Uncle Walt, Remembered

I think one of the criteria for a successful museum is that a visitor will want to return for another go-round, more sooner than later. A second is that you recommend it to all of your friends and relatives. This is certainly true of the new Walt Disney Family Museum; which is located (oddly enough) in The Presidio in San Francisco. It doesn’t even look like a museum (or, at least, what we perceive museums should look like), being housed in what must be landmarked military buildings, although nicely cleaned up. The interior, however, is a thing of beauty; precisely and cleverly planned to lead you through the life and times of the singular visionary that was Walt Disney.

Fair warning: this is not Disneyland and it is called a “Family” museum for a reason. There are ten walk-through galleries, the first being ancestral. It looks to me like the Disney family never threw anything out as there is a lot of memorabilia on display, which conveys a mustiness and dustiness of that sort of material. There is also, thankfully and cleverly, a parallel history of the beginnings of animated films upon which Disney would later build his resume and, eventually, his empire. The overall chronological displays start with the departure of Walt’s grandfather from Ireland in the first gallery to Walt’s death in 1966 at the age of 65 in the tenth. This was quite a shock, actually, since his influence, and the ubiquity of his name, only burgeoned in the decades after his passing and, although there are exhibits depicting his vision(s) for the future, the journey of Walt’s life and the exhibits honoring it, stop in 1966. Kind of an “ulp” moment actually, at least for me.

But, fear not, in between galleries one to ten there is a lot of razzmatazz and the exhibits, some interactive, open up to the familiar and beloved creatures and innovation that those of us of a certain age can fully appreciate. The museum bursts into color and you would have to be a curmudgeon beyond measure not to have your senses rise to the occasion

Disney’s personal life is not totally whitewashed (the man was obviously a martinet of the first order) with an informational, and well presented, section devoted to his clash with labor unions and, even more interesting, a recording of his testimony before the House Un-American Activities Committee, decrying all labor unions as Communistic, which is a nice (negative) touch within the mostly reverential atmosphere of the rest of the exhibits. So the museum is not only a chronicle of Disney’s life but a whiz-bang history lesson that was taking place behind his artistic and business palate. There is some stuff that kids would like, I think, but the museum is obviously aimed at adults. Since I fall into that category I enjoyed the museum immensely and I’m sorry we didn’t have more than the two hours we allocated (which included the gift shop). Who knew? We expected one hour would do the trick nicely. I recommend it highly to friends and relatives and I guess I’ll have to pay another visit soon (see paragraph one above).

One nice touch, which I wasn’t going to mention but have decided this kitty-cat needed to be let out of the bag, is the excellent use the museum designer/architect takes advantage of a spectacular view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the back of the building. A floor to ceiling panorama along a glassed-in walkway has been pasted to the rear façade giving a boost to the senses after a couple of hours on one’s feet. An unexpected “wow” factor to be added into the overall learning experience. Wow.

Rhymes With Orange

Even though I hadn’t expected such cold weather in San Francisco, I had planned on buying a sweatshirt there anyway (all the sweats I own seemed to be really worn and frayed and, in the case of the pants, on their last legs). Perhaps I could find a thick, but soft, garment with some cunning local SF logo that I could show off on the streets of Gotham this winter.

Everywhere we went I fingered various garments, sometimes even in stores, and then we hit upon the official San Francisco Giants baseball team outlet in the Embarcadero Center. Even though I haven’t been a fan of the Giants since the blast and bloat of Barry Bonds, it seemed somehow fitting (XL) and, instead of my usual black or blue selection I opted (perhaps a lifestyle adjustment) for orange. When I got it home I dutifully put it through a cold-wash cycle and air dried it so it would maintain its color. It’s a brilliant orange and I like it a lot. Okay, wise-person, it’s true: when I wear it I look like a walking Sunkist orange, especially when I'm wearing my green sweatpants and brown socks. But so what? Squeeze me; tease me and sneeze on me with your sarcastic kisses, I’m wearing it anyway. I also bought a t-shirt from the San Francisco Fish Company (at their store in the Ferry Building) because I like their logo. They sell fish. They didn’t have a sweatshirt.

Cold Hollow Rules

A rhetorical question from a 92-year-old woman: “What do you give a 90-year-old for Christmas?” A statement from the spouse (95) of said woman: “You don’t give him green bananas!” Cue the laughter. The question was asked by my beloved neighbor and surrogate parental-unit who today received not one, not two, but three packages of edibles from various relatives, all in one day, via the now familiar stalwarts at UPS.

Although joking, the woman is absolutely right: Food and drink is always welcomed by the elderly and disposed of in the time-honored way. Luckily for me, part of this largesse is shared and, although approaching a definite codger-level myself and an obvious target to receive the tower-of-toffee from Harry & David, my preferred gifts are still jockey briefs and, if available, small Titians in their original frames.

