Extremes of Style - A Too Brief History

Extremes of Style - A Too Brief History, by Brandy Larson There is a love/hate relationship with Extremes of Style. It's a condition of the - times. Old School - "don't go to extremes." The Roaring Twenties, my first example of the past 100 years, was an era of extremes. WWI rearranged a society reeling from the carnage and terrible new technologies of the day. The traditional values of moderation in all things morphed into the "new extreme styles" - the era of jazz, booze and maybe even cocaine. Hemlines shrank, women apologetically wore make-up in public, even Great Aunt Iris, the product of a Seventh Day Adventist home, became a jazz trumpeter. Her sister, my Grandma Gladys probably became a flapper! But what goes up, must come down. With the Stock Market Crash of 1929 and the ensuing grind of The Depression, for most people in America, extremes of desperation, not style, marked the daily struggle for survival. Then WWII bent people's minds in new and extreme ways, but also lifted the US out of the economic pit. Americans were hunkering down, coping with the horrors of an ever more powerful war machine and national rationing of gas, sugar and meat. One extreme was women wearing pants and entering industrial production in the factories of the war economy. Once the smoke cleared, The Fifties were born. A new optimism prevailed, along with the Baby Boom. Women were whisked back to the home. A more mobile society, suburban "don't rock the boat," the nuclear family, aprons, Doris Day and Pat Boone were the spirits (?) of the day. Extremes, it seems had gone out of style. Once Elvis hit the airwaves and the Ed Sullivan Show (I remember seeing him on our tiny black and white TV as a young kid), and teenagers got behind the wheel of the family car, things would never be the same. In The Sixties Rock n' Roll morphed into the British Invasion, then Hard Rock and the Rolling Stones, and "the mini-skirt's the current thing - unn-ha" (Nancy Sinatra. Panty hose were born. And "the pill." The Civil Rights Movement can't be called a style, but long overdue - shook things up. There was widespread teenage rebellion born of affluence of the new middle class and the daily tragedies of the Viet Nam War morphed into mass political protests of the "Anti War Movement," the Hippie Era and mind expanding drugs. Seen as EXTREME, and certainly a Style. Huge sectors of society were turned upside-down with the" turn on, tune in and drop out" frame of mind. And the reinventions of Feminism (former wave of the Suffragettes of the early 20th Century and finally voting rights in1920). Bras were burned, there were women's consciousness groups (what are they talking about in there?. Women got college degrees and "good jobs," they were elected to office and started their own businesses, they waited to get married. And the Black Power Movement, a part of Power to the People. Modern Extreme Style became ever more the norm, rather than the "other form." We are the product of our times. Somewhere along the line my youthful freedom and optimism got lost, as well as my ability to keep up with the happening trends; the Yuppies, the New Wave, the Punks, Gen X/Y, Millennials and Helicopter Parents, etc, which sometimes seem like Extreme Styles in every way. Extreme Style is an attractor of the affluent, the arty, and as ever - the young. It is a challenge to the creative and the entrepreneurial classes that feed the desire for something NEW, fresh and exciting (did I say profitable?) Old School will NOT do. But, once again - what goes up, must come down. The Extremes of digital technology have totally altered our world and our attention spans. What Andy Warhol once described as our little corner of "fifteen minutes of [individual] fame," has become 15 seconds - about twice the current average attention span - and a new selfie every twenty minutes - Style. A recent trend was to get "unplugged," which is how I spend my vacations. Parents of young children are advised to avoid "screens" for the kids until age 3. (I never saw a TV until I was 5!) There are still things that transcend the ever-present hunger for Extreme Style, like last night's Super Moon / Blood Moon / Full Lunar Eclipse (9/27/2015). The cloudy sky cleared at the very last moment to reveal this wonder to Madison, WI. The last time this occurred was 1982 and the next time will be 2033. I loved to see the moon slowly changing back from red to silver, peering cooly down our frantic world. On this finally clear night the eclipsing moon appears the same to me as it did the the pre-Celts of Stonehenge and to homo sapiens wandering out of Africa. For a shining hour or two, I'll escape - Extremes of Style

