Thursday, July 28, 2005
Reading Naropa grad Sherman Souther's Surgical Bruez (Tinfish Press). Don't have much to say about it other than that the design elements of this slim volume are very interesting. Photographic mages of disembodied flesh act as section breaks (note: the author is a retired plastic surgeon who seems to specialize in breast augmentation). The xxxx design motifs (groupings of 12) read like stitches and the spiral binding make me think of the body's spinal column. Still trying to crack the code of how the book is organized by letters/page numbers.
Monday, July 25, 2005
The Dallas Morning News has published a review of the Conspicuous Production show which closes on Sunday.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
If you are reading this from the New York area, tune in on on Friday, July 22nd at 10pm on WNEW, Channel 13, the local PBS station in New York, for Simeon Hutner's short film "My Brother Nathaniel." MacDowell alum Simeon is also the maker of "Martyrs & Saints", a documentary on the life of performance artist Ron Athey.
Reb has posted the list of authors who will be included in the No Tell Motel anthology out this fall. Interesting to see the high number of poets with blogs in the group. Glad to be included alongside Denise and Noah, all good company.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Just discovered the blog of Teresa Sparks who manages the Harry Smith printshop at Naropa. Teresa has some notes up on the SWP. Haven't been back in 7 years, and I miss it. Maybe next year... get Kort to teach a tea workshop for continuing ed and I can hang out in workshops. We were there in the last days of the big white tent pitched on the lawn adjoining C.U. Looking forward to seeing Naropa friends Andrew and Jack at our wedding next month.
Last year, on my way out of Boston to Dallas, I applied for a job at the arts organization that I used to work at and was passed over for someone who was more immediately available (already in Dallas, though I was due to arrive 1-2 weeks later), had "more grants experience", and who was also a writer/grad from SAIC, fresh from graduation. I felt like that last detail about SAIC was particularly dangled in my face, as if to say, Ms. Pai, on paper and in person you're no different or more unique than the next candidate. My internal dialogue back then was dude, you're going to hire a novelist who's trying to finish her first novel instead of a poet who could build interdisciplinary programs? And you think that she won't have more commitment issues than me (who had already worked for said organization and proved one's self)? So while surfing blogs today, I discovered, that as predicted and foreseen almost 1 year ago, Yvonne left her job after the season ended and is now cranking on finishing that novel that took the backseat for a year and loving her new job. Sounds like how Equivalence got written. So is arts admin just not a culture suitable for or structured enough to support the needs and the temperament of serious, dedicated artists?
Sacrilegious?
Queen is Dead is the first album that I ever acquired - a gift from my older brother when I was 13. What would Morrissey think of this whole thing?
Queen is Dead is the first album that I ever acquired - a gift from my older brother when I was 13. What would Morrissey think of this whole thing?
Sad news of the closing of Penny Lane in Boulder, gathering place of poets, musicians and Boulder locals...
A day in the life of the legendary coffee shop
By Jennie Dorris, Aimee Heckel and Vanessa Miller, Camera Staff Writers
July 10, 2005
EDITOR'S NOTE: Few places in Boulder offer as eclectic a view into what our town is and has been as the cafe on the corner of 18th and Pearl streets. To mark Penny Lane's closing, Camera journalists decided to spend one full day there, to see what it means to the regulars, from their first cup of coffee until the last open-mic act.
An army-green sleeping bag, zipped up fully, is sitting upright on the park bench at 18th and Pearl streets. It is swaying gently in the initial flow of the 5:30 a.m. sun. It rustles, and the cocoon gets slightly unzipped to reveal the small head of an old man. His face is all but concealed by large plastic goggles held in place with an elastic band.
Cowboy Bob is awake, and he's waiting for Penny Lane to wake up, too.
"I normally don't talk before I've had my second cup of coffee," he says. But he continues immediately, rattling off the headlines from the nearby newspaper stands and unzipping his sleeping bag further to reveal a light blue denim shirt and overalls. In his hand is the burned end of a hand-rolled cigarette.
Bob looks down at his sleeping bag and picks at a stray feather poking through. He is planning to start a business making down-feather socks.
"I've got a million dollars in goose-down feathers right here," he says.
