Leopoldstadt (4*)

 

It will take another, likely lesser, playwright to explore why someone as brilliant and intellectually curious as Tom Stoppard waited so long to address his family heritage, and only then after a Czech relative confronted him with incontrovertible evidence.  As much as I admired Leopoldstadt, it didn't expand my knowledge of the Holocaust or the events leading up to it, and one of its major themes--avid appreciation of high culture does not prevent human beings from committing heinous acts--seems pretty hackneyed by now. Still, the final act of the play, by far the best and most interesting, dramatizes Stoppard's "come to Yahweh" moment with a push from his four Jewish grandparents.  It elicits both shivers and sobs and a probable Tony nomination for Brandon Uranowitz's angry, forgiving performance as the cousin left behind to face a "bad war."

*  *  *  *

On the other hand, why should Jews have to define themselves by their ethnicity.  As one character notes, when goys do that, they're typically expressing anti-Semitism.  Perhaps Stoppard didn't investigate his family heritage because he wanted to avoid writing about the worst of mankind.  After all, this is the heterosexual man who gave us "The Invention of Love" and other life-affirming works.  Our lives are shaped by our experiences and good fortune characterized his.  

The Love Songs of W.E.B. Dubois (4*)

 

Reading this book on the heels of The Prophets, a fantastical account of the horrors of slavery by a gay man, I was struck by how religion informs one and history the other. Honoree Fanonne Jeffers's much, much longer novel is rooted in a family tree whose limbs are at times hard to distinguish but you put it down with the same wonder for the strength of black women and the stomach-churning inhumanity of clueless white folks.  

It's easy to see why Jeffers's book made the bigger impact.  Her family saga, peppered liberally with Black vernacular ("poor as a church mouse at a Devil worship convention") covers multiple generations and tells stories more informed by superstition and oral tradition than the Bible.  It occasionally veers into Terry McMillan territory, too (not that there's anything wrong with that!):

His face was so open, so full of emotion, like Denzel Washington’s in the whipping scene in Glory, when that single tear had traveled down his cheek.  It was the drop of water that soaked every pair of Black woman’s panties in the United States of  America.

Jeffers draws her characters so vividly that I sympathized with a young woman who turns to crack and experiences her first orgasm as a result.  But even her addiction results from a family laboratory of sexual molestation, initiated by a handsome Southern gentlemen who uses slavery to indulge his pedophiliac tastes.

The Love Songs of W.E.B. DuBois can definitely serve as a primer on Black, mostly female life in America, from the mixing of oppressed races, the significance of the skin tone passing in a community just as "color struck"--if not more, than Caucasians, and the different strategic approaches employed by W.E.B. DuBois (education) and Booker T. Washington (capitalism) for surviving post-Reconstruction American society.  For Jeffers, Ailey's achievement is not only the doctorate she earns, but her insistence on acknowledging and enjoying a truly Black life while paying as little attention as possible to the white gaze.  Because she still has to navigate airport security, after all.

Life (4*)

If nothing else, Keith Richards takes control of the Rolling Stones narrative, presumably while Mick, with his "tiny todger" (!), suffers from what he calls LVS (lead vocalist syndrome).  My first reaction to this very comprehensive autobiography was amazement: how could Richards possibly have remembered so much, so clearly, given his smack-loving reputation?   The cover photograph, after all, winks at it and he begins the book with a woe-is-me attempted drug bust.  

Of course, sex, drugs and rock 'n roll is exactly why you're reading Life (the in-depth musicology maybe not so much) and Richards certainly delivers on the second ingredient if not the first ("I never could make the first move with any girl") but his side of the story left me with a bad taste in my mouth, and not just because he puts down Studio 54 as "A room full of faggots in boxer shorts.”   Richards's memory may be sharp, but his self-awareness is as empty as one of Anita Pallenberg's many, many used syringes.  He blames the National Health Service for enabling his introduction to cocaine and heroin, he sugar-coats child abandonment and, like his pal Johnny Depp, he remains oblivious to the havoc that alcohol continues to wreak on his Connecticut dotage.  In other words, get thee to a twelve-step program, although that's not an experience I really want to read about either.

