There's Someone You Should Meet ...

Tea: Blueberry

Music: Potato Moon, "Let's Ride"

Time: Night.

It's Sunday. Apparently, I have been granted divine favor and allowed to log into Blogspot.

I have a friend who's an expert matchmaker. Not in the "He's a nice guy, you'll like him" sense. She knows people in all walks of and stations in life, and delights in putting them together in mutually beneficial combinations. It's not schmoozing. It's not name-dropping. It's something far purer and a lot more fun to watch.

I've seen her do it countless times. Each time, I thought, "It would be kind of cool to be able to do that, but I'll never be that sort of resource."

And then ...

Not too long ago, I started talking to a friend at my "regular"church about the church I sometimes attend on Sunday evenings. Yes, the bar church. Before long, my friend had linked up with the pastor of the new church, and now they're jointly recruiting volunteers to do laundry for homeless people.

I write about art and artists, which also brings me into contact with people who book shows. As it turned out, one curator was looking for a fiber artist and I had just written about a fiber artist. Now, she has a show booked for this fall -- and the same curator is looking to book another artist about whom I wrote.

None of this reflects any great level of connectedness on my part. It's a matter of believing in people and promoting them -- which is exactly what my matchmaking friend does. There's a joy in that, which I hadn't felt before.

I kind of like it. More than that, I like for good things to happen to people.

I just wish I'd started sooner.

Good Night, Christina

Tea: Jasmine Vanilla

Music: Newsboys, "Entertaining Angels"

Time: Night.

Andrew Wyeth died today.

I do believe, as a friend says, that "One death is all deaths." But for me, the meaning of that statement changes when an artist dies.

The work lives on, of course (and often shoots up in price, which makes collectors happy). And it's not that artists are more intrinsically valuable than other people. But the unique vision behind the art is gone -- and that can be neither reproduced nor replaced.

More than Instinct

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: Brookville, "Golden"

Time: Night.

Bear with me here. I might not get all the way around to anything resembling a point. I'm circling, as a friend says, toward something.

I've been rereading Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses of late. I've also been, as ever, listening to a good deal of music and viewing a huge amount of art (including one installation which combined prints on rice paper with the scent of sixty pounds of loose-leaf jasmine tea, adding another sense to the mix).

And it's got me wondering how much biology has to do with our appreciation of -- and emotional responses to -- art.

The sadness inherent in minor keys, I can comprehend. A friend of mine once observed that life sings in a minor key, and life is a fragile and (physically) finite thing.

I understand the links between red and violent emotion. Your opponent/prey is bleeding, and it's up to you to keep that gusher going until (a) the threat is ended or (b) dinner is served. (There might be more than one "and" in there. I prefer not to think about that too much.)

And I get that the ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump of a blues shuffle echoes the heartbeat.

But is that really all there is to it? Is it only our DNA, some trace race memory encoded in the genome, that makes the heart soar with the Bach-Gounod Ave Maria or causes us to shudder at Munch's The Scream? Why do Buson's haiku slip tiny needles into our memory centers, making us sure we should remember the scenes he describes?

Maybe there is. I'm sure there's a wealth of research on the subject (and on the subjects), all of it beyond my powers of comprehension.

But at heart (and call this blind faith if you will), I don't believe it's purely physical. I believe we're made -- fashioned -- with a spiritual bent toward beauty, toward harmony -- and yes, toward joy.

Art doesn't have to include all or even any of those elements, obviously. Sometimes, for the sake of a greater good, we must be shown what upsets, even repels us. A Modest Proposal is hardly beautiful, joyful or harmonious. Neither is Guernica. But our response to them -- horror at the effects of modern warfare, shocked compassion for starving children -- reinforce our humanity.

We are our DNA, yes. But we're more than that. We're body, mind, spirit, each resonating to its own frequency. And when those frequencies harmonize ... that's where art lives.

Not Every Story Gives the Whole Picture

Tea: Mango Strawberry with milk and honey

Music: Don Henley, "Not Enough Love in the World"

Time: Night.

A few weeks ago, I read what appeared to be a badly reported newspaper review of an art show at a local gallery. (No names in this one. I deal with parties on all sides, you see.)

The show is controversial, thought-provoking and a fascinating combination of reverent and edgy -- and yet there was no mention of the personal views the artist holds on the subject at the heart of his works.

