Truth, Beauty And The Yuck Factor

When I was in 4^th grade, the art teacher instructed us to draw a dragon. It didn’t take me a long time to finish the assignment, so I handed it in, took a book out of my desk and proceeded to read until the school bell rang. As I gathered my supplies, the teacher asked me to stay. I stood at her desk. She held up my dragon and said, “This is the worst piece of art I have ever seen.” She was probably right, but I thought it was beautiful.

Art is a value judgment. As a matter of fact, good art is not always aesthetically appealing to viewers. Obviously, mine was neither good nor appealing. However, I wonder what my art teacher would have thought of Tracey Emin’s exhibit, My Bed (1998).  It was the actual messy bed where she slept and engaged in various activities that involved the secretion of body fluids. The bloody and semen soiled bed was exhibited in the Tate Gallery in 1999, won a prize, and was later purchased for a great deal of money. It brought fame and fortune to Emin, but I don’t know if she used the money to buy new sheets. A work of art exists in the mind of the creator, but sometimes it is okay to ask, “What in the world were you thinking?”

I have been privileged to befriend several artists over the years, and recognize that they see the world with unique vision---different from the rest of us. Artists see lights and shadows, color and forms, shapes, textures, line patterns and various materials which, combined with a wide range of ideas and feeling, contributes to the overall meaning of their finished work. I have visited art galleries all over the world, and maybe because I don’t have the gift, I have a keen appreciation of the remarkable talent of truly great artists, whose work can bring tears to my eyes. Sometimes, I enjoy just sitting on a bench admiring an inspired creation.

Recently, a friend invited me to join her to view a special museum exhibit of “Modern Work.”  When I entered the first gallery, I saw some scaffolding with paint cans on top, and asked the attendant, “Are you remodeling this gallery?” “No,” he replied. “That’s a work of art, but you can walk under it.” “Is the hole in the wall and the plaster on the floor part of his exhibit?” I asked. “No,” replied the attendant, “That’s the work of a different artist.” I couldn’t say, “My kindergartener could do better than that,” but I could have said, “ A demolition crew-----!

The next artist gave us 6 framed bottle caps accompanied by 6 matching framed bottle openers. He didn’t paint them. He framed them. I’m not sure his was a quest for knowledge as much as a quenching of thirst, and I got the message that he prefers imported beer. I don’t think that bottle caps and openers will stand the test of time, but then famous works are also often misunderstood.

Martin Kippenberger’s $1.1 million “When it Starts Dripping from the Ceiling” in the Ostwall Museum in Germany was damaged when a cleaning woman scrubbed away a painted rain puddle beneath a rubber trough placed under a stacked tower of wooden slats. Obviously, his work made an impression on her. The final exhibit in my tour of the “Modern Works” was indeed bizarre. Some people say that “Art is in the eye of the beholder,” but not in this case. Five plaster casts of a man’s male organ were placed on five books. I have heard of thumbing your way through the pages, but not in this case.  I don’t know if the artist used his own anatomy for the plaster casts, but if he did, I do know--- he wasn’t Jewish!

Esther Blumenfeld (My dragon wasn’t that bad after all)

The Ultimate "Do Not Call" List

Once a week, I volunteer my time manning the front desk at the office of a worthy organization. My duties include answering phones, handling paperwork and computer data entry. This computer work involves browsing newspaper obituary columns in order to remove names of the deceased, so they won’t receive any more solicitation requests. 

I call this my “Pearly Gates Do Not Call List”. It’s an extreme way to avoid annoying telephone calls, but it does work. Sometimes, when I have a few extra moments, I read some of these obituaries. Newspaper editors used to assign this column to fledgling reporters, but now, unless you are well known, most obituaries are written by family members, and the column is as good as either the writer or the former relationship.

Woody Allen is credited for saying, “Comedy is tragedy plus time,” but sometimes you don’t have to wait that long. When the founder of JUNIORS, a famous restaurant in New York died, the New York Times printed his cheesecake recipe as part of his obit---unusual, but a delicious way to be remembered.

As a cautionary note: Maybe trying to make sense of your life isn’t such a good idea, but be careful who illustrates it for you. Here, then, are some actual quotes from some of the obituary columns that I collected.  Out of respect, and not wanting to be pilloried, I changed the names of the deceased.

  “At 102, Mildred was preceded in death by her parents”.

   “Bert died because he refused to drink water while running a marathon race.”

   “Trixie enjoyed throwing surprise parties and whipping men around the dance floor.”

   “The joys of Bubba’s life were his Pontiac, country western dancing, and flirting.”

  “Al will now meet his Maker with a golf club in his hand.”

   “Our loving Grandmother will be missed by all of her grandchildren, who she called her ‘Little Boogers”’.

  " Rick was on garbage detail at Camp Lejeune, and met his wife after hitting her dog, Buster with his car. Buster is the surviving member of the family.”

 Clarence Darrow said, “I have never killed a man, but I have read many obituaries with great pleasure.”

Esther Blumenfeld (“Pore Jud Is Daid”)

Afternoon Tea

Last week, I thought I had purchased a can of tea from China.  It was sitting on the store shelf with all of the other teas. The can was green with writing that looked Chinese to me.

