So it's so long to New Zealand, this land of extraordinary physical beauty whose people have such great charm and warmth. I'm very sad to go! But as you see, I'm about to catch a plane and few of them have wifi so I'll probably be out of touch for almost a day.
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 131 (on almost wiping out on a hairpin turn)
A nagging problem which has dogged me my entire life: I have a hard time holding onto myself when constantly in company. Dreamt last night about feeling lost. I need to be alone sometimes, with a pen in my hand, or it all just rushes past.
But we're not going to see this child for as long as another year so I'm unable to break away from these group activities. Yesterday we saw one of the high point sights of the trip, Cathedral Cove.
In the 'cathedral' part of Cathedral Cove
To get to this sheer magnificence, Mr. Green drove us (on the left side of the road) up and over a considerable mountain (range) of hairpin curves for hours. After a long day of this and hiking, sometimes on steep terrain, for more than a couple of hours, we screeched to a stop on a hairpin turn at around 6PM (full darkness with our "shoulder monitor" shreiking "DAD" we drove within centimeters of a head-on with a sheer rock wall.
(The "shoulder monitor" is the person who sits next to the driver (the driver being new to left-hand driving) and calls out when the car is about to cross over the shoulder and into a culvert or to plunge down what New Zealand so charmingly refers to as a "steep bluff". I'd call them cliffs as they sometimes drop off hundreds of feet to the crashing sea.)
WIthout endangering my life, hard to show you how sheer the drop-off is behind me. Note tense body language.
I had the 'shoulder monitor' position for a while until removed from it by majority rule as my shreiks, loud gasping and frantic gesturing was determined more dangerous than the driving conditions.
On the path down to Cathedral Cove
The beach at Cathedral Cove
More at the beach at Cathedral Cove
We're staying in the beautiful and spotlessly clean Jacaranda Lodge just outside Coromandel town which has a famously delicious breakfast. Robin Munch has a gorgeous garden with seville orange, fig and macadamia nut trees and more, the names of which I'd never heard before (jacaranda, fejoia, etc). Robin bakes bread and makes preserves from these and serves eggs the color of orange marigolds from her hens as well as homemade muesli (sweetened and unsweetened). And she's lovely.
The garden at Jacaranda Lodge
It was almost 3PM by the time we left Cathedral Cove and decided against the borderline fast food café in the nearby town. When we'd just about given up on finding anywhere for lunch, we stumbled on this 'wood-fired pizza' place and had lunch outside. You can almost make out the tree laden with kiwi fruit hanging over the table. There were also trees full of persimmons and tiny birds.
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 130 (on being an official "security threat")
Leaving Dunedin with one of our grown kids for a long weekend (The Queen's Birthday) we were heading to the famously beautiful (and warmer) Coromandel Peninsula in the North. We crossed the tarmac to board a plane the way we had arrived, by one of those portable stairways. The sun was shining and I felt happy and carefree climbing the stairway to the rear of the plane, the way we used to in the 1950's.
Airports excite me with their smell of the gasoline, the deafening noise of plane engines revving, taking off and landing all around. I pulled out my phone to snap a selfie with, I hoped, our plane in the background. There was raucus shouting and I turned to see airline personnel in orange vests on the tarmac waving - at me? As they continued to call out, I burst out laughing (see below), embarrassed and grateful that they were cheering me on in this still uncomfortable campaign of shameless self-promotion.
Only when one of them charged the portable airplane stairs could I see that instead of cheering me on, the guy was displeased to the point of threatening. The phrases "$50,000 fine", "security risk" and "no photography allowed" cut through the noise, I winced, shouting "SORRY" and ducked into the plane, feeling lucky that he hadn't confiscated my phone.
Cheered on by airline personnel, I felt so well-loved ... until.
The Coromandel Peninsula is a few hours from Auckland.
I know it looks like a postcard but I took this picture with my phone. That's the South Pacific in the distance.
To get to some of the beauty spots, we had to take off our shoes as the tide was coming in. I was nervous that we'd be swimming in our clothes if we didn't hurry and rushed everyone through this morning in paradise.
Sights on the route-of-hairpin-turns that took us through farmland to the beaches.
These palm trees soared twenty or thirty feet above my head.
