Thank you 

to all

who light the night

and bring joy

 

 

 

Greer @Pratt Brooklyn 1978

In memory of Greer Lankton...

In 1978
Greer Lankton
painted my portrait.
Greer  Lankton was
my friend.
Greer Lankton was
at once
like all of us.
And yet
not  like
any of us.

Recently
I visited
an exhibition
a“retrospective”
of Greer’s work
of her remains.

There were
her dolls
her photos
her sculptures
her paintings
her postcards
her perfume bottles               
her videos
her eyes
her glamour
her black humor
her soul                        

her pain

her memories
her memory

I heard
the curator
pontificating
to a group
of art students.
She said, “Greer always named her dolls.This was very important to her...”
Yes, I thought,then why aren’t THESE dolls named,why aren’t these works labeled,dated.Why is there no context?


I don’t believe
she knew                                                          
what she was talking about.

No longer
able to listen
I blocked her
out.

Deafening sadness
filled my ears.
Sadness
for Greer leaving.
Sadness
for all
that was
And all
that can
never be
again.

I looked
at Greer’s remains                       
through my iPhone screen
To create
distance.                

 Not sure
 if I could really
look
Or really
see
Greer’s things
That stuck
in my throat.

Greer-you were
at once
like all of us
and yet,
not like

any of us.

 

 

  

The Midnight Special More 1978 - 11 - Todd Rundgren - Can We Still Be Fr...

"Fall Back" Saturday...

Todd Rundgren Hello Its Me Midnight Special 73

 
As we turn the clocks WAY back...

David Bowie - The 1980 Floor Show Midnight Special. (complete show )

OCTOBER 1973

The 1980 Floor Show

David Bowie
Mick Ronson

Amanda Lear

Marianne Faithfull

What else do you need?

An old- fashioned

fan letter

Chris Isaak

 
Last night
I went to see you.
I’ve lost count of
how many times

 I’ve seen you
Over the  years
that now amount

  to a lifetime.

But every time
 I see you
Is like 
the first time.
You never disappoint

Flashing lights
Flashing guitars
And there you were
In your sequined suit
Dreamy
Like a matinee idol

You entertained
with passion

And your voice
Reached
all the notes
all the places
all the hearts.

I was under your spell.
till the final encore.

And you left the stage.

I waited
outside
By the stage door

And there you were

In your khaki and plaid
Reality
Even more dreamy

A young woman
waited
in a wheelchair.
You went over and hugged her.

My heart melted.

You worked your way
through the crowd.
Close enough to touch.

My heart fluttered.

We exchanged
a few words
a few moments
I said,Darlin’...Chestnut Cabaret...my tie clip...
You said,”I still have it.”
I was breathless.

Like a giddy teenager
Selfishly
I asked  to snap a photo.
Kindly
you obliged.

You could not have known
how bleak
and grey
I had been.

Until that moment..

I stepped back
 and watched you
 in the crowd

Smiling
signing autographs
posing for photos

I stepped back                                                 

and  watched
your generosity of spirit.

My heart melted.

Until we meet again.
With love and thanks 
from the bottom of my heart.                             

THE KING

Woven Dreams

crafty/part 3

photo:Joyce Snyder

 
I once lived in Oaxaca,Mexico.
I worked,
had a cafe,
 gave birth to my son there.
Oaxaca is my heart.

I have a profound love of textiles.
I have a profound love of Oaxaca.
Just by chance, Oaxaca is known not only for it’s textiles
but for it’s methods of weaving and use of natural dyes.

In 2007,I was awarded a teaching sabbatical.
A chance
 to fulfill a dream.

Through “Oaxaca Cultural Navigator”,
I was able to create a personalized workshop in Teotitlan del Valle,the traditional weaving village 31 km outside of Oaxaca.
My teacher, Federico Chavez Santiago, is a fourth generation weaver.
My workshop was called “Dancing on the Loom”
It included not only weaving
but dyeing wool with indigo (plant) and cochineal (paddle cactus bug)

Federico and his family
from his wife to three children
are all exceptional artisan weavers.
Zapoteca is their first language,
Spanish second
then English.
His eldest son,Eric,works in education in the Museo de Textiles in Oaxaca.
Federico and Eric have documented over 90 color formulas
ranging from blush
 to crimson
to aubergine
using cochineal.