I used the word "weak" to describe the review. "Sloppy," too -- and, by extension, I thought of the writer as also possessing those (dubious) qualities.

Then, today -- while talking to the director of the gallery in question -- I found out I was wrong.

Oh, the story as presented was weak -- but only because an editor cut out two-thirds of it, something that left the writer heartsick and frantically calling people to explain.

And suddenly, I was the one who hadn't done his legwork.

It's a nasty thing, presumption -- especially given that I've had editors cut out key points or even insert mistakes into pieces I've written. (I should not here that I have had far more good editors than bad.)

I used to joke that it was better to assume the worst about people, because pleasant surprises are always better than unpleasant ones. I think it's time to scrap that attitude, even in jest. This is another case where it hasn't served me well.

The Crunch of Loose Leaves Underfoot

Tea: Christmas

Music: Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble, "Pride and Joy"

Time: Night.

I walked on some perfectly good jasmine tea tonight, and I didn't get in trouble.

The tea is an integral part of printmaker Heinrich Toh's exhibit at the Kansas City Artists Coalition. (It runs through Jan. 16, so go see it. No, I'm not explaining why I didn't get in trouble for stepping on the tea. Some things you have to check out for yourselves.)

The scent is still with me, in memory as much as in the physical sense.

I associate jasmine with the first time I discovered loose-leaf tea (I was eight) ... with the Hong Kong Restaurant (which no longer exists) in my hometown ... with an early spring visit to Arizona ... and now, with one of the many artists whose work enriches my current home city.

Not a bad set of associations, that ...

Back and Out and Back Again.

Tea: Pu Erh Dante

Music: UK, "Night After Night"

Time: Night.

Back after an early winter bug hiatus. I envy those who can will themselves well.

First Friday tonight, which began as a work obligation and ended with good conversation.

It is easy, I think, to see artists as only artists, writers as only writers, editors as only editors -- and forget that there are other facets as well. Tonight was a good reminder that at heart ... some of us just like to talk about food and play Scrabble.

(Well, we didn't actually play tonight. But we talked about it.)

Several cool things seen, but it's late and I need to sleep. More later, I'm sure.

You Call That Art, Then?

Tea: Stomach Soother

Music: Blue Oyster Cult, "Godzilla"

Time: Night.

Keeping it short. Late, and I'm going to watch a cheesy monster movie with my son.

I was at the Review Studios Group Exhibition tonight, watching a couple of older guys (no wisecracks about me being an older guy, please) react to James Woodfill's Approximate Object, Quasi Effect.

(No, I'm not going to describe it to you in full detail. I'll just say that it spins, it squeaks, and it's made of wood, steel, motors and hardware, plaster gauze, acrylic media and gesso. You want more, either call me or go see it yourself.)

Anyway, it was clear that these two Did Not Approve. I didn't hear the entire conversation, but I heard all needed at the end: " ... and they call it 'art.'"

Ah, yes ... the mysterious "They." You know, the same ones who say things. Apparently, They are now in charge of determining what's art and what's not.

Granted, Woodfill's work isn't all that accessible to everyone at first look. When I reviewed his Relative Field (which is still up, by the way), it took me more than one visit to find a hook.

"I don't get it" is understandable. "I don't get it, but I'm going to give it another look" is commendable. "I don't get it, so it isn't art" is laughable.

That's what They say, anyway ...

Elsewhens and Otherwheres

Tea: Caramel Lapsang

Music: The W's, "The Devil is Bad"

Time: Night.

I like all sorts of visual art -- painting, drawing, sculpture, ceramics, fiber art, metalwork, you name it.

Within each medium, I like a lot of different styles -- from the hyper-realist to the utterly abstract.

But there is something about art that evokes a sense of familiar place -- and right now, in this moment (and knowing it could change tomorrow), that's what sticks with me most from the First Friday outing of two nights ago.

I'll go in reverse chronological order here. We'll begin at a later stop: Barkley (formerly the TWA headquarters), which hosted an opening for Harriet Bigham. She lives in the Crown Center area, and much of her work reflects that. I worked in that part of the city for a decade, and still find myself there at times. So in her paintings, I see places I've not merely passed by, but bonded with in some way. And somewhere inside, I'm there again.

Now we backtrack to Unit 5 Gallery, which is now featuring paintings by Richard Mattson. There's a good deal of work featuring the Flint Hills, which is well-traveled territory for me and mine -- and a lot depicting the Brookside/South Plaza area.

