A couple of things, to round out what has been a week of birds. First, an artist, fellow-Brit and Los Angeles-based friend posted a link in the comments to the site of his latest series of paintings. Birds, of course. I found them delightful in their purposeful, playful reduction of form and their colorful brilliance. In their linear simplicity, too, the pictures perfectly capture that avian sense of superiority and that quizzical innocence of birds when confronted with their flightless human fellow-travelers. I hope you'll check them out and enjoy them as much as I did.
Next--not sure how all these bird-events piled up in a single week; it certainly wasn't by conscious intention--we watched a DVD of French film, "Winged Migration," which was an Academy Award Nominee back in 2002. I had missed it earlier, having mistaken it perhaps for that other film about migration, where the film-maker accompanies a flock of geese in a super-light aircraft (I've forgotten the title. Remind me, someone...) The French title is "Le Peuple migrateur"--the migration people, as in a people, or a nation, and the anthropomorphism suggested by the title bleeds through at times into the narrative of the film. The various feathered species do take on "character"--sometimes gawky, sometimes comic, sometimes elegant and graceful--and entertain us with their antics. The major theme, however, is the story of the incredible work that goes into their survival, the long journeys they must take each year to feeding grounds, depending on the seasons.
It's a miraculous film in many ways--not least in the extraordinary footage of birds in flight, taken from the air alongside or above them, in front or below. It captures the phenomenon of flight itself, its grace and apparent ease belied by the sheer, continuous effort that goes into it. The choreography of a full flock of birds in flight is awe-inspiring, genuinely moving, as is the persistence and instinctive courage it requires. For the pure beauty of natural environment and the wonder of nature's infinite variety of species, the film is unsurpassed.
Let's call it a tribute, though, rather than a study. There is no attempt to provide scientific explanations or information about the birds. It's a hymn to their beauty and their peculiar intelligence, a symphonic creation in image, movement and color. We go along willing for the ride and learn, perhaps, more about ourselves than about our feathered friends. We learn about the unique role of beauty in our lives, the need to discover ways of peaceful co-existence with other species. Man's role in the film is minimal--and inevitably destructive: as a flock of elegant geese flies over an expanse of water, we heard a sudden volley of shots and, heart-breakingly, birds crumple and fall; in urban areas along their migration route, birds suffocate in ugly, man-made pollution--caught in the slime of grease and mud; out on the prairies, they are trapped beneath the churning blades of harvesters.
It's inarguable now that we destroy our environment and threaten other living species at our own risk. In so many ways, the birds and animals and insects who share our planet with us are much wiser than we. Some hardy species, surely, will find ways to survive us, should we fail to live up to the challenge set by our own history and intelligence. Let's hope that some of them are birds. May all living beings finds peace and happiness in their lives.
(As a footnote, I feel obliged to pass on this Sarah Palin interview clip that was relayed to me via Daily Kos, as further--and deeply disturbing--evidence that this woman should not be allowed within a stone's thrown of the presidency. Please check it out, and forward it as widely as possible.)
Showing posts with label nature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nature. Show all posts
Friday, October 24, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Beach Creatures: Man Made
Watch this. You will be amazed, astonished, bewildered, amused... as I was. Do NOT miss this one, or you will be sorry! Have a great weekend.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
In Our Garden...
... the roses thrive on the sunlight, despite the heat...
... the eucalyptus sheds its skin--and leaves!--and scatters them everywhere. What a chore!
(Click on this one, for full flavor!)
The agapanthus bloom, creating an ethereal blue carpet on the shoulders of their emerald green leaves and tall, graceful stems...
... the sassy morning glory wants to strangle everything with its clinging vines...
... and the Buddha sits serene as ever, with a fuschia in his lap.
All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.
It's Wednesday... Blessings, everyone.
... the eucalyptus sheds its skin--and leaves!--and scatters them everywhere. What a chore!
(Click on this one, for full flavor!)The agapanthus bloom, creating an ethereal blue carpet on the shoulders of their emerald green leaves and tall, graceful stems...
... the sassy morning glory wants to strangle everything with its clinging vines...
... and the Buddha sits serene as ever, with a fuschia in his lap.
All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.
It's Wednesday... Blessings, everyone.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Save the World
This, in the place of a Sunday sermon from Peter At Large...
