how to put a man to sleep March 21, 2007
I have been watching a 4-part series on DVD from Netflix called “Architectures.” Each disc has several self-contained documentaries about particular buildings that are all stunningly original, like the Beaubourg and the School of Fine Arts in Paris, an architecture school in Portugal, a transportation station in France, etc., with narration translated from French. There are interviews with the architects if they are still living, but there is so much quiet footage of each building that you feel liike you are there. It’s really about the buildings. The first disc fascinated me, so I thought, “I know a lot of people who would like this. I should invite someone over to watch this with me.”
Don was over here on Saturday night, so I asked him. He actually likes and knows more about architecture than I do. He thought it sounded interesting. I popped in the second disc and the first segment was about the Holocaust Museum in Berlin, designed by Daniel Libeskind. I was rapt with attention. About half-way through, I heard Don snoring. He said he was tired, and didn’t ask when he could come back and watch the rest.
My next victim was David. He was all gung-ho to see it, because he loves design. I said, “let’s watch “The Stone Baths at Valse.” Maybe we’ll get some more ideas for the Dangerblond Baths and School of Fine Arts.”
Again, I was fascinated by the building, which was like a big sculpture. It was pretty “cold,” as you would expect from an underground stone building, but I appreciated the artistry.
Again, snoring half-way through.
“It was the wine.”
“You had a half a glass.”
He tried to watch the architect speaking in German with a voice-over.
“Architects are usually gay.”
“O.K. Tell that to Frank Lloyd Wright. Tell that to Stanford White.”
I watched the whole disc, and he went back to snoring. I went to bed and left him on the couch sleeping. When I woke up at 7:30, he was watching a rerun of “24.”
“I’m addicted to a fucking soap opera.”
i deserved a lump of coal, but i got a christmas tree December 17, 2006
I did something awful yesterday. My friend Terry Schwall has a studio at Mid City Studios and she has been excited for a month about their big open house. I had it on my calendar for today and it was yesterday. I even had the book club women lined up to go today. I feel like such a JERK. Even if you don’t buy anything, artists really need the support of having you just show up. No answer on the phone, so I left a pathetic message.
To tell you the truth, though, I don’t really like talking about individual works of art. I don’t like to see what’s behind the curtain. I just like to let a painting wash over me and take my own impression from it. I enjoy visiting art galleries when the artist is not around, and preferably not the gallery owner. I don’t need all the back story. I don’t like to give all the backstory on my pieces, either. I’ve been tempted to make it sound more complicated than it is, because that’s what people seem to want you to say. Don is, of course, the exact opposite. He can listen to someone talk about art and art-making and their process until a normal person’s eyes would be glazing over. It’s nice for an artist to have someone who is actually knowledgeable and willing to just listen. But that ain’t me, on both counts.
I went to the sale at Maison Hospitaliere just so I could see the inside of it. I did some graphics for them a long time ago, otherwise I would never have known it was there. It was a nursing home that was founded in the French Quarter for destitute Civil War widows and it recently closed its doors. I don’t think it was a hurricane-related thing, I think the time has just passed for having something like a nursing home in the Quarter. I don’t know what they are planning to do with the complex of buildings, but it’s beautiful. There is a huge central courtyard connecting the original building on Ursulines to the one that faces Dauphine, a chapel, and another building that housed the beauty salon, activity rooms, etc. The main building has two two-story wings with rooms up and down opening onto galleries. I hope someone puts this historic site to good use, it’s right in the middle of the French Quarter.
Instead of going to my friend’s art opening, Jackson and I spent the day being entertained by Shannon. She took us to lunch at Jack Dempsey’s on Poland, where Jackson made a complete mess. I can’t say I was impressed by the food, but the place is a great Ninth Ward “joint.” They also have large frozen beer mugs of ice-cold beer. It’s one of those places that’s neither a “white” place nor a “black” place, it’s thoroughly mixed. Josh and Shannon took me there for lunch a couple of years ago on my birthday, and the food (all seafood, not all fried) was excellent that time. I think they must have been having an off Saturday. There are some great big shrimp around this year, and the oysters are good too. The seafood market at N. Rampart and St. Bernard has “jumbo shrimp” for $2.99 a pound.
