a booklet: When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. Or, when the teacher appears, the student is ready. With all things great and small it has been a continuous lesson.

Photo by Andy Stock.

Shaman and Jumping Rice

Hmong International New Year 014 — Shaman with new gong and family. Hmong International New Year 2003, Fresno

When the H’mongs enter Clarion Music Center they go straight to the back where gongs are hung on the walls. They carry a soft mallet and a plastic bowl. A piece of paper with a small hole in the center is held over the bowl by a rubber band. The H’mongs are small in height, sturdy and seasoned by the sun. Most of them work in the farms in Fresno.

They select the gongs with bent edges as if they have been crushed by force. The bowl is placed on a small stool. One man takes a few grains of rice out of his pants pocket and carefully puts them near the hole in the center.

The gong is played one at the time. The H’mongs watch the bowl intently. When there is little activities on the surface of the bowl another gong is selected. They play until the magic begins, when the rice start vibrating and moving toward the hole, then falling into it one by one. The H’mongs are pleased, speak among themselves. When they see me watching they give me a big smile and thumbs up at the gong.

These men are shamans. The gongs are used for healing purpose. Many years ago they came to Clarion in search of their lost gongs. Unable to find their own type of gong they had to buy what the shop carried. Only after many years when one old shaman had enough confidence and courage to share the gong that he brought over from Vietnam was Clarion able to go to China and found a maker to replicate it. Now when the H’mongs come in they try the gongs out like shoppers for new clothes. Sometimes a whole afternoon is spent in finding the right one.

I spent three days in Fresno in 2003 selling the H’mong gongs and participating in the Hmong New Year celebration. It always happen during the week after Christmas and before New Year.

Historical Perspective

Yesterday my friend Andy came over to my father’s house and showed me how to change the light fixtures. It was the first time I put my fingers on electrical wires, matching the right ones, twisting and capping them together. When all was done we declared it a historical day.

My father, being a craft-master, was pleased that his daughter could actually drill holes and put nails on a wall. Somehow during his working years I never learned these practical skills from him. Maybe because he was being protective, or maybe he was a perfectionist and found it frustrating to teach. Even after his stroke he managed to put all kinds of things together by himself. Now that his hands have lost their strength he has to depend on me and my friends.

The stock market lost 500 points yesterday. Wars, famines, disasters everywhere. On my father’s street the dahlias are blooming in all colors. The new lights in his bathrooms are shining brightly.

Vision and Perception

picassobanner3 — Pablo Picasso, La Lecture

Do we see with our eyes or do we see with our mind? Does vision go hand in hand with perception? We arrange objects according to our own aesthetic. What’s big, what’s important, what clutches our hearts are the things we talk about, write about, dance about, paint about. They are the motifs that drive us and we see the world through these lens .

Colors reflect moods. Composition brings the objects of desire to the foreground. Lines are the dance. Art is where the ego manifests itself. There is no apology or humility, and the ones who are brave enough to expose their psyche are the innovators and boundary breakers. This is what I got out of seeing the Picasso collection at the de young museum yesterday.

The Perfume Seller of Sirince

The old man sat inside the entrance of St. John Baptist church in Sirince. He had a wooden tray in front of him. On it were glass vials of different sizes. When I entered he stretched out his hand for mine and put a drop of liquid on my wrist. The scent was exotic. It accompanied me as I walked around the airy interior of the Greek Orthodox church, admiring its simplicity. Before I left I chose a small green vial from him. His leathery face had little expression, but took my five liras (about $3) with a nod. He was busy accommodating other customers, Turkish women tourists, who were able to demand various samples on their wrists.

Sirince is a former Greek village situated near the Aegean coast. A beautiful hideaway in the mountains, it is famous for its local wines, soap making and crafts. The perfume I bought from the old man stayed with me for a long time when I put it on in the morning. Its mysterious mixture always brought me back to Turkey, to the winding cobblestone streets, to the old man. When I went back Sirince the next year I made it a point to look for him.

He wasn’t in the church. But when I walked down to the market place I found him talking to one of my Turkish friends. His wooden tray was folded into a carrying case. A soft bag slung across his shoulder. Upon seeing me the old man took a vial out of the bag and stretched out his hand.

My friend laughed, “He wants to sell you perfume. It’s not Gucci, you know.”

“He has the best perfume in the world.” I replied. “Please ask him to pick out a scent for me.”

The old man handed me a vial.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It is rose.”

photo by Dore Steinberg.

When Music Becomes Noise

Walking out of the Independent last night, the security guard asked if I enjoyed the show. No, I said. The sound was awful.

I was there to hear Yemen Blues, a phenomenal band with the charismatic singer Ravid Kahalani. I heard them at the Jewish Music Festival earlier this year at the Freight and Salvage in Berkeley. They played two shows back to back. I stayed for both of them.

The band is an orchestra of viola, cello, electric bass, percussion, trombone, trumpet and flute, with additional folk instruments like the oud and the gimbri. Their music is complex and flavorful, and Ravid has an incredible range and color in his voice. They are my favorite band of the year.

Last night at the Independent the sound was soupy. The intricacy of the music was lost. The vibrations of the bass shook the floor. The sound of the brass came out unfocused and Ravid’s voice appeared small. I turned to my friend and said the balance was off. She said yes but it was the problem with the sound guy.

That’s it! In our times music is as much as a show of the sound guy as of the band. Many times I was turned off from a show because the sound was intolerable. A good sound person can make or break a band. Granted mixing acoustic and electric instruments and the human voice requires some skills, but there is no excuse for a music venue to have bad sound.

The crowd loved the band well enough. I maybe one of the few sulking. When we accept mediocrity we go on a downward slide, hearing but not listening.

A Change of Wind

My neighbor Dan Brady and his wife Wendy Wolters are moving today. We have been living eight blocks away from each other for six years. Dan and Wendy are both poets. We first met at the Sacred Grounds.

Dan and I like to get together at times to do writing exercises. He is a school teacher so has all kinds of tricks up his sleeves. My brain ached after my first outing with him, having to manipulate a given set of words and using them in a poem. Since then the writing days have been much more enjoyable and fun. One time we went to three different cafes for breakfast, lunch and snacks before putting down our pens on paper.

Sometimes I feel like getting stuck in one place doing the same things every day. Sometimes I feel the wind of fate blowing and recognize the subtle changes in life. Dan took care of my cats when my son was in the hospital. We share rides. He was one of the volunteers who helped in rebuilding the park playground near my house. We had organized many Poets with Trees events, bringing poetry to Sutro and McLaren parks. Now he and Wendy will be settling in a different part of the city. Even though I’ll still see them at readings, I can’t help but feel nostalgic at the good times we had as neighbors.