Ready for bed at 7PM here on New Zealand Standard Time, I held out til 8:30. More tomorrow when the forced march continues. #20somethingsInCharge
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 129 (postcard from Edinburgh... uhh I mean Dunedin)
Time for some postcards! We've been in this extremely charming small city, in the south on the South Island of New Zealand for a week. There's a chill in the air, it's winter after all, which smells of a mixture of coal and wood smoke and a feeling of sophistication and creativity. Some of the cafés would give the best of Greenwich Village a run for their money. Dunedin seemed destined to be the big city of New Zealand in the 1800's when gold was found around here which explains the grand architecture of most of the public buildings. And, fun fact, Dunedin is Gaelic for Edinburgh! I've heard that the plan of the city of Edinburgh was duplicated and laid out over the hills and valleys here, regardless of the topography. One of the streets, Baldwin Street is the steepest street in the world! It's near and similar to one shown below but I missed it. Rushing today as the children have us on a forced march. More tomorrow!
We took a walk up George Street to North East Valley.
Schoolgirls fill North Street in plaid skirts after school, some of them only in stocking feet. Barefoot in New Zealand is a whole other blog post.
This is just down (or up) North Road from the 'steepest street in the world'. It looks very much like this one, promise.
Sheep graze on these hills within the city limits.
HEDGE.
New Zealanders plant trees in the most gorgeous arrangements, all over the cities and countryside.
The train station in Dunedin
The Everyday Gourmet, a haven with wonderful food and a most welcoming staff.
The Everyday Gourmet on George Street, our favorite café. The name of their internet is 'Everday Whoremet'.
On the Octagon in the center of downtown.
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 128 (Why Kris Kardashian and I are 'Like that')
Things have gone rapidly downhill here. Remember that line in the New York, New York song … ‘If you can make it there, you’ll make it ANY where!’ Well sorry to be the bearer of bad news. This ‘cosmopolitan’ New Yorker would likely end up panhandling if abandoned here in Dunedin.
I (jokingly) thought the big issue in the Southern Hemisphere would be the rush of blood to the head, standing upside down just off to the right of Australia on the South Island of New Zealand. (next stop Antartica)
Not. A much bigger issue is the time change. From this picture, things don't look all that
desperate - late morning here, early evening in New York. What's the big deal? Well with my competitive nature, it's no fun to jump out of bed at 6:30 AM only to realize that everybody from Montreal to Miami has long finished with lunch. And then things get very bleak when I'm ready to get on social media and almost everyone I know is getting into their pajamas. I only know about four people in this whole time zone and they apparently have real lives, not looking to twitter and facebook to give them a sense of their worthiness like some people. The big wet silence from 5PM until bedtime is just incredibly lonely. Sort of like I'm on Mars.
And then, there's the ongoing problem with not being able to figure out how to cross a street without getting run down. As Mr. Green put it: "You never know where these cars are going to be coming from!"
And let's not forget the language problem. I thought, with my grasp of English, I'd at least be able to order a pizza, a regular ingredient of which is 'capsicum'. When asked, the young woman behind the counter at the pizza place obliged by translating: "Oh, that's peepers!" Peepers, I thought, pushing away the thought of tiny dead frogs sprinkled over my slice of pizza. "Peepers." I repeated. "RED peepers!" she filled in the picture. Grimacing, I recalled the tiny vermillion frogs seen in pictures of tropical rain forests. I guess they eat all kinds of different things down here below the equator. And then she returned from the kitchen with a cuttting board covered with slices of red pepper. Oh. Got it.
But the real deal breaker is, of course, the internet. Everybody knows you have to turn off cellular data or you end up like we did that time pleading with Verizon to forgive a $500 bill cause we'd asked for Siri's help in getting around Québec. Here in New Zealand, my snazzy iphone is sporadically downgraded to a camera. Connecting with our grown child this morning turned into something close to an epic failure.
Though my problem isn't with 'Bruce', Kris' eloquent three worder gives you a clear picture of my present state.
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 127 (on Nell Zink, my new hero)
In spite of reams of examples to the contrary, I can't seem to shake the thought that everyone worth their salt is successfully breaking out and going viral.
But then I recently read a jaw-droppingly bizarre and wonderful article, Kathryn Schulz's New Yorker profile of the writer Nell Zink. For an under-the-radar artist of-a-certain-age like me, Zink's story is ... uhh ... 'the breath of life' wouldn't be too strong a term.
To give you an idea why I'm so bowled over, Ms. Zink (age 50) an American living outside of Berlin, has spent her life (until very recently) writing for an audience of one or zero. And apparently, she may be one of the great living writers. Only by a crazy twist of fate, Jonathan Franzen came to discover and champion her work.
