Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Looking for Baobab


From the time I was a small child and listened to my mother read to me, I have loved words. Some developed their own identities, fascinating me with the meaning I attributed to them. First, I probably was around four, there was “Dennoch.” “Dennoch” is the German word for “nevertheless.” I would ask my mother to read a particular story to me – over and over – it was a story about a giant. This giant accomplished many difficult tasks; I assume that my mother said “dennoch” with extra emphasis to show his courage, and in my mind it became his name. “Dennoch” became synonymous with “winning in spite of.”

Then there was “Krimskrams.” It was sometimes spoken in an admonishing tone, when small pieces of furniture from my shoebox dollhouse littered the front stoop. “Odds and ends” is the translation for it. And even though “Krimskrams” raised my mother’s eyebrows, I delighted in the crisp pronunciation of its vowels. “Krimskrams” was the sound of marching forward.

Over the years my list of favorite words grew. When I was around twelve I read adventure stories. That’s when I discovered “Baobab.” The upside down tree of a far-away land. The word that escaped from tightly shut lips. An unsolved mystery.

I am sending Bear number fifty-one out into the world to look for Baobab.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Monday, April 28, 2008

It's a Red Thing




Once upon a time Madam X, the mannequin, was in perfect shape. I used her as prop whenever I tried out new lighting. During the 1989 earthquake she fell apart and eventually I spraypainted what was left of her, her torso, dark blue and began to use her as t-shirt holder. Here she is admired by
BEAR NUMBER 50.




Sunday, April 27, 2008

Bears Forty-Five to Forty-Nine




Bears forty-five to forty-nine are an extension of the carrots and guacamole color group. I added a little cornmeal, a neon version of avocado, some bright orange, the comfort of forest green and almost made it to fifty. But just before I reached my goal, I was interrupted by a thought. Something in my head kept saying, “Do the (RED) thing.” Which meant that Bear number fifty had to be red.

When Bono and Bobby Shriver launched the concept of (Product)Red, raising money for the Global Fund to combat Aids, Tuberculosis, and Malaria in Africa, I was one of the first customers to stand in line at the Gap to buy the red t-shirt that says “Inspi(red). Of course I have to include it in my Bears for Africa knitting project, even though I detected a small stain on it the other day. This might be the last time the shirt will go public. Contrary to my mother’s belief that “it all comes out in the wash,” some stains are impossible to get rid of.

My t-shirts are indicators of my interests, my passions, my travels. I’ve collected many of them over the years, have worn some to shreds, have outgrown others, have ruined several by spilling something on them But I can’t bear to give them away or toss them into the trashcan because they all remind me of experiences I’ve had. My t-shirts are storytellers.

I came up with a solution to the problem. Before I discard any shirt now, I take a picture of it. I will document “Inspi(red)” with (red) Bear number fifty. I wanted to do it yesterday, but I spent too much time gathering all the bears, propping them on my kitchen table, taking a group photo. Every time I thought I was done, somebody had slipped, or tilted to obscure the face of the one behind. I became impatient and decided not to take any more pictures for the rest of the day. I had to get back to knitting.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Carrots and Guacamole with Bear


(The postcard used in this photograph can be purchased from
http://motherbearproject.org. The picture of the little boy was taken by Mwana Bermudes.)

Friday, April 25, 2008

Celebrating the Completion of Fifty Bears



Today I didn't knit until late in the evening. As I had promised myself, I celebrated the halfway mark of Bear knitting at Barnes and Noble Cafe. They didn't have chocolate cheesecake but their keylime cheesecake was delicious. I bought the CD "An Evening with Harry Belafonte and Friends" and sat outside reading, listening to music, thinking about the next fifty Bears. I had bought the book "Nelson Mandela's Favorite African Folktales" in preparation for the second part of the project and spent a couple of hours with lions and snakes and mythical beasts of African folklore.



Nelson Mandela has been my hero all my adult life. When I was nineteen I listened to the stories of South African students who discussed him with great passion. After his imprisonment in 1963 I followed the political developments in South Africa with sadness until his release in 1990. When he visited the US I heard him speak in Oakland. When he became president of South Africa I cried. Now I want to listen to the ancient voice of the African storyteller in the tales Mr. Mandela selected for the children of the world.



Into the first fifty Bears I knitted some of my own feelings and ideas. The next fifty I see as teachers who will allow me to learn more about Africa. And when Mother Bear sends all 100 of them to their destinations far away from here, I hope that they will carry the magic of the storyteller to the children in need of companionship.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Happy Birthday Mother!



The Bears and I wish Bella Fonti and all the mothers in the world who are born on April 24th a wonderful birthday. Special thoughts go out to those mothers who turn 96 today.

The members of the steelband will play their hearts out for you this afternoon. Our newly formed group goes by the name “Bean;” it consists of six Bears – five girls and one boy – and a frog. All of us have worked very hard to make this a memorable event. Samy Lucius Putnam, the frog, has given of his time and expertise generously; in addition to creating the beach scene he has agreed to entertain us with a solo performance of Bela Bartok’s Violin Sonata Number Two. The girl Bears will drum their pans to “Matilda” and other Calypso pieces and the boy, in spite of being terribly shy, will sing Bob Marley’s “No Woman No Cry,” in a special tribute to my Jamaican Reggae holiday.

I as the producer of and for the group, and photographer of all events, large and small, will relax today, possibly celebrating with a piece of chocolate cheese cake and a cup of French Roast. Yesterday I reached the halfway mark in knitting 100 Bears for Africa. As soon as the Bella Fonti Beach Bash comes to an end I will take pictures of Bears forty-five to fifty, and in the coming days I will attempt to bring all fifty Bears together for a group photo.

