Lovin' you?

   I don't listen to music of my own choosing as much as I used to. I now often prefer silence, the radio (usually classical, jazz or progressive talk radio) and the (sometime) desire to listen to what's going on within me physically and emotionally, though when I do want to choose my music, I'm often in my car, so I plug in my iPhone to play what I've loaded onto it.
   Every so often I connect the phone to my computer at home to change what I've put there, but over the last three years or so there's almost always a consistent selection of soft pop music from the nineteen seventies.
   For most of the year ninety seventy I was six years old (turning seven only in December), and the music  years that I generally find myself drawn to the most are those from approximately nineteen seventy three to nineteen seventy six. Much of the music on these playlists is pretty commercial pop stuff, and though I usually dislike pretty intensely most pop music, this music has content for me that surpasses its' sound; it indexes a time in my life that carries strong emotional weight, and coincides with a very painful time. This is the period when my parents marriage was falling apart as was I on the inside.
   If you had asked me in my earlier adult life if I would want to listen to music that elicits painful memories, I'm pretty sure that I would have said no, but as I've gotten older I've learned that these associations can help to bring forth things that I had previously consciously forgotten, and having these come to light allows me to look at them, if I choose.
   If someone that I know sees me listening to this kind of music they are generally surprised, and will sometimes say to me, "do you like this music?". If I am asked this, I will usually reply, "I'm not sure, but I know it", and that answer, although sounding somewhat cryptic, is in fact straight to the point.

The single record cover of one of the songs often on my iPhone, circa 1975

 

Chosen culture

   New York City, where I am originally from (and spent the first forty two and a half years of my life) has more than 2 million Jews, second only to Tel Aviv, Israel in Jewish population. San Francisco, California, where I have lived for the past nine years, is supposed to have more than 220,000 in it's greater bay area (a not insignificant number considering the population here is much less dense than in my hometown), yet I often feel more like an ethnic afterthought when it comes to the culture that surrounds me.

   According to numerous figures that I've read, Jews account for roughly twenty percent of the population of Manhattan, where I grew up and spent much of my young adult life, second only to Catholics in term of percentage; so even in Jew York, I was part of a minority, albeit, a very visible one. 

   I bring all of this up, because I have a difficult time not feeling culturally invisible here, and although I have always been an atheist and therefore non-religious, there is an ethnic component to being Jewish that I've always identified with. As an old friend of mine used to say about me; "Adam your not so much of a Jew, but very Jewish". It comes as no surprise to me that I may feel a bit culturally invisible, because I am prone to feeling that way at times surrounded by other Jews (I've felt very alone at a Bar Mitzvah), but the Jews that I've met here in San Francisco are, like people are about many things here, kind of laid back about being Jewish. I don't think those words ever came to mind relating to the Jews that I knew growing up, and I knew A lot!

   So it seems that what is really at issue here is a question of cultural style, rather than ethnic invisibility. I always thought of myself as being Jewish, though I think I relate more to it over time, and it's really hard to tease out whether this is because I find it harder to relate to it here on the west coast, or whether it's simply a product of me getting older (I was told that my father's father was a Bolshevik for much of his life, but became more religious in his later years).

   I do consider myself a Californian at this point in my life, and I should make an effort to acclimate to how things are where I live now. If I could do that a bit more, I may not become a 'good Jew', but perhaps feel a bit more Jewish.

     

Your author, pretending to prepare for Passover

Other world

   I went to Ocean Beach, here in the west end of San Francisco a few months ago, and when I arrived I was greeted by this incredible sight. I didn't see any equipment around, but it was evident that some work was either in process or completed to move large amounts of sand around the area. It was hard to tell whether this sand had been brought here from somewhere else or whether the sand already here had been displaced, but either way it made the beach look completely new to me, strange in a way that a planet might seem be to a first time visitor. To see a place that I've visited so many times appear nearly unrecognizable and new is for me a truly wonderful experience. It shifts my perception in a very visceral way, and that's something that I've been interested in for as long as I can remember.

