Design Vs Functionality

Let's talk about design vs functionality.

This kitchen is the fourth one that The Husband and I have gutted, renovated, and refurbished over the course of our various homeownerships. I think that is more than enough for any long-term relationship. He might beg to differ, but I am adamant that this is the last. If any of my future kitchens ever require upgrading or rehabilitating, I plan on hiring Crazy Larry the arsonist and collecting the insurance money. I am so done.

Years ago, when we were in the planning stages for our previous kitchen reno in the North Jewish Ghetto, our designer, a lovely and brilliant artist, asked me if I wanted a functional kitchen or an attractive one. I stared at him like he had grown a second head. Why do I have to choose one over the other? He explained that a fair number of his clients cared more about the aesthetics than the practicality of the space. I didn't understand why anyone would spend the amount of money required to make this happen, only to misspend it on silly finishings. We cook, bake, and use our kitchen daily. We entertain. We may not be Gordon Ramsey, nor are we ready for Top Chef, but we love the kitchen experience. There is a scene in the original Sex and the City where Carrie opens her oven, and we see that she stores her sweaters in there. The only item in her fridge is wine. This isn't us. 

When we renovated our kitchen in the Southern Home, we were on a strict budget. We didn't want to spend money frivolously, but we wanted the space to look attractive while maintaining maximum functionality. This is a second home. Top-of-the-line appliances were not in the cards, but I still knew I wanted a few things to make working in that space easier. Chief amongst my demands was a full sink. I hate a split sink with two sides: the washing and the drying. You can't properly wash a cookie sheet without getting soaking wet. I might as well lather up and shower in the kitchen. It is such an irritant to me. Split sinks are my number one pet peeve about kitchens. Split sinks are stupid in the age of dishwashers. So, imagine my horror when we left the contractors in charge of the sink choice, and they installed the dreaded double, even though I was very clear about what I wanted. By the time we arrived back south, there was no way to fix the issue without gutting the counters, some cabinets, and the dishwasher. I was, and remain, extremely pissed to this day. 

People put a lot of stupid things in their kitchens. Usually, it is at the behest of a designer who sees it as an artistic endeavour rather than a cooking space. I have hated our kitchen since we moved in ten years ago. It was beautifully designed by a top-line kitchen company, but I would place a Kalshi bet that nobody cooked here. The stove was broken when we moved in. The original oven was gas-powered. Every time I baked cookies, it turned them to cinders. We replaced it soon after we arrived. Likewise, the microwave was garbage.

No other microwave would fit here.

A new one was needed immediately. Unfortunately, they designed the microwave garage too small for any decent machine, so we could only buy a small and low-powered model. It was the only one on the market that fit the space. The previous owners were very into Art Deco. I love Art Deco, but they didn't really think it through in a functional kitchen. There is a double-level bar that takes away from workspace, and they added a lip to the countertop.

 

A built-in dust and crumb collector

As far as I can tell, the only purpose of this lip, other than to satisfy somebody's sense of beauty, is to prevent dust and crumbs from falling on the floor. It is a bitch to clean. The cabinets don't go all the way to the ceiling, once again adding a dust catcher to the space. I can't clean up there unless I'm on a ladder. (To be fair, I can't reach anything in this kitchen without a ladder!) There are outlets which don't fit any North American-wattage appliance.

See the white outlet? It doesn't fit any appliance that we own.

We were told that if we want to put in a cooktop rather than a stove, we need 40 amps rather than the 30 we have. So much stupid was built into such a small space. Our dishwasher is starting to die. It takes several cycles to drain, and the parts no longer exist to repair it. 

And then there's the sink.

