Another Step Up; No Celibacy.

Our friend C was here over the past weekend and we went skiing again. It had snowed for 2 days before and about 4 inches had been accumulated. Ideal condition on the slope. We went on Sunday. It was cold and windy but we had some awesome runs and we did a black-blue, Yeha... Definitely a step up from last time. I didn't fall at all. However, one of the buckles on my boots broke so I had to go get another pair but then the guy gave me 11.5 instead of 11. Those absent-minded teenagers. I was really itchy for a black diamond run but the loose boots prevented my bold move.
The day before, we went to visit the Shaker's village. It came as a shock when we learned that they were strictly celibate! I only knew that they shook when praying, which somehow gave me a false imagination that they might be good at copulation (guess I was wrong!). When adopted orphans reached 18, they were given choices to stay or leave. Most of them left. Obviously everyone likes sex and as a result, shakers pretty much have gone extinct now. But I actually thought of a friend of mine who might be the perfect person to revive the whole phenomena. I will have to take her there for a tour when she comes to visit me.
We do love the chairs they make. Have to find one on auction sometime.

Philippe Dubuk on St Dennis

We discovered a designer's menswear in Montreal a couple of years ago. It is called Philippe Dubuk and is housed in a two-stored stone house on St Dennis Street. His aethetic is of minimalism in both structure and color but has unexpected details that inspires individualism: A bit of hybrid of Ennio Capasa's Costume National and John Galliano's Christian Dior but decisively more wearable. We dig his design. period, especially his structured pants, somehow fit me like gloves, which doesn't happen all the time. So this time when we went back to Montreal for Valentine's day, we again made our dutiful stop at his store. St Dennis is a long street that runs straight north-south and is lined up on both sides with colorful cafes, restaurants and boutiques. It is where bohemians meet and locals hang. During the many times we walk down the street, we see businesses sprout and wither, like everywhere else, yet local people keep on trekking along the street, braving the cold Quebecois winter if necessary, looking for that piece of something they love. When we entered Philippe Dubuk, the store was about to close for the day. But there was a ominous sense that the store may be closing for good. The young designer caught fire a few years ago and won many awards. His store expanded quickly into the cities as far as Tokyo. Yet money troubles scaled him back to the solo presence in St Dennis where he started off. Last time when we were there, he had a woman collection, now he completely hauled that as well and started carrying man's shoes made by other designers. It was nothing but a small detail that may suggest a financial struggle.
We couldn't help worrying because his boutique has been the one that drew us back over and over again to St Dennis. If the Italian fashion industry was slashed, a Canadian independent designer may not be spared after all. So here it is, everyone is mercilessly thrown into the ebbs and flows of the business climate. The talented, the visionary, are no exception. Yet what can we do? "Joie de livres", Curtis whispered it into my ears and handed me five fabulous pants. Yeah, that's probably what we can do. Live our life and try on the pants as long as he still makes them, and then walk down St Dennis to look for that piece of something we all love. Maybe if we all do that, then that piece of something we love will manage to survive and be there for us for the longest time to come.

The Woe of Neanderthal

Not even a kiss??

For some reason, I always have this belief that the Neanderthals and us did some money business 50,000 years ago and the wild sex parties under the starry sky contributed to the diversity of the modern human race. I guess this may just be my wishful thinking after all. Isn't it nice that our ancestors were open-minded libertines who embraced the Neanderthals with amour? But really who am I kidding? Just look at us now, their decedents, to see how xenophobic, racists, war-thirsty and intolerable we are. I should have known better. Based on the newly draft of the Neanderthal Genome, there is no significant trace of Neanderthal genes in our genomic pool, which suggests that the party probably didn't happen. What happened 30,000 years ago, when they first encountered in Europe, was likely to be spear-throwing instead of love-making. Alas, that just depresses me.
Another thing I believed was that Neanderthal could speak, or at least, sort of babble, because naturally they would want to talk dirty with our ancestors at the foreplay. Well, at least the new genome draft hasn't ruled that out. Their speaking gene FOXP2 displays similar mutations as in human, which doesn't prove but at least supports the possibility that they might be able to talk, but I guess in this case, they were probably screaming for their life from our attack instead of telling us how much they adored our tender gaze.
Perhaps, our destructive nature was determined a long time ago when we encountered the Neanderthal, when we decided to make war, instead of love, with them.