Little thing

   My wife has an endearing term which she sometimes uses to refer to me: she says I am her "little thing". When I first heard this, it struck me as odd, and a little belittling. I am not very small in stature, and although I'm not particularly macho, I don't think that any man really relishes in being referred to as 'small'. For me, the idea of being small also alludes to a feeling I have in the world as being inconsequential and unseen, and perhaps that is why I take such great comfort in recognizing the small and delicate around me.
   Both in the arts and in nature, I relish in looking closely and intently at things, examining the nuances of a brushstroke, the way a textile is woven, or the sometimes subtle iridescent feathers on a duck's back. When I walk among trees and animals, I like to give myself time to look closely at the small things around, things that I have to approach slowly and sometimes bend over to see at all. I usually find that engaging in this kind of practice can make me feel very calm, and it is generally the only kind of meditation that I really enjoy.
   Appreciating the delicate and fine does not, however, generally apply to myself in the world, though I do in fact exist there. I am prone at times to thoughts of being invisible to those around me, and the beauty of the small and particular gets twisted in my head into feelings of being inconsequential. It would be good for me to apply the same values that I do to the world's smaller things towards myself, but I often forget to do this; It certainly doesn't seem to come naturally.
    I now take it for granted that it is only with love that my wife calls me her "little thing", and recognize it as being rooted in her native Spanish language, where adding "ito" to the end of a word connotes an endearing (but still small) quality.
   I have recently seen the "little thing" pictured below (near the top of the tree), as I round a particular curve during my morning walks in Golden Gate Park, and I'm as amazed that there often seems to be this bird at the same approximate time and in the same location on multiple occasions (the same bird, or same species) as I am that I actually see it at all. There are no leaves on this tree at this time I've year, and I don't see anything nearby that this small bird should be interested in, so I assume that it's using this tree as a kind of lookout, a place to look for things. As a fellow "ito", I hope that I can take my place as beautifully.

Imagining myself out of nothingness

   I remember pretty clearly the days when I thought of myself as a punk rocker, later as a rockabilly music lover, and later still as a conceptual artist. Although envisioning myself as an artist now looks a bit less restrictive as a way to posit who I am than the other roles I mentioned, it still provided a clear, and I believe now overly simplified sense of definitive 'being' in the world, a way to be Adam (this Adam, and not the other people named Adam I knew), without being anyone in particular.
   As I grew older (and I like to think became at least a little bit more mature), the titles I previously held formerly to define me, and ways to locate that me in the world became a bit less clear. During the past couple of years in particular, my own sense of self has become downright murky. I can't really put a word or image anymore to the idea of who I am, and although I see it as a sign of growth, it can be uncomfortable, as I feel like my body doesn't have the physical integrity, the wholeness, to exist in the world without a way to be thought of definitively. 
   I have been spending much of my free time over the past year or so listening to music from my childhood and early teen years, and this music has helped me to uncover thoughts and ideas from that time that has served as a kind of time memory time machine that helps me to remember parts of my past, and to re-imagine them, though with me as an adult, rather than the child and young man that I was. It's as if I can revisit that time in the somewhat stronger condition that I now see myself in, and that seems to function as a new kind of way for me to think about myself. The music reminds me of the many years that I've lived, and the time gaps formed by the time when the music was new and how it functions for me now creates a kind of feeling of being in between lives. Interestingly, this feeling of being without an anchor seems to create a continuity where there previously seemed to be only nothingness.
   During this past year, I have also spent a great deal of time thinking quietly, especially during my morning walks and as I lay down to sleep, and this has also helped me to think more clearly, allowing my mind to float and make connections that I hadn't previously envisioned.
   I remember a song from my younger years by Billy Preston called "Nothing from Nothing", where the lyrics state that "nothing from nothing leaves nothing". I now believe quite firmly that something very powerful and alive can in fact come from what seems like nothing, and I hope that I never forget that.

