My New Retreat

One antidote to life's uncertainty is our ability to adapt. Adjusting to new conditions is a strength we can develop and it becomes helpful when crap occurs.

I recently faced an unexpected situation. Pondering it I discovered a solution and improved my life. Yay!

Three years ago, when my future looked different, I asked a friend to build me a garage. (He's a contractor.) I wanted a basic wooden box to shelter as many of my growing fleet of motor vehicles as could be stuffed in it. The garage took over a year to complete but is very nice (and legal). I stored five of my six vehicles there: all four motorcycles and the newer of my two cars.

Today, however, life is not the same. I found new homes for both cars and two of the motorcycles. (I'm keeping the other two bikes for sentimental reasons.) I no longer need a garage -- yet it's sitting there, begging for some use.

I didn't know what to do with the structure. I didn't want to spend more money. I thought about what I lack -- e.g., an outdoor patio -- and suddenly realized the garage could easily adapt to serve that purpose. Like ancient Greek scholar Archimedes I shouted "Eureka!"

Last week I converted the storage space into an outdoor retreat for meditation and music appreciation. And I spent only $70 to do that. 

I bought a cheap -- but very chic -- waterproof rug ($40) and two clamp-lights shining 300 watts of illumination ($30). I already own two patio chaise lounges with matching pads and small metal tables. They create comfortable seating on the 10-foot x 12-foot rug. I also already have a large photoshoot backdrop system which now works as a privacy screen; the garage door can be left open for ventilation without anyone being able to peek inside.

I'm lovin' this. I wake up at 3:00 a.m. (don't ask) and enjoy sipping cups of warm tea while listening to birds singing and insects chirping. I plan my day, organize thoughts and reflect on life while the rest of you sleep. The outdoor air is invigorating.

Later in the day this retreat offers shade from direct sunlight. I go there and can crank up tunes louder than inside our house (where Robin works remotely). My current musical favorites are The Allman Brothers Band ("Live From Filmore East") and classical pianist Yuja Wang. 

The second chaise lounge is empty if you want to drop by. Don't let a sign over the door scare you: 

Hic Sunt Dracones 

(Latin: "Here There Be Dragons").

Fountain Pens

It's fun to look at the past and see how people lived before us. For example, prior to the introduction of ballpoint pens (around 1950) everyone wrote with "fountain pens." Do you know what a fountain pen is? Have you ever used one?

For thousands of years humans used primitive writing tools like a stylus or quill. The first fountain pen was invented 200 years ago in 1827. During the next 60 years its design was improved until Lewis Waterman perfected it in the 1880s (and built a famous company). People used fountain pens exclusively until ballpoints became popular in the 1950s. They were invented during World War II but not commercially sold until after the war.

Pen enthusiasts love fountain pens not only for nostalgia but also because of their craftsmanship. Made skillfully with real materials like metal and wood, these writing instruments aren't disposable pieces of plastic junk. It's a joy to hold and write with these instruments. Many are works of art.

There are big differences between fountain pens and ballpoints. First, the ink. The liquid in fountain pens is water-soluable whereas ink in ballpoints is oil-based. Second, the tip. Fountain pens have a "nib" which channels ink from a reservoir to the tip. Nibs vary in size and shape which affects how the ink is spread on paper. Ballpoints, by contrast, use a spherical metal ball to transfer ink to paper.

Unlike ballpoints which require little skill, fountain pens take some practice to get good at wielding. Developing manual dexterity is a pleasant benefit that comes from using them. I have a simple fountain pen designed for childen (touted as "Your First Fountain Pen!"). If a kid can do it, so can you. The pen is made by LAMY, a successful German company.

When you read old letters, postcards or documents, chances are they were written with fountain pens. An experienced user quickly spots telltale signs from the appearance of the ink on the page. There is delightful charm in holding old documents written with these fine instruments. Come over and I'll show you how to use them.

Life Of An Artist

My hometown has a local museum, The Heckscher Museum of Art. The Museum is small but noteworthy. It contains prominent work by Huntington's most famous artist, a German-born painter named George Grosz (1893-1959). There are many fascinating things about George worth learning.

George was thrown out of traditional school for insubordination. He then happily attended art school where he effloresced. George, an anti-war pacifist, left Germany in 1932 as the Nazis were gaining power. He moved to Huntington and became an American citizen. George taught art both in Huntington and at a prominent school in Manhattan (The Art Students League of New York). 

While George's work was respected, he was financially poor. Just scraping by at one point he lacked funds to pay a car-repair bill. To make money for that expense George sold one of his best paintings ("Eclipse of the Sun") to a local handyman for $104. The buyer kept the painting rolled up in his garage for 20 years. In 1968 the handyman sold the painting to The Heckscher Museum for $15,000. Several years later the Museum proposed selling the painting again and had it appraised: the then-current value was $19 Million dollars. Vigorous public outcry rang out against a sale and the Museum dropped its plan. The painting, and several others by George, remain the core of The Museum's collection. There's currently a big exhibition of George's work at The Museum.

For those playing Art Bingo: (1) George got kicked out of school for insubordination; (2) he succeeded as an artist; (3) he made little money from his work; (4) the work later became worth millions; (5) George died at age 66 from falling down stairs at the end of a night of heavy drinking. If you have all these facts on your Art Bingo card, please come forward and collect your winnings. :)

Youthful Memories

As improbable as it sounds old folks remember stuff from their youth, often in great detail. Lately I've been reminiscing about a place I used to drink at half a century ago. At first I wasn't sure if I was imagining the spot so I checked the Internet; yes, it's real. Other aging Boomers have vivid memories of it, too.

I spent three years in Boston attending law school (1979-82). My days were fully consumed by study but nights were available for stress-relief. I indulged in a little drinking. A poor student in debt I had practically no money for anything. So I was adventurous. I explored dark sides of the city and discovered a wildly bizarre joint where you could tie one on for pennies. I went there frequently with my artist-girlfriend Maura and several soused sidekicks.

The watering hole was Aku Aku. A fitting name for primal activity. Aku Aku was an old-school Polynesian tiki bar in Kenmore Square. The place also served Chinese food; it was awful and best avoided. Most patrons walked past the empty dining room and into a crowded bar for the real attraction: cheap booze.

