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Archive for the 'The Sunday Column' Category

Artist makes much ado about nothing

February 1st, 2009, 6:01 am by Tony

Matty Jankowski knows nothing.

And he knows a lot about it.

The idea of ‘nothing’ is something I’ve played with a long time,” he said. “It’s a great debate. It’s a fun, lighthearted conversation.”

The artist’s latest installation was in one of three display windows dedicated to work by the Panama City Artists organization in the breezeway of the Sherman Arcade downtown. His collection of collages, prints, text and found objects was called “Nothing.”

“When they asked me what I was gonna do for the installation, I said, ‘Nothing,’” Matty said. “I had just done ‘Nothing’ about a month or so ago out at Pier Park for the street painting. People worked for hours and days doing their paintings of Renaissance masters and great new artwork, and I wound up doing ‘0+0=0,’ which is nothing.”

He shrugged.

Some mathematicians argue that,” he said.

Matty said he was inspired by reconsidering the work of conceptual artist George Brecht, who died early in December. Brecht was part of the Fluxus movement, which was mischaracterized in part as being “anti-art.”
The central idea — an approach Matty has taken often in art projects and performances — was to make people think about art, what is or isn’t art, and what the use of everyday objects and empty spaces could mean.

“It’s what happens now that you’ve created the space,” he said, “doing things with space, filling space or not filling it.”

Matty pointed out that nothing can be found everywhere. Or rather, it can’t be found, but that absence is proof of its presence. Are you following this?

Never mind. It’s nothing.

Matty, whose most recent work will be part of the annual “Heartbeats” exhibit opening at the Gallery Above on Friday, has worked with nothing before, such as performance pieces involving tattoos from an empty ink machine. As he described the pieces he assembled for Nothing, he outlined how art sometimes manifests itself through the juxtaposition of seemingly unrelated objects, and sometimes through “happy accidents.”

“It isn’t what we planned it to be, but it is what it is, and that’s the bottom line on nothing, I guess,” he said. “It’s what you want it to be.”

Or not.

Peace.

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Navel gazing in a holographic universe

January 25th, 2009, 6:00 am by Tony

There’s a certain sense of relief associated with the idea that our whole universe is nothing more than a hologram projected from a massive 2-dimensional surface. This has been speculated about for some time, but the concept was supported with new data from a German experiment studying gravity, as reported recently by “New Scientist” online.

What that means is that we are, for all intents and purposes, composed of information. Data. And all our info is encoded in the light at the edge of the universe and projected back through space and time — a condition I’m willing to wager means we never cease to exist. All that we are, ever were, or will be is saved in the cosmic data stream.

What that has to do with belly dancing may not be clear at first glance, but follow me here.

I was a guest of the Unitarian Universalist  Church last week, and read a short story likening quantum physics to the art of crochet. (Ask a woman who crochets about chaos theory; she’ll show you her tangled skeins.) Other guests showed off artwork or rug weaving, played jazz piano or read poetry. One group performed a series of belly dances, including a snake dance that sent at least one member of the audience looking for the back door. (See photos of the event here, and watch video of the event here.)

In the midst of reflection, as I sought the invisible connections between all these people and their creative interests in an earlier effort to write this column, I ran across the news above.

The funny thing about holograms is this: All the information that makes up the image is contained in its components; a hologram can be broken into smaller sections and the original image can still be seen from each small piece. (The smaller the segment, however, the less perspective can be achieved in viewing the image.)

So this means that, in a holographic reality, each of us carries within us the whole of the universe — though the view is limited. By extension, our expressions of creativity carry within them an abiding view of the whole of our beings.

It’s a truth with which most artists were already familiar, whether they’re writers, painters, weavers, musicians — or a dancer with jewel in her belly button or a snake on her head.

In the end, it’s more than just navel gazing. Who you are and what you do reflects the universe.

Peace.