In the meantime, thanks to all who have already sponsored some of the Bears and in doing so have become part of my adventure.

On to the second half of the project!!!



P.S. I asked Samy about the wrinkles in the sky; he said he couldn't finish his meditation because the Bears interrupted him. Straightening out a plastic sky takes more imagination than he had time for.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Samy Sets the Stage for Bean


It was the morning of April 23rd and everything was ready for the concert except the scenery. A large canvas top was held up by tall bamboo poles and the Bears had gathered seashells and beads to decorate the stage. Bear thirty-nine had agreed to include the newcomers; the girl would share the six bass with the two sisters; the boy would carry the sign with the name of the band. He was a Bob Marley fan and sang “Buffalo Soldier” for the other Bears while they ate their breakfast, but he was too shy to sing at a public event. Besides, he was not a girl musician and he couldn’t sing “Matilda” which was the piece they had chosen as opener.

The top spot on the stage belonged to Bear thirty-nine, the leader of the band. But then a curious thing happened; she saw Samy sit on his bed, holding the violin. He wouldn’t remember the next day because it was a dream, but thirty-nine could not forget and she asked him to join the band and take her seat at the very top.

“Steeldrums and violin,” he asked, “isn’t that a bit unusual?” Then he quickly added, “Oh Dear, it would be such an honor. I don’t get to play for an audience very often. I will perform the Violin Sonata Number Two by Bartok.”

“The what?”

“The Violin So..”

“I heard you,” Bear thirty-nine interrupted. “ It doesn’t sound like entertainment for a beach bash, but that’s fine with me. You should do it right in the middle when everybody is excited and doesn’t mind a little snooze.”

Samy wanted to give a stern reply, a lecture about the importance of classical music, but he had learned in the last few days that lectures did not accomplish much. He sighed and said, “I’ll be happy to be your snooze button.”

While the Bears argued about the name for the band and what pieces to perform, Samy took his violin to the stage, sat down at the top, and practiced, practiced, practiced. After playing for some time the music transported him into the realm of magic and he wandered along a sandy beach, looking up at palm trees. Had it not been for the Bears he might have walked straight into the ocean.

“Mr. Putnam. Stop! You’ll get wet!”

Samy was torn from his musical meditation by the voices of Bears. When he opened his eyes he saw the whole crew staring at him.”

“How’d you do that?” The boy pointed to a spot behind Samy and when the frog turned he saw the beach scene he had promised.

“I guess playing the violin is just as good as sitting in my suitcase when it comes to using my imagination,” he mused. “Better even. I might have gotten a swim out of it if you hadn’t interrupted me. ”

Samy smiled at the group. “And you? Now that I have delivered your beach, can you stop arguing long enough to find a name for your band?”

“Bean!”

“Bean?”

“A one word name is easy to remember. Like Abba. Or Madonna. And Bono. Prince. Sting. Bean.”

“Bean it is.”

And off they went to paint a sign while Samy limped inside to brew a pot of dandelion tea.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Carrots and Guacamole

(The postcard and others like it can be purchased from Mother Bear Project on their website. The photograph of the little boy was taken and is copyrighted by Mwana Bermudes)

My favorite part of the 100 Bears for Africa adventure is the thought process. Bears become members of a group. Color schemes develop. Stories unfold.

But one of the problems is the coordination of knitting, photographing, writing. Sometimes I am ahead of my knitting self with a new story and get impatient with these slow fingers. “Knit faster,” I demand, “knit faster so I can unleash my new ideas.”

Sometimes my photographing self lags behind. I stand by the window and order the sun to poke through the gray blanket of clouds. How can I have a Bella Fonti Beach Party without sunshine?

Unfortunately there are also times when, no matter how cute the Bear, how appropriate the photograph, my writing self has absolutely nothing clever to say.

This brings up another point: expectations. I understand that I can’t expect perfection from a picture in which the props are household utensils, old toys, dime store purchases, and earthquake preparedness canned goods. After spending two days assembling the beach party I finally get a few shots of it, and what do I see? Wrinkles in the background. Warped edges. By the time I have taped the plastic tablecloth/beach scenery a bit tighter to the wall, the sun is behind a cloud again. I pace, I knit, I wait. The laundry is done. I get hangers for my clothes. Oops, I missed a two-minute sunburst. It’s April, silly. Relax. Let the sun play its tricks on you. Get the lint.

The lint? Yes, people make art with dryer lint. I save mine now, if it is a color other than gray. Periodically the sun rushes me to the kitchen table where the beach party is waiting to be photographed. I forget about dryer lint, but think of the Mother Bear Project postcard with the little boy who wears an interesting hat. A good color combination for a Bear. I bought two of the hat colors the other day; I already had chocolate for the body and black and wheat for a couple of stripes; all I needed was a particular orangy red and a green that teeters on the edge between olive and lime. I found it. “Red Heart” calls the colors “Carrot” and “Guacamole.” Now my mind wanders off into food, recipes, dinner plates.

While I sit at the computer uploading the beach party photographs I open the list for future Bear ideas and enter “Dishing up Carrots and Guacamole.”

The beach party pictures don’t meet my approval. Darn it, the sunlight was too intense. There are bright blobs on the sky. A white line runs through the palm trees.