At that time Kenmore Square was low-rent and gritty; however, it also possessed vitality since the location attracted students willing to mingle with drug-addicts and bums. ("Bums" wasn't an insult back then, more an accurate description of tatterdemalions.) The area contained halfway houses, dive bars and music nightclubs like the infamous Rathskeller ("the Rat"). Just as seedy were clubs like Where It’s At and Psychedelic Supermarket. Fenway Park (where the Red Sox play) is around the corner and accounted for occasional crowds of drunk, racist baseball fans. I lived two miles down the road and ventured to and from this urban jungle on the Green Line of the "T" (an above-ground electric trolley). Unless, of course, I missed the last train and had to walk home in the cold night.

The tiki bar at Aku Aku was positively surreal: a long room decorated with tiki culture ephemera and a painted mural romantically depicting the South Seas. The mural, created with florid Day-Glo paint, would sway after you consumed a sufficient amount of liquor. Exotic South Seas scenery appealed to World War II vets who swapped war stories at the bar. Their exaggerated tales, amid strange scenes of erupting volcanos, offered an ineffable view of the world. To me, Aku Aku was as foreign as a distant planet. Nothing on television rivaled its dreamlike Dadaism.

The bar's chief attraction was fabulously large alcoholic drinks. Decorated with gaudy flourishes like paper umbrellas, fruit chunks and straws suitable only for children or Midwestern tourists the drinks were mammoth in size and small in price. You got drunk easily without hurting your wallet. My favorite drink, the infamous Scorpion Bowl, was literally a large punch bowl filled with treacly sweet fruit juice boosted with high-octane rum. We joked that the rum had been furtively made in the basement during Prohibition which explained the dusty unlabeled bottles. A Scorpion Bowl was served with one straw, or two if you were sharing it with someone you hoped had no diseases. The bowl contained enough alcohol to fuel a large man for an entire night of woozy inebriation. Bring out the swaying mural.

After I left Boston in 1982 my nearby school (BU) bought up Kenmore Square's real estate. Aiming to calm anxious parents, the University gentrified the area into a flavorless plate of insipid condos. 

The old days of cheap liquor and slum adventure are gone... but they survive in my memory. Long live Aku Aku!

Happy Canada Day!

Today commemorates the birth of Canada as a nation on July 1, 1867. 

Canadians take the day off work, have BBQs and watch fireworks. Sound familiar? :)

"Pollyanna"

We all have personalities. A combination of genetic traits, parental influences and personal quirks. Some of us are Carries, some Mirandas, and some Mr. Big. 

I'm a Pollyanna.

When people called me that in the past I didn't know what the name meant. So I looked it up. Yup, I'm a Pollyanna. The name has a history and cultural resonance.

"Pollyanna" is a 1913 American novel considered a classic of children's literature. Its immense success led to a dozen sequels and several film adaptations. My favorite is Disney's 1960 version starring Hayley Mills. She won a special Oscar for the role.

"Pollyanna" has become a symbol for people who are unfailingly optimistic and can find positive things in every situation. Although the term is sometimes used disparagingly (as excessively cheerful), Pollyanna the character found ways to cope with serious difficulties and sorrows. Her outlook was not frivolous; it was courageous. In the original story, Pollyanna is an orphan who gets hit by a car and loses the use of her legs. Searching for anything positive in that circumstance is a real challenge, yet she accomplishes it with tenacity and robust charm. Pollyanna often plays a game her father taught her before he died, "the Glad game." It consists of searching for something to be glad about in every state of affairs, no matter how bleak.

Like Pollyanna I possess gratitude, a "glass half-full" attitude. I celebrate water in my glass even when it's only 10%. That's still better than bemoaning the missing 90%. Despair begets despair and we can't live in sadness. Not long, anyway. Depression worsens physical and emotional health and repels friends we vitally need.

Littleton, New Hampshire, home of Pollyanna's author (Eleanor Porter) erected a bronze sculpture in her honor. The statue depicts smiling Pollyanna with arms flung wide in greeting. Littleton also hosts an annual festival known as "The Official Pollyanna Glad Day."

So, fire up the label-maker -- I'm Pollyanna and proud of the name.

Art

Many mistake my fervent interest in art as a new thing, something I stumbled upon recently. That isn't the case. I was enthralled by art in my youth. In fact one of my pivotal life decisions was, when graduating college, to attend law school instead of film school. I don't regret that choice but am now returning to my earlier passion. After a half-century of toil during which "I gave at the office" I foresee a future laboring for love.

What is it about art that appeals to us? A worthy question, tied to the meaning of life itself. I found my answer first from tasting aesthetic beauty, pondering power of creation, listening to artists describe their work, and ultimately personal introspection.

By "art" I mean the arts generally: painting, sculpture, music, performance, literature and poetry. I have depth in some of these fields and seek experience with the others. Much of what I've learned has application to different media.

Art is not separate from our lives. A better writer than I explains: "Art is not an accessory to pleasure but the means of our connection to the cosmos." 

I also can't claim to have written that art "conveys...ineffable intimations of immortality." I fully agree with this trenchant notion. We feel a glow of transcendence in the grasp of great art. And should value it accordingly.

My Dad

Whatever our feelings about our parents -- and they are often mixed -- we cannot deny the noumenal influence they have on our lives. This continues after their death, as those of you who've lost a mom or dad know.

Today is my father's birthday. He would have been 94 years old. (He passed away in December 2022.) I woke up thinking about him, not realizing until hours later that it's his birthday. Despite his physical absence he still lives in my head.

I'm fortunate to have photographs from his life, including from earlier periods before I met him. Those are fascinating because they demonstrate how deeply my mother transformed him in his twenties. Ralph Sr. (née Rolf) was an adventurous rogue who grew up in a war-zone. He met his match in Barbara Jo, a fierce animal-trainer from the jungle of Brooklyn. BJ tamed Ralph into domestic duty and he performed the roles of husband and father even though they weren't natural to him. We all do what we must. On the plus side, my mother showed my father how to live sensibly and he benefited from that lesson over a long, pleasant lifetime.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Entertainment

Taste in entertainment is subjective but sometimes it's useful to hear from gimlet-eyed friends. They may suggest a show or film you've overlooked, particularly from the past.

Here are my all-time favorite TV shows and movies. What are yours?

Television:

1. "Mad Men"

2. "The Sopranos"

3. "Six Feet Under"

Movies:

1. "Casablanca"

2. "Pee-wee's Big Adventure"

3. "Rocky" (the original)

Belmont Lake

Robin and I hiked around Belmont Lake and enjoyed the nice weather. 

Robin just bought this hat from REI and loves it. Happy Summer!

Stanley Cup Finals!