Secret Agent man a Prisoner no more

January 18th, 2009, 7:22 am by Tony

It’s been a bad week for fans of genre movies and TV. Patrick McGoohan, creator and star of the cult classic TV series “The Prisoner,” died Tuesday at 80 after a short illness. Ricardo Montalban, star of stage and both the big and small screen, best known for “Fantasy Island” and his role as Khan in “Star Trek,” died Wednesday at 88.

(I was just getting past the passing of Forrest J. Ackerman on Dec. 4. Creator of “Famous Monsters of Filmland” magazine and the comic character Vampirella, “Forry” was the ultimate genre fanboy.)

But let me say a bit more about McGoohan here. His filmography included “Ice Station Zebra,” “Escape from Alcatraz,” “Braveheart,” “A Time to Kill,” and “Secret Agent (aka “Danger Man”), the direct precursor to “The Prisoner.” He won Emmys for his work on “Columbo.”

In my memory, McGoohan will always be the unnamed character known as Number Six in “The Prisoner,” the surreal and cerebral 1960s British series that explored isolation and dehumanization in a super-spy/sci fi environment. Number Six was a former spy held captive in an island resort called The Village, where a mysterious authority, Number Two, tried to get information from him “by hook or by crook.”

Number Six fought in every way he could. He attempted escape, he worked the system, he fomented rebellion among his fellow prisoners. He resisted in ways both subtle and overt, non-violent and violent. He was not willing to bend, and could not be broken.

“I am not a number! I am a free man!” he shouts at the beginning of each episode, a declaration met by laughter from his tormentor.

One of the show’s trademarks was the farewell gesture used by the villagers: Thumb and forefinger form a circle over the eye, then tip forward as if tipping a hat; this is accompanied by the phrase “Be seeing you.” This is a warning that you’re being watched, and a reminder that you won’t be leaving any time soon.

(Some say the gesture also resembles the numeral “6,” a hint that he is actually the secret “Number One” who runs the Village.)

McGoohan once explained his wider concept of the show this way in an interview: “We all live in a little Village. … Your village may be different from other people’s villages, but we are all prisoners.”

In the 1960s, it was meant as a cautionary tale, a warning of how things could be if we weren’t vigilant about our freedoms. But in the brave new world of the 21st century, McGoohan’s fiction is even closer to the truth. The world is smaller, cameras are everywhere, and everyone’s information is online, being tracked for advertising and homeland security purposes.

Be seeing you.

If it’s too loud, I must be too old

January 9th, 2009, 9:03 am by Tony

Friends, lend me your ears.

No — seriously. Mine were pounded until they rang and hissed during a show at “the Bridge Venue” last week.

The venue is Crossbridge Church, located in a storefront at the Lincoln Plaza off 15th Street. But on this Friday night, it was a place for bands to gather and play.

Not Ourselves performs at the Bridge Venue.

I was there for Not Ourselves and The Cries Of, both of which are locals and offer a more mellow sound. Not Ourselves features my son and his girlfriend, with an occasional assist from another friend on guitar, and The Cries Of is guitarist-singer-songwriter Pat Douglas.

(Click the links above to sample their music and click here for a schedule of upcoming shows.)

The Cries Of (Pat Douglas) performs at the Bridge Venue.

For the first two sets, the small audience of 20-somethings gathered cross-legged on the floor and grooved.

They were followed by two bands from the Atlanta area that had REALLY BIG speakers. The sight of them being wheeled into place between sets convinced one of the other “grown-ups” in our group to exit. I was not so sensitive, I thought.

My wife and our friend Donna poked wads of tissue in their ears, and I laughed. Such old fogeys, I thought.

I was tough. I could handle it, I told myself.

I like my music loud.

But I was kidding myself. These fellows with all the hair and skinny-leg jeans turned it up to 11 and thrashed. They screamed. They slammed their instruments on the floor and stumbled into the small crowd that had gathered close. They climbed on top of the drum kit and had relations with it.

It was a blast, both figuratively and literally. The kids in the audience were loving it, and I was caught up in the enthusiasm of the bands.

http://myspacetv.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=49611833

Then, at some point, one of the guitarists hit a note at just the right volume and pitch to trigger my gag reflex. I’m serious. If the Army could replicate that sound wave, enemy soldiers could be rendered helpless without a shot being fired.