My sister in England just sent me the link to this intriguing website, Parallel Community, which seeks to act as a contact point between people throughout the world who believe that there are many of us who share the desire for peace, a sustainable economy, and a viable future for humankind; and a distrust of the political systems whose misguided policies stand in the way of what real human beings actually want. The organization's introductory DVD is well worth a watch. I wrote to one of the founding members, Hamish Miller, to congratulate him on their work, and added a somewhat tongue-in-cheek observation:
I'm delighted to have been introduced to this worthy effort (thanks, Flora!), and plan to stay in touch. I'll also keep a link posted in my "Useful Sites" blogroll, in the hope that others, also, will continue to stay in touch with Hamish and his merry band.
My sister in England just sent me the link to this intriguing website, Parallel Community, which seeks to act as a contact point between people throughout the world who believe that there are many of us who share the desire for peace, a sustainable economy, and a viable future for humankind; and a distrust of the political systems whose misguided policies stand in the way of what real human beings actually want. The organization's introductory DVD is well worth a watch. I wrote to one of the founding members, Hamish Miller, to congratulate him on their work, and added a somewhat tongue-in-cheek observation:
Hamish, I love what you're doing! But it saddens me that everyone in your DVD has GREY HAIR, and WRINKLES and (men only, please!) BEARDS--just like myself. Where are the young people, who are the ones who will really feel the painful results of what we're doing to the earth? I imagine your organization is making good efforts to pull them in. One of the good things, I think, about our Barack Obama here in the United States is that he seems finally to have touched a chord amongst the young. Thanks for the good work, anyway. I will post a link on my blog, The Buddha Diaries, in the next couple of days. Blessings, PeterI received the following friendly response:
Hi Peter,
Thank you for your response!
You're right! I AM a wrinkly grey haired bearded oldie but so many of the young folks had their heads down just surviving over here at the time we were doing the film. However this was when we were getting it together and since then a lot of young people have come around to help. You can depend on it that if there's another clip we oldies will keep well away! We need their energy but sometimes they need the help of our experience to guide the way. Watch this space for the young coming in to take over. They seem to have a pretty clear understanding of what's going on. We'll keep you in to what's happening and thank you for posting a link on your blog. It all helps enormously
Best wishes,
Hamish
I'm delighted to have been introduced to this worthy effort (thanks, Flora!), and plan to stay in touch. I'll also keep a link posted in my "Useful Sites" blogroll, in the hope that others, also, will continue to stay in touch with Hamish and his merry band.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Food
It's started. The BBC World News report on the startling rise in basic food costs throughout the world is alarming new evidence of the trouble we're in as a species. Unless we can learn to let go of our addiction to our comfortable standards of living, our excessive material possessions and our hunger for wealth, I do believe that we're headed for extinction--like those millions of other species that have failed to survive the continuing evolutionary process. Let's hope at least that we leave behind a world that's still habitable for other, more intelligent species, who share the planet and its resources with more foresight than ourselves.
The report notes a 75 percent increase in the cost of rice over the past twelve months, and a 13o percent increase in the price of wheat. The cost of corn has increased less steeply, but no less dramatically. It showed some of the results in various locations throughout the world, most notably in the Philippines, where dangerous stresses are already evident in the fabric of society. Anger and frustration mount, along with sheer, physical hunger. How long will it be before people start to fight for the food they need to survive? How long will it before nation becomes pitted against nation in the competition for this most basic of resources? How long will it be--no, this has already started--before people die of starvation?
So far, we Americans remain sitting relatively pretty. We whine about gas prices, watch food prices steadily mount and the financial markets teeter on the brink of disaster. We fume at the airport when our flight is delayed. The great middle class is not immune from the effects of global changes, but it has managed pretty much to ignore the plight of the truly poor. So far. But things will predictably get worse, as a result of our heedless consumption and our greed for the good life. In our most recent egregious misadventure, we have chosen biofuels for our machines over food for our people, destroying vast areas of agricultural land in favor of more profitable biofuel-producing plants. We are already paying for this stupidity.
Is there still time for a change of heart, a change of mind, a change of the policies that misguide us? It's such a huge change we will be required to embrace, it's doubtful whether we'll have the guts and the wisdom to do it before the tipping point is reached. And we don't even know where that tipping point is. We might already have passed it. What's clear, with the world population continuing to expand, is that sacrifice will be needed. We Americans will need to learn to honor the fact that there are other people in this world--just as human, if less "developed" than ourselves; and that, if we are to survive, we will need to make sacrifices to enable them, also, to survive. With India and China catching up with our profligate consumption of resources of all kinds--not to mention the attendant pollution--we must act very soon to slow down the approach of mass starvation, disease, violence, and war.