Laura Zink photograph by Gareth McConnell
In the New Yorker article, Franzen essentially admits that the New York world of publishing is a closed circle of people who know the right people. Or maybe Zink says that and Franzen agrees. Whatever. The point is that Nell Zink has spent decades shying away from/thumbing her nose at gatekeepers everywhere while continuing to do her work. A reaffirming secondary point is the insider acknowledgment (by Franzen) that closed circles of gatekeepers are a fact of life. The corollary to that is obviously that being an outsider is no judgement whatsoever of the value of one's work. During one of their meetings, New Yorker writer Schulz notices a single futon mattress on the floor in the room and suddenly grasps the reality of Zink's outsider-artist situation. I wanted to leap through the pages of the magazine shouting "MY HERO!"
Now we can add Zink's name to a growing list with the author Edith Pearlman who, at 79, is
finally getting widely recognized and a whole roster of women artists in their 70's, 80's and 90's recently featured in The TImes strictly because they're not as well known as they should be.
TOP ROW: Carmen Herrera | Agnes Denes | Dorothea Rockburne | Monir Shahroudy Farmanfarmaian | Lorraine O'Grady BOTTOM ROW: Etel Adnan | Joan Semmel | Faith Ringold | Judith Bernstein | Michelle Stuart | Rosalyn Drexler
I'm not going to use any of this as an excuse to throw in the towel with my 'go big' campaign, but I am going to feel a lot more relaxed doing it. And as we know from the example of our Kiwi friends, relaxed = sexy.
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 126 (Social Media for the Socially Awkward)
Social media has been a hard pill for me to swallow. I didn't sign up for facebook until The Louise Log was going onto its 8th or 9th episode. A year later, already feeling overwhelmed by just two fb accounts, Mary Jander browbeat me into signing onto twitter.
But social media looks like so much fun! How could it be difficult!
One of the main problems is my 'personality'. As best as I can analyze it, there are four main qualities necessary for success at social media. None of them is my strong suit.
1. Faith that you'll get what you so richly deserve (gives you the ability to be Cool, the sine qua non of a public persona, on social media and beyond)
2. Self-acceptance (makes it possible to write about deeply embarrassing personal experiences and insights which are, apparently, all anyone wants to hear)
3. Self Discipline (keeps you from going down every interesting rabbit hole you come across)
4. Executive Function (keeps you on track and on schedule - more on this another day)
So? Enough of the bad news. What do we do now? Take heart fellow anxious-isolaters, there's no need to despair. Twitter and a lot of the new social media platforms (looking at you Snapchat) are about having a conversation. Even we, insecure in groups, can talk to one person. Stephen Dimmick generously explained this fine point to me years ago: Do not broadcast. Twitter is not a billboard. Have a conversation.
But here's the $64,000 question: how do you have a conversation and feel a connection when you're writing to (a majority of) faceless 'imaginary friends'? I stumbled onto a low-tech hack: imagine you're talking/writing to one specific friend when you're writing a post.
In a recent conversation, Mhairi Morrison mentioned that before getting on twitter, she had gotten some help from a book (!). I promptly rushed out and bought myself a brand new Second Edition of this one, The Twitter Book co-written by @SarahM whom I remember from my earliest days on twitter. In spite of being somewhat outdated, it's a treasure trove of helpful hints.
The Twitter Book by Tim O'Reilly and Sarah Milstein (I resorted to a reversed shot on photobooth due to internet issues.) And though the book is on nice thick paper and a great compact size, to show off just how many pages I'd 'bookmarked' had to sort of mangle the stiff cover.
A number of people have been critically helpful in helping me get as far as I have with all of this. Being off in the Southern Hemisphere about 30 hours from my desk, off the top of my head I'm only able to properly acknowledge these social media mentor-aces (in chronological order of their help) Thank you for your patience and your generosity! Victoria Trestrail, Leah Jones, Molly D. Campbell, Alexandra Rosas, Sidneyeve Matrix, Stephen Dimmick, Mudd Lavoie, Mhairi Morrison and Veronica James. My apologies to others whom I've momentarily forgotten.
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 125 (on food and mood)
A loud clap and sustained crashing of thunder woke me at 5 AM but I managed to put off the inevitable til daybreak. Then Mr. Green and I set off on foot through a wintry mix of snow, hail and icy rain to find some breakfast. Even though New Zealand is literally one stop from Antartica, snow at sea level here in the south is surprisingly newsworthy. Don't know if I'll ever get used to 'south' meaning 'colder than north'.