Remember how angry I was about the Southern sink. That was mild compared to this one. I knew from the minute we moved in that this sink was the apex of kitchen stupidities. There are three, count 'em, three basins. Why? Only their designer knows for sure. This bullshit isn't even on the original blueprints for the condo. We have surmised that the small, dopey one in the back must have been for a garburator. Garburators are illegal in the City of Toronto, so it is possible that they got caught with it and either had to remove it or never installed it. Still, I would have changed the sink if I were them. Who puts a sink in a corner? What hairbrained idiot thought this was a good idea? You can only imagine my feelings about this crap. If a double sink is fucking idiotic, then this sends my annoyance levels off the charts. In ten years, I have gotten wet while using our kitchen sink every fucking time. I never leave the kitchen dry. If there is one single reason for this renovation, it is this ridiculous sink. 

Seriously? WTF is this for?

My daily bath

So, here we are. Designing a kitchen for functionality and aesthetics. Our aesthetics. But I am also very demanding that we have a sink that can fit a pasta pot without starting a water fight, a microwave that doesn't take 3 minutes to melt a stick of butter, a counter that is easily cleaned, an oven that doesn't incinerate my baking, a dishwasher that drains properly, and cabinets that I can reach without climbing MT. FUCKING EVEREST. (I am not getting any younger.)

Thankfully, we have good people to work with. If I have learned any lessons from my quartet of kitchen renovations, it's that you must have people who listen to you and buy into your vision. Never hire contractors or designers who want things their way. I mean, who is paying the bills for this, us or them? The answer is never them.

 

Mrs. Green, in the Kitchen, With the Mugs Part 5 (Our Finale)

We seem to do outrage and anger really well these days. Everything offends us. We are sent reeling by bad speech or slips of the tongue. We can't believe that our family members or neighbours support this party or that one and we find ourselves reevaluating so many of our relationships based on unshared ideology.

I get it.

There is much to be angry about right now and outrage fuels our desire to change things for what we hope will be a collective betterment.

But outrage and anger are also completely exhausting. I have, quite honestly, lost count of all of the things about which I am supposed to be angry. Another story of sexual assault and child abuse? Outrage. Another attack on our crippled environment? Anger. The diminishing of personhood for people of colour, women, or LGBTQ? Rage. Anti-Semitism or Islamaphobia? Fury. Income inequality? Temper.

I'm just tired and I'm certain that there are those in positions of power who are counting on my lethargy and pounded-into-the ground ambivalence to further advance their heinous agendas, which is why I am actively trying to reserve my "Rage against the dying of the light" for those causes and macro-movements which need my full-powered energy. A procrastinating contractor, a ruptured piece of artwork, or a few broken mugs, while truly irritating, are not really worthy of my sustained outrage.

Yes. It is true that I was pissed off when I saw the broken mugs, especially given the level of packing material that was obviously used. I still cannot figure out how three mugs, that weren't even grouped together in the box, wound up as mosaic pieces. That said, just as I was ready to head over to a UPS outlet with my return slips in hand, I received an email from Mrs. Sweetpea? Green.

This is an exact transcript of her missive. (I have even left in her ridiculous spelling of the word "colour".)

Hi Dawn,

I am so sorry to hear about your troubles.  Do you happen to know which colors are broken?  Would you like me to send you replacements? Let me know pls!

Best,
Mrs. Green

I find it kind of hilarious that Mrs. Pre-teen? Green can't find a way to spell out the entirety of the word "please" and is more than happy to address me by my given name but still has not seen fit to allow me the same courtesy. That said, I was thrilled to receive her email and immediately forwarded the colours that were in shards back to her. Of course, I initially made an error as to the correct colours, a truly Dawn mistake, but I fixed it immediately. I also asked her if she wanted me to send photos to confirm my grievance about the damage. She quickly replied that it wasn't necessary and that she would ship out replacements immediately. An hour later, I received yet another confirmation email with a shipping number to follow. This phenomenal customer service all occurred within an hour of me accepting shipment of the first set of mugs. Wow.

I told The Husband that I would hang onto Amazon's return shipping label and original packaging in the likely event that I would still have to send the mugs back. The wonderful thing about their return policy is that I had a full two months leeway, so even if the second set of mugs came damaged I wasn't up against a crazy deadline. Have I mentioned that my affection for Jeff Bezos is starting to veer into Tiger Beat pin-up obsession territory?

