Meandering With a Mazy Motion

On a lovely Saturday evening in June, I attended an opening at the Hamiltonian Gallery at 1353 U Street in one of Washington DC’s contemporary art districts.  As the gallery quickly filled up with folks, chatting, visiting, viewing, I felt lucky that I had had a chance, by arriving early, to view some of the works unimpeded by the large and noisy crowd that followed.  

The show is called “new. (now).” and it introduces the Hamiltonian Gallery’s five new Fellows, recipients of its fellowship program designed to promote new and innovative visual artists not yet represented by a gallery.  This year’s five Fellows are young artists, recent graduates, all of whose work is distinctly different.  One artist’s work caught my attention, and pulled me in, and held me:  that artist’s name is Katherine Mann, and her Filigree, an 80-inch by 30-foot work on paper using acrylic, watercolor, and sumi ink, from 2009, was a joy to behold.

I’m not an art critic, and do not have the knowledge or the vocabulary with which to take apart and analyze works critically, but as an art lover, this is what I felt when viewing Katherine’s large work:  There is something organic, something playful, something fantastic, something real about it.  The sensuous lines conjure up detailed landscapes and messy maps, interconnections and intersections.  The undulating shapes take surprising twists and turns.  The images seem to be alive with feeling, and thought, and purpose, and the work literally took my breath away.  Best of all, permeating every square inch of the immense work is color: gorgeous, vibrant, breathtaking, energetic color!

You can learn more about Katherine Mann at:   http://katherinemann.net

Read about the Hamiltonian Gallery at:   http://hamiltonianartists.org

 

Une soirée à moi avec un roman parfait

Récemment, j'ai eu la chance d'avoir une soirée à moi pour la lecture d'un roman parfait. Il s'agit de L'Elégance du hérisson de Muriel Barbery.  

Ce roman pétillant et incisif relate la merveilleuse et mystérieuse histoire de Madame Michel, concierge d'un immeuble parisien très chic que tous les occupants croient banale, car pour eux, elle ne peut être que la concierge typique sans intérêt. Ce qu'ils ne savent pas, ce qu'ils ne voient pas, c'est que  derrière ses airs revêches et mal fagotés se dissimule un esprit lumineux, une philosophe, une savante même, une critique non seulement littéraire mais aussi musicale, cinématographique, et en plus, sociologue qui sait décortiquer au couteau aiguisé les moeurs de société, une femme qui lit Marx, Husserl, et Kant, une métaphysicienne au coeur! Les familles qui vivent au 7 rue de Grenelle passent devant elle, jour après jour, année après année, et ne la voient pas. Ils ne la verront jamais car ces grands pontes industriels, ces députés importants, cette élite sortie des meilleures écoles, tous imbus de leur propre importance, n'en sont pas capables. En parallèle de l'histoire de Madame Michel, une autre voix raconte la sienne : il s'agit de Paloma, une petite fille de 12 ans d'une maturité précoce qui habite le même immeuble. Les deux récits s'entrecroisent lors de l'arrivée de Monsieur Ozu, le grand perturbateur du status quo.  La lecture de l'histoire de Madame Michel, de Paloma, de Monsieur Ozu ainsi que de tous les autres personnages qui respirent tout au long de ces pages, m'a entièrement ravie. J'ai ouvert le livre à 17h et je l'ai fermé à minuit. J'en ai oublié de manger! A la place, j'ai dégusté un livre écrit dans un français élégant comme l'on déguste un délice raffiné, et sa lecture m'a procurée une sensation de bonheur, de légèreté, et de satisfaction. J'y ai trouvé d'autant plus de bonheur que Madame Michel, Paloma, et Monsieur Ozu sont des méticuleux, des tâtillons, des scrupuleux - des amoureux - de la beauté de la langue de Molière. Un petit détail qui m'a fait plaisir : tous trois comprennent que la grammaire n'existe pas pour que nous parlions et écrivions bien, mais plutôt pour nous montrer la beauté de la langue que nous adorons. Je me suis particulièrement régalée avec l'histoire de la virgule et celle de "pallier à ça". D'ailleurs, ces trois personnages sont unis par une sensibilité à la Beauté ainsi que par une réflexion constante sur le sens de la vie : "...beaucoup de désespoir, mais aussi quelques moments de beauté où le temps n'est plus le même...un toujours dans le jamais...", dira Paloma.

Tout au long de ma soirée, je dégustais ce livre comme un mets savoureux tant il y avait des références qui trouvaient écho en moi :

-Je suis amatrice de thé ainsi qu'une grand fan de cinéma.