I realize that I'm not a voice crying in the wilderness, here. The voices are getting louder and more clamorous, their message more and more difficult to ignore. But denial is still rife in these United States, as is callous self-interest and willful blindness. This is no longer a matter of finding fixes for small problems, for putting out brushfires as and when they break out. We're talking, finally, about nothing less than the survival of our species.
The report notes a 75 percent increase in the cost of rice over the past twelve months, and a 13o percent increase in the price of wheat. The cost of corn has increased less steeply, but no less dramatically. It showed some of the results in various locations throughout the world, most notably in the Philippines, where dangerous stresses are already evident in the fabric of society. Anger and frustration mount, along with sheer, physical hunger. How long will it be before people start to fight for the food they need to survive? How long will it before nation becomes pitted against nation in the competition for this most basic of resources? How long will it be--no, this has already started--before people die of starvation?
So far, we Americans remain sitting relatively pretty. We whine about gas prices, watch food prices steadily mount and the financial markets teeter on the brink of disaster. We fume at the airport when our flight is delayed. The great middle class is not immune from the effects of global changes, but it has managed pretty much to ignore the plight of the truly poor. So far. But things will predictably get worse, as a result of our heedless consumption and our greed for the good life. In our most recent egregious misadventure, we have chosen biofuels for our machines over food for our people, destroying vast areas of agricultural land in favor of more profitable biofuel-producing plants. We are already paying for this stupidity.
Is there still time for a change of heart, a change of mind, a change of the policies that misguide us? It's such a huge change we will be required to embrace, it's doubtful whether we'll have the guts and the wisdom to do it before the tipping point is reached. And we don't even know where that tipping point is. We might already have passed it. What's clear, with the world population continuing to expand, is that sacrifice will be needed. We Americans will need to learn to honor the fact that there are other people in this world--just as human, if less "developed" than ourselves; and that, if we are to survive, we will need to make sacrifices to enable them, also, to survive. With India and China catching up with our profligate consumption of resources of all kinds--not to mention the attendant pollution--we must act very soon to slow down the approach of mass starvation, disease, violence, and war.
I realize that I'm not a voice crying in the wilderness, here. The voices are getting louder and more clamorous, their message more and more difficult to ignore. But denial is still rife in these United States, as is callous self-interest and willful blindness. This is no longer a matter of finding fixes for small problems, for putting out brushfires as and when they break out. We're talking, finally, about nothing less than the survival of our species.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
This England….
I’ve been thinking a bit more about my brief, weekend visit to England, the country of my birth. Forget the stereotypes: I ate well, everyone I met was warm and friendly to a fault, and the sun shone happily throughout my visit—though I’ll admit I brought that with me from California.
As those who have been following The Buddha Diaries know, I was in the Cotswolds—ferried there from Heathrow on my arrival by my sister and her generous friend, and returning to the airport four days later on the early morning bus from Cirencester—and saw nothing but this small corner of the country with its rolling hills and its villages of beautiful stone cottages whose exterior, at least, has nobly withstood the test of centuries. Not having been in England in the winter time for many years, I was struck by the pervasive silvery pallor of the light, and by the still green hills contrasting with the wonderful, intricately skeletal outlines of the trees and the pale blue of the sky. Early morning, there was frost on the ground. And everywhere, the birds sang.
How much of this I have in the bloodstream and the long, often all too narrow avenues of memory! The countryside sang to me, like the birds, and its song plucked at responsive chords somewhere deep within—call it heart, call it soul, call it consciousness… And I realized that in America I do live the life of an exile. I have made my life in this adopted country for now nearly half a century, and am grateful for all the fulfillment those forty-plus years have brought my way. And yet… I recognize that I am at heart an exile.
With the current election campaign so much in my thoughts before I left—I flew out on the Wednesday following “Super Tuesday”—I had been hoping to get some perspective on America from across the pond. As it turned out, however, I heard barely a word about Obama, Clinton, McCain or Huckabee, and the enquiries I had planned to make seemed somehow, well… irrelevant. No question but that my former fellow-countrymen—those who ventured any opinion at all—are looking forward to the exeunt omnia of Bush and his gang who couldn’t shoot straight, and to the return of America to the community of nations. But they have, as they say, their own fish to fry. The newspapers I saw, and the television new reports, paid scant attention to the American presidential election. Of far greater interest and concern was the Archbishop of Canterbury’s quickly infamous gaffe about sharia law.
There is a civility, I think, still evident in English life. And by that I mean not just good manners, that dreaded “politeness” that threatens to stifle the kind of intimacy we value—perhaps over-value—this side of the Atlantic. I mean a sense of civic responsibility, a respect for others that is in some way structured into the history and the social life of the country. It’s the kind of civility that takes, for example, universal health care (socialized medicine!) as a given; that provides non-grudging care for the elderly and the destitute and schools for the young and transportation systems that make it relatively easy to get around; that recognizes the importance of a cultural life. All those things, in a word, that we “taxpayers” here in America fight so hard to avoid having to pay for with “our money.”