I delete and retake. Twice. The dishing idea is growing. I drink a cup of coffee; knit the foot for Bear forty-five; stare at the little postcard boy’s hat. Then I get up and pull a platter from the kitchen cupboard, hunt for an old, lacy curtain remnant, load the platter with yarn and needles, add the postcard, run to the door. The front porch is dreaming in filtered sunlight. I dish up a perfect meal. Even the plastic tablecloth showing through the lace doesn’t bother me. It adds a slight hint of background color to the design. I shoot from every angle.

Afterwards I remember that my photographing and writing selves were supposed to be involved with steel drums and a beach party. And a name for the band. I frown. My domestic self lifts blue lint from the trap in the dryer and folds the new blue bath towel.

When I go back to the kitchen to take a last photograph of the beach scene, my imaginary shrink follows me and whispers, “Creativity does not run on a schedule.” Then he touches Samy the frog with the tip of his finger, turns him slightly to the left. “I’m hiding the head of the safety pin,” he says. ‘You don’t want people to see it glistening in the sun, do you?”





Monday, April 21, 2008

Samy's Dream

As soon as Samy fell asleep he dreamt that he was participating in the Bella Fonti Beach Bash. When the girls opened the suitcase to wake him for dinner, he sat on his bed in his pajamas still holding the violin.

The Bella Fonti Beach Bash

"So, what are the plans?" Samy looked at Bear thirty-nine, expecting an answer. But none came. Or, I should say, the answer he got was not what he had anticipated.

“I don’t know. I just want to play in a steelband. And I want to have a big concert.”

For a moment Samy sat quietly on his chair. Then he stood up as well as he could stand up on his injured foot. He hobbled back and forth. By pacing he could try to think. Samy was used to planning, but most masterminding of events happened in the suitcase, shut tightly to the outside world.

He turned to the girls who wanted to be musicians and the boy and his sister who had drifted in with the lost drum. He smiled.

“This is what has to happen quickly: You have to think outside the box. I, on the other hand, have to go inside my box to be of help“

The boy Bear spoke for the first time. “What’s the name of your band? And where’s the concert goin’ to be?”

Bear thirty-nine shrugged her shoulders.

“The name. Yes, you definitely need a name for your band,” Samy said. “Anybody else have any ideas?”

“Chicken of the Sea.”

“The Big Tuna.”

“Calypso in a can.”

“How about Garbanzo Bean?” the boy said.

“Looks like you’re on the right track. Make a list of all the names you can think of. Tomorrow we’ll pick one. You may play right here if you wish. If I sleep in my house for a night or two I’ll have a beach scene for you soon. Since there are six of you now, you might as well sleep under the stars and let an old man take his bed back inside.”

And then, more to himself, he said, “Imagine, a concert by the beach.”

“Cool!” Bear thirty-nine was excited. “The concert is a surprise for my mother. Her name is Bella Fonti. Can we call it the “Bella Fonti Beach Bash?”

“If that’s what you wish. And when do you want to have this Bella Fonti Beach Bash? When will you be ready?”

“April 24th. That’s my mother’s birthday.”

“Three days to get ready. You better get started while I take my nap. Help me with the bed, will you please.”

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Counting Bears



This little girl, who came to the Blue Moon Shelter from New Orleans a couple of years ago, volunteered to count the Bears. She is going to make number tags for all of them.

I hope that I can get them to stand still long enough for a photograph.

In the meantime, back to Mr. Samy Lucius Putnam and the musicians.

Mrs. Cloud's "Sunshine Boys"






As we were all waiting for the rescue crew to join the musicians, we had three visitors at the Blue Moon Shelter. They call themselves the "Goodwill Ambassadors" and they wanted to make sure that we remember to count our Bears. They said we were almost halfway there in our effort to knit 100 Bears for Africa.

Daydreaming


Call Me Marley

Getting Samy Back to his House


Bear number forty-four is leading the way back. When they arrive at the house, the girls are practicing and they are looking forward to unloading the rest of the steeldrums. Maybe, finally, Samy Lucius Putnam gets to find out what the plans are for the band.
(These are Bears number forty-four, forty-two, and forty-three.)

On the Road


Saturday, April 19, 2008

Posing for the Webcam




The Rescue (continued_




When Samy arrived at the road where Bear forty-two was stranded and where two other Bears were looking for the missing drum, he immediately took charge. He tied himself to a tree branch; then he threw the rope down to the two Bears who by then had found the drum and were carrying it as far as they could.

“Tie the rope around yourselves,” he said, “I will pull you up.”

He pulled and pulled and finally the two were close enough to the road that they were able to hoist themselves up.

“Thank you, thank you,” they said and dropped the drum next to the wagon. Samy untied himself, but when he lifted his leg over the tree branch he tripped on the rope and hurt his ankle.

“You might have to let me ride home on your wagon,” he said.

In the meantime the Bears who had stayed behind watched the rescue on the computer.

“Oh look, I think Mr. Putnam is hurt. They’re carrying him to the wagon. Now he is sitting on top of the drums.”

“I hope he doesn’t fall off.” They giggled.

“You’re not supposed to zoom in and out all the time.”

“I want to find out who those other guys are. Look, they’re posing for the webcam.”

“Let me see.”

The girls watched the group slowly proceed toward the edge of the screen. When they could no longer see them they abandoned the computer. Bear thirty-nine picked up her mallets and began to tap her steelpan.

Friday, April 18, 2008

The Rescue






“Look! Look!” Bear number forty-one pointed at a spot on the computer screen. “I see two Bears.”

“Is your sister one of them?” Samy wanted to know.

“No. She’s wearing a white skirt.”

