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vendredi 7 août 2009

Plus ça change...




Bison futé is seeing red this weekend, which means that lots of people in France are starting their summer holiday and taking to the road. This is one of the many grand départ weekends in France. Yet another day rated "rouge", meaning filled with bouchons (traffic jams) as kilometer after kilometer of drivers from France and elsewhere wait in line, in stop and go traffic, for the privilege of inching along in accordian fashion until they finally reach their holiday destination.

This ritual is such an integral part of getting away (for vacations and long weekends - the so-called ponts) that I wonder if relaxation is even possible unless preceded by it. So excruciating and yet so necessary: hours and hours stuck inside an automobile, with plenty of time to decompress and leave behind the stress of working or not not working, the density of the urban setting, the slow death of the métro-boulot-dodo routine... Rest stops (Aires de repos), restaurants (La Courte Paille!) and service stations filled with people just like you, weary travelers stuck in traffic, paying too much for food eaten out of boredom to break up the sheer monotony of car travel.

But here's a funny thing: I love the monotony of car travel. Which is to say I don't find it monotonous at all. I love to watch the odomotor turn; I love to mentally calculate the speed of the vehicle by reference to the road signage instead of the speedomotor; I love to trace out the route on detailed maps; I love to imagine the lives of the people who live in the small towns off in the distance, away from the freeway. In France, I had a favorite tree. It is still there, I'm sure. It stands alone, majestic, in a field that lies just next to the A10 autoroute. No matter what was going on in my head, I always managed to look out the window just as the car was going past this tree. I always wanted to stop and take a picture of it, but I never did. The next time we go to France, I'm going to get a photo of that tree. I bet there are many people who know exactly which tree I'm talking about.

mardi 4 août 2009

No Comments



A couple of weeks ago, I decided not to display comments on my blog and also to subject them to moderation. I came to this decision after some Nasty Anon (which is practically redundant) left a mean-spirited and ill-tempered comment on my blog entry about the Alliance française. The comment had nothing to do with my blog entry. It was about my supposed "activism" in the alleged "witch hunt" campaign whose aim is to "lynch" Amanda Knox. The comment can only have been made by a very small number of individuals, so Nasty Anon was not being quite as anon as she imagined.

This comment came on the heels of another comment that was sent on to me by a friend. My friend had seen it on the Seattle PI Reader blog run by Candace Dempsey, who is writing a book on the Meredith Kercher murder case. I don't read Candace Dempsey's blog, so I would have missed the comment. The person commenting, who goes by the screen name To Turn To Turn, made a perfectly ludicrous statement about the psychology of people following this case from a colpevisti angle - bolstered by some obviously made-up statistics - and noted that one of the local "activists" in the "anti-Amanda" campaign was someone she had known in graduate school at the University of Washington. There was that word again: activist. Worse, she went on to make an oblique comparison (if I understood correctly - when people make cryptic comments dressed up not to look like idle gossip it is hard to tell) between me and Ann Coulter, which convinced me that she really did not know me in graduate school, a period during which I had spiky short hair and was a Marxist. I started thinking about who in my very small, very male department (1) might have a festering grudge against me and (2) could have morphed into a bitter Catholic who never left Seattle. I came up with (2) after checking out some of her other posts on the Seattle PI. She's really worked up about the Jesuits and the seeming inability of some of their members to keep their members to themselves. I sensed a fervid Catholic behind the rather pompous comments, many of them mean-spirited but dressed up in fancy though rather dull formulations.

I came away convinced that whoever she is, this person did not go to graduate school with me. For one thing, it is really hard to imagine a life so devoid of movement that a grudge from 25 years ago could keep burning. For another, like I said, I was no Ann Coulter. Not by a long shot. However, Catholics do tend to hold grudges for, like, ever, and do tend to become bitter with age, especially if they have not managed to step outside the Church for a bit of fresh air. (So sue me, all you Catholics out there. That's what I think.) Catholicism does not encourage largesse. Catholics tend to be terribly judgemental and terribly concerned about appearances, in spite of their denials. Speaking of denial....

There is also a possible tie-in with the murder case. Seattle suspect Amanda Knox, though she is not Catholic, attended Seattle Prep -- a Catholic high school founded by the Jesuits. It is really no longer a school where one gets a Jesuit education, however, since the faculty is not comprised of priests, let alone those of the Jesuit persuasion. Check out the website; I think there might be a total of two priests teaching there. Knox has been in jail for almost two years now, suspected of playing a role in the brutal murder of her roommate. I gotta believe that for Seattle Prep and for the local Catholic community, this is a big blemish. Seattle Prep has played a significant, but largely behind-the-scenes, role in the effort to get public opinion behind Amanda Knox, mainly by painting the Italian prosecutor as an evil, deluded maniac who hates Americans. It has mostly backfired in America and is viewed as a joke in Italy, the UK and the rest of Europe. Nonetheless, the official arm of the movement (the FOA or Friends of Amanda)has been somewhat successful in shifting the focus from the evidence against Knox to the prosecutor and, as needed, the corrupt and backwards country that they believe Italy to be. This is partly because the FOA is staffed by some influential and media-savvy people: Doug Preston, a best-selling novelist; Anne Bremner, a lawyer for King County cops who has gained some notoriety and a part-time slot as a television legal pundit through her involvement in some high-profile cases (Mary Kay Le Tourneau, anyone? Michael Jackson?); Tom Wright, a former Hollywood director turned producer. They are interested in imposing a particular meta-story on this case and have the media access needed to pull it off. I don't know what drives them.

I have no horse in this race and no role to play. I do not stand to gain financially from it in any way. I am not an activist. And I am neither an "innocentisti" nor a "colpevisti" -- in spite of blogosphere rumors to the contrary. Why do these people bother with me at all? I co-moderate a message board devoted to a discussion of the evidence and the media coverage. I am doing it as a favor to a friend, a very talented true crime blogger named Steve Huff (truecrimereport.com). He asked me to do it because, for personal and professional reasons, he could no longer do it himself. He chose me because he found me skeptical, aloof, not turned on by the grisly aspects of crime, fair-minded, objective, etc. And I said yes. That's when the trouble began. The board was quickly joined by Amanda Knox's stepfather and a couple of his friends, who proceeded in a rather clumsy way to try and dismantle it in order to put a stop to all discussion. I ended up banning them, for reasons that anyone who is really interested can find out by googling a bit. They discovered my real name, again for reasons that anyone can discover, and quickly began to focus on me: comments about my appearance, my personal life, even my friends. My life was and is an open book. I have a little blog, where I mostly write about subjects that interest me, but occasionally about things that happen in my life. I set it to private when they took a photo from it, blew it up and posted it on the PI website. Then I set it back to public because it is my blog, damn it. I set my facebook page to private when one of them posted an anonymous comment about the breasts of one of my facebook friends. I have left it set to private because my friends deserve no less. Had they stopped there, things would have been fine. But they didn't. Soon I began to see comments about where I live, who I am married to, who I am divorced from, what I smell like, where I shop, my status as a childless woman (they came up with a cute name for me: Barren Shrew), etc. No fact about me was too trivial for twisting and use out of context.