And of course things are not perfect over there. Of course there are those who get left behind, there are the horror stories about those who slip between the interstices of the safety net. But there is nonetheless a general understanding, I think, and a general consensus that any human society is a complex, constantly changing organism, and that each part of it must bear a certain responsibility for carrying its fair share of the common load.
Such are the thoughts, anyway, that I brought back with me from my lightning visit “home.” I could, of course, be perversely mistaken. I could be immersing myself in a romantic nostalgia for a place that never really was. But I like to think I wasn’t.
As those who have been following The Buddha Diaries know, I was in the Cotswolds—ferried there from Heathrow on my arrival by my sister and her generous friend, and returning to the airport four days later on the early morning bus from Cirencester—and saw nothing but this small corner of the country with its rolling hills and its villages of beautiful stone cottages whose exterior, at least, has nobly withstood the test of centuries. Not having been in England in the winter time for many years, I was struck by the pervasive silvery pallor of the light, and by the still green hills contrasting with the wonderful, intricately skeletal outlines of the trees and the pale blue of the sky. Early morning, there was frost on the ground. And everywhere, the birds sang.
How much of this I have in the bloodstream and the long, often all too narrow avenues of memory! The countryside sang to me, like the birds, and its song plucked at responsive chords somewhere deep within—call it heart, call it soul, call it consciousness… And I realized that in America I do live the life of an exile. I have made my life in this adopted country for now nearly half a century, and am grateful for all the fulfillment those forty-plus years have brought my way. And yet… I recognize that I am at heart an exile.
With the current election campaign so much in my thoughts before I left—I flew out on the Wednesday following “Super Tuesday”—I had been hoping to get some perspective on America from across the pond. As it turned out, however, I heard barely a word about Obama, Clinton, McCain or Huckabee, and the enquiries I had planned to make seemed somehow, well… irrelevant. No question but that my former fellow-countrymen—those who ventured any opinion at all—are looking forward to the exeunt omnia of Bush and his gang who couldn’t shoot straight, and to the return of America to the community of nations. But they have, as they say, their own fish to fry. The newspapers I saw, and the television new reports, paid scant attention to the American presidential election. Of far greater interest and concern was the Archbishop of Canterbury’s quickly infamous gaffe about sharia law.
There is a civility, I think, still evident in English life. And by that I mean not just good manners, that dreaded “politeness” that threatens to stifle the kind of intimacy we value—perhaps over-value—this side of the Atlantic. I mean a sense of civic responsibility, a respect for others that is in some way structured into the history and the social life of the country. It’s the kind of civility that takes, for example, universal health care (socialized medicine!) as a given; that provides non-grudging care for the elderly and the destitute and schools for the young and transportation systems that make it relatively easy to get around; that recognizes the importance of a cultural life. All those things, in a word, that we “taxpayers” here in America fight so hard to avoid having to pay for with “our money.”
And of course things are not perfect over there. Of course there are those who get left behind, there are the horror stories about those who slip between the interstices of the safety net. But there is nonetheless a general understanding, I think, and a general consensus that any human society is a complex, constantly changing organism, and that each part of it must bear a certain responsibility for carrying its fair share of the common load.
Such are the thoughts, anyway, that I brought back with me from my lightning visit “home.” I could, of course, be perversely mistaken. I could be immersing myself in a romantic nostalgia for a place that never really was. But I like to think I wasn’t.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
A Walk in the Country
Sunday morning, my sister and I took a long walk out into the country, starting from her house. Another beautiful day. Having started out in the cold with my winter voat, I gradually had to shed and carry as the day warmed up. Here's some of our route:
And on the return from our furthest point out, we took the mile-long avenue leading back into the town:
On our return, we stopped to buy a newspaper at W.H.Smith (I noted that he used to have "& Sons") and enjoy a cop of coffee with one of those Garibaldi cookies we used to call, as children, "squashed flies"--because of the dark raisins squashed inside. Then home for a quiet afternoon, a cup of tea, and time to pack before leftover Indian dinner on trays in front of the TV, to watch the BAFTA Awards show (the British version of the Oscars.)