At 6:15 a.m. the dark and roasty smell of the first pot of coffee of the day mixes with the increasing sunlight, and the doors of Penny Lane are propped open. Bob wanders inside.
He is walking through the same doors that were a conduit for legendary beat poet Allen Ginsberg's fiery readings and one of Nirvana's early grunge-rock concerts.
This café's reputation is pillared by the cultural icons that have performed on its stage, but its core is a layered collection of the patrons that have used it as their living room. In the words of customer David Wolf: "The locals just left a little piece of their soul, and it's all meshed together to be whatever this place is."
Penny Lane's doors will close for the final time this month, its owner says. A failure to renegotiate a lease will leave the 24-year-old cafe without a home and its many regulars with a void. They face losing their favorite cup of joe, their second home and, for some, a launching pad to musical and artistic fame.
The day begins
A Pontiac Firebird parks in front and RE/MAX Realtor Daryl Smith gets out and strolls in for Penny Lane's first cup of coffee. He stays inside, sitting alone at a table and reading the paper. He's been coming to Penny Lane for 15 years but admits he's not the typical customer.
"I'm not much for the evening festivities," he says. "But this is the best coffee in town."
Outside, barista Micha Farfour unstacks the tables and puts the chairs into place. All match except for three, which have larger fan-shaped backs.
The patio fills quickly. A motorcycle pulls up, parking directly in front on the sidewalk. The rider walks onto the patio.
"Good morning," he says to no one in particular, punctuating the remark with an expletive.
Two guys in the corner make room for him to sit down. The three middle-aged men met at Penny Lane and have been mid-morning friends since then.
"We mainly get three things done here," says R.V. Saxton, leaning back in his chair. "Griping, moaning and complaining."
The patio's crowd thickens, and the conversation moves from complaining about work to dissecting the shark attacks in recent news stories to the stale-eyed murmurs of "mmhmm, yeah man, yeah."
"You know, maybe it's a good thing this place is closing," Saxton says. "Do you know how many hundreds of hours I've wasted here?"
Dave King, who hosts Penny Lane's semi-weekly open stage nights, trades his chair for one of the fan-backs, which turn out to be hot commodities among the regulars.
"I think what Penny Lane is won't become apparent at first," he says of the shop's closure. "A place changes, and the magic isn't there to draw the people anymore. The charm of Boulder used to be that it was funky, and rough-edged, and this is one of the last places to have that."
Penny Lane's founder didn't set out to make it that way. In 1981, the business was a copy store with a few chairs and a pot of black coffee. Traveling musicians stopped by and found an open ear. And no one shooed away homeless teens or dreadlocked wanderers. Penny Lane quickly became the official hangout for those who had no place to hang out.
Today, the aged cream Penny Lane sign sits in calm antiquation below the white vinyl "For Lease" sign.
Cowboy Bob walks by, dragging his sleeping bag and scattering bits of feathers behind him.
What's lost
Susan Hendrickson's ice cream melts before she can pay for it.
At 11:30 a.m., it's hot inside. But the metal chairs on the patio are worse. They're skillets.
The morning crew has been replaced by younger faces, a dozen staring at laptops. Coffee is now strawberry iced tea.
Over ice cream soup, Hendrickson is planning her sister's funeral. She was holding the 56-year-old woman's hand when she died of leukemia the previous day.
"Everyone knows her, believe me," Hendrickson says. She turns to the baristas. "You guys know Chris Hendrickson? Remember Chris Hendrickson? Um, the hippie with the glasses, long hair?"
Barista Sean Mackey doesn't remember, until Hendrickson slides her laptop across the sticky copper countertop, her sister's face glowing on the screen.
"Oh, wheatgrass and _mocha," Mackey says. "But I just saw her on Friday."
In the back of the room, Todd McDonald sits alone over a laptop, just waiting - for anything, really. Things have been pretty boring since he lost his job at IBM a few weeks ago.
"If you wait long enough, one of your friends will show up, or someone you can just talk to and hang out with," he says.
It seems everyone here is seeking some sort of structure to deal with a loss. A death. A job. The imminent evaporation of what they call "old Boulder," before it was so expensive, before Starbucks opened several blocks west on Pearl Street.