We dashed into a little place which serves oatmeal, Mr. Green's favorite (the locals call it porridge) and we proceeded to the counter and to the solidly built man standing behind it. Wearing a t-shirt, tatoos and an apron, from his manner I'd say that he may have been a pirate in another life. Visibly irritated with us for no good reason, it seems likely that he and his bad mood had a hand in baking this scone.
Big as my head, don't be fooled by the lovely golden color or what appear to be raisins or candied fruit peel, this scone was was full of sauteed onion, scallion and maybe flecks of carrot. Maaayybe I'd go for it at afternoon tea. Part of it. At 7AM, it was a deal breaker. But I'm not one to admit mistakes or to throw in the towel and dutifully put away most of it. Five hours later, I still feel as though I'll never know hunger again.
Meanwhile the weather continues to cycle through the worst of what winter has to offer. I'm thinking about a nap and maybe getting back to that long-discussed 'highlights reel'. Pretty sure I can edit video from under the covers.
Pelting icy rain and snow NOT SHOWING UP in photo.
Here either.
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 124 (the Vehicle of Death)
In New Zealand and in the yellow countries on the map below, people drive on what the rest of us righteously call 'the wrong side of the road'.
Priding myself on a bodily or kinesthetic intelligence, I didn't think that adjusting to this would be a big deal. Wrong. I'm still marching out into oncoming traffic at crosswalks and have no sense (when sitting in a car) of how to stay on the left. So in order to get around and see more than we can on foot, we were grateful to be offered to be driven around, at no charge, by an intelligent and thoughtful young man, someone we'd met in the States and who's stayed with us there.
Today was the day that we were going to spend the afternoon driving out to the end of the nearby Otago Peninsula, a marvel of farmland on steeply graded hills running down to valleys and/or to the South Pacific Ocean. Due to my extra-length legs, I was offered the front passenger seat in a borrowed (somewhat battered) small Nissan sedan henceforth to be known as the 'Vehicle Of Death'. The front passenger seat, commonly referred to in lighter moments as "the suicide seat", has by far the best views so I took it willingly. I did note an inoperable side-view mirror out my window, bent in and de-commissioned by a thick wad of wide scotch tape which faced it to the door. In the States you can get a ticket for a non-functional mirror but New Zealand seems to (refreshingly) not-sweat-the-small-stuff so I didn't give it a second thought.
Setting off excited, on the open road
No need for guard rails here but a little barbed wire keeps the sheep penned in.
Wouldn't have minded a guard rail here but hey, who needs one for a 30º grade.
Drops off quite a bit more sharply here. A guard rail would be Nice.
Ten minutes after leaving the city and the nearby villages, the road grew narrower and turned to dirt with loose stones. Road signs suggest the road is not wide enough for commercial vehicles and that 60 kph (37 mph) is a safe speed. Hairpin curves, blind hairpin curves soon became the standard. Ever go on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disneyland? Scary as that was when I was five, it's got nothing on our trip. Unfortunately for you, at this point, when we were in motion, I stopped taking pictures so as to keep my attention on more important matters.
We proceeded along at what felt like a good 50 mph around the curves. Peering out just beyond the edge of the road, were drop-offs which sometimes looked at a 75º grade plunging down to valleys or the South Pacific. Over the course of the hour, I saw one twenty-foot guard rail, once. Generally between us and eternity was a barbed wire fence held up by some wooden fence posts. I later learned that my risk-averse Mr. Green's imagination ran to the recurrent scenario of our micro, light-weight sedan (think Smart Car+) rolling end over end, hell-bent for the bottom. Our driver, good-natured but apparently possessed by urges beyond his control, continued to attack the curves at immoderate speed, slowing momentarily only when our child, his friend, pleaded with him to slow down.
Feeling especially vulnerable in the front as we seemed to always be hogging the road (even rounding blind hairpin turns) I kept my anxiety to myself for political reasons. But at one point, the anxiety leapt out of me in a desperate, mute two-hand gesture to GET OVER. Our driver responded to my frantic signalling with a huffy: "What was that? Are you trying to tell me something?" He met my explanation with condescension, that there's a judgement call involved here and that he'd determined, due to the low volume of traffic on the road, that he'd rather drive down the middle. ALL WE NEED IS ONE ONCOMING CAR screamed my inner-voice on a loop. I redoubled the effort to repress my fears figuring that further antagonizing him might bring out an even more extreme demonstration of the fact that he was in charge here. I kept my eyes on the road, my hands ready to jerk the wheel if necessary.