A rather easy journey home, with a very early (5:55AM) start at the bus stop, and a long coach ride through frosty fields and hillsides with a low mist hugging the ground and the icy pools along the way. Heathrow was busy, but I managed a bit of duty-free shopping (a handful of cigars for my Sunday afternoons, a cashmere scarf from Harrods for Ellie) and a good English breakfast. And finally the long flight over the Atlantic and the frozen tundras of northern Canada, with Ellie to greet me at the airport.
The freeways of Los Angeles, I have to say, seemed a very long way from the Cotswolds!
And on the return from our furthest point out, we took the mile-long avenue leading back into the town:
On our return, we stopped to buy a newspaper at W.H.Smith (I noted that he used to have "& Sons") and enjoy a cop of coffee with one of those Garibaldi cookies we used to call, as children, "squashed flies"--because of the dark raisins squashed inside. Then home for a quiet afternoon, a cup of tea, and time to pack before leftover Indian dinner on trays in front of the TV, to watch the BAFTA Awards show (the British version of the Oscars.)
A rather easy journey home, with a very early (5:55AM) start at the bus stop, and a long coach ride through frosty fields and hillsides with a low mist hugging the ground and the icy pools along the way. Heathrow was busy, but I managed a bit of duty-free shopping (a handful of cigars for my Sunday afternoons, a cashmere scarf from Harrods for Ellie) and a good English breakfast. And finally the long flight over the Atlantic and the frozen tundras of northern Canada, with Ellie to greet me at the airport.
The freeways of Los Angeles, I have to say, seemed a very long way from the Cotswolds!
Friday, February 8, 2008
Flora's Birthday
What a wonderful day in the Cotswolds, startimg out with the cold grey-silver light of the English winter, and leading to an afternoon of bright, cool sunshine. Could not have wished for better weather, despite the low temperature--well, low for a Californian. But then it has been unusually cool in California of late.
Hugo had spent the night at his grandmother's, so the first thing--after a good bowl of porridge (with fresh, raw ginger--a surprise! Something I should add to my repertoire!)--was to get him off to school. He chose recently to switch from the big school in town to a local village school way out in the country, in a tiny place called Sapperton. Here are Flora and Hugo on the way to school...
and here is Sapperton, nestled in a lovely valley...
After dropping Hugo off at school, we stopped by the local church, where we admired the wood work of the pews...
and the lichen and snowdrops outside...
... then took a fortuitous wrong turn and drove back through more lovely countryside...
... to Cirencester.
I spent a little while trying to get used to Flora's PC, to get the blog posted and download some pictures, and was rescued with the latter task by Charlotte's (Flora's daughter, Hugo's mother)friend Richard. I can now, as you see, post some pictures with my narrative.
Late morning, Flora and I walked into the town center,
where she did some shopping at the market while I investigated the local antiques fair (sorry, Ellie, nothing caught my eye!) Time for coffee, then. We found a pleasant coffee shop and were surprised, while enjoying our warm drinks and a shared slice of chocolate chip cake, to find Charlotte and Richard peering in through the window next to us. They are researching coffee prices for the arts center, due to open Saturday, so we went on with them to yet another coffee stop
before heading home for a light lunch or soup and cheese. In the afternoon, Flora drove me out to the countryside again for a truly wonderful tour of some Cotswold villages that I'd never visited before, off the beaten tourist track, without the usual ice cream and souvenir shops. Here's some views...
Lovely villages with lovely names... Winstone, Duntisbourne Abbots, Middle Duntisbourne, Duntisbourne Rouse, Elkstone. And lovely churches, some dating from Saxon times, others Norman and Gothic, amazing, beautiful testimony to the history of this part of the world. Here are some of them...
Oh, here's one where Charles was there before us. Prince Charles, that is...
And back to Cirencester through these gorgeous lanes...
That's all I have time for at the moment. We went out for a birthday dinner at a Chinese restaurant with the improbable name of Mayflower, where we ate well and enjoyed a very pleasant bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc. You'll be relieved to hear that I forgot my camera. Collapsed on the soaf before ten o'clock, and went up to bed shortly thereafter.
Hugo had spent the night at his grandmother's, so the first thing--after a good bowl of porridge (with fresh, raw ginger--a surprise! Something I should add to my repertoire!)--was to get him off to school. He chose recently to switch from the big school in town to a local village school way out in the country, in a tiny place called Sapperton. Here are Flora and Hugo on the way to school...
and here is Sapperton, nestled in a lovely valley...
After dropping Hugo off at school, we stopped by the local church, where we admired the wood work of the pews...
and the lichen and snowdrops outside...
... then took a fortuitous wrong turn and drove back through more lovely countryside...
... to Cirencester.