Bonfire, Summer Solstice 2015

Dusk was arriving in the North Country on the longest day of the year. The crescent moon rose in the southwest sky. Venus, her bright companion, close by. I heard the drumming from a distance. A crowd of over a hundred blocked the view of the fire from afar. Closer an inner ring of dancers moved this way and that. A slim tall man in a blue mask did a low, angular dance engaging the fire. A pretty girl in a belly dancing outfit shimmied and glimmered in the flickering light. The many drums changed their cadence from time to time and cheers and whoops came up from the crowd. A chant was started by a small group up front, but the words weren't clear, so no one joined in. The moon peeked in and out of the wispy clouds. The fire was low and very hot. Fire keepers held their posts holding shovels and rakes. Three skinny teenaged girls tried to get a circle dance going, but were discouraged by them. In any case, the circle was too tight and the fire too hot for that. I was dancing and toasting. I shed a layer and turned my back to the flames. I remembered a Native American sweat lodge I'd attended. Soon I dropped back to the outer rings into the cool night air. I'd just finished reading "The Druids" by Peter Berresford Ellis this very day. The solstice festivals were the major events of the Celtic Europe. I envisioned Stonehenge and an Arc-Druid in long robes, his staff in his hand, young girls dancing hypnotically with flowers in their long hair, their bare legs flashing in the firelight. Drenched in sweat I decided it was time to go. The youngish crowd would continue into the night. I'd had my moment honoring the path of the Earth around the sun and my Scottish ancestors.

Not the Aurora Borealis

Not the Aurora Borealis by Brandy Larson The weather guy said the aurora Borealis might be visible briefly just before sunset. Thank you solar flares. At sunset I walked over to the Tenney Park breakwater to take a look. I was the only one out there as the temperature was falling fast and the wind picked up. I got out to the end of the breakwater and sat on my mittens on the ice-cold bench. I felt a little bite of cold on my thighs. It had been a long time since I watched the sunset. There was a horizontal bank of heavy clouds to the southwest but most of the horizon was clear over the big lake - Mendota. The sky very slowly faded from orange and yellow. Two muskrats swam back and forth in the few hundred yards of newly melted water diving for food. I thought of their natural waterproofing against the frigid water and how cold their feet and tails must be. They would soon be in their borrow snugly and warm. Maybe their kits had already been born. A few dozen ducks perched on the far ice calling to each other and getting settled down for the night. The north star came out and I looked to the left to see the silvery capitol dome. It looked very small. As I waited and waited, and watched I saw a broad flash of green. I'd never seen the mythical green line, marking night from day. Someone made film with that title years ago. Hey, it was St Patrick's Day. But it was not the aurora. I looked to the north where night had already arrived. No sign there. I waited a little longer and might have seen a flash of pink, that or a good imagination. I decided to head home. As I got to the bend in the breakwater I paused for a final look AND saw a shooting star - or at least a meteorite. I guess good things come to those that wait In the reflected lights of the breakwater a film of ice was forming on the still, shallower water. Yes, it's March in Wisconsin. On my walk over I'd been looking for a crocus somewhere, peeking out to announce that the first sign of spring is actually here in the northland. Maybe tomorrow.