We made it to the Albatross Center, we picnicked quickly in their café and set off for home before full darkness descended. (The sun sets at around 5PM here in late May ... think late November.) When I noticed that our driver was reading the map as we approached a hairpin curve at lightening speed, I blanched. When I took my eyes off the road to observe that he was enjoying long stares at the views out the side windows, regardless of the fact that he was neither slowing nor on a straightaway I felt resigned to the real possibility of my impending death.
But I'm writing so it's obvious that we made it back without incident. Now to deal with the prickly questions of the delicate politics of the situation and if Mr. Green and I can rise to the challenge of driving on the wrong side in a rental car for the remainder of our stay.
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 123 (the power of good design)
Mr. Green and I share many qualities, good and bad. A compulsion to get value out of every dollar we spend is one of them. So we began planning our trip to New Zealand with our usual frugality.
The first motels we looked at online, recommended by our hippie child, looked about three steps down from our American standby the Comfort Inn. They were spare and they looked clean but all I can recall is dark brown bedspreads, a sad pastel yellow something and what looked like fluorescent lights. It was sort of dorm room crossed with church basement.
Ringing in my ears were words about the importance of treating yourself with the utmost luxury after the death of someone you love. I made a great leap, extrapolating. A 30+ hour journey on four planes, crossing multiple time zones (and the International Dateline) to Winter in a city blasted by Arctic winds - it sounds almost on a par with facing a death. And so I decided that we're going for better than a crummy bargain. We're going for luxury.
I reserved our room in the only place which was consumer-rated 'Excellent'. Being a New Yorker, there was the nagging thought that the owners' friends and family might have faked the reviews. Hell they might have faked the photographs. I held my breath.
As our taxi climbed the steep driveway, it was clear that my fears were ill-founded.
boxwood marking the edge of the driveway
boxwood approaching reception
the other side of the driveway
Every detail of every aspect of the place is beautiful, impeccably cared for and of the highest quality. The drawers glide and close quietly. The towel rack is heated. The colors and textures are subtle and elegant. There's a small washing machine hidden in a cupboard which doubles as a dryer! If a Macbook Air were a hotel room, this would be it.
fabric on the easy chairs
I'm absolutely CRAZY about this sink. (detail of the photo of the 'kitchen')
alarm clock on my bedside table
view from the french doors over the city
another view
Most wonderful of all has been the shocking effect the room has had on my emotional state. Being surrounded by beauty and order actually makes a difference. Maybe it's only distracting me but it feels like it makes everything all right. My friend Jayne is always quoting Wittgenstein, that aesthetics is ethics. Usually I scratch my head over that but today feel like I'm totally getting it. We've only met half of the couple who owns this place and only very briefly. But staying here, I feel like I know them through and through. And I feel safe. They have got to be good and intelligent people to have this incredible aesthetic and to have the self-discipline and commitment to it to have designed and to maintain this place as it is.
It's okay that I'm still waking up at 3AM and dragging through every day. It's okay that we're on a bit of an emotional roller coaster. We've got this incredibly beautiful and spotlessly clean refuge to come back to. I feel smarter. I feel cooler. I feel relaxed and more successful. Tell you the truth, I feel sexy! By the way, the name of it, this 'motel' (New Zealand is very understated) is the Bluestone on George in Dunedin, New Zealand.
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 122 (Sexiest place on Earth?)
Oh my goodness, how have I lived this long and never come down here?? Well yes, it is a bit of a trip, the subject for today, but starting tomorrow look for a stream of snapshots and micro-stories of just why this might be the sexiest place on Earth.
Homeopathic remedy which seems to have made a big difference. Picture of exhausted person taken before even getting on first plane. Four planes and 31 hours later, was getting a little ragged on only 3 hours of sleep, but really... Mr. Green and I were impressed.
Crossing the (continental) United States.
Seasoned traveler in pajamas and slippers at LAX. Mr. Green observed him 16 hours later as we descended into Sydney Airport, headed to the lavatory with a pair of regular pants over his arm.
This small passenger and a two year old sibling kept the rest of us on our toes from LA to Sydney. As Marie Christine reminded me: how lucky I was to not have to be responsible for an infant. Or two.
Ummm. Judgmental me in overdrive. The 30-something behind me was holding a number of gentlemen in thrall. #PleaseLowerYourVoices
The object of my judgement on the left after all the gentlemen had returned to their seats.
Arriving in Sydney shortly. A little tired.
Oh my gosh we loved the Australians at the airport! But on to Christchurch!