Federico wanted to know the story of my rug.
”You will dream about it” he said.
And he was right.
After carefully choosing wools dyed with only natural substances,
my story emerged in a dream.
My rug became
the story of the creation of the Earth.
The molten lava core
rising to meet
the land,
sea,
sky.
Reaching up
to the red gates of the Heavens.
I learned to hand roll and knot the fringe.

Federico has a gallery
of his family’s rugs for sale.
I wanted a souvenir,a reminder
 of his work
and my time there.
I chose a soft grey and cream rug of natural undyed wool.
Woven in the Oaxaca key pattern from the archeological site of Mitla (City of the Dead) ,
the graphic nature of this rug works beautifully
with my midcentury modern home.

Federico’s rug is a beautiful reminder of my time 

“Dancing on the Loom” 

and the place of my heart.

The Ubiquitous Bag of Oaxaca

crafty part 2

photo: Joyce Snyder

It started nearly three decades ago.
My love affair with Oaxaca,Mexico.
Holidays.
Sporadic visits.
Long term commitments.
I taught,
gave birth to my son,
owned a cafe 
and lived there.
From my first visit 
I noticed the ubiquitous shopping bags.
Sold on the streets,
in the mercados.
Various sizes,shapes,colors,textures.
Swinging from the arm,
a bridge between two girls,balanced on a woman’s head.
Vibrant containers for precious cargo:warm tortillas,tamales encased in corn husks,fruits,produce,plucked chickens.

Out of necessity I bought the black and white bag in the Sunday mercado of Tlacolula. 30km outside of the heart of Oaxaca .
I needed something to carry my produce home that day on the bus.
That was over twenty years ago.

The small gold trimmed bag was a gift.
Though meant for little girls,
 it was perfect to hold  essentials for a night out-keys, a tube of lipstick and enough pesos to taxi back home.
I referred to it as my “Oaxacan Chanel bag.”

My son was born.
Life changed.
I moved back to the States.
We always returned to Oaxaca.
A local folk art gallery had seen the bags and asked if I could purchase some  on my next trip.
I asked my (then) sister-in-laws where I could purchase a dozen bags.
And so began the most unusual shopping trip of my life.

You see, in Oaxaca, people in prison must either pay for,earn or have their meals brought in by friends or family.
Some prisoners learn useful crafts.
In Oaxaca City,a city known for weaving,
some prisoners weave these colorful ,heavy plastic bags 
to make money 
to eat 
(and maybe buy cigarettes,soap,other essentials)

My sister-in -laws worked for the government and made the arrangements.
And so, one clear,sunny July day,
we went to the prison.
We lined up outside with the  families.
 Waiting for midday visitation.

I was taken into a curtained room 
with a woman guard.
Frisked,
purse searched,
passport checked.
I was only allowed to bring pesos with me.

We were taken into “the yard.”
Yes, just like an old black and white film.

Separated by a chain link fence.
The prisoners had been told what I was looking for.
They were prepared.
Bags of every shape,size,color 
were pushed against the fence.
It was a feeding frenzy.
My command of Spanish fled,
in terror.
“Let me help you.Which colors do you like and how much do you want to pay?” Lena,my sister-in-law asked.
She negotiated for me.
We left with several dozen bags.
I kept two for myself.

And so these bags are colorful and useful in so many ways.
They carry my belongings.
They carry my memories.

CRAFTY

photo:Joyce Snyder "Virgin of Guadalupe ":Sebastian Karuza

 My friend,Carise Mitch,is a PR wiz.

She recently asked me 

if I'd like to write a guest blog piece

About craft I've collected

For The Philadelphia Museum of Art Craft Show blog.

