An Isle of Joy

Eleven years ago I went to New York City by myself. I was on my way back home from a two year stay in London and was brokenhearted to be leaving. Despite my wobbly state of mind, New York grabbed me by the collar and made me fall in love with her. At least I thought it was love. Until now.

I've just returned from my second visit to NYC, this time not alone but with a Husband. It's been eleven years but the city and I still had a connection. Stronger in fact. What we had before was puppy love; a crush. This time I fell hard and fast. Perhaps the Husband was jealous but he knew not to get in the way of True Love.

New York is a city full of snapshot moments. It is a mistress of atmosphere and seduction. It challenges and charms you equally and in the end you either keep up with the pace of the city or you are spat out. We had many of these "snapshots" during this visit. Here are some:

*Being asked by a guy on the street if we wanted to be in the studio audience for the Late Show with David Letterman . It was the slickest backstage production process I have ever seen. Military in it's precision and frightening in its utter professionalism. I was impressed. I'm not a big Letterman fan but watching him do his thing made me realise just how hard it is to seem so natural and how very good he is at it.


*Eating a porterhouse steak at Peter Lugers in Brooklyn, reputedly the best steakhouse in New York. I'm not a steak fan but the first bite was perfection. If I never ate steak ever again, it wouldn't bother me as I think I've had the best:


*Watching Nine to Five on Broadway with the wonderful Alison Janney (a la CJ Cregg from West Wing). It was one of the best live musicals I have ever seen. Once again- high, high production values and slick professionalism. These New Yorkers are good at putting on a show.

*Walking across Brooklyn Bridge on a beautiful afternoon when all of a sudden a voice shouted out -Call 911! and we saw that ahead of us a man was perched on the bridge beam. He was holding on for dear life. At least that's what I thought until I saw his face and I realised he was deciding whether or not to let go. The crowd that had gathered were taking photos. What were they trying to capture? Desperation? Vulnerability? Fear?

*Eating corned beef on rye sandwiches at the brilliant Katzs' deli on the Lower East Side. Meg Ryan faked an orgasm here during When Harry Met Sally and whilst the food was good, it didn't make me wanna scream:




*Turning the corner onto Rockerfeller Plaza to find a location crew filming 30 Rock in the street. Seeing Tina Fey in person just about made the Husband wet his pants. He loves the series.


*Drinking one night at Milanos, an old dive bar in Nolita that feels like it's been there forever. Perched at the end of the bar amongst the grizzled regulars drinking Pabst, I felt right at home.



*Hanging out in Noho, Greenwich Village, Hells Kitchen, Chelsea,Nolita, Chinatown, the Lower East Side, Williamsburg. Where else in the world can you walk two blocks and be in a whole new world? In New York you can go Around the World in Eighty Minutes.

*The bookshops. Oh the bookshops. I came back home with a veritable library. McNally Jacksons and the Housing Works were my two favs on this trip.


*One of the best things about being in New York is eavesdropping. New Yorkers don't hold back when it comes to verbal sparring. They don't even mind if you join in. Here are some of what I overheard:

In Walgreens:

Girl 1 - He's just trying to butter me up.

Girl 2 - Oh really now?

Girl 1 - Yeah you better believe it. But you know what I told him? I said I don't what none of his butter. He can take it and spread it somewhere else. He can butter someone else's bread, you know what I mean?

In Brooklyn on a street corner

Man 1 - He was my best friend, my brother. But you shot him while I was in prison.

Man 2 - Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

*A meatball and pepperoni pizza at Lombardi's - the first pizza place to open in New York and still one of the best!

*If New York is a pulsing heart with its streets as vessels, then the hundreds of yellow taxis are most certainly the cells that transport life around the city. There is nothing more blissful that riding down one of the arterial streets of Manhattan in a NY cab with the window down, the wind blowing in your hair on a summers' evening.


* My most favourite building in the whole world. Grand Central Terminal. It's impossible to capture in photos but everyone keeps trying:


Dinner at the Oyster Bar in the station was delicious. We had East coast & West coast oysters and in my opinion, the former were much better.


*Having a proper New York diner breaksfast at the Lexington Candy Store (no candy in sight but lots of fat, sugar and carbs):


*Strolling through glorious Central Park. Whose brilliant idea was that? A living, green oasis in the heart of the city.

*Trying a red velvet cupcake and the devils food cake at the Magnolia Bakery


*Gagging at the pretension of some of the stuff in the Whitney Museum.. And where was the Georgia O'Keefe work? Ripped off.

*New York street art. Punchy, to-the-point and attention grabbing. Kinda like it's citizens:




And that was just day one.