I spent a little while trying to get used to Flora's PC, to get the blog posted and download some pictures, and was rescued with the latter task by Charlotte's (Flora's daughter, Hugo's mother)friend Richard. I can now, as you see, post some pictures with my narrative.
Late morning, Flora and I walked into the town center,
where she did some shopping at the market while I investigated the local antiques fair (sorry, Ellie, nothing caught my eye!) Time for coffee, then. We found a pleasant coffee shop and were surprised, while enjoying our warm drinks and a shared slice of chocolate chip cake, to find Charlotte and Richard peering in through the window next to us. They are researching coffee prices for the arts center, due to open Saturday, so we went on with them to yet another coffee stop
before heading home for a light lunch or soup and cheese. In the afternoon, Flora drove me out to the countryside again for a truly wonderful tour of some Cotswold villages that I'd never visited before, off the beaten tourist track, without the usual ice cream and souvenir shops. Here's some views...
Lovely villages with lovely names... Winstone, Duntisbourne Abbots, Middle Duntisbourne, Duntisbourne Rouse, Elkstone. And lovely churches, some dating from Saxon times, others Norman and Gothic, amazing, beautiful testimony to the history of this part of the world. Here are some of them...
Oh, here's one where Charles was there before us. Prince Charles, that is...
And back to Cirencester through these gorgeous lanes...
That's all I have time for at the moment. We went out for a birthday dinner at a Chinese restaurant with the improbable name of Mayflower, where we ate well and enjoyed a very pleasant bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc. You'll be relieved to hear that I forgot my camera. Collapsed on the soaf before ten o'clock, and went up to bed shortly thereafter.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Ojai: Fun and Fire
Well, it was quite a trip. Here we are, safely back in Los Angeles--thanks, by the way, to those who wished us a safe journey. It actually felt like touch and go at times on the freeway coming home. More of that in a moment. Meanwhile...
We headed up the 5 freeway Saturday morning as far as Magic Mountain (unbelievable queues of vehicles blocking traffic as people lined up to exit the freeway there, to spend a joyful Saturday on the roller coasters and other instruments of torture!) and took the 126 east through Piru and Fillmore to Santa Paula, where we had been urged to stop to see an odd new show opening up in an odd new art space miles from the "art scene" in Los Angeles. The happily-named Kunstbarn--a play, no doubt, on the more august, ubiquitous "Kunsthalle," the venue of much avant-garde art in Germany and elsewhere--turned out to be just that: a barn. But a barn painstakingly converted into a small but pristine gallery space by the owner, Lotar Ziesing, who deals primarily in "Decorative Art and Antiques." His inaugural exhibition was entitled "Dysfunctional American Portraits, 1930-1960."
The dysfunctional portraits in question turned out to be mostly paintings by those anonymous, self-taught painters whose masterpieces you can pick up for a couple of dollars at garage sales and swap meets.
If you have a good eye--as Lotar quite evidently does--you can find real gems, of the kind popularized by the artist Jim Shaw in his Thrift Store Paintings. Here's a couple of them, for your delectation: 
Lotar has graced each one with a title of his own invention. These two are called "Abused Child" and "Illuminated Shopper," respectively. The theme of the dysfunctional family makes an interesting and satrical comment on mostly post-war America and its illusions of domestic bliss.
It's a trek out to Lotar's place, but worth the effort. Lotar himself is a genial man, a generous host, and a source of endless knowledge about all things "mid-century." Parked outside his house when we arrived was a magnificent pillar-box red Lancia from the 1950s--or perhaps the 1960s, I'm no expert--and while we were still there a friend of his drove up with a beautifully restored Airstream-type trailer of the same period (it wasn't Airstream, but I didn't catch the make.) The late 19th century homestead, also restored with a finicky eye for detail, enjoys a spectacular view of the valley below with its wide arroyo and the mountains beyond.
We took the scenic route up over the hill to the outstkirts of Ojai, where our friends Chris and Nancy had generously invited us to spend the night in their guest house. We were greeted by three rowdy dogs, anxious to meet George, the newcomer. George is normally quite nervous around other dogs, and is known to lunge at them in a less than friendly manner. We assume that, being small, he needs to assert his dogulinity. It's a Napoleon thing. However, they all seemed to get along just fine as we settled down to an excellent lunch of home-brewed potato soup and salad. After lunch, the four of us--here are our friends
--set out on a marvelous, long walk along a back road that soon led us through avocado and orange orchards, where George for the first time in his life learned the joys of running off-leash in the countryside. His long coat managed to pick up every burr along the way, but it was worth the work of pulling them all out one by one just to watch his doggy spirit run free.