Hey fans! Today starts the Stanley Cup finals! (8pm on ABC)

This is hockey's Superbowl/World Series. The best two teams are the Edmonton Oilers who'll play the Florida Panthers. You may remember the Panthers: they were in the finals last year but lost to Las Vegas. Edmonton hasn't been there in almost 20 years (since 2006) and hasn't won a Stanley Cup since... well, dinosaurs were on the ice back then.

What's significant this year? Well, remember hockey began in Canada and remains a big deal up north. Edmonton is the first Canadian team in over 30 years to reach for the Cup so many are rooting for the team. (I am.) Also, Edmonton has a great player, Connor McDavid, whom I saw in person playing the Devils this year. Kid can skate! Finally, Edmonton had a horrible start to the season and most never expected it to be here, so there's a strong Cinderella vibe.

Go Oilers!

Yuja Wang

I have a pantheon of personal heroes: artists of great achievement. They inspire me by reifying our dreams. Simply knowing such people exist gives me hope for humanity.

I've told you in the past about several of these: glass-blower Lino Tagliapietra, writer David Foster Wallace, and guitarists Duane Allman, Dickey Betts and Roy Buchanon. Let me add another genius to the list.

Yuja Wang. Yes, she has an unusual name but it's easily pronounced: You-jah Wong (not Wang). Whether you know it or not Yuja is the best pianist in the world right now. She's 37 years old and has been astounding audiences since she was a teenager. She's played with every prominent orchestra in the country, toured internationally, and sold-out Carnegie Hall. Yuja is an indisputable superstar.

During the pandemic when Yuja couldn't play concerts she collaborated with a respected composer on a new piece of music. The composer says he wrote the piece specifically for her, believing Yuja is the only pianist capable of performing it. During their collaboration Yuja took passages AND MADE THEM HARDER TO PLAY. She amped up technical difficulty of the work to make it shine brighter. The composer was justly amazed at this.

When people can't comprehend something complex they often focus on trivial aspects, like commentary that dogged David Foster Wallace about the bandana he wore on his head at public readings. Instead of considering the literary merit of David's work or its estimable themes some clueless critics pondered ridiculous theories on why David wore a bandana (e.g., eccentricity, vanity). The truth is more mundane: David was shy and especially nervous speaking in public; as a result he sweated profusely and used a cloth bandana to absorb and conceal sweat. That's all, nothing more.

A similar thing happens to Yuja. As a young woman she performed wearing attractive clothes, usually a stylish dress and high heels. Classical music critics disparaged her appearance as too sexy for concerts. One even sexistly wrote that "if her dress was any shorter" the concert-hall "would have to restrict admission to those over 17 years old." Yuja explains, quite simply, that she likes to wear nice clothes and doesn't understand why anyone focuses on that instead of her musical performance.

If you haven't heard of Yuja yet, check her out. There are many videos of her performances on streaming channels, YouTube and CDs. Or you can come over to my place and listen to her on vinyl records.  :)

A Metaphor For Life

You'll probably find it odd that I still read motorcycle magazines. As Lucy Ricardo used to say, "Ricky, I can explain..."

Enthusiasm is a powerful force. Like simple carbon, with enough intensity and time enthusiasm can crystalize into the diamond of passion. And passion, once rooted, is impossible to dislodge.

This is the time of year bikers feel a stirring. The sound of a motorcycle engine in the distance awakens us. We wonder why we aren't also out on the road. That music quickly increases to a crescendo.

It was incredibly painful to end my 25-year riding career last season. And yet while I can't operate a bike on my own, a foray to the North Fork last Fall on the back of my friend Jaime's tourer proved I can still pull on leather gear, join a ride and savor motorcycling's unique sensory pleasures as a passenger. I may walk into walls off the bike but I can still travel 80 mph on two wheels with a trusted friend up front handling matters for both of us.

So this is why I haven't cancelled my subscription to motorcycle magazines. My passion is still here. This morning I saw a quote from "Season of the Bike," by David Karlotski, that offers a salient metaphor for life:

"Motorcycles tell us the TRUTH -- we are small, and exposed, and probably moving too fast, but that's no reason not to enjoy every minute of every ride." Amen.

Adding To My Collection

Recently circumstances encouraged me to collect a third artwork by Lino Tagliapietra. Lino, of course, is the premier glassblower of our time. In my opinion, he is our greatest living artist in any medium. 

The work, "Saturno," is inspired by the planet Saturn. Its translucence, detail and exquisite artistry aren't adequately described in words; you need to experience the work in person to appreciate its majesty. Three-dimensional glass art has ineffable qualities that draw you closer, open your mind and touch the heart.

I feel privileged to possess this art for the next few decades.

"Sono Lino"

Our greatest living artist is glassblower Lino Tagliapietra. 

Now in his 90s Lino has made art since he was a young boy growing up in Murano, Italy (historic capital of the glass world). Lino's work is universally acclaimed, displayed in many museums, and possesses striking beauty. I'm fortunate to own two Lino artworks which are the pulsating heart of my burgeoning art collection.

A documentary about Lino just won an award at the Seattle International Film Festival. You can stream the movie (link below) but that costs a few bucks. I'll let you know when the film is available elsewhere for free.

Sono Lino (siff.net) 

"Furiosa"

Long before they became popular I was a fan of post-apocalyptic dramas. Like the terrific, overlooked "The Blood of Heroes" (1989). Such films explore human behavior when the comforts of modern life disappear. Given the direction we're heading in, that may be useful information.

In the 1970s I got hooked on the work of George Miller, a vigorous Australian who made several "Mad Max" movies. Miller creates futuristic worlds with vivid imagination and uses real-world stunts, not computer gimmickry. I'll admit to having at least one nightmare after viewing his films.

"Mad Max: Fury Road" (2015) proved Miller still has mojo. At advanced age (70) he revived the franchise with Charlize Theron delivering a powerful performance. A pre-quel to that film is coming out this week telling the origin story of Theron's character "Furiosa" (2024). It stars Anya Taylor-Joy, whom you admired in "The Queen's Gambit" (2020), and Chris Hemsworth.

These films aren't Robin's cup of tea. Who wants to go with me?

My Mother

A person never dies if their memory survives. My mother, Barbara Jo, passed away 33 years ago but she's as present in my life as ever. On this Mother's Day weekend I thought it'd be fun to share some stories about her.

Everyone in and near my family recognized Barbara Jo as a potent force. We feared her as much as loved her. Like Stalin my mother surveilled everyone, knew everything and issued edicts. Opposition was futile and destroyed before it could germinate. You could argue with my mother, as my rebellious brother Richard did, but without success. My father, who had been a carefree rogue before he met her, learned his lesson and walked the line. He knew better than to confront the potentate who reigned supreme over our family and friends. 