“Well then. Let’s move around and see if we can find her.” He clicked on a space more to the west. “And what do we have here? A Bear and a wagon. Is this your sister?”

“Oh, yes. She must be scared. She doesn’t like to look down in the canyon.”

“Then why’d you leave her?” Thirty-nine looked puzzled.

“I told you, I had to get here early in the morning to make sure I get to play in the band.”

Samy zoomed in on the scene. “I think I see the drum. One of the Bears is fairly close to it. I wonder if he spotted it. The other one is climbing toward your sister. They are talking to each other.” I think they might need help.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I’ll get a piece of rope. If they can’t make it on their own, I will pull them up the hill. Number forty, you know how to use the computer. Just stay focused. Don’t zoom in or out. If you don’t see me in the picture in fifteen minutes, get the emergency whistle and blow it three times. This will let me know that I am proceeding in the wrong direction.”

Samy hadn’t climbed much since he retired. Just the usual, the minimal, the daily back and forth between his house and the imaginary landscapes behind it. His legs were a bit wobbly but he had to rescue the Bears and the steel drum.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Reality Check List


The garbanzo bean can (steel drum) rescue took place on the hill behind my house.
The Webcam is actually my Olympus digital.
No Bears were harmed during the rescue.
Even though I had to climb up and down the hill many times,
I came away with only a few scrapes and a small cut on my finger.
I forgot to take scotch tape up the hill.
I needed scissors.
To let the frog be involved in the rescue was an afterthought and I had to go back down in the house and get him.
I made the story up as I went along and soon needed rope.
Then I had to get the rake from the shed because there were too many pine needles on the ground.
I cut myself when I tried to pull grass out by the root.
Needed the pruning shears.
The Garbanzo Bean can rolled into the underbrush twice.
The frog fell off his perch three times.
While I tried very hard not to let the Bears get dirty -I gave them footpads to stand on – Bear number forty-two did fall over once and later hand-washed her white skirt by squeezing it with a washcloth. She had to hang by one ear overnight. (She claims it didn’t hurt. O.K. this is not really true; this part is imagined.)
All in all this was the most difficult shoot so far.
Bears forty-three and forty-four (the strangers who rescued the drum - pardon me, the last two Bears who posed as rescuers of the garbanzo bean can) had only received their faces on Wednesday morning. I was done with picture taking by two-thirty in the afternoon.
I missed lunch and had to snack on bean salad again.
Since Sunday five cans of beans had to be opened and hammered to resemble 55 gallon steel drums.
As for the imaginary steelband, it needs a name. I might have come up with one. The labels on the cans might be part of the story.
I reserve the right to change my mind.
Now I am going to bed.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Ogle Earth



While the girls became acquainted with each other Samy retreated into his house. He should have closed the door to shut out the giggling for a while, but curiosity made him listen to the chatter. Besides, it didn’t happen often that he had company Just then they were speculating on the whereabouts of the lost drum.

“I bet it rolled down the hill and sank in a ditch full of water.”

“I don’t think so. It probably just dropped off the wagon at the edge of the road.”

“Yeah. Somebody’ll pick it up and take it home and use it for other stuff.”

“I left mine at my grandmother’s one time and she used it for a dust bin.”

“My sister will find it. But I think she’s mad at me because I’m not helping to pull the wagon. I told her I had to be here early; then I just left. And now she’s all alone out there.

“Young ladies, listen!” Samy stood by the door and announced his plan to find the steel drum. “I’ll check the area and see if I can spot it. Ursa installed Live Webcams alongside the road; now I can survey the neighborhood on my computer with Ogle Earth; it is like a map except that everything appears in real-time.”

“Can we watch?”

“Sure. Help me bring the desk out here and we’ll get started right away.”

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Another One


Samy was grumpy. He had slept outside so the girls could take shelter in his home. It was early in the morning and sunshine was just beginning to brighten the zinnias. The zinnias? Hadn’t he asked for palm trees? For a Caribbean atmosphere?

But of course! Now he remembered. When he slept outside of his suitcase his imagination couldn’t focus long and deep enough to build magical landscapes. Oh well, another day of zinnias would be just fine.

“Excuse me. Sir? Are you angry? Should I come back later?”

Samy heard the voice and thought “another one,” and when he turned around and saw that she carried a full barrel he thought how loud the band would be. A fifty-five gallon bass drum. A little monotonous maybe because of the limited number of notes, but still loud.

“No, no, no,” he said. “I am not angry. I was just contemplating the day to come. My name is Putnam. Mr. Putnam. And you are?”

“I am Bear number forty-one. I’m a girl musician. My sister told me about the band. She’s coming with the rest of my drums. I play six bass except we lost one and now she’s looking for it.”

“You might as well show me what you can do with one. It will be enough to wake your future band leader and her new friend.”

Monday, April 14, 2008

Pretend, of course!



“Did you know they make many different types of steeldrums to choose from?” Samy, always the teacher, couldn’t stop himself. “Tenor, double tenor, soprano, quadrophonic, six pan, cello, seven bass. Some only give you a few notes, others hold a ton of them.”

“My pan makes all the sounds I need,” Bear number thirty-nine said. She sounded smug and confident.

“Pretend, of course?” Samy frowned and refilled his cup with dandelion root tea.

“Pretend, of course!” Bear number thirty-nine gave a sigh. It came from deep inside of her. She couldn’t understand why grown-ups had to put everything into drawers.
A drawer for reality.
A drawer for virtual reality.
A drawer for magic.
A drawer for pretend.
No wonder they got confused. If she owned a giant closet with a thousand drawers she wouldn’t be able to find anything either. Words were stuff you played with.