To make a long story short, I filed a complaint with the Seattle Police when my requests for decency were ignored and in fact only served to up the ante. For reasons that anyone who is curious can read on the Internet, I had a good idea who was behind the harassment and the attempts to intimidate. I did some research of my own, aided by some pretty smart people with Internet sleuthing skills I don't have, and my harassers were sloppy on occasion. They left tracks. I gave their names to the investigating officer. The case is ongoing, though I am not holding my breath for a conviction. I just wanted the focus on me to stop. I am not the person I have been painted to be by these morons. Excuse me, but they are hotheaded morons. I am not an activist in some campaign to lynch innocent people. I only moderate a board and my aim is to keep the discussion civil and productive. I don't like falsehoods, whether they are deliberate or not. I believe that the investigation conducted in Italy was in good faith -- though mistakes were made -- and also that there are some troubling questions that must be answered by Knox and her defense team. I believe that if those questions are answered, then she will be cleared of wrongdoing. But I also believe that the trial underway is being conducted transparently and fairly.

So far, most of the questions have not been answered to anyone's satisfaction. Knox's defense team has not done a good job, and her defenders in Seattle have done an even worse job of winning over hearts and minds. Hiring a PR firm so early on was a huge mistake. The PR firm in question has done a horrible job, but then again it has not been helped by members of the family. Chris Mellas seems out of control and angry (see my earlier comments about the blogosphere harassment). He has been a huge liability. Going after people in Seattle because they beg to differ with the strategy of sliming the prosecutor and his country of origin; loudly proclaiming that there is not a shred of evidence instead of patiently rebutting it; calling people who ask legitimate questions retards, shitheads, fucktards, etc. Please pardon me for not wanting to be associated with these tactics or those who employ them. And yes, I know there are one or two people who post on my board who do not mince words and whose statements about the defendent and her family make me wince. I don't agree with them, and I try behind the scenes to temper the tone. But these comments are so few and far between and, more importantly, they are protected under the First Amendment.

I think that what the Knox and Mellas families are going through must be just horrible. It is draining them, financially and emotionally, and it shows. I would not want to be in their shoes and I have no antipathy toward them. No long-standing grudge, no ill will. I don't even know them. But I feel that I am facing an "if you aren't with us you're against us" mindset, and that nothing I might say to introduce nuance will be heard. Nonetheless, I wanted to say it. And I wanted to say that in this magical age of instant communication, people can and apparently do say whatever they want. It is so easy, so easy to be mean, to tell lies, to gossip behind other people's backs, to keep old grudges alive, to give license to your nastiest self. It is so much harder to be fair, to be kind, to see good in others, to debate ideas instead of trashing people.

I think people take the low road and go for the jugular for one simple reason: because it is the easy way. It is so much easier than taking the time to do a self-examination and recognize that what drives judgements and idle gossip about others is resentment --that and insecurity. In this day and age, anyone can vent their anger on the page and hit send. It takes a bit more intelligence and humanity to refrain from doing so.

jeudi 30 juillet 2009

Michael Kimball Writes Your Life Story (on a postcard)

Michael Kimball Writes Your Life Story (on a postcard)


I heard Michael Kimball on the radio today talking about his Michael Kimball Writes Your Life Story project. He writes 600-word biographies of people and posts them on his blog. Sounds like a good idea, though I suppose he attracts some people for whom it is just another vanity feather in their narcissistic cap. There are some poignant stories which, if true, should make most of us feel that we led remarkably sheltered childhoods -- even if our parents did get divorced, even if one of them was a raging alcoholic, even if we were abandoned on a doorstep as an infant.

In the era of Twitter and Facebook, it sometimes feels as if we have more information about what large egos people have and how good they feel about their accomplishments than we could possibly ever need. Is is really necessary to use Facebook as a tool for telling the world how darn pleased you are with yourself for having just done a power run, followed by a two-hour pilates class and power yoga? Or about your killer tomatoes (anyone in my neck of the woods who doesn't have killer tomatoes coming in this year has a toxic thumb), brilliant children, gifted grandchildren or favorite television shows and how cool you are for watching them? As if doing so required something more complicated than plunking your ass in a chair and manipulating the remote with your index finger.

Sometimes, when I read Facebook I feel like an enabler of something ugly and narcissistic. And Twitter? Is it really necessary to let the world know what you are doing every second of the day? Does it feed some deep need to be connected? All I know is that All That Twitters Is Not Told, and I personally would rather read Michael Kimball's postcards from the edge than mindless though often ironic "thought" bubbles in an age of monumental ego inflation. Because the thing about Facebook and Twitter and all the rest is that the snippets we see rarely tell us anything meaningful about who a person is. They are merely recitations of all the meaningless shit we do every day but which, because it concerns our self-identity via our brand choices, never makes it into the annual Christmas card about how wonderful we and our peeps are. Apparently there are many people out there who opened Facebook accounts so they could tell their friends every time they consume a tall soy latté from you know where or buy a gadget from the apple store. They are our proudest intimate Kodak moments; they are not the stuff we hide away in the darkest rooms of our soul, hoping that no one will enquire about them.