And so...we waited. A weekend's worth of waiting. And then today...magic. 

I received a box that was totally intact.

 It was filled to the brim with non-biodegradable packing peanuts and bubble wrap.

And inside each individual packet of bubble wrap was a perfectly intact and pristine new mug...in the desired colours.

Mrs. Beautiful Forest on a Sunday Morning? Green came through just like she said she would. There was no further cost incurred for the shipping and the broken mugs will be offered to anybody who might like to use them for an art project. 

I know that you have been secretly hoping for a moral to this elongated and ridiculous recounting and here's the thing...there actually is one. We all have tales about how miserably we have been treated by others, especially lately. Customer service really bites the big one in most industries and many workers are either too tired or too underpaid to really give a damn. But I am here to attest that there still are some really decent people in this world who take pride in their work and in the businesses they run. From our "came very highly recommended" contractor who showed up the day after we arrived in order to make right all of the little things in the project that needed attention; to our amazing artist friend who repaired The Husband's error and refused compensation; to a huge multi-national like Amazon that was ready to take back the damaged mugs; to Mrs. Brilliantine? Green who shipped out replacements within an hour of being notified, they all acted responsibly, compassionately, and quickly. There was every reason at every level to rage against a faceless somebody but nobody allowed any of these stories to escalate and everybody wanted to make certain that we were happy and satisfied. Seriously. How often can you lay claim to that?

So my advice, dear readers, is to take a step back and decide if all of that outrage and anger you are feeling these days is well-placed. I would be the first to tell you that feeling angry about the big-ticket issues is so very worth your time and high blood pressure. Fight the good fight and rage like a banshee as if you were the 21st century Dylan Thomas when you see injustice and hate rear their ugly heads but I'm pretty sure that we can't live in an angry, hostile state for the rest of our lives. We need to find some much-needed balance and peace that comes from witnessing decent people behaving decently toward each other. It may be a low bar we have set for ourselves in these tumultuous times but I will take whatever tranquillity that is offered right now.

So, if you will all excuse me now...I am going to make a cup of tea in one of my brand-new mugs and just chill.

Mrs Green, In the Kitchen, With the Mugs Part 2

A few devoted readers, who, it seems, have nothing better to do with their lives but lovingly devote their time to reading this vanity-induced space of complete garbage, have asked over the years when my book is coming out. The answer is always the same. I am simply incapable of writing anything longer than it would take these wonderful friends to read in the time that it takes waiting for their Wifi connection to run out on the subway platform. If I could come up with an idea for anything more substantive than what is produced here, I would have started it years ago. Instead, I keep subjecting all of us to this useless drivel. I am profoundly impressed and honoured that anybody is still reading this crap and I do promise that if I can find some profound meaning or independent, creative, and original thought that might be better than this bullshit, I will put cursor to screen and brain-fart it out. Until then, you are all stuck with this codswallop. (That paragraph was an exercise in synonyms. How many words can Dawn find that mean bullshit without her using a thesaurus. I impressed myself.)

When last we left our heroes, they were marvelling over the beauty of their newly renovated kitchen at the Southern Home. The "comes very highly recommended" contractor had come to finish off the last of his tasks and to clear out the mounds of garbage that his workers had accumulated over six months of less than linear work. To call the place a fucking mess is being very kind to fucking messes. There were empty boxes filled with construction waste strewn everywhere; piles of sawdust on the balcony from where the workers cut and shaped cabinetry; empty water bottles all over the counters; a white chalky shmutz lined the bathroom sink from where they mixed the grout; and there was dust so thick on every surface in the apartment that you could actually see track marks from where the summer insects had held their Olympics. These guys are very good at their jobs but neat and tidy they are not. The task of cleaning was set before us. Our jobs, should we choose to accept them, were to scrub, polish, and shine this place to a level that could pass Dawn's inspection. It was a herculean task but manageable.

