War Horse

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If you have heard of the multiple-Tony winning play, War Horse, you have probably been wondering why it has taken me so long to mention it. Naturally, I had long indulged in fantasies about whirlwind trips to New York to take in this production.  Many years ago, The Husband and I had the good fortune to see a staged version of the Tolstoy story, "Strider." it was beautifully staged and incredibly moving. It was  amazing to see Strider, the horse, so eloquently brought to life by a two-legged creature. It sounds as though it couldn't work, but believe me it did. I knew I would appreciate War Horse.

I wasn't completely surprised by the profound effectiveness of the illusion because of a previous theatre experience. Much earlier in my life, I had seen a Ballet Folklorico troupe out of Mexico City and included on the bill was a number titled "The Deer Dance." I rank that as one of my all time favorite theatre experiences. I never saw anything on stage in Los Angeles, New York, or London to top the emotional impact of the two dancers playing out the chase and ultimate demise of the deer along with the hunter's reverence for his prey.

The troupe performed in quite a large venue and when the dance ended, there was a brief moment of stunned silence, then a crowd of more than a thousand people leaped to their feet to bring down the rafters with thunderous applause that didn't want to come to an end. I lost track of the number of curtain calls. No one wanted the magic to end. The performance was wrenching, poetic, and has forever haunted my thoughts.

I have no doubts that War Horse, the stage production, would make for more wonderful memories. Of course, a cross country airplane trip now is about as realistic as climbing that peak in the Andes. But, wait! dum te dum! Steven Spielberg to the rescue!  A few weeks ago, I had read in one of the many horse magazines that come to our house that the film adaptation of the play is scheduled for release either Christmas or early next year. Theatre seats and I don't get along, so I will have to wait for a delayed gift from Mr. S. And, yes, the puppeteers from the play have been replaced by real horses, but the trailer already has my little horse-loving heart going pitty-pat.

If you haven't seen the trailer, check it out here.  I may not watch this film as many times as I have seen The Black Stallion—Caleb Deschanel's cinematography was inspired—but War Horse has made it to my must-see list.

By the way, the image here was included in the Bear Valley Springs Art Show last spring.

Or, Fat and Happy Hens

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No sooner did I whine about never getting a remotely salvageable picture of quail, then I got my best opportunity to date. Heaven help me if I never improve on this; but, I take it as a hopeful sign. Next time I hope the topknots are visible.

The Husband and I stood inside watching the quail and marveling at how fat they are. I suppose all the fattening up might well indicate that we are in for a long, cold winter. I love watching these birds even if do they thwart my photographic ambitions. There is something about the rhythm of their movements that I find charming and mesmerizing.

I am most often silent on days such as Veteran's Day. Others write eloquent tributes, I am left tongue-tied. The radio station we get devotes a great deal of time to observation of the day and its meaning. I tend to keep the station on all day and appreciate the interviews, music, and tributes. I am grateful that others find words to express what is in my heart and hope you all found a satisfactory way to observe the day.

Overdue Answers on Art Show Adventures

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A while back, Ken asked which pieces of work sold in the recent art shows and here I am finally getting around to the answer. Ken has probably forgotten why he cared to ask, but he is going to get an answer—just not all in one post.

The piece above pre-sold the second show. (I had a couple of prints displayed at the venue as a preview of the show.) Printed on metallic paper, that background was a shimmering gold and made for a piece that was eye-catching. During the first show, I sold two pieces and I could have sworn that I had already posted one of them, "Blue Horse Dreaming"; but, I was dead wrong. The third piece is very new. I will post both of those over the next few days.