-Faire rentrer les camélias au coeur de l'histoire était pour moi une note pleine de grâce car mon grand-père louisianais les cultivait.

-Comprendre un peu plus les complexités des strates de la société française est d'une grande utilité car naviguer ces eaux périlleuses n'a jamais été chose facile pour l'américaine-née que je suis.

-"N'ayez qu'une amie, mais choisissez-la bien" : cette belle phrase limpide, prononcée par Madame Michel, reste inoubliable.

-En littérature comme dans la vie, j'aime les filles intelligentes voire surdouées à qui l'on ne raconte pas d'histoires. La scène avec le psychothérapeute vaut, à elle seule, le prix du livre !

-Après avoir (enfin) lu Anna Karénine de Léon Tolstoï il y a deux étés, ma vie de lectrice est plus riche. Ma lecture de L'Elégance du hérisson en a été rendue plus profonde par le simple fait de connaître (et d'aimer) l'histoire et les personnages de Tolstoï. 

Pour conclure, ce roman émouvant et drôle me fait jubiler. Aux réflexions de Madame Michel lorsqu'elle embroche ceux qui l'entourent par ses observations acerbes mais toutefois pleines d'humour, je ris et j'applaudis. Aux angoisses et tâtonnements de Paloma, j'approuve et je compatis. A la délicatesse et à la sensibilité de Monsieur Ozu, je suis émue et je pleure. Conte de fées? Pas vraiment, car le "happy ending" n'est pas au rendez-vous. Roman parfait? Oui, car Muriel Barbery y rassemble humour, intelligence, poésie, culture, personnages, et belle histoire avec une élégance de grand écrivain.

A Few Things I Love About Paris

Last week, I was in Paris where I spent a week lending a helping hand to my son who was moving. Couldn't he have done it by himself? Bien sûr que oui. But then, any excuse to spend a week in Paris is a good excuse! There was work to be done, but afternoons of putting things in boxes gave way to evenings at sidewalk cafés and mornings of packing suitcases were followed by strolls in the streets where I lost all notion of time and began to live in the present moment. Besides the pure pleasure of a week in Paris, I was lucky enough to be staying in a graceful 2-bedroom apartment with high ceilings and impeccably soothing interiors in one of Paris' most pleasant neighborhoods, a pied à terre lent to me by friends, a serene oasis in the middle of a hustling bustling city. My short 7-day stay in Paris reminded me of a few things I love about France - a place I lived for almost twenty years and for which I often yearn, despite the fact that there are many things about living in the States that energize and please me - and so I made a list.

-The sound of church bells ringing.

-The aroma of coffee and chocolate.

-The accessibility to an entire city through the métro, a means of public transportation used by old and young, rich and poor, little old ladies with their shopping bags and pierced punks wearing outrageous makeup, traveling side by side in a vehicle which contributes to a certain social cohesion among classes. For residents and visitors alike, all you need to explore Paris is a metro ticket.

-Music in the métro, whether it be the strains of an accordeon playing a traditional French waltz that makes one want to embrace the moment and sway to the music, or a saxophone wailing a loud lonely air that can be heard through the long winding hallways underground.

-People in the streets.

-Waiters in restaurants leaving me alone once I've been served, not expecting me to make way for the next patrons, and the subsequent feeling that everyone around me knows it is completely and utterly normal not to be rushed when eating, whether alone or sharing a meal with friends.

-The omnipresence of history. One tiny example: As I prepare to go to a friend's flat in the 15th arrondissement, my son casually says, "Get off at Dupleix. He was the French governor of India in the 18th century right before the Seven Years War (known in the States as the French and Indian War but which was actually an earlier world war fought in North America, India, and Europe!) reputed for his intelligence...." Take any metro stop, any landmark, any coin de rue, it is steeped in history.

-Women everywhere, of every age, of every socio-economic level, displaying a sense of style.

-The scent of perfume. For women, luscious or spicy. And for men, crisp or woody.

-Andouillettes! And so much more!

-Need I mention the ubiquitousness of excellent wine?

-The pervading smell of fresh bread and croissants.

-Having breakfast, alone, in a small café.

-Taking my time in Les Galeries Lafayette.

-Lingering in bookstores.

-The cool air of Paris by night.

-Seeing the Eiffel Tower, again.

-My favorite tea shop, Mariage Frères, on the rue du Bourg-Tibourg.