We enjoyed a very pleasant dinner in the town of Ojai, and managed an early night and a good sleep, away from the light and sounds of the metropolitan area. We watched the sunrise on an exquisite morning that was marred only, moments later, by Ellie's accident with a glass tea-caddy--it slipped from her hand and shattered on the tile floor in a million tiny shards. Out with George for his morning poop walk, though, I was at once amazed and thrilled to actually hear the beat of crows' wings as a pair of them flew past. It was that quiet...
Breakfast of coffee and toasted English muffins with our friends on their enclosed back porch, surrounded by whispering trees--the wind had not yet risen to its later gusty strength; and a visit with a next-door neighbor, the artist Michael Dvortcsak, whose paintings we have been familiar with for many years.
Michael loves rough, volumetric shapes like ancient vessels and huge, craggy boulders which occupy his canvases like mythical, paleolithic presences set in dreamscapes of the mind. His studio is a solitary cave, hemmed in on all sides by racks crammed with paintings of all sizes and a single wall on which the works in progress hand are hung, awaiting his attention. It's always great to spend time in an artist's studio, and it was a pleasure to meet the man behind the paintings.
There was another studio visit in store for us. After a brief stop in town at the farmers' market, we headed out into the country in the opposite direction--to the south and west--to find the studios of an old friend, Gary Lang, and his wife, Ruth Pastine. Gary left Los Angeles years ago, in the early 1980s, as I recall, and spent a number of years in the contemporary art mecca of New York. He and Ruth returned to Southern California--and the paradise of the countryside around Ojai--a few years ago, and have built a magnificent his- and hers- studio, with a wing for each of them to work in privacy. In Gary's studio, we found a dozen new paintings in pursuit of his love affair--the word "obsession" came up--with color and movement. At one end, a large painting, similar to this one
(apologies to Gary for having lifted this absurdly too-small image, sans permission, from his gallery's site: it gives no feeling for the scale and grandeur of the actual work!) Where Gary works in wildly colorful, eye-popping abstraction, Ruth works much more subtly with shifting color gradations in canvases where serenity rules. Here's a blue one:
(Apologies to Ruth, too, from pretty much the same reasons!) We spent a good while in the studios, amazed, as always, by the endless inventiveness of artists and their dedication to their work.
We enjoyed a bite to eat at Ruth and Gary's, out on the shaded patio behind their house. It wasn't long, however, before we began to notice smoke in the air and smelled the burning brush--our first inkling of the terrible fires that were breaking out all over Southern California. After leaving their house, we headed into thickening smoke around Ventura, where traffic slowed to a crawl beneath a dirty red, hellish sky.
Unsure whether the freeway would lead us, in this murk, to a dead halt between flaming hillsides, we debated leaving the 101 and heading back east on the 126 again. Not knowing which of the two routes was worse, we opted on instinct for the 101. It turned out to have been the better choice, I think, because a call to Lotar gave us notice of a raging fire in the hills above them, near Santa Paula; and later we heard that there were fires on either side of the southbound I-5, which we would have had to take after leaving the 126. Even so, as you can tell from this picture, it was bad enough. We were thankful to find our own area clear when we got home. Today we can look forward to heat--and more brush fires.
We headed up the 5 freeway Saturday morning as far as Magic Mountain (unbelievable queues of vehicles blocking traffic as people lined up to exit the freeway there, to spend a joyful Saturday on the roller coasters and other instruments of torture!) and took the 126 east through Piru and Fillmore to Santa Paula, where we had been urged to stop to see an odd new show opening up in an odd new art space miles from the "art scene" in Los Angeles. The happily-named Kunstbarn--a play, no doubt, on the more august, ubiquitous "Kunsthalle," the venue of much avant-garde art in Germany and elsewhere--turned out to be just that: a barn. But a barn painstakingly converted into a small but pristine gallery space by the owner, Lotar Ziesing, who deals primarily in "Decorative Art and Antiques." His inaugural exhibition was entitled "Dysfunctional American Portraits, 1930-1960."
The dysfunctional portraits in question turned out to be mostly paintings by those anonymous, self-taught painters whose masterpieces you can pick up for a couple of dollars at garage sales and swap meets.