That includes Loose Park, a place dear to me for a number of reasons. One is a stand of evergreens, on the west side of the park (near the Narnia Lamppost, about which I'll write more later). I have been there in each season of the year, and each time I step under those trees I feel as though I'm in a sanctuary. (Snow heightens the effect, but nothing diminishes it.)

One of Mattson's paintings is of those trees. So, of course, that was the one I kept coming back to.

I'm a "try new things" person, sometimes to a fault. But at the same time, it can be good to go back to touchstone places -- even when they're hanging on a wall in 2-D.

Hello, I must be going

Tea: Wild Berry Green

Music: Phil Collins, "Through These Walls"

Time: Night.

I'm still going through my notes on the art I saw and the artists I encountered last night at First Friday. I covered a lot of ground, making sure I saw (a) everyone who sent me an invitation to an opening and (b) everyone who will be included in the art stories on my "to write" list.

That kept me on the move, although I'm not complaining about the walking (a little more than two miles, all told). It was cool but not bitter, and being able to park and rove saved gas.

The only bad thing was that I had to breeze through some of the galleries more quickly than I would have liked, and I had to cut several conversations short to move on to the next must-see location.

On the other hand, having to be so many places in not a lot of time kept me from glomming onto anyone for an extended time. It's easy enough to do -- I find artists and their work fascinating (probably a good thing for an arts writer), and wow, do I love to talk to people. (I did get the "Don't Talk to Strangers" memo, but I blew my nose on it.) But First Fridays are for the artists, who need to be able to circulate through their openings, talking to potential buyers and making other contacts. Having someone attached at the hip can't help.

And, to borrow a phrase from several songs on a single theme, how can people miss me if I never go away?

More tomorrow on the art itself. It's the night that keeps on giving.

Running Late

Tea: Chocolate Cherry

Music: The Beatles, "Come Together"

Time: Almost midnight.

It's been a long First Friday and I need to crash. I'm going to beg a 24-hour indulgence before I start sorting it all into words.

For now, let's just say I missed the Arts Incubator for the first time in 14 months -- but found a lot of new places. Much more of this, and I'm going to need to be twins. (No jokes about us both being evil.)

'Night ...

I've Just Seen a Place

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang.

Music: SixMileBridge, "Cunningham's Waltz"

Time: Night.

Went to an opening tonight (because it's Friday) at the Greenlease Gallery at Rockhurst University. Got to meet the artist, Clay Deutsch, who was kind enough to discuss his work with me.

On the way out, I noticed something I'd missed on the way in (probably because it took me forever to find the gallery, and I was preoccupied by the search): There's a lovely, almost cloistered space outside the building that houses the Greenlease.

Circular walk, tree in the middle, bench under the tree: It would be a perfect place to sit and read, sit and write, sit and just be.

There's a story, in a book sent to me by a dear friend, about a young man who was fond of going to the woods each day. His father asked why, and he said there was a place in the midst of the trees where he would go to talk to God. The father said, "But God is the same everywhere."

To which the son replied, "Yes, but I am not the same everywhere."

There's not a lot I could add to that, beyond a wish for everyone to have at least one space (I am blessed with several) in which you feel that connection between your innermost self and something -- or some One -- immeasurably great.

Tonight's stories, since I promised you two: Charles Dickens, "The Haunted House" and (Why didn't I think of this one before?) Maxwell Struthers Burt, "A Cup of Tea"

Those as Can, Do (and Should Teach)

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Lynyrd Skynyrd, "Gimme Three Steps"

Time: Night.

Third Friday means hanging out with artists, which invariably means good conversation.

Tonight, I was at a reception, talking with an artist acquaintance who teaches at an area high school. He was bemoaning the fact that too many times, people who teach art at that level aren't producing artists themselves.

A writer friend has said the same thing for years, under another paw. He contends that to teach writing in high school, one should be a producing writer.

Granted, that is the case sometimes. There are artists who teach, writers who teach, directors and actors and techs who teach. And when that happens, it's a good thing.

But that should be the norm. Education should be a minor, not a major, in every case. Focus on expertise in the core subject, and it will be easier to teach it. And if someone knows the material-- has lived the material -- and can communicate it, why keep him or her from teaching?