It wasn't my mother's size that intimidated us (she was under five feet tall), it was her tenacity. A pitbull, Barbara Jo would latch onto your ankle with locking jaw and razor-sharp teeth. If the pain didn't force you to surrender the endless struggle did. Her will was stronger than yours and that won her every battle.

I was shown my mother's power in earliest childhood. I possess a fundamental character that was then considered socially deviant. My mother, who carried the hyper-anxiety of an immigrant, made it her mission to conform me to society's expectation. Given her omniscience and omnipotence the outcome was never in doubt.

In 1971 the book "Summer of '42" became a bestseller. I bought and started to read it. Halfway through my mother extracted the book from my bedroom and refused to return it. When asked for an explanation she declared the book had "too much sex" for a 14 year old boy. I guffawed but knew argument was useless. The book was gone.

A year later my mother discovered the draft of a story I was writing. I had hidden the draft deep in my bedroom but, as noted above, Barbara Jo was omniscient. The story, written as science fiction, was about a man dating a woman and preparing to have relations with her. During sex he's shocked to learn she is a robot. I thought the concept was intriguing but my mother got unduly hung up on my detailed description of the female robot's genitalia. "How do you know about this?!" she shrieked. I was well-read.

This episode taught me the humor of a joke then circulating: "What is pornography? Anything in a sock drawer that isn't a sock." :)

My final tale demonstrates how my mother's rule continued into my adulthood. In 1985 I moved into a new home with my girlfriend Maura. My mother insisted on keeping tabs on us and offering advice (with which we frequently disagreed). Trying to gently avoid her advice I was deliberately slow in getting a telephone at the house. I figured without a phone my mother couldn't call and pester us.

 One Saturday morning, at 5:30 a.m., Maura and I are asleep in bed. BANG! BANG! BANG! "Who the hell is that?" we asked. I go to the front door and see my mother standing there. My 4'11" mother. Fully dressed and irate. Agitated. Hot as a habanero pepper. "GET A TELEPHONE!" she yells, turns around and drives home. 

I can only laugh at these events which display how deeply my mother loved me. She wanted me to have a happy life; we simply disagreed on what that was. Barbara Jo did her best to raise two boys and I'll always love her.

Small Victories

If you looked through my eyes, you'd start to cry. And not stop. I have the least amount of vision possible: a small, dark periscope-view with no peripheral awareness. A physical limitation like this can plunge one into emotional despair. 

And yet... I'm not giving up. Buoyed by unfounded optimism and innate grit I push forward. Today, for example I achieved something I initially believed was beyond my ability.

After handing my beloved motorcycles to friends I'm now trying to sell my two cars. (A beautiful red convertible [2021 Mazda Miata] and sporty hatchback [2013 Fiat Abarth].) Obviously it'll be easier to sell them if they're clean, not dirty, but the cars haven't been driven in a year and have a thick layer of dust from storage.

I contemplated washing them. I quickly concluded I lack sufficient eyesight for that task. But then... today... I felt strong. Powerful. Irrationally exuberant. So I thought, "Why not try? What's the worst that can happen? I fail?" So I endeavored to wash my cars.

One thing you need to know to stand in my shoes is that everything -- everything -- is three times harder and takes three times longer than it used to. Activities now require searching for objects sitting in front of my face, misjudging and correcting distances from my hand to destinations, and cleaning up inevitable messes. At first these added burdens were dispiriting but I developed patience and fortitude. I gradually adopted a mental attitude of moving slowly and deliberately while expecting frequent frustrations.

Washing my cars wasn't easy. A job that used to take one hour expanded to three. Assembling materials, lugging our hose up from the basement, searching for a damn water-nozzle that mischievously hid itself on my workbench all complicated the project. Multi-step jobs like this are more easily abandoned than completed.

But I wanted it done. So I persevered and waded through cold pools of effort and annoyance. There were a few surprising bright spots like being reminded of the sinuous curves of my sporty vehicles whose bodies I'd lovingly handled in the past and feeling muscle-memory from those experiences. I instinctively knew when and where to move closer, deeper and probe the curved surfaces with my wet fingers and soapy sponge. 

Eventually I emerged from the driveway with two clean automobiles and a sweaty t-shirt. Best of all was feeling accomplished. I performed a task that might have defeated others in my condition.

And good news -- I didn't accidentally wash my neighbor's car. :)

Saying Goodbye

When my eyes failed last year I owned four motorcycles (and two cars). I decided to keep two of the motorcycles for sentimental reasons -- and also possible display in the future -- and sell the remaining two bikes. The machines designated for sale were my speed-rocket (BMW S1000R) and my comfortable touring bike (BMW K1600GTL).

Both bikes are relatively new (8-9 years old) and in good shape. I thought it'd be selfish to leave them in the garage to rust when someone else could be riding them with enjoyment. Plus the bikes themselves want to be ridden. That's their design, purpose and destiny.

As you know I gave away my sportbike for free to Bob, a close friend who needed that particular bike. Bob is short and the saddle's height fits him perfectly.  Then this week I found a buyer for the touring machine. A casual (but not close) friend wanted a touring motorcycle but couldn't afford one. (They're expensive: my GTL cost $30,000 when I bought it new.) I decided to solve his and my problems by selling the bike to him for half of its market value and spreading out his payments over time. He was overwhelmed by that arrangement since it made the difference between him getting such a bike or not. He picked the bike up Tuesday night.

As much as I believe this was the right move I still shed a tear. This motorcycle was my ticket to adventure. I rode it on all kinds of trips, like a jaunt up to Toronto to visit Suzanne (pictured) and solo camping trips in New Hampshire. If you're careful you can carry a small tent, sleeping bag, air mattress, cooking gear, etc. on the bike. I loved how self-sufficient I felt heading into the woods on two wheels. Great memories.

The bike has "hard luggage" which allowed me to go shopping and carry stuff home. Like bags of groceries, bunches of flowers, vinyl records and thrift-shop clothing. There was nothing I couldn't use the bike for. I even rode slowly through cemeteries on it to pay respect to departed ones and take photographs. The GTL was completely integrated into my life. It was my partner. Capable, reliable and fun. Always fun.

I'll miss it. 

Snowdonia Cheese

Listen up, kiddies. There's a prize in this Cracker Jack box -- valuable information on living well.

Due to my upbringing (immigrant parents) it's not my nature to indulge myself. But I've learned that rewards, even small ones, can be powerful motivators. So I grant myself little pleasures when I do something hard, like a hot cup of strong coffee at the end of a long hike. The prospect of a reward helps you push through tough stuff.