It was a heady trip. Exhausting, stimulating, challenging, engaging. The city dunked us in its unique emulsion of craziness and control. It wasn't enough. I wanted more. I left New York kicking and screaming; a junkie to the core. I did not want to leave this city that had once again imprinted itself so definitively on my heart, my mind and my psyche. I had no choice this time but next time, I'll plan it differently.

For now, it's:



But not forever.


Summer journeys to Niag'ra
And to other places aggra-
vate all our cares.
We'll save our fares!

I've a cozy little flat in
What is known as old Manhattan
We'll settle down
Right here in town!

We'll have Manhattan
The Bronx and Staten
Island too.
It's lovely going through
The zoo!

It's very fancy
On old Delancy
Street you know.
The subway charms us so
When balmy breezes blow
To and fro.

And tell me what street
Compares with Mott street
In July?
Sweet pushcarts gently gli-ding by.

The great big city's a wonderous toy
Just made for a girl and boy.
We'll turn Manhattan
Into an isle of joy!

We'll go to Yonkers
Where true love conquers
In the whiles
And starve together dear, in Child's

We'll go to Coney
And eat baloney on a roll
In Central Park we'll stroll
Where our first kiss we stole
Soul to soul

And "Abie's Irish Rose" is a terrific show they say
We both may see it close, some day
The city's glamour can never spoil
The dreams of a boy and goil
We'll turn Manhattan
Into an isle of joy!


Manhattan (1925) by Richard Rogers and Lorenz Hart

Leaving Words...

I'm about to leave my current job and have been thinking about what to say at my leaving drinks.

Then I saw this on the web:


Could be a very short speech....

The Time Travelers Wife

Should you go and see films of the books that you absolutely love? Probably not.

To this day I have not seen many films on the principle that there is no way that the film could do justice to the written word. There have been the few rare exceptions (Peter Jackson's Rings Trilogy for example) but these occurences are rare.

This week I found myself with a spare few hours to hand so I ducked into the nearest cinema to watch The Time Travelers Wife. I should have know better but curiosity got the better of me.


For those of you who have not read this brilliant book by Audrey Niffenegger, what I'm about to say will not have any relevance. To those of you that have and who loved it, I say, Do Not Bother.

I wanted to love the movie but I couldn't. Why not? The ingredients were all there. A great story. Interesting themes. Rachel McAdams, one of my favourite actresses. Even Eric Bana in the buff- many, many times. But I remained mostly unengaged.

What failed for me ultimately was that the film reduced the story to this. A woman who becomes resigned to the fact that her husband is wont to disappear into thin air and reappear at random. A man who seems to disappear and reappear at different places and points in time, at random. That is what seemed to drive the tension of the film rather than the intertwining themes of love, transience, control, coincidence and fate that are paramount in the novel.

It did not help that the two actors had zero chemistry and that there was no substantial character development. I had no idea what Eric Bana's character, Henry, felt about his time-travelling predicament except that it was frustrating, inconvienient and cold (as he always reappears naked with no clothes). It also did not help that early on in the film, Eric had a haircut that made him look like a reject from the Monkees.

I loved the book so much that to see it dissected and reassembled so shoddily is disappointing. But then again, why should I be surprised. Is not the phrase A good film adaptation too often just a contradiction in terms?

The Selby

We’re constantly reminded these days that we live in the age of technology and speed. Information flies around quicker as a result. But does this mean that we are any wiser or more knowledgeable? I don’t think so. Sometimes it just makes me feel as if I’m under siege.

You would think that with this constant flow of communication that the public/private split in society would be somewhat diminished. After all, anytime we want to know something, we go to Google or Wikipedia. Reality TV is now an established genre. Blogs (tongue firmly in cheek), Facebook and the internet transcend traditional boundaries of time and access. As a result it can feel like nothing is private or sacrosanct anymore. It’s all available if you know where to look.

Are we a society of voyeurs, dipping into and out of multiple worlds with a tap of our keyboards or hit of a switch?

I am a part of this generation but I do recall a time when it was not like this. I sometimes miss the old fashion ways of being nosy. Good old-fashion research in books and encyclopedias. Walking down the street at night and seeing how people’s homes are decorated. Gathering information from a wide range of resources rather than the all knowing Google. Sometimes when knowledge is harder won, you tend to remember what you learnt. At least, that’s true of me.

I heard about this blog yesterday. Todd Selby is a professional photographer who photographs inside homes of people he meets and finds interesting. I like it because of all the little details he captures within each home.

I also like the fact of how his blog made me think that no matter how public life seems to be now, our homes can still be private reflections of who we are.

