Edge of Sixty Six-Six

Stevie Nicks, Born May 26, 1948

I have to admit I don't know all that much about Stevie Nicks, especially relative to what I know about most people whose music I like. However, I do know that just like Joan Cusack in School of Rock, I totally lose my shit whenever "Edge of Seventeen" comes on the radio. (And yes, "lose my shit" is my new catchphrase.)

The summer I graduated from high school I should have been focused on my job babysitting three young bothers, including a hyper active eight year old with a fondness for setting fires, but alas I spent most of the summer glued to MTV. They played Stevie's video for "Stand Back" just about every hour. I was obsessed with it. It had everything;  lots of twirling and shawls (of course!) and  a sexy male dancer in baggy pants and Capezios. Plus Stevie rocking out on a neon lit treadmill perched on an incline.

Given all that, really, how could I have been expected to pay much attention to those no neck little monsters? I suppose I  am lucky that the little pyromaniac didn't set the rooms all on fire (to borrow a phrase from Stevie) while I was busy practicing my twirling.

Snap Out Of It!

I am far too sentimental for my own good, and I think most people who know me would agree. But I can't help it, it's part of who I am. For instance, when I think of Cher, who happens to be turning 68 today, I can instantly access personal associations. Like the time when I was eight and my grandmother was babysitting and I absolutely forbid her to change the channel until the little cartoon video of Cher singing "Dark Lady" had finished playing on The Sonny & Cher Show. Nanny wanted to watch Cold Turkey with Dick Van Dyke. We had a bit of a war of wills. Deep down I knew I should not have been arguing with her, that I should have let take charge of the TV, but I mean, my God, it was Cher! It was Dark Lady! It was a cheesy animated music video!

My other memory of Cher is a little more bittersweet. The last time I spoke with my mom, I had been to see Moonstruck the night before. My mom didn't get to the movies very often, and so I relayed the plot to her in great detail. She seemed to enjoy the Cinderella like transformation I described and said something along the lines of  "that sounds just like that crazy Cher."

Cher is someone who is very easy to make fun of, from the abundance of plastic surgery, the sequins, the feathers, the distinctive but not really accomplished singing voice. Everybody does it, it's just too easy not to, and I am no exception. Even so, she is a survivor and a force of nature, far more than just a punchline draped in Bob Mackie, and I have a very soft (i.e far too sentimental) spot in my heart for that crazy Cher.

Philomena

Dame Judi Dench and Zombie Judi Dench

I finally saw Philomena a few weeks ago. It had everything; nuns, Irish people, old ladies, gays, politics, and its core, an odd couple who learn and grown from each other.

It's fun to see someone as worldly as Dame Judi Dench play a working class woman, but you never get the feeling that she's slumming or just putting on an act. She gives a really beautiful, nuanced performance, and of course she handles the brogue flawlessly. 

Something happened when I drew her. I was a little heavy handed trying to age her, and she started to look like a zombie. I did manage to tone it down in Photoshop, but I have to admit I kind of like Zombie Judi Dench.

The Boxer

So I've been doodling a lot of boys this week. Oh dear, that doesn't sound right at all. Let me try again: I've been making sketches of men this week, and I'm finding much to my surprise that they are kind of fun to draw. This is one I did this morning while thinking of a friend who was having a tough day.

Chanel Number 3

May 11, 2014

This has nothing to do with Mother's Day. I just found myself thinking about Jacqueline Kennedy today. Actually, that's not even true. I found myself thinking about her pink Chanel suit and pillbox hat. It's at once an iconic fashion moment and a symbol of a great national tragedy. Plus it always makes me think of a box of Good 'N' Plenties.

Mommie Dearest

Happy Mother's Day to all of you Mothers

A Rush Of Boys To The Head

WARNING: The following dream, while not really dirty, is in questionable taste.

4/26/14

I'm attending a party at an Irish pub. It seems to be a family event, as I notice several of my cousins. Chris Martin from Coldplay is playing the piano and singing. He stops to take a bathroom break. I'm standing by the bathroom door. He nods his head as he passes me and goes into the restroom.

I want to follow him in but I'm nervous. I look around to make sure no one is watching. I enter the bathroom with the express purpose of spying a peak at Chris Martin's junk. He's just standing there and I have a perfect opportunity at an unobstructed view, but I'm overcome by an unexpected wave of decency and pass up my chance to see Chris Martin's junk.

The next day I walk into a barber shop for a shave. Chris Martin is standing by an empty barber's chair, and gestures for me to come sit. No one seems to recognize him. Without words I realize that he has decided to live a quieter life incognito as a barber. Silently, I agree to keep his secret.

#chrismartin

Oh My G-yod

Today is Christine Baranski's birthday. If Barbra's birthday is Easter/Yom Kipur and Christmas all rolled into one, Christine's birthday is more like the Feast of the Ascension; we happily acknowledge it, but we don't totally lose our shit over it.

