Art Explained to a Child

The Ladybird Book line still exists, but in the traditional sense, the name refers to a line of British children’s books that were published from the 1940s through 1970s. The had a standardized format including a listing of key vocabulary words on each page.

Miriam Elia, a writer and artist, has released the book We Go to the Gallery. It's a satire on modern art that in the form of a fake Ladybird book:

“I thought it would be humorous to see Mummy, Peter and Jane going to a really nihilistic modern art exhibition”, she says. Among the works confronted by the trio on their cultural outing are pastiches of Emin, Creed and Koons, through which they learn about sex, death, nothingness “and all of the debilitating, middle-class self-hatred contained in the artworks.”

You can see more a few more pages at The Independent.

Grief

I went to the store and the smell of the air made me five years old. Smell is so evocative and the smell of the air reminded me of walking in a park near my first home. I can smell Spring coming; a good sign for the day.

Then I do as I always do. I do my marking and answer yesterdays emails because I am freshest in the morning. And I turn on my favourite radio station that plays only Broadway show tunes (and without any commercials). And Mandy Patinkin came on, singing Lily's Eyes from The Secret Garden—heaven and another good sign for the day.

And then, as I write to my friends David and Bryan…. my hands go to my face and my face contorts and I am instantly in deep grief andy crying hard. It is overwhelming in the truest sense of the word.

I think about her all the time. Her loss makes me hyper aware of life, luck and health but I don't cry. I feel intensely all the time, but I don't cry. And then, if I try to write or say any words of affection to anyone—cat, dog or person—I burst into tears. I am triggered by thoughts of love.

Love and loss. I am orphan and that is what being an orphan is, to me, that's what life is to me: torn between love and loss. I get that. And we move on. I get that too. But I am not in control of the speed or the route.

I understand, yet again, where cliché metaphors come from—like grief coming in "waves."

But its all good. I am listening to Nathan Lane and Faith Prince singing Adelaide's Lament from Guys and Dolls, the sun is shining and I am cooking for friends who are coming for dinner tomorrow night. The wave ebbs. It's all good.

Grace (Slick)

Down Down Downton

Lord Grantham heading up a B&E to recover a letter that could damage the Prince of Wales. Really? Ladies Mary and Edith doing the shake down of the apartment. Really? And Bates not only an excellent forger but also a superb pickpocket. Really? And that forced bit of codswallop between Barrow and Branson. Lord Grantham giving ear to a his valet over his son-in-law whom he later says he misses. Really?

Come on, Mr. Fellows. Your prestigious talent is compromised by the deadlines required by a recurring series don't you think? Wouldn't you be smarter to follow the lead of the Sherlock team and leave two years between seasons? You have far, far more characters and time periods to juggle than they do.

Don't get me wrong. I love the show, its costumes, sets and language. Even at its worst, it is far better than most televised dramas to my thinking and, of course, there are no commercials. But with Downton over for another season and Silk now into re-runs, I'll be reading more.

I'm So Sorry …

"Oh Chris, I am so sorry about Rita." That is always the opening line. The speakers are sincere but I know their jobs require that they be sincere to another family every day. Rita lived in a care home for veterans; there is a permanent parking space for hearses in the back.

So then we chat, and they usually touch me gently on the arm. And then, softly, they say, "Have you called anyone yet? We need to have the body out of here within two hours." Or, "Have you decided when you will be clearing out Rita's things from her room? We need to have it clean by noon tomorrow."

I realize that every bed is needed. I realize that Rita's death means some family is getting a welcome call telling them that a bed has opened up for the person they need housed. I realize so many things…. like that I cannot say "death" or "dead" or "cremated" or any other word like them out loud yet. They catch in my throat and strangle me.

Grief is like an earthquake; there are tremors and then there are tremors. Some are severe and there are many just like a real seismic event. But this was a big one. It swallowed a cherished part of my world. Now I have to execute her will and get it probated as my final act of service.

Gone, like a kiss.

It's been rough few days but it is over. Dear Rita passed away at noon today. I am actually glad because yesterday was as hard to watch as it was for her to endure. She asked me to kiss her on the cheek and it was an honour. Other than that question, her last clear words were, 'I love you all."  And she passed whilst I was with two very close friends, and on a beautiful day. What a broad!  

Kiss Me

Yesterday (Tuesday) I went in again to see poor Rita. She is drowning to death, the poor, poor woman. She physically struggles for air; she frowns, arches her back and tilts her head back as if stretching her lungs to get air in, then she coughs this wet, gurgly cough and her arms and legs try to flail. She has a temperature so she pushes off her covers.

She saw me and knows I am hers. She can barely speak, there is not enough breath, but she asked me to kiss her on the cheek. I am glad she asked and I am glad she was awake so we had an exchange. She can't understand anything said to her, but when our eyes meet nothing else exists.

I struggle to be with her when she is awake because when she moves, she coughs, so I seek medical intervention. I want her drugged into sleep so she escapes the suffering of suffocation. And I worry about her when I am not there. Who is making sure she is asleep? She cannot pull her chain for help.

I did not cry so much this time, but oh, the intensity of my thoughts and feelings. I come home exhausted. Every incoming phone call scares me. Tonight, after my visit with her, I have to teach a class for three hours.