And of course, I like how the blog satiates my inner Nosy Parker.

Auf Wiedersehen Mein Herr

Last weekend, I was sitting around a dining table with some friends in a post-dinner party-food-and-drink coma. It was late in the evening and we had all drank and supped to our hearts content. Conversation was at a low ebb and that point in the night where we all peeled off and slipped away seemed fast approaching. Then out of the blue, someone said:

If you could go back in time and kill Hitler as a three year old, would you do it?

I can't remember who the question was directed at but all of us became animated at once. It was as if we'd all had a IV shot of Red Bull into our brains. My first question was:

Does it matter how we kill him? Are there rules?

The discussion that followed was fast and furious. Some of us (well actually, only two of us) didn't hesitate in agreeing to kill a kid in order to save many more. Others believed that you should not change the course of history the argument being that history is not fixed. By killing Hitler it could jettison other key past moments which incrementally have led to the evolution of our group sitting around the dinner table that very night. One person opted for a compromise. She would top him once he became a teenager.

We discussed the points for hours, invigorated by more wine and possibly drunk on the idea of time travel and a moment of such absolute power and responsibility. Intoxicating.

In the next week I posed the question at work. Once again everyone re-acted as if stunned by Tasers.

No, no, no. I could never kill a child.
Not even if you knew that child was going to grow up and commit genocide?
No. I would encourage him to get involved in the arts instead.

The arts? The arts?

I work in the arts. It makes me want to kill. All of us in the office want to kill daily. Kill artists. All of them. Apart from one or two who we might keep as pets.

I reminded her of this fact.

Hmm. Valid point. Maybe I'd just break his arms and legs instead.

Of course. A quadriplegic meglomaniac with an identity crisis. So much better indeed.

The Charlotte Street Blues Bar

I woke this morning to find myself bleary-eyed and croaky voiced, all signs reflecting that I'd had a good time last night at The Charlotte Street Blues Bar.



This relatively new venue in London is fast gaining a reputation as being a sure thing for a decent night out with good music and a laid back vibe.

A few months ago I was wandering around Fitzrovia, in search of a cafe called Lantana which has excellent coffee. As I made my way down Charlotte Street, I saw a large crowd of people congregated together outside on the sidewalk. They were drinking, chatting and looking quite happy and pleased with themselves in general. It looked like a fun group party and my interest was piqued. As I approached them, a flyer was shoved in my hand and I saw that the crowd were at an opening of a new venue. The Charlotte Street Blues bar. Something about the whole atmosphere was so appealing that I wanted to go in right there and then but boring life committments called, as did the lure of good coffee.

Last night I finally made it down there with some friends to watch Ash Grunwald play. Ash is a blues and roots musician from Australia. I have had numerous opportunties to see him play in the past at venues such as the Fly By Night or Mojos in Perth but never did. I'd heard he was good but his gigs had always eluded me. Now that I was halfway across the world, it seemed like the time had come.

Ash didn't disappoint. And neither did the venue. It was such a thrill to actually go somewhere that you have high hopes for and actually have those hopes met. How rare is that. The bar was unpretentious both in style and service. The design of the place was intimate without being constrictive and the decor was just the right side of elegant, electic shoddiness. The staff were beyond attentive although I did notice that most of the men beind the bar all had beards. Is this a blues thing? Nonetheless, they actually did their jobs well which to my jaded view of customer service in London is paramount to finding a needle in a haystack.

And then of course there was Ash, interspersing larrikin warmth with frenzied virtuosity and bringing with him that touch of home which is so hard to describe but so tangible a feeling. He played till 12.30am and filled the walls of that place with the distinctive, plaintive wail of blues and roots.

At the end of the day, the venue was alive and warm because of the music that filled it. But if you have to sit anywhere and drink and be with people to listen to the blues, there are worse places you could be than the Charlotte Street Blues bar. I'd recommend you go. Soon.

Are Words Not Enough?

I was in conversation with a friend recently, talking about the power of ideas and words. She was of the opinion that all the theories and ideas and words in the world are useless if they are not applicable. If they cannot be used in some practical way. For her, the power inherent within words can only be unleashed if they cause some sort of an action or impulse.

Is this true?

I thought about our conversation for several days afterwards. I decided that I disagreed with her.

I think the purity of creating and sculpting a vision, idea or theory using words is far too precious to be compromised in terms of what the outcome will be. Like any creative or scholarly endeavour, if you concentrate too much on what the outcome will be, you are not present and engaged in the process.

Sure enough a lot of times the outcome is crap and no good and that is why drafts and editing, revision and breathing space are so important. But that comes later. It comes after you have let the words out.