Still, I figure this is a good time to tell the story about the day I met her. It was a grey and cloudy Veteran's Day in the late '90s. I was crossing Lexington Avenue at 74th Street (just a block away from where I ran into Carly Simon a few years earlier) with my late friend Mel. About halfway through the intersection she starts talking literally out of the side of her mouth.

"Theresmizzbarnsky."

"What?" I had no idea what she was saying.

"Theresmizzbaransky" she repeated.

"WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?" I snapped.

She pulled me close to her until her mouth was right up to my ear.

"There's Miss Baranski!" she over-enunciated into my ear.

"Oh my God, Oh My God."

"Be cool, be cool," Mel instructed me.

Five seconds later we were standing next to the Tony and Emmy winner waiting for the light to change. I wanted to say hello so badly, but I know the rules. I really did not want to bother her, so I stood there with all the impatience and strained self control my dog shows when I make him sit before giving him a treat. After about ten seconds I thought, "Isn't this light ever going to change?" I couldn't bear it any longer, and so without thinking I darted out into the crosswalk before the light changed.

Mel, who was clearly much calmer than I, literally grabbed me by the scuff of my neck and pulled me out of the path of an oncoming taxi, bouncing me back onto the sidewalk about two inches from Christine Baranski.

Fuck it.

"Well, I didn't want to bother you, but since I just almost got killed trying not to bother you, I might as well say hello."

"Oh my God," Christine Baranski said to me, but it was more like, "Oh my G-yod!"

She was very nice. We chatted for about a minute. I told her about the time I saw her at an AIDS benefit singing a number about how she lusted after Howdy Doody.

"Oh my G-yod! You saw THAT?!"

I told her I hoped she would come back to the theatre soon.

"I'm on my way to see a play right now!" she smiled and she quickly headed up Lexington Ave in her high-wasted tweed Katherine Hepburn pants.

She was funny, well dressed, and personable when she didn't have to me. Come to think of it, maybe her birthday is a day to totally lose my shit.

May Day, May Day!

Excerpts from An Illustrated Guide To An Unmarried Woman

This year I celebrate Jill Clayburgh's birthday a little more lightheartedly than last year with some sketches that commemorate what was arguably her best screen role as Erica Benton in Paul Mazursky's An Unmarried Woman. Collectively, and with tongue planted firmly in cheek,  I call them An Illustrated Guide To An Unmarried Woman.

I just remembered something sort of funny that happened the first two times I watched this movie. I was around sixteen when An Unmarried Woman came on network television. I was really enjoying the film, but I was tired and I fell asleep before the last scene. I was disappointed to have missed the end, but of course there were no VCRs or DVRs and so I had no choice but to wait until it came on TV again.

Several months later, in the middle of the summer, it was the Sunday night movie on ABC. I was sitting on my orange bean bag chair watching it with my mom in our living room. It was getting close to the end of the movie, and my mom kept pestering me to go get the laundry out of  the basement. I waited for the last commercial break before the final scene, and then I sprang up out of my vinyl covered tangerine atrocity and ran down the basement stairs as fast as I could. I scooped the load of laundry out of the dryer and into a basket, then bolted back up the stairs into the living room, dropping the basket on the floor. I made it back in plenty of time to finally see the end of the movie.

And I would have too,  I really would have, if only I hadn't passed out, knocking over my mother's Fresca and hitting my head on the floor. I thought I was bleeding from the back of my head, but of course my gushing wound turned out to be Fresca. Even so, my mom was so freaked out she made my dad get out of bed and take me to the emergency room.

We were in the emergency room until nearly 3AM just so they could tell me there was nothing wrong with me (well, that's subjective) and that I simply had had a vasovagal reaction from jumping up too fast. But what really mattered is that I missed the end of the movie again.

Since that night I've seen An Unmarried Woman many times, including the last scene (finally!) in which Jill Clayburgh lugs an enormous painting (a parting gift from her lover Alan Bates) through the streets of lower Manhattan. It's a funny, poignant story specifically about a woman who has to find her confidence and independence after the marriage she thought would last a lifetime crumbles at her feet, but really it speaks to anyone who is tentatively trying to rejoin the world after great heartache.

It's how viscerally Jill makes me feel that heartache, and ultimately the sense of hope she basks in that keeps me coming back to this American classic again and again.

#jillclayburgh

Tiskets & Taskets

I've been listening to Ella Fitzgerald music all day long. Not that I need an excuse to do that, but today is April 25, which is her birthday.

I've mentioned before that I was lucky enough to attend her last performance in New York City in 1992. Now, twenty-two years later, and nearly two decades after her death, having seen her just once makes me feel connected to an era that was gone long before I was even born.

I would love to have been a regular at Birdland, seen Billie at Storyville,  swung with Ella and Dinah at Newport. On the other hand, I enjoy being able to survey their careers in retrospect and get to hear all kinds of treasures unearthed from the vaults of their record labels. It appeals to the pack rat/archivist in me. Why, just a few years ago Verve released four hours of previously unissued Ella club dates from '61 and '62. If I'd been born one of her contemporaries, I would never have had the chance to hear them.