I fear that in the not-too-distant future, I'll read on someone's Facebook wall that they have just had the world's nicest poop. Large, soft, relatively odor free. And there will be comments, encouragements, acolades. You go, girl! Or maybe: you went, girl! Or maybe: No shit! Good for you!

mardi 28 juillet 2009

Desperate Housewives of Seattle



From a recent article in Le Figaro on Seattle:
Mon «I Phone» en poche (pourrais-je vraiment vivre sans lui ?), je découvre Seattle : la cité n'a ni la puissante beauté de Vancouver, au Canada, ni le cosmopolitisme de Melbourne, en Australie, mais ressemble, par son côté «culturellement correct», à Göteborg, en Suède. Ses banlieues aplaties autour des sièges sociaux luxueux des groupes «high-tech» sont autant de jardins magnifiques, ou des milliers de «desperate housewives» tentent de positiver leurs existences, derrière les volants de leurs cabriolets de sport. Pendant qu'elles déjeunent avec d'autres femmes stressées par l'ennui dans les restaurants à la mode, leurs époux désertent des bureaux paysagers pour se détendre sur les terrains de football ou de rugby. On travaille ensemble et l'on joue ensemble. Il faut démontrer que l'on a toujours le feu sacré, c'est-à-dire l'esprit d'équipe et le goût de la compétition. Le soir, si l'on veut être fou, on va au restaurant «Crabpot» de Kirkland, où l'on vous revêt d'une bavette avant de déverser un chariot de crustacés sur votre table.
Seattle est tellement contemporaine, bien sous tous rapports, qu'elle sue l'ennui et l'angoisse existentielle. Un ami psychanalyste me confie sa bonne fortune : de nombreux cadres japonais travaillant ici finissent sur son divan, lessivés par tant de perfection.

Translation to follow.

mardi 21 juillet 2009

Le rayonnement français


André Malraux, 1901-1976. Résistant, romancier, aventurier, gaulliste, ministre.

Yesterday I had my first contact with Alliance Française in Seattle. AF now has chapters in many of the world's cities. It was created in 1883 to promote the propogation of the French language in France's colonies at the time and also in foreign lands. In 1884, AF formed its first board of directors. Many famous names in the francophone world were among the members of the founding board: Ferdinand de Lesseps, Louis Pasteur, Ernest Renan, Jules Verne, Armand Colin, etc. The first AF branch in Europe is located in Barcelona.

I was a student at the mother of all Alliance française schools, the one located at 101 Boulevard Raspail in Paris. I only attended for one quarter, because I met Jeanne, a 76-year old woman who became my French teacher... but that's another story, for another time. If Jeanne is still alive - and this is a strong possibility - she is close to 100.

In the history of AF, here is an amazing incident. In 1940, during the Occupation, the archives of AF were moved to Berlin by the Nazis, as part of a project to destroy "the instruments of propagation of the French language in general and the Alliance française in particular".

Today, AF has 1,072 associations in 130 countries.

The Seattle chapter is in Wallingford, on Sunnyside street, in the Good Shepherd Center. A new executive director was appointed recently, and I met her yesterday. She is young (this is great - AF in Seattle had a justly earned reputaiton for being a bit poussiéreux, which is why I had stayed away until now) and bicultural (French mother and American father from the state of Washington). Actually, she is tricultural, since she spent much of her childhood in Germany. She has lots of ideas for updating AF. I'm going to fill in next week for a friend who is going on vacation, but Christine is interested in further collaboration. She wants to get some French business culture classes going (again - a great idea) and thinks I can help, since my background in France is in business rather than teaching per se. I haven't been in the classroom as a teacher for a very long time and I am really looking forward to it. I met the students in one of the classes yesterday. An eclectic mix of widowers, high school students and everything in between. They are beginners; this is a challenge. I can't wait! Teaching at AF will be the perfect complement to my classes at the UW starting this fall.

Why am I doing this? I can't speak for others, but I really like embarking on new careers every once in awhile. I love my work as a translator/editor. However, I find myself wanting to have more physical interaction in a work context and, above all, my eyes are starting to feel the strain of looking at a computer screen all day. I would like to find work that takes me away from the computer, challenges me to use my skills in a new way and requires me to gain new ones. When I worked as a freelance translator in Paris, I saw my clients and fellow translators and interpreters regularly. I worked on projects that took me to their offices. Now I am very far away and see them once a year, when I do my annual business trip to France. This may be why I feel like making a change. But maybe not. It just may be time to try my hand at something new.

vendredi 17 juillet 2009

Le temps d'un été




The month of July has been and will continue to be busy. The weather is cooperating. My birthday celebration began on July 3 with an early morning bike ride to Ballard, with Walt, and ended on July 15 with a bike ride to Colman Pool (and a swim in the fabulous outdoor saltwater pool), with Caroline, pour fêter l'après 14 juillet. In between, many fun things I don't have time to write about just now. Including an evening with Gloria Steinem! I don't have time because the fun continues. Caroline, Jacqueline and I plan to ride to Colman Pool today for a swim. My friend Linda arrives from Toronto tomorrow for a four-day stay. Wednesday we're going to see the Cowboy Junkies at the Zoo. Friday we're going to Ellensburg for the Jazz in the Valley Festival. We return on Sunday for a BBQ with my distant cousin Shavaun, who coincidentally used to work with Walt years and years ago.

Sometimes I look out at the sailboats in Puget Sound and miss mine just a little. She is still there, in La Rochelle, and still mine, but not easily accessible for obvious reasons. Like mountain climbing, sailing is a great experience and I am glad to have had both of them in my life so far. But there is so much to do and see in this world, and sailing takes up so much time.

I used to run. After running in a few 10K's, I decided to run a marathon. I was working fulltime and had little time to train. So I followed a 50-mile a week plan for three or four months. Every week, I did a 10-mile run during lunch on Wednesdays. Every weekend, I did a long run, adding a mile each week. On the other days of the week, I did what I could - usually three to five miles. I finished the race in just under three-and-a-half hours and was ecstatic. Up to the day of the race, I had never run more than 20 miles and hadn't even done a half marathon. From 20 miles to the end I was in uncharted territory and it was both fabulous and horrible. I wanted to stop. After completing the marathon, I found that I didn't enjoy running as much. I became acutely aware of the aches and pains I felt in vital places, like my feet and knees. When it got to the point where I only felt good about running when I slowed down to walk, I decided I had had enough. And I had done enough. I had gotten through a marathon. Since then, I have been a dedicated walker. My feet thank me; my knees thank me. In fact, in retrospect and although I am happy to have done a marathon, I would have been better off just walking. I have not undone the damage to my knees, feet and hips, though I no longer feel pain in those places all the time. So I am happy to have finished a marathon, and happier still to know I will never put myself through that again.

jeudi 2 juillet 2009

Lou and Laurie




It seems that many people are not familiar with Laurie Anderson, whose quirky and haunting album Big Science, released in 1983, is one of my favorite works of avant garde pop art. But everyone knows who Lou Reed is, even if they are only really familiar with Take a Walk on the Wild Side and his iconic band The Velvet Underground. He is obscure and yet hugely famous, while she is obscure and very discreet.

