Art for Art's Sake . Music . The General
The Joke – Brandi Carlile
On October 20, 2019 by Speranza
The General and I were talking recently about how disposable music seems to have become. Except for the boldest of hipsters among us – the kind who listen to bands that are not yet invented and eschew everything but vinyl – there are very few ‘liner note’ devotees anymore. I have often been surprised when my own boys know very little about a musician they admire. I’m not talking about being able to recall what colours the band members like here but rather, more basic stuff like, say, their names or nationality. Instead it seems to be just a bit of fleeting interest they have downloaded and may soon forget about.
Art for Art's Sake . Photography
Imagine Finding Me – Which I Just Found
On November 20, 2017 by Speranza I came across a reference to photographer/artist Chino Otsuka recently and I was so intrigued I made a note of her name to pursue later. (Although this is nothing out of the ordinary. This is how I read these days. I sit down with an ugly stack of lemon post-its beside me to jot down
Five minutes to order a latte
And then you demand a bowl.
Steel wool hair.
Your ringtone is Mr.Roboto.
I leave quickly by the back exit.
© Speranza
Shaken not Stirred
Art for Art's Sake . The General . Travel
Zona Romantica
On March 14, 2016 by Speranza
I haven’t blogged for a bit because The General and I were enjoying a few days away in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. This is not a hugely original vacation I realize but we’ve been once before and really enjoyed the fact that you can opt for a sleepy, somewhat predictable winter getaway or, you can easily choose to peel back the tourist-driven veneer that first presents itself. We are very fortunate since The General’s hermosa hermana [sister] now lives in Mexico for a goodly chunk of the year so she can be relied upon for insider tips, off-the-beaten track suggestions and where best to catch a ride on the quirky, yet extremely stimulating public transit system which on any single trip may include a throbbing, tribal drummer, ardent guitarist, (not known to one another) a pizza purveyor and, finally, a smallish dapper man (think: Mexican Poirot) who got on the bus, addressed us all passionately in Spanish for at least ten minutes and then handed out Chicklets.
(Si, Chicklets).
Afterwards, there was a friendly yet solemn collection, easily circumvented with a return of the Chicklets and a “no gracias.”
I did have the very real sense that we had been in attendance at a strange yet exotic party before we had even reached our destination.
(A few times I emitted an involuntary girlish yip as I bounced up to meet the ceiling and The General suggested that our bus had been kitted out with four square wheels.)