-Visiting L'Artisan Parfumeur, and finally, after all these years, daring to buy a circus-inspired perfume I fell in love with 15 years ago called Dzing!

-The custom of the handshake as an everyday, everytime greeting, with its accompanying warmth and sensuality.

-The metallic and musical sound of horns honking, although, due to recent French laws, horn-honking has been curbed!

-Shops and businesses closing for an hour at noon, closing on Sundays. American efficiency is wonderful, but isn't it civilized to pause, and not just rush headlong in life without ever stopping?

-A certain je ne sais quoi in the fresh smell of new tobacco.

-Having an entire evening to myself to read L'Elégance du hérisson by Muriel Barbery, and being thoroughly enchanted. (This will soon be the subject of another blog entry.)

-The pleasure of being immersed in my adoptive language, of hearing it spoken not just at my home and at work (as I do in the US), but all over, by everyone.

All these things - plus the excitement of meeting with the founder and editor of a young and vibrant publishing house whose collections represent concepts dear to my heart: bilinguism and girl power - were a few of the things that struck my senses during my week in Paris. Nostalgia? I chalk it up to the enjoyment of a culture, a country, and a language I like to call my own.

Memorizing Poetry

A fellow children's literature blogger, Chicken Spaghetti, brought to my attention John Holt's essay Got Poetry? which appeared online in the April 2 New York Times Book Review.  The essay expounds on the benefits of memorizing poetry... from the point of a baby boomer.  I thoroughly enjoyed the article and felt encouraged about my secret sideline.  On the sly, I have been memorizing poetry for about ten years now.  It all started when I began teaching English at the French lycée where primary school students are required, in their French language classroom, to learn, memorize, and recite poetry on a regular basis. I'm talking 6- to 10- year old kids!  Every year, they began class with a new poetry cahier, and to my observation, they never question that poetry is part of their school work, just like math, or geography, or science. Even the requirement of reciting in front of their classmates doesn't seem to faze them. Memorizing poetry is just something they do.  For me, it was beginning teacher's luck, a gift handed to me on a silver platter, for it was quite an easy thing to transfer this poetic rigueur into their English class. And so, I included the memorizing of a poem per trimester during my first year of teaching, and ever since, it's been a poem a month.  The amazing and wonderful thing is that not only do the children do it almost effortlessly, they lap it up, they love it, and poetry time is a happy and relaxed time for them.  (And anyone who knows the French system of education knows that there's not much relaxing going on!) Refreshingly, no one speaks of how horrible it is to have children learn by rote!  The memorization frees them from the shackles of bad speech (and the incessant use of the word "like"), and the enjoyment that ensues has everyone feeling as pleased as punch.  

Mais revenons à nos moutons:  As my students memorized their monthly poems, I too would memorize the same one I was requiring them to learn, and was surprised at how utterly empowered  it made me feel.  From that point on, I began to learn poems on my own on a regular basis and I continue to this day. At first, I went out and bought Committed To Memory, 100 Best Poems to Memorize, edited by John Hollander, and just dove in!  Since then, I've continued to buy wonderful anthologies, but I've also branched out and bought books of individual poets. There is something absolutely wonderful about being able to declaim beautifully crafted words.  There is something absolutely invigorating  about making one's brain crunch the words before getting to the place where the words free themselves within the brain and you just run with it.  I am hooked.  I don't write poetry, but the discovery that I can memorize and enjoy it has been a wonderful new avenue of awareness for me.

And speaking of poetry for children:  Of course, my primary school students adore the poems of Shel Silverstein, Jack Prelutsky, Douglas Florian, Nikki Giovanni, and Bobbi Katz - that goes without saying.  But get this:  they also adore Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, Walter de la Mare, Christina Rossetti, Ted Hughes, Ogden Nash, William Carlos Williams, Dorothy Parker, and Lewis Carroll - not too shabby, n'est-ce pas?

I recently came across Norman Shapiro's fabulous La Fontaine translations, The Complete Fables of Jean de la Fontaine. Because the fourth graders had already learned La Cigale et la fourmi in French, I took advantage of this opportunity to introduce the idea of the translation of great works of literature and I had them learn and memorize The Cricket and the Ant. It turned out to be a good bilingual project and one that got many of them thinking about interpreting not only words but meaning and pleasure. What a declamation there was the day we recited! Might we have some budding poets in our midst? Aspiring translators? Future interpreters? I can only hope so.  