When people learn that they are married - they wed in April 2008 and have been together as a couple since 1995 - the reaction is usually "Who's Laurie Anderson"? Except among those who know who she is, and they say "It makes perfect sense". One reason is that Lou Reed is famously bi-sexual and Laurie Anderson was pretty much openly lesbian. Both of them transcend gender, if you ask me. It isn't that she is masculine and he is feminine; it is as if the two of them belong to some alternative gender that few people can pull off. So it makes perfect sense that these two talented musico-poetical creatures from the Third Gender Universe and the New York music scene would have come together.

How lucky and wonderful that they are doing a show, together, at Salle Pleyel in Paris on September 4. I was planning a trip to Paris but could not seem to decide when to go. I bought tickets for the concert online. Now we have to go! September is actually my favorite month in Paris. La rentrée, everybody back from summer vacation with a vengeance, trying to figure out how to prolonger le bronzage. Fewer tourists, as they have scampered back home to their own back-to-school madness. Generally nice weather, though mercifully cooler.

mercredi 1 juillet 2009

On a la pêche ici !




Je ne sais pas comment la saison se présente dans l'Hexagone, mais là où je suis, les pêches, brugnons et autres nectarines sont somptueux cette année. Succulents, juteux, bien fermes mais pas trop... c'est le top de chez top. Je viens de mettre une pêche sur mon yaourt matinal, après avoir mangé une belle nectarine hier.

La saison est courte. Donc, il faut en profiter. Ne vous en privez pas. Cherchez la pêche et vous l'aurez. C'est promis !

Un peu d'histoire

On dit que la culture des pêches a commencé en Chine quelques 2000 ans avant la naissance du Christ. Ensuite, ce sont les Grecques et les Romans qui les ont introduits en Europe, et les Portugais et les Espagnols qui ont porté ces beaux fruits jusqu'en Amérique.

Un peu de géographie

Aux Etats-Unis, la Californie, la Géorgie et la Carolina du Nord sont les trois états qui produisent les plus grandes quantités de pêches. En France, comme la carte ci-dessous le démontre, le lieu de culture est le Midi (Drôme, Gard, Ardèche, Pyrénées Orientales).




Et un peu de science : c’est quoi un brugnon ?

Alors, quelle différence entre la nectarine et le brugnon ? Vaste question ! Mais la réponse est simple :
La chair de la nectarine n'adhère pas au noyau, et elle est généralement jaune, juteuse, ferme, et un peu plus acide que la pêche.
Quant au brugnon, la chair adhère au noyau, il est généralement à chair d'un blanc tirant sur le vert. Juteux, ferme, savoureux.

mardi 30 juin 2009

A Walk in the Park



But not just any park. Lincoln Park, our favorite park in Seattle. Neko loves to walk but her enthusiasm flags a bit when it gets hot. I can't blame her; she basically wears a fur coat at all times. Even with her recent cut she suffers when the sun is too bright.

What I love about Neko, though, is that she just stops for a few seconds when she gets tired and pants with her tongue out. She picks a shady, grassy spot and plops down to expose her belly to the cool grass. I always bring a small bowl and cold water, which she laps up from her belly flop position. Then she gets to her feet and moves on.




Back to Lincoln Park. It features a nearly deserted crescent-shaped beach that leads to the Fauntleroy ferry dock. Coleman Pool, an outdoor pool, is filled with salt water and looks out on Puget Sound. Both face west and then southwest as the path arks around, so the wide gravel path leading around the pool is generally in shade. Once past the pool, you can take one of the concrete uphill trails leading into the park. These lead to a wide dirt trail that takes you along a cliff and back to your starting point. It is always in shade, flanked by huge towering cedars, hemlocks and fir trees.

In 1970, when I was 14, I signed up to go on a 10-day hike (through the CYO - Catholic Youth Organization) in the Olympic Mountains that involved climbing Mount Olympus. My twin sister Cathy, our friend Sherry Baynard, and I decided to get in shape for this hike and climb - our first real one - by filling our rented backpacks with hardcover books and walking to Lincoln Park from Shorewood Elementary school and back home again. We packed some food and bought candy at the little store (a Rexall, I think) next to what is now Endolyne Joe's, a restaurant. We wore hiking boots we had rented from REI (to this day, REI employees gasp when they see my membership card, because I am practically a founder) and of course did not think about protecting our tender feet from blisters.

It was a rude awakening! I think we made it to and from Lincoln Park, though I can't be sure we didn't give up and call for a ride. I will guess that it is about an 8-mile round trip.

As unprepared as we were, it was a great 10-day hike and climb, except for the fact that one of the members of our party was killed and another seriously injured. Here's what happened: After climbing a mountain, it is customary to slide back down. This is called "glissading". It is really fun. However, you have to beware of crevasses, some of which are not easy to see until you are up close. Father Dalton, who was the priest on our hike (believe it or not, there were enough to go around back then for assignments like this), saw a huge and gaping crevasse and stationed himself in front of it to alert others to the danger. Jim O'Neil, who was a 21-year old seminarian, decided to come down the mountain on a tarp, for extra speed and thrills. There is nothing wrong with this, by the way. But he was unable to stop and ploughed into Father Dalton, who was trying desperately to keep him from falling into the abyss. And they both disappeared into the dark and icy crevasse. Miraculously, there is or was a UW glacier study center on Mount Olympus, so a helicopter and rescue crew were brought in. Unfortunately, Jim had broken his neck and did not survive. But Father Dalton did, with broken ribs and fractures of all kinds. He nearly froze to death as well. He was airlifted to the nearest hospital.

The other day, my brother Charlie gave me a letter he had found while cleaning out my mother's house. It is from Jim O'Neil's father, also called Jim, to Father Dalton. Father Dalton was unable to attend the funeral, but all of us Nanamakee girls did go. And we sang. We sang the title song from the Sound of Music. It probably sounds corny and maudlin, but it wasn't. I still get tears in my eyes when I think about the funeral, Jim's parents, our voices blending to say goodbye to that young man.

Here's what his dad wrote, just hours before going to meet Father Dalton for the first time. Jim's dad wrote the letter because he wanted to be sure and say everything he wished to say when the moment of meeting came:

The funeral was a completely overwhelming experience for us, and I'm sure for all others who were fortunate enough to be there... The frosting on the cake, so to speak, was having all the young CYO group there who sang so beautifully. It was just overwhelming.


