I spent fourteen years of my life practicing – for ten minutes, for an hour, for four hours, always practicing: scales and etudes and sonatas and quartets and marches and orchestral excerpts. Hundreds of hours. I knew I wouldn’t be better unless I practiced. And I did get better. In inches and miles, fast and slow, and there was a joy in learning.
In spite of it, I think I can pick something up and be good at it first thing. If I’m not good immediately, intuitively, I can’t ever be good. As though we innately know things – how to paint, how to tell a great story, how to cook.
In the end, all things come back to practice. And then the “good” will come whatever way makes our hearts full. And almost never the way we expect.
So I am practicing. So many things. What happens next?
We took a quick trip to Washington D.C. so that Matt could give a talk about baseball organists at the United States Postal Museum (!!! Y’all. That’s the dang Smithsonian). The trip was wonderful and much needed – nothing gets me fired up like my intense love for the government. There are, of course, many extraordinarily troubling things about big stone buildings built in the 18th and 19th centuries, and I’m still thinking about those things, too. I’ve been working on some travel journalling so here ya go – some highlights of our trip. Maybe I’ll write more about these things later? More to come on that.
I was standing in the theatrically lit second-story gallery of KODE 2 in Bergen with my mouth hanging open, my bag tucked forward under my arm after the security guard told me – first in Norwegian, and then when I sheepishly said I didn’t understand, again in English. As I remember it now, the painting in front of me was bigger than I was in every direction, and depicted a fjord with a double rainbow stretched across it.
The Nærøy Valley, 1836.
I think the most fascinating thing to me about romantic art – that genre of nature towering mercilessly over man – is the exaggerated scale. This is the very definition of our perception of Norway. Particularly western Norway. Fjords, rainbows, idyllic villages.
It might as well have been the cover of our travel guidebook, so the same was this epic depiction by J.C. Dahl, celebrated Norwegian artist. Painted in the 1830s, it was the ideal representation of every travel photo of western Norway ever published.
This all, of course, is a peculiar mythology, an almost fetishization of nature over man. This is, in a confusing way, one of the easiest ways to assure ourselves that there’s no way we could ruin the planet with climate change, because nature is too big. Too powerful. And so we are absolved of responsibility.
The Norwegians, of course, would disagree with this reading of the power of nature (as the exhibit was so astutely named). But it was a hard notion to shake, looking at paintings that are nearly 200 years old, that fully inform how we, now, view these World Heritage sites (and probably contribute to how they arrived at having that designation in the first place). It made me wonder how we could use these stunning paintings, and art more generally, to inform our understanding of the ways that we’re quickly irreparably changing our planet (and not for the better…) – why isn’t all undeveloped land protected until someone proves there is need to develop? But progress must march on – and I’m not so naive to think that just reframing all art as protest is likely to be feasible or successful.
In KODE 3 there was a peculiar exhibit of modern art hidden within the confines of a carefully preserved early twentieth century mansion once belonging to Rasmus Meyer, a collector who’d had the foresight to amass a significant Edvard Munch collection that was donated to the city of Bergen in 1916. The exhibit, called Places to be lost, was composed of peculiar sculptures and innocuous paintings with grotesque and sometimes obscene figures nestled among the preserved sofas and antique sideboards of the mansion. Upstairs, and only accessible after walking through the entire first floor, was the Munch exhibit (I would suspect that most of the visitors to the museum the day Matt and I were there didn’t spend much time with the first part of the exhibit, given how quickly they passed us by, only for us to encounter them again when we finally arrived upstairs). The exhibit continued in one of the other KODE buildings, but we didn’t end up seeing it in full.