Your author, beginning his search for identity

Arnold Skolnick

   I don't remember for sure where I was when I took this picture, but I do seem to recall that it was when I was in a restaurant. It may have been The Yellow Deli, a casual restaurant in Oneonta, New York  (and affiliated with the twelve tribes religious group, which I found interesting), where I ate a few times when I was visiting my mother. Wherever it was, I recall that the part of this poster that you see below was very close to me, at my eye level, and it reminded of a part of my childhood, as the poster was done by the father of my oldest friend, Alexander Skolnick (our parents were good friends, and he was born one month after me). The picture you see here is a snapshot of what is probably the most iconic poster of the 1960's; the poster for the Woodstock festival.

   Alexander's family was a very interesting one, meaning that they were to me unique (and somewhat crazy) in the way that in my opinion makes people memorable. I remember being afraid of Arnold (the creator of the poster) as a child. He was loud, at times vulgar, and I remember him telling stories about his friend Jeremiah, who according to the story as Arnold told it, "punched a cop" on at least one occasion. Arnold had a house in the woods in Springfield, Massachusetts, where he used to spend his weekends (he later moved there full time), and I recall riding up from New York City with him in his old Volvo station wagon (which seemed like a kind of unknown car at that time), and he would loudly tell me stories for what seemed like the seemingly endless, three hour trip. On one occasion, he was eating a meatball hero sandwich, and I remember his mouth full of meatballs and bread as he laughed and cursed loudly.

   I also remember Arnold fondly for a man who was very independent in his thinking, who started many of his own companies (producing books about artists he liked and a company which made stained glass are two that I remember), and who used to say about a person that had a lot of money that they were "richer than God".

   Arnold went to Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, New York, with my father, and they were good friends. I remember him seeming to be both perplexed and hurt about my father's condition, who had suffered an emotional break, and never really bounced back from it. The look of concern on his face about my father, when he saw me on the day that his own son, Alexander, had their wedding ceremony on the property at his Springfield home, still is with me and touches me up until this day when I think about it. 

   Even though the poster that he made far eclipsed Arnold Skolnick's own fame (which I thought was basically non-existent, though there is a Wikipedia entry on him), to me he is a person who can elicit in me feelings which seem both highly personal and nearly global at the same time.

   This is for you, Arnold Skolnick.

  

Shoes and security

   I like to think of myself as having rather simple taste in clothing, and have had a similar taste in shoe style for quite a few years, I don't believe that wearing any brand name or style makes a person better than someone else, so you might gather that shoes are not that important to me, but they are; enough so that they have warranted that I write this blog entry.

   Shoes are listed on most clothing websites as accessories rather than as their own category like 'shirts', 'pants' or 'outerwear' are. They are regarded mostly as something that adds to some other thing, rather than as the basis, but when I look at shoes on my feet, I see them as very base; they mark where I meet the earth, where I begin and the rest of the world exists, and they are the buffer for that coming together, which can feel harmonious, but at times seems volatile and hazardous. Under these conditions, shoes must be for me something more than just a covering and protection for my feet against the hardness of the ground below me.
   I should also add here that I have a condition in my feet called plantar fasciitis (which requires that I wear orthotic shoe inserts or shoes with excellent arch support), as well as being prone to foot calluses, but these conditions have only heightened my anxiety about where I meet the world; I don't believe they gave rise to it.
   Phillip Guston and Alberto Giacometti are two artists which have dealt with similar issues in their work, and I've always felt that the most interesting artists are the ones whose anxieties dominate their work. Problematic relations to oneself and the world are not necessarily enjoyable, but they can be productive, and possibly interesting. They produce something which is perplexing and hard to describe.
   Shoes for me then must possess extra powers. Like the spacesuit of an astronaut, they must be both in and 'out of this world'.

The Clarks Desert Trek...at one time my only pair of shoes