When I got home, I boiled some water, and after fifteen minutes of steeping the leaves, I poured myself a cup. The tea was colorless, and tasted like extremely weak chicken soup. 

Maybe authentic Chinese tea is supposed to taste like chicken soup. Or, maybe, the long strand of human hair, which was part of the treat, came from the head of a Chinese chicken farmer. Or, maybe it wasn’t Chinese tea after all. Maybe it was tea from Korea. They drink tea in Korea, and I don’t read Korean either.

The choices we make in life can be so difficult. You might ask, “How could you drink a cup of anything that contained a human hair?” I had boiled the water, and didn’t find the hair until it had wrapped itself around my tongue.

No! I did not panic. The water had been boiled. And, No! I did not die from sipping on an oriental hair. Who knows? Maybe Chinese or Koreans use hair in their tea-soup instead of noodles.

However, from now on, I will stick to English Breakfast Tea. Maybe, next time I will find a crumpet.

Esther Blumenfeld (finger sandwiches…if you dare!)

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Webster defines the word “association” as an act of: ”associating, co-operation, fellowship, community, agreement, friendliness, partnership and camaraderie.”Obviously, he never lived in a house that included a homeowner association, or he would have added, “kerfuffle and brouhaha.”

Since 1964, homeowner associations have become a common irritant in the USA. In 2010, the Community Associations Institute estimated that HOAs governed 24.8 million American homes and 62 million residents. Associations provide services, compel homeowners to pay a share of common expenses, regulate activities, levy assessments and may, depending on state legislatures, impose fines. Association boards may appoint corporate officers, or officers may be elected by the membership---and then they have meetings---lot of contentious meetings.

Another survey, conducted by a home improvement trade organization of over 3000 people, discovered that two-thirds of the residents found their HOAs annoying, and 19% were in a declared “war” with their HOA. 54% said they’d rather live next to a “sloppy” neighbor than deal with their HOA. The problem in a nutshell is that neighbors are telling neighbors what they can and cannot do with their property. The only way it might work is if a disinterested management company is hired to do the dirty work, but then the board has to agree that everyone follow the rules.

So who in their right mind would agree to serve on an HOA board of directors? Absolutely no one! However, sometimes, unsuspecting lambs are led to neighborhood slaughter by being convinced they can provide an appreciated service.

A year after moving into my neighborhood, I agreed to serve as secretary on our HOA board with four old codgers who nurtured a long-time grudge against each other. After the first deluge of profanity, I brought a tape recorder to meetings. That helped with the language problem but not the dancing. When someone suggested that all homeowners should pay for their own water, one of the old guys did a Rumpelstiltskin jig screaming they’d have to take him out in a body bag first. He ended up paying for his water but not the baggie. I quit after a cocktail hour call from a woman accusing me of taking away her First Amendment rights. I never did find out what she was yelling about.

So here is the rationale that prompts people to seek this masochistic job:

Everyone should follow the rules to get along.

Everyone should follow the rules except me.

We should have no rules

We should save association money for a rainy day.

It doesn’t rain that much here, so we should spend all the money.

I used to be a school crossing guard, so I want that power again.

We need to hire professionals to fix things.

I am very handy and can fix anything with chewing gum.

I have been sent by a Higher Authority to save this neighborhood.

 I miss kindergarten and enjoy throwing tantrums.

Esther Blumenfeld (hermits have the right idea)

Let's Talk

The art of conversation has become a technological hodgepodge of texting, twittering and tweets that can all be organized with a hash tag. No eye contact is required. It’s communicating with your mouth shut starting with e-mails. Looking at the bright side, this is technologies revenge on those who never wrote a letter home. For people who are really into developing their thumbs, there is even a U.S. National Texting Competition.

For those of us who enjoy talking, there are still telephones that, for the time being, still include this capability. However, I recently found out that a person has to be very careful when actually speaking aloud.

A few weeks ago, I was chatting on my (land line GASP!) telephone with a friend. Suddenly, her voice sounded as if she had her head in a bucket. I probably should have asked her if she was washing her floor, but instead, I said, “I can’t believe your brother-in-law has stayed with you for a month. Why don’t you tell him to go home?” After a moment of silence, my friend said, “Because you just did.” Unbeknownst to me, she had switched to speakerphone to clean up his spilled Cheerios. Speakerphone. Whoever came up with that miserable invention? It is just a distant relative to the old fashioned party line which was much more fun anyway.

When I was a kid, we shared a phone line with a bunch of other people, and I could listen in on all of their conversations. When mother said, “Get off the phone,” it didn’t necessarily mean I was talking to anyone, but it honed my listening skills.

Call waiting is another annoying invention. The same person, who complains about being put on hold while waiting for a computer geek to answer, doesn’t hesitate to put me on hold when receiving another call. Admittedly, the new caller might be more interesting than I am, but when put on “Hold” I hang up.

And, what’s up with the friend who calls me on her cell phone to tell me that she can’t talk because she’s out of range and then everything goes silent. Why did she call me?

Smart computer innovators have now made it possible to see the person you are talking to on your computer screen. That is a nice feature, if you haven’t just stepped out of the shower.  One day, my son called and said, “Hey, Mom, what are you doing?” I held up the toilet brush and replied, “Guess!”

Esther Blumenfeld (call me sometime)