Still, this Glimmer Twin co-founded my generation's greatest rock 'n roll band--thanks to my mother, I got to see the STP tour in 1972--so there was plenty to hold my attention for more than 500 pages, particularly when he and Mick are best buds and before he takes up with Anita and the needle, and launches his score-settling campaign with Mick.  Like me, Keef is an only child, too, and I was struck by how this passage vividly connects the rush of making music with belonging to a group of like-minded people.

You're sitting with some guys, and you're playing and you go, "Ooh, yeah!"  That feeling is worth more than anything.  There’s a certain moment when you realize that you’ve actually just left the planet for a bit and that nobody can touch you. You’re elevated because you’re with a bunch of guys that want to do the same thing as you. And when it works, baby, you’ve got wings. You know you’ve been somewhere most people will never get; you’ve been to a special place. And then you want to keep going back and keep landing again, and when you land you get busted. But you always want to go back there. It’s flying without a license. 

Life also sent me back to the catalog.  1969's "Let It Bleed" simply can't be beat.  And it turns out my vinyl pressing of "Some Girls" may be worth something because it includes pictures of Lucille Ball, Raquel Welch and others who threatened to sue before their images were removed.

Calm down girls,  it's only rock 'n roll!  But I like it, like it, yes, I do.

Little Amal in Harlem

Little Amal began her Harlem walk in front of the Adam Clayton Powell Office Building.  Her name means "hope" in Arabic.

 

You really have to see Amal move.  She's just over eleven feet tall.  In flats.

Four people are required to mobilize Amal although that's the breeze blowing her hair.   The "harpist," just visible in her mid-section, controls her facial expressions.   Sometimes you feel as if she's looking right at you.  If only the governors of Texas and Florida could see her!

Her six-block procession, which included drummers, volunteers and members of the National Black Theater brought a lot of color and music to an already bright afternoon.   And more than a few WTF? reactions, too.

Amal, a ten-year old Syrian girl, has represented refugee children throughout the world since 2021.  

It is because the attention of the world is elsewhere right now that it is more important than ever to reignite the conversation about the refugee crisis and to change the narrative around it. Yes, refugees need food and blankets, but they also need dignity and a voice. The purpose of The Walk is to highlight the potential of the refugee, not just their dire circumstances. Little Amal is 3.5 metres tall because we want the world to grow big enough to greet her. We want her to inspire us to think big and to act bigger.  Amir Nizar Zuabi, Artistic Director of The Walk

St. Ann's Warehouse brought her to New York City.  She's in town until October 2.

I wish I'd thought of this!

The only form of public transportation that can accommodate Amal's size is the Staten Island Ferry.  She'll ride it on Friday.

A girl needs a snack.

Members of the Ephesus Seventh-day Adventist Church serenaded Amal with some amazing vocals.  Watch the video.

She drew an excited crowd while walking south on Malcolm X Boulevard.  Move over, Pied Piper.

A Dixieland band greeted Amal on West 120th Street, surely one of Manhattan's most beautiful blocks.

Amal said goodbye.  She was headed for Bryant Park.

Hadestown (4*)

When a musical is sung-through I often have difficulty understanding exactly what's going on.  After all, I'm a guy who leaves captions on my TV turned on permanently because I want to make sure I get every word.  So I did my homework before going to see the Tony-award winning Hadestown:  I listened to the wonderful score multiple times on Apple Music with lyrics, of course, I boned up on my mythology and I read the Wikipedia entry.   Nevertheless,  there still were stretches of this overly long and overly amplified show that left me baffled.  Still I enjoyed it thoroughly, especially Lillias White as a gender-bent Hermes, Patrick Page as Hades, as Eva Noblezada as Eurydice and Bryan Drye blowing the meanest live trombone I've ear heard!  

Reeve Carney & Eva Noblezada (photo by Sara Krulwich)

Kudos, too, to Anais Mitchell for giving classic mythology a contemporary resonance and Rachel Chavkin for staging that toggles between hell on this earth, and hell.

With Paul & Lynn

Hot Fun in the Summertime

Dining at Anthony's & John's in Baldwin is always a pleasure.

Anthony took Thom, Jerry and me to Point Lookout Beach, too.  A lifeguard thought I was in distress.  Embarrassing!

Thom and I staked a claim at Riis Park with Andrew & Steven.  They were newbies.  A week later, the New York Times published the first article I've ever seen about "the people's beach." It's about time!