I recently achieved a major financial goal that deserves celebrating so I'm pampering myself with some of the best cheese in the world.

Like everyone else I love cheese. For health reasons I've cut back on dairy and consume cheese only rarely now. So when I do have it I get high quality.

I once worked at a cheese shop in Boston which sold 365 varieties. The owner encouraged us to try them all so we could better guide customers. As a result I know cheese. During that employment I was a poor student so I'd arrive at work hungry and eat pounds of cheese. Literally pounds. That was my meal for the day. It's a wonder I'm still alive. 🙂

The best cheese in the world is not made in Wisconsin; it's not crafted in France. The best cheese in the world comes from North Wales, made my prize-winning cheesemongers at Snowdonia Cheese Company.  That area is sparsely populated: there are really more sheep there than humans.

What makes a great cheese? Well you have to start with exceptional milk. The milk used at Snowdonia comes from well-tended animals in rural Wales with no hormones or weird crap American producers use. You can taste the lush Welsh vegetation in milk from these animals. Another practice at Snowdonia is they age their cheese in caves. Real caves where climate and humidity are perfect for long-term aging.

The company's website is informative but obviously geared to European customers. Prices are listed in British currency. The company offers 15 varieties of cheese but sadly only two kinds are available in this country. One is their premier cheese, an extra-mature cheddar (Black Bomber) and a second is a less mature cheddar enhanced with Scotch whisky (Amber Mist). (Over there they don't spell whisky with an "e".) I bought two small wheels of each (7 oz.). The cheese is protected by molten wax covering.

Black Bomber, the extra-mature cheddar, is a delight. Its flavor is deep and rich. It will please most cheddar-lovers. A big plus is that despite its age the cheese's consistency is pleasant and moist. Most old cheese gets dried out and full of crunchy crystals. Snowdonia avoids that by using caves.

I have yet to try their other kinds of cheese (and am lusting after Red Leicester) so put a trip to Wales on my bucket list!

Website: https://www.snowdoniacheese.co.uk/

Spring Break?

They said go south in Winter. They said it's warmer down there. Well... let me report South Jersey is just as cold as New York. 

More exotic (Wawa instead of 7-Eleven) but just as cold. :)

Sports

Why do we follow sports? Answers are as diverse as fans.

I differ from most fans because... well, I'm different. I enjoy watching elite athleticism on display: e.g., Manny Ramirez hitting a home-run for the Boston Red Sox. I like communal elation. There's nothing more visceral than 20,000 people exploding in thunderous roar when the Devils score a goal at their home arena. And, not insignificantly, I like insider-knowledge.

Many sports like hockey develop their own language with phrases and even ideas unique to it. Take this sentence for example: "In the third frame Allen displayed poise between the pipes." Would anyone except a hockey fan know what the hell that means?!

A last reason for following sports is to share an activity with friends. Games give us something fun to talk about. Instead of debating politics or fearing war, we can join together and celebrate our teams' victories, assign blame for their defeats and opine how we'd run things if we were a billionaire owner. These are fun diversions. 

For proof see this picture I snapped of a friend at a Devils game a few years ago. Even though she roots for a rival team (whom we shall not name but was just trounced by the Devils) her allegiance is no impediment to our enjoying a game together. The joy on her face is palpable and records one of my favorite sports memories.

Road Trip!

After being confined to my neighborhood for a year since my eyes went bad I'm down in South Jersey. I coaxed Robin into a short trip here. This is where Robin grew up so I guessed it would be the most comfortable place for her to visit. I was itching to get away from home and hit the open road.

The experience has been very instructive on learning what I can and can't do now. Or, more precisely, what I can do unassisted and what I need some help with.  That's critical knowledge to acquire: i want to travel in the future and need to overcome some steep challenges.

To sate a primal yearning we're going to Ocean City tomorrow. I want to touch water and feel the ocean's energy. 

Can a blind man make art? I haven't taken a single photograph since my eyes went haywire. I brought film and digital cameras with me on this trip and will give them a shot, so to speak. Should be eye-opening. The beach is always beautiful in Winter; I hope to capture some of that magic even if the pictures are fuzzy.

A Chapter Closes

The biggest casualty of my vision's decline was losing the ability to ride motorcycles. As you know that activity was a HUGE part of my life. A passion, even. I rode for 25 years. Motorcycling rescued me from life behind a desk which had grown dull. Riding took me outdoors, added excitement and adventure to my days, and dramatically boosted my morale.

During those years I owned seven bikes. My favorite among them is a speedy rocket, the BMW S1000R. This bike is fast and fun. Capable of hitting 160 mph it offered me thrills on the most ordinary of days. I'd take it out, head for an empty stretch of highway and accelerate faster than I previously thought possible. No one saw my smiles but they fed my soul. They gave me strength.

The bike is relatively new and in mint condition. I considered selling it, which would have been easy given its popularity, but then this week an old friend (Bob) inquired about it. His current bike is too tall for him (he's short) and he wondered if my S1000R fit his stature. 

I invited Bob over this morning and he brought his lovely wife Joan. We had an enjoyable, long brunch in my kitchen with coffee, bagels and fruit. Afterward he sat on the motorcycle and pronounced it perfect. I knew it would fit him given the narrow shape of its seat. 

Before I say what happened next let me preface that by explaining how close a friend Bob is to me. Back when I was first learning how to ride, Bob encouraged and advised me. When I had an accident on the Goethals Bridge he came and helped me bring a damaged bike home. Every Christmas he and Joan invite us over their house for sumptuous dinner with a dozen friends. Bob's a wonderful guy whose generosity improved my life many times.

So, when Bob announced he wanted to buy the bike and brought up the subject of price, I didn't negotiate. I gave him the bike for free. Of course I had to argue with him a bit about taking it but I was firm and he finally relented. 

This is how I roll. Plus I've learned good deeds spread ripples of karma that return to you. I don't know when or how but doing this will benefit me at some future time. And besides it just felt right.

Breaking News!

In a surprise trade yesterday the New Jersey Devils acquired rookie goaltender Ralph Hummel. The new net-minder leaves his perch on a comfy couch for battle on the ice. Weakness in net has been trouble for the Devils all season but few expected a move as dramatic as this. Then again, the Devils are a team of surprises and fans were expecting something truly unusual in advance of the March 8 trade deadline.

Bucking conventional wisdom head coach Lindy Ruff announced, "We need someone with grit. Someone willing to face adversity head-on." Critics noted Hummel's recent partial-blindness as a drawback but Ruff rebutted the chirping: "People don't understand that you 'see' with your brain, not your eyes, using instinct honed from a lifetime of close attention. Ralph anticipates the puck as well as any goalie in the NHL today."