Add to that, there was the task of rehanging and repositioning all of the artwork that had been stored. Keep reading. That comes later in this post.

The Husband took on the balconies and the windows. He is so very good at this. I would hire him out to make some extra cash off of his talents if I could figure out how to do it without it coming off like indentured servitude. After five scrubbings of the balconies and two more of the windows, we can finally view the vistas without thinking that smog has permanently descended on South Florida. His back and his knees weren't getting him anywhere quickly but there is a satisfaction that comes from a job well-done that transcends even the most gruesome pain. You buying this crap? He complained for days. It's a guy thing. I tackled the bathrooms, the floors, the kitchen cabinets and countertops. I dusted and washed and wiped and mopped for four days. Four days! I kept wondering how long I would have had to clean if we had decided to gut the bathrooms too.

We moved the kitchenware back into cupboards, measured drawers for inserts that still needed to be purchased, and searched in vain for the spice bottles that I know I stored somewhere but were now playing hide and seek. We tested the oven and microwave and stared longingly at an empty refrigerator in the hopes that it would provide sustenance. We braved Publix to restock the pantry and to repurchase the spices that I'm convinced had jumped into the Intracoastal Waterway to escape the noise and dust. We made a trip to Whole Foods, another to Walmart, a third to CVS and we still weren't even close to replenishing our reserves. The tasks seemed daunting but by working together like the synchronized machine we have become after thirty-three years of marriage, we whipped the place back into shape.

We bought the drawer inserts and a spice rack and new spices to fill it. And just when they were all properly settled and alphabetized, the old spices miraculously jumped out of their hiding places, yelled "Surprise", and expected a warm reception and some space in their new digs. Of course, they did. Anybody need some turmeric? How about cumin? I have a shitload of cumin.

And then The Husband set about the final task of rehanging the artwork. Most of it was fairly straightforward. We had left the hooks in the walls for the paintings but the three-dimensional climbers were tricky. They required a deft hand and a light touch. Have you met The Husband?

And....he dropped and broke one. 

Before the fall

After the fall

You know that sunken seasick feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when your partner yells "Shit" from another room? I swear I wanted to hide in the bedroom until Chanukah.

No judgement. No anger. Just a pragmatic response to determining what the FUCK do we do now. Well, we bought the suckers from a South Florida artist so let's see if he has a remedy. He answered our panicked email within minutes. Really? Who does that? Send the afflicted climber back to him via FedEx with a prepaid return label and he would repair it. He didn't ask for money. Really? WHO DOES THAT? After spending three days trying to figure out which empty box to pack him in, The Husband did as instructed and shipped our damaged climber off to the nether regions of Miramar for surgery. He arrived that same day and within thirty-six hours was back in FedEx's hands for his return trip. Really?? WHO DOES THAT?? He is expected to be back on the wall later today. (I'll post a photo as an update.)

I know. I know. I still haven't explained the title of these posts. I promise you all that I am getting to it but really, what's a shaggy dog story without the matted and tangled shaggy hair.

Tune in tomorrow. Same Dawn time, same Dawn URL.

How to Love the Art While Loathing the Artist

I have been giving some thought over the past few months about the relationship the artist has to his/her art. Or more specifically, can we look at the art of people who have abhorrent views or have done abhorrent things with any sort of critical eye? In light of the myriad of sexual abuse allegations that have flooded forward lately from all walks of life and from all sides of the ideological spectrum, I have been asking myself if it is possible to love the art while loathing the artist.

When I was a kid, our family car was a Ford LTD station wagon. You know the type? Cream-coloured with faux paneling on the doors. A truly iconic '70s suburbia ride. While my grandfather was extraordinarily vocal in his opposition to ever purchasing a German-made automobile, there was never any resistance to the very American-made Ford my dad bought. There is no doubt in my mind that zero heeds were given by my family to founder Henry Ford's well-documented and prolific anti-semitic views that informed many of Hitler's own writings and still resonate with many hate-filled and bigoted people today. That Ford station wagon was simply the right car at the right time for our family and the disturbing history of its founding father never entered into the decision making.