About the same time Ken asked his question, PJ asked if I planned to write a bit more about my experience with art shows. Frankly, I hadn't planned to since my experience is extremely limited. But, I have no pride. I will reveal how little I know. I have not pursued juried shows, nor have I submitted to prestigious galleries. Mostly because I am a hard-core realist and recognize that my work doesn't exactly fall in line with what is hot these days. (And maybe because I am chicken.) My work  embodies the opposite of edgy and I have visited enough of the galleries in Los Angeles to see that my work does not come close to fitting in any of those venues. Although they might be the logical market for me, the type of outdoor art shows often done in parks would be far too rigorous an undertaking for me. The galleries in the nearest town are really co-ops. The artists pay for their space along with a commission to the gallery owners.

Both my partner and I felt that the gallery/co-ops weren't our cup of tea. My problem is that the bottom line costs pretty much go through the roof with that arrangement. Most of all, I know myself well enough to know that the predictability of First Friday every month would become routine for me and wear thin. Being in the same place month after month would cease to be fun and stimulating for me. Yes, I am undisciplined in some matters; but, at least,I have learned to face my quirks and work with them.

Although we weren't interested in pursuing the other local opportunities,  neither did the once-a-year Cultural Arts Spring Art Show satisfy our appetites. Ultimately, we decided to make our own opportunities. I am okay with having sold three pieces in three days of shows. My prices are reasonable (I think), but I definitely don't sell myself short. I figure my costs—minus labor, unfortunately, then multiply for a mark-up. I love sharing my work and want it to be accessible; but I am not going to pay people to take my work home with them.

As I had already mentioned, our operation is unsophisticated and not a high profit venture. Hmm. Sounds like me. I have never been in a high-profit business and unsophisticated certainly fits me, as well as the area we live in. In another location, I might do things differently. Who knows? So far, our venture has turned out well. Our "What's-next situation?" suits me. At least for now.

No New Address

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Someone new to my blog might deduce that I live either in a horse barn or somewhere on Highway 58. Nope. I haven't moved. No pun intended there. Calling what I feel "restless" would be a disservice to the English language. At least, I can find a small silver lining. Whenever I can sit at the computer, I do spend time combing through old folders for those files that I passed over for one reason, or another. I am clinging to that old wisdom (or is it wishful thinking): "When one door closes, another opens." Heck, I am up for testing the windows at this point!

Looking forward to the next small show in the teeming community of the Tehachapi Valley, I have purchased some metal easels through Amazon. they are sufficient for my needs, but gee, could they only find beginner welders? Not ready for prime time. Another two easels that The Husband picked for me when he was in LA will have to be returned. They are too heavy for me to handle. It is difficult for him—or anyone else—to imagine how little weight I can muscle around.

Since the latest two purchases are a bust, I am reluctantly returning to the Internet solution. The easels are to help me be more independent with my little art show obsession, and I am still a couple short. I have a little time to research, but burn out pretty quickly shopping online. Let's face it. I burn out quickly with any sort of shopping. It is a nasty chore.

Like a Hawk

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Off and on for quite while, I had grieved over our loss of Betty. For a little history of Betty, see the Bitchin' Betty post. Finally, another hawk appears to have taken official ownership of Betty's perch on our roof. This fellow is big, aggressive, and appears rather young. Just this morning, I watched him drive another hawk of "his" fence south of the house. Yes, it seems this fine-feathered friend of ours has declared our fence his territory and that effectively makes the large open space west of our house his hunting ground.

Later, when I took this photograph, the hawk sat on the roof occasionally showing me those yellow eyes that you don't forget once you look into them. Periodically, he calmly checked on me, uttering that "guh-runk" I had never heard. If this fellow had let rip one of the shrieks for which these the Red- tailed Hawks are famous, I would have immediately abandoned my post. There is a reason that movie makers almost always use the screech of these hawks when they want any sort of raptor to curdle blood.

In spite of some interest in keeping track of me, this hawk was mostly attentive to signs of movement in the grass below. Eventually, when he flew away, he soared all the way to the edge of the road. That means his prey was at least one hundred yards away. Makes you think about that phrase watching like hawk.