In too many cases, though, the education degree is paramount -- and it shouldn't be. Would you rather have your kids learning from people who know how to do the work, or from people who have spent most of their undergraduate lives learning educational theory (much of which seems dedicated to the modern-day cult of self esteem)?

I'd better stop here. That last parenthetical could lead to a much longer rant, and it's late.

Tonight's scary story: Lafcadio Hearn, "The Corpse-Demon"

Moderation in Moderation

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Jayhawks, "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me"

Time: Night.

I'm trying to lose the phrase "It's the strangest thing," because -- well, really, how do you quantify that?

It's a strange thing, though: I'm becoming more efficient. I'm getting better at follow-through. I'm catching up on things I've been putting off for months.

Heaven help me, I may be growing up. Not that that's a bad thing, entirely. Has to happen sooner or later, I suppose.

It's not all bad, you know. Getting up early and staying up, for example, means I can get the routine things out of the way before they take over the day, thereby making me feel a little less guilty when it's time to slack.

What, you thought I was going all the way over to the Beige Side of the Force? No way. Sure, my inner child might have an earlier bedtime now -- but you can have my ratty Chuck Taylors, my cheesy monster movies and my rubber duck collection when you pry them out of my cold, dead fingers.

It's a balancing act, to be sure. Structure is good and necessary, but it can't take over my life. I need something of the random, the chaotic, the downright goofy -- or I'll die. Not physically, mind you, but the body is only a house for the self. And this self has to have the sparks, even if they must be a bit more controlled.

And now, time to hit the rack. Tomorrow, I get to organize the garage and make some calls on a shared story that's due next week -- and then I get to hang out with artists until well past dark-thirty.

I can live with that.

Tonight's scary story: Charles Collins, "The Compensation House"

A Pleasant Reminder

Tea: Lapsang Vanilla

Music: Pink Floyd, "Learning to Fly"

Time: Night.

This will be short. First Friday has worn me out a bit. It was good, though. Got to see some people I hadn't seen in a while, found a few new (to me) spaces ... and as always, the art reminded me just how good Kansas City's creative community is.

The weather was gorgeous, the music (inside and outside) worth hearing ... in short, an affirmation of some wise words I've heard recently:

"I'd rather be poor and healthy than rich and sick."

Amen to that.

Tonight's story: Jessie Middleton, "The Ghost That Grinned"

Itsy Bitsy, My Hindquarters

Tea: Caramel Lapsang

Music: Weezer, "Buddy Holly"

Time: Almost midnight.

A number of cool things happened today and tonight:

1. Not only did I get in a hike with my son, but the forage was most excellent. We got grasshoppers for supper. (Yes, you read right. We're insectivores, from time to time -- well, at least the males in the family. The females do much nose-wrinkling and making of the "eww" sound. The recipe's from Oaxaca, by way of Brooklyn.) We also got a few pounds of acorns (yep, those are edible too) and a handful of hickory nuts that the squirrels somehow missed. I'm going back next week with a big basket to get more acorns, look for more hickory nuts and fill out the remaining space with black walnuts.

2. The weekly arts outing provided much interesting viewing and conversation. Don't ask me to pick the best of the night -- as far as I'm concerned, it was pretty much a continuous highlight. (On the "latest news" front, Spencer Musser -- who opens the front room of his Columbus Park apartment as Yakamoz Gallery on Third Fridays -- now has a website.)

But the coolest thing that happened today was totally unplanned. It happened during the grasshopper hunt. My son made a grab for a likely-looking specimen in some long grass. It jumped away -- straight into the web of a freaking huge yellow-and-black spider (scientific name: Ginormis holicrapus). Within seconds, the insect was neatly packaged in silk for later consumption (and the spider had a great story for his buddies: "I was just sittin' there, mindin' my own business, and this giant sent me food.") And there we stood, repeating "Whoa ..." over and over.

Okay, so sometime my inner child is kind of ghoulish ...

Hither, Meet Yon

Tea: Lemon

Music: The Doobie Brothers, "Black Water"

Time: Night.

Wow ... just looking at my weekend schedule has me wiped out, and it's only Thursday.

I'm solo parenting Friday and part of Saturday, because of a women's retreat at the church.

These are my whenabouts so far -- and because my life is what it is, they are always subject to change:

Friday morning, ca. 8-9 a.m.: Rouse son for ten-mile hike (still have no idea where we're going).

Friday afternoon, upon returning: Trying to get out some pitch letters before ...