In a charming review on TripAdvisor, a fellow Arkansan disparaged the museum. I think it’s worth mentioning here that the museum was unusual: KODE was made up of four separate, relatively small buildings, each housing one or two exhibits, and the entry fee gave you access to all four buildings (and some additional composers’ homes located outside of Bergen). Matt and I visited two of the four, but I think it’s worth acknowledging that if you were under the impression that KODE 3 was all there was on offer it was a somewhat disjointed experience. The reviewer, however, was under the impression that the art on offer was not art of the same quality as could be found in so-called better museums elsewhere, never mind the fact that every museum he mentioned was in a city ten times bigger than Bergen – in those museums I doubt visitors are deliberately directed through a modern art exhibit that could challenge perceptions of what art fundamentally is, or what its purpose should be.
It’s also fair to note: I took no pictures of that challenging art. I have a half dozen pictures of century-old sofas and an antique piano, but it’s the art I saw that I’m still thinking about two weeks later and not the grandfather clock that I have a picture of. And maybe that reviewer was right, those other museums are probably “better,” in that they have more on offer. But I think there’s a lot to be said for deliberately challenging your visitors, and it’s something that I think KODE has achieved remarkably well. That exhibit, and the challenge the artists issued me to think about idyllic nature and the grotesque simultaneously and inexorably intertwined, has stayed with me even as I’ve arrived home to the other side of the planet and fallen headfirst back into my normal life.
Later, riding a ferry through the Sognefjord, surrounded by arguing tourists crowded up against the rail, selfie sticks extended out so that everyone could pretend they had seen the fjords in contemplative solitude (and ruin other people’s similar photos with abandon), I realized that probably this mythology was the same for Dahl, who lived primarily in Dresden and visited Norway five times in his lifetime (his childhood in Bergen doesn’t seem to fit very well into the narrative of his life).
Carefully cropped, a view of the Sognefjord.
His version probably wasn’t a faithful representation, either. Rearranged for aesthetics, paintings don’t offer a faithful representation any better than a carefully cropped photograph. And yet, walking through gallery after gallery of carefully rendered waves, light and shadow, and clouds gathering over shipwrecks, you begin to believe that what you’re seeing is a faithful representation of what it was like, and the mythology sticks, the romanticism of it permeates our understanding of history. If only I had lived in the 1830s, I wouldn’t have had to deal with the selfie sticks. And these fjords would be somehow more majestic, more dangerous, more beautiful.
At home, flipping through the book Matt and I bought of the exhibit, I was relieved – and a little sad – to find the same sentiment that had troubled me within its pages. We always aim not to be “those” tourists: wasteful, disrespectful, unwilling to see a people and place beyond our own preconceived notions.
Such is the captivating and idyllic visual image of Norway – a landscape and a people that many people have perceived as idiosyncratic and exotic. In modern times the image of Norway created by the romantic painters, which mixes elements of nationalism, sentimentality and idealism, has been taken over by a tourism industry as means to sell values that are in ever-shorter supply: the pristine and the authentic; the beautiful and the exotic; and the exclusive.”
Knut Ormhaug, The Power of Nature, p. 110
I don’t think we visited for an experience that was exclusive, but I think we did think of it as exotic, different, somehow fundamentally more beautiful than other things we have seen closer to home. What we actually saw was a place not so different than the beauty we have here – or, at least, not intrinsically more valuable. And I came home with an intense desire to do better.
We spent 2016 watching documentaries. M watched a lot of tv and a lot of movies but I didn’t. He has a MUCH higher tolerance for guns and swearing than I apparently do, so, he enjoyed WestWorld and Better Call Saul and countless other things that I went ahead and skipped. I have never been much of a movie person, with just a few exceptions. This year, I devoured trashy novels, long-form news stories (did you all read the article about Artificial Intelligence at Google in the New York TimesMagazine two weeks ago? It was amazing – read it here (you might need a subscription?)), and documentaries. There’s very little I would take a repeat on from 2016, but I did learn about a lot of things this year.
I like when mediums are used to their best advantage. I like to consume news in writing, without a whole lot of commentary – ask M about how I feel about political talking heads. I like to consume fiction in writing, too. I like when podcasts tell me a story of sound (have you guys listened to 99% Invisible? Amazing. Go listen). I like documentaries because they give us a unique opportunity to have things revealed to us in a way that words on a page can’t – in people’s own words and as they do something astonishing before your eyes.