Back at the counter, someone wrote, "We don't resist change" on the tip jar. They lied.
"That's how we make more tips," says barista Danny Shafer. "Actually, I hate it. I hate change."
Shafer has worked at Penny Lane since he was 22. He's 37 now.
His co-worker Johnny Jenkins has worked here for 18 years.
"It's not like I just love hippies or homeless people or dirty people or crazy people," Jenkins says.
And he doesn't think that's the case for owner Isadore Million, either.
"I don't think he said to himself 20 years ago, 'I think I'll open up a free-range mental asylum,'" Jenkins says. "I think he just has a very open heart."
There are three questions Million won't give a straight answer to: What's his age (he's 77); how often do they wash the cups (only on Tuesdays, someone jokes); and why exactly Penny Lane is closing (a rent increase of at least 40 percent, although the landlord won't comment either).
"I have to realize that the end is in sight," Million says. "That's all there is to it, and I'm accepting it."
Tears fill his eyes, and he turns his head away.
Forest Engstrom, 16, arrives. His parents were the first to perform here 24 years ago. He wants to be Penny Lane's last performer.
He and Emily Owens, 17, say they're going to open their own shop and call it Strawberry Fields. They don't have the money. But like other regulars, they both think something magical will happen, that someone will sweep down and save it.
Emily doodles on a notebook in the corner, in between bumming at least nine cigarettes this hour. A plaid hat droops over her eyes and glasses. Layers of clothes devour her.
Sometimes Emily feels like she owns Penny Lane. She used to ditch Boulder High School and come here to escape the "social drama." That was before she dropped out.
"This place is just like heaven," she says, holding two cigarettes in one hand and an iced coffee in the other. "You can escape from hell if you need to."
Her cell phone rings. It's her mom.
"Is there any possibility we can have dinner together tomorrow, because I'm kind of busy right now," she says.
When Penny Lane shuts down, Emily says she'll make coffee at home, walk the two miles south and drink it on this patio. No matter what business takes over.
What's gained
The cafe's lights dim as the sun sets, and the names of musicians hoping for a slot on the "open mic" playlist are scrawled on a yellow notepad near the elevated stage.
That stage, now empty and prepped for an evening of performances, has for years hosted beat poets, bands and aspiring solo musicians. For William Mallory, a coveted spot before tonight's crowd could be his launching pad, too.
Mallory hovers face down over his keyboard, the top of his hat greeting the growing audience of high schoolers, regulars, baristas and passers-by who halt conversations, click shut cell phones and come in from the breeze to circle the stage.
Mallory's head lifts, and he introduces himself. Grins. Taps his foot. And rolls. Quick notes flow through the room. He plays with eyes closed. The melody tilts heads and taps toes, before heading outside and dissipating in the street.
"They have the best open mics here. I don't know where people will go next," Mallory says. "But all things must pass. It's hit its end."
Penny Lane's passing almost came in 1994, after the cafe closed because of neighbors' complaints about people loitering outside. But community outcry convinced Penny Lane's owner to reopen across the street three months later.
"Penny Lane is a lucky place, that's for sure," he says. "Like that. And the people you meet. And you sometimes find a puppy."
And you sometimes find your way, DeAngelis said. It could be your way to understanding. Your way into a relationship. Your way to success.
For the 34-year-old from Boulder, "the Lane" was a road he traveled down - a passage he traversed.
"It's been a conduit. A freeway," DeAngelis says.
As the entertainment winds down, patrons head out the door and into the street. Baristas stack the chairs and shut off the lights. Penny Lane is closed, but the customers linger on the patio.
A day in the life of the legendary coffee shop
By Jennie Dorris, Aimee Heckel and Vanessa Miller, Camera Staff Writers
July 10, 2005
EDITOR'S NOTE: Few places in Boulder offer as eclectic a view into what our town is and has been as the cafe on the corner of 18th and Pearl streets. To mark Penny Lane's closing, Camera journalists decided to spend one full day there, to see what it means to the regulars, from their first cup of coffee until the last open-mic act.
An army-green sleeping bag, zipped up fully, is sitting upright on the park bench at 18th and Pearl streets. It is swaying gently in the initial flow of the 5:30 a.m. sun. It rustles, and the cocoon gets slightly unzipped to reveal the small head of an old man. His face is all but concealed by large plastic goggles held in place with an elastic band.