One of the smartest people I know, with pretty exquisite taste, dismisses Ella because she "ran around singing about her little yellow basket" while Billie was running a cold chill down the spine with songs like Strange Fruit and Black and Blue. Fair enough, but on the other hand Billie didn't lead her own orchestra at the age of twenty-two like Ella did, she didn't have perfect pitch, she didn't scat, and she didn't swing nearly as brightly as Ella, in my opinion. Perhaps the most important distinction (and this is not a recrimination of Billie) is that Ella managed to stay alive and performing well into her seventies. In the world of mid century jazz, awash in drug abuse, racism, and sketchy contracts, that's no small accomplishment.

High Holy Days

On every calendar in the world there are a handful of days that are special, unique, holy. And among those holy days there's always one...one day that is so extraordinary, so festive, stupendously soul rejuvenating that it turns all of the other days into jealous little bitches.

On my calendar, that day has arrived. For today we commemorate that seismic shift in the cosmos that occurred on April 24, 1942. The day the world begat one Barbara (with three a's) Joan Streisand, just a few short miles from where I sit as I write this.

I have celebrated the day since I was about 14. Long before everybody could find out whatever they wanted to know from the internet, I used to tare through the almanac in my high school library and memorize the birthdays of people I admired. I can still see the tiny little print as I poured through dozens of entries looking for the ones I wanted: Ann Bancroft, September 17; Jill Clayburh, April 30; Eileen Brennan, September 3, and of course Barbra (now with only two a's) Streisand, April 24.

I suppose it was an odd pastime, but it's not like Topps made a series called Character Actress Trading Cards. Oh sweet Jesus, can you imagine!  

"I'll trade you a Sandy Dennis for that Thelma Ritter."

"No way! Can't you see this is a Thelma Ritter ROOKIE CARD! It's worth at least two Sandy Dennises and a Butterfly McQueen. At least."

But I digress...

I was very disappointed in the drawing I did to mark the occasion last year (it was a cute idea--Barbra wearing a Barbra t-shirt, but honestly I didn't put enough effort into it) so I wanted to try to do something special this year. I thought I'd try to capture Barbra in Yentl, which I'd never done before. But that didn't seem quite enough, so I tried to imagine her as Modigliani might have seen her. With his propensity for exaggerated features and elongated necks, Modigliani would have found a natural model in Streisand.

I'm not the first person to think of Barbra as a Modigliani. In the liner notes of her very first album in 1962, composer Harold Arlen (Over The Rainbow, Stormy Weather, Come Rain or Come Shine, and dozens of other classics) asked:

"...Have you ever heard our top vocalists 'belt,' 'whisper' or sing with that steady and urgent beat behind them?...Have you ever seen a painting by Modigliani?...If you have, do not think the above has been ballooned out of proportion. I advise you to watch Barbra Streisand's career. This young lady (a mere twenty) has a stunning future."

"Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale"

I discovered early this morning that it's not only Judy Davis's birthday, but also the anniversary of William Shakespeare's birth. So I did what any sane person would do and went to work on another piece. I should note that it's also Blair Brown's birthday, and I did once have an amazing dream about her while I was in Costa Rica, but that will have to wait for another day.

The quote from Judy Davis reads,

"When I first started acting, and we would all sit down and talk about Shakespeare and how great it was, I thought, 'Well, I suppose it is. It is if you get to play Macbeth or Hamlet. But who wants to play bloody Lady Macbeth or Ophelia?' And it struck me that most women seem to be required to pit themselves against men in dramatic situations, and the men got to pit themselves against ideas or God."

Judy Davis: A Prickly Banksia

It is once again Australian actress Judy Davis's birthday. As I said last year, "her alabaster skin and that pink/orange hue around her eyes that seems to suggest a terminal case of conjunctivitis may not be every man's idea of beauty, but I find her stunning."

Last year I also mentioned that I think most movies would be better if Judy Davis were in them. I stand by that remark, and never did I feel it more than when I recently watched August: Osage County. I am not bashing Meryl Streep, I think she's great, and somehow she's managed to remain a box office draw well into her sixties, which is no small trick for an actress. But rarely does she capture my imagination the way Judy Davis does.

And so on her birthday, as I salute this porcelain skinned Prickly Banksia* with a mixed media portrait, I hope her coming year is filled with great roles, and maybe some day soon an American stage appearance.

Last year I used part of this same image, but it was severely cropped and drained of color. This year I present her in all her alabaster glory.

*Prickly Banksia is an Australian shrub with serrated leaves. I think that describes Judy Davis pretty well. I love her but I would not want to be on the business end of her serrated leaves. 

Remembering Doris Pilkington

I was saddened to read in the Irish sports pages this morning of the passing of Doris Pilkington from ovarian cancer. Literally passing myself off as a journalist, I had a chance to interview her in 2002 at a press junket for the film version of her book about the horrors of the Australian government's policy of removing Aboriginal children from their homes to train them to become part of the country's workforce.