Sometimes the power of words cannot be measured by a tangible outcome. Today I read The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock for the umpteenth time. Whenever I am feeling unsure about work and career and fate, I find solace in the evocation of desire, despair, melancholy and lingering hope that T.S. Eliot gave to the world through that poem. It makes me feel more human and not so alone.

...There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

How could anyone think that words alone are not enough?

The End of the Line

How do you know when is enough is enough? How do you know when it is time to end a relationship or start a new one? Quit your job. Pack up and move to another house, another city, another world? What are the signs?

Some might say that it is not about signs, but about choices. That we make our decisions based on the information we have.

The information we have.

What is this but signs?

I have made a big decision. Actually the decision was made long ago but it is only now that it has forced it's way to the surface of my life. It's a big leap off a high cliff but never mind. I like to do that every now and again.

The signposts that have been pointing the way to this crossroads have been getting bigger and more glaring of late:

A gift of white flowers
The concern on my husband's face
The vision of my friends being held in a box to be unpacked in winter
The big "A". Addiction and dependency
The acute sense of physical revulsion that strikes
The unhappy faces of the bright and loving people in the same situation as me
The feeling that something inside has snapped.

The biggest sign of all was a two hour pep talk given to me by someone who wants me to make a different decision to the one I have made. She does not know of my decision yet as I have not told her. But something inside her knows as she spent two hours bolstering me up. She challenged me to be strong and face the difficulties. To detach myself emotionally from situations so I can get what I want. To be crafty, clever and strategic. She lectured me about maturity. That I have to force myself to do things I don't want to for the bigger picture. To disassociate myself from all the negativity, rise above it and live to fight another day.

By the end of the talk, I felt as if I was about to go into battle. Fight a war. And then I remembered that abridged quote by Sun Tzu who wrote The Art of War:

Choose your battles wisely

and

He who knows when he can fight and when he cannot, will be victorious.[sic]

Instantaneously, the two hour working over I'd had dissipated in the face of the simple truth that I did not want to fight her battles for her anymore.

Wisdom comes with age they say. I don't agree. Some people older than me are the daftest people I know. They have closed themselves off and are locked into a quagmire of their own making. They have stopped paying attention to the signs around them. They think they have already learned all the lessons they ever need to.

What arrogance. What fear.

Wish me luck as I jump off this particular cliff. I'll let you know what I find when I land.

Sutra

I've just come back from seeing Sutra at Sadlers Wells. Of the current Sadlers' programme, it was the one show I was most anticipating seeing. The combination of Shaolin monks, Antony Gormley design and contemporary dance posed an interesting challenge and I was curious to see what the outcome would be.

I don't go see many dance shows these days because I have become super picky. It's not something I'm proud of but rather the by-product of having watched dance shows since I was five. It actually started earlier when I was a toddler but I don't remember those shows even though my mum was in them.

As I sat watching the theatrics of Sutra, I tried not to be uncharitable in my thoughts. I looked for the bright spots. The clear lines. The light humour. The interesting idea of putting a show together as if it was a Lego set. The visual synchronicity of the monks in dark suits. I did like some of the images. I tried hard to like the rest. But I had to try. It didn't set me on fire.

Before we went into the show, my friend and I had a chat about dance choreographers. We discussed (in our opinion) which current choreographers rated on the world stage and which were big locally. We tried in vain to list more than a handful from memory. We couldn't. As we both work in the dance industry this means we officially suck at our jobs.

You know what,? I said. You know why we can't think of anyone apart from one or two?

My friend looked askance. No. Why?

Because there aren't any that are so amazing that we remember them.

It occurred to me this week after Michael Jackson's death and also Pina Bauschs' that dance has lost two of its brightest sparks. Jackson was a superlative dancer. He had it and he shared it and made us all want to dance as well. Pina was brilliant too. She plumbed our murky human depths and conjured up some of the most beautiful and eloquent imagery onstage that I have seen in contemporary dance. Both were pioneers in their own way. Both of them set me alight when I watched them.

The term Sutra means (according to Wikipedia), a rope or thread that holds things together. I looked for this thread in the performance tonight and I saw only what I see too often in dance shows. Nothing holding anything together apart from a few gimmicks and a lot of hot air. It was entertainment I guess but it wasn't enough for me.

I want the real deal. Where is it? Who is it?

Thank You Michael

Apart from death and taxes, I think another possible truism in life is that sometimes you don't know what you value until it's gone. With his death, I think Michael Jackson has reminded billons of people around the globe of this.