Friday afternoon, 4 p.m.: Pick up Mrs. Steep from work, drop her off at church.

Friday evening, 5 p.m.-whenever: Arts stuff, arts stuff, arts stuff. There's an opening at Leopold Gallery in Brookside, and the usual Third Friday things downtown and in Columbus Park.

Saturday: The two oldest kids have things going on at Mission Arts and Eats, here in the home'burb, plus my son has play rehearsal. So, basically, morning to early afternoon, I'll be getting them where they need to go and trying to check out the artists. Then I'll try to catch part of Holly Swangstu's opening at J. Bird Studios in Kansas City, Kansas, and then I'll bail to cover a 7 p.m. Kansas City Wizards game. (I have to be there well before kickoff.)

Oh, did I mention the Plaza Art Fair is this weekend? I'm going to have to cram that in Sunday afternoon, in between church stints.

Then Monday brings three deadlines, 1,300 words total.

I need a clone. Why should I have all the fun?

Headache Hotel

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed

Music: Elvis Presley, "Return to Sender"

Time: Night.

I've recovered enough to make an arts opening tonight, in my home 'burb in Mission. Go check it out if you get a chance. It's here.

Met a few people, collected business cards, signed up for a mailing list or two -- and then got whacked by the headache double whammy -- cluster through the left eye, caffeine withdrawal (24 hours without and the trouble starts) in the left rear of the skull.

"At least you're balanced," a friend said.

"They're both on the left side," I said.

"You'd prefer diagonal?"

"Good point."

So the stack of business cards (to be entered into the database I've finally started to assemble) is taller and won't shrink until tomorrow. It'll still be there in the morning. If it's not, or I'm not ... well, then, I'll have bigger issues than a few tardy keystrokes with which to contend.

Hats off to Larryville

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang.

Music: Danny Wilson, "Mary's Prayer"

Time: Night.

I went to Lawrence, Kansas, today, for work (present and, one hopes, future). I revisited some familiar haunts, namely Henry's (for an Americano) and the local branch of the Great Harvest Bread Company (just to breathe).

Then, on to the Spencer Museum of Art, on campus at the University of Kansas, to gather material for a review of the quilt show. (I'm turning into quite the quilt-viewer, it seems.) Check it and the other shows out if you get a chance, but give yourself plenty of time to get to the museum ... there's a ton of construction that disrupts foot and vehicular traffic.

Then it was back to Mass. Street for a Latin American lunch (pork al pastor rice bowl with an arepa on the side) at La Parilla. (Its sister restaurants serve noodles -- one Asian, one Italian. That's a global family.)

So why am I telling you all this? To make you jealous?

You know me better than that. I want you to go check it out for yourself.

Going Walkies, Part II

Tea: Iced Litchi Red

Music: King Crimson, "Pictures of a City"

Time: Night.

I got in late from the Second Friday Artwalk in Kansas City, Kansas. (No barbecue forage, but I did get to taste some excellent locally made sausage, so I didn't make a liar of my "Carnivore" shirt.)

I was going to head home around 9:30 p.m., after the last gallery shut down. But when I was invited to stick around and watch a bicycle race, I remembered the admonition that "Life is lived in the detours."

I stayed, talked, had a few beers, made some new friends, was offered another photo show. Call it yet more evidence for the benefits of (a) hoofing it and (b) winging it.

See you in KCK on September 12.

Going Walkies, Part I

Tea: Mandarin Green, iced.

Music: The Proclaimers, "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)"

Time: Afternoon.

Just got in from another ten-mile hike, this one at Fleming Park in Blue Springs, Missouri.

The time was better, the trails largely meh. The "rougher" trail disappeared at times into long grass (always fun in tick country), and the trail to which it connected presented little physical challenge beyond the distance involved.

Plus which, the foraging opportunities were all but nonexistent. There were no wood ears to be found, the prickly pears are at least a week short of ripeness -- and the only blackberry patch we located was guarded jealously by a stand of poison ivy.

Oh, well. The two-plus hours alone with my son did give us time to talk -- and for me to reassure him that, if need be, I can still take him.

Now, I'm headed up to Kansas City, Kansas, for a walk of another sort -- the Second Friday Art Walk. And I'm wearing my "Carnivore" shirt.

There might be barbecue foraging opportunities, you know.

Tune in next time for "Going Walkies, Part II." Because this time, it's personal.