Morton Feldman (1926-1987), Rothko Chapel (1971); Seattle Modern Orchestra (with Julia Tai, conductor; Melia Watras, viola; Stephen Olsen, celesta; Brian Yarkovsky, percussion; Sarah Marroquin, soprano), live, Seattle, 2012
Today Morton Feldman enters the MCOTD Hall of Fame, joining saxophonists Von Freeman and Henry Threadgill, trumpeter Lester Bowie, poets William Bronk and Wislawa Szymborska, photographer Helen Levitt, and gospel singer Dorothy Love Coates.
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lagniappe
reading table
This performance reminds me at times of Emily Dickinson:
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air—
Between the Heaves of Storm—
—No. 591 (Johnson), “I heard a Fly buzz”
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art beat: yesterday at the Art Institute of Chicago
Jean-Luc Mylayne (1946-), No. 560, 2008 (Mutual Regard, through August 23rd)
Here, set to music, is a poem by Dorothy Parker (1893-1967).
Katie Ernst, “Bric-a-Brac” (music by K. Ernst), live (studio performance), Chicago, 2015
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Little things that no one needs—
Little things to joke about—
Little landscapes, done in beads.
Little morals, woven out,
Little wreaths of gilded grass,
Little brigs of whittled oak
Bottled painfully in glass;
These are made by lonely folk.
Lonely folk have lines of days
Long and faltering and thin;
Therefore—little wax bouquets,
Prayers cut upon a pin,
Little maps of pinkish lands,
Little charts of curly seas,
Little plats of linen strands,
Little verses, such as these.
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langiappe
random sights and sounds
Last night, while riding my bike in Chicago’s Columbus Park, I bumped into this—a performance by Isabelle Olivier (harp), Larry Gray (bass), and Paul Wertico (drums).
Henry Threadgill’s Zooid,* live, Washington, D.C., 2013
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lagniappe
reading table
Nothings’s a Gift
by Wislawa Szymborska (1923-2012; translated from Polish by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak)
Nothing’s a gift, it’s all on loan.
I’m drowning in debts up to my ears.
I’ll have to pay for myself
with my self,
give up my life for my life.
Here’s how it’s arranged:
The heart can be repossessed,
the liver, too,
and each single finger and toe.
Too late to tear up the terms,
my debts will be repaid,
and I’ll be fleeced,
or, more precisely, flayed.
I move about the planet
in a crush of other debtors.
Some are saddled with the burden
of paying off their wings.
Others must, willy-nilly,
account for every leaf.
Every tissue in us lies
on the debit side.
Not a tentacle or tendril
is for keeps.
The inventory, infinitely detailed,
implies we’ll be left
not just empty-handed
but handless too.
I can’t remember
where, when, and why
I let someone open
this account in my name.
We call the protest against this
the soul.
And it’s the only item
not included on the list.
*****
the beat goes on
Two thousand posts—and counting.
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*HT (flute, alto saxophone), Liberty Ellman (guitar), Jose Davila (tuba, trombone), Christopher Hoffman (cello), Elliot Humberto Kavee (drums).
—Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827; translated from Japanese by David G. Lanoue)
*****
The Beatles (Comiskey Park). The Who (Kinetic Playground). The Velvet Underground (Kinetic Playground). The MC5 (Lincoln Park). Bob Marley (Quiet Knight). The list goes on and on. My musical life is unimaginable without the experiences I’ve had with my brother Don, who turns 65 today. Happy Birthday!