Anyway! Here are my top 5 documentaries we watched this year. At the bottom, I’ve also an included a full list of documentaries we watched (it’s very likely I’ll add more, I didn’t do an especially good job of cataloging the list this year, and I’m sure I’ll think of more that we watched). This is my list, M’s would perhaps be in a different order, or include different thing. These are the 5 that have been rattling around in my brain, whose characters and subjects fascinated me.
5. Last Chance U (Netflix)
You might know (or probably not), that we hardly watch football anymore around our house. We’ve watched a lot of documentaries about things like traumatic brain injuries and players’ rights, and it gives us the icks. Certainly, this documentary (which is, for all intents and purposes, a television show split into episodes) at it’s most basic level is the story of a football team looking to go undefeated and win their divisional championship. Fun, sports! East Mississippi Community College in Scooba, Mississippi is more than just your run of the mill community college, though – the school’s astonishingly high level of football is thanks to its reputation as a place where aspiring, and failed, Division I athletes go to get their academics up to snuff so they can return to top level programs. The profane but loving coach is perhaps the central character, but the players are the people who have stuck with me. These young men are portrayed as more than their positions on the field: we follow their struggles to maintain GPAs (one of the most compelling characters is their academic adviser who fights tooth and nail to keep them attending class), transcend their own notions of what they can be, and overcome career ending injuries (and, when your whole life has been about one thing, what do you do if that career ends before it’s had a chance to start?). Yes, it’s sports, and yes, the main narrative is the games. But I found myself thinking about their stories for months afterwards.
4. Somm (Netflix).
Just as a recommendation, if you watch this one, go ahead and also watch Sour Grapes. But if you only watch one, watch Somm. Following a group of men working to pass their Master Sommelier examinations, this film does an impressive job of teaching you about what it means to be a sommelier (not just tasting wine, as it turns out). As with most things people are “professionals” in, I found myself astonished by their sheer amount of knowledge but also just how much guesswork there is (perhaps you don’t operate under the assumption that other people actually know what they’re doing vs. me, who is mostly just doing a lot of guessing). The men are obnoxiously knowledgeable, and frequently totally wrong – but they’re confident about it. This is a boys club movie, and their wives play bit parts reminding us of the actual toll this training takes on their marriages, never mind the disgusting spit buckets. A fascinating look into a world that most of us haven’t troubled ourselves to think about. And don’t worry if you can’t taste the terroir, doesn’t seem like the masters necessarily always know what it is, either. After watching, you’ll be inclined to pretend like you know.
3. 13th (Netflix)
If you didn’t watch this one already, I insist you go watch it. I watch A LOT of things about prisons (Hi, my name is Katie, and I’m a Lockup junkie). This film is horrifying. It is fascinating, and thoughtful, and absolutely biased (rightfully – I don’t think bias is a negative in this case, but you’re certainly aware of it). It is a must-watch. Bring your kleenex, and prepare for some long self-examination about the world around you. Through the prism of America’s history of racial inequality, Director Ava Duvernay examines the prison system. Some of the experts are a bit on the strange side, but, on the whole, the work is stunning, the research sound, and the conclusions drawn will have you ready to look for ways to do something. Embrace the feeling. Prison reform in this country is an absolutely necessary thing.
2. Jiro Dreams of Sushi (Netflix)
I spent weeks after we watched this thinking about Jiro. It changed how I thought about the individual, mundane tasks we do in the world. How cleaning is as important as cooking. How savoring each piece of something – from beginning to end – is fulfilling in its own right. It’s hard to explain how transcendental it is to watch Jiro make sushi. He is a harsh character, exacting. Certainly, the story of his sons is as interesting as the story of Jiro. I finished this film wanting to be a master of something in the way that Jiro is. In a time in my life when wanting to make a BIG change is appealing (and it feels sometimes like so many doors are open that you can’t choose which one you want to walk through), Jiro is there to remind you that the big change sometimes comes from doing one thing in an extraordinary way. This film happens to also have a lot to say about how we are over fishing our oceans, and it’s a powerful message in its own right.