It's a lot different than the Pines, where Victor invited Thom, Chris and I to spend time. Neither it or the Grove haven't changed much in our summer-long absence.   I can't say I miss Fire Island much.  Although there's less sun and sand in my life, there's less stress, too. Even reluctant house mothering takes a lot out of you.

Thom and I drove up to Randy's for a couple of days.  He took us sightseeing at the Florence Griswold Museum and the Gillette Castle on a glorious summer day.  Who knew there was so much to see in Connecticut?

Florian and Arko sent many greetings from Chicago.

Speaking of Germans, Nanno got back in touch with me.  We met in Berlin two decades ago. It's absolutely shocking how old we all get, particularly now when phones make high-quality photography so accessible!

Nanno introduced me to Robbie Williams in his lovely Schöneberg apartment.  I didn't realize it had a terrace.

My stepsister Barb and her husband Gary flew in from Arizona for a day tour of Manhattan before departing on a cruise.

9/11 Memorial

Saks Fifth Avenue

They took me to dinner before we went to see The Lion King.  Feta cheese dusted the watermelon salad.

Cynthia's daughter got married.  Would you believe the mother-of-the-bride baked both the wedding and groom cakes?

Cynthia wore false eyelashes for the first time, too!

Thom took me to Old Westbury Gardens for my birthday. We should have coordinated outfits.

My walks took me all over New York City.   

Upper West Side

Terminal B, LaGuardia Airport

Lobby, Bergdorf Goodman Building

Milton Avery Self-Portrait, Yares Art Gallery

"The  will to make things happen" (partial) by Woody De Othello, Whitney Biennial

"Apache School Girl" by Oscar Howe, National Museum of the American Indian

"Da Vinci Eternity" by Raphael Montanez Ortiz, El Museo Del Barrio

The staircase at the Museum of the City of New York is really something.

I'd never seen the Stettheimer dollhouse, built by Carrie, although I'm a great admirer of sister Florine's art.

"Activist New York" celebrates homegrown advocacy.  People forget how early Gloria Steinem--pictured here with Dorothy Pitman Hughes--recognized the intersectionality of the women's and civil rights movements.  Watch The Glorias if you don't believe me.

A signature hat represents the loudmouth contributions of Bella Abzug.

Currier and Ives illustrated "The Ladder of Fortune" as part of the temperance movement.

"New York, New Music (1980-1986)" included a Keith Haring drawing of Larry Levan, an influential Paradise Garage DJ. 

In case you forgot the location of the Garage, the exhibit provided this nostalgia-inducing nightlife map.

The Morgan Library introduced me to Rick Barton, a gay blade who's finally enjoying his 15 minutes of fame 30 years after his death.

"Barcelona" by Rick Barton (1962)

The Morgan also celebrated the 100th anniversary of the publication of James Joyce's Ulysses.  I'm surprised nobody mounted similar for "The Waste Land" by T.S. Eliot, also published a century ago.

James Joyce by Patrick Tuohy (ca 1924)

Robert Motherwell provided color etchings for a 1988 deluxe edition which follows Dubliner Leopold Bloom through the course of his day as if he were a mythological Greek wanderer. "Yes," the last word of "Molly's soliloquy," is about all I remember from reading the very, very difficult book in college.

I also noticed this statue of the bard of Stratford-on-Avon for the first time.

William Shakespeare by William Wetmore Story (1881)

Here's the ceiling of the New York Public Library's Celeste Bartos Forum.  The room was a basement when I worked there many years ago.  Julio Torres and Cole Escola superbly read scenes from WARHOLCAPOTE as part of an "NYPL Live" program, the best I've attended.  Rob Roth based his non-fiction play on 80 hours of musings recorded by two of my favorite 20th-century queer culture icons who had vague ambitions to write a Broadway hit of their own.  Funny and surprisingly poignant! 

And when there weren't any summer field trips on my agenda, Central Park continued to provide an endless supply of distractions from the routine of retired life.

"Ancestor" by Bharti Kher

DiscOasis Roller Rink

Oakleaf Hydrangea

Sunlit Jumpseed Blooms

Delacorte Clock

Dancing Bear Statue, Children's Zoo Entrance

Bee Balm

This graffiti magnet honors Andrew Haswell Green, the father of New York City.  Read The Great Mistake to find out why it's completely inadequate.