Jimney Peak Euphoria

I never thought that I would enjoy skiing. I went with my friend Pete a few years ago in NH and suffered many ridiculously miserable falls (he called them yard sales) and a complete wet underpants which almost paralyzed me for three days. When we bought the house in Hancock, which has an panoramic view of the Jimney Peak that is less than 10 minutes away, skiing never even entered my mind. Then Christmas came and my nephews and nieces visited, the natural entertainment was skiing and that was how I got started, a month ago.
It turns out that I may be born to Ski, and the main reason is that I have little fear. Well, that may not be completely true. I do get freaked out when I am at a speed that I am not accustomed to and in a white slope that has nothing to do with highway. But what I learned was that at least for skiing, fear debilitates me. Whenever I think I am going to fall, I fall. I watched those little kids line up like ducklings and whoop down the hill like pros and decided that they were the gold standard for me. So on the second time, I got on the green with Curtis and my niece Yi, who is at least as fearless as me, and eventually got down the blue, with many ridiculous falls, but nevertheless, in one piece. On the worst fall, I hit the ground on my head, but thankfully the pain only lasted a week. On the third time, I landed on my should and had a deep bruise, but again thankfully, no damage on my legs and that means I can go skiing still more. The pain all seemed worthwhile when I was able to come down the Left bank without a single fall. Can't really describe how euphoric I was. People say it's adrenaline. I think for me, it's Serotonin.
The past weekend, we had a group of friends visiting and so I went skiing with them for the fourth time. While our ski pro friends disappeared into the black diamond lane, Curtis and I explored all the greens. For the first time, I no longer felt that I was in a survival mode and had to solely focus on my techniques. I actually was able to appreciate the view of the huge wind mill and the valley under. When I came down The Grand Slam and instantly wanted to get on the lift again, I knew that I have become a skier.
Now all of a sudden, our calendar is filled with ski plans. Pete may come on a weekday to ski with us. Cindy is coming in 2 weeks to ski with us. Oh, Curtis just walked in and asked me if we should go skiing after work and tried out the twilight deal. Of course we should absolutely try out the twilight deal.
See you on the slope!

Aboriginal Art: Where did the money go?

There is this article on Aboriginal Art in Telegraph (UK). Having been to some of the remote art centers in the outback of Australia, we really appreciate the article. It has an brief overview of contemporary Aboriginal art movement including the key events since the 70s'. It also exposes many underlying problems with the Aboriginal society and the well-being of the artists.
The link is: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/art/4347282/Australian-Aboriginal-art.html

The Reading of "The Reader"

We made up our mind last night that no matter how heavy the snow storm was, we would go to the reading by Bernhard Schlink, the author of "The Reader". Paul sent us the links to three consecutive events of his reading and discussion in Boston area, but we couldn't go to the first two.
I read "The Reader" a long time ago when I was in Baltimore. Catherine pulled it out of a shelf on one of our trips to the bookstore by the harbor and recommended it to me. I thought the writing was very stripped-down and efficient in a German way, and the story was so provocative that it left a strong impression on me. Someone said it was about a love that could not be fulfilled, but on top of that, I felt the book was more about morality, about the boundaries between desires and rules, duties and justice. Sometimes these boundaries were so blurred that we couldn't make decisions that were considered correct, because we were helplessly determined by our perception, if not our emotion. Then it turned out that they made the book into a movie last year. I am obsessed with all movies happened in Berlin during the cold war. As a matter of fact, walking around Berlin itself feels like a movie to me.
So we saw the movie with Paul and were very taken by Kate Winslet's performance. I thought that David Kross who played the young Michael Berg deserved a huge round of applause too. So all these brought us to the reading of the "The Reader" last night. Out of the three evens the author was having in Boston, one was an interview in Boston University with Mark Feeney, a reporter from the Boston Globe, which we missed; a reading and discussion about "The German Cellective Guilt" in Brandies University, which we couldn't go; and the last one in the Goethe Institute in Boston last night, which we decided to brave the snow storm to make it.
It turned out that the last event was completely in German, so basically Curtis and I couldn't understand a word other than "Danke". Well, we certainly tried. A nice woman sitting next to me volunteered to translate for me, but still... So we slipped out of the building in the middle. By then the Beacon Street was covered thoroughly with the snow. With its brown stones and rows of gas-lit streetlights, it was quite a beautiful sight. So we took a nice walk in the snow along the deserted street and caught the bus home.
I only missed American Idol for 10 mins, which I could live with.