I said YES

because I liked the project

I wrote  three pieces

because I'm an overachiever.

I asked my sister to take photos.

She said YES

Because she liked the project.

She took over 100 photos

Because she's an overachiver.

Here's the link 

To the chosen piece.  
(I will be posting the other two pieces)  

 "Huipiles:Pride of Place"

http://pmacraftshow.org/blog/2014-07-23/%E2%80%9Chuipiles-best-craft-i-ever-bought%E2%80%9D-karen-karuza 

A PAST LIFE...

GRACELAND MEETS VERSAILLES

 

...and DORA JARR

July 4,1987

 

Paris:Men's Fashion Week 

Spring/Summer  2015

Yes,dear Elizabeth Hawkes, this is why 

"Fashion is Spinach" 

"So it is with sneakers worn with suits; T-shirts (the ubiquity of scoop necks seemed like proof positive that men are the new women)..." 

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/07/03/fashion/at-paris-mens-fashion-week-an-ongoing-evolution-of-mens-wear.html?ref=fashion&_r=0 

Haider Ackermann, spring 2015. Credit Image by Valerio Mezzanotti for The New York Times

I have a confession...

I’m a little bit...
Country.
I was raised
with 
a country western music lovin’ daddy
and
an Elvis lovin’ momma
As a child
I watched
Hee Haw
My first  

45s were:
Patsy Cline
Earl Scruggs                    
Loretta Lynn
Toe tappin’
country twang
is in
a tiny
corner
of
my soul
So,
when
my hairdresser,yoga mate,country western singin’ friend
Dan
asked me
 if
I’d like to meet
his country western singing guitar teacher
Ann 

I said,Of course!

Dan met Ann
when she
was playing
at                               

The Boot and Saddle
in Philadelphia.
It has been
a life long
friendship.

Ann Brown
started teaching music
when she was 12.
She’s played

The Grand Ole Opry
Ann has
the country western pedigree
of a lifetime.

With a voice
clear
and
country pure,
Ann still
tours
records
performs
She still has
spark
spunk
and
sass.
Our visit was
delightful.

You don’t have to
love country western music
To love Ann.

Next week
she will be
81 years young.
Happy Birthday,Ann Brown!

 

In this video,Ann is singing and playing guitar live- she uses a recording of the back up band when she plays at certain shows.Video quality is not the best but her yodeling won me over!

Revelation of the Day

or

wanna know why I practice yoga?

 

Lately

I've been

fitful

frustrated

fragile                                                             

                                                                                 

My jaw

has been

poppin' n lockin'

clicking n clacking

My vertigo

has been

spinning                                                                  

out of control                                                

Today                                                                      

during

yoga practice

In my attempt                                                      

of

Krishnamacharya School

(the dreaded)

Kapotasana

Kneeling

Stamping

my foundation

Reaching

up

up

up

Looking

back

back

back

Reaching 

for

Kapotasana

I noticed

my jaw

Strained

Clenched

Locked

 

That's it.I thought.My clenched jaw is straining my asana.My clenched jaw is locking my life.

 

So

Again.

Kneeling

Stamping

my foundation

Reaching

up

up

up

Looking

back

back

back

Reaching for 

Kapotasana

Mindful                                                         

Relaxed jaw

Relaxed breath

Relaxed mind.

Oh,I thought,THAT'S so different.

Whew.*

 

I continued

Mindful

Jaw relaxed.

 

Everything

Changed.

 

"How long have you been clenching your jaw?"said one of my yoga mates.

I said,"I don't know.Maybe days,weeks,months.Years? God,where have I been?"

 

Then

It hit me

Why 

I practice.

Yoga:

Bringing 

the Obvious

To

the Unconscious.

 

*in the fairy tale version,I would say "..then I flowed like a waterfall,head touching mat, fingers touching toes."   But the reality is, "maybe next Life..."

 

 

 

second grade...

I missed being May Queen by one inch!

Damn that Diane Butler for being shorter...