I honestly thought that one note was going to drive me from the building. I had crossed some invisible aural threshold, beyond which there was no return.

Donna offered me two Excedrin, but they wouldn’t fit in my ears snugly enough. I swallowed my pride — not so hip now, eh? — and settled for a couple of pinches of tissue.

I’m getting too old for this.

Peace.

It really is a wonderful life

December 19th, 2008, 3:21 pm by Tony

Among the holiday traditions at the Simmons compound is sitting down with some hot cocoa to watch “It’s a Wonderful Life.” (Though it’s also true my kids actually gather to watch my eyes mysteriously water at various times throughout the movie.)
The tale of George Bailey, a good hearted man who sacrifices his dreams to make life richer for others, is a true American classic. If Jimmy Stewart had never made another movie, his name would be cemented in film history for the humanity and desperation he brought to this role.
George does the right thing, even when it means foregoing his own desires, and his seeming reward for this is to find himself facing prison, financial disaster and humiliation for his family because of another man’s evil deed. Mr. Potter tells George he’s worth more dead than alive, and in that moment of hopelessness, George believes the lie. He thinks his family and friends would be better off without him, and that his insurance policy is all there is of value about him.
He wishes he had never been born.
George is blessed to see the world as it would have been without him in it. He learns how even his slightest remarks and actions made a difference in someone’s life, and they in turn enriched his world. The lesson being, a man of integrity and truth often interacts with others without even having to think about it, and may never understand the impact he can have on others — or how that impact reverberates back into his own life.
Now, don’t get me wrong, but I think there are plenty of Mr. Potters whose absence would make (or would have made, in their day) a better place of this old world. And not just those that are or ought to be behind bars; there are multitudes behind desks or countertops, or behind the wheel of a car or a wall of lawyers or a legion of goons — who we’d never miss if they disappeared.
But that’s not what this movie is about: We never even see if Mr. Potter gets his just desserts (although a hilarious Saturday Night Live skit of the movie’s “alternate ending” shows the townspeople taking vengeance on Potter.)
This season, the movie resonates for different reasons. This has been a year of struggle, heartache and loss for many of us, and we may wonder what good it does to keep up the fight. What you may not see in that darkest hour is how many lives you actually touch, or have touched in your time — or those you will affect as you continue. The payoff may not be what you expect. In fact, it probably won’t be.
But don’t give up. It really is a wonderful life.
Peace.

Christmas spirit lives on

December 12th, 2008, 2:32 pm by Tony

For 43 years, give or take, my Christmas Eve was spent with — and in the home of — my maternal grandmother, Mazie Massey. My personal definition of the holiday was molded from those experiences and captured in innumerable photos around her Christmas tree.
Christmas Day was for my other grandmother, and in later years we visited my in-laws on that day, too. But Christmas Eve was Grandma Massey’s time.
There were fireworks launched in the field behind the house. Fondue arranged by Aunt Wendy. Trays of veggies, plates of cookies, bowls of fudge, platters of pie, slices of cake. Homemade fruitcake if you liked that. Pictures of the piles of presents around the tree, as her children, grandchildren, cousins, friends and neighbors came over for the evening. (And in the later years, add spouses and great-grandkids to the roster.)

She had a gift for making children happy, for making each one of them feel like they were special. Every child who came into her house on a Christmas Eve could tell you how she doted on them, held them in her arms and made them feel loved.

The tree was most often covered in red lights, with angels and dolls and little birds throughout. She began collecting “Gone with the Wind” ornaments in recent years, and we bought her a new one just last Christmas.
She insisted on getting a photo of the tree each year. It made her happy to see the mad stack of gifts and the littlest children with their eyes full of wonder and anticipation.

In my childhood and young adult years, Grandma’s house was only a couple of miles away from wherever I was living. For the last 15 years, it’s been a little more of a trip, but we always made it. The first Christmas Eve I lived in Panama   City, my car broke down on the way to Grandma’s house, and my Uncle Joe drove all the way to DeFuniak Springs to meet me where the tow truck had left me and take me home to Century.