Bear number thirty-nine didn’t know about Samy Lucius Putnam’s magical world. She didn’t know that he just wanted her to understand labels, not use them. She was still a little Bear.

Before the afternoon was over a girl came to their tea table. She carried one drum under each arm.

“Hey, look! A double second. Or is it a double tenor? Have a seat young lady.”

“Double Second. Hello. I am Bear number forty. I saw your ad on Ursaslist. I’d love to be in your band.”

It was Bear number thirty-nine’s turn to frown. Ursaslist? What’s that?

Samy leaned forward and explained. “While I was waiting for the water to boil I posted your request for girl musicians on the Internet. My friend Ursa has a great community website for Bear news. You know about Ursa Major, don’t you?

A blank stare.

Samy made a mental note to teach a bit of Bear genealogy later. But first things first. “Why don’t we let Bear number forty audition; I am eager to hear the tonal range of her drums.”

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Samy's Zinnia Patch


Samy Lucius Putnam lives in a magical world. When he opens his suitcase he finds himself exactly at the place he wants to be. It could be a big city or a beach or the woods. One never knows what scenery has developed in his mind during the night.

“Flowers,” he said one morning to the bees that buzzed his rooftop, “I want to see flowers grow.”
He marched to the back of his tiny home to inspect the patch of coral and white zinnias that stretched as far as the eyes could see. Satisfied with his mind’s creation he decided to go back inside to brew some tea, but a voice caught him just as he was about to close the door.

“Excuse me Mr. Frog, do you have a minute?”

“My name is Putnam. Mr. Putnam. How can I help you?”

The Bear waved her sign in front of him and asked, “Do you know any musicians? I want to make music, but I need a band.”

“I play the violin,” Samy told her, “but I see from your sign that you are looking for girl musicians.” He glanced at the raggedy tin can on her wagon and asked, “What is this?”

“This,” she announced proudly, “is my pan. My calypso steel drum.”

“I guess we have to sit down and discuss your plan. You do have a plan, don’t you? How about a cup of dandelion tea?”

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Yes We Can


Call it a tin
Call it a can
Call it a drum
Call it a pan
We’ll make jammin’ good music
Mr. Froggieman.

Friday, April 11, 2008

Follow-up to the "Little Give."

To the person who left a message about my post on the "Little Give," -"Thank you, you made my day."

When I was three we lived in a city that was bombed nightly. One night a group of refugees was housed in the hallway of our hotel. Children were crying when the bombs hit around us. Eventually everybody settled down except for one little girl. She kept on crying. My mother took my stuffed rabbit and gave it to the little girl. She instantly fell asleep, holding the stuffed animal tightly in her arms. In the morning the refugees were moved before my mother could retrieve my rabbit. It was my turn to cry, until my mother made me something else to hold.

My mother told me about this when I was in my forties, sewing rabbits and giving them away to homeless children. I had asked her if she knew what makes me want to make these things for children in need. She told me about the war and how a teddy bear or doll, something to hold onto in the dark, helped ease the fear.

"You probably remember," she said, "deep down in your subconscious, how it feels to be alone."

Bear Number 39 Looking for the Music of the Night


Whether it is Keith Jarrett making love to the piano, Yo-Yo Ma exploring the cello, Don Ellis reinventing the trumpet, or Bob Marley singing “No woman no cry,” I can’t think of anything better to do after midnight than to listen to music. The names of the musicians sound intriguing:Vladimir Ashkenazy. Hamza El Din. Burning Spear. The titles are mysterious: Mamaloshen. Gamelan of the Kraton. Ladies of the Canyon. Here is a CD I forgot I had: “The Perfect Jewel” – Sacred Chants of Tibet.

When I was a teenager I was in love with Harry Belafonte and Calypso. I thought about this after I had finished the Purple Rain Gang. I knew that my next group of Bears would have to carry some music to Africa. Or maybe I should say, carry music back to Africa. Calypso, reggae, steelpan. I thought about the night I spent at an outdoor reggae concert in Montego Bay; it was unbelievably colorful in sounds, smells, dress. And the steel drum groups that used to gather in San Francisco at the beach – lighthearted, easygoing, entertaining.
What could be translated into Bear knitting? How do I make steelpans? I have to google Calypso. Look up Trinidad on a map.
What do you mean, use Chicken of the Sea? How about fruit cocktail?

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Samy Lucius Putnam


Meet Samy Lucius Putnam. Samy used to be my travel companion. He’s been to Morocco, Egypt, China, Germany, Canada, and England. After England he decided to retire. He retreated into a suitcase with his violin. Occasionally he comes out to give a concert or dispense advice about sentence length and paragraph readability. Soon Bear number thirty-nine will ask him to join her all girl steelpan band.

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Rainy Season is Now Over


It seems I have played around with “Purple Rain and Lavender Pillows” for some time. Finally, this morning, I stood by the window and whipped out six faces. They eyes on one of them are rather big, and some of the mouths are not smiling the way I wanted them to, but people’s faces don’t all look the same either. I am glad I found my extra long sewing needle and can now thread the yarn all the way to the back of the neck where I can tie a triple knot that is hidden under the scarf. My technique is getting better even if the faces don’t improve.