I was inspired when my friend Virginia, who used to review movies for the Washington City Paper, brought me to a press screening of the film. We were so moved, we literally sat in our seats for a good ten minutes after the lights went up. You might say we were moved to stillness.

There were publicists for the film miling about trying to drum up interest. I handed them my business card from Gloria Steinem's office, deceitfully indicating that I contributed to Ms. Magazine. I didn't actually say that, but I let them believe it. "I work for Gloria Steinem down at Ms. Magazine." This was technically true, as I did work for Gloria Steinem, and her office was down at Ms. Magazine.

As it turns out, no one at the magazine was interested in the interview, so it was published on line at Filmbitch.com. But no matter. I spent an insightful 45 minutes with Doris Pilkington, who couldn't have been more charming. Below is the original interview from Filmbitch.

A Talk With Doris Pilkington

The Author of Rabbit-Proof Fence Talks About Her Family's Struggle

Imagine you're eighty-five years old, living in a small Australian town, and you're about to see a movie on the giant screen for the very first time. Now imagine that the film you're about to see is based on your own life story.

That's what happened earlier this year to Molly Craig, and to Molly's seventy-eight year old sister Daisy at the Australian premiere of director Phillip Noyce's Rabbit-Proof Fence.

Based on a bestselling book by Molly's daughter Doris Pilkington, Rabbit-Proof Fence tells the story of Molly, Daisy, and their young cousin Gracie, who, like thousands of children before and after them, were taken forcibly from their homes by the Australian government and relocated to settlements to be trained as domestics and sent out into the Australian workforce.

The children were handpicked because of their racial heritage; they were half Aboriginal, half white, or as they're known in Australia, half-castes. With the aid of Christian missionaries, the Australian government continued this practice from 1907 until 1971.

Molly, Daisy, and Gracie were taken from the village of Jigalong in 1931 and transported to the Moore River settlement, some 1,500 miles away. Away from everyone and everything they'd ever known, the three girls were extremely unhappy in their new surroundings. Led by a defiant fourteen- year old Molly, they ran away from the settlement after only a few days.

Actually, they walked away. Following the rabbit-proof fence which dissected the country from North to South, they walked for more than nine weeks through an ever-changing landscape of desert, farmlands, and forests. Fighting hunger, rain, heat and cold, Molly and Daisy managed to stay ahead of the Australian government, which was anxiously pursuing them, for the entire journey.

Twelve-year old Gracie was recaptured and returned to Moore River just a few days sort of her destination. She died in 1983 without ever returning to Jigalong.

Talking with Pilkington, a light skinned grandmother who wore a blue house dress, matching sweater, and rain boots when I met with her recently, you can hear the hurt of an entire family in her soft but deliberate voice.

Herself a survivor of the "Stolen Generation," Pilkington says the goal of the government's program was to "breed out the Aboriginality," and the first thing to go was their traditional language.

"Every time you said a word in your [native] language, somebody would come behind you and smack you so hard that it really forced you to speak English," says Pilkington.

The film, already out on video in Australia, has had a palpable impact down under. "It's been happening all over Australia, " says Pilkington. "The journey of healing has begun for most members of the Stolen Generation. The memories, the pain, the feelings that were suppressed for decades have just come to the surface now."

"Two women came up to me at the Perth premiere and said, ‘now that we've seen that movie, we're going to find our other two sisters.'"

Pilkington was lucky to find her own mother after several decades, but knows first hand that many of the Stolen Generation may choose not to locate their lost relatives after years of being brainwashed by the Christian missionaries to hate and fear all things Aboriginal.

"We were taught that Aboriginal culture was evil, and the people who practiced it were devil worshipers and evil pagans," she says.

It was a shock for Pilkington to learn at age twenty-four that her own father was not white, as the missionaries had led her to believe, but was in fact Aboriginal. She was bitter for many years, feeling that the Christians had not only robbed her of a childhood spent with her family, but also of the ten years it took to purge herself of their teachings, time she could have spent getting to know her father instead of fearing his Aboriginal roots.

Painfully, her own sister Anabelle, whom Pilkington located after years of searching, has rejected her Aboriginal heritage and refused contact with the family, including their mother Molly who hasn't laid eyes on her since 1944, when Anabelle was just four and a half years old. Still, Pilkington has been in touch with Anabelle's children since the film opened and remains hopeful that a reunion with her sister may come about.

As proud as she is of the emotional impact the film has had on her country, Pilkington also hopes the Australian government will pay attention and make some sort of restitution to the Stolen Generation, and not necessarily a cash settlement. In Pilkington's case, the mission where she grew up still exists.

"Yes, a little bit would help, but we want compensation not in monetary terms, but we'd like to have the use of the dining room and a couple of cottages, and the mission itself, or some share in the profits now. We were child laborers there. Four year olds, five year olds. It didn't matter how heavy the task was, we did it."