Book Review - "The Strike" by James M Denis

"The Strike", by James M Dennis Book Review (on Amazon) by Brandy Larson James Dennis’s book, The Strike, is unique in its inception as a fascinating “biography of a painting,”as well as of Robert Koehler, the German-American artist who painted the unprecedented canvas of industrial workers confronting a frowning factory owner in 1885-86. Widely exhibited in Europe and America, the painting was eventually lost in storage, rediscovered,restored, re-exhibited and ultimately purchased in 1990 by the Deutsches Historisches Museum in Berlin, Germany. Professor Dennis first became aware of the painting through correspondence with Lee Baxandall, a political activist and former graduate student at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Intrigued by an engraved reproduction of the painting, Baxandall tracked it down in the early 1970s, bought it, had it restored, and found venues for its exhibition with the help of a prominent labor union in New York City. En route, he gathered mostly biographical information on Koehler’s career that he eventually gave to Dennis, hoping it could be fashioned into a book. Best known for his monograph on Grant Wood and a subsequent book, Renegade Regionalists, Dennis also has had a longstanding interest in political history, especially that of the immigrant German communities of Milwaukee and Chicago. These included radical, socialist leaders of the burgeoning labor movement that was largely born in Bismarck dominated Germany during the 1870s. Robert Koehler was born in Hamburg, Germany in 1850 and his family moved to Milwaukee four years later. His father was an independent machinist while Robert was apprenticed as a lithographer. His art talent was appreciated by a patron, a brewer, who sponsored his return to Germany where he was enrolled at the Royal Academy in Munich. The Strike was his diploma painting, an unusual subject for an“academic” painting. Large scale (over six by nine feet), it was initially exhibited from 1886 to 1894:first in New York City by the May-Day beginning of the nationwide Eight-Hour-Day Strike, then in Munich, followed by the 1889 Paris Exposition, Milwaukee, and the Chicago World’s Fair. It was finally purchased by public subscription in Minneapolis where Koehler was hired to develop and direct its School of Fine Arts. A few years after his death it was stored out of sight. The book’s front cover features a color detail of The Strike with the top-hatted owner confronted by a gesturing spokesman surrounded by fellow workers, smoky factories clouding the horizon. Eight other color plates of Koehler’s work accompany fifty-seven black and white illustrations showing his development, as well as examples of other artists who depicted workers demanding better conditions. Dennis provides a brief Introduction, an Afterward, seventeen pages of notes, and an excellent eleven-page index. The 235-page book is published by the University of Wisconsin Press, which published his very first book: Karl Bitter, Architectural Sculptor, about a Viennese artist who left his mark on the state capitol building in Madison and more extensively, Manhattan,including its Plaza with its famous fountain. The Strike is one of a series of Studies in American Thought and Culture, edited by the late Paul S.Boyer. I found The Strike to be clearly written, a trove of delightful, superbly presented insights about the artist, his career, and his masterpiece painting. Its “biography” includes fascinating details of the culture and timbre of the times, especially of the decades’ struggle by working men and women against exploitation, for decent working conditions, and living wages. While this book has special appeal for those attracted to Art History, it will be enjoyed by anyone curious about a timeless painting that survived many challenges in order to serve as a window, a kind of time capsule, of the Industrial Revolution and early modern life.

Blonde Beauty

"Blonde Beauty" by Brandy Larson 9/2014 There she was - the blonde squirrel, first I ever saw. Her extended family snack at the squirrel cafe in my backyard year round, next to the casual compost pile - some squash seeds, a pancake here, a few corn chips there and mound of black sunflower seeds. The favorite of birds the bag says, though birds rarely get a chance at this treat. This group are the usual greys, but most of them have blond ears. True, squirrels are just rats with bushy tails, as a friend said. Still, I love watching the little critters twitching their tails and chasing each other around. In the early spring, food I set out for them was uneaten. I mentioned this Karen, my back fence neighbor, who also noticed this and started looking around nearby backyards. She saw some poison bait had been put out and even went so far as to dye some rice blue and sneak into that backyard to replace the toxic stuff - but it was too late. I asked who was it, but she wouldn't say. Karen called the city and found out that it isn't illegal to poison squirrels in Madison, though Wisconsin has laws with big fines and jail time for animal cruelty. This is not cruelty? What a terrible way to die. I felt sad and bad for several days, missing my furry friends, but soon another squirrel drifted into the newly opened territory and a new squirrel set was running up and down the trees, fences and across garage tops, finding the snacks I'd set out and filling the niche of this microcosm on the Isthmus. But until when? True, the world is full of tragic violence of huge consequence. Maybe concern for these little critters is small potatoes. But not to me. Maybe I can make a sign for my own front yard that says, Honor the Squirrels, Don't Poison Them. Meanwhile, I wonder how long it will take for nature to surprise me some morning with another blonde beauty?

The Narghile Bar (Istanbul)