In high school, I fell in love with the writings of T.S. Eliot. I still think that The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock is one of the most beautiful poems ever written. It wasn't until many years later that I was exposed to his rampant anti-Semitism and his unrepentant Holocaust affections. I am stuck in a quandary. Must I now view Prufrock through a different and far uglier lens? Does the same hold for The Merchant of Venice or anything Roald Dahl ever wrote? Will I be able to read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to my grandchild knowing that its author probably would have hated the child it was being read to?

I offered this question on my Facebook page yesterday and the discussion was challenging and fascinating. I hope that my friends won't mind if I use a few of their thoughts.

One friend offered the following:

"Art is an extension of the artist-a magnifying glass put to some aspect of their interior world. We can't create in a vacuum - experiences colour every aspect of our lives. the positives and the negatives are inseparable parts of a whole. It is an uncomfortable experience - it creates dissonance. And it certainly makes us think about the work. It is provoking --- not a bad result for an artist."

I happen to agree with her point that art is often about making us uncomfortable. Moving past our comfort zones is what allows us to accept differing points of view and new experiences. It is the artist's job to make us think and to make us feel. Those feelings aren't always fluffy and happy. Sometimes they are ugly and challenging. But what happens when we discover an aspect of the artist that is continually reflected in the art? Woody Allen's seminal film Manhattan comes to mind.

Manhattan was the very first R-rated film I saw. My cousin who was already eighteen bought the tickets for us and I quietly snuck into the theatre. I remember thinking at the time that Mariel Hemingway's teenage Tracy was probably younger than I was and here was a forty-something and more-than lecherous Woody getting it on with a kid. It bothered me then and I was perplexed at the accolades that rained down on the movie. Neither Soon-Yi Previn nor Dylan Farrow was even a part of the conversation about Allen then, but I cannot look at this film using the same gravitas scale knowing now what I do about its director. And don't even get me started about Roman Polanski.

Another friend said this:

"I do believe that it is sometimes impossible to separate the artist from the art, depending on what the intention of the art is. E.g. Richard Wagner, the 19th century composer and consummate anti-Semite, deliberately used some of his music as anti-Jewish polemic. I do not listen to his music." 

She continued.

"On the other hand, it may be somewhat less problematic to enjoy art (visual, musical, etc.) that is not imbued with the ugliness of its creator's hateful behaviours. Woody Allen's movies come to mind, but I don't particularly want to put one cent into the pocket of haters or depraved people. I think we struggle so much with this because, over the centuries, some truly horrible people have created some truly remarkable art." 

The financial argument is an intriguing one. Enriching people who have knowingly and openly engaged in disgusting behaviour should be anathema. Has Mel Gibson ever done proper tshuvah (penance) for his anti-Semitism and his ugly treatment of women? And yet, time seems to have healed Hollywood's disdain for him. He was nominated for several Oscars last year and is currently starring in one of the hits of the holiday season. His reclamation seems complete, but what of his victims? I don't see million dollar paydays coming their way. Does the answer lie in the distance we have from the misdeeds? Will Kevin Spacey or Louis C.K. lay low enough for a few years and bounce back like Mel? Will Hollywood or the entertainment consumer afford them the opportunity because of their gifts? Can I look at a Picasso painting today with a different eye, even knowing what a shit he was to women because it all happened outside my gaze and I can in no way enrich him?