There were only a few times we didn’t go to Grandma’s for the eve. Once in my childhood, we stayed with my paternal grandmother, and just a couple of years ago, as Grandma’s house was being renovated after it was damaged by Hurricane Dennis, Christmas Eve was at my mother’s house.

We even spent Christmas Eve at Grandma’s house one year when she was off visiting my cousins in Hawaii. A freak cold snap froze the pipes in an old house we lived in, so we carted the presents to her house, and we stayed the night there. I recall putting together toys for my toddling little boy with the help of my sister and brother-in-law.

No one lives in Grandma’s house these days. She left us before the spring came, after a long and difficult illness. Her little Scarlet O’Hara and Rhett Butler ornaments hang on our family tree this year.

We’ll take pictures, and we’ll think of her.

Peace.

Bethel villager changes her life

December 5th, 2008, 1:41 pm by Tony


Not too long ago, Tia Tate said, she felt like she was coming apart at the seams.

“I was, you know, totally discombobulated,” she said. “Working, (I) had a semi-normal life, functional but dysfunctional, you know. Drugs, alcohol — just a lot of things going on that could have been a lot better. I knew God, but got away from Him in the midst of all of that madness.”

Tate, 39, is currently a resident of the Bethel Village women’s shelter operated by the Panama City Rescue Mission. She learned about the shelter through CARE (Chemical Addictions Recovery Effort), which also has a women’s program.

Now in its fifth year, Bethel is designed to serve single women and single mothers with small children. It helps them get their lives back together, said Rescue Mission director Rev. Billy Fox. (For more information, call 914-0533 or visit pcrmission.org)

Life at Bethel, with its Christian-based long-term residential recovery program, has helped Tate make sense of her life, she said.

“Bethel Village has really been a refuge for me,” she said. “I decided I wanted to change my life, a complete turnaround, not just get sober, but grounded with a foundation in a relationship with God. I knew in order to stay sober, I was going to need that foundation in my life.”

Tate spoke to me Wednesday morning amid the tinsel and lights and cheery holiday music of a crowded reception for the Festival of Trees, the annual fundraiser for Bethel Village at the Visual Arts Center of Northwest Florida.

Women wearing Christmas colors circulated through the galleries, admiring the decorated trees, gingerbread houses and wreaths donated by area clubs, businesses and individuals. They placed bids in a silent auction and sampled refreshments.

Tate was serving punch when we met. She wore a Santa cap and a ready smile.

She beamed as she talked about her children and how proud she is of their accomplishments. And she spoke without reservation about the obstacles she had faced and how doors had been opened for her since she came to Bethel. She has been writing music, she said, and the right people have heard it, and she’ll be recording it after she finishes the recovery program.

“God — it’s just another door He’s boomed down for me,” she said.

Peace.

See video of the Festival of Trees and meet Tia Tate here.

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Give thanks daily

November 26th, 2008, 1:28 pm by Tony

In the spirit of this holiday weekend, and in an effort to remind myself that life could be much worse, I’ve compiled this list of things for which I am thankful. It’s something I try to do daily, because it’s so easy to get caught up in the stresses and distresses of this life.

Feel free to go to my blog at newsherald.com and share your own list (or refine or refute mine). In a mostly random order, I’m thankful for:

- My family, their health, their support, love, quirky sense of humor, intelligence, creativity and patience. Also, their eclectic taste in music, and their willingness to overlook my personality defects.
- Friends (you know who you are), some of whom are also honorary family (and you know who you are, too). They say you can’t pick your family, but I’ve found that sometimes your family picks you.
- Hugs.
- Hot cocoa. Ice-cold Coca-Cola. (But not at the same time.)
- Cool evenings. Warm memories that fill you with more smiles than tears.
- Potato soup. Wood fireplaces.
- Artificial Christmas trees (we have it up a long time, and at least the fireplace won’t dry it out before Christmas). Hallmark ornaments. The Partridge Family Christmas album (and not just because it makes my daughter squirm and cover her ears).
- Readers.
- Forgiveness. Honesty. People who smile freely and mean it.
- The new Bay County Public Library. The city walking tracks.
- Our political process, as uncomfortable and dysfunctional as it may be, and the freedoms we enjoy.
- Relatively cheap gasoline, for as long as that lasts. Reliable cars to burn that gas.
- The Internet (it’s changing the way we live and work and play, and if you don’t believe that, then send me an e-mail or comment my blog to argue otherwise).
- DVR.
- Helpful college personnel (Hi, Linda!), who seem to be in greater supply in this area than in others. Courteous drivers, the supply of whom seems to be decreasing.
- Clean air and clean water.
- The fact that we still have a lively local art scene despite the current economy.
- Knowing that I was able to tell the ones who will be absent this holiday (and for all the time to come) how important they are to me before they left us. That’s another thing we should do daily: Tell the ones you love how you feel and that you’re glad they’re in your life.

Peace.

Cracker in the Kitchen

November 24th, 2008, 8:38 am by Tony

From the Sunday “Lifestyle” page:

Author and Marianna native Janis Owens stirs up memories

Author Janis Owens calls herself the cheapest Cracker on earth.

And that’s saying a lot,” she adds.

Born in Marianna in 1960 and raised the last child and only daughter of a biscuit-cooking mama and an Assembly of God preacher-turnedinsurance “policy man,” Owens noted in her blog that the scriptural admonition “the last shall be first” never seemed to apply in the church homecoming food line.

“As Pentecostals, we were denied much fleshly pleasure,” she said. “What we missed in terms of lasciviousness, we made up for in fried chicken.”


Owens is best known for her series of novels, “My Brother Michael,” “Myra Sims” and “The Schooling of Claybird Cats,” intertwined stories of family tragedy and redemption set in a North-Florida town. Her latest book, “The Cracker Kitchen,” will be published in February 2009 (it’s available for pre-order online) and focuses on a delightful collection of old family recipes and the sorts of stories Southerners tell around the table for Sunday dinners or out on the porch swing afterwards.


“It’s a memoir cookbook,” she said. “It’s taking a walk down a nostalgic road with me.”


Owens currently lives in Marion County on enough property that she can take her dogs for a morning stroll while still in her nightgown. (Although, after
the temperature dropped recently, she took to afternoon walks in significantly more layers.)


“If you live in town, don’t be too envious,” she said in an online post. “Believe me, I pay plenty of property taxes for the right to walk around outside in my nightclothes.”


Owens will participate in BooksAlive! 2009 at Gulf Coast Community College in Panama City on Feb. 6 and 7, where “The Cracker Kitchen” will premier. She also will be at the Chautauqua Center in DeFuniak Springs Jan. 29-31.

Puzzled up North

Her thoughtfulness and her lovely and often hilarious turns of phrase have made her a favorite of the book tour crowds on both sides of the Mason-Dixon, to whom she has sometimes described herself as a “Southerner of the Cracker persuasion.” The term amused her audiences, but she found they had very different reasons for laughing, depending on their geographical origins.


“Cracker” was especially looked down on in the North.


“They found the word depreciating and naïve, and inevitably, someone would ask why I’d so proudly associate myself with a word that had such a loaded historic connotation,” she said in her biographical note.

“To them, it was clear that Cracker equaled ignorant, racist, toothless and base. To me, it meant a whole different thing, and in time, re-educating my audience over the roots and true heritage of the word became an interesting sideline.”


Webster’s dictionary notes the disparity. It variously defines a “Cracker” as a contemptuous term for “poor white,” and as a humorous usage identifying a person born or living in Florida or Georgia.


“People had such a visceral response” to the term, she said.


As Owens explains it, Cracker culture is a about rugged individualism, love of family, and really good cornbread. The term has been in use since Elizabethan England, when it meant “braggart.” In Colonial America, a term used for poor people was “corn cracker,”
as they ate only cheap corn. In the South, some say it came from the noise of whips cracking as pioneers chased scrub cattle through the palmetto flats.


