On my way to Ladybird Lake I couldn’t help noticing a smorgasbord of visual art dotting South Lamar. This photo essay is certainly an advertisement for the South Austin Museum of Popular Culture and bridges new and “classic” Austin. Next time I’ll look inside. I’m not sure West or North Austin can compete with South and East, but I’ll take my camera out someday and see.
Late to the party, I only recently heard about A is Red, drummer Don Harvey’s new collaboration with: Glenn Fukunaga–bass, Stefano Intelisano–Keyboards, Kullen Fuchs-Vibes, trumpet, Kevin Flatt–Trumpet, and Adam Sultan-Guitar. The Continental Club Gallery is the upstairs companion to the Continental Club with a nice wall of windows overlooking downtown Austin. It was a small space for a big sound, rolling over the audience in thunderous aural waves, courtesy of A is Red. Their music is described variously as jazz, fusion, world and soul but given its sensual impact and bouts of restrained cacophony, I’ll call it Kundalini jazz. Great mind/body sensations: serpentine textures created by unexpected pairings of trumpet, guitar, electric piano and vibes buoyed by melodic bass and drum syncopation energized and awakened attentive fans. I was held suspended like a bee in amber by music flowing around me like sweet, hard candy. In the end I moseyed home, uplifted and refreshed by a group of fine musicians who will continue to dazzle and surprise on Monday nights at the Continental Club Gallery. I’d like to see them at the Elephant Room in summer, underground in another cool cave on Congress and look forward in anticipation to new compositions from Harvey et al.
Art blooms on walls, in the river and in the streets of East Austin this Easter.
The Nelson-Atkins Art Museum in Kansas, City, Missouri takes an elegant approach to showcasing its collection. We skipped the Impressionists exhibit in favor of the American Indian, Modern and Contemporary, the Chinese and Japanese art and the Photography collections. Here is a glimpse of what they have to offer.
Kansas City has a vibrant art and music scene, with many fine murals and a good combination of traditional and imaginative architecture. Although we didn’t find the perfect barbecue, we had a few good meals and listened to a rockin’ zydeco band, Blue Orleans at BB’s Lawnside and Bar B Que. I didn’t bring my camera to the club but the joint was jumping and I would certainly go back again. We stayed at the Raphael Hotel, a grand dame from the 1920’s and enjoyed walking around the Crossroads before going out to the Power and Light district downtown for First Friday. There were a few too many cartoon character sculptures for my taste but all in all, good times. So for now, Goodbye to Kansas City, New York City here we come.
Back in my old neighborhood, enjoying the music with those who dared not venture downtown. I was certainly in my demographic, probably mostly locals out for a spin. Starting with a glass of white Bordeaux at Enoteca and stopping in at Perla’s helped keep us cool between stops. Alejandro Escovedo is always worth fighting the crowd to see. Forgive the shaky video, it’s worth hearing a snippet of Alejandro and the Orchestra.
Shown in the gallery of photos below, Sophia, a young violinist, stood in front of Vespaio playing for contributions to MS research. Her mother has MS and Sophia will ride from Houston to Austin to raise money with the hope of contributing to a cure. Please check Sofia’s website for information on how to contribute to efforts to combat Multiple Sclerosis.
Walking into the Chicago Art Institute was like walking into a textbook. The sheer number of iconic paintings was dizzying. Unfortunately, we left without seeing the photography exhibit, the new media exhibit or Native American art, which I will save for future visits. The Impressionist exhibit alone was life altering. As I said in Facebook, “Art was pouring out of my eyes” when we left the gallery. Chicago has a lot of character. It will take me many visits to feel like I know what this city is about.
On the way back from Uvalde, Texas, after our journey through the underworld in the Caves of Sonora, Bill and I made a delightful discovery in Castroville, an Alsatian community and artists’ enclave with an incredible European restaurant. Although there were some nice rolling hills and scenic vistas on the drive between Sonora and Uvalde, the towns we passed through were a hodgepodge of trailers, decaying and abandoned homes and trucks, unplanned and untended communities. From Devil’s Sinkhole to dry devil’s creek, river; this was devil’s country. Uvalde had a few attractive buildings and some evidence of life, certainly enough fast food joints but other than the” little gallery that could”, The Art Lab, the experience was forgettable.