Also a factor according to industry insiders was Hummel being wooed by the Boston Bruins to replace Linus Ullmark for post-season play. Ullman's unsteady performance this year has been noted as a problem for the leading Stanley Cup contender looking to shore up its net-protection. Hummel, a long-time Devils supporter, turned down the Bruins' offer of more money, electing instead to play in Newark "where real hockey happens." Hummel promises "to bring the Stanley Cup back to New Jersey where it belongs." 

Hummel travels to Los Angeles to start in goal at today's game against the Kings. Sales of Hummel jerseys are exploding with the news.

New Ice Cream

My favorite ice cream comes from Jeni's, a small company in Columbus, Ohio. They make amazingly innovative flavors. I was introduced to Jeni's by my friend Emma who lives in that city.

You may recall a while back I reported on Jeni's Everything Bagel ice cream which has scrumptious flecks of garlic and onion. Surprisingly delicious.

As a treat I just bought a five-flavor sampler and am tasting new flavors. The best is "Maple Soaked Pancakes" which contains actual fluffy pancakes in salted butter and maple syrup creams. Yumm! This concoction recently won a SOFI award for Best New Flavor and deserves the honor. 

You can try a bite if you come by my place. Oops... too late. :)

Link: Maple Soaked Pancakes | Jeni's Splendid Ice Creams (jenis.com) 

Hidden Knowledge

Knowledge is hidden around us. All you need do is scratch the surface to learn something cool.

For example, most people know that Persian rugs don't come from Persia -- since "Persia" doesn't exist any more. Persia is an old name for what is now Iran. Sellers believe consumers are less likely to buy rugs from "Iran" than fanciful Persia.

Shopping for cinnamon I just learned there are many countries that produce the spice: e.g., China, Vietnam, et al. Highest quality cinnamon is labeled "Ceylon cinnamon". Again, this identification is fictitious and designed purely for marketing. There is no country named Ceylon today. So where did the name come from?

The republic of Sri Lanka was formed in 1972. Before then, from 1948 to 1972 the place was called Ceylon. Premium cinnamon sold today as "Ceylon cinnamon" is actually from Sri Lanka. Sellers count on you reacting more positively to "Ceylon" than the true country of origin.

Similarly, cinnamon from Vietnam is now marketed as "Saigon cinnamon" to steer away from the name of a country we famously fought a war against.  "Saigon", a former city in Vietnam, is no longer called that: its real name since 1976 is "Ho Chi Minh City". Can you guess why sellers didn't choose that for their product?  :)

A Special Night

 Fun night for the Devils!

In addition to winning a close game (6-3) the team played outdoors in 28-degree weather. A crowd of 70,000 fans endured the cold to watch this rare event. The Devils designed special jerseys just for this game; they have a retro-style. Fans have been snapping them up. 

There was a jovial mood at the whole event. Devils players arrived dressed like characters from "The Sopranos" (FILA track-suits; white tank-top shirts; gaudy jewelry). Flyers players arrived dressed like Rocky (grey sweats and taped hands). The players' families got to skate on the ice. The night was magical all around.

An Unexpected Feeling

I have a problem and I don't know how to handle it.

I'm having occasional bouts of euphoria. Moments of extreme elation. Happiness beyond measure. This presents a problem: I'm not familiar with the feeling. Despair, yes; happiness, no.

I spent four decades toiling in the trench of legal combat. I wrestled daily with crippling anxiety. I worried every day about how bad things might get. The reality is they never got very bad but that didn't stop me from worrying about the prospect. I plugged away and plugged away at tedious tasks. A close friend remarked that I possess "an insanely high tolerance for misery and drudgery." Well, I do and it served me in a long career of high-stakes litigation.

Last year, of course, my life really did go south. I lost so much vision that most activities are now beyond me. Not just motorcycling but things as basic as walking in public. I'm safe outside only away from crowds and cars. I take long walks now mostly to prove to myself that I can.

So where's the euphoria coming from? Realization that although my eyesight is very bad, it could be worse. There are days when my vision sucks more than usual. I experience periods of total blindness and physical pain. When, triggered by these experiences, I contemplate being fully blind permanently I become grateful -- ecstatic even -- for the little vision that remains. I can usually see well enough to prepare food, make coffee, clean the kitchen and pay bills. I can see well enough to function in normal life. I can read and write and ponder deep questions. Sure I bump into things but bruises heal. I'm also able to watch the parade of human stupidity pass by on its march to the abyss.

If the ability to do these things disappears I'll be truly crushed. To the depth of my soul crushed. But it hasn't, at least not yet. I'm not confident I'll retain this level of vision for the rest of my life and, given my good health otherwise, that may be a long time. But if this eyesight continues for another decade or two I will be able to accomplish what I hope for -- to find new adventures, immerse myself in challenges, and emerge with a rewarding sense of achievement.

Damn, life contains surprises. Becoming happy is not what I expected at this point.

Hockey -- Outdoors!

Big game tomorrow night -- the Devils are playing outdoors. OUTDOORS!

It's a special game against hated rival Philly Flyers. The game is in a NJ football stadium with an ice rink temporarily installed on the playing field. The NHL does this once a year to build interest. I tried to get tickets but "ya gotta know a guy." Hey, it's Jersey. The Sopranos was not just a TV show. 🙂 

The game is on ABC at 8pm (EST). The Devils and Flyers are locked in mortal battle for the last playoff spot: they'll be lots of action. The Devils are fast and have finesse; the Flyers (known forever as the "Broad Street Bullies") play a "physical" game: i.e., they check hard and start fights. The Devils don't normally fight but, when called for, summon a monster named Brendan Smith who last month put two Chicago players on the Injured Reserve list in one game. (He broke the jaw of Chicago's star-rookie with a clean check and then, in a fist-fight over that, broke another player's finger. Hockey is tough.)

Playing outdoors is a return to hockey's roots and, like the Superbowl, an event. Players bring their families and celebrate the sport. One year the temperature was too warm and the outdoor ice started melting; they stopped the game and resumed after dark. Devils star Tyler Toffoli is the only  player in the NHL to score a hat-trick in an outdoor game. (A hat-trick is shooting three goals in one game. A "Gordie Howe hat-trick" is getting one goal, one assist and one fist-fight in a game. Gordie Howe was a character. He came out of retirement to play with his sons; he was an old man then but still had brio.) 

Turn your TV onto Channel 7 tomorrow night and watch the action!

