Vancouver

I returned home recently, to sit in on the creation for an dance piece I'll be designing this winter. Here's a picture (courtesy of Chris Randle) to give you an idea of where we're starting: 

Coming home to work on a project is always such a gratifying experience: It allows me to enjoy the best parts of the city, to reminisce on times past, to reconnect with old friends and, most importantly, to give a healthy dose of perspective on how I've changed as a person and as an artist. 

Last night I sat in the tiny community theatre where I first got involved in the performing arts and saw a storytelling/music performance. The show was small and not very polished, but absolutely heartfelt and in the presence of one of the most receptive and engaged audiences I've seen in a while. It felt good to remember that this is where I came from, and to remember that a parformance -no matter what scale- is always a dialogue between the performance and the audience. 

More amazing photos

This time from Russia at the beginning of the 20th Century. Take a look at these images that are part of an exhibit at the Library of Congress.

American Depression

I was led to this Denver Post article by a friend of mine: It really is too good a research tool not to share.

I'm told very few colour photos exist of this period in American history, and it certainly is a refreshing change from the vast amounts sepia-soaked photos I associate with the late 30s.

A problem with the system

A good childhood friend of mine who I've now lost touch with, has a series of small scars from surgical stitching on his abdomen. Whenever anyone asked about them, he always replied "brain surgery". I thought it was a joke until one day he went to the hospital for surgery on his brain. It turns out he had a problem related to cerebrospinal fluid, which affects everything from the tissue of the brain to the vertebrae all the way down the spine. This was the first real encounter I had with the fact that something wrong in one part of the body can drastically affect another.

Now, as we've passed the two month anniversary of the beginning of the gulf spill, I find myself with that feeling once more. A short while ago a friend of mine and I crunched the (then underestimated) numbers about the amount of oil spilling into the Gulf so we could wrap our minds around it. We worked out that, according to the data, every 10 minutes enough oil spilled into the ocean to completely fill a space the size of my apartment. And now, as size comparisons are beginning to be measured in terms of states (the latest I heard was about an underwater plume the size of New Jersey), I pale to think about the consequences this spill might have. The damage to marine life, the ecology of the shoreline, and ultimately the US economy will be immense.

And if I may reveal my environmentalist colours for a moment: By now it is simply impossible for anyone to say that they're on the fence about offshore drilling. The scope of this disaster is so outrageous that, if it's done anything productive, it's clarified the real positions: One either has to be in favour of throwing the dice and risking an environmental calamity, or against drilling all together because of the chance that something like this could happen again. Commentators have pointed out that this is one of hundreds of oil wells in the region operating, as though that's supposed to give the industry some sort of credibility and thus put our minds at ease. Forgive me, but that gives me about as much comfort as discovering I've been standing in a field of landmines because the guy next to me stepped on one and blew up.

The frightening thing is that not only do we already know things won't recover in the Gulf for years, we don't really know when the problem will be stopped. Oil is still flowing, now at an increased rate thanks to the latest attempt to "cap" the well, and as of now nobody has any feasible plan to change that. The fact that we've allowed (with our tacit support of this industry through the political choices we have made) and continue to allow this to happen is terrible.

Winter and the Countryside

Over the last few weeks I've made a couple of sojourns out of the city. One was to visit friends in northern New Jersey, and the other was a recent tour stop in Burlington, VT. These few times I've been able to be in nature are so welcome. I think the excitement and business of the city tends to overshadow the fact that I am frequently missing trees and mountains. That's not to say that I'd trade my NYC life for one in the wilderness doing goodness-knows-what, but sometimes it's pretty tempting.

The winter is always a strangely comforting time for me as well. I love cold air in my lungs and being able to see my breath. When I was in New Jersey it snowed a good foot of fine, icing sugar-like powder and being out in it was exhilarating. As was being in a warm, snug house with good friends, shut in against the wintry night.

I'd never been to Burlington before last week, and it seems like a nice balance of urban convenience and natural setting. Of course, working on a show I didn't stray far from the centre of town, and found myself wondering where the "wrong side of the tracks" was in such a seemingly idyllic place. Here the cold was quite fierce (and, I'm told, was actually quite mild for this time of year), but I loved being out in it at night before retreating to a warm bed. Sitting at the edge of Lake Champlain on a morning off was incredibly peaceful - it's quietness and stillness reminded me a little bit too much of home for my own good, I think, since I got quite nostalgic for BC.

Now, back in Manhattan, I'm trying to carry those nature moments with me but find they're already beginning to fade. I wander about Central Park sometimes, but it's not quite the same (however it does keep reminding me that I should pick up a book about Frederick Olmsted one of these days). I hope the next month back home for the Olympics will leave a more lasting feeling and recharge me more completely.