For now, Pilkington is enjoying the buzz and good reviews Rabbit-Proof Fence has been gathering as it approaches its November 29th release in the United States.

As for that screening last winter in Jigalong, Doris Pilkington isn't sure Molly and Daisy fully comprehended the idea of actresses portraying them as youngsters, but they did appreciate the gifts director Phillip Noyce brought for them.

"Phillip brought Mom and Aunt Daisy frocks to wear to the film–their first time ever in long frocks," says Pilkington.

"He also gave them a bottle of Calvin Klein perfume called Escape."

Queen for a Day

Super quick birthday doodle of Queen Elizabeth II. Being of Irish descent I'm conflicted about drawing her, but I ask you, who can resist those hats??

On Wednesdays We Wear Black

NOTE: Below is a re-post of last year's birthday salute to Jessica Lange, accompanied by new artwork courtesy of my special guest artist Jackie Joyce, aka Jacqueline Patricia.

I love Jessica Lange but she scares the shit out of me. And it's not just because she recently played the sensual and sadistic Sister Jude on American Horror Story. No, she terrifies me for reasons far beyond the small screen.

Back in 1992 when I was living in Hell's Kitchen, I had two encounters with her. Well, not really encounters, more like we briefly orbited the same atmosphere.

 The first time I was walking along 47th street near 8th Avenue and I spied her on the sidewalk  with Amy Madigan, who at the time was her co-star in A Streetcar Named Desire. They seemed deeply engaged in conversation. Jessica was wearing dark sunglasses, and even though I could not see her eyes, even though  her head barely turned in my direction as we passed, I felt a shiver up and down my spine.   It was like crossing a black cat. She just sort of exuded a vibe that said, "don't fuck with me."

I did not fuck with her.

A few weeks later I went to see the play and sat in the second row. She got crappy reviews for this show, her Broadway debut. Mostly the critics felt her performance was too small to carry to the balcony of a nearly 1,100 seat theatre.

I can't argue with what people saw from the balcony, or even the fifth row, but what I saw from the second row was devastating. It was like a tiny, delicate, raunchy carving; a portrait in miniature of a lost soul.

I couldn't get it out of my mind, the horror of Blanche's betrayal by Stella, her final delusion  and her ultimate disappointment. About a week later I started having anxiety attacks for the first time in my life. The kind where your heart beats out of your chest, you feel like you're on fire, and you can't catch your breath.

God damn you, Jessical Lange! You made it impossible for me to keep my own disappointments and betrayals buried. You forced me to tare away the gauze of my own happy delusions and confront very ugly truths. Jessica Lange, you made me go to  therapy, and I fucking hate you for it.

That last part's not really true--I still love her. But she scares the shit out of me.

*************
Note: Today is Jessica Lange's birthday. It's the start of a 10 period of birthdays for some of my favorite people, including Barbra Streisand, Judy Davis, Blair Brown, Carol Burnett, Sandy Dennis, Ella Fitzgerald, Jill Clayburgh, and my identical twin aunts on my mother's side.

Lady In Blue

Lady In Blue
Billie Holiday

Last Monday, April 7th, marked the 99th birthday of Eleanora Fagan. Never heard of her you say? Well, you might know her better as Lady Day, or even Billie Holiday.

I bought my first Billie Holiday record when I was 21 years old. I hated it. I thought she had none of the clarity or dexterity of my favorite jazz and blues singers Dinah Washington and Ella Fitzgerald. But people whose opinions I respected thought the world of her, and of course she'd been greatly celebrated by critics for many decades. Still, I felt like the child who yells out in The Emperor's New Clothes, as I just could not see her greatness.

Ah, but this is how Billie Holiday taught me persistence, or at least to keep an open mind. For nearly a decade, I would buy another of her albums (cds eventually) every year or so to see if my feelings had changed. I tried early Billie, later Billie, mid-period Billie, big band Billie, small combo Billie, in concert Billie, and in studio Billie. And year after year, album after album, I was left baffled, still not understanding why she was so revered.

Then one year I bought a compilation CD called First Issue: The Great American Songbook, which was released in conjunction with a US postage stamp honoring Billie. It had great tunes like Blue Moon, Stormy Weather, Nice Work If You Can Get It, and about 30 more. Suddenly I heard the click, to borrow a phrase from second wave feminists. Something went off in my head and I just got it. I just finally got Billie Holiday and, not forgetting their differences, was able to enjoy her just as much as I enjoyed Dinah & Ella.

I'm not sure what it was about this album that opened Billie up for me. Maybe because the songs were all so familiar already, or because the arrangements were relatively light and pop flavored. Whatever it was, First Issue became a key that let me in and allowed me to go back and enjoy all the other recordings I had shunned.

Maybe you shouldn't have to work that hard to enjoy an artist's work. On the other hand, art can challenge us as well as entertain us if we're willing to put in a little effort. Ten years of listening to albums I genuinely disliked was a bit of an effort, but it's one I'm glad I made.