The death of Jim O'Neil became a pivotal experience in my life, and I am sure that this is true for many of my fellow hikers. I often think of Pauline Cline, who was the director of the CYO Nanamakee program for girls and a PE teacher at Blanchett. She was probably in her late 20's when this happened. She and the other counselors, aged 19 to 25, were responsible in loco parentis for a bunch of 14-year old girls. When this accident occurred, we were in the middle of the Olympic Mountains. We had to hike out, in part through the rain forest. I'll never understand how she and the other "adults" managed to remain so composed and adult, dealing with their personal grief (Jim was a fellow counselor and their friend) and shock, and with our 14-year old ways of coping. They remain for me models of how to keep your head together when you have every good reason to fall apart.

I remember Jim O'Neil's father as a soft-spoken and extremely courageous man. A few days after losing his oldest son in a tragic accident, he wrote this, just hours before meeting Father Dalton, the man who almost lost his life trying to save a life:

Jim was thrilled beyond words at the opportunity of going on this climb. He was most excited and could not have been doing anything he liked better... So you see, Father Dalton, he was happy in doing what he was doing, he reached his objective in life as well as the top of the mountain because he was so happy being with the young people that he loved, and doing the things he liked most... Please believe us when we say we have no regrets at all.


Every time I go to Lincoln Park, and look out across the water to the Olympic Peninsula, I have a thought for Jim O'Neil and for Father Dalton, wherever he is. I am always brought to the same thought, though I didn't remember until recently that Jim's father had written about it in the letter. We have no regrets at all, he wrote. Life is such an improbable and glorious gift, and harboring regrets is a way of letting it slip through your hands unappreciated.

vendredi 26 juin 2009

Une icône de la pop est morte... depuis des lustres



Avec le décès de Michael Jackson, les événements qui se déroulent en Iran sont passés au deuxième plan. Mais pour moi, le Michael Jackson qui a fait Thriller, un album mythique et géant, est mort il y a longtemps. Ses déboires, son recours sans cesse au bistouri (qui l’a rendu méconnaissable et effrayant à regarder, une sorte d’épouvantail vivant), sans parler de ses problèmes avec les jeunes gens… toutes ses histoires ont fini par enterrer Michael Jackson. Puis, les rumeurs insistantes qui courent ses dernières années sur sa situation financière, fragilisée par les procès pour abus sexuels sur mineurs. On dit qu’il laisse derrière lui une montagne de dettes, de quelques 400 millions de dollars.

Le prix de la célébrité est lourd, très lourd.

jeudi 25 juin 2009

Twice in a Lifetime




I thought I was in Heaven when I saw David Byrne at Benaroya in February of this year (see blog entry). Who knew that four months later we would get the chance to see him at the Paramount - for free? (Thanks Prdeep and Frontier Bank!) Was it the Same As it Ever Was? Not quite. Some of the same songs, but not all. And then this special surprise at the end. I had never seen a marching band that looked to have strippers, cross-dressers and possibly trannies among its membership. They did a gig later on at the Comet Tavern and when we left the Paramount they were doing an impromptu performance in the lobby.

The only scary moment came when people were dancing to Burning Down the House. We were on the mezzanine and it was shaking, literally shaking. I had thoughts of disaster.

lundi 22 juin 2009

Neko, chienne increvable




Une fête des pères bien boisée mais pas trop arrosée

Pour la fête des pères, Neko a proposé une promenade en forêt à son maître, qui a accepté aussitôt. Comme nous étions convoqués plus tard à un BBQ pour fêter la même occasion, nous avons décidé de trouver une balade près de chez nous. Direction Cougar Mountain, qui est en réalité une colline habitée mais peu importe. Il y a pleine de belles balades à faire et la forêt est dense et verte. Il y a plusieurs variétés de fougères, de fleurs sauvages et de bêtes. La flore et la faune quoi. Qui pourrait demander plus ?

Neko a aimé et, malgré les dix kilomètres de marche, elle ne s’est ni arrêtée ni ralentie son pas une seule fois. Je me disais que dans une vie antérieure elle était certainement une chienne de traineaux, qui portait son maître « musher » sur les neiges éternelles de l’Alaska sans jamais se plaindre. Elle était husky, samoyède, malamute, groenlandais ou alaskan…

jeudi 18 juin 2009

Could frumpy be the new fabulous?


The unexamined life, as Socrates maintained, may not be worth living. But it sure is fun to watch!

Wow. I can't believe I watched the season finale of The Real Housewives of New Jersey. Nor can I believe that Walt and I actually had a serious conversation that involved him defending Danielle as having shown class relative to the other four housewives in the drunken catfight that erupted when Danielle threw a copy of the book in which her past (as a cocaine whore and stripper whose real name is Beverly) is revealed. If you don't know what I'm talking about, don't worry. This is a good sign. My argument was twofold: one, that class, relative or otherwise, is not a word that applies to this tacky group; and two, that Danielle got the upper hand, which is not the same as having class and not hard to understand. She did this by employing a four-pronged strategy: she surprised the others by throwing the book at them, so to speak; the others were drunk by the time this happened, which slowed and slurred their reactions; Danielle slyly set the two sisters against their sister-in-law, thereby creating a catfight within a catfight; and the party hostess, what's her name, is so frigging ditzy that a four-year old could get the better of her in an argument about how to tie shoes. Unable to speak a coherent sentence, she did what any real housewife of NJ would do under similar circumstances: she upended the table and started shrieking.

We first discovered this show on our Jet Blue flight from NY to Seattle. I had finished my book and did not want to get up and retrieve another from my bag in the overhead storage bin. So I started looking for something to watch. And there it was. Tacky. Mindless. Unscripted humor. Short sound bites. Unbridled vanity. Trout lips. Botox. Fake "bubbies" (that's boobies with a Joisey accent). Home fitness centers. Cougar sex. Pouty, spoiled children. Expensive designer handbags and shoes. Vague dissatisfaction against a backdrop of ungodly wealth. Endless trips to the hairdresser. French nails, the better to scratch you with, bitch. Big old SUVs, even for the teens. Huge McMansions.

You know, the American Dream and all that.

Is it because they are just like us or people we know that we find them so fascinating? I doubt it. I think it is because they embody the American cliché with such obvious gusto and lack of irony. We the viewers get to enjoy all the smug irony. The real housewives get to enjoy the notoriety that goes with letting it all hang out on national television, not to mention the perks they probably get from the show's sponsors. Before, they just ran New Jersey. Now America knows that they run New Jersey. Therein lies an important nuance, though I can't quite figure out what it is. The importance of not just doing but being seen to be doing it. Viewers embrace their inner voyeur; the viewed embrace their inner exhibitionist. Everyone wins. The lives of the viewed are enhanced by fame of sorts. Not for accomplisments or uncommon courage; just for putting it out there. The lives of the viewers are enhanced by the knowledge that they get the joke, they are in on the irony and hthey ave escaped living a cliché. Or so they desperately hope.