Aside from fine art; fine cider is the best thing to have hit the front stoop recently and I am making short work of the gallon that came my way. From Cold Hollow Cider Mill in Vermont, it’s superb and one has to drink it right away or it goes bad. Zero chance of that.

Self Flag Elation

Since the wind seems to be gusting into the high double-digits right now I decided to bring in my Christmas flag to save it from whiplash. Yeah, I’m one of those people who displays a flag in the front yard, front stoop, or front window for all to see and, hopefully, to the appreciative titillation of passersby, both young and old. Not always seasonal, like now, but always colorful and decorative and sometimes silly and/or patriotic. The reason I do it is innocent I think (I hope) with no ulterior motive; it’s just that I like doing it. It makes me feel good and I’m always on the look out for the next new one.

This is my favorite holiday flag of all time and I mean it. This is my favorite of all of my holiday flags, not just the December ones. It’s cute and festive and has a nice blue background and, although it’s not perceived in the photo, there is a jingle-bell suspended in the middle of a circle cut out of the pompom at the tip of the hat. It jingles in high winds and even, sometimes, in low winds if the angle is right. It was this noise that drew my attention to the wildly flapping flag and its subsequent relegation to the safety of my living room. But only for the nonce. Fear not, I’ll get it back outside into its secure rack as soon as the current cyclone subsides. I so wanted to use the word “sirocco” there just for the alliteration but, for the moment, there ain’t one bit of warmth blowing around this old house.

Me and Me and Orson

Anyone who has participated in a live theatrical production to any extent, in practically any capacity, professionally produced or not, has experienced one or two major mind-boggling emotions that are common to the genre. The first is the almost total panic one feels before the opening night curtain. The second, if you’re lucky, is the euphoria you feel when the final curtain comes down and the audience erupts into genuine and heartfelt applause (and sometimes cheers), leaping to their feet and expressing spontaneous pleasure for what you’ve just accomplished. There is really nothing like it and, each time, it’s electric and a memory etched into your cerebrum forever.

This thought is prompted, not by any theatrical production, but by a movie. Me and Orson Welles, currently in one or two theaters in a major city near you (if you're lucky), depicts both of these theatrical moments and while watching them unfold you cannot help but suffer and thrill to them because of your own personal memories. Aside from these moments, it’s also a good-to-fine movie with two excellent performances from Claire Danes and, until now, an unknown actor who channels Orson Welles, Christian McKay. Zac Efron attempts to portray the “Me” of the title in some sort of teen idol way and I’m sure he’ll have the 15-year-old girls in his pocket despite an almost total lack of depth and expression. But maybe his presence will attract and have a salutary effect on his bopper audience and perhaps even further their appreciation (and understanding) of one of Shakespeare’s greatest plays, Julius Caesar. That would be good.

Bashing The Hamster

There is no resisting brilliant and invasive marketing. This hit home yet again when, this morning, I had the dubious honor of holding in my hand a sample of the new “Zhu Zhu Pet” which is, as everybody knows, the new “hot” holiday toy. It’s not a thing of beauty nor is it really all that well manufactured. It’s just a round, hamster-like, slightly fuzzy thing in a box that, somehow, every child seems to want under his/her tree/bush. Never mind that in a very short time it will end up under every child’s bed/dresser, deservedly abandoned as the lamest thing that has ever come down the holiday pike.

An article in, what else, The NY Times explains it all. Last summer, executives and buyers from Toys R Us, who order such merchandise, designated the Zhu Zhu Pet as the toy they would market commercially this year and they ordered a million or so of them from Cepia, the small company that created the faux hamsters, and immediately went into their insidious, but not so subtle, marketing mode. The method is simple. All you do is drum into people’s heads that a certain product is the “hot” new product until they start to believe it and, Voila!, you have the hot new product that people clamor for. It’s just that, in this case, it’s a toy. A small, furry, self-propelling rodent that is on the market because parents want to buy their children what, in their blind perception, they think children think they want because…well, because they are told they should by Toys R Us. Sort of circular reasoning but still successful, as this year’s sales prove.

It is ever thus every December, only the product changes; and they are totally decided upon by executives of toy companies who don’t give a rat’s behind about the validity or appropriateness of the choice; only counting on the fact that sales will proliferate due to their blatant marketing. And we are such mortal fools that we helplessly fall into the trap. We buy Zhu Zhu Pets. It will be interesting to see what happens next year and, trust me, the "hot" toy is probably already in the warehouses, just waiting for Toys R Us to tell us what it is. Personally, I vote for the Tickle-Me Zhu Zhu Pet.