For the photograph of the “Faces of the Purple Rain” I found a lovely background, half a sheet in colors that are compatible with the bears. Then I sprayed purple water from a Windex bottle onto a sheet of glass. In front of the glass I taped an old Halloween spider web and when the purple water dripped too fast I dipped my finger in Vaseline and dotted the glass to slow down the runs. I tied the six new bears together so they would look like a bunch of kids trying to look out the window. The rain would have looked better if I had had an assistant. By the time I snapped the first picture the water beads had dripped down to the table. Eventually the glass was quite streaked with watercolor and after about ten shots I couldn’t see the bears any more. But I love the way the colors swirl together.

Tomorrow I’ll post the final photo for this group. It will be a sequel to the one with the stand-in bear (number thirteen) and the big pile of yarn. Now there will be six new bears instead of the yarn balls. Metamorphosis?

After that? Maybe a musical number.

Monday, April 7, 2008

Waiting for the Purple Rain


Today, on the train, after knitting four scarves and finishing a skirt, I began to put together a poem. A poem about the Purple Rain. This is a first draft. And it all came about because I still haven't begun the faces for the last six bears. A drought in face embroidering. Bears without faces. My imagination roamed as the train passed the trashy back alleys of factories and warehouses.


Faceless is the city
That hides inside its bolted gates
Empty windows glare
at dusty streets below

where are the people you might wonder
where are the children
who should sing and dance and play

you write your questions
in the ever blowing sand

they keep on waiting for the purple rain

silent is the city
solemn stand the iron gates

the world beyond lies gray and barren
heaven shows no mercy
to the field of wilting flowers

you walk along the city wall
and touch its crumbling stone
a mother bird cries out to you
from a crevice in the fortress

you keep on searching for the purple rain

Spider woman paces in her corner
Weaving nets to catch
the dew that never settles
spinning dreams to stay alive

why does she do it you might wonder
why does she believe in magic
that will not come to pass

you plant your worries
in the ever shifting sand

she keeps on hoping for the purple rain

until one day a fog surrounds the city
and mists the iron gates

soon the flowers in the field
lift their heads and shine
the mother bird begins to feed her hungry brood

you stand and watch the city gates
open to a purple flood of life
the windows fill with happy children
spider woman sings a grateful chant

you start to find the answers in the faces of the purple rain







Sunday, April 6, 2008

Little Give


“What am I doing?

I know about one light in the darkness. I remember my mother’s advice, past centuries’ clichés, philosophical reasons, and ethical principles behind giving. But, good grief, how can I compete? How can I possibly do what the Mother Bear logo on the t-shirt instructs me to do?

“Make a difference,” it says.

Do you want to know what’s written on the back of the “Make Poverty History” t-shirt?

“Poverty kills a child every three seconds.”

How can I compete with the big give, the fast give? How can my one hundred little Bears make a difference? A movie star can hire a jet, fill it with sacks of flour, powdered milk, and malaria pills, and fly it out within days. A politician can feed the mouths of a thousand children with the stroke of his pen. A television show can give away, in twenty-four hours, enough money to sustain several families for years to come.

Well, I can’t compete with that. I am glad for their big, fast contributions, because they make a big, fast difference. But I can’t compete.

Strike the word “compete” from my dictionary!

I had to reread a page in Bob Samples’ wonderful book “The Metaphoric Mind:”

“Human freedom includes freedom to create the metaphors by which we live, then to choose whether these metaphors limit or extend. All ideas can be tools or weapons. It is the choice that makes the difference.”

“What am I doing? I am extending!”

I am sending my good will along with each Bear. I capitalize the word Bear now because to me Bear is a metaphor. Bear is good karma. Bear carries C G Jung’s collective unconscious. Bear unites me with givers and receivers. Bear knits together past and future.

“Bear with us!”

P.S. Bear number twenty-nine posed for the above picture. This is his third photo shoot. Finally we are happy with the outcome.

Saturday, April 5, 2008

Partial Preview of Bears Number 33 to 38


Just Checking



Time Out



Time out for a quick spring fling in the garden. To stay with the color purple I planted two blue-violet Verbena hybrids and two Lavenders and mixed in some Marigolds. After pulling weeds, digging out an overgrown geranium, and trimming back some bushes, my hands were in no shape to come into contact with yarn. After taking a picture of the new lavender and comparing the color with my idea of "purple rain and lavender pillows" I gave myself the rest of the day off. Bears number thirty-three to thirty-eight are awaiting their faces.

Friday, April 4, 2008

Face It


Though right now my life is free of fading, felting, bleeding problems, I face other obstacles. Yes, I FACE them. Sewing features on bear heads is the most difficult part of bear construction for me. I only do it in the morning when I’m well rested. I stand by the window where I have plenty of natural light. And still, most faces decide on their own what they want to look like.

Finishing a bear feels like finishing a painting. After ten hours of knitting, sewing, stuffing, I could ruin it all with a few misplaced lines. The needle pops up in the wrong place; the mouth is too thick; the nose looks crooked; eyes bulge or disappear into the soft bed of fiberfill beneath the knitted surface.

With Bear number thirty-two (the third of the tutu girls) I came close to achieving symmetry. A few of the others are not too bad either, but most are less than perfect. I tell myself that the face gives individuality to each bear. And I am determined to make the Purple Rain Gang smile.

Thursday, April 3, 2008

Purple Rain and Lavender Pillows


As artist I thrive on the leaps and bounds of my imagination. And yet, sometimes I feel awkward exposing my crazy, excited self to the rest of the world, especially when I see a brow lift just a bit or when a mouth forms a question, stops halfway, and resorts to a smile. This makes me think my friends pretend to believe talking to flying teddy bears is normal. It makes me want to defend the hows and whys of my preoccupations.