Bitcoin

Whee!! Bitcoin hit $50,000/coin today. 

And it's going to keep soaring due to multiple factors: e.g., last month's ETF approvals; an upcoming "halving" (change in reward for mining). For reference, I bought Bitcoin in 2014 for $600/coin.

Words

I like learning new words. My most frequent source is The New Yorker, a magazine with captivating prose. Reading articles there expands my vocabulary with no special effort.

Usually you encounter words you've seen many times before but just never bothered to look up. Like "plaintive" (sad) or "sinuous" (curvy). Occasionally, as in the current issue, you confront a mysterious word you've never heard of. Like "noumenal" (existing independent of perception). 

Researching the meaning of "noumenal" forces you to dip a toe in the pond of philosophy, something that intimidates many. Braving that cold water is worth the effort, however, because you gain more than a simple word. You watch brilliant minds wrestle with big questions like the nature of reality, the "hard problem of consciousness" and the purpose of our existence. 

Funny where words can lead us.

History

Exactly sixty years ago today (Feb. 9, 1964) I watched the Beatles appear live on the Ed Sullivan TV show. My family, along with 73 million other Americans, were fascinated by "the British invasion" which quickly led to "Beatlemania."

I was six years old at the time, just able to understand this event. It's my second childhood memory after the John F. Kennedy assassination the previous Fall. (I didn't comprehend that tragedy, wondering only why adults were crying.) The Beatles' appearance was exuberantly joyful and widely seen as the seminal moment in American culture it later became. This event marked the beginning of "the Sixties."

One of the few benefits of growing old is living through history. What big events do you remember?

"Taxi Driver"

I've been a student of the cinema since the 1970s. The first film I saw that aspired to art was "Taxi Driver" (1976). It's now considered a classic. I just re-watched "Taxi Driver" while introducing Robin to Martin Scorsese's early oeuvre.

Imaginatively written by Paul Schrader and powerfully performed by then-unknown actor Robert DeNiro "Taxi Driver" was made frugally on a small budget. The film surprised audiences and critics and became a huge hit. Its success launched the careers of DeNiro, director Martin Scorsese and Jodie Foster. The movie also contains work by Cybill Shepherd, Harvey Keitel, Peter Boyle and Albert Brooks. The film got four Oscar nominations and later became notorious for inspiring a real-life assassination attempt on President Ronald Reagan by John Hinckley who explained he was trying to impress Jodie Foster.

In the story Travis Bickle, a restless young man, lives uneasily in squalid New York City. At the time the city was on the verge of bankruptcy and permeated with crime. Travis's limited intelligence and poor social skills leave him lonely and isolated. After exploring conventional options (e.g., a failed romance with beautiful blonde Cybill Shepherd) Travis searches for something to give his life meaning. He attempts a political assassination but botches the job through ineptitude. Then he veers into almost-random gun violence, an activity more common today than it was back then. In 1976 it was shocking.

What makes the film art and not mere entertainment is its aim -- to put you in Travis's head, a place few of us would normally visit. Schrader and Scorsese offer us Travis's inner thoughts, frustrations and revulsion at the city's pervasive grime and vice. Once the filmmakers engage our empathy for Travis they can transport us into experiences we'd never ordinarily seek. Critic Roger Ebert famously wrote that film is an "empathy machine," a way to step into someone else's shoes and experience a perspective the real world doesn't encourage.

"Taxi Driver" is crafted as a fever-dream. Enhancing that impression is atmospheric music from Bernard Herrmann, a legendary composer famous for work with Alfred Hitchcock. "Taxi Driver" was Herrmann's last score, completed days before his death. His contribution to the movie's achievement is critical.

Seeing the film today, fifty years after release, packs the same emotional impact but with two new responses: (1) recognition that the toxic social conditions pushing Travis into gun violence have increased in our society, making mass shootings more common now and (2) reflection on how the film's depiction of violence, controversial at the time for its gore, is tame compared to current action movies. Our society's tolerance for violence, fictional and actual, has notably increased. And that's not good. 

But the movie is. Skillful and engrossing, "Taxi Driver" deserves attention and acclaim.

Prosperity Ahead!

"When E.F. Hutton talks, people listen."

If you're old you might remember this advertising slogan. I use it today to introduce some economic information. It's all good news, for you and everyone else.

Over the last decade I dove into economic research and used my analysis to earn several million dollars. I'm sharing my thoughts with you because you're my friends. I don't sell anything, have nothing to tout and merely want you to enjoy the same prosperity. Economics was my major in college and comes easy to me; it's simple math threaded with sociological insight.

Two things to mention today. First, the quarterly announcement by the Fed this week was exactly what everyone (and the stock market) expected. Jerome Powell, head of the Fed and the opposite of a Pollyanna, bluntly declared the U.S. economy to be in tremendous shape, especially compared to the rest of the world. Our economy is hitting all major benchmarks and remarkably achieving a "soft landing": i.e., avoiding a recession after last year's rapid interest rate hikes. Few predicted that outcome last year. In fact, nobody predicted it. The soft landing unicorn ensures a robust economy during this election year. (Election years always boost economic forces.) If you're not feeling financially better off, there are many complex reasons for that misalignment; they won't be tackled here.

A second fact which ought to be understood more widely but isn't due to outdated belief is what's happening in China. The Chinese economy is declining in a serious way -- long-term systemic decline. Everyone thought and feared China becoming our greatest global challenger but that's not going to happen. Not only is their economy bad but their autocratic government refuses to implement critically needed reforms to address the problem. China, suffering persistent deflation, is destined to the fate that befell Japan a generation ago: 25 years of stagnation and economic doldrums. 

A few smart economists are pointing this out and their case is convincing. Most Chinese residents have most of their money (70%) tied up in their homes which are decreasing in value every day. That makes them feel poorer and act accordingly. The Communist Party is politically averse to stimulating the economy which is the only path out of that mess. We should be aware of this because it'll certainly ripple to us and the rest of the world. It'll open up opportunities for American companies to prosper at China's expense in ways previously thought unimaginable.

In short, the news is good! Caveats always exist from potential unexpected events but we have solid reason to expect a very favorable few years coming up. Enjoy!

"The Sopranos"

"The Sopranos," considered by many to be one of the best television shows ever made is celebrating its 25th anniversary. The (surviving) cast and crew met in an Italian restaurant in Little Italy recently for drinks and dinner. The restaurant served "Carmela's Baked Ziti."

When the show was first broadcast, I watched every episode. I later bought a boxed set of DVDs and we're working our way through it again. The show holds up.