It was such a pleasure to roll into Castroville. Right away, the layout and feel of the town was picturesque, European, tidy. OK, I betray my roots, I like aesthetically planned communities. The sloping roofs and old country feel of the homes brought back memories of Bavaria. I include shots of the city in the gallery below. The Old Alsatian Steakhouse and Ristorante will be reviewed in the Dining section of this site. Suffice it to say, it was a rare gem. More trips to Castroville are in the cards.
In 2002, about 10 years after my first yoga experience, I decided I wanted to go into yoga teacher training. A lot had changed in my yoga practice over the last 10 years. I was aware of so many transformations in my life that I decided I wanted to share these teachings and these tools with others so they could make choices to help them heal, physically or otherwise. This was not an easy decision for me. I wasn’t sure I was really ready to be a teacher. But I was sure I wanted to at least go through the training, if I was meant to teach, it would happen.
The biggest transformation in my practice happened when I was studying in France in 2000. Every student had a family they stayed with while studying abroad. I believe I was placed in a household that uniquely fit my personality and life. My first hours there weren’t so great, as I cried because I was stuck at the train station after every person had been picked up and my family had apparently forgotten me. When my French mother arrived, she spoke no English and I understood about every 20th word. I thought, “What have I gotten myself into?” All of a sudden I understood the word yoga! HAHA! I know that word. I do yoga. “Je fais de yoga!” I shouted. She smiled at me with this look of all is going to be OK. We couldn’t understand one another yet, but we had yoga in common.
When we arrived at the house, there it was – a yoga studio. Beatrice was a yoga teacher. I smiled. I was taken to my room, which was uncluttered with just a bed. a wardrobe and a desk. Beatrice said something about yoga in the morning. I wasn’t quite sure exactly what she said.
In the days that followed I figured out she was doing yoga in the studio every morning. I was still practicing in my room. I felt I wasn’t suited to join her in her yoga studio. I mean seriously, she was a teacher. I had been doing yoga on and off for many years, but she was a teacher. She must be brilliant and what would she think of my practice?
I would come and go from the house when I needed to and I would notice there were classes going on from time to time. Eventually she spoke to me about my practice. It was a slow conversation as we were trying hard, but the French I knew was so limited. I’m sure she felt like she was talking to a toddler. But we got through the conversation which led me to believe she wanted me to join her in the morning I got up and made my way down to the studio the next morning, unaware of what she was expecting. Was I supposed to do my own practice or what? She was already moving. I noticed her moving in a way I had not seen with other yoga teachers. She moved in rhythm with her breath reminding me a bit of a sheet fluffing when the air catches under it and moves it to lie on the bed in the perfect position. I watched and noticed positions that looked familiar yet slightly varied from what I had been taught in my classes.
When Beatrice finished moving she sat in stillness, breathing in way that felt to me like she was taking one breath per minute for about 1/2 hour. I wondered why I had never been told about all this breathing stuff. I mean really, here it was about 8 years of yoga classes and not once had a teacher spoken to me about the breath or how to breathe. It’s part of life. Right? I breathe everyday or I wouldn’t be walking around. I have asthma, but for the most part, I breathe like everyone else. Beatrice spent several mornings showing me how to move through asanas (postures) with my breath. Connect!
This was completely new to me. It was if I never took yoga before. I could move the way she wanted my body to move. I had body awareness. But she had this way of taking the postures and bringing more to it. There was movement within the asana and then there was stillness, which never meant not moving because the breath was always moving me. Why had I not noticed this breath stuff before?
So after some time, I developed my morning practice, moving through some asanas that prepared my body to sit and breathe! It was amazing to me how this awareness of breath seemed to make me really tune in. I could follow my breath through my body. I could notice areas where I lacked awareness of breath movement. I was able to breath freely! My breath wasn’t constricted to my chest, it moved all through my body.
Beatrice had shared these tools with me. And although yoga is sacred, it is not a secret. I was and am so fortunate that someone was willing to share her knowledge with me.