Landing in Christchurch. That blue shed and the shorter grey ones say: UNITED STATES ANTARTIC PROJECT. Ahem. We're getting to the bottom of the world.
Getting on a 50-seater headed to Dunedin with my EmilySpray.com bag over my shoulder.
Falling MADLY in love with these New Zealanders! A late 30's guy sitting next to a bombshell late 30's woman laughed together without a trace of lechery as he finished fumbling for his seatbelt: "I didn't mean to grab your ace." (They pronounce certain words a little differently... ass = ace and beverage = beeverage, etc.) Also, clobbering everyone who dared to have a shoulder in the aisle with my computer as I made my way to the very back of the plane, I finally apologized, laughing, and a chorus of "Weel survoive!" (something like that) rang out. They're relaxed, they seem to look at things with more acceptance (Mr. Green says I'm generalizing wildly) and I find them so very attractive. SEXY.
Casablanca moment, arriving in Dunedin.
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 121 (on my life in planes and airports)
There are few things that can pull me off-course from sitting (or standing) at my computer and doing what I can to 'go big'. My children are one of those things. And so having one child in New Zealand since last September, this mother hen is on her way.
I'm flabbergasted (in a good way) at the response to yesterday's picture of me at the airport holding up my passport. Cause it's so EASY. It's not writing and shooting and directing and editing. It's buying a ticket with points from a credit card and going to one of the local airports!
And airports and passports are in my DNA. My only career plan as a teenager was to be an airline hostess. My grandfather, two uncles and my father were all pilots. My father flew for TWA and so we all had passes and flew on TWA for free. Lucky for me because, not being much of a reader or a student, travel was my education.
Our first trip to Europe was to Rome and I still vividly smell the smells, taste the blood orange juice and the curls of unsalted butter on ice, and was speechless at the sight of Roman-era buildings next to ones made all of glass.
One memory which shocks even me was that at college, obsessed with finding the perfect boots (and for a good price), I flew to Lisbon one weekend, Madrid the next, and Rome the third. And on one of the return trips, while over the Atlantic my flight to Boston was diverted to New York due to bad weather. Not accustomed to paying even thirty bucks for the (non-TWA) shuttle from NY to Boston, I opted to take the free TWA flight from NY to Paris and grab the next TWA flight from Paris to Boston. I can't remember if that crazy round trip to Europe made me late for my Monday morning class but I know I never did find those boots.
Since losing my TWA pass at age 26, I haven't flown all that much. Work and then motherhood and then The Louise Log have generally kept me close to home or traveling by car.
So irony of ironies, I'm writing from 30,000+ feet on the way to Sydney, Australia and then on to New Zealand.
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 120 (I'm stepping away from my desk)
At the airport gearing up for a 30 hour trip to see the littlest Green. In NEW ZEALAND.
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 119 (part 2 - making my first 16mm short)
(Cont'd) I assumed that the problem was that assistant film editing work wasn't sufficiently engaging. My solution was that I would learn to edit and become a film editor.
Jim Markovic, a whiz bang editor of trailers for Kung Fu movies, told me he'd seen ads in TV Guide for kits which teach film editing. I could pay a hundred dollars for unedited takes of Hawaii-Five-O and learn to edit by cutting the takes together. OR I could save the hundred dollars and practice making cuts on track fill (the rejected lab prints which editors use as filler on reels of sound track). I opted for the latter and he gave me some from his supply. Eventually he gave me twenty-four hours worth. I was going to learn to be a film editor.
My bosses Hilary, Deb and Sarah gave me permission to work on this 'project' over the weekends using the Steenbeck (editing flatbed) in our room at Maysles. With a grease pencil, I'd mark off any shot that grabbed me. I took plenty of naps. It’s exhausting to have no idea of what you’re doing.
There were a couple of shots of an intelligent-looking and gorgeous young woman (Senta Berger) in a low-cut dress taking photographs. She was at a nightclub with Trevor Howard and there was a flash attachment on her camera. After hundreds of attempts at a professional-looking edit, the most smooth and believable cut I succeeded in making was (SHOT #1) Senta Berger taking a picture (cut to) (SHOT #2) something that ‘she'd taken a picture of’. Limited as my repertoire was, I went with it.
Somewhere along the way, due to the incredibly great material in some documentary film in that pile of track fill, it became obvious that my editing exercise could itself become a film. But it needed subtitles. And it desperately needed a soundtrack.