March Madness

The month of March has flown by. When I think back and wonder what I have accomplished, nothing comes to mind. I had hoped to write a blogpost per week, but there you have it - my first one is on the last day of of the month! A busy end of the teaching trimester, a few translation projects taking up my out-of-school time, and the three stories I'm working that seem to be going nowhere in spite of continued efforts... and March is gone. Through it all, the tug of the writing life refuses to leave me! The good news is that I've had a companion during this crazy month, Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott, and this small volume has helped me get through what has turned out to be an uneven season. Introduced to me by Marlys Hershey - a woman I've yet to meet in the flesh - Bird by Bird is a meaty, chewy, main-course kind of book. It continues to nourish my soul and is proving to be truly inspirational with respect to the writing life. This book tastes good. Its smells earthy. It speaks volumes to me. It touches my spirit. It enlightens my obscurity and offers vision. A five-senses-kind-of-book! As I now read it for a second and third time, I am taking note of how I can implement some its lesson on life and writing.

The book is witty and real. It's gritty and down to earth. It's unsentimental and practical. Anne Lamott says over and over again that the writing life is a life of discipline, yet she encourages writers to be not so hard on themselves. OK, Anne, I'll try to follow that advice. Writers who feel discouraged? Well, that's alright: it's part of the human experience. This book has been my March experience - the end of winter and the beginning of spring - so I guess things haven't been so bad after all. Besides, tomorrow is the beginning of National Poetry Month, so things are definitely lookin' up!

Why I Love Teaching First Graders

Mouhamad is boisterous

Aglaé is sweet-tempered

Lily is as smart as a whip

Inès is endearing

Patrick has a voice to sing opera

Claudia is perspicacious

Santiago loves color

Brayden is coquin

Nayla is blissfully happy

Situ Coralie's the boss

Alexandra is playful

Cool Kenan takes it all in

Justin bright as a new penny

Colombe is as sweet as a dove

Eric sees everything and gets it

Alara?  She is Turkish delight

With sixteen students and twelve nationalities ranging from French to Turkish, from Mexican to Lebanese, from Belgian to American, from Spanish to Senegalese, from Togolese to Brazilian, and from Korean to Burundian, why wouldn't I love teaching first graders?  Well, there's always the bouquet of languages that I love, too.

I'll name a few:

French English Arabic Spanish

Fula Kirundi Korean Turkish

Did I mention that we also

Hear Portuguese and Togolese...

Do you still wonder 

Why I love teaching these?

Marblelous Marvels...

Marbles fascinate me. Although I was vaguely aware of their existence during my childhood and youth, it wasn't until I lived in France that I discovered how amazing they are.  There, marbles are significant both as objects that people collect and play with as well as vocabulary that colorfully and abundantly enriches the French language.  I observed with amusement when my three sons, without any guidance or input from their American mother, became interested in playing marbles, collecting marbles, trading marbles, and becoming marble experts by the time they trod up the hill to our neighborhood école.  I wondered what all the excitement and fuss were about until I took the time to discover that marbles embody a world of color, beauty, history, fun, and... language.

Two expressions using the word "marble" exist in English - think of "pick up one's marbles and go home," indicating that someone doesn't want to play or participate anymore, or "lose one's marbles," meaning that a poor soul is suffering from either a nervous breakdown or just can't think straight and has lost his or her bearings.  The French word for marble, bille, however, crops up in so many ways and so frequently, that expressions abound.  Let's start from the top:

bille en tête - head-on

avoir une bonne bille - have an honest face

faire une drôle de bille - look weird

bille de clown - have a funny face

bille de billard - bald

avoir les yeux plus ronds que des billes - naïf, even stupid, definitely clueless

Continue with intelligence or ability:

toucher sa bille - to be darn good at something, to know a thing or two about something

avoir des billes pour - to have some clues about something

Or on the contrary:

ne me prenez pas pour une bille - I'm not stupid!

And finally, in life and in love:

retirer ses billes - get out of the game, pull out

rendre ses billes - to turn it all in and quit

placer ses billes - to invest, to bet, to take a risk

à billes égales - level playing field

I'm pleased to note that every September, on the playground of the école primaire where I teach, students come back to school with their marbles:  they play, they trade, they admire, they collect, they categorize, they win, they lose.  When I tell them that the ancient Greeks and Romans played marbles, the children are pleased.  When they realize that their teacher has her own marble collection, they beg me to bring it to school so I can "show and tell."  In 2009, boys and girls alike are true enthusiasts when it comes to being experts. When it comes to marbles, ils touchent leur bille!