#billieholiday

'Cause Sometimes I Just Feel Like Doodling

Easter Sunday April 9 1939

Marian Anderson, April 9 1939

Philadelphia born African American contralto Marian Anderson gave a celebrated open air recital on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on Easter Sunday, 1939.

The Daughters of the American Revolution had refused to allow Anderson a chance to sing at Constitution Hall because of her race. First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt stepped in by very publicly resigning her membership from the DAR with a letter that read in part "I am in complete disagreement with the attitude taken in refusing Constitution Hall to a great artist...You had an opportunity to lead in an enlightened way and it seems to me that your organization has failed."

Behind the scenes Roosevelt worked with Secretary of the Interior Harold Ickes to secure the Lincoln Memorial as an alternate venue for Anderson. The late afternoon concert was a tremendous success, attended by over 75,000 people and heard by millions more as the bevy of microphones laid before Anderson broadcast her voice live throughout the nation.

The newsreels of the day show Anderson treating the crowd to Schubert's Ave Maria, and a particularly stirring version of America (My Country Tis of Thee) among other selections.

Despite the success of the concert and her heightened profile, it would be another four years before Anderson was finally invited to sing at Constitution Hall, and not until 1955 that she became the first African American to perform with the New York Metropolitan Opera.

I added the graphics from the concert's original program; It's a little hard to read, but that's Lincoln's fourscore and seven years quote on the left.

Oh Happy Day

 

My very good friends Danny and Greg got married today, exactly ten years after their first date, and I was honored to be their witness. In my one and only act of matchmaking, I nudged them together after befriending them both separately while we were all taking a class together. I guess there's a little Dolly Levi in all of us.

I have tremendous affection for these guys, and I was absolutely kveling with joy/pride/love during the brief ceremony at City Hall, which was followed by a celebratory dim-sum lunch in Chinatown (I kept hearing Melanie Griffith and Sigouney Weaver chatting about these Chinese dumplings in my head all day, but that's another story.)

Anyway, congratulations Danny and Greg, and thank you for allowing me to be part of your very special day.

A Birthday Remembrance

Laurie Hope Beechman in her Tony nominated role as the Narrator in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat  

I can't believe it's been a year since I wrote here about my friend Laurie and posted my portrait of her as Grizabella in Cats. Even harder to believe she's been gone for 16 years now. Luckily, her music and her memory live on.

This year I decided to depict her in the role that really brought her to prominence in the thratre world, the narrator in Andrew Lloyd Weber's Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.  I think this captures the spirit of her work in that show, although I've somehow managed to make her look a little bit like a Muppet.

As Grizabella in Cats; the piece I made last year along with the original sketch 

You Are Woman...

                         

Last one. I tried to get it posted before 3/26 was over but I didn't quite make it. I didn't even have time to make a proper background, however my little Barbra here is standing in front of a blown up image from the original set from of Funny Girl.  

I'm exhausted so here are the highlights: this dress is featured in the scene where Barbra as Fanny, a nice Jewish girl, is seduced in a hotel's private dining room and loses her virginity. It features exquisite bead and floral work, and has a matching cape that perhaps I will draw when Funny Girl turns 100. Good night and see you all in 2064. 

The Music That Makes Me Dance

                 

Musical theatre people in the know (i.e., people who agree with me) have long felt that the real standout ballad from the Funny Girl score is not People, but rather the lesser known eleven o'clock number The Music That Makes Me Dance. 

It's a soaring, bluesy ballad about devotion and, unfortunately, loosing yourself in someone else. In other words, a torch song. If it had been released as a single the way People had been, I'm not sure it would have been as big a hit. With lyrics like "and as far as the man is concerned, if I've been burned, I haven' learned," it has a darker view of love and devotion than the somber yet hopeful People with its "children needing other children."

I have to say...well, I don't have to but it's my blog so I'm gonna say I don't quite understand her costume for this number. It's a black sequined v-neck top with a floor length black skirt and a strand of pearls. There's nothing wrong with it exactly, but for me it lacks the precision of most of the other Irene Sharaff looks Barbra wore in the show. It strikes me as something she might have worn at one of her club dates in the Village more than a costume for a period Broadway show. On the other hand, it was fun and a bit of a challenge to draw sequins. 

People

A Slightly more Realistic Portrait

People was of course a big hit song for Barbra, and it stands alone just fine away from the show. However, I've always preferred it in the context of the story where Fanny and Nick both realize that despite the hustle and bustle of their busy lives and always having lots of people around, neither one of them has found true intimacy with "one very special person." 

The dress for the Broadway production is once again very similar to the one later created for the film. They both feature a dramatic bolero type jacket with large beads and peekaboo slits in the shoulders, along with a full, ankle length, iridescent skirt. The primary difference is that on stage the bodice piece was made up of delicate pink beading and the one made for the film featured a bold argyle pattern, as pictured below. 