After that, we picked up Michael and David and went to the Bywater art market where we found a few gifts. Jackson had a goal of running off to join a bunch of kids playing together on the slide, so he kept trying escape. Once again, I took back all my past judgments of people who put their kids on leashes. It took Shannon, me, Michael and David to keep him under surveillance.
It turned out that Shannon had an ulterior motive. I had decided not to get a Christmas tree because it was so much trouble and I already decorated the Yaupon tree in the garden. After I dropped the grown-ups off, Jackson and I went home and took a nap. I didn’t notice until we woke up that Katherine had gone out and bought a Christmas tree while Shannon was distracting us. She had gone up in the attic and found the tree stand and all the ornaments, and had it lit up, stood up in front of the window, and ready to decorate. That was so sweet! I had been feeling a little seasonally affected and disordered, so that was the end of that.
While Jackson and I decorated the tree, Katherine and Shannon got all dressed up and went to see The Nutcracker at Loyola. It was a version by Irvin Mayfield, Lula Elzy and dancers from New Orleans and Ohio. Shannon’s nephew’s wife was in the company. I would like to have gone, but I don’t think Jackson is ready to sit still for a ballet, I don’t care how toe-tapping it is.
Don (Popi) came over to see the Christmas tree. Every ornament reminds me of happier days, but that’s not as uncomfortable as you might think. I’d rather have all those good memories than not. I’m at the point now where I’m forgetting things, anyway.
Popi and I took Jackson to City Park after another trip down the street to the snow globe and the train. There are two neighbors competing now to see who can have the best Winter Wonderland, so there were additions to the display. Jackson: “I love it!”
At City Park, there was a very long line of people waiting to take their kids into Storyland. It was all decorated for Christmas and there were carnival rides. The carousel is not running, so the Flying Horses, unfortunately, are still not flying. Jackson was only tall enough for two of the rides, but he made the best of it. His favorite were the “duntrucks,” with steering wheels and horns. As he went past me, he yelled, “I driving!”
The park was full of young families. Every parent I chatted with was from outside of New Orleans - Houma, LaPlace, Slidell. Some were in town for the Saints game, others just to visit the city and see what’s going on. There is certainly a lot to see. There’s plenty going on. All the traditional holiday events are back, and some new ones. As I drive around, I’m seeing more houses being cleaned out. I think some people had to wait for the holidays to deal with the mess that was left, or perhaps these houses have been sold. Some areas of town look better than they ever did.
bobby gets national coverage again December 12, 2006
John Preble writes:
http://blogs.usatoday.com/listenup/
Bobby beat Aretha, Neil Young, The Killers, Mary J. Blige, Tom Waits, Foo Fighters, and more…
Ripped from the headlines of USA TODAY!
Pick of the week:
Take Me Back to Abita Springs, http://www.bobbylounge.com/mp3s.htm, Bobby Lounge: Mississippi swamp sage Bobby Lounge, an earthy blend of Tom Waits and Jerry Lee Lewis, turns in a Delta-style Desolation Row in his rambling piano-pummeled diary of Tipi, who in his quest to become a movie star sings backup for Siamese twins, hosts a VD telethon, picks pockets as a voodoo priest, meets a sitar-playing Latin spitfire, raises tap-dancing baby Al Fresco and bays at the moon in the queen’s underwear. “I expected nicer lingerie from a queen,†he laments on this pounding fever dream from I Remember the Night Your Trailer Burned Down, recorded in one take in 2005. A rare original voice.
And remember nothing says Christmas like a gift from
http://www.bobbylounge.com/shop.htm
Also - the Free UCM Museum Christmas Wacky Wreath party is this Saturday, Dec 16th - 6.30 pm.
a blog of one’s own December 10, 2006
There is someone who leaves comments on my blog under various names where he rants and raves and puts down New Orleans artists (in addition to putting down me, Don, art galleries and attorneys). I’ve deleted most of his comments because he attacks people viciously by name and if you want to attack New Orleans artists and gallery owners (not to mention lawyers) by name, get your own website.