It is difficult to explain the spinning and swirling of words, their search for images, for memories, for innovative expression – the sudden burst of multi-media visions. The show usually begins early in the morning. I am awake but haven’t opened my eyelids yet. A bird might be sending a message from the garden. A few heavy raindrops might drum on the metal roof of the carport. Or a ray of sunshine might squeeze between the slats of the blinds and tempt my tightly shut eyes. First mental connections are easily interrupted by the demands of reality and half-formed thoughts scramble back into the underbrush. But eventually I am done editing the movie in my head and jump out of bed. Quickly I perform all the tasks required prior to greeting the oatmeal box and the coffee pot. Once my breakfast and I have landed in front of the computer a synthesized color-texture-word-image experience is beginning to form. It might only take one sitting, but more often I “brood before I breed.” I might have to retake photographs, knit another bear, scrap an idea, keep my eyes closed through a few more mornings of prefabrication.

“So, what’s up with the purple rain and lavender pillow theme?” My imaginary shrink looks over my shoulder. “Where did that come from?”

I click on a list to show him. Yarn balls in various shades of purple. Prince song title. Rainer Maria Rilke poem. Window. Beads of rain. The meaning of the color purple. Pain. Overcoming pain.

“You see,” I start, “when I looked at all the different shades of purple on the table I hummed “purple rain, purple rain, I only want to see you laughing in the purple rain.” Then I noticed the difference between deep purple and lavender. As if something had softened the stronger color. A line from Rainer Maria Rilke’s poem about Mary’s Death popped into my mind. I read the poem again. I own it in German only and don’t dare translate it in verse form. I love Rilke’s poems, but they are very difficult to translate.

Rilke says that Mary was like a lavender pillow (in English we call it potpourri) buried for a while, so the earth would pick up her scent in its folds, like a fine piece of cloth, and death and sickness would be eased by her fragrance.

This morning, in bed, when the first drops of rain fell, I imagined them to be purple. I saw teddy bears, dressed in shades of purple, looking through a window, beyond the beads of purple rain. And they sat on fluffy lavender colored pillows. When the rain stopped only one streak of purple beads was left, meandering between the flowers.

Translate this into a bunch of bears sitting on a pile of yarn, a piece of glass in front of them dripping purple water color paint. Now I’ve got to figure out how to make this happen. In the meantime….testing, testing … one, two, three……….see Bear number thirteen climbing the yarn as stand-in for his future brothers and sisters of the Purple Rain.”

My shrink frowns and finishes our conversation with, “Whatever that means!”

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Afterthought - Yellow Canary Number Two


I knitted the "Yellow Canary" sweater in the post a couple of years ago. I tested it by machine washing it in hot water. Orlon Acrylic Fiber does not shrink. It does not felt. It only bleeds marginally. I was disappointed. I had imagined the model, my doll Isabelle, in a magic, swirly, felted masterpiece, like the poor girl who wore the original a long time ago.


Isabelle is three feet tall, fearless, with boundless energy and imagination. I have declared her to be the personification of my inner child.

The Yellow Canary


Modern yarn, like modern life, is compartmentalized. Specialized to perform certain tasks and satisfy certain tastes. Yarn has its followers. You’ll find cotton people and silk people and wool people and down at the very bottom you’ll find people like me, your ordinary “whatever is on sale at the local craft shop” people. We are heavily into 100 percent Orlon Acrylic Fiber - mothproof, colorfast, shrink-proof – affordable. But every once in a while I splurge, enter a real yarn shop, chat with real knitters, follow an argument over Alpaca versus Merino, a debate about felting. I buy a skein of hand-dyed deluxe sock yarn. Later, at home, I sit at my desk, wind it into balls, admire their perfection.

“Yes,” I say out loud, holding one in my hand, “this is what a ten dollar ball of wool looks like.” Then I smile at the one-dollar ball that’s waiting to be knitted into a doll skirt or bear sweater. Both are beautiful to me. But I have to admit that expensive yarn is tempting. It is an adventure. Like leaving the beach party to attend an exclusive engagement at the top hotel in town. I give up what’s comfortable and predictable in favor of an unknown entity with alien rules and rituals. I give up “machine wash and dry” for the privilege to choose from labels that indicate “use for felting” or “hand wash only.” I might even encounter bleeding, shrinking - premature death. Oh Dear, I might run into the Yellow Canary.

The clothes I wore as a child began as large pieces of cloth on my grandmother’s sewing machine or they purled off my mother’s knitting needles in a million stitches. Then the new garment was pulled over me and tugged into place until it fit. I was twirled and bent and twisted, commanded to walk back and forth. After wrestling with pleats and folds, buttoning and unbuttoning, scrunching and stretching, somebody usually said, “She’ll grow into it.”

I did, of course. After the first season. But sometimes a sweater would sag and stretch, lose its elasticity and race me for maximum growth through another winter. At the beginning of the third year, after my mother had taken the winter clothes from the armoire in the back room, she would inspect a hemline or pull on a cuff and then she would sigh,
”Ach ja……ach ja.” Which means something like oh well, oh well.

While I inhaled mothballs and tried to loosen a tight collar, she led me to the kitchen and announced to Oma: ”She can wear this one more winter.”

When I was nine and we no longer lived with my grandmother, my mother called on Frau Palinkas, our upstairs neighbor. The Hungarian woman knew she attended confirmation of my winter wardrobe but probably only had a vague idea about my mother’s determination.

My mother always sandwiched a few “gells” between her sentences. “Gell” is a slang word, a dictatorial RIGHT wrapped into polite question marks. A word everybody understood.
My mother pointed, “This sweater fits Gisela. Gell?”