I know I'm totally geeking out today, but I have to say it kind of feels like a holiday in my heart.

Don't Rain On My Parade

Now I'm going to geek out for a minute--as if this whole blog weren't one big geek out. 

The costume Irene Sharaff designed for Barbra to wear for Don't Rain On My Parade, the tongue twisting anthem that closes Act 1 of Funny Girl, is remarkably similar to the orange wool ensemble she designed for the film version. There are a few differences, such as the nehru collar and the centered buttons for the film version. All of the pictures I've been able to find of the Broadway dress seem to have the buttons slightly left of center. It's also missing the black belt seen in the film.

Interestingly, a version of the dress was created in green wool and tested by the filmmakers (see picture below) but ultimately scrapped in favor of the orange. 

His Love Makes Me Beautiful

I thought it would be fun if Barbra, as Fanny Brice as a pregnant bride in a Ziegfeld Follies number, was much larger and far more detailed than everyone else. If Barbra is on stage, I figure one wouldn't really be looking at the chorus boys and showgirls. 

#barbrastreisand

Funny Girl at 50: March 26, 1964

Backstage at the Winter Garden, 1964

                                   





I have drawn Barbra Streisand's face literally hundreds of times. It is my go-to doodle. My renditions are not particularly realistic but they are usually recognizable. I always start the same way: two almond shaped eyes with Cleopatra like makeup, followed by a long squiggly line for a nose, and an exceptionally puffy and wide upper lip. I've casually created her in pencil, ink, crayon, marker, sidewalk chalk, Legos, Lite Brite, and once even carved her into the side of a pumpkin (side note: the natural lines of a pumpkin are a good guide for Barbra's '60s era pageboy.)

Today, March 26, marks the 50th anniversary of the Broadway premiere of Barbra's legendary hit show Funny Girl. In honor of the occasion, and because it was fun for me to do, I've created a series of pieces (watercolor, pen, pencil, marker, but alas no pumpkin) based on the Broadway production.

Mostly I've used my standard Barbra face, with a few variations. I'll be posting them throughout the day. If you're familiar with Funny Girl, and if you've come to my blog I've got to believe that you are, then you'll know that it remains at the epicenter of Barbra's career even half a century on. If you're not familiar with it, perhaps these pieces will encourage you to seek out the film or the soundtrack. What a treat you have in front of you.

Gloria Steinem: A Birthday Salute

Gloria Steinem made over as her childhood hero Wonder Woman

[Tuesday March 25 marks the 80th birthday of my old boss and friend, author and activist Gloria Steinem. I had planned to post the following on Tuesday, but if the New York Times can publish their birthday tribute two days early, well then so can I!]

You don’t have to possess a golden lasso of truth, or an invisible airplane, or even bullet defying wrists cuffs (those are way too clunky to call them bracelets) in order to be a super hero. I’m sure these trappings of Amazonian strength got Diana Prince out of many a jam, but they are hardly required.

You don’t believe me? Just look at Gloria Steinem. She has been a flesh and blood hero to millions of women, children, and men all over the world for more than forty years now. Her weapons…no, strike that. Her tools have modified over the years and have included everything from a reporter’s notebook and pen, to a tape recorder, a manual typewriter, a Mac, a mimeograph machine, hand painted banners, a megaphone, and even a pair of tap shoes.

But don’t be fooled; just because her tools are comprised of everyday objects, that does not mean she has not been gifted by the Goddesses with great powers. Among these gifts, some instinctive and others developed through hard work and experience, Gloria possesses a fierce intellect, a quick but kind wit, a warm and prepossessing smile, an ability to make everyone feel heard, to feel that they can be part of the solution to just about any problem, and perhaps most helpfully, a highly evolved sense of empathy that extends to all creatures, on four legs or two.  

Perhaps on another occasion I shall write about why Gloria has always meant so much to me personally, but for now I’d be happy if everyone who reads this would join me in simply wishing Gloria a very Happy Birthday and thank her for always using her powers for good.

#gloriasteinem

The St. Patrick's Day Miracle

Gather 'round lads and lasses, wet the tea, or grab a pint of Gat as I retell the story of the St. Patrick's Day Miracle (this year with commemorative art!) Despite what you may have heard in legend, it has absolutely nothing to do with snakes.

Many a fortnight ago, oh say around 1997, I was working in an office on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I was of course wearing my green sweater (never orange on St. Paddy's Day--me mum would come back and beat me with a shillelagh if I even thought about wearing the protestant color on March 17.) Pinned to my sweater was my shamrock shaped button embossed in gold with the phrase Mazel Tov. I'm nothing if not multicultural. I was ready to celebrate. The only thing missing was a little Irish music. 

I had a small CD player on my desk during this dark, unenlightened age before the dawn of the Ipod, but save for one song, I had no Irish music with me. That one song was Carly Simon singing Danny Boy (taught to her as a child, incidentally, by her Irish nanny Annie Brennan) and so I played it. Again and again, over and over, relentlessly for nearly six hours.