One comment I read on a blog entry about the show nailed it: "I watched a preview of this series a few weeks ago and was so horrified I immediately decided to watch it."

Now that we have seen the wives of just about every affluent American community on display, I'm thinking the backlash will be television programming that features Susan Boyle type frumps. Now that would be radical. Maybe the first in what will inevitably be variations on a theme could be about the real housewives of Seattle. Casting call for all Seattle housewives who are frumpy and proud.

samedi 13 juin 2009

Sally and her posse


Sally on her big day, surrounded by her four daughters


Presenting Sally and Ron Santucci

They did it!

vendredi 12 juin 2009

My mom is getting hitched today!





Today is a big day for my mom, Sally Malone Ganong, and Ron Santucci. They're getting married at Our Lady of Fatima Catholic Church in Magnolia, in the presence of their twelve children (six each) and the significant others of their twelve children, the children of their twelve children and one child of one of the children of their twelve children (my brother Charlie's daughter, Kristi, and her husband Tim have a son, William, now 21 months old. After the wedding mass, we will be treated to a spaghetti dinner made and served by a few of Ron's friends. My twin sister Cathy is the maid of honor; Ron's son Bob is best man. Apparently, these two roles needed to be filled by people who had attended Mass in the last six months. I'm sure Cathy is lying -- anything to be maid of honor!:)

I don't know how many grandchildren there are. My mom has nine, plus the four kids of Terry, Carolyn's husband. That makes thirteen. The six Santucci's probably have at least as many between them. I've met a couple of Bob and Helen's kids (their son Bobby played baseball for Walt), and two small children who belong to one of Ron's daughters (like Sally, Ron has four daughters and two sons). William Mc Quillan, the son of Charlie's daughter Kristi and her husband Tim, is the only great-grandchild.

mardi 9 juin 2009

Remembering Tiananmen Square

I have been meaning to write something about the twentieth anniversary of the Tiananmen Square massacre of June 4, 1989. In China, it is referred to simply as "the June 4th incident". Listening to and reading the numerous eye witness accounts, as well as interviews with today's 20 year-olds in China, who of course were not born or just born when it happened, has dredged up a lot of memories. By 1989 I had left China for France, but I doubt that China had changed enormously in the three years since my departure. Actually, it had probably changed significantly on one level - let's call it eye level because I love this double palindrome - and not at all on the other, deeper level. On the deeper level, all is chaos and anarchy. On the eye level, all is order, discipline and repression.

During the eighteen-month period I spent in China, I had the good fortune to teach adults: young students at the Chinese Foreign Language Institute (which was renamed a few years ago) in Shanghai, but also students at Fudan University and a group of professional journalists. I would not be surprised to learn that they took part in the 1989 movement. My students were curious, courageous and adventurous. Some of the journalists had suffered during the Cultural Revolution, as had Deng Xiaoping, who was China's leader when I lived there. He is widely credited with starting the reform movement in 1978, after having survived tremendous political challenges. One of my favorite Chinese jokes perfectly captures who Deng Xiaoping was at the time: three inmates are languishing in a Chinese prison. Prisoner one says to prisoner two: why are you here? I am here because I opposed Deng Xiaoping. Prisoner two asks prisoner one: why are you here? I am here because I supported Deng Xiaoping, he replies. They turn to prisoner three and ask, in unison, why are you here? Prisoner three replies: I am Deng Xiaoping. His first name (Xiaoping) also means little (xiao) bottle (ping). People told me he was aptly named because, like a bottle thrown in the sea, he always managed to stay afloat.

I felt China moving towards greater freedom when I was there. This was in the early to mid eighties, before China really opened its doors wide to tourists from the West. This was a good thing: without many infrastructures of control/tourism in place, Westerners who had permission to be there had great freedom of movement. We were paid in local currency and had the right to use it and pay Chinese prices (China has since done away with its dual currency system). We could travel peasant class on the trains if we wanted. We could stay in Chinese hotels and go to Chinese restaurants - as opposed to the hotels, restaurants, shops and train cars reserved specifically for tourists. We were foreign experts. Most of us were teachers, teaching the very people who would go on to demand that democratic reform accompany the economic miracle whose foundations were being laid.

Three years later, standing in the living room of a beautiful Parisian apartment located across the street from the Collège de France, one of the world's foremost seats of reason and erudition, I watched from a great distance in horror as events unfolded in Beijing. I could not help but feel that these were people I knew, being gunned down by soldiers of the People's Army. The People's Army, turning on the people. I think that many of those gunned down made the same mistake I did: believing that the People's Army would never turn on the People.

samedi 6 juin 2009

Black Dynamite


The guy who runs the Warrent Report blog said it was THE film to see if you only wanted to see one SIFF film this year. We went. We saw. We enjoyed. This film will do well at the box office. It is a total spoof and everyone in it apparently had a great time pimping and hamming it up. My only complaint is that sometimes it felt as if they were having more fun than the audience. Speaking of the audience, the director Scott Sanders and the male lead Michael Kai White were among us. They stayed for a Q&A session after the film, but we did not. It was late (SIFF movies never start on time and this one was no exception) and I loathe Q&A sessions with the audience. Most of the time, it is a series of bores who try and disguise their monologues by tacking a question on the end.

The best thing about the movie is its length: spoofs have to be relatively short to work because a one-joke movie always goes cold quickly. The second best thing was the names of the various bit players, most of whom portray pimps or dealers: Cream Corn, Nipsy (a nod to Nipsy Russell), Tasty Freeze (played by Arsenio Hall), Kotex and Chocolate Giddy-up are the most memorable ones.

vendredi 5 juin 2009

La folie douce de Séraphine de Senlis





Séraphine, une production franco-belge de Martin Provost qui a gagné le César du meilleur film français en 2009, a été projeté hier à Seattle dans le cadre de la 35ème édition de son festival de cinéma international. Le temps étant à la canicule depuis quelques jours, j’étais contente d’être dans une salle obscure bien climatisée. Le film a eu un grand succès populaire en France, malgré un consensus critique plus mitigé. Je me range plutôt du côté du public, même si je comprends parfaitement la réticence des juges professionnels du cinéma.