When I returned to Austin, I looked for a teacher who moved me in the same way. I needed to find a teacher who talked about breath and knew that asanas were only a tool if they worked to help support the breath and the body that I was living in. I kept practicing what Beatrice shared with me. It was limited since our time together was limited, but it was a good base to build from. The foundation was laid; I just need the right architect.
I went from class to class, teacher to teacher, never connecting to anyone until I went into my teacher training. The second weekend we had a class on Pranayama. Pranayama is breath control. I was excited about this class. Heather Kier walked in and once again, I found a teacher! Heather moved in similar ways to Beatrice and talked about the breath as if it were the most important part of the yoga practice. I was hooked. I spent the next few years going to her classes and taking private lessons.
Heather had trained for 6 years with Gary Kraftsow and Mirka Kraftsow at the American Viniyoga Institute. The more she shared with me, the less I felt I knew about yoga. (And I must admit I still feel this way today.) For me, since my first lessons with Beatrice, I noticed that I wasn’t having asthma attacks and I wasn’t having panic attacks anymore. Life seemed like it was less threatening and frightening. It was becoming more beautiful and a bit easier. Not easy, just easier. And people were asking me “How do you stay so calm?” and “I don’t know how you do it, but you should teach me how to let go.” “Could I teach them how to let go?” I wondered. I wasn’t sure I could, but a lot of this led me to step up and try.
Because of Beatrice, I wanted better teachers and I was led to Heather. Heather’s teaching led me to Gary and Mirka Kraftsow. Going to workshops with Gary changed every idea I had about yoga and what it was about.
I do not believe it was an accident that these people were placed in my life when they were. They came when I was ready to receive what they had to offer and I am grateful. Each of these teachers is present in my life and my teaching even though I do not have them by my side every day in the physical sense. Their words resonate in my head and lead me to accept each opportunity that comes my way. They lead me through my practice each morning and guide me through the classes I teach.
“Just Kids” brought the early years back to me, when I discovered Patti Smith, back when the Armadillo, the Austin Opry House, Club Foot, Liberty Lunch brought in The Talking Heads, Echo and the Bunnymen, Devo, The Clash, Willie Dixon, Grace Jones, young enough to ride the wave, own the city – mi vida loca. Those years were full of light and shadow, music, art, poetry, rage, love and wisdom. Now I watch the fire’s flame, time winding through my thoughts in a spiral, bringing me to a forgotten stairway in my mind.
The journey, taken alone, with friends and lovers, into the penumbral landscape of the unconscious, dreaming life into being. The realm of the poet, who trusts the power of the word to re-cognize that which is so strangely familiar. The surrealist visionary composer playing piano on the easel of your mind’s eye can tell you which way is up, down, all around. Taking refuge in the hub stops the spinning wheel from tearing the veil from mystery’s dark eyes, rimmed with light, keeping the world in balance. The passion for justice, serving up a slice of the pie to the soul standing on the corner begging for some small act of kindness from a stranger.
Like Ghandi waiting for the world to awaken. The dark hours before the dawn hold treasures for those who are listening. Hearing the silence shaping sound and vision, creating space in time, cresting like a wave into consciousness. Horses running in from all directions, with their nose in flames.
Riding down Congress Avenue in the summer heat on my bike -my horse- weaving through traffic to go for a cool plunge into the icy waters of Barton Springs. Tribal dancing, fence shaking at Auditorium Shores with Stevie Ray Vaughn‘s guitar voodoo, once in a lifetime with Talking Heads at Fiesta Shores
Art claimed me as it did Robert Mapplethorpe and Patti Smith. Working at Dixie’s Bar and Bus Stop, Amdur Gallery, Cafe Brasil, dancing at night, traveling cross country
with a black dog and a yellow cat, painting, writing, loving and riding, a leaner me in a smaller town. The stories came freely, traded with bands of gypsies, the empress and the fool loving on the razor’s edge that cut so deep. Like a moth, I gave myself to the flame. It consumed, it resurrected it cast long shadows and shed light in my dark places. I rose many times from this pyre, shedding words like feathers from my blackened body, sharing the light still dawning in my heart. And in moments of loving union, in the moment of leaving this world for the next, I say hello and goodbye to this sweet dream.