This is a hill I will die on -- Tony Soprano was the most fascinating character in TV history. Superbly portrayed by James Gandolfini, Tony contained the full range of human emotions and had real gravitas. Or, as the kids say today, rizz. Incredible writing filled Tony with unexpected dimension and Gandolfini's consummate skill conveys it through his face and body. Never has an actor been so perfect for a role.

I've mentioned this before but it's so significant I'll repeat it: one of the highlights of my life was seeing James Gandolfini, after the show ended, perform live on Broadway. I got second row seats and we were only ten feet away from this acting giant. He loved the role (and had a big hand in producing the play, an import from England). Seeing him happy was deeply joyful, especially in light of his later premature end.

Cyd Charisse, Dancer

We all know celebrities famous during our lifetime but most of us don't know artists, musicians and actors of earlier generations. Sometimes it's worth looking at their work for sparkling brilliance. 

I've been savoring the talents of dancer/actress Cyd Charisse lately. I first heard of her in my twenties watching classic musicals. Cyd danced in dozens of them during that genre's heyday (1945-1959). She was one of only a few women who danced with both Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly. She later compared the two titans in her memoir. 

Born in Texas in 1922, Cyd contracted polio when she was six. She took dance lessons to strengthen her body and recovered from the disease. Cyd's dancing progressed quickly and she turned pro in her teens. She was discovered by the same choreographer who found Gene Kelly. Cyd appeared in many films, some classics, and later acted on television. She lived to age 86, dying in 2008. (Most dancers live long lives from their good physical shape.)

You know instantly watching Cyd dance that she was exceptional. Her fluidity, range and poise are super-human. Fred Astaire believed she was the best female dance-partner he ever had and said "when you dance with Cyd, you stayed danced with." :)

Cyd had only a small role in "Singing In The Rain" (1952) but for the dance-finale Gene Kelly chose her instead of co-star Debbie Reynolds. Kelly explained it was because Cyd was a trained dancer and Debbie was not. 

Interesting Cyd trivia: (1) Hollywood famously insured Cyd's legs for $5 Million in the 1950s, a huge amount back then. (2) Cyd's real name was Tula Ellice Finklea. Ouch!

As obvious as her dancing talent was Cyd's beauty. Being a movie star was easy for her. She carried screen romances convincingly. In "Silk Stockings" (1957) she plays a rigid Communist Party member from Russia who visits Paris on political assignment. She becomes entranced by the city and falls in love with Fred Astaire's American character. I laugh at this dialogue from their early encounter:

[Fred] Ninotchka, don't you like me at all?

[Cyd] The arrangement of your features is not entirely repulsive to me.

[Fred] Oh, thank you. Don't you think in time you might go a little further than that?

[Cyd] I have not seen the rest of you.

After The Storm

 New glasses. New hair. New attitude.

Ways To Make Money

It's definitely weird how you can work hard for money (as I was taught and did for four decades) or make the same amount doing nothing. 

My biggest stock holding is Netflix. I've mentioned the company many times here since buying a chunk a decade ago. I identified it then as potentially a leader in streaming which I also foresaw as disrupting broadcast and cable. Netflix became that leader and streaming now eclipses other means of distributing entertainment.

When Netflix releases its quarterly reports, the stock jumps. Usually up, sometimes down, always a lot. Tuesday's positive 4th quarter report caused my stock to surge over 10% which is a lot for non-crypto stock. And it did that in a day. 

So... I earned as much yesterday as I used to earn in a year toiling at my job. That's fortunate but it just feels weird. My parents would never understand this.

Campaign News

I regret to announce I have suspended my campaign for President. Simply put, I can't see a path to the nomination.

Wait, is that it over there? Um... no, that's my neighbor's driveway. Never mind...

Harvey Littleton, Glass Artist

I started collecting art a few years ago when I realized art marries two of my central interests. Of course art has aesthetic qualities (e.g., beauty, innovation) but it also possesses something else: history. Works of art are like modern archaeological artifacts: objects that tell stories. Stories about the artists who created the pieces, stories about the culture in which they were conceived, and stories about the passage of time and perspective. 

Focusing on art of the last century, as I do, means these works address recent life and consider people either alive or shortly-departed. This is much different, much more accessible and more interesting (to me) than art from ancient or medieval times. Artists like Lino Tagliapietra (1934-) who are still alive -- and willing to dine with me -- and artists like Stanislav Libenský (1921-2002) and Jaroslava Brychtová (1924-2020), whose many students and followers were influenced and are carrying forward themes and techniques of their work, are fascinating. Stories to learn and tell.

I just acquired a new work that similarly sates my hunger for history: glass art made in 1983 by famous artist Harvey Littleton (1922-2013). Harvey is an important, intriguing character. He was born in Corning (where the world-famous Corning Museum of Glass [CMOG] is located) and was the son of the scientist who headed R&D at Corning Glass Works (a huge company that did groundbreaking research on industrial and commercial applications for glass. The company also founded and continues to support CMOG.) Harvey was encouraged by his father to go into science but like many children wanted to explore a different path; Harvey chose art. 

At first Harvey was an educator, teaching about glass in several universities. He promoted glass art and taught many later-famous artists like Dale Chiluly. Harvey retired from teaching in 1976 to devote his full attention to making work in glass. He worked steadily from then until his death in 2013 at age 91. Four of Harvey's adult children work in the field of glass art.

Harvey is often referred to as the "Father of the Studio Glass Movement," a title worth respecting. During his lifetime Harvey saw glass art change from one type of practice to another and he had a big hand in influencing that shift. Chronicling Harvey's whole role is far beyond this short summary; you can find details of it elsewhere (e.g., Wikipedia).

It was during Harvey's immersion in art-making that he produced the work I purchased. He was then in his sixties. A private collector acquired the work from an art gallery and enjoyed it for four decades. Now, that sole collector is parting with the object to a new caretaker: me. I'm inheriting a piece of history to enjoy for as long as I walk the planet. Then it will pass to the next caretaker. 

We care for art in our hands; we don't "own" it. Not having participated in the work's creation we have no right to claim ownership, just a privilege to hold it for a while. I don't subscribe to the popular but fallacious notion that artwork is merely chattel, property we can buy and sell like widgets. Artwork is special -- a gift to humanity, as Harvard scholar Lewis Hyde wrote -- and occupies a different place in our mental and social worlds. Coincidentally Hyde wrote his book ("The Gift") the same year that my new artwork was created (1983).

When this and my other works are ready for display I'll invite you over. The price of admission will be having to listen to me tell the stories the artworks possess.