Le film est lent, mais pas ennuyeux. L’histoire est mince et, à mon avis, c’est parce qu’on ne connait pas grand-chose de la vie de Séraphine de Senlis : elle est issue d’un milieu modeste, elle perd ses deux parents à un jeune âge, elle travaille comme bergère avant de devenir femme de ménage. Elle aime Le Seigneur et les anges, et puise son inspiration artistique dans la vie spirituelle. Séraphine aime la nature et communique avec elle. Ses voisins et ses employeurs pensent qu’elle est excentrique et peut être folle, mais ils ont besoin de linge propre et sa folie ne l’empêche pas de s’en occuper. Elle fabrique ses propres couleurs et peigne non pas en cachette mais à ses heures perdues. Elle ne se cache pas, mais elle ne se montre pas non plus. A vrai dire, elle semble complètement indifférente à l’égard des gens qui l’entourent. Elle est marginale, certes, mais pas malheureuse.

L’arrivée d’un collectionneur célèbre à Senlis – il détient la plus grande collection de Picasso et découvre le douanier Rousseau – va faire basculer sa vie de femme de ménage le jour, peintre chantant la nuit. Ce monsieur aime ses toiles et pense qu’elle a du talent. En toile de fond, l’armée Allemande qui avance, qui avance, première guerre mondiale oblige. Wilhelm Uhde et sa sœur doivent partir vite, laissant derrière eux Séraphine et ses toiles. La guerre se termine, ils se retrouvent, et une carrière d’artiste peintre couvée par un collectionneur puissant se profile. Puis, le krach boursier fait trembler la planète et surtout les riches, qui n’achètent plus d’art. La folie douce de Séraphine ne se traduit plus dans ses toiles et s’extériorise. Elle est internée en asile psychiatrique et finira ses jours la-dedans : pauvre, folle et oubliée. Elle est enterrée dans une fosse commune.

Voilà pour l’histoire. Yolande Moreau, l’actrice belge qui joue le rôle de Séraphine est parfaite. On dit que la peinture de Séraphine, l’autodidacte, la range dans la catégorie d’art naïf. Uhde n’est pas d’accord et moi non plus. En revanche, Séraphine – telle qu’interprétée par Moreau, est une femme naïve. Quand elle gaspille l’argent qu’elle commence à gagner grâce à son art et aux soins de son « agent », ce n’est pas par extravagance ni par cupidité. C’est tout simplement parce que l’argent est juste une chose de plus à découvrir. C’est une chose qui permet d’acquérir d’autres choses, jolies celles-ci. C’est sans importance pour Séraphine. Tellement sans importance qu’elle dépense sans compter, jusqu’à s’acheter une maison modelée sur un château célèbre, avec l’argent de son agent. Il reçoit la facture du notaire, mais ne peut pas payer.



J’adore Yolande Moreau. Elle n’est pas belle, mais elle est radieuse. Ses yeux bleus semblent par moment enterrés derrière son front et ses paumettes, et pourtant ils brillent. Elle n'est pas grande mais elle est potelée et se déplace comme un ours. Pourtant, elle est pleine de grâce et de vie. Son rôle dans La fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulain est mineur et pourtant, quand je pense à ce film, je pense d'abord et surtout à elle, qui incarne Madeleine Wallace à la perfection. Pas étonnant que le César de la meilleure actrice a été discerné à Yolande Moreau en 2009 pour son interprétation de Séraphine. Elle avait déjà été primée en 2005.

mercredi 3 juin 2009

Derrière les chiffres il y a des hommes

I've been thinking a lot about Air France flight 447. For one thing, it has gotten extensive media coverage, which is only natural given that air accidents of this magnitude are - thankfully - rare. A debate rages in the blogosphere about whether or not air travel really is the safest mode of transport. Something like 2.6 billion people were transported by plane last year, with a surprisingly small number of deaths. The thing is, as everyone says, when a jumbo jet goes down, there are many, many deaths at the same instant.

I have flown a lot in my lifetime -- not as many hours as a pilot or a flight attendant, of course -- so I feel exposed when I hear about a crash. And I have developed strategies for keeping anxiety at bay when I fly. How many people truly enjoy flying, though? I really don't, especially now that flying has become totally banal as an activity. Except on international flights -- and sometimes even on them -- conditions are barely acceptable. No food, not much refreshment, not much leg room, too much stuff crammed in overhead compartments, seats too small and too close together. On the last flight I took, returning from NY to Seattle, the rather large woman in the seat next to mine had her arm resting on the controls for my music and visuals the entire time. Had she not been asleep, I might have asked her to move so that I could find some suitable music or watch some crappy movie to pass the time.

One of my false beliefs is that disaster only happens on take-off or landing. If the plane can get off the ground without something going really wrong, then there will be nothing to fear until it is time to land. And landings have gotten much, much smoother in the last ten years or so. I bet everyone would agree with this. It is obvious. Air France flight 447 disappeared after more than four hours in the air. In other words, it violated one of my sacred wrong beliefs. My sacred wrong beliefs are the ones that keep me from having an anxiety or panic attack and, on occasion, I have felt that these beliefs actually help to keep the plane in the air and on course. I know this is utterly ludicrous. I knew a Canadian woman in China who was pathalogically afraid to fly. She was a career expat in Shanghai, which meant that the occasional trip back home to Vancouver, BC, had to be taken by sea. She told me that she actually did force herself to fly once, and knitted the entire way. She was afraid that if she stopped knitting the plane would go down. She did stop for just a second and the plane immediately entered a pocket of turbulence, thus proving the basic psychological truth of her wrong sacred belief. She had no choice but to stick to the knitting.

I heard a Norwegian woman being interviewed on the radio today, who had lost her daughter and one of her grandchildren in this tragedy. Her son-in-law and second grandchild had taken a different flight because they had some frequent flyer miles to use up. Their flight landed at Roissy at 4 pm, which is when the son-in-law and his child learned that flight 447, due in earlier the same day (at 11 am), was lost and that its passengers had perished. Another woman who was interviewed had to change her plans at the last minute, or she would have been on Flight 447.

Finally, Le Monde has written the article that captures the human element. 228 names and lives lost; many more destinies shattered. It delineates the process by which a raw piece of news slowly becomes a story of individual sorrow. Here's a quick translation:

For a few hours, they were just numbers. Classified according to the general criteria used by airlines and their insurers. Two hundred and twenty eight missing. That's 12 crew members and 216 passengers. Among the latter, there were 126 men, 82 women, 7 children and a baby.