We are witnessing a revolution and in my view, it is long overdue. No longer are victims of abuse remaining silent and abusers are being called out for their behaviour. Powerful people in powerful places who have violated their positions for far too long are experiencing a reckoning. But as my lovely young cousin pointed out, what is happening now "feels weirdly specific who and what the outrage machine decides is ok or not ok." Bill Cosby will die a broken man but Johnny Depp is still out there grinding. But their art remains as tangible evidence of their talent and gifts and it cannot and should not vanish. Caravaggio was a miserable human being but his works are on display at the Louvre. Perhaps the answers to these complicated questions lie within what each of us is willing to tolerate. Where is my breaking point and how does it affect me in the here and now? Only each of us individually can answer that.

I believe that I need to hear a measure of true apology and true retribution. It can't be enough to simply say "I'm sorry without hesitation or reservation" but it is a good start. Has Woody or Roman or Mel ever tried even that much? Not to my recollection. But there needs to be more. Much more. There needs to be tangible action taken to alleviate the hurt and suffering and pain. I'm not certain what form that might take, but it certainly isn't shuffling off to rehab for a week and then back to business as usual. Maybe it comes in the form of mentoring programs for young victims who have been damaged by these people. Maybe it comes in other ways of giving back to the community. Maybe it comes with just staying out of the public eye.

I know that for me personally, there are certain individuals who will never be able to be redeemed. Their abusive behaviour is baked into their DNA and their art is forever lost to me. Some have been caught up in the tidal wave of shit hitting the fan and were negligent and behaved poorly once or twice. They may be worthy of salvaging if their future actions earn them that right and my trust.

Until then, as another friend said, "we struggle."

The Calm After the Storm

I had a fascinating conversation with a friend last week about a new project in which she is engaging. While it is still in its infancy and certainly not mine to discuss, it did open up a dialogue as to how we view art and more specifically, the artist in our very fractured world.

Since that dialogue, I have been extraordinarily fascinated not only by the process of artistic inspiration and creation but also by the role the audience plays in the methodology. What obligation does the artist owe her audience and by extension, what obligation does she owe herself?

Three separate experiences this week have tweaked my consciousness in this regard.

This past weekend The Husband and I embarked on our annual pilgrimage to The Las Olas Art Show. Small in stature compared to others we attend, this exposition tends to involve a more local artist colony with a few notable exceptions. Because of its size, there is a more intimate feel to the displays, the artists are less inundated with crowds, and they are far more interested in chatting with interested onlookers. It isn't at all unusual for us to see repeat vendors, some of which we have been fortunate enough to patronize before and to now check out their latest pieces. Sometimes, we are simply excited to reacquaint ourselves with artisans to whom we have given long looks in the past, but for some reason or other hadn't yet added to our collection. Such was the case on Sunday.

We had seen Daniel Lai's work before at previous shows. His use of recycled books and soft paper materials that he elegantly transforms into quiet and almost zen-like three-dimensional sculptures was an immediate magnet for me. There is quiet beauty in his work and I can almost imagine myself in his head as he transforms his journal thoughts into physical iterations. As we made our way through his small booth, we were fortunate enough to have an extended conversation with him. He was as soft-spoken as his work conveys, but there exists a powerful and obvious fierceness within him as he passionately described his pieces to us. His artist statement is telling.

I often write my experiences in a journal but find it inadequate to convey how I truly feel. As a result, I translate these paragraphs to a visual form that is three-dimensional, simplistic, and often relatable to many. My sculpture series is a three-dimensional journal that conveys snippets of my emotions and feelings toward life; the themes of this series often touch upon knowledge and contemplation. I call these sculptures "three-dimensional hieroglyphs of my experiences." Often times, the true meaning of text and words are just beneath that thin layer of their lexical meaning. In other words, we live in a metaphorical world. Three-dimensional representation of my experience transcends the boundary of words.

He had me at hello.

We purchased a small piece from his Reader series. and I am not exaggerating when I say that I have spent hours since just gazing and losing myself in its grace and peacefulness.