Sky Ladder: The Art of Cai Guo-qiang (Netflix)
This film is stunning. There aren’t a lot of words that could do it justice, really. Short of seeing one of his works in person (you probably did see at least one on tv, during the Olympics in Beijing – a subject of some contention), this is as close as you can come – and it astonishes. His life is fascinating. The subject of the film – The Sky Ladder – is its own unbelievable adventure, and you follow along as he works through the artistic process and then struggles to mount the extremely temperamental (and secret) project. I don’t want to spoil anything for you. Go watch it. There were parts I had to rewind and watch again.
The full list (with some quick commentary for your reading pleasure):
Jiro Dreams of Sushi (Netflix) – a meditation on sushi and family
Last Chance U (Netflix) – tv series-like look at a community college football team made up of extraordinary talent as they attempt to win the NCAA DIII football championship
Sky Ladder: The Art of Cai Guo-qiang (Netflix) – astonishing film about Cai Guo-quiang as he develops and executes a secret project in his hometown in China
The Barkley Marathons: The Race That Eats Its Young (Netflix) – an intimate look at The Barkley Marathon through the lens of the man who founded it and a group of individuals attempting to complete it
Indie Game: The Movie (Netflix) – a sometimes navel-gazing (but always entertaining) look at the world of Indie game design
Man vs. Snake: The Long and Twisted Tale of Nibbler (Netflix) – An often-hilarious look at a group of gamers attempting to surpass one billion points in the arcade game, Nibbler
The Diplomat (HBO) – thought-provoking look at the life of Richard Holbrooke, directed by his son
The Loving Story (HBO) – the story of the Lovings, whose interracial relationship led to a landmark Supreme Court case
The Jinx: The Life and Deaths of Richard Durst (Netflix) – Did he do it, or didn’t he? Multi-episode look at Richard Durst, one of the top 5 creepiest people that will give you nightmares for several months.
Making a Murderer (Netflix) – if you didn’t watch it, go watch it! Shocking look at the criminal justice system in northern Wisconsin – and/or an extremely biased look at some very gruesome crimes (depending on your point of view…)
13th (Netflix) – An uncompromising look at the relationship between the 13th amendment and the criminal justice system in the United States
For the Love of Spock (Netflix) – touching tribute to Leonard Nimoy, directed by his son.
Life Itself (Netflix) – This story of Roger Ebert, as told mostly by Roger and many of his close friends, is heart breakingly sad because of his untimely death.
Going Clear (HBO) – Scientology. Enough said.
Somm (Netflix) – Fascinating look into the world of Master Sommeliers, an elite group of (mostly men) who more-or-less know everything there is to know about wine.
Sour Grapes (Netflix) – bizarre story about the world of fine wine, and the apparent prevalence of fake bottles. Really strange, very fascinating.
Here’s a thing I’ve been struggling with, hard. Why is it so difficult to not feel mad? Like, about everything. Being included too much, not being included, deciding, not deciding, apologizing, not apologizing. I feel like this problem stems from too much stress. But. Maybe it’s just how I am? Determined to be dissatisfied.
I spent a summer at sleep-away camp, as a counselor. I am a lazy person. That is to say, my preference all the time is to just sit around and think. In the house. Under a blanket. My mother was, quite understandably, not at all convinced that I would remotely enjoy living in a cabin with a bunch of 11- to 14-year-olds, using outside toilets. See also: huge Michigan bugs.