I was concerned about the level of bitter venom directed at me by someone who seems to not even know me, so I forwarded all the comments to Don. I’m pretty sure he’s figured out who it is, the guy’s obsessions give him away. I don’t like to feed trolls, but I finally realized that this guy is mad as a hornet because I call myself a New Orleans artist.
I don’t know what suffering some New Orleans artist(s) visited upon this troll, but I have never done anything to him. If anything, I supported him. He wouldn’t know that, because he’s never deigned to speak with me at any of the times when I’ve seen him.
Although I have no obligation to defend myself, I do want to say that I have a rather modest opinion of myself as an artist. Anyone who makes things out of Mardi Gras beads can’t go around taking themselves too seriously. Well, actually, there is a very serious artist, John Lawson, who makes “paintings” with Mardi Gras beads and they are incredible, wonderful, serious works of art, collected in museums and the whole nine yards.
John uses enormous rolls of Mardi Gras beads that he orders in specially-mixed colors. I use necklaces that I catch, or that people give to me, or that I buy in bags from Goodwill. I had never seen John’s work when I started beading everything in sight in Hammond. Don met him and went to his studio. When he came home, he said, “you would love it, you have to wade through all the Mardi Gras beads on the floor.”
The piece that inspired me to start using Mardi Gras beads is here in this house. It’s one of Don’s favorites. It’s a 50-year-old collage made from old-style glass Mardi Gras beads and trinkets, little dolls and airplanes, “Chinese” hand-cuffs, etc., all arranged to represent Rex on his float rolling down Canal Street, with the crowd and the buildings. It’s really beautiful. The artist is John Clemmer. I don’t know what he used to mount those beads on there, but even after all these years not a single one of them has fallen off.
I call myself an artist on my website because I do not yet have the right to call myself a lawyer. I don’t consider myself at all representative of New Orleans artists, the great majority of whom are talented original thinkers beyond my wildest dreams. I can barely draw. I have pretty good design sense and I have a B.A. in art. I like making art, but I am not driven to do it every day. I’m driven to make Mardi Gras costumes every year, and I do think mine are fabulous, but I’m certainly no Tracy Thomson or Roy Haylock. What I do is really craft, but the word “craftswoman” suggests more technical skills than I possess. I’m quirky. I also like to write. Perhaps I write a blog because I know I will never be published in a more permanent medium.
I’ve never been represented by a gallery, although my pieces have been in a very few group shows. the troll calls me an “opportunist,” but let’s just think for two seconds about all the opportunities I could have bullied my way into as Don Marshall’s wife. Don recommends artists to galleries and encourages them in many ways all the time. Part of the reason that people trust him is because he doesn’t do things like calling people and saying, “I’ve found this great artist and you should give her a show - it’s my wife (or my cousin, or someone I collect and I want you to help me raise the value of their work for my own personal profit).”
So, troll, you over-estimate my estimation of my art. If I thought I was all that and a box of oil pastels, would I give up my brilliant career to go to law school? And if you think bashing me is somehow going to make a point to New Orleans artists and gallery owners, you are very much misreading things. I hardly even go to gallery openings these days, and what artist friends I do have are probably irked about that.
Troll, if you are looking for someone to blame for the way your life has turned out, you need to look where I looked - in the mirror. Whoever that dangerous blond was that made you so bitter, it was not me. It’s obvious that my blog really sets you off, and it’s obvious that you are too cowardly to make your vicious comments under your own name. Why don’t you own up to yourself when you mock and judge others? I do. Is it because you’re afraid they might have a few things to say in reply? Well, I will. Does that scare you so much?
[Edited to add: Troll, I have deleted all your comments. Your comments will continue to be deleted unless you comment under your own name. Now, move along. Nothing here that you are interested in.]
[Edited again: it is so weird that trolls always claim their "constitutional rights" have been violated when bloggers delete their comments. You don't have any "constitutional rights" to bloviate on my website, asshole. It's called "dangerblond," not "dangercrankyolddrunk."]
i want this sooo bad October 18, 2006
Dear Santa,
I would like one of these crazy, wonderful All Terrain Cabins for Christmas. Or maybe just borrow it and play with it for a while.