I'm not completely oblivious; I did notice how badly this wore on my co-worker's nerves, but I was enjoying myself so much that I chose to ignore it. Eventually someone did beg me to stop; I didn't. I just turned the volume down a little.

At about 4 pm I had to drop off a package for a client a few blocks away at 73rd and Park. As I'm walking up Lexington Avenue it happened: the conjuring, the St. Patrick's Day Miracle. Begorra, if it isn't Carly Simon in the flesh!  And on the East side. Everyone knows she's a Westsider. Musha!

I broke that unwritten contract that New Yorkers have with celebrities. I acknowledged her.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but it's St. Patrick's Day and I've been playing your version of Danny Boy all day long and my co-workers are about ready to kill me. It's the only Irish music I have."

She was sweet and personable, as she always has been when I've met her at book and record signings over the years. We wished each other a Happy St Paddy's Day and went our separate ways. 

I could drink 100 pints, stumble upon a pot of gold, or dance jigs and reels until I'm green in the face and never have a more perfect St. Patrick's Day.

#carlysimon

Synchronized Swimming In The City

                                  

3/2/2014

I'm taking a synchronized swimming class in a public gym on Manhattan's Upper East Side. I'm splashing about in the pool with dozens of women, and all of us, including  my friend Sarah Jessica Parker, are wearing mermaid tails.

But alas, I am not really myself. Instead I am an impossibly glamorous African American woman. I kind of look like the girl on New Girl--the one that's not Zooey Deschanel. I have to say, my hair and makeup are pretty stellar considering I've been swimming in an over chlorinated public pool.

SJP has her hair pinned up, which was a smart move and I find myself wishing I had thought of it. She really seems to be in her element, as she gracefully executes ballet-like hand movements, while the strength of her tail work keeps her upper torso nearly perpendicular with the water.

Midway through the class I've had it. I lazily swim--if there were a word that meant "to saunter while swimming," I would use it here--so I lazily swim...Nay, swaunter, I swaunter to the side of the pool and attempt to climb out.

I call back to SJP, who continues to bob up and down like a dancer on point, "I'm not feelin' this. I'm just not that into it."

                                     

#Sarahjessicaparker

Hey There and Happy Birthday, Georgy Girl

                      

Remembering my favorite Redgrave, Lynn,  on her birthday.  I tried to capture her in her role as Baby Jane Hudson. I think I'm the only person In the world who prefers the remake of Whatever Happened To Baby Jane? with the Redgrave sisters. 

#lynnredgrave #babyjane 

Oscar Week: Barbra Streisand

                               

Oh come on. Did you really think I'd spend a whole week of writing about Oscar winners and creating portraits and not include Barbra Streisand? Shame on you!

Barbra won her Best Actress Oscar for her film debut in the 1968 film adaptation of her Broadway triumph Funny Girl. But it wasn't solely Barbra's Oscar; in a rare tie, Barbra shared the title of Best Actress with Katherine Hepburn. 

The footage of Ingrid Bergman making the announcement is priceless. She's clearly taken aback as she starts to read aloud, "the winner," pause, pause..."it's a tie!"

 A nervous smile dances across her face as she clasps her chin then clutches her chest. "The winners are Katherine Hepburn in  Lion in the Winter." Bergman places the "the" in the middle of the title instead of the beginning, but with her beautiful accent it doesn't much matter.

After polite applause she continues, "and Barbra Streisand!" The place pretty much goes ape shit. Streisand has the original Jennifer Lawrence moment catching her enormous bell bottom pant on the stairs as she heads to the podium, nearly going ass over tit (to borrow a phrase from Helen Mirren.) Luckily for Barbra, director Anthony Harvey, who was also on his way to the podium to collect Hepburn's Oscar, was holding her hand at the time and was able to keep her upright. 

Harvey speaks first. After he finishes Barbra steps to the microphone and takes a good long look at Oscar. The unmistakable sound of her jewelry clinking against Oscar can be heard just before she address the naked golden man with her opening line from Funny Girl, "Hello, gorgeous!"

Much has been written about the sheer and sparkly pant suit Streisand wore on Oscar night. Designed by Scaasi, who was also doing her modern costumes for On A Clear Day You Can See Forever around the same time, the outfit featured a large white collar, a satin bow tie, and over-sized cuffs and on the sleeves, as well as a thin black net lining to preserve Barbra's modestly. Unfortunately the lining was no match for the television lights and photographer's flash bulbs. Barbra appeared to be going commando, especially from her backside.

Though I don't agree, many fashion wags dubbed the outfit a disaster.  At least Barbra retained a sense of humor about the situation. As Scaasi would later write, "next morning Barbra was on the phone to me, laughing about the whole episode." 

A note about the illustration: it's from a color sketch I made, then altered using photo software, and finally   hand painted the edited image using a combination of watercolor, acrylic, and marker.