HOLY LAND USA

I’m not sure
exactly
how
John and I
found
HOLY LAND USA.
Maybe
we read about it
in "The Catholic Standard and Times"

You see,
John and I were
friends
bound
haunted                                                                    
possessed
by our Catholic past
John and I
collected
photographed
documented                                                      

all we could find.
The ritual
the pomp
and circumstance
All
that was
the myth
and the misery
of our Catholic past.

“We’ve got to see this place,”John said.

Letter of introduction
and donation check
sent
to the Sisters
who inherited
HOLY LAND USA
Produced
An invitation
to spend                                                         

the weekend

Visible
from the highway
Giant letters
Grew
 out of the hills
of Waterbury, Connecticut

HOLY LAND USA

A 50 foot cross
marked
the biblical theme park
Constructed from
chicken wire
cinder blocks
broken bits
and
faith.

In a borrowed car
we arrived
at the trailer
of Sister Josephine and Sister Margaret.
guardians
of the holy site

“So nice to meet you,John and Karen.There’s our guest house.Please tour the grounds.We’ll have dinner here at 7.”Sister Josephine said.

John and I
roamed
overgrown hills
cracked cement steps
rusted railings
in search of
The Catacombs
The Garden of Eden                                                

The Stations of the Cross

We found them all
in rubble
in ruins
in lost glory

“I think those nuns must have really done something awful to be exiled to this place,” said John.He had 12 years experience with Catholic schools and nuns.

The Sisters’ trailer
had
 all the comforts of
suburbia
 “Blessed Mother blue”
crushed velvet
sectional sofas
with matching
hanging lamps
All covered
in plastic

“I grilled some chicken,”said Sister Josephine.”I know how men love to grill”.She winked at John.”Here’s a dandelion salad.We picked the dandelions.Don’t worry,there’s no dogs around.”
Another wink.

We spent the evening
listening
to the tales
of  long lines
of travelers
of the faithful
who came to
HOLY LAND USA

After dinner
we watched
a detective show on TV
Politely
 we excused ourselves.
“We’re so tired from the long drive,”John said.
Back in our trailer,
we collapsed
into giggles.
I think we
had brought
a bottle
or two of wine with us.

“Those girls are living in some fantasy land,”said John “I wonder when was the last time they went into those hills? Do you see how Sister Josephine’s eyes flash and her dentures click when she talks about it?”
“John,don’t you think it’s strange that nuns are allowing an unmarried couple to stay in their guest trailer?”
“From the looks of this place, we may be the only guests that they’ve had in a very long time.”

Early
next morning
we heard a crackle
from the kitchen
“Ten four,John” a disembodied voice said.
There was an intercom
in the kitchen.
Our jaws dropped.
John flicked a small switch.
“Good morning,Sister Josephine” John said.
“It’s time for breakfast”
“Ok, we’ll be right there.Ten four,Sister Josephine.”
He flicked the switch again.
“Oh my God,do you think that thing was on all night and they heard us?”he said.
Ingrained fear
of nuns
caught us both
By the throats.

Stripping
guest beds
Final tour
Backward glance
And a farewell                                         

photo by John Joyce

 
wave.
Visible from the highway
Giant letters
Grew
out of the hills.

HOLY LAND USA







 

For the fear of God...

“Look at these nicely shined shoes,pressed blouse ,clean uniform and  neat ,combed hair. Girls, here is an example of how you should look every day.”
Sister Mary Rita
patted
my perfectly
pony tailed
head.
My peter pan collar
glowed
under my forest green
uniform
as
my saddle shoes                 
gleamed
black and white.
My face
flushed
red hot
with embarrassment.

St.Veronica’s Catholic School
Third grade.