Yesterday’s Cracker was the underclass of working poor, living simple lives centered on family, church and an oral tradition full of funny stories about family and church. Stories most often shared as they passed food around the table.


Cultural cooking

Over time, her association with the term landed Owens an invitation to speak at a Cracker symposium in Fernandina with two state experts: Ron Haase, whom she calls the father of neo-Cracker architecture, and Dana Ste. Claire, author of “Cracker Culture in Florida History.”


“It made for a merry meeting, and at the end of the program, Dana told me I had to record some of my family stories and write a cookbook, because as the state expert, there were three things Crackers were deadly serious about: food and laughter and food,” she said.


Owens said she wrote “The Cracker Kitchen” without breaking a sweat, linking old family recipes with plenty of stories and history. Being a regular blogger got her “in the groove,” she said, for telling short personal tales, which she had already been incorporating into her speaking engagements.


“I had no idea I’d ever publish it,” she said. “Every recipe I wrote down had a story, the kind of story you’d tell sitting on the porch with your cousins. … (The book) is my love letter to them, my Valentine for them.”

It was the editing process that got her goat.


“If you’re ever edited a cookbook, you know that it isn’t a job for the faint of heart,” Owens said. “I spent months clarifying whether a recipe required sea salt or regular salt, sweet butter or salted. I have never agonized so much over the merits of sweet onion (as opposed to yellow onion) my entire life.”


Owens said some of the recipes were included for their historical value: She never has actually trapped and eaten an armadillo, for instance. And though she couldn’t point to a favorite recipe in her book, she confessed a soft spot for tomato gravy (which seems to be a West Florida phenomenon, she added) and a love for fried chicken.


“I really could just eat fried chicken every day of my life,” she said. “Especially Mama’s recipe.”

There’s still hope …

November 17th, 2008, 7:46 am by Tony

if trying to cope /with a misanthrope:

The greatest challenge in producing Moliere’s “The Misanthrope” at Gulf Coast Community College, said director Jason Blanks, had nothing to do with the elaborate costuming or the historical accuracy of the setting.

It wasn’t even the usual challenge the leading actors face of learning a vast number of lines.

“One of the unique challenges of doing Moliere or any of the classic French comedies is it’s done in rhymed couplets,” Blanks said. “The challenge is to make sure that it doesn’t sound like an elaborately costumed Dr. Seuss book.”

Webster defines “misanthrope” as a person who hates or distrusts all people. In Dr. Seuss terms, he’d be something of a Grinch — cuddly as a cactus, charming as an eel.

The show opened Friday, and has a matinee performance today at 2:30 p.m. Encores will be Nov. 21 and 22 at 7:30 p.m. and next Sunday at 2:30 p.m. Tickets are $10 for adults, $5 for kids under 18; GCCC students, faculty and staff get free admission with a college ID.

See Photos Here.

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In this play, the titular character (played by Nathan Simmons, who may want to start worrying about being typecast) is blinded by his infatuation with a flirtatious woman (Allison Fleckenstein) who embodies all the qualities that he dislikes in other people.

(Personal note: Don’t mistake this column for an unbiased examination of the production. I know most of the young men and women involved, and I contributed to the procreation of one of them. Having said that, what I saw of dress rehearsal on Wednesday was pretty darn funny.)

“You have to make it sound normal — normalized speech — but also there are points where accentuating the rhyme scheme actually makes it funnier,” Jason said. “So it’s skating the fine line between normal speech and heightened rhyming speech.”

The misanthrope in question engages in wordplay throughout the show, sometimes mimicking the delivery of his intended’s other suitors. Compared to those fops, he’s a bad banana with a greasy black peel.

Certainly, the style won’t work for everyone, but you shouldn’t mistake it for Shakespeare: There’s no iambic pentameter, the scenes are more madcap romantic/comedy style than that, and the rhymes come fast and furious, often disguised in the witty dialogue. Part of the fun is seeing what words will be matched and how they’ll be played.

That, and seeing if the misanthrope’s heart grows three sizes that day.

Peace.

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