If you have a good eye--as Lotar quite evidently does--you can find real gems, of the kind popularized by the artist Jim Shaw in his Thrift Store Paintings. Here's a couple of them, for your delectation: 
Lotar has graced each one with a title of his own invention. These two are called "Abused Child" and "Illuminated Shopper," respectively. The theme of the dysfunctional family makes an interesting and satrical comment on mostly post-war America and its illusions of domestic bliss. It's a trek out to Lotar's place, but worth the effort. Lotar himself is a genial man, a generous host, and a source of endless knowledge about all things "mid-century." Parked outside his house when we arrived was a magnificent pillar-box red Lancia from the 1950s--or perhaps the 1960s, I'm no expert--and while we were still there a friend of his drove up with a beautifully restored Airstream-type trailer of the same period (it wasn't Airstream, but I didn't catch the make.) The late 19th century homestead, also restored with a finicky eye for detail, enjoys a spectacular view of the valley below with its wide arroyo and the mountains beyond.
We took the scenic route up over the hill to the outstkirts of Ojai, where our friends Chris and Nancy had generously invited us to spend the night in their guest house. We were greeted by three rowdy dogs, anxious to meet George, the newcomer. George is normally quite nervous around other dogs, and is known to lunge at them in a less than friendly manner. We assume that, being small, he needs to assert his dogulinity. It's a Napoleon thing. However, they all seemed to get along just fine as we settled down to an excellent lunch of home-brewed potato soup and salad. After lunch, the four of us--here are our friends
--set out on a marvelous, long walk along a back road that soon led us through avocado and orange orchards, where George for the first time in his life learned the joys of running off-leash in the countryside. His long coat managed to pick up every burr along the way, but it was worth the work of pulling them all out one by one just to watch his doggy spirit run free.We enjoyed a very pleasant dinner in the town of Ojai, and managed an early night and a good sleep, away from the light and sounds of the metropolitan area. We watched the sunrise on an exquisite morning that was marred only, moments later, by Ellie's accident with a glass tea-caddy--it slipped from her hand and shattered on the tile floor in a million tiny shards. Out with George for his morning poop walk, though, I was at once amazed and thrilled to actually hear the beat of crows' wings as a pair of them flew past. It was that quiet...
Breakfast of coffee and toasted English muffins with our friends on their enclosed back porch, surrounded by whispering trees--the wind had not yet risen to its later gusty strength; and a visit with a next-door neighbor, the artist Michael Dvortcsak, whose paintings we have been familiar with for many years.
Michael loves rough, volumetric shapes like ancient vessels and huge, craggy boulders which occupy his canvases like mythical, paleolithic presences set in dreamscapes of the mind. His studio is a solitary cave, hemmed in on all sides by racks crammed with paintings of all sizes and a single wall on which the works in progress hand are hung, awaiting his attention. It's always great to spend time in an artist's studio, and it was a pleasure to meet the man behind the paintings.
There was another studio visit in store for us. After a brief stop in town at the farmers' market, we headed out into the country in the opposite direction--to the south and west--to find the studios of an old friend, Gary Lang, and his wife, Ruth Pastine. Gary left Los Angeles years ago, in the early 1980s, as I recall, and spent a number of years in the contemporary art mecca of New York. He and Ruth returned to Southern California--and the paradise of the countryside around Ojai--a few years ago, and have built a magnificent his- and hers- studio, with a wing for each of them to work in privacy. In Gary's studio, we found a dozen new paintings in pursuit of his love affair--the word "obsession" came up--with color and movement. At one end, a large painting, similar to this one
(apologies to Gary for having lifted this absurdly too-small image, sans permission, from his gallery's site: it gives no feeling for the scale and grandeur of the actual work!) Where Gary works in wildly colorful, eye-popping abstraction, Ruth works much more subtly with shifting color gradations in canvases where serenity rules. Here's a blue one:
(Apologies to Ruth, too, from pretty much the same reasons!) We spent a good while in the studios, amazed, as always, by the endless inventiveness of artists and their dedication to their work.
We enjoyed a bite to eat at Ruth and Gary's, out on the shaded patio behind their house. It wasn't long, however, before we began to notice smoke in the air and smelled the burning brush--our first inkling of the terrible fires that were breaking out all over Southern California. After leaving their house, we headed into thickening smoke around Ventura, where traffic slowed to a crawl beneath a dirty red, hellish sky.
Unsure whether the freeway would lead us, in this murk, to a dead halt between flaming hillsides, we debated leaving the 101 and heading back east on the 126 again. Not knowing which of the two routes was worse, we opted on instinct for the 101. It turned out to have been the better choice, I think, because a call to Lotar gave us notice of a raging fire in the hills above them, near Santa Paula; and later we heard that there were fires on either side of the southbound I-5, which we would have had to take after leaving the 126. Even so, as you can tell from this picture, it was bad enough. We were thankful to find our own area clear when we got home. Today we can look forward to heat--and more brush fires.
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