I’ll tell you what. I loved the heck out of that summer. I loved those kids. I loved being outside. I loved those bugs and riding my bike. I loved doing all my thinking while looking at those trees. I was peeved, often, that the counselors did not meet my platonic ideal of counselors (everyone is shocked! Who? Me? Expecting everyone to be perfect?!). But even in the moment I was intensely aware of my privilege. I was also under the impression that what I was doing mattered, that I was enriching those kids’ lives and changing them for the better. They gained something valuable from spending ten days with me. Maybe more importantly, I gained something valuable from spending ten days with them.
So maybe that is where my frustration really lies. How does one go about changing that perspective? That summer I also had a very important purpose in what I wanted from the world – namely, get myself into a good grad school – that colored everything I did. I was KJS, Musicologist, that summer. I had tidily organized binders and drafts of personal statements. That, of course, turned out to be the wrong calling. It was a thoughtful calling, though, and still close to who I am.
The search for purpose is always ongoing. Perspective shifting doesn’t get less important, though. Did I find a calling because I was already happy, or was I happy because I’d found something exciting?
My grandmother, Lucille, died on March 16th. She was 88, today – Mother’s Day – would have been her 89th birthday. She loved having her birthday on Mother’s Day. She had been sick – so gracefully, but sick, nonetheless – for a few years. She was a woman so vibrant – kind and honest, thoughtful, caring, smart as a whip – she felt to all of us like she could just go on living forever, even though she was sick and we knew she could not. She lived a very full life – taking on adventures with gusto. After my grandfather passed away, she took a roadtrip out west with her sisters and saw all the sights. What a hoot those ladies must have been.
Looking back through the lens of being a child, a teenager – I hope that I fully appreciated the time we spent at her house in the woods, sitting around the dining room table and looking out at the trees. There were bears in those woods! One stood once, fully outstretched, against the floor to ceiling window in the living room. What a sight it must have been. That home now belongs to people raising a family – built by my grandparents, and my aunts and uncles, and my parents.
I admired her so much: her tenacity, her thoughtfulness. She took each of us how we were, at face value. She might have had her private judgments of us and the decisions we made, but she didn’t share them. She listened. She offered advice. She made us Swedish meatballs and cookies, and she loved us. Each of us – and there were so many! – had our own relationship with her, never felt upstaged by another (or, at least, not between my brothers and I), loved and important and seen. Do you understand how important that is? I didn’t, until now.
She loved a good board game. She loved a good joke or a long story. She went to school in a one room schoolhouse and she co-owned a construction company (and had the good sense to wear pants when she was headed up a ladder). Her faith was such an important part of her, the way she approached the world, and I had such deep respect for those beliefs (if she would take me as I was, it was the very least I could do to take her as she was). She was a terrifically good pianist. It was such an unbelievable pleasure when she came to my senior recital – a secret closely guarded, for good reason, and only the very best surprise. She loved music, and she loved me.
Many told me I was special to her in a different way, the first granddaughter after many years of boys. I hoped, desperately, for her to be as proud of me as I was full of adoration for her. I wanted to have her forever so that I could make sure to get all the wisdom for which I hadn’t yet thought to ask. That, of course, cannot be.
Grandma. We were so lucky to get to share in loving you. I’ll keep making you proud, I promise.
My grandmother, Lucille, died on March 16th. She was 88, today – Mother’s Day – would have been her 89th birthday. She loved having her birthday on Mother’s Day. She had been sick – so gracefully, but sick, nonetheless – for a few years. She was a woman so vibrant – kind and honest, thoughtful, caring, smart as a whip – she felt to all of us like she could just go on living forever, even though she was sick and we knew she could not. She lived a very full life – taking on adventures with gusto. After my grandfather passed away, she took a roadtrip out west with her sisters and saw all the sights. What a hoot those ladies must have been.
She listened. She offered advice. She made us Swedish meatballs and cookies, and she loved us. Each of us – and there were so many! – had our own relationship with her, never felt upstaged by another (or, at least, not between my brothers and I), loved and important and seen. Do you understand how important that is? I didn’t, until now.