Tower Power

Although he has done installations all over the world I hadn’t heard of Andy Goldsworthy before reading about the installation of his “Spire” in the “wilds” of San Francisco’s Presidio in 2008. I was actually there that October and had read about it but never made it to the site. That was remedied last week with first a drive-by viewing and, later in the week, a get-out-of-the-car and a walk to and around it. It’s pretty cool. Its location helps, being only a football field length up the hill from Inspiration Point Overlook which has, as the name implies, one spectacular view of San Francisco Bay.

As well as projects around the world like the Spire, Goldsworthy’s fame also rests on his “natural” sculptures, constructed of the ephemeral (snow) and, sometimes, just patterns of twigs and leaves placed on the ground or on the surface of water and then photographed for posterity. The “art” itself disappears sometimes within minutes of its construction. I’ve done it myself. That is, piled some rocks and flotsam together on a beach, or a row of seagull feathers stuck in the sand, leaving them for the elements to destroy. Maybe we’ve all done it.

The forestation of the Presidio is really not that old, that is, it was only 100 years ago that major trees started being planted, creating true forests of mostly native flora, chief among them being the tall and mighty cypress extant today. Unfortunately the planting was done all at once so there was a uniformity that, when the life span of these trees starting coming to an end, their decay was also uniform. Luckily, a few years ago, federal horticulturalists recognized the problem and started clear-cutting certain areas and planting new trees. This cutting has been spaced out over two year periods so that a pattern of new trees will come to maturity at different times so that never again will everything fall down all at once. At least that’s the plan as I understand it.

That horticultural lesson over, on to the “Spire!” In 2002 Mr. Goldsworthy noticed all of this freshly cut lumber stacked about and hooked into the area as prime beef for his type of installation. He has taken the trunks of huge felled trees and lashed them together to form the sculpture you see in the photo. It’s about 100 feet tall and quite a sight. The most intriguing thing is that those little living trees planted around it will eventually grow tall enough to totally obscure the Spire, returning it to the forest from which it was carved. This sounds really good, huh? Thinking on it, however, one realizes that it’s made of wood, dead wood, and wood decays pretty fast. In fact I noticed that some of the bark on the tree trunks that make up the sculpture is already peeling away and, of course, mankind has itchy fingers (including me) who insist on touching, tapping and testing the surface. Also there were some manmade nicks made by goodness knows what sharp instruments carried in the pockets of passersby. At least, so far, it remains free of spray paint.

So the main question batted around by most observers: is it art? Well, yeah, I think so; I sure liked looking at it both from various distances and giving it an up-close hug. Yeah, it’s art. Isn’t it?

Oh Tannenbomb!

Another memory jogged. This ceramic Christmas tree recently came into my possession and at first I was quite taken by its basic hideousness. Then it started to grow on me, as trees do, and I’ve even gone so far as to go on-line to buy replacements for the lost “bulbs” (little bulb-shaped pieces of plastic--$9.95 for a bag of 100…eek). It’s now sitting in the basement window with a timer attached to light up its innards 5:00 to midnight. I’m now applying the words “funky” and “kewl” to it instead of “hideous” because, well, it’s mine and I need an excuse, I guess, to put it on display, embarrassment be damned.

I can remember my mother’s friends taking up ceramics as a hobby in the 40’s and 50’s. Well, by “ceramics” I don’t mean original sculptures. I mean the purchase of basic bisque shapes, mostly cute animals and artsy-fartsy things, and then the painting and firing of the results. And voila! fairly cheap and almost instant gifts! My own mother, even after she started dumping her stuff at an elderly age (I’m feeling the same urge myself these days), placed value, and kept, two small semi-Asian ceramic figurines given to her by a friend way back in the dimness of my own memory. In shades of green I guess they appealed to some vestige of hopeful serenity in my mother’s heart.

In those distant days the ultimate project seemed to be these very trees and it was usually the culmination of many other projects before any home grown hobbyist felt confident to take it on. I don’t think my mother ever did one but I do remember seeing some in the homes of her friends and/or my own friend’s living rooms in Decembers long past. According to Mr. Google a lot of the trees manufactured in the 60’s included a music box and, sure enough, there is a non-functional one in mine, which is clumsily dated 1965, obviously by the person who painted it.

When I was in college I took a course in ceramic sculpture and, of course, that put me on the path of pooh-poohing anything store-bought and painted. Snobbery aside, I still think I’m right. These tree “sculptures” are machine-made in multiples of thousands and, according to my inadvertent research (in buying those bulbs); it’s a hobby still rampant in the burbs of America. There are hundreds of them listed on e-bay and, distressingly, people actually collect them! I really don’t think I have better taste than most people (after all, I do have this tree on display) but I continue to be thrilled by a Kandinsky here or a Klee there…and this fellow Picasso still floats my boat. Yeah, I know, your 7-year old daughter can do that; and probably your 3-year old monkey. But, hey, you’re an idiot.