She smiled at Frau Palinkas, grabbed the bottom end of the sweater just above my hips and gave it a quick tug. “ It’s big enough, right?” And a final statement. “Schön.”
Frau Palinkas always nodded in agreement. The result of these inspections was that only one third of my clothes fit. The others were either too large or too small. I had no active part in selecting what I wore. At first I was either the victim of a cheap bolt of material or at the mercy of a new knitting pattern. Later an excessively tight garment was blamed on my sudden growth during the summer. No matter what, I wore what I was told to wear.

The wildest sweater I ever owned grew from a bartered yellow shawl and a gift of leftover yarn pieces in every color you can imagine. I helped unravel the shawl. My mother wound the yarn into several loose balls while I held the piece up towards her with both hands so the yarn could undo its own pattern in an easy back and forth path. Sometimes my attention drifted and the shawl slumped into my lap. Then my mother pulled and said: “Ein Knoten. Pass auf.” (A knot. Pay attention.)

It was difficult to watch the rhythmic travel of the yellow line without being lulled into a daze, but another knot and a sharp yank usually brought me back. The shawl shrunk and the yarn ball grew and finally my mother cast on the first yellow stitches of what would later be admired by adults as another miracle of her creativity.

Every evening while I drew or played solitaire, my mother knitted. None of the color scraps were more than a yard long and soon the fast growing backside of the sweater looked like a wooly maze with loose ends crisscrossing the yellow borders. The front was neatly organized into red and green and blue and purple rectangles and yellow dividers. After the ends had been woven in and the pieces sewn together, there was no more escaping.

“Anprobieren,” came the order and I dutifully lifted both arms to try on the sweater. It was very yellow and bright. The high collar swallowed my neck and only my fingertips peeked through the sleeve holes. My mother folded the collar down and rolled the sleeves up. She adjusted the ribbed edge over my hips and announced: “You’ll grow into it.”

The next day in school a wave of giggles made the rounds. Here and there a louder laugh escaped. On the way home a friend told me: “They called you yellow canary bird.”

“Everybody liked your new sweater?” my mother asked, leaning over my homework.

I didn’t tell her what my friend had said. It wouldn’t have made a difference I thought. When she later heard what they called me in school, she said that envy made people cruel. That you had to accept and be above it. Once a week, all winter long, she insisted, “You want to be a canary today, gell?”

Maybe I grew particularly fast between nine and ten or maybe my mother took pity on me. At any rate, the next fall she gave away the yellow sweater without explanation. We had moved in with my new stepfather who lived above a restaurant and butcher shop. One day, when I looked out the window, the sweater rushed by on one of the older “poor” girls. A few weeks later, on a sled in the snow, I saw it again. I had to look twice before I recognized it. The family everybody considered to be the poorest in town had several children. Now the smallest one wore my sweater. But was it really the same sweater? The bright yellow was drabbed down by streaks of blue and green and red and purple. You could no longer see individual rectangles. As if somebody had melted them into a sea of swirling color. I liked it.

My mother had a different reaction. She saw it close up in the butcher shop and when she told my stepfather her voice was low. I could tell she was angry. “What do I have to do? Attach washing instructions when I give away clothes? Terrible. Just terrible.”

All winter long the little girl wore the shrunken, felted canary. I wondered if she knew that it used to be mine. I was - I think – without understanding why – just a little envious.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Pink Tutu Girls


Wool's Worst Nightmare - Being Eaten by a Moth


On my eleventh birthday, in 1949, my parents gave me a book that I have treasured ever since. It is the “Schachenmayr Lehrbuch der Handarbeiten aus Wolle.” The Schachenmayr Instruction Book for Handicrafts made of Wool. The final chapter is dedicated to the menace, the archenemy of wool: the MOTH.

We get a lecture about this destructive insect and find out that the moth we catch in mid-flight, squash with bare hands, murder in outrage, is not the one who does the damage. This poor thing is the male, who, in his short lifespan lives off air. It’s his wife, the mean pregnant lady, who seeks out a smorgasbord of sweaters and hats and gloves, and sweet little baby booties to entice her eggs to hatch into fat and happy larvae.

Also in this book the leading manufacturer of knitting yarn, Schachenmayr, teaches us what to look for when we go shopping. There are two pictures at the bottom of the page. The first one shows a knitted square that is solid. The second one is of a square riddled with holes where the moth babies must have feasted for days. This second one is entitled “ordinary wool.” But the first one, the one treated at the factory with the odorless, safe, permanent Eulan, this splendid untouched square of knitting we all hope to encounter when we open that box of clothes next fall…it is made with NOMOTTA.

But what is that unpleasant memory suddenly streaking through my mind? I find its source on the very last page. A black and white photograph of two dolls, their clothes eaten up by moths, only a pair of pants left untouched. The pants, of course, are made with NOMOTTA.

NOMOTTA.

The word rings familiar even though I haven’t heard it over forty years. I google it and discover that Schachenmayr and NOMOTTA are still around. So are pages and pages of information on moths and mothballs. I thought dry cleaning and tightly closed plastic containers had done away with Mother Moth’s question, “What do you want for dinner, little caterpillars? Cabled sock or ripple stitch beanie?”

As I pick up my knitting, the purple leg of what will be Bear number thirty-three, I push aside the images of hungry baby moths and ravaged doll clothes. It is quiet in my house. I listen to the rhythm of the yarn: No mot ta no mot ta no mot ta no mot ta ……