Cowboy Bob is awake, and he's waiting for Penny Lane to wake up, too.
"I normally don't talk before I've had my second cup of coffee," he says. But he continues immediately, rattling off the headlines from the nearby newspaper stands and unzipping his sleeping bag further to reveal a light blue denim shirt and overalls. In his hand is the burned end of a hand-rolled cigarette.
Bob looks down at his sleeping bag and picks at a stray feather poking through. He is planning to start a business making down-feather socks.
"I've got a million dollars in goose-down feathers right here," he says.
At 6:15 a.m. the dark and roasty smell of the first pot of coffee of the day mixes with the increasing sunlight, and the doors of Penny Lane are propped open. Bob wanders inside.
He is walking through the same doors that were a conduit for legendary beat poet Allen Ginsberg's fiery readings and one of Nirvana's early grunge-rock concerts.
This café's reputation is pillared by the cultural icons that have performed on its stage, but its core is a layered collection of the patrons that have used it as their living room. In the words of customer David Wolf: "The locals just left a little piece of their soul, and it's all meshed together to be whatever this place is."
Penny Lane's doors will close for the final time this month, its owner says. A failure to renegotiate a lease will leave the 24-year-old cafe without a home and its many regulars with a void. They face losing their favorite cup of joe, their second home and, for some, a launching pad to musical and artistic fame.
The day begins
A Pontiac Firebird parks in front and RE/MAX Realtor Daryl Smith gets out and strolls in for Penny Lane's first cup of coffee. He stays inside, sitting alone at a table and reading the paper. He's been coming to Penny Lane for 15 years but admits he's not the typical customer.
"I'm not much for the evening festivities," he says. "But this is the best coffee in town."
Outside, barista Micha Farfour unstacks the tables and puts the chairs into place. All match except for three, which have larger fan-shaped backs.
The patio fills quickly. A motorcycle pulls up, parking directly in front on the sidewalk. The rider walks onto the patio.
"Good morning," he says to no one in particular, punctuating the remark with an expletive.
Two guys in the corner make room for him to sit down. The three middle-aged men met at Penny Lane and have been mid-morning friends since then.
"We mainly get three things done here," says R.V. Saxton, leaning back in his chair. "Griping, moaning and complaining."
The patio's crowd thickens, and the conversation moves from complaining about work to dissecting the shark attacks in recent news stories to the stale-eyed murmurs of "mmhmm, yeah man, yeah."
"You know, maybe it's a good thing this place is closing," Saxton says. "Do you know how many hundreds of hours I've wasted here?"
Dave King, who hosts Penny Lane's semi-weekly open stage nights, trades his chair for one of the fan-backs, which turn out to be hot commodities among the regulars.
"I think what Penny Lane is won't become apparent at first," he says of the shop's closure. "A place changes, and the magic isn't there to draw the people anymore. The charm of Boulder used to be that it was funky, and rough-edged, and this is one of the last places to have that."
Penny Lane's founder didn't set out to make it that way. In 1981, the business was a copy store with a few chairs and a pot of black coffee. Traveling musicians stopped by and found an open ear. And no one shooed away homeless teens or dreadlocked wanderers. Penny Lane quickly became the official hangout for those who had no place to hang out.
Today, the aged cream Penny Lane sign sits in calm antiquation below the white vinyl "For Lease" sign.
Cowboy Bob walks by, dragging his sleeping bag and scattering bits of feathers behind him.
What's lost
Susan Hendrickson's ice cream melts before she can pay for it.
At 11:30 a.m., it's hot inside. But the metal chairs on the patio are worse. They're skillets.
The morning crew has been replaced by younger faces, a dozen staring at laptops. Coffee is now strawberry iced tea.
Over ice cream soup, Hendrickson is planning her sister's funeral. She was holding the 56-year-old woman's hand when she died of leukemia the previous day.
"Everyone knows her, believe me," Hendrickson says. She turns to the baristas. "You guys know Chris Hendrickson? Remember Chris Hendrickson? Um, the hippie with the glasses, long hair?"