> The Narghile Bar > > The wind pushed down the dark, fast moving Bosporus, its current dancing with reflected lights, penetrating everything with dampness. It was December and we'd taken the Metro to Tophane, with 15 narghile (hooka) bars, all in row. > > The bars looked inviting from afar, golden light spilling out into the night, their big banks of windows steaming up. The cultural tradition of narghile smoking was re-embraced in the 90's. Before that the bars were the domain of the old-school Turks, enjoying a tradition dating back to Old Persia, probably before the 1600's. Now they are filled with people of all ages. Though called bars, no alcohol is ever served. > > I hadn't seen Aydin in 4 years. He looked very cheerful & rosy, his high color aided by the chilly night. Sitting in a low booth across from each other over a small coffee table, the waiter arrived and we chose our tobacco flavor, cappuccino for something new. At the tall counter to the side the ates(h)cuk - fire guy - stoked his brazier preparing coals. Next to him were long rows of the 3 foot tall, rainbow colored glass pipes and the snake-like hoses that carry the smoke from bowl to mouth piece, hanging long and limp from wooden pegs. > > Ayden was handsome as ever with his elongated Modigliani face, hazel eyes, perfect Turkish bird-wing eyebrows and aquiline nose. My Turkish had not improved since I'd been out of the country. His English had - somewhat - more foreign girlfriends, no doubt. We worked at our conversation using the translating dictionary and our old-faithful system sketching out some of our nouns and verbs, faster and a lot more fun. We also used a kind of sign language we'd invented for ourselves. My brain was working overtime to recall any of the 3 (out of a dozen or so) verb forms I knew. > > Another server had come for our drink order. We started with tea that arrived on a big tray full of small, steaming tulip glasses. Our pipe soon arrived with milk in the bottom instead of water and was set on the floor. The atescuk made a bee-line with his sleeve of coals, picking out several with a flourish and laying them neatly on top of the tobacco. The head waiter had a silver mouth piece and offered assistance, puffing mightily to get the pipe started and blowing out a dragon-like cloud of smoke. We all laughed. Ayden entertained me with his usual mime-like expressions and gestures, covering his undercurrent of huzun, classic Turkish melancholy. That's Islam, they're all fatalist, it's "written in the book." We passed the pipe hose back an forth, puffing contentedly and lighting an occasional cigarette for variety. The fire guy came around to refresh our coals. > > Next I ordered a Turkish coffee, orta (medium sugar). It doesn't take too long to drink the tiny cup (making sure you sip daintily so the sludge on the bottom doesn't end up in your mouth). Then I tipped the cup upside down on the saucer and placed a coin on the bottom to absorb any remaining heat. After a few minutes I rotated cup to the left three times and turned it over. Although it was my cup I offered to read the coffee grounds for Ayden. Nothing too decipherable there, tho I must have come up with a couple of predictions. > > > It takes about an hour to smoke a narghile. We called for the check - hetsap. I offered to pay, but WHAT?! The cappuccino pipe was more pricey than I expected. We bundled up and walked out into the frosty air hand in hand. It wasn't until later I figured out they thought I was a tourist, so had charged me double. > > > > > > >

Miss Balbina, Treasure Beach, Jamaica

Shortly after I got in Billy's Bay, Treasure Beach Jamaica, Miss B, my proprietress, said her hair was making her scalp feel "scratchy," so she went next door to her son Jerry's and Gayon, her grand daughter shaved her head! She does this periodically. Her hair had been short and curly, fluffy and silver with some darker areas. It looked lovely. It took a little getting used to seeing her like this! B is 75 now and may have lost a little height, but still is tall. She uses a staff (fish trap stick) for moving around the yard. I got her a good knee brace a couple of years ago but I think it isn't very comfortable. She has that goat corral on the property next door. The goats come down in the early evening and she puts them in there for the night. The goats and kids belong to 3 different parties. I counted 11 adults, but there are probably more that aren't so regular in their habits. Many kids were being born while I was there. I LOVE them! And I love to see her walking up the slight incline in the morning when she lets them out and they form a line walking behind her as the come up the path to their day of freedom and foraging. I helped her doctor a couple of new kids, she still does the vet work and buys all the supplies herself with her limited funds. She moves around the yard sweeping up, hand washing in the yard, dragging wood up from Delephina's land next door for yard cooking and roasting coffee. Gone are the days when she would leave the yard with her machet, a towel and an length of rope. In those days she came back from the bush to the north with a huge bundle of firewood balanced on her head. My guess would be 40 pounds or more. Her out building, the wood fire kitchen is full of Jerry's fishing equipment, so she has a fire pit over by the fence. Andre got fish for us one night from the incoming fishermen and she prepared and fried them, then "cooked them down" on 3 stones in the pit. Delish! Andre, the Polish guest, found out when Uke's boat was coming in and he walked down to the sea after dark with - no light - to get some. He invited me to go down there with him, but it had just rained hard and the path was muddy. It was overcast, so no moon or stars. I said no thanks. He said there were NO lights down at the beach where the fish were being unloaded, sorted and weighed for sale. Not sure how they could weigh them in the dark. Maybe they just part out by size & by basket. Or perhaps they were weighing them a little later using headlights from the trucks that come down there to ice them down and ship them out. Back in the day B would rush down to the beach at dark when Jerry's boat came in and help unload the catch. She came back to the house energized and full of sea water! Slice of life -