4 posts tagged “culture”

I went to see goshdarn Dolly Parton last night!

Her one-night only engagement had been postponed from March, a date for which my wise [and unlucky!] friend visiting from Sweden had purchased tickets for the two of us. But Dolly had back problems ("You would too, if you had to carry these puppies around," she was quoted as saying) and the concert was rescheduled for a week after Josefine's tourist visa ran out. Damn immigration is keeping the diehards and Dolly apart.

Nevertheless, I still got to attend (THANK YOU JO!) and it really was one of the most uplifting and entertaining experiences, um, ever. This wasn't just any ol' concert, see, it was an Evening with Dolly Parton. And boy was it ever sold out. The scene out front was rainy and chaotic, and while I was waiting outside for Sabrina to join me, the hit parade kept coming: hipsters, out-of-towners, homesexual hipsters, businesspeople, hipsters. One of the most diverse crowds I think I've ever seen at a live music event.

 And of course, there was big ol' Dolly, in her tininess, entertaining the crowd with her sweet jokes.

"You know, there are two kinds of women in the Smoky Mountains, back where I'm from. The kind that get married and have a lot of kids, and the kind that stay single...and have a lot of kids."

I was wrong not to be completely obsessed with this talented woman before this concert. She somewhow manages to be both ditzy and extremely intelligent and funny all at once. A woman who said that she hopes to never get written up in tabloids as, "'hospitalized with exhaustion'...because you know that just means drunk and crazy."

Of course, there was singing, too. All the old favorites (Jolene! Coat of Many Colors! Here You Come Again! I Will Always Love You!), and a gospel-y show closer called, "Jesus and Gravity." For criminy's sake, if the woman can get me on my feet and dancing to a song about intelligent design, you know she's a musical genius.

I've just been to the Kirov ballet, as Anri was nice enough to offer me up as her stand-in date with her mother. The famous Russian company hasn't been to New York since 2001, so their three-week run at The City Center has caused quite a stir here.

Going to dance performances does weird stuff to me. I love it, and yet I always leave feeling a little regretful. It makes me wish I had tried to become a professional dancer—not some teeny ballerina, to be sure—or that I'd tried to cultivate some physical or creative talent when I was younger. I leave the theater wishing that I could leap many feet into the air and land soundlessly, gracefully. Or that I could say the word "tutu" without giggling or conjuring images of an archbishop from South Africa.

Anyway, it was really interesting to (a), sit close enough to see exuberant/pained/concentrated expressions on the faces of the dancers, and (b) to go with Shinko, who has seen enough ballet to make comparisons in energy, style, and interpretation of some of the most classic pieces in the history of the art. I did find it technically astounding (and so did the gasping audience), but even without having much to compare it to, I'd say Alistair Macauley's review about sums it up for me. Technically brilliant, but missing an emotional connection to the dancing, to the music, and often, to the audience.

Some performances were really lovely, though, and it was a great night, all 'round.

I love hearing writers talk about writing. Especially when they're my peers. It's inspiring; I feel connected to the world of words...and surprisingly uncompetitive. It's hard to feel competitive when [literally] the most gracious, thoughtful, quick-witted person on the planet is doing the reading.

Yesterday evening, Ceridwen Dovey read from her debut novel, Blood Kin, at the brand-new Barnes & Noble in Tribeca. It's a fable set in the aftermath of a coup in an unidentified, fictional country, seen through the eyes of the overthrown president's chef, barber and portraitist. Ceridwen read a chapter from the chef—a scene where he prepares seafood for the new commander, showing both violence towards and mercy on the small creatures that hide in their shells—and a scene from the barber, cutting the commander's hair. A friend who came with me to the reading pointed out the fine juxtaposition of the futility of violence, and the futility of gentleness in Ceridwen's selection of the two chapters.

Ceridwen spoke to Colum McCann about writing the book and wanting to be "taken seriously" as a writer, and thus being afraid to use humor in her work. Her responses to her interviewer's questions though, were far from humorless. Always self-effacing, Ceridwen was brilliant at talking about her choices as an author (e.g. to write a fable in order to explore stereotypes); as a daughter (e.g. not to make her writing autobiographical or recognizable in any way); and as a young woman (and being framed by the blurbs of male authors). She also talked about feeling privileged to be part of a community of "elsewheres," our generation of young people who may call many places "home," and can use those experiences in their work and lives.

I haven't read the book, but intend to, straightaway. I hope you will, too.

If you can, go see Close Encounters, the Morgan Library's exhibit of portraits taken of writers and artists by Irving Penn.

Name an artist you admire and he/she will likely be one of 67 photos in the collection: Truman Capote. Simone de Beauvoir. Jasper Johns. Willem de Kooning. T.S. Eliot. Louise Bourgeois. Ingmar Bergman. Salvador Dali (pictured).