Barista Sean Mackey doesn't remember, until Hendrickson slides her laptop across the sticky copper countertop, her sister's face glowing on the screen.
"Oh, wheatgrass and _mocha," Mackey says. "But I just saw her on Friday."
In the back of the room, Todd McDonald sits alone over a laptop, just waiting - for anything, really. Things have been pretty boring since he lost his job at IBM a few weeks ago.
"If you wait long enough, one of your friends will show up, or someone you can just talk to and hang out with," he says.
It seems everyone here is seeking some sort of structure to deal with a loss. A death. A job. The imminent evaporation of what they call "old Boulder," before it was so expensive, before Starbucks opened several blocks west on Pearl Street.
Back at the counter, someone wrote, "We don't resist change" on the tip jar. They lied.
"That's how we make more tips," says barista Danny Shafer. "Actually, I hate it. I hate change."
Shafer has worked at Penny Lane since he was 22. He's 37 now.
His co-worker Johnny Jenkins has worked here for 18 years.
"It's not like I just love hippies or homeless people or dirty people or crazy people," Jenkins says.
And he doesn't think that's the case for owner Isadore Million, either.
"I don't think he said to himself 20 years ago, 'I think I'll open up a free-range mental asylum,'" Jenkins says. "I think he just has a very open heart."
There are three questions Million won't give a straight answer to: What's his age (he's 77); how often do they wash the cups (only on Tuesdays, someone jokes); and why exactly Penny Lane is closing (a rent increase of at least 40 percent, although the landlord won't comment either).
"I have to realize that the end is in sight," Million says. "That's all there is to it, and I'm accepting it."
Tears fill his eyes, and he turns his head away.
Forest Engstrom, 16, arrives. His parents were the first to perform here 24 years ago. He wants to be Penny Lane's last performer.
He and Emily Owens, 17, say they're going to open their own shop and call it Strawberry Fields. They don't have the money. But like other regulars, they both think something magical will happen, that someone will sweep down and save it.
Emily doodles on a notebook in the corner, in between bumming at least nine cigarettes this hour. A plaid hat droops over her eyes and glasses. Layers of clothes devour her.
Sometimes Emily feels like she owns Penny Lane. She used to ditch Boulder High School and come here to escape the "social drama." That was before she dropped out.
"This place is just like heaven," she says, holding two cigarettes in one hand and an iced coffee in the other. "You can escape from hell if you need to."
Her cell phone rings. It's her mom.
"Is there any possibility we can have dinner together tomorrow, because I'm kind of busy right now," she says.
When Penny Lane shuts down, Emily says she'll make coffee at home, walk the two miles south and drink it on this patio. No matter what business takes over.
What's gained
The cafe's lights dim as the sun sets, and the names of musicians hoping for a slot on the "open mic" playlist are scrawled on a yellow notepad near the elevated stage.
That stage, now empty and prepped for an evening of performances, has for years hosted beat poets, bands and aspiring solo musicians. For William Mallory, a coveted spot before tonight's crowd could be his launching pad, too.
Mallory hovers face down over his keyboard, the top of his hat greeting the growing audience of high schoolers, regulars, baristas and passers-by who halt conversations, click shut cell phones and come in from the breeze to circle the stage.
Mallory's head lifts, and he introduces himself. Grins. Taps his foot. And rolls. Quick notes flow through the room. He plays with eyes closed. The melody tilts heads and taps toes, before heading outside and dissipating in the street.
"They have the best open mics here. I don't know where people will go next," Mallory says. "But all things must pass. It's hit its end."
Penny Lane's passing almost came in 1994, after the cafe closed because of neighbors' complaints about people loitering outside. But community outcry convinced Penny Lane's owner to reopen across the street three months later.
"Penny Lane is a lucky place, that's for sure," he says. "Like that. And the people you meet. And you sometimes find a puppy."
And you sometimes find your way, DeAngelis said. It could be your way to understanding. Your way into a relationship. Your way to success.
For the 34-year-old from Boulder, "the Lane" was a road he traveled down - a passage he traversed.
"It's been a conduit. A freeway," DeAngelis says.