Sincerely yours,
Dangerblond
what to get for the blond who has everything October 13, 2006
I’ve got my first t-shirts ready to be sold at Dangerblond’s new Cafe Press store. Click here to see all the different styles for kids and adults. These shirts are not just for blonds. They are for anyone who is a blond, loves a blond, knows a blond, or is dangerously obsessed with a blond. All proceeds after Cafe Press takes their cut will be used to buy silly stuff with which to make Mardi Gras costumes.
[Ack. Fixed the link. That was not me, that was those little people who live in the internet tubes.]
stumbling into dangerblond September 24, 2006
One of the nicest things about writing this blog is that people sometimes stumble across it in cyberspace and then e-mail me. I have heard from old friends who moved away long before the flood and from complete strangers who enjoy reading about what’s happening in New Orleans. Once, I mentioned my old friend Blair Ziegler, who I think about often, in a post. Not long after that, I got an e-mail from his first cousin who had lost track of him. I wrote back and told her how to get in touch with Blair in Hattiesburg.
A most interesting thing happened yesterday. Several weeks ago I wrote about finding a box of letters and other things that had belonged to Kay Johnson, an artist who was a friend of my late mother-in-law. One of Kay’s paintings hangs in my front room. As far as I know, everyone in the Marshall family thought Kay had been dead for a very long time. As it turns out, there was a lot more to her story than any of us realized. All of it is fascinating and some of it is heartbreaking. After leaving New Orleans, she moved to Paris, Greece and then San Francisco.
I thought she had been unable to get her writing published, but it turns out she was a recognized member of the Beat Poets. I didn’t even know there were female Beat Poets. I found all of this out because someone from Scotland named Elliot Rudie published this comment on my blog:
Dear Kimberley Dangerblond, I only came across your note about Kay Johnson today this is extraordinary. Kay lived quite a rollercoaster exciting life moving to Paris in 1957 where I knew her in 1962. She lived in the famous “Beat Hotel†with Burroughs and Corso etc. You should look up the section about her compiled by Denise Enck at Empty Mirror Books. There were two small publishing groups who printed her work in the New Orleans area. City Lights books published a limited edition of her poems in 1964 called “Human Songs†it is very rare. If you look up her name on Top Foto you can see Harold Chapman’s pictures of her. Anne Rice wrote about her as the character named “Woody.†Barry Miles quotes some of her evocative poetry in his book “The Beat Hotel,†Grove Press. She was secretary to both Frederick Kiesler the architect, and Joseph Cornell the “magic box†artist when in New York. Some say she is still alive and in a care home somewhere. She lived in Greece in the mid 60’s and moved back to Berkley in the 80’s, where sadly she fell on hard times. Elliot Rudie, Bettyhill North Scotland.
I thanked Elliot Rudie and I looked at the websites he noted. Interestingly, the people who have written about Kay are under the impression that she was a New Orleans native. She probably told them that because it was her spiritual home, like it was Tennessee Williams’. She didn’t actually live here until she had graduated from college and lived in New York for a while. She actually grew up in Waterloo, Iowa, where her father was a banker.
Elliot Rudie mentions Kay having fallen on hard times after Paris, and that appears to be an understatement. She was arrested in Greece in the 1960s and tortured in jail. In 1990, she was living on the streets in San Francisco. No one knows what finally happened to her. She would be around 83 now. I now think the box of letters, bank statements, and odds and ends was probably left in her apartment on Ursulines Street when she moved to Paris. Since everyone knows everyone in New Orleans, the owner of the building probably gave them to Naomi, knowing that they were friends. I think Naomi and Kay then lost track of each other.
Luckily for people who are interested in the life of Kay Johnson, Naomi never threw anything away, particularly if it related to an artist. Even luckier, Naomi built her house on the high ground. If she hadn’t, all these things she saved for years would have been ground into muck before I ever saw them. And Elliot Rudie, way over there in Scotland, would never have stumbled on the blog.
Women of the Beat - Kay Johnson Bio