Club Helsinki and Winterpills

From A:
So we went to this place called Cafe Helsinki in the Great Barrington last Saturday. (http://www.clubhelsinkiweb.com). It is about 40 mins drive from the Buddha Crossing in Hancock. We were hungry after yet another Home Depot run so I randomly picked it from my blackberry. Initially, its small facade hidden under an industrial archway and the ambiance of a vaguely Scandinavian flea market likely assembled from eBay slightly deterred us. Both were signs of either really good or really bad, but based on our previous experiences, mostly really bad. We were then seated in a pinkish velvet booth under a dusty and chipped oil painting fitted in an overly ornate gold frame. Looking around, we felt that it was proper to order a large cocktail right away to quench our uncertainty.
We had a waitress befitted in a tight short black dress. As a matter of fact, all waitresses there were befitted in some sort of short and/or tight black dresses, some went a little further by accessorizing with fishnet stockings. With her stern northern European look and an vague German manner, our girl was more efficient than friendly, so quickly it came our foods. But what a surprise! I mean, the dishes were actually really, really good. Not sure if the Finns have ever been known for their cooking or how Finnish our foods actually were, but Curtis' Pork chop was well seasoned and superbly grilled and the mashed potatoes were so exceptional that even I, who never cared for MP, stole two spoonfuls from his plate. My mussel et frites dish was just as good, not soaked in soup but retained a strong flavor, and it was balanced with the slightly dry-baked fries. I was even more impressed when I saw the chefs across the open kitchen: two Spanish-speaking Latinos, definitely not from Helsinki.
Then the coolest thing came from the mouth of our waitress after the main and before the dessert.
"Maybe you guys will be interested in the show tonight in the club next door?"
Obviously, there was a club literally within the "Club Helsinki".
"Here is the monthly schedule, but tonight is Burlesque." She dropped a piece of paper and whisked away.
"Burlesque?"
Curtis and I looked quizzically at each other.
What the hell was that in a small New England town and in the middle of a dead winter, a Burlesque show was quietly happening. It all sounded like a conspiracy to us. More importantly, did Curtis and I appear straight to her? two friends maybe, out for a bite then looking for some sort of entertainment?
"That is so cool!" I told Curtis, "we should go."
"Maybe." That was Curtis's answer as No.
Then what I found on the monthly schedule really got me excited: Winterpills.
(http://www.winterpills.com/). Winterpills has been one of my favorite indie bands from North Hampton, MA, so they are totally local breed. Their second album "The Light Divides" were the soundtracks I played during many of our gallery receptions. Having not much to do in the gallery, I listened to them a lot last year and the year before. But sadly the show was last Friday! "They will be back, but tonight is the Burlesque." the girl told us and dropped our bill.
Walking out of Club Helsinki through a side door, we were allowed to peek briefly into the real club where the Burlesque was taking place. Two women in red Bikinis were on the stage working a thin crowd made of a few mostly middle-age men. One of the women had a quite voluptuous figure and she was wearing a large red flower in her blond hair. Impressively, she appeared quite comfortable in her cellulite-invaded skin and the minimal outfit that cut deep in her flesh. How could she possibly be comfy in those thin wires? Wasn't she even cold? and then I couldn't help but wondering about her life on and off that stage. Strangers like her never missed casting a spell on me, at least for a while.
But when Curtis and I walked into the cold night of the January Berkshires where the shadow of the dark hills loomed over the steeple of a white chapel, where a secretive Burlesque was taking place behind a closed door in which my favorite band also performed a week ago, we looked forward to walking across the slippery parking lot, starting the car and going home. Our dog Arkle would be home, hopefully not making a mess. The fire in the fireplace, hopefully would not yet be extinguished. At that moment, what came to my mind were a few lines from a song called Handkerchiefs by Winterpills:
i cross the line
and see a face that can’t be mine
through a long long night
to find a place where we all thrive
where every frail thing can survive
where we can live this dream of life

(Picture of Winterpills)