My neighbors on Mott Street played dominoes on card tables on the sidewalk outside my windows and they usually had a boom box playing Dominican music. When I asked them who their favorite musician was, they all agreed on one man. Johnny Ventura gave me unqualified permission to use one of his songs. Unfortunately, I’ve lost that piece of paper. In our brief meeting in what felt like a converted garage on Tenth Avenue in the Fifties, Johnny Ventura radiated some kind of true beauty and smiled the smile of a more evolved being. He sat with crossed legs, the foot on top jiggling as fast as the rhythm in his fastest songs. Someone from the record company translated for us.
Subtitles were expensive but necessary. Unfortunately, I miscalculated how long they should be on screen and they add an anxiety all their own.
I named Senta Berger’s character “Louise” as she looked like an incredibly sexy librarian.
Here’s the film (4:17):
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 118 (on making my first 16mm short film)
In the Fall of 1982, my first short 16mm film was invited to be in the New York Film Festival. It had taken a year to make on nights and weekends and was, I later discovered, what they called an 'over the transom' submission. This is insider talk for a film which comes from out of the blue. I was overjoyed.
a still from my first 16mm film
My parents came in from New Jersey for the Saturday night screening and my father didn't applaud so he could hear the audience's reaction. WIthin hours of the screening, it was picked up for theatrical distribution by Don Krim's Kino International who then blew it up to 35mm. Within the week, J. Hoberman wrote in the Village Voice: "... the shorts ... by Anne Flournoy, Ernie Gehr, Jean-Luc Godard ... represent roughly the same degree of seriousness and achievement as do the features." Talk about 'go big or go bust'. Hey, I figured, I'm on my way.
But to start at the beginning, it was the year before, in the Fall of 1981, that circumstances pushed me to make this film. I'd landed a plum Assistant Editing job on a documentary film with a kind, patient and seriously professional Editor, Sarah Stein. The Producer Hilary Maddux and Director Deborah Boldt were equally kind and patient. And I needed their patience because, unbeknownst to me, I was suffering from some kind of crazy allergic reaction to the coffee which was propelling me through the days, a reaction which looked for all the world like narcolepsy. I couldn't keep my eyes open. Our editing room at the Maysles' had a nice big couch and there was a communal coffee pot out in the main room where Bruce Sinofsky sat as a very young Office Manager. I'd help myself to a cup of coffee, drink it as I looked for trims in the bin and then collapse on the couch. I wasn't being lazy. I literally couldn't keep my eyes open. It was a miracle that they let me stay on, at union wages.
One day when Deborah and Hilary arrived for a screening, I roused myself, determined to turn over a new leaf. I attacked the massive eight-plate editing flatbed with Windex and a dusting cloth only to hear them chuckling at my sudden burst of energy. Beyond humiliated, I realized that the only person I was fooling was me. (to be continued)
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 117 (feeding the soul with the wearable art of Emily Spray)
I don't know if it was the tension yesterday of using the new lavalier mics, of not being able to get their transmitters to attach to the camera, not being able to properly monitor them or if it was the demands of acting when actually required to come up with something a little complicated - but I am pooped. Can't even concentrate. So today I'm feeding my soul.
Strolling over to visit the awesome designer Emily Spray at her booth at the Bedford Barrow Commerce Streets market in Greenwich Village, I got myself the coolest carry bag I've ever seen. (See below - over Emily's shoulder) if you missed Emily at the market, check out her website.
Emily Spray and some of her hand made wares (more at emilyspray.com)
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 116 (on indie film, improvs and FUN)
With Maria Bruni and Nik Kundel, we shot some little skits today for Go Big.
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 115 (on self-promotion, braggy captions, Sundance and Berlin)
So today I want to talk about two things: that picture from yesterday's post and the braggy caption. They get to the heart of why this Go Big or Go Bust thing is like pulling teeth.
My grandmother used to say that the only time your name should ever be in the paper is when you get married and when you die. If then. It wasn't that she was cautioning us to stay on the right side of the law, it was that there was something seamy and unsavory about women and publicity. (It may have gone for men too, but she would have been addressing only her grandaughters. So I'll never know.) Hey my grandmother was born in the 1800's.
from the left: Michael Moneagle, Lea Floden and Bill Zimmer
So for me to be relentlessly posting pictures of myself, telling stories about myself, yammering on and on about me ME ME ... and my accomplishments (the braggy caption) ... it doesn't sit well.
Not that that's stopping me ... If this is what's necessary to spread the word about The Louise Log, I'm doing it.