A little later, they became a list of names. And finally, a small society of individuals, couples, families struck by fate. Alexander Bjoroy, 11 years old, was returning from Rio via Paris to his boarding school in Bristol. He had just spent a few days on vacation with his mother, Jane, and his father, Robin, an engineer for the Brazilian oil industry.

Ten French employees from the same company, CGED, each one accompanied by a spouse or a friend, were also among those aboard flight AF447 Rio-Paris. They had won a company-wide contest that, each year, rewards the top ten salespeople in the French Southwest. In Bordeaux, in Artigues, in Pau...in nearly every one of CGED's small regional agencies, at least one employee was lost. Like Stéphane Artiguenave and his wife, Sandrine, "much more worried", explains a colleague of Stéphane, "about the reputation Brazil has of being a dangerous place and of losing their two children (aged 9 and 4) than of an airplane accident".

At the regional headquarters of CGED in Bordeaux, people are also counting the terrible twists of fate. Like this young saleswoman for CGED, 23-year old Laetitia Alazard, who got to go to Brazil because one of her colleagues was unable to. Since her boyfriend could not get away, she asked her best friend, Aurélia, to go with her. "Viva Brazil!", she had written with enthusiasm on her Facebook page.

CGED is not the only company in mourning. While there were more than 150 tourists aboard flight AF 447, there were also many business travelers, attesting to Brazil's recent economic development.

Michelin also lost three top executives. Luiz Roberto Anastacio, 50 years old and with Michelin for twenty-seven years, had just been appointed chairman of Michelin Latin America on May 4. He was en route to Clermont-Ferrand, where he had a meeting at the tire manufacturer's global headquarters. He was traveling with Antonio Gueiros, head of IT at the Rio office, and a French engineer, Christine Pieraerts, who was returning to France after a vacation. "In addition to losing two men and one woman who were loved, we are losing highly valued managers", says a spokesperson for the company, who adds that the company lost its own chairman and CEO, Edouard Michelin, in a boating accident.

The city of Ermenonville has lost three elected officials. Three friends, Nathalie Marroig, 41, and Marie-Josée Treillou, 70, who were on vacation in Brazil, and Anne Grimout, 49, who was the head of the cabine crew on AF 447. A seasoned professional, she frequently worked the Rio-Paris flight.

In fact, the entire crew was made up of veterans. The captain, aged 58, had 11 000 flight hours under his belt, of which 1 700 on planes of the same type as the Airbus A330-200. His two co-pilots, aged 37 and 32, had logged in 9 000 flight hours between them.

But these flights, which link one end of the planet to the other, are also little worlds unto themselves. The passengers represented 32 different nations: France (73), Brazil (58), Germany (26), China (9), Italy (9), Switzerland (6), the UK (5), Lebanon (5), Hungary (44), Slovakia (3), Norway (3), Ireland (3), the US (2), Poland (2), Morocco (2), Spain (2) and Iceland (1). (According to the NY Times: "The airline said victims included 2 Americans, an Argentine, an Austrian, a Belgian, 58 Brazilians, 5 Britons, a Canadian, 9 Chinese, a Croatian, a Dane, a Dutch citizen, an Estonian, a Filipino, 61 French citizens, a Gambian, 26 Germans, 4 Hungarians, 3 Irish, an Icelander, 10 Italians, 5 Lebanese, 2 Moroccans, 3 Norwegians, 2 Poles, a Romanian, a Russian, 3 Slovakians, 2 Spaniards, a Swede, 6 Swiss and a Turk.")


After France, Brazil paid the highest price in lives lost. Taken the night before the flight, one photo has appeared in all the Brazilian papers. It shows Eduardo Macario, a young lawyer, and Bianca Cotta, 25, the woman he had just married. The young couple had planned to honeymoon in Europe, after celebrating their union the night before with 500 guests at a club in Niteroi, the city across from Rio on the other side of Guanabara Bay. Monday, after the accident was announced, the young woman's father spent the day glued to his computer looking at maps of the Atlantic, and trying desperately to find an island where the plane could have effected an emergency landing.

Pierre-Louis d'Orléans-Bragance, 26, one of the heirs to the Brazilian imperial throne, was also on the Rio-Paris flight. Born in 1983 in Rio, with a degree in economics, the young man was fourth in line to the throne. He was returning to Luxembourg, where he lived, after visiting his parents, who live in Petropolis, the city where the former imperial palace is located. "Dom Pierre-Louis" was the great-great-grandson of Isabelle de Bragance, the princess who, in 1888, abolished slavery, just a year before the Empire was wiped out.

In the UK, in Italy, in Germany, a thousand similar dramas played out. For example, that involving a 61-year old British engineer named Arthur Coakley, who had gone to Rio on business for his oil company. Coakley was supposed to be on the earlier flight, which was overbooked. So he was transferred to this Air France flight.

The story of Brazilian choreographer Gustavo Ciriaco is a miracle. For 200 euros, he traded his ticket on this flight with a young woman who had a seat on the earlier flight.

Italy lost a mayor from the Trentino region, Luigi Zortea, who had gone to Brazil to establish a sister city relationship with the village of Zortea, which bears his name, in the state of Santa Caterina. Germany lost one of the executive directors of ThyssenKrupp, Erich Heine, who was returning from a visit to the Brazilian subsidiary. His compatriot, the architect Moritz Kock, was returning from a meeting with his famous Brazilian colleague, the centennial architect Oscar Niemeyer. And three young Irish doctors, an American geologist, and so many others.

They will be remembered in their country of origin. An ecumenical ceremony was held this afternoon at Notre-Dame, in Paris. Next Monday, French President Nicolas Sarkozy will meet with the families of the French victims.

Written by Raphaëlle Bacqué with Jean-Pierre Langellier in Rio, Marie de Vergès in Berlin, Philippe Ridet in Rome and Virginie Malingre in London.

Translated by Peggy Ganong

lundi 1 juin 2009

Neko visits Sculpture Park


Neko finally got to Olympic Sculpture Park on Saturday night. This is the best shot of her. Too bad the photographer cut off the top of my head.


The Eagle has Landed

This is Eagle, the work that in many ways defines Olympic Sculpture Park.
This painted steel sculpture by Alexander Calder was finished in 1971. It weighs about 6 tons.


Sailboat


Remains of the Day

These photos indicate what inspired the word "Olympic" in the park's name. In both, the Olympic Peninsula looms on the horizon.


Mount Rainier catching the last rays of a beautiful sunny day