Abandoned

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Once again, I saw this scene played out on Saturday. Poor Lancer was the one left behind. When The Husband and Night leave on foot, the chestnut is agitated and thunders around the pasture, bugling and expressing what feels like a mixture of panic and rage. Neither of the horses handles being left behind with grace. But, eventually, the panic subsides, the futility of the rage dawns, and whoever is left behind returns to grazing.

But, trust me, they know what a trailer means. When one's buddy is drawn away in that white metal box, it is serious business. There is genuine doubt as to whether the departing animal will return. Not only do the panic and rage run their course sooner, but, for Lancer, in particular, the deep anxiety and despair set in. Saturday was typical. At first he ran full out around the pasture, a frantic hell-for-leather version of nervous pacing. When he returned to the gate he began the weaving (shifting weight from one front leg to the other) until he was exhausted, then with his gaze fastened on the road, he whinnied, not those soft whinnies you get as a greeting, or those short, impatient whinnies that say "where is my hay?", but great body-shaking whinnies, that come from somewhere deep in the gut.

Then he stationed himself at the pasture gate—the gate that Night had exited earlier—and watched. Watched, and listened for signs that his abandonment was not permanent.  Attempts to distract him were met with impatience. Carrots earned only mild interest.  He briefly interrupted his vigil a few times only to get a drink of water and grab a quick bite of his virtually untouched breakfast.  From 7:00 AM until 5:00 PM he maintained his vigil. Standing. Waiting.

My heart hurts for them when they go through this. While animals are blessed with so many skills superior to our own, they are not equipped to deal with these human-engineered separations. Having other horses a pasture away is not enough. They want their buddy nearby. It is partially a matter of instinct. Like most prey animals, horses feel safer with their herd. They also form attachments. Some recent studies have indicated that horses may recognize other horses with whom they were associated many years before. That isn't surprising when you consider how many dogs cover hundreds of miles to find their owners. Whatever science may be able to demonstrate, you could never convince horse owner that these animals don't form deep attachments.

Our horses pick at one another like a couple little boys. They fuss, kick, and nip, lay ears back, and threaten mayhem. At times, you would swear they are mortal enemies. But, when abandoned, each is distraught. I always wish I could explain and assure the animal left behind that the separation is temporary. But, there is no reasoning with an animal separated from what has become family. It is painful to watch.

When Night finally came through the gate, he and Lancer touched noses and had a little horse hug (heads thrown over necks) before they set about their usual horse business of rolling in the dirt, eating—and fussing at one another.

Celebrations and Nostalgia

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This post has nothing to do with photography—it is strictly personal and reaches into my recent past. But, since this is on my mind and I am in blabbermouth mode, I am not going to sit on it any longer.

On occasion, I have mentioned, here, that I taught film acting and ran an actors' studio in Los Angeles for three decades. Having been retired less than four years, I haven't yet fully completed my long period of mourning for what I gave up. I may have left the life behind, but it will always be a major part of who am I am and it will always occupy a large and special part of my heart.

So here is the story. You have probably heard of the new DreamWorks film, The Help, based, of course, on the runaway hit novel by the same name. Well, it happens that the screenplay writer and director of that film is one of my students and the actress, Octavia Spencer, who plays Minny, also studied with me. No doubt, you will hear a great deal more about these two in the months and years to come and every time they make the news, you can bet that I will be bursting with happiness for two exceptionally talented, hard-working people—two people I adore.

I loved teaching with a passion that was difficult to put aside. Life changes—even the good ones—can be painful. Every time that phone rings and it is an actor asking about coaching, I feel a little ache in my heart. I begin wondering, again, if leaving was a mistake and I have a day or two of wistful thinking about the joys of watching talent blossom.

But, that was another life in another place. Now, I am that retired teacher who basks in the pleasure of memories and celebrates the triumphs of my precious students from a distance. It was a gift to have witnessed the journey of so many talented individuals. They taught me so very much and I will always be grateful. People often ask me if I have any children. I frequently quip, "No, but I sure borrowed a bunch."