If you had asked me a few weeks ago whether I was a Michael Jackson fan, I probably would've said that I liked his music growing up but did not really consider myself a fan. The circus surrounding his personal life (actually did he ever have a personal life) left me cold and for a long time, it seemed that his name was synonymous with scandal rather than music. Even with the announcement of his impending tour dates the media focus was on his health, his wealth, body doubles and whether or not the whole thing was going to be a scam. Not about the man and his music.

Now he is dead and suddenly, all the scandal that surrounded him has melted away (for now) and the music has re-emerged. We're now reminded, post humously, of the brilliant legacy that he has left us. We've remembered why we loved him in the first place.

And I have been reminded of the hours and hours I spent as a kid and teenager singing his songs and making up dances with my friends. How at school discos, the girls would dress like Madonna but try to dance like Michael. How all the music videos I watched on the weekends as a teenager owed much of their format to his vision. I miss those less cynical times and perhaps he did too.

I realised Michael was also very much in my present. Billie Jean will always get me on the dance floor. And I confess I have a few of his ballads on my ipod.

I didn't realise it till now. I'm a fan. I'm sorry it took me so long.

Thank you Michael. For everything.

When the Rain Stops Falling

It's always interesting to track the signposts that lead you to an important juncture in life. A few weeks ago I was at the Origins Festival watching a documentary called Black Chicks Talking. The doco had been based on a book of interviews by Leah Purcell, who also directed and featured in the film. At the end of the screening, a Q & A was held whereby the audience was informed that Ms Purcell was currently in London acting in a play called When the Rain Stops Falling.


It was a busy week that followed but it seemed that everytime I opened a newspaper I would spot an interview with someone in the play. Or a favourable review about the play. Not long after, a friend from work told me about a brilliant Australian play that she had seen the night before. I must go she told me. I acquiesed to the inevitable and got the tickets straight away online.

I have now just returned from the Almeida Theatre where I saw Andrew Bovell's play at long last. It not only met my expectations but exceeded them. It was the best play I have seen in a very long while. It seamlessly combined good acting, excellent set design, good venue and an engaged and eloquent script. All elements combined which held me in thrall for a good two hours without interval.

The suprise for me tonight was how moved I was by the play. It wasn't the storyline (although good) that did it but rather the evocation of the Australian landscape through language and imagery. I found myself in tears when footage appeared of waves lapping up against a beach at night or the dark Australian sky filled with clusters of stars. I did not realise how much I miss the landscape and how deeply it is entrenched somewhere inside of me.

This desire for land and light and sea and sky is hard to explain to people. It therefore gave me comfort to read Andrew Bovell's words in the play's programme:

The Australian landscape and the sense of loneliness and isolation it evokes resonates in our collective consciousness and finds expression in our literature and art. Most of us live in cities and yet the sense of distance and space that surrounds us continues to play in our minds. I grew up in the isolation of the Western Australian wheat belt, a long way from the nearest city, Perth, which in itself is the most geographically isolated city in the world. There was space and time to fill out there. It is a strikingly beautiful landscape if you know how to see it and if you know how to be alone.

So beautifully put. I couldn't have said it better myself.

All the Single Ladies...

In my social and work circles I am surrounded by single women in their mid twenties to late thirties and the one thing they all have in common is that they worry about not having met a partner. Not being in a relationship and what this means if they want kids. When I sit and talk with them about it, I can feel their anxiety and pain.

What's wrong with me? they say. Why can't I meet anyone?

I don't know how to answer them. Because sitting in front of me is an intelligent, accomplished, beautiful, funny, down-to-earth woman.

Don't worry about it I eventually mumble, It'll happen.

But inside me is rage and anger. Why do my friends have to feel this way? Why do they denigrate themselves because of it?

Where does this pressure come from? Biology? Society? The Joneses?

My husband and I had a debate recently about this very issue. He said the pressure came from other women.

Well not from me it doesn't I replied.

But I take his point. What women wear. What women do. What women want. It's the sisterhood that is kicking us up the bum. In our strive to be superwomen, we set an impossibly high standard for all of us. We'll end us killing ourselves if not each other.

C'mon ladies. Let's just hang out. Like we used to.

String Metal

I've had an idea brewing for some time now for a show. I've been looking around for music to fit in with what's inside my head which is a dance piece which merges intense classicism with intense metal/punk thrashiness. I haven't been researching much, just mulling over the idea. I think of creativity like baking. You need to give time for the ingredients to synergise and rise up together.

The universe threw me this today. Apocalyptica. Four Finnish men who play metal cello.



Had I been researching, I would never had typed into Google "Finnish metal cello".

Love it.