As the entertainment winds down, patrons head out the door and into the street. Baristas stack the chairs and shut off the lights. Penny Lane is closed, but the customers linger on the patio.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
If a poet is "good-looking", I will not be more prone to read their work, i.e. I do not read Li Young's work for his stunning cheekbones which is a conversation that arose previously on Ron's blog. And for that matter, I don't read a person's work based on their personality necessarily either. One of the strangest moments in my life was at a conference in Boston last year, when upon learning my actual age at the dinner table, Li Young blurted out how unfortunate he could not hook me up and introduce me to his single sons. Hmmm.... the gap between generations. I was nevertheless, charmed in other ways.
Digression over - Some are organizing a poet's calendar. It will be interesting to see who makes the final 12. How is this not its own strange exclusionary and completely subjective practice, as random as the publication of poems, i.e. what's "hot"?
And than there is an artist like Derek Fenner who is engaged in a portraiture project of the artists and writers who have had the greatest impact on his sensibilities. I am lucky to own 1 piece from the series, a portrait of Joan Miro. The mat surrounding the image is recycled from clippings of meat images from the supermarket pages and hangs over my kitchen sink.
Digression over - Some are organizing a poet's calendar. It will be interesting to see who makes the final 12. How is this not its own strange exclusionary and completely subjective practice, as random as the publication of poems, i.e. what's "hot"?
And than there is an artist like Derek Fenner who is engaged in a portraiture project of the artists and writers who have had the greatest impact on his sensibilities. I am lucky to own 1 piece from the series, a portrait of Joan Miro. The mat surrounding the image is recycled from clippings of meat images from the supermarket pages and hangs over my kitchen sink.
Frank Sherlock of the old La Tazza series in Philly has a new post on the Philly Sound blog. Check out the process notes of various "poem machines."
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Material Support Opening at UTD
Some photos from the opening of the Material Support show at UT Dallas tonight which documents the processes of the current artists in the Southside program and supplements the works in the current Conspicuous Production show at the MAC. Thanks to Gail, Kelly, Greta, and all the students of Greg Metz's Arts Management course who worked well past the end of their semester in May to make this project come to fruition.
Saskia Jorda installation
Saskia is currently continuing her work this summer at Skowhegan. This sculptural installation builds on her obstetrics drawings which she started during her residency at Southside.
Study for a photograph by Kelli Connell
Kelli's work is amazing. She uses the same model in all of her photographs and photoshops images together to create her finished images and narratives. Check her work out here.
working notes from Unnecessary Roughness
On the pedestal is a copy of my xPress(ed) book and tacked up on the wall behind it are the sketches for various vispo pieces including dodgeball and square it up, including several crossed out phrases and rethinkings of how to approach the sports and violence theme.
still from a video by Brian Fridge
Brian is one of the brighter and more professional artists in the program, with previous work in the Whitney Biennial and video works in the collection of the Fort Worth Modern.
painting by Baseera Khan
Baseera chose to show a finished piece rather than to reveal the aspects of her creative process. But the video piece screening in the show put together by Greg Metz's UTD students really highlighted all the artists' approaches to making their work and included some footage of Baseera speaking of her Indian Muslim identity. Though the footage was much more "raw", I actually preferred this document to Quin Matthews's documentary which is on view at the MAC on continuous loop. Much more time is allocated to each artist to discuss the issues important to their work and process. Personally, I felt a lot more relaxed talking to the UTD interviewer and noticed that she caught me smiling several times on screen - whereas in Quin's video, I have something of a permanent looking crease in the brow and irritated expression with pointed eyebrows while explaining my work. My interviewer Kelly also seemed much more interested in issues of identity and cultural representation and solicited the conversation that I was really interested in having. Yet the dreaded question which EVERY interviewer loves to ask me was still asked - what do you call yourself? Poet or artist? In the video, I reply, "interdisciplinary artist." Which is not unlike how I answered a similar question by a reporter on NH Public television 2 years ago - when asked which discipline I would give up if I could only do one thing, I said neither, the work is about resisting categorizations and being both. I really hate this question, and I think I will start answering the question this way - it is like asking me if I am Asian or American. It's not one or the other, it's both. So move on already.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Announcing Bruce Covey's new poetry ezine Coconut. Dig it! Issue 2 due out in October, currently open for submissions.
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