About this picture from yesterday's post (see above on right) which is shown in context on the page from the Berlin Festival catalogue: it was taken shortly after I learned that my first and so far only feature (How To Be Louise) had been invited to be in the Berlin Film Festival's Panorama and Sundance's Dramatic Competition. A sizable cast, headed by the wonderful actors Lea Floden, Bruce McCarty and Maggie Burke and an even bigger crew with Vladimir Tukan, Mark Serman and Deirdre Fishel in key roles, had worked very long hours for very little reward to make this film and now we'd grabbed the brass ring. Sundance! Berlin! I'm wearing a fake leopard skin coat from Loehmann's and a smile of disbelief.
Here's the (2:05) trailer:
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 114 (on Siri, Ex Machina and my longing to be robotic)
Not being especially techy, I don't think much about robots. But last weekend I saw the Alex Garland film Ex Machina (all about robots). And recently I've been having my own problems with Siri, the robot in my phone. Asking for 'directions' has become a high stakes ordeal. Instead of giving incredibly precise GPS directions (as she used to), Siri now tears, at the speed of light, through my address book and randomly requests FaceTime with inappropriate people. SORRY if you've been among those.
And then I had a blinding flash: once upon a time, and maybe even up until right now, I've had a yearning to be robotic.
looking my robotic best in the Berlin Intl Film Festival catalogue
Soon after I moved to New York in 1978, I went into therapy with a kind and very quiet man on the Upper West Side. Wearing a friend's, ex-husband's, leather motorcycle jacket, I'd ride my bicycle from my job in midtown up to 90th or 91st Street and Central Park West, take the elevator up and lie on Dr. T's couch for an hour, covering my eyes when details were difficult to talk about.
For probably months of sessions, I rattled on and on (and on). And then one night, the good doctor cut me off: "I've heard a lot about a fair number of people in your life, but I think you came here to find out more about you, to get in touch with your feelings." Like it was yesterday, I remember practically shouting at the guy: "What? No! I came here so I could get through my creative blocks ... so I can do my work! I don't want to waste one minute on 'feelings'." Dr. T. chuckled in his shy and non-judgmental way: "Really! Most people come into therapeutic analytic psychotherapy so they can feel more!" (Pretty sure that's what he called it.) Shaking my head: "Nope. I don't want to feel anything. I just want to be like a machine and work work work. Efficiently. "
So it's with some surprise that, through a chain of events which seemed to lead me in spite of myself, I went yesterday to see a practitioner of Rubenfeld Synergy. Two new friends had gone and talked about almost mystical experiences of being connected to themselves and liberated from long-held blocks. After one session, it's looking likely that 'feelings' are the pathway to this liberation. And I'm wondering if 'feeling' is also the key to 'self-confidence', that ideal on the hill which has so effectively eluded me.
Hmmph. If only I'd taken Dr. T's bait offered so many decades ago. I'll keep you posted.
Go Big or Go Bust: Day 113 (FRIENDS APPRECIATION DAY!)
So unfortunately, Squarespace doesn't let you put titles of blog posts in italics, cause otherwise a part of today's title would be both CAPSLOCK and in italics.
Social media and I are not always 'like that'. Especially when I've been busy and erratic and all trails have gone cold. We all know the feeling, kind of like trying to push a car uphill.
But recently, social media's been feeling like home. Marilyn Robertson, Paul Neshamkin, Marie Pope and Marian Evans rushed to the scene last night with love and wisdom to talk me off the ledge. (the metaphorical ledge) Thank you for your insights and suggestions! They are already making a difference in the way I think about scheduling a day.
And to the many of you who regularly check in and make your presence felt, thank you and more for being my circle! Thank you for making me laugh, think ... feel! And thank you for saving me from the anxiety that I'm ACTUALLY JUST TALKING TO MYSELF. Louise Harrison, Victoria Trestrail, Marta Szabo, Zita Giertl, Julia Wolfe, Rachel Dangermond, Ned Buratovich, Julie Clark Shubert, Susan Sinawsky, Barbara Boyer, Mudd Lavoie, Mhairi Morrison, Schahan Tchapraste, Stephanie Beroes, Deb Micallef, Kerry Isaac-Rossow, Linn Schaifer, Ellen Temple Fagan, KellyAnne Hanrahan, Bianca Han, Lisa Stein, Thomas Attila Lewis, Alexandra Rosas, Xavier Trevino, Xiane Sierocka-Stock .... and so many more.
Millions of fans (or as Julie Clark Shubert likes to call them "imaginary friends") couldn't make me feel as connected as you do. GROUP HUG!!!