“Line up and keep quiet.Against the wall.Line up.Now.”
The blue  serge
square                                                                           

lumbered                                            
the hem of her
habit                                                  
sweeping
the hall.                                                          
the heavy wooden cross
swaying
against
 the pristine
white bib
A round pink face
watery eyes
framed 
in too delicate                                                        
gold rimmed glasses
A round pink face
with one
stray wisp
squeezed
into
the pristine
white wimple.
Sister Agnes Genevieve
Herded us to
the lavatory.
“Click.Click”
She snapped
the metal clicker
“Quiet”
“Click .Click”
“Hurry up.Back to catechism class.Now.”
Like Morse Code
For Pavlov’s dogs
We responded
single file.

“You were all born sinners.Everyone of you.You were all born with “Original Sin.”
Sister Agnes Genevieve
took the
white chalk
and drew
an oval
on the
black slate board.
“This is your soul.Black with sin.”
Our little backs
in
little stiff chairs
sat up
very straight.
“Like every good Catholic, you were baptized and received Christ as your Savior.Then your soul was washed clean and became white and pure.”
She brushed
the black soul
chalk white
pure.
The air
was filled
with great relief.
“But every time you sin”,she said ”every sin leaves a black mark.Venial sins leave a small mark.Mortal sins can blackened your whole soul”
With eraser
in hand
She swiped
 a sinful hole
in the pure white
soul.                                                                                      

“If you lie to your mother”
swipe
“If you cheat on a test”
swipe
“If you take the Lord’s name in vain”
swipe
“But if you murder someone.You will go to Hell””
the white
of the soul
now
completely
 erased
“If you die before you are baptized,you will go to Limbo-God’s waiting room.”
I imagined
cherubic
babes
in swaddling clothes
pinned
with
tiny tickets
with
numbers
and
waiting
in line.
Like
 the bakery
we went  to
after
church.
“You must go to confession and confess your sins and do your penance.Then your soul can remain white and pure.”

Weekly
Sister Agnes Genevieve
herded us
next door
to church
to confession.

Vaulted                                                          

incensed
marble walls

Coolly housed
sinners
saints
and angels.

“Click”
Single file
into
the wooden pews
“Click,click,click”
slide your foot
under
the kneeler
Place the kneeler
on  the floor
Little knees
on mohair velvet
Little hands clasped
in prayer
Waiting
for your turn
in the
confessional box.
What can I say,I think.I didn’t really do anything this week.Maybe I talked back to my mother,maybe I lied.No,I didn’t do any of that.Slow week.I better think of something.Fast.

I knew
I had to
make up
some sins
to confess
For the fear of God.













 

Cat lady?

Oh,honey,I've been called worse....

 

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/30/fashion/Cats-Internet-Adoption.html?ref=fashion 

Travelogue

Part Three:

Grand indeed

“Who the hell
Books a trip to the Grand Canyon                                                

when they have chronic vertigo?”
The thought flashed through my mind
Less than a week before I left
On my journey

                                                                       
Through Sedona,
the Painted Desert
Flagstaff
on a highway
in a van
on a tour
To get there.

The day was
a bit grey
and cloudy
and suddenly
very very windy
Perfect
for less tourists
more viewing space

I stepped out
of the van
And there it was.
The woman next to me said “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“No,” I said, “Actually, it looks like a painted movie backdrop.”
It took some time
for my eye
to connect
to my mind
and my mind
to wrap around
The ubiquitous vastness 

I had viewed in                                                              
photographs
films
paintings
t-shirts

Formations called
Vishnu’s Throne
Shiva
Deva
Named by a cartographer
who loved India
and it’s temples.

The wind
whipped
the heavy gray
and fluffy white clouds
across a clear blue sky
casting rapidly dancing shadows
Like watching a time lapsed film
Peaks and plateaus
played hide and seek.
In the distance
grey showers
poured into chasms.

It was sacred
It was ethereal
It was humbling.

The Grand Canyon
is more                                                              

than you can fathom.

The sun shone brightly
and it hailed
Small perfect frozen
white specks.

The ride home    
we ran parallel
with a smudge colored
dust storm.
I watched
tumbleweeds
roll
across the highway.

My life was
changed.

in loving memory of Jacob- the brightest star in the Canyon.