A small final anecdote about Daniel the artist. As we were finalizing our purchase, he asked us some very pointed questions about how we intended to transport the piece. Was it being shipped? Would we be taking it on an airplane? Where would it be in our car and how would we mount it? I promised him that I would take special care with it and then he said...and I will never forget the determination in his eyes as he said it..."Thank you. These are my babies, you know." While it was incredibly important for Daniel to share his work with a wider audience, he made it known to us that while we would be providing a new forever home for his work, it was still his and it was merely on loan to us. I suppose that is the true measure of art. We can enjoy it, revel in it, even purchase it...but we can never truly own it. That is the exclusive purvey of the artist.

So what does the artist owe her audience? Well, over the past ten days I have been privileged to join with a few thousand others in a new private group on Facebook called Harmony in Unison devoted to sharing live Jewish music concerts by the musician/songwriters themselves. The brainchild of Beth Schafer and Stacy Beyer, the idea is to provide a virtual stage for these musicians and to share songs, stories, and experiences across the magical platform of Facebook Live. While there have been a few initial glitches with copyrights and technical issues, the early evening interactive serenades have been nothing short of soul-reviving. The generosity of these artists to freely offer their time and their music to a most willing audience has been nothing short of jaw-dropping. These are people who make their living doing this work, and for them to provide it free of charge is a gift for which every single member of the audience is grateful. Their music has been a tonic for me in these tumultuous times. Over the past few years, I have distanced myself from much of it, but this music is a part of my soul and I am grateful for the opportunity to reconnect with it and with the community. These Jewish music artists inherently understand that their songs carry a spirit that can only be properly served by the continual sharing of it with a welcoming and participating audience. We are the necessary reflection of their prayers and we are the echoes of their soulful voices. If you are interested in joining Harmony in Unison, please add yourself to the group. I am happy to approve your request. You will be glad you did.

Finally, there is the debate about Meryl Streep. I will admit that I didn't see her speech live as I am averse to award shows in general and openly hostile to the Golden Globes in particular. (Subject for a different post.) That said, it was difficult to avoid the viral sensation that Ms. Streep became the following day (I caught her remarks in their entirety on YouTube) and the debate that she has re-ignited as to whether or not performers, sports stars, and other artists have a right to espouse contentious beliefs from their very public platforms.

I was impressed (as I usually am by Meryl Streep) with her poise, dignity, and passion. She never once mentioned the new president by name but she also never once hid her intentions. She was simply espousing a common belief that perhaps bullying and anger were not traits that the people needed nor wanted in their leaders and perhaps the country would be better served if these foibles were controlled. To suggest that the greatest actor of her generation, with more awards to her name than she probably has space to display them, is overrated is a fallacy at worst and folly at best. It's kind of like saying that Picasso designed colouring books. But, that really isn't the issue. Does the actress Meryl Streep pretend that the person Meryl Streep doesn't exist for the sake of the paying audience? Was it correct to yell at the Dixie Chicks to simply "Shut up and Sing" when they had the audacity, in the minds of some, to criticize George W. Bush?

There is no question that the performing artist takes a risk by speaking her mind publicly on contentious issues. Some people can and will look at her with a different lens and it will probably cost her a few fans. (Just ask the Chicks about their falling album sales and aborted concert tours. And fair or unfair, to this day, I can't watch any Mel Gibson movie.) I happen to think Ms. Streep was brave. She is the best of the best and she spoke her mind with a grace and passion that I believe is sorely lacking today. If the artist can't be true to herself, she cannot be true to her audience. She owes her audience her performance on the stage or the screen. She owes the truth of her convictions to herself.

Since the horrors of last Friday and the misery I have found myself surrounded by down here since the election, I have cocooned within the passion and beauty of these magnificent artists. My friend and I discussed the idea of spirals in her work as opposed to circles. I said to her that we tend to think of spirals as a downward trend but what if instead, we were to examine spirals as moving out from something rather than into the depths. Each one of the artistic experiences I had this week has made me believe that we can find joy in the misery and comfort in the tumult. There is hope somewhere in those spirals.